Sweet Beginnings (2/4)
Title: Sweet Beginnings (2/4)
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: Rated T/PG for language and a little bit of innuendo, Non-Magical American Modern AU.
Prompt(s): hot chocolate
Format & Word Count: Chaptered, 1,606/approx. 7500
Summary: Love's labors pay minimum wage; Tonks is a barista by day, ninja by night. Remus writes, or tries to. Sirius levels up. Feat. other HP characters doing even stranger things.
Author's Note: I just realized that the format of this fic is just like the one I wrote for the last Meta event. LOL.
Tonks pushed open the door to the ladies changing room, turning on the lights and a space heater, giving it a few minutes to warm up before she wiggled out of her clothes. Shivering, she put on her uniform and finished it off with a recently-acquired green belt. She braided her hair tightly in two pigtails, frowning at the mirror.
Saturday was her day off and she’d spent it grocery shopping, wondering what had happened to her friend from the bus stop and working on next week’s shift arrangements - two of Molly’s kids wanted to work over Winter Break.
A little meditation never hurt anyone, so she sat on the floor of the locker room (close to the heater), forcing all thoughts of handsome strangers and shopping lists and work schedules out of her head. When she left the changing room, it was with a focused, undistracted mind.
Or so she would have claimed.
That inward calm, pretended or not, imploded when she saw a familiar face among the group of kids sitting on the bench against the wall. There were a few other adults, but the majority of their audience was twelve and under.
Tonks stared for a second - wondering if her imagination had gotten the better of her.
Nope, it was him - Newspaper Guy, writing in a notebook. He looked up and smiled in recognition. She smiled bewilderedly back.
“Don’t mind him.” Moody, the instructor, walked up and leaned heavily on a staff. “He’s just doing some research for a book or somethin’. Better get your warm-up in.” He nodded toward the tall man who was kicking a bag hanging from the ceiling. His white uniform stood out distinctly against his dark skin and gold glinted on one ear. “Kingsley’s almost ready to start.”
She blinked, straightened the hem of her uniform and surreptitiously checked her reflection in the mirrored wall. Fully aware of being not just observed but keenly watched, she started with a few Tai Chi moves and then began a solo form, moving through a series of blocks, strikes and kicks that got progressively smoother, each blurring into the next.
It was much easier to do without thinking, when her brain let her body take over and the precise placement of hands and feet became automatic, but the feeling of eyes following her didn’t let up.
Until she had started training, Tonks had been stuck in a seemingly permanent clumsy phase. It hadn’t lasted long - Moody didn’t allow “I’m a klutz” as a viable excuse for accidentally kicking someone in the face.
She had originally started taking classes as a teen - an alternative to the ballet lessons her mother had insisted upon. She didn’t have the natural grace for ballet, though, and being able to defend herself if necessary was way cooler than prancing around in satin shoes (no matter if they were pink or not).
“Nice,” Kingsley said, walking up behind her as she whirled to a stop. “You’ve done better though.”
“I can always do better.”
He nodded, grinning. Their students sat down on the floor and Moody began describing the techniques they would be using, and though she heard his instructions, she couldn’t have repeated them.
They bowed to one another and started with simple strikes and blocks - parrying in a circle. They had done the carefully choreographed demonstration dozens of times -- now progressing into a few basic holds and throws as Moody narrated. Kingsley caught her in a rear choke hold, one huge arm around her neck.
“You seem nervous,” he said in a low voice only she would hear. She pulled down on his arm with both hands, then turned into the hold and broke it. As he backed off and threw a strike, she seized his wrist and spun around him, pulling his arm up and behind him. The careful application of pressure sent him to one knee on the mat.
“Nervous? Who, me?”
He gave her a skeptical look before she let go and they took their places opposite each other once again. She feinted, then rushed him, but he turned and flung her to the ground in a shoulder throw. She broke her fall on her left side and turned the motion into a roll, springing back up and aiming a roundhouse kick at his chest. He was deliberately slow with a block - her kick connected and he dropped into a backward rolling breakfall, coming up on his feet, ready to strike again. Shacklebolt’s eyes darted to the audience and he winked at her. “Dude’s checking you out.”
He jabbed another punch at her and she blocked it with a forearm, then threw one of her own straight into his stomach. Kingsley doubled over on cue and she wrapped an arm around his neck, grasping her own wrist. She fell backward onto the mat, flipping him over her shoulder.
The floor shook when they landed and she twisted onto her knees, pinning him to the mat with a guillotine hold.
He grinned broadly up at her. “Undue force, Nymphadora. Quit showing off.”
Moody nodded at her and she released the hold. Kingsley stood up and shook her hand.
“I think you have a fan.”
“Oh, shut up,” Tonks said, blushing. The kids took their places on the mat and Newspaper Guy, watching with wide eyes, was feeling around on the floor for the pen he had dropped.
---
“Sirius. Are you busy? What are you doing?”
“A little leftover takeout, a little Halo 2. What’s up?”
“I saw her again,” Remus said without preface. He was standing outside the dojo, shivering as he waited for his taxi.
“Saw who?”
“You know. Her.”
The door behind him clicked open, and speak of the devil, she stepped out - the white uniform abandoned for dark jeans, boots and a motocross jacket. Surprise registered on her face, an inquiring look in eyes that seemed familiar (now that he was getting a better look).
There was a tiny pink iPod clipped to the collar of her jacket and the headphones were already in her ears; he could hear the hiss of cymbals with a kick-drum beat that raced alongside his own hammering heart. For a moment she looked like she was about to say something, then noticed the phone in his hand and kept walking.
She smiled as she passed, a vision realized in sugar-scented electronica and black leather.
Remus almost, almost followed her.
He’d taken half a step when the sound of Sirius screaming “Die, die you alien bastards!” stopped him. If he was half as clever as people claimed, he would have thrown the phone into the street and ran after her.
Sirius cleared his throat. “Sorry. Oh, right, the hot chocolate girl. Where?”
His eyes followed her progress to the parking lot. She stopped at a sleek, low-slung black and chrome motorcycle, pulled on the helmet hanging from the handlebar, then threw a leg over the seat (damn, but she had long legs) and kicked the bike into gear.
If it hadn’t been so hell-freezingly cold, he might have melted into a puddle where he stood.
“Remus. Hello? You still there?”
“…What?”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“For god’s sake,” Sirius muttered, “Where. Are. You?”
“Oh. At this karate place. I was doing some research for the book-”
“And she was there?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back against the brick building. He had never been cool. Mediocre popularity, good grades and that ill-poet look combined with a tendency to almost die on a regular basis only got him so far with the girls (and with only a certain demographic, at that).
Nowadays a few junior high kids thought he was fantastic, a few junior high English teachers had sent him love letters (literally), and he spent his days making up stories about fictional people that were still more awesome and interesting than he had ever been. This was, in the words of Sirius, kinda dorky.
Sirius was shrieking about respawning and lag, effectively rendering his opinion on respective dorkiness invalid.
“Sorry, what?” Remus said, watching her pilot the bike to the street entrance with intense concentration, feeling completely intimidated and more than a little turned on, which was a weird combination (even for him).
“What was she doing there?”
“Beating up this huge guy.”
“Cool. I have a cousin who does that stuff. What were you watching, Karate? Jujitsu?”
“No idea. I didn’t catch much of the lecture.”
“What the hell am I paying you for, then?”
“...You aren’t?”
“Oh. Why’d you call?”
“I’m starting to wonder, myself.”
“This is a new low for you,” Sirius said brightly. “I’m impressed. Did you at least get her name?”
“Of course not,” he said, with audible panic. “Unless it’s ‘Opponent A,’ which I doubt.”
“My god, are you completely inept?”
He swore and ran a hand over his face, struck by a sudden realization. “She probably thinks I’m stalking her.”
“You kind of are.”
“I am not!”
The girl on the motorcycle looked over her shoulder at him and waved, then gunned the engine and tore out into traffic, leaving nothing behind but frustration and the smell of burning rubber.
“Text me her picture.”
“Wha-no!“
“You’re no fun at all, are you? On Monday you’re going to ask her out. No excuses. And don’t roll your eyes, I can hear you doing that. Oh, you’ve got a meeting with McG and your agent at ten-thirty. Don’t be late, you know how she hates that.” He paused. “Is that a bike I hear-”
Remus hung up on him, maybe a little vindictively, grinning like a madman.
Monday.
---
Author: chococoffeekiss
Rating & Warnings: Rated T/PG for language and a little bit of innuendo, Non-Magical American Modern AU.
Prompt(s): hot chocolate
Format & Word Count: Chaptered, 1,606/approx. 7500
Summary: Love's labors pay minimum wage; Tonks is a barista by day, ninja by night. Remus writes, or tries to. Sirius levels up. Feat. other HP characters doing even stranger things.
Author's Note: I just realized that the format of this fic is just like the one I wrote for the last Meta event. LOL.
Tonks pushed open the door to the ladies changing room, turning on the lights and a space heater, giving it a few minutes to warm up before she wiggled out of her clothes. Shivering, she put on her uniform and finished it off with a recently-acquired green belt. She braided her hair tightly in two pigtails, frowning at the mirror.
Saturday was her day off and she’d spent it grocery shopping, wondering what had happened to her friend from the bus stop and working on next week’s shift arrangements - two of Molly’s kids wanted to work over Winter Break.
A little meditation never hurt anyone, so she sat on the floor of the locker room (close to the heater), forcing all thoughts of handsome strangers and shopping lists and work schedules out of her head. When she left the changing room, it was with a focused, undistracted mind.
Or so she would have claimed.
That inward calm, pretended or not, imploded when she saw a familiar face among the group of kids sitting on the bench against the wall. There were a few other adults, but the majority of their audience was twelve and under.
Tonks stared for a second - wondering if her imagination had gotten the better of her.
Nope, it was him - Newspaper Guy, writing in a notebook. He looked up and smiled in recognition. She smiled bewilderedly back.
“Don’t mind him.” Moody, the instructor, walked up and leaned heavily on a staff. “He’s just doing some research for a book or somethin’. Better get your warm-up in.” He nodded toward the tall man who was kicking a bag hanging from the ceiling. His white uniform stood out distinctly against his dark skin and gold glinted on one ear. “Kingsley’s almost ready to start.”
She blinked, straightened the hem of her uniform and surreptitiously checked her reflection in the mirrored wall. Fully aware of being not just observed but keenly watched, she started with a few Tai Chi moves and then began a solo form, moving through a series of blocks, strikes and kicks that got progressively smoother, each blurring into the next.
It was much easier to do without thinking, when her brain let her body take over and the precise placement of hands and feet became automatic, but the feeling of eyes following her didn’t let up.
Until she had started training, Tonks had been stuck in a seemingly permanent clumsy phase. It hadn’t lasted long - Moody didn’t allow “I’m a klutz” as a viable excuse for accidentally kicking someone in the face.
She had originally started taking classes as a teen - an alternative to the ballet lessons her mother had insisted upon. She didn’t have the natural grace for ballet, though, and being able to defend herself if necessary was way cooler than prancing around in satin shoes (no matter if they were pink or not).
“Nice,” Kingsley said, walking up behind her as she whirled to a stop. “You’ve done better though.”
“I can always do better.”
He nodded, grinning. Their students sat down on the floor and Moody began describing the techniques they would be using, and though she heard his instructions, she couldn’t have repeated them.
They bowed to one another and started with simple strikes and blocks - parrying in a circle. They had done the carefully choreographed demonstration dozens of times -- now progressing into a few basic holds and throws as Moody narrated. Kingsley caught her in a rear choke hold, one huge arm around her neck.
“You seem nervous,” he said in a low voice only she would hear. She pulled down on his arm with both hands, then turned into the hold and broke it. As he backed off and threw a strike, she seized his wrist and spun around him, pulling his arm up and behind him. The careful application of pressure sent him to one knee on the mat.
“Nervous? Who, me?”
He gave her a skeptical look before she let go and they took their places opposite each other once again. She feinted, then rushed him, but he turned and flung her to the ground in a shoulder throw. She broke her fall on her left side and turned the motion into a roll, springing back up and aiming a roundhouse kick at his chest. He was deliberately slow with a block - her kick connected and he dropped into a backward rolling breakfall, coming up on his feet, ready to strike again. Shacklebolt’s eyes darted to the audience and he winked at her. “Dude’s checking you out.”
He jabbed another punch at her and she blocked it with a forearm, then threw one of her own straight into his stomach. Kingsley doubled over on cue and she wrapped an arm around his neck, grasping her own wrist. She fell backward onto the mat, flipping him over her shoulder.
The floor shook when they landed and she twisted onto her knees, pinning him to the mat with a guillotine hold.
He grinned broadly up at her. “Undue force, Nymphadora. Quit showing off.”
Moody nodded at her and she released the hold. Kingsley stood up and shook her hand.
“I think you have a fan.”
“Oh, shut up,” Tonks said, blushing. The kids took their places on the mat and Newspaper Guy, watching with wide eyes, was feeling around on the floor for the pen he had dropped.
---
“Sirius. Are you busy? What are you doing?”
“A little leftover takeout, a little Halo 2. What’s up?”
“I saw her again,” Remus said without preface. He was standing outside the dojo, shivering as he waited for his taxi.
“Saw who?”
“You know. Her.”
The door behind him clicked open, and speak of the devil, she stepped out - the white uniform abandoned for dark jeans, boots and a motocross jacket. Surprise registered on her face, an inquiring look in eyes that seemed familiar (now that he was getting a better look).
There was a tiny pink iPod clipped to the collar of her jacket and the headphones were already in her ears; he could hear the hiss of cymbals with a kick-drum beat that raced alongside his own hammering heart. For a moment she looked like she was about to say something, then noticed the phone in his hand and kept walking.
She smiled as she passed, a vision realized in sugar-scented electronica and black leather.
Remus almost, almost followed her.
He’d taken half a step when the sound of Sirius screaming “Die, die you alien bastards!” stopped him. If he was half as clever as people claimed, he would have thrown the phone into the street and ran after her.
Sirius cleared his throat. “Sorry. Oh, right, the hot chocolate girl. Where?”
His eyes followed her progress to the parking lot. She stopped at a sleek, low-slung black and chrome motorcycle, pulled on the helmet hanging from the handlebar, then threw a leg over the seat (damn, but she had long legs) and kicked the bike into gear.
If it hadn’t been so hell-freezingly cold, he might have melted into a puddle where he stood.
“Remus. Hello? You still there?”
“…What?”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“For god’s sake,” Sirius muttered, “Where. Are. You?”
“Oh. At this karate place. I was doing some research for the book-”
“And she was there?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back against the brick building. He had never been cool. Mediocre popularity, good grades and that ill-poet look combined with a tendency to almost die on a regular basis only got him so far with the girls (and with only a certain demographic, at that).
Nowadays a few junior high kids thought he was fantastic, a few junior high English teachers had sent him love letters (literally), and he spent his days making up stories about fictional people that were still more awesome and interesting than he had ever been. This was, in the words of Sirius, kinda dorky.
Sirius was shrieking about respawning and lag, effectively rendering his opinion on respective dorkiness invalid.
“Sorry, what?” Remus said, watching her pilot the bike to the street entrance with intense concentration, feeling completely intimidated and more than a little turned on, which was a weird combination (even for him).
“What was she doing there?”
“Beating up this huge guy.”
“Cool. I have a cousin who does that stuff. What were you watching, Karate? Jujitsu?”
“No idea. I didn’t catch much of the lecture.”
“What the hell am I paying you for, then?”
“...You aren’t?”
“Oh. Why’d you call?”
“I’m starting to wonder, myself.”
“This is a new low for you,” Sirius said brightly. “I’m impressed. Did you at least get her name?”
“Of course not,” he said, with audible panic. “Unless it’s ‘Opponent A,’ which I doubt.”
“My god, are you completely inept?”
He swore and ran a hand over his face, struck by a sudden realization. “She probably thinks I’m stalking her.”
“You kind of are.”
“I am not!”
The girl on the motorcycle looked over her shoulder at him and waved, then gunned the engine and tore out into traffic, leaving nothing behind but frustration and the smell of burning rubber.
“Text me her picture.”
“Wha-no!“
“You’re no fun at all, are you? On Monday you’re going to ask her out. No excuses. And don’t roll your eyes, I can hear you doing that. Oh, you’ve got a meeting with McG and your agent at ten-thirty. Don’t be late, you know how she hates that.” He paused. “Is that a bike I hear-”
Remus hung up on him, maybe a little vindictively, grinning like a madman.
Monday.
---