Only What You Need (2/4)
Title: Only What You Need (2/4)
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: PG for drinking, language, innuendo and abuse of prescription medication.
Prompt: Angst/Humour and Dragon (sort-of, I tried!)
Format & Word Count: chaptered fic, 1242/approx. 4000
Summary: After the loss of a friend, the Order's two token shapeshifting freaks find comfort in the bottom of several bottles (and in each other).
Author’s Notes: So this fic is driving me insane, if I keep messing around with it, I'll never finish posting. Part Three is on the way, folks. Slowly but surely!
I looked up and saw you
I know that you saw me
we froze but for a moment
in empathy.
-‘Audience of One,’ Rise Against
They sat outside on the curb in front of the bar, under the streetlamps where moths fluttered, and talked. Tonks hadn’t wanted to do this, necessary as it was. She hated talking about feelings, hers or otherwise. This likely stemmed from all the time she spent with Moody, who had two visible emotions - cantankerous and paranoid, and because she never really had to say how she felt. It just…showed.
“Mad-Eye told me everything when I woke up.” Tonks kicked at a piece of loose gravel with the toe of her motorcycle boot. “So there’s no need to go through the details. Unless you want to.”
“Not really.”
“That’s fine,” she said, putting her hand on top of his reassuringly. “I don’t want to either.”
A car rumbled by as he squeezed her hand once and let go.
“So,” Tonks said, dragging out the ‘o.’ “Heard any good jokes lately?”
Remus snorted, giving her a look that she couldn’t place - was it amusement or annoyance? But as he looked back out into the street he was smiling. In the jaundiced glow of the street lights the gray in his hair looked blonde.
After a moment, he said, “Did you hear the one about the pirate and the Niffler?”
“No, how does it go?”
“I don’t know, I was wondering if you’d heard it.”
They both laughed awkwardly.
“You don’t know what a relief it is to see you smile,” she blurted out, not meeting his eyes. “Lets me know I’ll be okay.”
It was dark enough he couldn’t see that she’d gone pink in the face, though he was giving her a searching look. Remus was a walking, tea-drinking lie detector, and one of the few people (aside from her mother) who could read her like a grocery list.
She was doomed.
“Nymphadora. You’re just being nice,” he said, though he knew she had meant it.
“It’s true.” She sounded as if she’d proved some universe-defining theory. Maybe she had, but Tonks was always in her own universe, on some separate plane of existence that ran parallel to his, never crossing paths. “You know I would never go around saying shite like that if it wasn’t true.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, half-teasing, putting his hand against her forehead. She was feverish. “How are you feeling?
“Smashed,” Tonks grinned. “And our choice of seating is making my arse numb, but that’s probably more than you wanted to know.”
It was obvious she was in pain - she wasn’t fidgeting like usual, her eyes were glazed, her hands kept going to her side. In his mind’s eye he saw the dark stone room in the Department of Mysteries, lit in flashes of spellfire.
“Did they ever sort out what kind of curse hit you?”
“Nope,” she said, and then, “I’m not worried about it. We’re alive.”
“Barely alive,” he amended.
“And that should suffice,” she countered, giving him a sideways look as if was a question.
“You know, I feel like it was my fault somehow,” he said, laughing emptily, thinking back to the counselor his mother made him see when he was twenty-one; some woman at St. Mungo’s who seemed afraid he was going to jump across the table and rip her throat (because she’d seen his medical records). “Is that stupid and irrational of me?”
He could clearly remember the way she had put as much space possible between them, shaking fingers holding a quill as she wrote down his answers to questions asked in a trembling voice;
“How does that make you feel?”
As if she cared. He'd stopped going after the third appointment and went to the pub instead.
Nymphadora had her hand on his again, her shoulder and hip and knee against his. She was a Personal Space Invader by nature, and though many people wouldn't even shake his hand, she twined her fingers through his, staring at the pavement.
“It’s not stupid. Well… A bit irrational.” She had her speech prepared, as he knew she would. “’Cause I feel like it’s my fault, too. But it wasn’t your fault. You’re the one who said we were being set up, you’re the one who tried to make Sirius stay. If it’s anyone’s to blame for the way it all went to hell, it’s me. I should have been able to do something other than almost die. I was bloody useless.”
Remus wasn’t convinced of her uselessness, having seen her put a Death Eater-shaped hole in a wooden door with as much effort as he used to tie his shoes.
“And I should’ve been able to make Sirius stay at headquarters, but...” he shrugged.
“He would have stuffed you into a trunk before being left at home.”
“True. And those bastards only got past us once you were down, if it makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.”
“No. I didn’t think it would.”
She was biting her lip again. Nymphadora was probably one of those girls who could cry and still be pretty, but he was probably biased about that. He’d had all his own crying over with those nights she was unconscious in the hospital. It hadn’t fixed anything or even made him feel better, but he had gone through this before and he could do it again.
As if she'd read his mind, she said, “Thanks. For staying with me when I was at St. Mungo’s.”
“You would have done the same for me,” he said, and she nodded.
“Where are you gonna go?” She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“To the Burrow, I guess. That’s where all my things are.”
“I meant...y’know, tonight. You’re a mess.”
He shrugged a reply, feeling the warmth of too many drinks settling on him like a heavy blanket. She was straightening the collar of his shirt, neatly rolling up the sleeves. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you can’t show up at the Weasleys’ pissed. Molly would throttle us.” She made a wringing motion. “Both of us at the same time. Shouldn’t risk it. You should stay in the city with me.”
“I don’t think that would be,” he searched for a word. “Er. Appropriate.”
“Appropri-what? Am I that damaging to your reputation?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Tonks laughed a little too loud. “I don’t care; I think you should come over. I’ll make us some coffee or something. It’ll be fun. We’ll take the Knight Bus.”
Before he could protest (he’d had her coffee before: burnt), she was on her feet with her wand out and the purple monster of a bus was screeching to a stop in front of them.
“A Galleon, two Sickles,” said the conductor after she rattled off her London address. She dug in a pocket for the money. “But you ‘ave to sit up top.”
Climbing three flights of stairs proved to be difficult; the lurching of the bus notwithstanding, but it offered an interesting view of the back of her. Dodging the heels of her boots was another matter altogether.
They caught one of the empty brass beds as it careened toward the back of the bus and both dropped wearily onto it. When the bus slammed to a stop again, the bed slid and she clutched his arm, looking pale. Maybe, he thought, they should provide buckets instead of toothbrushes and hot chocolate. Tonks said this aloud after three more sudden stops and starts, adding that beds shouldn’t move at all unless there was intense shagging going on.
He grinned, though he tried not to. “Thanks.”
“For what? Embarrassing you in public?”
“You can embarrass me whenever you want."
She shot him a coy look, ruined by a snort of laughter. “You’re going to get us kicked off the bus if you keep talking like that.”
“Me? You’re the one talking about shagging,” he said and she arched a pierced eyebrow. “I am no longer responsible for the things I say.”
“I knew you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
“Liquor? I barely know her.”
“I set that one up for you. You’re welcome.”
Tonks was right, as she usually was - he went on to tell her about the last time he had been so publically smashed (at James Potter’s stag do, which had included an ill-advised ride in a Muggle cab, some cigarettes of dubious legality and a similarly dubious and ill-advised dancer named Stephanie who later proved to be a Steven) at length and rather loudly, which earned them a temporary ban for being disruptive.
Stan Shunpike ordered them (nervously) off the bus at wandpoint a few blocks from their destination.
Nymphadora was delighted.
***
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: PG for drinking, language, innuendo and abuse of prescription medication.
Prompt: Angst/Humour and Dragon (sort-of, I tried!)
Format & Word Count: chaptered fic, 1242/approx. 4000
Summary: After the loss of a friend, the Order's two token shapeshifting freaks find comfort in the bottom of several bottles (and in each other).
Author’s Notes: So this fic is driving me insane, if I keep messing around with it, I'll never finish posting. Part Three is on the way, folks. Slowly but surely!
I looked up and saw you
I know that you saw me
we froze but for a moment
in empathy.
-‘Audience of One,’ Rise Against
They sat outside on the curb in front of the bar, under the streetlamps where moths fluttered, and talked. Tonks hadn’t wanted to do this, necessary as it was. She hated talking about feelings, hers or otherwise. This likely stemmed from all the time she spent with Moody, who had two visible emotions - cantankerous and paranoid, and because she never really had to say how she felt. It just…showed.
“Mad-Eye told me everything when I woke up.” Tonks kicked at a piece of loose gravel with the toe of her motorcycle boot. “So there’s no need to go through the details. Unless you want to.”
“Not really.”
“That’s fine,” she said, putting her hand on top of his reassuringly. “I don’t want to either.”
A car rumbled by as he squeezed her hand once and let go.
“So,” Tonks said, dragging out the ‘o.’ “Heard any good jokes lately?”
Remus snorted, giving her a look that she couldn’t place - was it amusement or annoyance? But as he looked back out into the street he was smiling. In the jaundiced glow of the street lights the gray in his hair looked blonde.
After a moment, he said, “Did you hear the one about the pirate and the Niffler?”
“No, how does it go?”
“I don’t know, I was wondering if you’d heard it.”
They both laughed awkwardly.
“You don’t know what a relief it is to see you smile,” she blurted out, not meeting his eyes. “Lets me know I’ll be okay.”
It was dark enough he couldn’t see that she’d gone pink in the face, though he was giving her a searching look. Remus was a walking, tea-drinking lie detector, and one of the few people (aside from her mother) who could read her like a grocery list.
She was doomed.
“Nymphadora. You’re just being nice,” he said, though he knew she had meant it.
“It’s true.” She sounded as if she’d proved some universe-defining theory. Maybe she had, but Tonks was always in her own universe, on some separate plane of existence that ran parallel to his, never crossing paths. “You know I would never go around saying shite like that if it wasn’t true.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, half-teasing, putting his hand against her forehead. She was feverish. “How are you feeling?
“Smashed,” Tonks grinned. “And our choice of seating is making my arse numb, but that’s probably more than you wanted to know.”
It was obvious she was in pain - she wasn’t fidgeting like usual, her eyes were glazed, her hands kept going to her side. In his mind’s eye he saw the dark stone room in the Department of Mysteries, lit in flashes of spellfire.
“Did they ever sort out what kind of curse hit you?”
“Nope,” she said, and then, “I’m not worried about it. We’re alive.”
“Barely alive,” he amended.
“And that should suffice,” she countered, giving him a sideways look as if was a question.
“You know, I feel like it was my fault somehow,” he said, laughing emptily, thinking back to the counselor his mother made him see when he was twenty-one; some woman at St. Mungo’s who seemed afraid he was going to jump across the table and rip her throat (because she’d seen his medical records). “Is that stupid and irrational of me?”
He could clearly remember the way she had put as much space possible between them, shaking fingers holding a quill as she wrote down his answers to questions asked in a trembling voice;
“How does that make you feel?”
As if she cared. He'd stopped going after the third appointment and went to the pub instead.
Nymphadora had her hand on his again, her shoulder and hip and knee against his. She was a Personal Space Invader by nature, and though many people wouldn't even shake his hand, she twined her fingers through his, staring at the pavement.
“It’s not stupid. Well… A bit irrational.” She had her speech prepared, as he knew she would. “’Cause I feel like it’s my fault, too. But it wasn’t your fault. You’re the one who said we were being set up, you’re the one who tried to make Sirius stay. If it’s anyone’s to blame for the way it all went to hell, it’s me. I should have been able to do something other than almost die. I was bloody useless.”
Remus wasn’t convinced of her uselessness, having seen her put a Death Eater-shaped hole in a wooden door with as much effort as he used to tie his shoes.
“And I should’ve been able to make Sirius stay at headquarters, but...” he shrugged.
“He would have stuffed you into a trunk before being left at home.”
“True. And those bastards only got past us once you were down, if it makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.”
“No. I didn’t think it would.”
She was biting her lip again. Nymphadora was probably one of those girls who could cry and still be pretty, but he was probably biased about that. He’d had all his own crying over with those nights she was unconscious in the hospital. It hadn’t fixed anything or even made him feel better, but he had gone through this before and he could do it again.
As if she'd read his mind, she said, “Thanks. For staying with me when I was at St. Mungo’s.”
“You would have done the same for me,” he said, and she nodded.
“Where are you gonna go?” She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“To the Burrow, I guess. That’s where all my things are.”
“I meant...y’know, tonight. You’re a mess.”
He shrugged a reply, feeling the warmth of too many drinks settling on him like a heavy blanket. She was straightening the collar of his shirt, neatly rolling up the sleeves. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you can’t show up at the Weasleys’ pissed. Molly would throttle us.” She made a wringing motion. “Both of us at the same time. Shouldn’t risk it. You should stay in the city with me.”
“I don’t think that would be,” he searched for a word. “Er. Appropriate.”
“Appropri-what? Am I that damaging to your reputation?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Tonks laughed a little too loud. “I don’t care; I think you should come over. I’ll make us some coffee or something. It’ll be fun. We’ll take the Knight Bus.”
Before he could protest (he’d had her coffee before: burnt), she was on her feet with her wand out and the purple monster of a bus was screeching to a stop in front of them.
“A Galleon, two Sickles,” said the conductor after she rattled off her London address. She dug in a pocket for the money. “But you ‘ave to sit up top.”
Climbing three flights of stairs proved to be difficult; the lurching of the bus notwithstanding, but it offered an interesting view of the back of her. Dodging the heels of her boots was another matter altogether.
They caught one of the empty brass beds as it careened toward the back of the bus and both dropped wearily onto it. When the bus slammed to a stop again, the bed slid and she clutched his arm, looking pale. Maybe, he thought, they should provide buckets instead of toothbrushes and hot chocolate. Tonks said this aloud after three more sudden stops and starts, adding that beds shouldn’t move at all unless there was intense shagging going on.
He grinned, though he tried not to. “Thanks.”
“For what? Embarrassing you in public?”
“You can embarrass me whenever you want."
She shot him a coy look, ruined by a snort of laughter. “You’re going to get us kicked off the bus if you keep talking like that.”
“Me? You’re the one talking about shagging,” he said and she arched a pierced eyebrow. “I am no longer responsible for the things I say.”
“I knew you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
“Liquor? I barely know her.”
“I set that one up for you. You’re welcome.”
Tonks was right, as she usually was - he went on to tell her about the last time he had been so publically smashed (at James Potter’s stag do, which had included an ill-advised ride in a Muggle cab, some cigarettes of dubious legality and a similarly dubious and ill-advised dancer named Stephanie who later proved to be a Steven) at length and rather loudly, which earned them a temporary ban for being disruptive.
Stan Shunpike ordered them (nervously) off the bus at wandpoint a few blocks from their destination.
Nymphadora was delighted.
***