New Fic!!!
One Remus Lupin seems to have taken up residence in my brain. Don't get me wrong, I'm awfully fond of the fellow, but as a muse he's tempermental and given to making strange requests. He has me getting out of bed at all hours of the morning to write het of all things, and neglecting my other 3 WIPs which are nearly bloody done! Still, I wrote this in under two hours, which I think has to be some sort of personal record, and I'm actually quite proud of it.
Title: No Blinding Light (or tunnels to gates of white)
Pairing Remus/Tonks
Rating: Very soft R
Warnings: HBP spoilers
She sits up in the bed where she has been sleeping and stares into the darkness. Something is not right. There is another noise, the scrabble of leaves on pavement, and a sudden breath of wind against the windowpane. She pulls a knitted jumper over her pyjamas, moving with a sureness that belies her stumbling during the day through the shadows of her flat, twelve steps down the narrow corridor, five across the kitchen, two to the back door.
He is exactly where she knew he would be, crouching on the step with a tatty blue scarf around his neck, a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, at the end of which is a round orange glow. She realizes with a silent chuckle that he is wearing her pink dressing gown.
He motions for her to sit down on the step beside him. It has rained sometime during the night; the alleyway is slick and reflects the streetlamps.
"Is that my jumper?" he asks, taking her hand.
"Yes," she says. His fingertips, when she takes them in her mouth, are cold and taste like nicotine. His mouth tastes like bergamot and smoke, his cigarette and Earl Grey.
They feel like the only people awake in the world.
*
He tells her that he loves her wild pink hair, her breasts that are too small, her hips that are too wide; he will not stand for her fussing at the mirror, tugging at her clothes.
She is astounded that she is enough for him, all the ways she is graceless and young and too much in love, but she supposes a man like him doesn't ask much, someone who spent twelve, thirteen years loving a man who wasn't there.
He comes back to her when the moon is waning once more, often early in the morning when the sun is just rising over the city. She makes them both toast and eggs and bacon before she has to leave for work, and then he sleeps the day away in her bed until she comes home again and fits her body into the curve of his, not minding that he's sweaty and unshaven.
Always he fumbles a little, unsure of the rhythm of making love until she reminds him. Faltering. Clumsy, like her.
She doesn't know if she should ask whether he's been with a woman before, but she guides his hands anyway, showing him how to touch her. He's got the actual fucking down alright, and after a week or so he'd begun to memorize her as she was learning him.
She thinks of this in the grocery store, her basket half full of apples and bread and frozen peas. She wonders over the baked goods whether he was on the bottom or on top, whether loving her hair and flaws is the same as loving her. She hopes so. If it matters.
*
It is early evening. He has taken her to a tiny Italian restaurant down the street, the kind with checkered tablecloths, candles in empty wine bottles. It is so sweet that she doesn't think she can stop smiling at him.
"I guess you can tell I've never really done this before," he says, smiling crookedly in return. "This dating thing." Because the love of his life had been there all along.
"It doesn't matter," she says, and it doesn't.
*
Back before all this began, he had said he was too old for her, too poor. He's still too poor, but now he thinks perhaps what he meant was that he was too old for himself. She melts into him when she sleeps, filling the concavities of his leanness, his solitude, with her warmth, her shampoo smell.
It is not now easy to forget there is a war, each day with more attacks and the fierce expression in Harry's eyes. He might lose himself in the distraction of flesh, but he always surfaces again in the burning world, and because of this he stands guard over her nights, a greying sentry.
She is a foreign thing to him, her bright hair on the pillow, her softness the antithesis to sharper masculine angles. At first he kept his distance, almost afraid; then he saw how perfectly she fit into his hands, his cracking life, and thought perhaps he could set old loves and habits aside for what is almost certainly called solace.
*
When he came into the bedroom one day just after Dumbledore's death, she was felt-penning poetry on the walls. Instead of asking her what she was doing he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, his hands clasped between his knees.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; -on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
When she was finished she sat back on her heels with her fists crammed against her mouth so as not to cry. Not knowing how else to comfort her he slid to the floor behind her, put his arms around her shoulders.
Against her ear he said, "I can't make you any promises."
Against his lips and his collarbone she said, "that's okay, I'll take what I can get."
*
The woman goes to the window and pushes it open to better see the lightning, to hear the thunder. She is naked; he studies the shape of her against the wet glass, her hand curled on her hip. The scent of lilacs shaking in the summer squall, a car hissing by on the way to somewhere he doesn't know.
The storm is on her like a gown. After a moment he calls her back to the bed to test its coolness on her skin. He wants to tell her his history before they die, knowing they might well die in the morning.
It is not a promise.
---
Fin
---
note: poem is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. Like HP and the rest, I do not own it. Sadly.
Title: No Blinding Light (or tunnels to gates of white)
Pairing Remus/Tonks
Rating: Very soft R
Warnings: HBP spoilers
She sits up in the bed where she has been sleeping and stares into the darkness. Something is not right. There is another noise, the scrabble of leaves on pavement, and a sudden breath of wind against the windowpane. She pulls a knitted jumper over her pyjamas, moving with a sureness that belies her stumbling during the day through the shadows of her flat, twelve steps down the narrow corridor, five across the kitchen, two to the back door.
He is exactly where she knew he would be, crouching on the step with a tatty blue scarf around his neck, a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, at the end of which is a round orange glow. She realizes with a silent chuckle that he is wearing her pink dressing gown.
He motions for her to sit down on the step beside him. It has rained sometime during the night; the alleyway is slick and reflects the streetlamps.
"Is that my jumper?" he asks, taking her hand.
"Yes," she says. His fingertips, when she takes them in her mouth, are cold and taste like nicotine. His mouth tastes like bergamot and smoke, his cigarette and Earl Grey.
They feel like the only people awake in the world.
*
He tells her that he loves her wild pink hair, her breasts that are too small, her hips that are too wide; he will not stand for her fussing at the mirror, tugging at her clothes.
She is astounded that she is enough for him, all the ways she is graceless and young and too much in love, but she supposes a man like him doesn't ask much, someone who spent twelve, thirteen years loving a man who wasn't there.
He comes back to her when the moon is waning once more, often early in the morning when the sun is just rising over the city. She makes them both toast and eggs and bacon before she has to leave for work, and then he sleeps the day away in her bed until she comes home again and fits her body into the curve of his, not minding that he's sweaty and unshaven.
Always he fumbles a little, unsure of the rhythm of making love until she reminds him. Faltering. Clumsy, like her.
She doesn't know if she should ask whether he's been with a woman before, but she guides his hands anyway, showing him how to touch her. He's got the actual fucking down alright, and after a week or so he'd begun to memorize her as she was learning him.
She thinks of this in the grocery store, her basket half full of apples and bread and frozen peas. She wonders over the baked goods whether he was on the bottom or on top, whether loving her hair and flaws is the same as loving her. She hopes so. If it matters.
*
It is early evening. He has taken her to a tiny Italian restaurant down the street, the kind with checkered tablecloths, candles in empty wine bottles. It is so sweet that she doesn't think she can stop smiling at him.
"I guess you can tell I've never really done this before," he says, smiling crookedly in return. "This dating thing." Because the love of his life had been there all along.
"It doesn't matter," she says, and it doesn't.
*
Back before all this began, he had said he was too old for her, too poor. He's still too poor, but now he thinks perhaps what he meant was that he was too old for himself. She melts into him when she sleeps, filling the concavities of his leanness, his solitude, with her warmth, her shampoo smell.
It is not now easy to forget there is a war, each day with more attacks and the fierce expression in Harry's eyes. He might lose himself in the distraction of flesh, but he always surfaces again in the burning world, and because of this he stands guard over her nights, a greying sentry.
She is a foreign thing to him, her bright hair on the pillow, her softness the antithesis to sharper masculine angles. At first he kept his distance, almost afraid; then he saw how perfectly she fit into his hands, his cracking life, and thought perhaps he could set old loves and habits aside for what is almost certainly called solace.
*
When he came into the bedroom one day just after Dumbledore's death, she was felt-penning poetry on the walls. Instead of asking her what she was doing he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, his hands clasped between his knees.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; -on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
When she was finished she sat back on her heels with her fists crammed against her mouth so as not to cry. Not knowing how else to comfort her he slid to the floor behind her, put his arms around her shoulders.
Against her ear he said, "I can't make you any promises."
Against his lips and his collarbone she said, "that's okay, I'll take what I can get."
*
The woman goes to the window and pushes it open to better see the lightning, to hear the thunder. She is naked; he studies the shape of her against the wet glass, her hand curled on her hip. The scent of lilacs shaking in the summer squall, a car hissing by on the way to somewhere he doesn't know.
The storm is on her like a gown. After a moment he calls her back to the bed to test its coolness on her skin. He wants to tell her his history before they die, knowing they might well die in the morning.
It is not a promise.
---
Fin
---
note: poem is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. Like HP and the rest, I do not own it. Sadly.