Fic: Easy (Remus/Tonks, rated PG-13)
Title: Easy
Pairing: Remus/Tonks (Remus/Sirius implied)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, not me
Notes: Post-HBP. In which Remus shops for groceries and tries to resist temptation.
Easy
Remus is apparently staying in Tonks's flat over the summer; at least, he went home with her and hasn't quite managed to leave. He tries to tread lightly, to make it clear that he is not living there, only staying as a guest. It's a small flat, with wide airy windows and clean laundry piled on the backs of chairs and a small, bright kitchen with bottles of spices in rows.
After a week they are out of tea, and nearly out of everything. "Will you go round to the supermarket?" Tonks asks as she's dressing. "I have to go in to the office, Kingsley has his knickers in a twist."
"Won't they send you out again soon?" He doesn't know who there is now to send him anywhere. He's waiting for an owl from Minerva, or one from Harry. So far neither has come. He's been watching Muggle television, his feet up on Tonks's couch. He's been sleeping a lot; he feels like his body has been craving rest for years.
"We don't have any tea now," Tonks points out. Her hair goes brown and non-descript, falling in a short cap over a darker face. "And I'll want some when I get home. And you will be here all day, and I won't."
"All right, then," Remus says. "Just tea?"
"No, get food, too," Tonks says. She digs in her pocket and holds out a handful of Muggle money. When he hesitates, she adds, "You don't want to go all the way to Diagon Alley, do you? I thought you knew Muggle money --"
"I do," Remus says. He makes himself take the money from her, telling himself that it is her money being spent on her food, and trying to avoid the knowledge that he'll be eating it. He might be called away, he tells himself. He might be run over by a bus. She'll still want a pint of milk.
He stands looking at milk and thinking that he cannot remember the last time he shopped without doing worried mental arithmetic, how much for a loaf of bread how much for jam well then I can do without tea. He puts milk and bread and tea in the wire trolley, and then stands looking at the fruit with a sense of helplessness.
There are apples, although this is not apple season; he wonders where apples ripen in June, imagines trees weighted down with apples in the summer sun. He is getting distracted from the task at hand. He picks up strawberries instead. All things in their season.
Salad greens, woody mushrooms, potatoes because he is actually confident about what to do with potatoes. Chicken and sausages, not letting his eyes linger on the scarlet rows of steaks and chops. Pasta and tinned sauce. Sharp, blue-veined cheese. Biscuits for cheese.
He carries the bags of groceries home in the bright June sunshine and tries not to think about how easy this is. He can see himself carrying home groceries, sleeping between Tonks's brightly-colored sheets, waking up to her slipping into bed naked and dripping from the shower, sliding over him and onto him, her thin back arched and her hands on his shoulders, her hungry mouth against his throat. Curling up in bed with his head on her hip, his eyes closed, while she watches television.
He doesn't think she understands, and he doesn't really want to make her understand, that a pantry full of tinned soup is a temptation, let alone a flat where he's not going to be evicted for not paying the rent and warm hands on his body when everything hurts. She isn't offering anything she has to think twice about, and it's still too much for him to take casually and not wonder how he'll be able to walk away.
Remus lets himself into the flat with her spare key and starts putting things away, leaving the berries and the bread on the table, their warm smells rising. He looks at the tea, wondering if he should help himself to a cup or wait until she comes home.
He knows what Tonks would say. He knows that he is welcome to the tea, welcome to go throw himself down on her bed and sleep the afternoon away, welcome to read her bright paperback books, welcome to find quill and ink in the clutter and write long, rambling letters. He knows if he leaves sheets of paper or rolls of parchment with a few lines scratched out at the top that she will shrug and toss them out as rubbish without worrying about the waste.
It's an effort of will to make himself heat the kettle, open the box of tea leaves and spoon them into a teapot, pour the steaming water. It's the same effort of will that he's making to stay here, despite his impulse to prove the purity of his motives by leaving her and all these tempting comforts behind.
He will have to face this if he wants her, if he wants anyone who isn't as broken as Sirius was, who doesn't need him so much that he feels justified in whatever he takes in return. It's not her fault she's not broken. He's just not sure how to be in love with someone who's not.
It starts like this, he thinks: he will pour the tea, and drink it, and wash the teapot afterwards. He will write to Minerva and then open the books he has left closed since he arrived, and spend the afternoon puzzling out Romanian charms. He will assemble the things he has bought into dinner, and try not to worry about the fact that his cooking skills have not generally been practiced on other people. She will come home from work tired with rain in her hair, and he will smile.
He'll make a start, although he isn't sure how to go on. He's spent years learning how to fit together at the broken places and hold on tight, how to lose, how to walk away. He's never learned how to swallow his pride, how to bite back angry words, how to stay.
It would be so easy to walk away, he thinks, and the fact that he hasn't done it yet is the one thing that makes him suspect he might be right to call this love.
Pairing: Remus/Tonks (Remus/Sirius implied)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, not me
Notes: Post-HBP. In which Remus shops for groceries and tries to resist temptation.
Easy
Remus is apparently staying in Tonks's flat over the summer; at least, he went home with her and hasn't quite managed to leave. He tries to tread lightly, to make it clear that he is not living there, only staying as a guest. It's a small flat, with wide airy windows and clean laundry piled on the backs of chairs and a small, bright kitchen with bottles of spices in rows.
After a week they are out of tea, and nearly out of everything. "Will you go round to the supermarket?" Tonks asks as she's dressing. "I have to go in to the office, Kingsley has his knickers in a twist."
"Won't they send you out again soon?" He doesn't know who there is now to send him anywhere. He's waiting for an owl from Minerva, or one from Harry. So far neither has come. He's been watching Muggle television, his feet up on Tonks's couch. He's been sleeping a lot; he feels like his body has been craving rest for years.
"We don't have any tea now," Tonks points out. Her hair goes brown and non-descript, falling in a short cap over a darker face. "And I'll want some when I get home. And you will be here all day, and I won't."
"All right, then," Remus says. "Just tea?"
"No, get food, too," Tonks says. She digs in her pocket and holds out a handful of Muggle money. When he hesitates, she adds, "You don't want to go all the way to Diagon Alley, do you? I thought you knew Muggle money --"
"I do," Remus says. He makes himself take the money from her, telling himself that it is her money being spent on her food, and trying to avoid the knowledge that he'll be eating it. He might be called away, he tells himself. He might be run over by a bus. She'll still want a pint of milk.
He stands looking at milk and thinking that he cannot remember the last time he shopped without doing worried mental arithmetic, how much for a loaf of bread how much for jam well then I can do without tea. He puts milk and bread and tea in the wire trolley, and then stands looking at the fruit with a sense of helplessness.
There are apples, although this is not apple season; he wonders where apples ripen in June, imagines trees weighted down with apples in the summer sun. He is getting distracted from the task at hand. He picks up strawberries instead. All things in their season.
Salad greens, woody mushrooms, potatoes because he is actually confident about what to do with potatoes. Chicken and sausages, not letting his eyes linger on the scarlet rows of steaks and chops. Pasta and tinned sauce. Sharp, blue-veined cheese. Biscuits for cheese.
He carries the bags of groceries home in the bright June sunshine and tries not to think about how easy this is. He can see himself carrying home groceries, sleeping between Tonks's brightly-colored sheets, waking up to her slipping into bed naked and dripping from the shower, sliding over him and onto him, her thin back arched and her hands on his shoulders, her hungry mouth against his throat. Curling up in bed with his head on her hip, his eyes closed, while she watches television.
He doesn't think she understands, and he doesn't really want to make her understand, that a pantry full of tinned soup is a temptation, let alone a flat where he's not going to be evicted for not paying the rent and warm hands on his body when everything hurts. She isn't offering anything she has to think twice about, and it's still too much for him to take casually and not wonder how he'll be able to walk away.
Remus lets himself into the flat with her spare key and starts putting things away, leaving the berries and the bread on the table, their warm smells rising. He looks at the tea, wondering if he should help himself to a cup or wait until she comes home.
He knows what Tonks would say. He knows that he is welcome to the tea, welcome to go throw himself down on her bed and sleep the afternoon away, welcome to read her bright paperback books, welcome to find quill and ink in the clutter and write long, rambling letters. He knows if he leaves sheets of paper or rolls of parchment with a few lines scratched out at the top that she will shrug and toss them out as rubbish without worrying about the waste.
It's an effort of will to make himself heat the kettle, open the box of tea leaves and spoon them into a teapot, pour the steaming water. It's the same effort of will that he's making to stay here, despite his impulse to prove the purity of his motives by leaving her and all these tempting comforts behind.
He will have to face this if he wants her, if he wants anyone who isn't as broken as Sirius was, who doesn't need him so much that he feels justified in whatever he takes in return. It's not her fault she's not broken. He's just not sure how to be in love with someone who's not.
It starts like this, he thinks: he will pour the tea, and drink it, and wash the teapot afterwards. He will write to Minerva and then open the books he has left closed since he arrived, and spend the afternoon puzzling out Romanian charms. He will assemble the things he has bought into dinner, and try not to worry about the fact that his cooking skills have not generally been practiced on other people. She will come home from work tired with rain in her hair, and he will smile.
He'll make a start, although he isn't sure how to go on. He's spent years learning how to fit together at the broken places and hold on tight, how to lose, how to walk away. He's never learned how to swallow his pride, how to bite back angry words, how to stay.
It would be so easy to walk away, he thinks, and the fact that he hasn't done it yet is the one thing that makes him suspect he might be right to call this love.