Fic | Still Life With
Title: Still Life With
Author/Artist: attilatehbun
Rating: PG-13
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: At least with Luna he stands a decent chance of understanding what's going on when she decides to finish a conversation they'd started months ago. He knows her, understands what she means by the angle of her hips or how much she's chewing on her hair as she speaks.
A/N:This came out Dean POV, because Luna simply would not cooperate, but I think it still counts as being about her. For butterfly_kate, proving that even in anonymous exchanges, she inspires my Dean/Luna-ish-ness to the MAX. Thanks to belladonna803, for the life-saving beta, and for rocking out.
~ Originally written for luna_exchange ~
~*~
Dean is having one of those conversations where the man he's talking to opens the conversation assuming Dean has been listening intently for the past half hour and knows exactly what he means at all times. In reality, Dean has met more people since the evening started than he has ever met in his life, and has been having what feels like 17 of these conversations every minute.
Dean is more practiced in these types of conversations than other people, what with the amorphous force in his life that is Luna, but at least with Luna he stands a decent chance of understanding what's going on when she decides to finish a conversation they'd started months ago. He knows her, understands what she means by the angle of her hips or how much she's chewing on her hair as she speaks.
But this man in front of him, this short, obnoxious little man, well, Dean couldn't find his hips under the roll of his gut even if he spent a year looking. Not to mention that, aside from his horrid little mustache, he's as bald as an egg.
There's nothing Dean can do but nod silently and hope that anyone else will come along to rescue him.
She doesn't say anything as she appears in the seat beside him. She is simply there, turning and crossing his lap with her legs. Her feet are bare and filthy, but they give him something to look at that isn't the unbearable, horrible, wonderful scene circling around them both.
They both survived, they both got lucky (a turn of the cards mean their lives, and what does that even mean, he amends in his head), but they're still both alone in this crush of grief and love.
He's still staring at her feet when she tips his head up and squints at him, moving to rub some rock dust from the furrow between his eyebrows. The furrow relaxes. He doesn't even notice he's started to rub her feet and ankles until he hears her start to hum. She's smiling, and he finds himself smiling back before he even realizes he's doing it.
Suddenly she's on her feet and pulling him to his. They prick with pins and needles and he must have been sitting there far longer than he'd thought. As he hops back and forth, trying to regain some feeling, she takes him by the hand and waves her wand. An enormous party cracker appears in the air before them and they take hold of it together. They reach across the broken table for the others, the ones milling about in a daze, those staring at their hands or slumped against a wall. Luna's gesturing at, reaching for, practically Summoning them all - amazingly, they're all coming. There are five pairs of hands to a side, now ten, now twenty, all of them pulling at the cracker until it bursts with the unexpected sound of a cymbal crash. There are no candies or toys inside, but flowers, seemingly hundreds of them.
He looks around the room and the blank faces are gone. People once sitting alone are now laughing, sharing flowers with their neighbors. Everyone looks towards the explosion of life.
He looks at her instead. She takes his arm and hugs it, smiling to herself. He pulls her closer to him and thinks that it doesn't feel wrong to celebrate, not when it's with her.
'...and your work definitely shows potential, yes, though it's still rather amateurish and far too reminiscent of...'
Dean is being lectured at by a tall, rather greasy gentleman, who seems to fancy himself an art critic and is steadfastly refusing to release Dean's hand from his overly-masculine handshake.
It's starting to get a bit awkward.
But at least Dean can drift away and not follow the conversation (and it's really not like his responses are necessary or appreciated - this whole "conversation" is as scripted as the play they saw last night) and it's perfect timing, because Luna has chosen this moment to glide across the room to him, her violently green dress (the cut as close to robes as Muggle fashion would allow) swirling around her with every motion.
She immediately touches him as she arrives. One hand nestles in the hair at the back of his head while she plays with the end of his tie, thumb running over the patterns she's embroidered there.
Without waiting for a pause in flow of the man's drivel, she introduces herself.
The man, startled, does not release Dean's hand as she so obviously intended. Instead, he grips it harder in surprise. His eyes flick from Luna's face to the painting on the wall behind Dean's head, then back to Luna, dripping down her body in way that makes Dean all the more eager to escape from this man's clutches. If he could just hex him away...(but that would be wrong, he thinks in a gritted-teeth sort of way.)
Dean has never been particularly protective of Luna, because she hardly needs that of him, and he lost most of his jealousy and possessiveness a long time ago; Luna seemed so immune to it, and regarded any expressions of it with such a bizarrely academic slant that Dean gave it up as a waste of effort. He certainly wouldn't have made the painting of Luna sitting nude on a stool and scratching her nose the focal point of the gallery if it was still a presence.
That doesn't change the fact the blokes like this looking at her like that make his blood boil.
When they finally manage to disentangle themselves from the man's increasingly sweaty palm, Luna takes advantage of the momentary lull before yet another well-wisher latches on to come up behind Dean, place her hands softly on his shoulders, and whisper in his ear,
'You see?'
She comes up behind him as he is knotting his tie. He cannot see her; he is taller and broader than she is and her reflection is blocked. But he feels her heat against his back and her hands as they tug his belt loops. She presses a kiss to his shoulder-blade through the cotton of his shirt and sits, leaning against the backs of his legs.
The tie refuses to tie, and he snorts before pulling it loose and starting all over again.
'I've been thinking,' she says. 'I think it would most likely be better if I left off that dress when we go to the opening.'
'Mmm,' is all of his answer. The dratted knot is twisted yet again.
She slides down further so her head is resting right in the ticklish spot at the back of his knees. 'Oh yes. I think it would be far more simple if I just went naked.'
He manages to keep a straight face. 'You do, do you?' he says.
'Mmm,' she says, nuzzling against his leg. 'I thought, "well, everyone is going to know what I look like naked, and it would really make things much easier if I saved them the trouble of taking off all my clothes in their head to make sure I match." I'm sure it would be less distracting.'
He laughs a little to himself before finally getting the tie properly tied and pulling her to her feet. He hugs her to him and rests his forehead against hers.
'I'm not too sure you've a good plan there, love. For starters, I doubt the people there will be too keen on anyone going around starkers. In fact, I'm pretty sure there are laws against that kind of thing-'
'Those sound like silly laws,' she puts in.
'Maybe,' he says, 'but they still are laws, and I don't fancy having my date getting arrested, yeah? But more importantly, you will definitely be distracting if you've not got clothes on.'
'But-' she starts, unable to get the rest out as he kisses her. He lingers, relishing the texture of her tongue as it slides along his, the way she likes to nibble on his lower lip. He buries both of his hands deep in the pile of hair she's pinned to the top of her head, aching to pull it all down, but he has to pull away when she starts making soft noises deep in her throat or else they'll never get out of the flat.
He pulls back, breathing heavily, but she doesn't even look dazed. She just hums in that way she has and smooths the fresh rumples out of his shirt.
'Why is it distracting?' she says.
'Because,' he says with a grin, 'I'm going to have a hard enough time paying attention to what all those people are saying. If you show up with no clothes on, I'm going to be staring at you all night and adjusting my trousers like a fourteen-year-old.'
'Oh. Well. Can I distract you later tonight, then?' she says. 'After we've come home?'
'I can't see any reason why not.' He kisses her lightly, then steps back and turns. 'Now, do I look like a proper artist?'
'But you are a proper artist. Don't you always look like one?'
Dean has managed to avoid getting caught up in yet another pointless discussion, and finds himself studying his paintings. They were examined thoroughly by the Ministry to make sure they were in compliance with the Statute of Secrecy before he'd been allowed to place them in the gallery. Rigorous charms were put in place to keep the subjects from moving around, charms that would need to be made permanent should any Muggle buy any. Dean prefers the paintings when they are alive with motion, but there's not much he can do. There isn't nearly the demand for his work in his own world.
A too bright woman with an empty wine glass in her hand is trying to weave her way over, so Dean walks away as quickly as he can without appearing rude. He scans the crowd for Luna.
She is standing with the friends who came to the opening. A few have been able to navigate the crowds with ease; even now Dean can see Hermione gesturing angrily at a critic from a local paper. Normally formidable, he actually seems cowed by her, and Dean laughs and hopes he never gets on her bad side. But Hermione is not the norm; most of Dean and Luna's friends are clumped on the fringes, unsure of what to talk about when Quidditch and the Prophet are off the table, and looking for all the world like Grindylows out of water. Luna, in her way, is easing things for them.
Dean watches as she whispers something to Ginny. After a short moment, Ginny bursts into loud laughter, clutching at her enormously pregnant belly as if that might somehow keep the laughs in. Luna waits patiently for Ginny to calm down, the innocent look on her face telling the world that she had no idea why Ginny would react like that.
Dean knows better.
He thinks about crossing the room to join the small pockets of conversation that might actually interest him, but instead decides to continue to observe Luna from afar. He always enjoys it; it is why Luna features in many of the paintings (though in most it would be impossible to tell unless the person looking is also the person who painted them). Dean finds it far beyond silly to call her a muse; she's not and never has been, not in that way. But he finds that the more he watches her, the more she creeps into everything he does.
He looks from one painting to another, his eyes automatically seeking her out. Here, this one, a reflection of a full moon, and he hears it again, as clear as it was then.
I love you.
A second later he feels her arms slip around his waist. Dean turns and looks down at her. She smiling and humming and he really wants to Apparate them both the hell out of here.
'If you want, I'll create a distraction,' she says. 'I'm sure I have something explosive if I look hard enough.'
Dean is not surprised at Luna's ability to read his mind. He kisses her briefly.
'Nah, it's not worth being at home if I'm not there with you.'
~*~fin~*~
Beautiful illustration for this fic by Buuya. Leave her a comment praising her awesomeness here.
Author/Artist: attilatehbun
Rating: PG-13
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: At least with Luna he stands a decent chance of understanding what's going on when she decides to finish a conversation they'd started months ago. He knows her, understands what she means by the angle of her hips or how much she's chewing on her hair as she speaks.
A/N:This came out Dean POV, because Luna simply would not cooperate, but I think it still counts as being about her. For butterfly_kate, proving that even in anonymous exchanges, she inspires my Dean/Luna-ish-ness to the MAX. Thanks to belladonna803, for the life-saving beta, and for rocking out.
~ Originally written for luna_exchange ~
~*~
Dean is having one of those conversations where the man he's talking to opens the conversation assuming Dean has been listening intently for the past half hour and knows exactly what he means at all times. In reality, Dean has met more people since the evening started than he has ever met in his life, and has been having what feels like 17 of these conversations every minute.
Dean is more practiced in these types of conversations than other people, what with the amorphous force in his life that is Luna, but at least with Luna he stands a decent chance of understanding what's going on when she decides to finish a conversation they'd started months ago. He knows her, understands what she means by the angle of her hips or how much she's chewing on her hair as she speaks.
But this man in front of him, this short, obnoxious little man, well, Dean couldn't find his hips under the roll of his gut even if he spent a year looking. Not to mention that, aside from his horrid little mustache, he's as bald as an egg.
There's nothing Dean can do but nod silently and hope that anyone else will come along to rescue him.
She doesn't say anything as she appears in the seat beside him. She is simply there, turning and crossing his lap with her legs. Her feet are bare and filthy, but they give him something to look at that isn't the unbearable, horrible, wonderful scene circling around them both.
They both survived, they both got lucky (a turn of the cards mean their lives, and what does that even mean, he amends in his head), but they're still both alone in this crush of grief and love.
He's still staring at her feet when she tips his head up and squints at him, moving to rub some rock dust from the furrow between his eyebrows. The furrow relaxes. He doesn't even notice he's started to rub her feet and ankles until he hears her start to hum. She's smiling, and he finds himself smiling back before he even realizes he's doing it.
Suddenly she's on her feet and pulling him to his. They prick with pins and needles and he must have been sitting there far longer than he'd thought. As he hops back and forth, trying to regain some feeling, she takes him by the hand and waves her wand. An enormous party cracker appears in the air before them and they take hold of it together. They reach across the broken table for the others, the ones milling about in a daze, those staring at their hands or slumped against a wall. Luna's gesturing at, reaching for, practically Summoning them all - amazingly, they're all coming. There are five pairs of hands to a side, now ten, now twenty, all of them pulling at the cracker until it bursts with the unexpected sound of a cymbal crash. There are no candies or toys inside, but flowers, seemingly hundreds of them.
He looks around the room and the blank faces are gone. People once sitting alone are now laughing, sharing flowers with their neighbors. Everyone looks towards the explosion of life.
He looks at her instead. She takes his arm and hugs it, smiling to herself. He pulls her closer to him and thinks that it doesn't feel wrong to celebrate, not when it's with her.
'...and your work definitely shows potential, yes, though it's still rather amateurish and far too reminiscent of...'
Dean is being lectured at by a tall, rather greasy gentleman, who seems to fancy himself an art critic and is steadfastly refusing to release Dean's hand from his overly-masculine handshake.
It's starting to get a bit awkward.
But at least Dean can drift away and not follow the conversation (and it's really not like his responses are necessary or appreciated - this whole "conversation" is as scripted as the play they saw last night) and it's perfect timing, because Luna has chosen this moment to glide across the room to him, her violently green dress (the cut as close to robes as Muggle fashion would allow) swirling around her with every motion.
She immediately touches him as she arrives. One hand nestles in the hair at the back of his head while she plays with the end of his tie, thumb running over the patterns she's embroidered there.
Without waiting for a pause in flow of the man's drivel, she introduces herself.
The man, startled, does not release Dean's hand as she so obviously intended. Instead, he grips it harder in surprise. His eyes flick from Luna's face to the painting on the wall behind Dean's head, then back to Luna, dripping down her body in way that makes Dean all the more eager to escape from this man's clutches. If he could just hex him away...(but that would be wrong, he thinks in a gritted-teeth sort of way.)
Dean has never been particularly protective of Luna, because she hardly needs that of him, and he lost most of his jealousy and possessiveness a long time ago; Luna seemed so immune to it, and regarded any expressions of it with such a bizarrely academic slant that Dean gave it up as a waste of effort. He certainly wouldn't have made the painting of Luna sitting nude on a stool and scratching her nose the focal point of the gallery if it was still a presence.
That doesn't change the fact the blokes like this looking at her like that make his blood boil.
When they finally manage to disentangle themselves from the man's increasingly sweaty palm, Luna takes advantage of the momentary lull before yet another well-wisher latches on to come up behind Dean, place her hands softly on his shoulders, and whisper in his ear,
'You see?'
She comes up behind him as he is knotting his tie. He cannot see her; he is taller and broader than she is and her reflection is blocked. But he feels her heat against his back and her hands as they tug his belt loops. She presses a kiss to his shoulder-blade through the cotton of his shirt and sits, leaning against the backs of his legs.
The tie refuses to tie, and he snorts before pulling it loose and starting all over again.
'I've been thinking,' she says. 'I think it would most likely be better if I left off that dress when we go to the opening.'
'Mmm,' is all of his answer. The dratted knot is twisted yet again.
She slides down further so her head is resting right in the ticklish spot at the back of his knees. 'Oh yes. I think it would be far more simple if I just went naked.'
He manages to keep a straight face. 'You do, do you?' he says.
'Mmm,' she says, nuzzling against his leg. 'I thought, "well, everyone is going to know what I look like naked, and it would really make things much easier if I saved them the trouble of taking off all my clothes in their head to make sure I match." I'm sure it would be less distracting.'
He laughs a little to himself before finally getting the tie properly tied and pulling her to her feet. He hugs her to him and rests his forehead against hers.
'I'm not too sure you've a good plan there, love. For starters, I doubt the people there will be too keen on anyone going around starkers. In fact, I'm pretty sure there are laws against that kind of thing-'
'Those sound like silly laws,' she puts in.
'Maybe,' he says, 'but they still are laws, and I don't fancy having my date getting arrested, yeah? But more importantly, you will definitely be distracting if you've not got clothes on.'
'But-' she starts, unable to get the rest out as he kisses her. He lingers, relishing the texture of her tongue as it slides along his, the way she likes to nibble on his lower lip. He buries both of his hands deep in the pile of hair she's pinned to the top of her head, aching to pull it all down, but he has to pull away when she starts making soft noises deep in her throat or else they'll never get out of the flat.
He pulls back, breathing heavily, but she doesn't even look dazed. She just hums in that way she has and smooths the fresh rumples out of his shirt.
'Why is it distracting?' she says.
'Because,' he says with a grin, 'I'm going to have a hard enough time paying attention to what all those people are saying. If you show up with no clothes on, I'm going to be staring at you all night and adjusting my trousers like a fourteen-year-old.'
'Oh. Well. Can I distract you later tonight, then?' she says. 'After we've come home?'
'I can't see any reason why not.' He kisses her lightly, then steps back and turns. 'Now, do I look like a proper artist?'
'But you are a proper artist. Don't you always look like one?'
Dean has managed to avoid getting caught up in yet another pointless discussion, and finds himself studying his paintings. They were examined thoroughly by the Ministry to make sure they were in compliance with the Statute of Secrecy before he'd been allowed to place them in the gallery. Rigorous charms were put in place to keep the subjects from moving around, charms that would need to be made permanent should any Muggle buy any. Dean prefers the paintings when they are alive with motion, but there's not much he can do. There isn't nearly the demand for his work in his own world.
A too bright woman with an empty wine glass in her hand is trying to weave her way over, so Dean walks away as quickly as he can without appearing rude. He scans the crowd for Luna.
She is standing with the friends who came to the opening. A few have been able to navigate the crowds with ease; even now Dean can see Hermione gesturing angrily at a critic from a local paper. Normally formidable, he actually seems cowed by her, and Dean laughs and hopes he never gets on her bad side. But Hermione is not the norm; most of Dean and Luna's friends are clumped on the fringes, unsure of what to talk about when Quidditch and the Prophet are off the table, and looking for all the world like Grindylows out of water. Luna, in her way, is easing things for them.
Dean watches as she whispers something to Ginny. After a short moment, Ginny bursts into loud laughter, clutching at her enormously pregnant belly as if that might somehow keep the laughs in. Luna waits patiently for Ginny to calm down, the innocent look on her face telling the world that she had no idea why Ginny would react like that.
Dean knows better.
He thinks about crossing the room to join the small pockets of conversation that might actually interest him, but instead decides to continue to observe Luna from afar. He always enjoys it; it is why Luna features in many of the paintings (though in most it would be impossible to tell unless the person looking is also the person who painted them). Dean finds it far beyond silly to call her a muse; she's not and never has been, not in that way. But he finds that the more he watches her, the more she creeps into everything he does.
He looks from one painting to another, his eyes automatically seeking her out. Here, this one, a reflection of a full moon, and he hears it again, as clear as it was then.
I love you.
A second later he feels her arms slip around his waist. Dean turns and looks down at her. She smiling and humming and he really wants to Apparate them both the hell out of here.
'If you want, I'll create a distraction,' she says. 'I'm sure I have something explosive if I look hard enough.'
Dean is not surprised at Luna's ability to read his mind. He kisses her briefly.
'Nah, it's not worth being at home if I'm not there with you.'
~*~fin~*~
Beautiful illustration for this fic by Buuya. Leave her a comment praising her awesomeness here.