Inner Spaces
Title: Inner Spaces
Genre: General, with a dash of romance
Rating & Warnings: PG
Word Count: 1049
Author's Note: For sspring92, who gave me the prompt of Pheromones, with which ... I haven't done anything much. I suppose if you squint hard, and have a vivid imagination, you might just spot it in there. ;)
Inner Spaces
She’d brought him tea, strong and steaming as he liked it, and he thanked her with the familiar smile and the quick, upward glance through his hair that never lingered but took her in all the same. In the six weeks since they’d met (not that she was counting), she’d learnt that he spent a lot of time sat behind the great oak desk, surrounded by piles of curling parchment and slowly melting candles. She’d been rather respectful of all this till the day she caught him making paper Muggle aeroplanes to throw at Sirius.
That was the first time she knew why she liked him. Not simply that she did.
“You seem interested, Tonks?” He turned around the parchment his elbow was resting on, and she stopped craning her neck to see that he’d written only one word at the top. September. Perfect parallel lines could be drawn across the tops and bottoms of the gently slanted letters. Very neat, very tidy, very nice writing.
All very him?
No, not quite. There was a rather unnecessary twirl and flourish to the S.
“One word isn’t that interesting,” she said, though she rather thought it was.
He considered this, tapping the quill lightly against his chin. “That depends on whom it’s written to. You choose your words to suit the recipient, and so a letter’s a very personal thing indeed. Like a gift, almost. Now I was about to date this report to Mad-Eye, but-” his eyes met hers again, amused but slightly wary, “-I’ll also put the time because I know he likes precision and accuracy. I’ll use black ink because he’ll want it clear and direct, and I’ll put the place as well, as he’ll want the reassurance that he knows exactly where I am and it also tells him who I’m with.”
She blinked. “That’s a lot in one line.”
“That’s the idea. The reader fills in all the inner spaces.”
“Inner spaces?”
“The spaces between words. The things you can’t say out loud, but either want to or wish you had. Why don’t you come down to my level?”
For a moment she couldn’t think what he meant, and she was confused by the wild leap of her heart before reality returned like a blast of one of Grimmauld’s multitude of icy cold draughts.
She laughed. “D’you mean literally?”
“I thought you might like to sit with me for a bit.” He stretched his leg out and hooked his foot round the leg of the chair opposite, turning it towards her. “If you’re staying, of course.”
“I don’t want to distract you.” She grinned, because this was the first time he’d asked her directly, rather than one of them coming up with some pretext or other. “You know, if you’ve got a big aeroplane or paper hat order to fill.”
“There’s the pirate one to make later on, but it’ll do Cap’n Black good to learn some patience.”
“And I’d hate to bore you. Or interrupt the flow of that one word you’ve written. I know how men hate that.”
“How little you know about men.” He laughed, his thin, pale face lighting up. “Please interrupt my flow.”
She tucked her legs up, rather gracefully for her, in the depths of the over-sized leather chair, folded her arms, and looked at him enquiringly over the desk. He was watching her closely and she rolled her eyes at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Except you always look immediately at home everywhere.”
“So do you.” He certainly looked more comfortable in Grimmauld than Sirius, who continually shifted around like chess pieces - up, down, sideways - and never quite settled in one place.
“Strange you should say that. I don’t normally stay anywhere that long.”
She kicked herself mentally, thinking you fool, and leant forward, tapping the top of the parchment.
“Say you were writing the date to me - how would you do it?”
“Ah.” The small smile came back. “Well… I’d use violet ink because I know you’d love the colour, and black is far too dull, too unimaginative for you. I wouldn’t bother with the actual date because you’d know exactly what it is, or the place, as I think you’d like to work out for yourself where I’m writing from and what that means. Besides, you don’t need the same reassurances that Mad-Eye does. So I’d be able to write something that I think would be special to you.”
She waited and so, apparently, did he. Then he dipped the quill into the inkwell to the side of him, and she watched a tiny blot of deepest plum-coloured ink bleed outwards, spider-like, into the parchment as he hesitated.
Write to me, Remus, she thought.
The quill wavered, then wrote. Scampering across the parchment in haste, as though he was thinking of all those words he’d never been able to say.
He pushed it towards her, not meeting her eyes.
September is a month of contrasts; fiery, glowing colours and the gentle, warming sunshine of early autumn. Like you, Nymphadora.
She read it three times while he rubbed at an ink blot on his fingers.
“That’s…” For a moment she didn’t quite trust her voice, wanted to put her hand self-consciously up to her hair, and twisted one of her rings instead. Resorted to a joke to cover the swell of feeling. “Don’t call me - or write me - that name.”
“Sorry.” He looked it, too. Busied himself laying the quill down next to others, and straightening them up into an even straighter line.
It was six weeks and three days since they’d met. She had been counting. She thought about how he smelt like vellum and ink when he came down to dinner, like the pages of a well-loved book. If he had a lifetime of unspoken words and thoughts to regret, then she had never had the time to stop a moment and say them.
Or the inclination. Till now.
“Your tea will be cold.” His voice was chilly, too. “Don’t feel you have to stay if you don’t want to.”
She reached for the quill and dipped it into the dark blue ink nearest her. Her handwriting was sprawling and inelegant compared to his, but then it was the inner spaces that counted.
How little you know about women, Remus.
Genre: General, with a dash of romance
Rating & Warnings: PG
Word Count: 1049
Author's Note: For sspring92, who gave me the prompt of Pheromones, with which ... I haven't done anything much. I suppose if you squint hard, and have a vivid imagination, you might just spot it in there. ;)
Inner Spaces
She’d brought him tea, strong and steaming as he liked it, and he thanked her with the familiar smile and the quick, upward glance through his hair that never lingered but took her in all the same. In the six weeks since they’d met (not that she was counting), she’d learnt that he spent a lot of time sat behind the great oak desk, surrounded by piles of curling parchment and slowly melting candles. She’d been rather respectful of all this till the day she caught him making paper Muggle aeroplanes to throw at Sirius.
That was the first time she knew why she liked him. Not simply that she did.
“You seem interested, Tonks?” He turned around the parchment his elbow was resting on, and she stopped craning her neck to see that he’d written only one word at the top. September. Perfect parallel lines could be drawn across the tops and bottoms of the gently slanted letters. Very neat, very tidy, very nice writing.
All very him?
No, not quite. There was a rather unnecessary twirl and flourish to the S.
“One word isn’t that interesting,” she said, though she rather thought it was.
He considered this, tapping the quill lightly against his chin. “That depends on whom it’s written to. You choose your words to suit the recipient, and so a letter’s a very personal thing indeed. Like a gift, almost. Now I was about to date this report to Mad-Eye, but-” his eyes met hers again, amused but slightly wary, “-I’ll also put the time because I know he likes precision and accuracy. I’ll use black ink because he’ll want it clear and direct, and I’ll put the place as well, as he’ll want the reassurance that he knows exactly where I am and it also tells him who I’m with.”
She blinked. “That’s a lot in one line.”
“That’s the idea. The reader fills in all the inner spaces.”
“Inner spaces?”
“The spaces between words. The things you can’t say out loud, but either want to or wish you had. Why don’t you come down to my level?”
For a moment she couldn’t think what he meant, and she was confused by the wild leap of her heart before reality returned like a blast of one of Grimmauld’s multitude of icy cold draughts.
She laughed. “D’you mean literally?”
“I thought you might like to sit with me for a bit.” He stretched his leg out and hooked his foot round the leg of the chair opposite, turning it towards her. “If you’re staying, of course.”
“I don’t want to distract you.” She grinned, because this was the first time he’d asked her directly, rather than one of them coming up with some pretext or other. “You know, if you’ve got a big aeroplane or paper hat order to fill.”
“There’s the pirate one to make later on, but it’ll do Cap’n Black good to learn some patience.”
“And I’d hate to bore you. Or interrupt the flow of that one word you’ve written. I know how men hate that.”
“How little you know about men.” He laughed, his thin, pale face lighting up. “Please interrupt my flow.”
She tucked her legs up, rather gracefully for her, in the depths of the over-sized leather chair, folded her arms, and looked at him enquiringly over the desk. He was watching her closely and she rolled her eyes at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Except you always look immediately at home everywhere.”
“So do you.” He certainly looked more comfortable in Grimmauld than Sirius, who continually shifted around like chess pieces - up, down, sideways - and never quite settled in one place.
“Strange you should say that. I don’t normally stay anywhere that long.”
She kicked herself mentally, thinking you fool, and leant forward, tapping the top of the parchment.
“Say you were writing the date to me - how would you do it?”
“Ah.” The small smile came back. “Well… I’d use violet ink because I know you’d love the colour, and black is far too dull, too unimaginative for you. I wouldn’t bother with the actual date because you’d know exactly what it is, or the place, as I think you’d like to work out for yourself where I’m writing from and what that means. Besides, you don’t need the same reassurances that Mad-Eye does. So I’d be able to write something that I think would be special to you.”
She waited and so, apparently, did he. Then he dipped the quill into the inkwell to the side of him, and she watched a tiny blot of deepest plum-coloured ink bleed outwards, spider-like, into the parchment as he hesitated.
Write to me, Remus, she thought.
The quill wavered, then wrote. Scampering across the parchment in haste, as though he was thinking of all those words he’d never been able to say.
He pushed it towards her, not meeting her eyes.
September is a month of contrasts; fiery, glowing colours and the gentle, warming sunshine of early autumn. Like you, Nymphadora.
She read it three times while he rubbed at an ink blot on his fingers.
“That’s…” For a moment she didn’t quite trust her voice, wanted to put her hand self-consciously up to her hair, and twisted one of her rings instead. Resorted to a joke to cover the swell of feeling. “Don’t call me - or write me - that name.”
“Sorry.” He looked it, too. Busied himself laying the quill down next to others, and straightening them up into an even straighter line.
It was six weeks and three days since they’d met. She had been counting. She thought about how he smelt like vellum and ink when he came down to dinner, like the pages of a well-loved book. If he had a lifetime of unspoken words and thoughts to regret, then she had never had the time to stop a moment and say them.
Or the inclination. Till now.
“Your tea will be cold.” His voice was chilly, too. “Don’t feel you have to stay if you don’t want to.”
She reached for the quill and dipped it into the dark blue ink nearest her. Her handwriting was sprawling and inelegant compared to his, but then it was the inner spaces that counted.
How little you know about women, Remus.