"Pads always was my favorite," Remus teased hoarsely, not yet realizing he'd slipped back into using the old nicknames again, even as he shot James a grateful look. Of course they were really there. They were fixing things, weren't they? He knew that. He knew it wasn't 1983; he wasn't stuck out in the wilderness somewhere, or curled in a back alley hoping he could sleep it off before he was found. He just needed the pain and disorientation that always followed the transformation to ease back a little so he could think.
This was always the part he hated most, being left so weak, even when he wasn't bleeding or broken, that he needed help to get anywhere. Just because he'd suspected a two-week delay of the transformation would do something like this didn't mean he had to like it. He'd gotten used to fending for himself, prided himself on being able to get up and go to an Order meeting, or out to report to Dumbledore while other werewolves slept. Needing help now was as painful as the physical pain.
"Just water," he finally answered Sirius. Too tired to hold himself up, he gingerly leaned a shoulder against Sirius' shoulder while James dealt with the bag of supplies they'd brought. "No potions," he added, stomach roiling just at the thought. He avoided taking anything at all whenever he could. Too many failed cures as a child, too much need to have all his wits about him during the war and after. "Where'd you e'en get 'em?"