It's not midnight here yet!!
Title: Contour
Author: oneandonlysusan
Word Count: 1,992
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: For the rt_challenge August ficathon. Prompt 5 "A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature, to stop words when speech becomes superfluous." - Ingrid Bergman
Warning: It's probably obvious, but clear DH spoilers.
Summary: "He feels her fingers on his hand, and her eyes are closing, and her mouth is moving towards his, and he feels sick, like his stomach is tumbling up and out of his mouth, and he can’t do this. She kisses him, and he tastes her for a split second before the taste of his unbearable guilt engulfs his senses. Her body doesn’t feel like it fits with his the way it used to; he doesn’t know how to kiss her with that bump there, and his chest is too thin, and he’s trembling, and he can’t do this." Remus comes home.
Author's Note: I've only just finished, and I've been working on this forever, so I really do hope you like it! It's still August in Washington DC!!
He places a hand on the rough bricks, fingers instinctively resting on the grey grout between them. He is centimeters from the door, and his other hand is arched over the knocker, wondering why he’s thinking that the action of picking it up and pushing it against the coal-colored door will be the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do. The hardest thing he’ll ever have to do is here, outside with him, invading his thoughts about her. She’s probably sleeping, because it’s nearing three in the morning, and only a fool would come knocking in the dead of night. The git part of him hopes that she’s waiting up for him, because she told him before he left that she would do it every night, because she knew he’d come back to her. Because he deserves to feel guilty that she would keep her word for someone like him.
His hand is poised, and he breathes in, hoping the air that flourishes in his lungs will give him the strength to touch the knocker, to pick it up, to clank it against the door. He wants to hear the resonance of metal knocking against wood, but he doesn’t want to be the one to make the sound. He’s ashamed that he’s back, because being back means nothing except that he left.
He grabs the knocker, not knowing what hidden piece of strength compells him to do so, but thanking it all the same, and he looks at the gold wedding band on his finger. Seeing it is the strength he needs to push it hard against the door. Once, twice, three times. He breathes in again, wondering if his throat might be constricting, or if his windpipe has finally realized what an absolute git he is and is ashamed to continue functioning for him.
He can hear the lightest pattering of footsteps, and he listens close, hoping and dreading for her to open the door for him.
“Who’s there?” a voice asks, and he can feel his windpipe constricting further. Andromeda is answering, and he can’t do this, he’s a git for thinking he’d be able to come back, he’s a git for thinking he’d have anything to say or that an apology or words could even be enough to express anything.
He feels his voice evaporate as his mouth opens to answer her, and he clears his throat to remind himself that he can speak. “It is Remus Lupin, werewolf, husband of your daughter, Nymphadora Tonks, member of the Order of the Phoenix-”
The door swings open and he stops speaking. Andromeda had clearly been asleep. Her eyes are puffy and opened only halfway, but her dark hair and expression make her look menacing, and he wonders what he should say, what he should do. Why is he here?
“I’ll get Nymphadora,” she whispers, and he nods, frantically trying to moisten his mouth in an effort to help the words come out easier. He pulls his jacket closer to him, fiddles with the buttons. He’s forgotten every word he’s rehearsed, and the only word running through his head is git. It’s bouncing back and fourth in his brain with incredible speed, and it’s repeating louder than any word he’s ever thought.
She appears at the top of the staircase; he can just make out Andromeda, stationed in the shadows of the doorway behind her. She’s wearing a thin blue nightgown, and he can see the outline of her stomach through it, the smallest burgeoning circle, nearly unrecognizable, but it grounds his racing brain and reminds him why he is here. He feels her eyes on him, probing every inch, from his tattered jacket to the brown trousers, and he wonders if she can see through, to the jumper with the fraying yellow patch on the left elbow, and even below, through his chest, where his heart has tripped in its rhythm because he has forgotten how beautiful she is.
Her hair is pink, but stripes of brown run through it, and the spikes of it have drooped so that they curl slightly around the bottoms of her ears. Her eyes are wide, and he can instantly tell that she hasn’t been sleeping. She slowly walks down the staircase; she is wearing pink socks that should slouch around her ankles, but one is much higher than the other. He can see her holding the railing gingerly, and he knows she’s trying hard not to trip, because she hates being clumsy in these sort of situations. He hates that he’s created a situation where she feels that way.
“Remus?” she whispers.
“It is I, Remus Lupin,” he whispers back, “a coward and a failure, and your husband, if you’ll have me.”
Her steps down the staircase seem to double in celerity, yet she still holds a protective hand over that tiny bump. He doesn’t move, just watches as she finally steps onto the landing he’s waiting at. She doesn’t speak, just continues to hold her hand over her stomach, looking at him.
He breathes in, but sputters, wondering if he’s suffocating. Everything he’s thought about since he hexed Harry has flown out of his brain; all he can see is her and that tiny bump. A baby. Their baby.
“I’m sorry,” he finally breathes. His voice is so raspy and hoarse he almost doesn’t recognize it. “I should have never- I’m a git. I’ll never leave you alone again.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time, and he can see Andromeda in that doorway, staring down at them, a beam of light illuminating the tip of her nose, and he begins to wonder if he ever considered what to do if she wouldn’t have him back. She’d told him she would over and over. What if her mother had convinced her that he wasn’t worth it? What if, worse, she had needed no convincing? What if she had come to the realization on her own?
He felt suddenly dizzy and he didn’t move. Where would he go if she wouldn’t have him? He hated himself for wanting her to have him. He didn’t deserve to be wanted. He didn’t deserve the flickering of concern in those beautiful eyes. He didn’t deserve anything. He had left, and coming back didn’t change that.
“I missed you so much,” she whispers, and he notices that her eyes look shiny, glassy almost. He’s not worth those tears, that worry. She doesn’t deserve someone who would make her cry.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. His voice is a low, steady, murmur that he doesn’t recognize. He wonders if he sounds like he’s pleading. He is, he thinks. He keeps his eyes directly on hers, because he deserves to see what he’s done to her.
He feels her fingers on his hand, and her eyes are closing, and her mouth is moving towards his, and he feels sick, like his stomach is tumbling up and out of his mouth, and he can’t do this. She kisses him, and he tastes her for a split second before the taste of his unbearable guilt engulfs his senses. Her body doesn’t feel like it fits with his the way it used to; he doesn’t know how to kiss her with that bump there, and his chest is too thin, and he’s trembling, and he can’t do this.
He pulls away and her eyes open, the tears in them shining like quartz as the light from upstairs flickers, and he can see Andromeda above them, craning her neck as she watches him pull away. He knows she’s wondering if he will abandon her daughter again. He wonders if he’s wondering the same thing.
“Harry called me a coward for abandoning you both, and I hexed him,” he blurts, and her eyes widen and her lips part. He can feel her breath on his chin, flowing steadily between his unshaven skin, and he can’t fight the feeling of revulsion towards himself any longer.
“You aren’t a coward,” she whispers, her breath resting on his neck, and then his chin again, and then his lips, which he licks, because the moisture from her breath has already evaporated.
“But I am,” he tells her. “And I never should have left you.”
“You came back,” she says, and wraps her fingers tightly around his tattered jacket. He stares at her knuckles as the color fades from them.
He thinks he’s going to be sick. Those eyes, staring at him, moist and terrified, are enough to launch his stomach against his teeth, and he bites down to keep it at bay.
“I want to be here. With you. With both of you.” His eyes trickle downward to that tiny bump.
“I want you to be here.”
He releases a breath he forgot he was holding. His eyes find the ground because he can’t bear to stare at her any longer. He swallows and makes an indistinct noise, but she interrupts him.
“Our baby will never, ever be ashamed of you,” she breathes. “Nobody who really knows you ever could be.”
“But-”
“No.” Her voice is more forceful than he remembers, and he looks at her in surprise. “I won’t have it, Remus. If you’re coming back into our lives, you’re going to be the man I married. I won’t have any more of this self-pity or a constant reminder that I’d be better off without you, because it’s crap, all of it, and I need you here, with me and with our baby.”
He nods obediently, and lets his eyes rest on hers. She’s surveying him with that look she gets when she’s trying to see what he’s thinking. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, because he doesn’t know what else to say to make it better. But her hands are on his now, and the contours of her body match with the contours of his again. That little bump fits right up against his shrunken stomach, and he feels it move against him, warm and solid, and more real than he ever imagined.
“I know you are,” she says. “And we’ll move past this, because we’ve done it before.”
He nods again, and now she’s smiling up at him, and his stomach is trickling back down his throat like sand in an hourglass. She rests her head against his chest and he puts his arms around her body.
“I love you,” he whispers into her hair, which is still striped with brown.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers. “I was so worried that one of us would be caught, and that-” her voice trembles, and she doesn’t finish the sentence. He wants to tighten his arms around her, but he doesn’t want to break her, because he’s holding her more tightly than he ever has before.
“I love you, Dora,” he says again, louder, because he doesn’t want her to finish the sentence, and she moves her head against his cheek, and he can feel tears there, but he’s unsure to whom they belong.
“I love you too, Remus,” she breathes, and he feels more tears, and he knows now that the first ones were his.
“We’re going to have a family,” he tells her, his voice hoarse. He puts his hand on her stomach, tracing the unfamiliar contour with his thumb.
“’Course we are,” she whispers into his neck. “We’re allowed to be happy too.”
He feels his lips turn upwards to a position he can’t remember, and suddenly his wife’s lips are on them, and the flickering lights and watchful eyes of Andromeda over them are forgotten. Both his hands are on her stomach, and he can feel their baby inside of her, and then her hands are in his hair, and he doesn’t need words to explain what he’s feeling anymore, because she knows, and she’s always been the one to help him feel the unfamiliar contour of happiness.
Author: oneandonlysusan
Word Count: 1,992
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: For the rt_challenge August ficathon. Prompt 5 "A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature, to stop words when speech becomes superfluous." - Ingrid Bergman
Warning: It's probably obvious, but clear DH spoilers.
Summary: "He feels her fingers on his hand, and her eyes are closing, and her mouth is moving towards his, and he feels sick, like his stomach is tumbling up and out of his mouth, and he can’t do this. She kisses him, and he tastes her for a split second before the taste of his unbearable guilt engulfs his senses. Her body doesn’t feel like it fits with his the way it used to; he doesn’t know how to kiss her with that bump there, and his chest is too thin, and he’s trembling, and he can’t do this." Remus comes home.
Author's Note: I've only just finished, and I've been working on this forever, so I really do hope you like it! It's still August in Washington DC!!
He places a hand on the rough bricks, fingers instinctively resting on the grey grout between them. He is centimeters from the door, and his other hand is arched over the knocker, wondering why he’s thinking that the action of picking it up and pushing it against the coal-colored door will be the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do. The hardest thing he’ll ever have to do is here, outside with him, invading his thoughts about her. She’s probably sleeping, because it’s nearing three in the morning, and only a fool would come knocking in the dead of night. The git part of him hopes that she’s waiting up for him, because she told him before he left that she would do it every night, because she knew he’d come back to her. Because he deserves to feel guilty that she would keep her word for someone like him.
His hand is poised, and he breathes in, hoping the air that flourishes in his lungs will give him the strength to touch the knocker, to pick it up, to clank it against the door. He wants to hear the resonance of metal knocking against wood, but he doesn’t want to be the one to make the sound. He’s ashamed that he’s back, because being back means nothing except that he left.
He grabs the knocker, not knowing what hidden piece of strength compells him to do so, but thanking it all the same, and he looks at the gold wedding band on his finger. Seeing it is the strength he needs to push it hard against the door. Once, twice, three times. He breathes in again, wondering if his throat might be constricting, or if his windpipe has finally realized what an absolute git he is and is ashamed to continue functioning for him.
He can hear the lightest pattering of footsteps, and he listens close, hoping and dreading for her to open the door for him.
“Who’s there?” a voice asks, and he can feel his windpipe constricting further. Andromeda is answering, and he can’t do this, he’s a git for thinking he’d be able to come back, he’s a git for thinking he’d have anything to say or that an apology or words could even be enough to express anything.
He feels his voice evaporate as his mouth opens to answer her, and he clears his throat to remind himself that he can speak. “It is Remus Lupin, werewolf, husband of your daughter, Nymphadora Tonks, member of the Order of the Phoenix-”
The door swings open and he stops speaking. Andromeda had clearly been asleep. Her eyes are puffy and opened only halfway, but her dark hair and expression make her look menacing, and he wonders what he should say, what he should do. Why is he here?
“I’ll get Nymphadora,” she whispers, and he nods, frantically trying to moisten his mouth in an effort to help the words come out easier. He pulls his jacket closer to him, fiddles with the buttons. He’s forgotten every word he’s rehearsed, and the only word running through his head is git. It’s bouncing back and fourth in his brain with incredible speed, and it’s repeating louder than any word he’s ever thought.
She appears at the top of the staircase; he can just make out Andromeda, stationed in the shadows of the doorway behind her. She’s wearing a thin blue nightgown, and he can see the outline of her stomach through it, the smallest burgeoning circle, nearly unrecognizable, but it grounds his racing brain and reminds him why he is here. He feels her eyes on him, probing every inch, from his tattered jacket to the brown trousers, and he wonders if she can see through, to the jumper with the fraying yellow patch on the left elbow, and even below, through his chest, where his heart has tripped in its rhythm because he has forgotten how beautiful she is.
Her hair is pink, but stripes of brown run through it, and the spikes of it have drooped so that they curl slightly around the bottoms of her ears. Her eyes are wide, and he can instantly tell that she hasn’t been sleeping. She slowly walks down the staircase; she is wearing pink socks that should slouch around her ankles, but one is much higher than the other. He can see her holding the railing gingerly, and he knows she’s trying hard not to trip, because she hates being clumsy in these sort of situations. He hates that he’s created a situation where she feels that way.
“Remus?” she whispers.
“It is I, Remus Lupin,” he whispers back, “a coward and a failure, and your husband, if you’ll have me.”
Her steps down the staircase seem to double in celerity, yet she still holds a protective hand over that tiny bump. He doesn’t move, just watches as she finally steps onto the landing he’s waiting at. She doesn’t speak, just continues to hold her hand over her stomach, looking at him.
He breathes in, but sputters, wondering if he’s suffocating. Everything he’s thought about since he hexed Harry has flown out of his brain; all he can see is her and that tiny bump. A baby. Their baby.
“I’m sorry,” he finally breathes. His voice is so raspy and hoarse he almost doesn’t recognize it. “I should have never- I’m a git. I’ll never leave you alone again.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time, and he can see Andromeda in that doorway, staring down at them, a beam of light illuminating the tip of her nose, and he begins to wonder if he ever considered what to do if she wouldn’t have him back. She’d told him she would over and over. What if her mother had convinced her that he wasn’t worth it? What if, worse, she had needed no convincing? What if she had come to the realization on her own?
He felt suddenly dizzy and he didn’t move. Where would he go if she wouldn’t have him? He hated himself for wanting her to have him. He didn’t deserve to be wanted. He didn’t deserve the flickering of concern in those beautiful eyes. He didn’t deserve anything. He had left, and coming back didn’t change that.
“I missed you so much,” she whispers, and he notices that her eyes look shiny, glassy almost. He’s not worth those tears, that worry. She doesn’t deserve someone who would make her cry.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. His voice is a low, steady, murmur that he doesn’t recognize. He wonders if he sounds like he’s pleading. He is, he thinks. He keeps his eyes directly on hers, because he deserves to see what he’s done to her.
He feels her fingers on his hand, and her eyes are closing, and her mouth is moving towards his, and he feels sick, like his stomach is tumbling up and out of his mouth, and he can’t do this. She kisses him, and he tastes her for a split second before the taste of his unbearable guilt engulfs his senses. Her body doesn’t feel like it fits with his the way it used to; he doesn’t know how to kiss her with that bump there, and his chest is too thin, and he’s trembling, and he can’t do this.
He pulls away and her eyes open, the tears in them shining like quartz as the light from upstairs flickers, and he can see Andromeda above them, craning her neck as she watches him pull away. He knows she’s wondering if he will abandon her daughter again. He wonders if he’s wondering the same thing.
“Harry called me a coward for abandoning you both, and I hexed him,” he blurts, and her eyes widen and her lips part. He can feel her breath on his chin, flowing steadily between his unshaven skin, and he can’t fight the feeling of revulsion towards himself any longer.
“You aren’t a coward,” she whispers, her breath resting on his neck, and then his chin again, and then his lips, which he licks, because the moisture from her breath has already evaporated.
“But I am,” he tells her. “And I never should have left you.”
“You came back,” she says, and wraps her fingers tightly around his tattered jacket. He stares at her knuckles as the color fades from them.
He thinks he’s going to be sick. Those eyes, staring at him, moist and terrified, are enough to launch his stomach against his teeth, and he bites down to keep it at bay.
“I want to be here. With you. With both of you.” His eyes trickle downward to that tiny bump.
“I want you to be here.”
He releases a breath he forgot he was holding. His eyes find the ground because he can’t bear to stare at her any longer. He swallows and makes an indistinct noise, but she interrupts him.
“Our baby will never, ever be ashamed of you,” she breathes. “Nobody who really knows you ever could be.”
“But-”
“No.” Her voice is more forceful than he remembers, and he looks at her in surprise. “I won’t have it, Remus. If you’re coming back into our lives, you’re going to be the man I married. I won’t have any more of this self-pity or a constant reminder that I’d be better off without you, because it’s crap, all of it, and I need you here, with me and with our baby.”
He nods obediently, and lets his eyes rest on hers. She’s surveying him with that look she gets when she’s trying to see what he’s thinking. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, because he doesn’t know what else to say to make it better. But her hands are on his now, and the contours of her body match with the contours of his again. That little bump fits right up against his shrunken stomach, and he feels it move against him, warm and solid, and more real than he ever imagined.
“I know you are,” she says. “And we’ll move past this, because we’ve done it before.”
He nods again, and now she’s smiling up at him, and his stomach is trickling back down his throat like sand in an hourglass. She rests her head against his chest and he puts his arms around her body.
“I love you,” he whispers into her hair, which is still striped with brown.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers. “I was so worried that one of us would be caught, and that-” her voice trembles, and she doesn’t finish the sentence. He wants to tighten his arms around her, but he doesn’t want to break her, because he’s holding her more tightly than he ever has before.
“I love you, Dora,” he says again, louder, because he doesn’t want her to finish the sentence, and she moves her head against his cheek, and he can feel tears there, but he’s unsure to whom they belong.
“I love you too, Remus,” she breathes, and he feels more tears, and he knows now that the first ones were his.
“We’re going to have a family,” he tells her, his voice hoarse. He puts his hand on her stomach, tracing the unfamiliar contour with his thumb.
“’Course we are,” she whispers into his neck. “We’re allowed to be happy too.”
He feels his lips turn upwards to a position he can’t remember, and suddenly his wife’s lips are on them, and the flickering lights and watchful eyes of Andromeda over them are forgotten. Both his hands are on her stomach, and he can feel their baby inside of her, and then her hands are in his hair, and he doesn’t need words to explain what he’s feeling anymore, because she knows, and she’s always been the one to help him feel the unfamiliar contour of happiness.