Remus/Tonks
Angst/Drama
Set in the Christmas of HBP
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just borrowing them (without profit!) for my muse, and kill a little time.
His answer is as clear as the mud that litters his old, ragged cloak; as clear as her dead, dull grey stare--he needs her, and for that, he'll break his rule, just for this once.
Has light sexual intonations. Don't like, don't read; if you're interested (at your own risk), highlight the light green font later on in the story.She sits alone on her bed, still docked in full magenta Auror robes with a colorful afghan (the one Molly thoughtfully made her) riding up her chest, her dark grey eyes (which she'd tried to change; she really did) staring blankly into the empty fireplace. The half finished report (
Goblins are smuggling below standared silver cauldrons) she had to do for Scrimgeour last week sits crumpled in her hand, the upper part of the report smudged with something that looks like newly-shed tears, mimicking the mascara which trickles down her face, a thick black path cutting its way down her pale heart shaped face.
An old wireless crackles barely with life, whispering the croons of Celestina Warbleck's A Cauldron of Hot Strong Love before it finally sputters and coughs and falls dead. Tonks waves her wand lazily, non verbally repairing the wireless and it springs back to life, cheerfully proclaiming "Happy Christmas!" with all the festive joy that she doesn't have (she'd thrown it away but Moody wanted her to keep one; for constant vigilance, of course).
Her dull, empty eyes fall on the limp misletoe on the floor that Kingsley has good naturedly (under heavy influence of Firewhisky) tucked in her pocket in the Christmas Party they had this morning for Aurors; he himself had hung one in his cubicle and
almost made out with one Dolores Umbridge before puking all over her (bless him). Last year, she'd had one hung in front of her bedroom in No 12 Grimmauld Place and a certain Remus Lupin happened to be caught standing with her under it (and with a little help from Sirius, the both of them were almost late for breakfast the following morning, and the morning after that); she'd had the best christmas present ever: him.
No, no, no. She mutters in her head, clutching the dead mousy brown hair with both hands. Not him. Forget about him.
Poor. Old. Dangerous.
The empty stare that used to be alive and brimming with glee and joy tears up again. Poorolddangerous. Poorolddangerous.
"Poor, old--"
She realises that she has been muttering to herself again when a knock on her one room apartment wakes her up from her trance. She kicks the afghan away and quickly strides down the length of the living room, sometimes catching her feet on her coffee table, on her sofa, her coat hanger and finally, tripping over the afghan, which has incospicuously curls up her right leg--some things do never change. She limps to her door, her wand in a deathgrip inside her Auror robes ("Constant Vigilance, lassie. Constant Vigilance." She snorts. It's so very likely that Death Eaters will politely knock before they break open your door and kill you.)
The door creaks open.
She can make out a tall figure, so skinny that it's drowning in the huge, tattered robe it's wearing and she can see a wand sticking out of his breast pocket; well, it isn't the Pizza Guy...
"Hello, Tonks."
.. and she slams the door right on his face--on the face she's longed to see for six solid months.
She tries to calm her heart down--and fails. Isn't he supposed to be in the Burrow, eating solid food he's been denied for months, partying with the Weasleys, catching up with Harry, and brooding and angsting like the sorry werewolf he is? What is he doing here? Rubbing it on her face that he's been very well off without her ("That's a lie," she tells herself. "He's awfully thin, for Merlin's sake. What has
not Greyback been feeding him?"), probably?
"What are you doing here," she deadpans, tapping the door once to let him know that she's speaking.
There's a scuttle across the door. "How are you, Tonks?" his hoarse voice comes, sounding more tired and awkward than ever.
She flungs open the door and stands in full view of Remus John Lupin, now reduced to nothing but skeleton wrapped in skin and too-big robes and coats, his shaggy light brown hair now straddling his shoulders, the gray highlights more abundant than ever. His blue-gray eyes, hidden among his unkempt chesnut bangs, narrow as he studies her too-thin frame and her natural hair and eyes.
"Have you been eating?" he asks, still staying on the same space in front of her door.
"I could ask the same for you," she says. "It's getting late, Remus, come on in. Then you can explain this unexpected visit."
It hurts so much to treat him just like a colleague, a friend; it hurts more to treat him like a poison. She stops the tears that have threatened to fall and steps sideways, letting him enter her living room. Suddenly she realises that her apartement is in desperate need of cleaning up, with cloaks and robes and sneakers all over the place and dust layering every furniture she has; the pictures are grimy and the people in them have walked away from the frame, disgusted. It looks very different from when he used to live in there with her; he'd take care of all the cleanings and the tidying ups (and the cookings and other small household details; him being the unemployed, bored, kind hearted perfectionist) while she slaved the day in the Ministry.
No, don't go into that.
"I, uh," he starts, scratching the back of his neck--something he always does when he's nervous. "Molly wants to know if you want to come for to the Burrow tomorrow, since it's Christmas and all."
"I have work," she states. "Death Eaters don't take Christmas off."
"Right," he says. "Right, I'll tell her that."
Whatever happened to owls and Patronus messages?She can feel his eyes on her back, and she quickly turns to the kitchen. "Do you want anything?" she says, although she already knows the answer. She summons a cup (probably the only clean one she has) and fill it three quarters full with warm tea before adding milk until the brim, and put in half a scoop of sugar.
He looks half surprised to see her offering the cup of tea; he seems to be engrossed in studying the state of her apartement. "Thank you," he says softly and takes the cup away from her, his gloved hands brushing against hers as he does, sending shivers down her spine. He takes a sip before looking back at her. "I'd better get going then," he says before taking another careful sip.
She nods, watching him finish his tea before making his way to the still ajar door. He straightens up the old, dirty robe he wears before stepping out of her door and she can see him turning his head--just a little--and looks at her.
Stealing glances at her...
"Remus," her mouth says before her brain can even notice what's happening. "This isn't working."
"I know," came the tired reply.
"I can't act like nothing's happened!" she says, flaring up suddenly. "I can't act like oh, you're Remus Lupin; you're just another colleague of mine in the Order and we risk our lives everyday hunting down You-Know-Who and I'm sure you haven't gotten into bed with me before. I just can't do this!"
"I know."
He's not even looking at her! That merlin-damned, selfish noble bastard--how she wants to shake him until he finally understands that the only thing keeping them apart is him being the world's biggest moron. She walks up at him and snatches a handful of his dirty robe, looking straight into his eyes (his dull, lifeless eyes--how it mirrored her own). "It may be easy to you but--"
Now she finds herself pinned on the wall, his face just inches away from hers, his breath very warm on her skin. "Don't you--. This isn't--," he gasps for a moment, as if finding the right words to say. "Tonks, this is killing me more than you. I spend every moment--unconcious or not--thinking about you and your vibrant laughs and your vivid pink hair, and the tingle of your touch and the pure ecstasy of just being with you." He snarls, his lips a hair breadth away from hers. "It's for your own good, Nymphadora. I'm--"
"Too poor, too old, too dangerous," she chants, rolling her eyes (and she becomes vaguely aware that he's released her, and withdrawn his hands to himself). She looks at him, her eyes softening a little. "Remus, I can't believe I'm saying this again: I don't care that you're poor, old and dangerous. But do you ever listen? No! You being the asshole you are is just so absorbed in this belief you create yourself and no matter what I say, what Molly says, what Arthur says or what Dumbledore says, you still think you're right, don't you?"
He stares at her, fatigue evident in his eyes. "Tonks..."
"You think you're protecting me; but you're not. It hurts, Remus. It's killing me, well," she gestures at herself, "You can see for yourself."
He keeps quiet and she suddenly becomes very interested in her socks, taking in every detail like how the mint green is fading and how some threads are sticking out and how they're brushing against the edge of Remus' too-big robe, and how the dark, dull mud that cakes his robe is dripping onto the socks.
"So why're you here exactly, Remus?" she asks him, still staring at her socks fiercely. "You could just send me an own or a Patronus to ask me about tomorrow."
"I wanted to see you," he says.
"You, wanted to see me?" she repeats, laughing. "You must've missed me badly, huh?"
And for the second time that day, she finds herself pinned on the wall, harder than before, as he crushes her lips against hers hungrily, forcing his tongue into her mouth and Merlin, he tasteslike turkey, tea, longing, and lust... She groans, her stomach somersaulting and she feels as if it just drops, down her navel, her hip... to the very warm spot in between her thighs. She nipped at his upper lip before his mouth travells down her chin, then up her cheek and into her ears, licking the earlobes gently, erotically, and she nuzzles his neck with hers, her hearbeat resonating with his, beating in synch with the bobbing of his Adam's Apple.
He pulls away from her, gasping for breath like she is. She smirks. "What's that for, Remus Lupin?"
He keeps silent, but she can see his answer, obvious in his eyes, now alive and fiery with lust and passion. His answer is as clear as the mud that litters his old, ragged cloak; as clear as her dead, dull gray stare--he needs her, and for that, he'll break his rule, just for this once.
She presses her lips to his and he responds immediately, bringing his hands to cup her face as she encircles his neck with her own slender arms, bringing them closer than ever. He kisses her slowly at first, teasing her tongue with his as he moves across her lips, and then more forceful, his need expressed clearly as he nipped at her nose, her eyelids, her chin, her earlobes, her... good Merlin... She'd almost forgotten what a good kisser he was.
She grinds her hip against his and he groans as she straddles his aching need. With a burst of strength, he lifts her up and she wraps her long, smooth legs around his waist, loving the feeling of his manliness pressing against her thighs. His mouth has now found the sweet spot on her throat, suckling and nipping at it as if it's sweet honey; she runs a hand across his chest, pushing the heavy cloak and the dirty robe down on the floor before her nimble fingers dance across the buttons of his blue Oxfords, freeing them one by one almost teasingly and he moans in impatience. He frees a hand which has been tangled in her limp mousy brown hair and waves it--his shirt flies away, along with her robe, her Weird Sisters T-Shirt and her bra.
That's one of the things she likes about him: Venus Primifico. Wandless Magic. Hmph.
"Not here," she mutters against his lips, which have found hers again. "Bed..."
And they stumble down her living room, knocking into things and furnitures and sometimes making brief stops at the wall for support (they just can't keep their hands off themselves just for a little while for support) before they reach their destination; he throws the two of them down on her bed, him scrambling to get on top of her while her working on his pants.
"You're thin, for Merlin's sake, Tonks," he whispers.
"And you're a skeleton, Remus," she says before claiming his lips again. "Eat more; even if I'd have to smuggle food for you."
His hands find her knickers and push it down and she gasps in anticipation.
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He never stops; thrusting, grunting, his sweat slicked body pressed against hers as he brings her from ecstasy again and again; his lips are everywhere, up down--from her hair to toes--, he licks and sucks and nibbles teasingly, erotically at every inch of her porcelain delicate skin. She could taste herself in his mouth, in his tongue, in his long slender fingers. Everything's right just for this one night; he's here, right here, everywhere on her, beside her, below her, all wrapped up around her, his scent, his taste, his warmth lingering on her skin.
Everything's right for just this one time, she mutters to herself as she plops down the pillow, her hair slicked with sweat underneath her head. And tears roll down her pink-stained cheek; nothing ever stays right for long.
Tomorrow, she's very sure, tomorrow, everything's going to be wrong again.----------------------------------------
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She wakes up when her alarm clock screams at her ear (and she smashes it on the wall as usual; with a quick
reparo it should be back to being annoying again), tangled up in her blanket with her hair sticking out at weird angles. Sunlight is streaming down into the room; she blinks and looks down at herself: stark naked. What happened...?
"Remus!" she whispers, one hand shooting to the other side of the bed, running across the sheet and throwing the blanket away. The sheet there is cold, cold like it's always been for the past six months ever since its occupant goes on that stupid undercover mission. She sits up, studying her room: it's neat. He's gone through all the trouble to tidy up after her, like six months ago, before he left. She grabs the blanket and wraps it around her and runs out to the living room.
Other than the fact that her apartment's clean, there's no sign that he's actually been here. She slumps back into her bedroom, feeling more tired and lonely than ever before (her Goblin Cauldron report had been neatly stacked up on her desk; her cloak and her shoes and any piece of garment had been folded up expertly inside her closet, and that nest of Doxys that had been happily living in her bathroom was gone without a trace).
She sits down on her bed docked in nothing as she stares blankly into the fireplace across from her, her insides now as hollow and empty and cold as the bedsheet beside her.
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calm
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bouncy
energetic
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