45. RENASCENCE (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Renascence
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,090
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, all the way.
Summary: When you've hit rock bottom, what is there to do but start climbing?
A/N: This is the REAL chapter. Thank you for having a sense of humour, and sticking with me.
You're still reading, right?
...guys?
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.
So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
Running Up That Hill - Placebo*
***
It is like lancing a wound. Molly Weasley stands there and watches as the poison spills out of me in a rush, until nothing is flowing from me but tears, and then it isn’t her arms around me, but Ron’s, and it is Ron who is pressing his lips to my hair, Ron who is guiding me to sit on the edge of our bed, and I bury my face into his neck and hold on tight as I can.
I cry myself raw and ragged. I don’t know what in particular I am crying about, even; just that I hurt, and that things have gone terribly wrong, and that even though it is horrible, a part of me knows I need this.
I lose track of time. I hear Molly come in, and the sound of something being set on the bedside table.
“Shouldn’t we give him some?” I vaguely hear Ron ask. There is pain in his voice, and I feel guilty for causing it.
“Not this time,” is the reply.
In the end, I am left, trembling and weak, and quite disgustingly damp and slimy. My breath is still coming in strange, hitching spasms, and my eyes are burning.
“I think I dribbled on you,” I mumble. I’m pretty sure there’s mucus smeared across my face, and Ron’s neck, too, but I’d rather not admit it.
Ron gives an empty little laugh, and murmurs that it doesn’t matter. He’s rocking me gently, and in my slightly disconnected state it feels soothing, as though we’re floating in water and the bed is a raft riding the ripples.
I convince one stiff, clawed hand to disentangle from Ron’s shirt and rub it clumsily across my face.
“Here.”
A handkerchief is offered to me, and once I’ve wiped it thoroughly across my cheeks, neck, chin, and Ron’s neck as well, it’s taken away, and a still-warm cup of tea is there. Ron holds my fingers tight around it until he’s sure I’m not going to drop it, and I sip numbly. It’s not hot, but it’s still drinkable. The ribbed, yellow mug is one of a pair, one of the little set that I used whenever I made Ron tea in the mornings. I can’t remember the last time I did it. It certainly hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop. I’d just started taking on longer hours at work, arriving earlier, getting home later, and the ritual had somehow fallen by the wayside. Apparating to work half-asleep and drinking a substandard brew made in the Auror Department’s little kitchen was something I’d gotten used to.
With a surge of emotion, I realise I’ve missed that morning ritual of making tea, waking Ron with his cup; half-tea, half-milk. Sleepy cuddles, warm, milky kisses, an occasional interchange of touches that would lead to more, which would result in me running for the door, hair sticking up at all angles, shoes untied and robes askew, chased out by the sound of Ron’s laughter as I made a desperate attempt to try to arrive at work not too late, and focus on my paperwork and physical defence training without daydreaming and writing complete nonsense or getting my arse handed to me by Auror Muscoli.
“I’ve been horrible,” I say, staring into the dregs.
“You’ve not been well,” Ron replies, tactfully non-committal.
“I’ve been horrible,” I emphasise, feeling sick. “I said... I don’t really remember, but I said awful things to your mum. I know they were awful.”
Ron doesn’t deny it, just rocks me a bit more, and I shut my eyes and relax back against him. At length, he takes the cup from me, and I twine my fingers with his.
“I love you,” I say softly.
“I love you, too,” he replies immediately, his voice tight.
“But why?” I ask, my voice pathetically frail.
“Because,” Ron says, as though that is answer enough. I think that maybe it is. His arm around me squeezes me closer, a little possessively, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“You’re mental, wanting me around. Smashing up your room, swearing at your mum,” I say eventually, stroking his thumb with my own. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“It’s our room, and someone has to swear at mum for me. I’m too bloody scared to do it myself,” Ron quips, and I can hear him smiling. “And if I’m mental, well, I’ve got company.”
“I don’t understand you,” I tell him, unable to comprehend why.
“Well, you said it,” Ron says, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m mental. My logic is unfathomable.”
I tilt my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in a frown. “Unfathomable?”
He grins cheekily. “Incomprehensible.”
I squint at him suspiciously. Before I can accuse him of being Hermione, Polyjuiced, he leans down and kisses me on the lips. Though it’s simply his lips on mine, there is nothing chaste about it. I lie, pliant and passive in his arms as he cradles me, threads a hand into my hair, and tells me slowly, tenderly, and without words just how much he loves me.
I’ve never felt so safe.
When we pull apart, I look up at him, and he seems about as stunned as I feel. Something just happened, then, something important. Something that neither of us are quite ready to talk about, yet.
Ron clears his throat. “Mum should be making lunch. Are you hungry?” he asks, lightly.
I’m not, really, but I shrug, and make an effort to stand on my wobbly legs. I wrinkle my nose when I see the shoulder of Ron’s shirt. It’s still damp with who knows what from my outburst. Ron seems unconcerned, and simply strips it off and tugs on another.
As we walk down the stairs together, I can’t help but ask. “Where did you pick up a word like unfathomable?”
Ron looks slightly chagrined. “Quidditch Monthly used it a few years ago when they were talking about the new Cannons signings. I had to ask Hermione what it meant.”
I laugh out loud, and it takes me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Even Ron seems startled, though he looks pleased.
When we reach the kitchen, there’s a glass in front of my regular seat with a dose of potion in it, waiting for me. I take it and swallow it down, and when I look up, I see that Molly is watching me with something like pride on her face.
***
Author's Afterword
* Yes, I know Kate Bush wrote and released it originally, but I infinitely prefer Placebo's version.
<- 44. Anticipation c@r 46. Edible ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,090
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, all the way.
Summary: When you've hit rock bottom, what is there to do but start climbing?
A/N: This is the REAL chapter. Thank you for having a sense of humour, and sticking with me.
You're still reading, right?
...guys?
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.
So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
Running Up That Hill - Placebo*
***
It is like lancing a wound. Molly Weasley stands there and watches as the poison spills out of me in a rush, until nothing is flowing from me but tears, and then it isn’t her arms around me, but Ron’s, and it is Ron who is pressing his lips to my hair, Ron who is guiding me to sit on the edge of our bed, and I bury my face into his neck and hold on tight as I can.
I cry myself raw and ragged. I don’t know what in particular I am crying about, even; just that I hurt, and that things have gone terribly wrong, and that even though it is horrible, a part of me knows I need this.
I lose track of time. I hear Molly come in, and the sound of something being set on the bedside table.
“Shouldn’t we give him some?” I vaguely hear Ron ask. There is pain in his voice, and I feel guilty for causing it.
“Not this time,” is the reply.
In the end, I am left, trembling and weak, and quite disgustingly damp and slimy. My breath is still coming in strange, hitching spasms, and my eyes are burning.
“I think I dribbled on you,” I mumble. I’m pretty sure there’s mucus smeared across my face, and Ron’s neck, too, but I’d rather not admit it.
Ron gives an empty little laugh, and murmurs that it doesn’t matter. He’s rocking me gently, and in my slightly disconnected state it feels soothing, as though we’re floating in water and the bed is a raft riding the ripples.
I convince one stiff, clawed hand to disentangle from Ron’s shirt and rub it clumsily across my face.
“Here.”
A handkerchief is offered to me, and once I’ve wiped it thoroughly across my cheeks, neck, chin, and Ron’s neck as well, it’s taken away, and a still-warm cup of tea is there. Ron holds my fingers tight around it until he’s sure I’m not going to drop it, and I sip numbly. It’s not hot, but it’s still drinkable. The ribbed, yellow mug is one of a pair, one of the little set that I used whenever I made Ron tea in the mornings. I can’t remember the last time I did it. It certainly hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop. I’d just started taking on longer hours at work, arriving earlier, getting home later, and the ritual had somehow fallen by the wayside. Apparating to work half-asleep and drinking a substandard brew made in the Auror Department’s little kitchen was something I’d gotten used to.
With a surge of emotion, I realise I’ve missed that morning ritual of making tea, waking Ron with his cup; half-tea, half-milk. Sleepy cuddles, warm, milky kisses, an occasional interchange of touches that would lead to more, which would result in me running for the door, hair sticking up at all angles, shoes untied and robes askew, chased out by the sound of Ron’s laughter as I made a desperate attempt to try to arrive at work not too late, and focus on my paperwork and physical defence training without daydreaming and writing complete nonsense or getting my arse handed to me by Auror Muscoli.
“I’ve been horrible,” I say, staring into the dregs.
“You’ve not been well,” Ron replies, tactfully non-committal.
“I’ve been horrible,” I emphasise, feeling sick. “I said... I don’t really remember, but I said awful things to your mum. I know they were awful.”
Ron doesn’t deny it, just rocks me a bit more, and I shut my eyes and relax back against him. At length, he takes the cup from me, and I twine my fingers with his.
“I love you,” I say softly.
“I love you, too,” he replies immediately, his voice tight.
“But why?” I ask, my voice pathetically frail.
“Because,” Ron says, as though that is answer enough. I think that maybe it is. His arm around me squeezes me closer, a little possessively, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“You’re mental, wanting me around. Smashing up your room, swearing at your mum,” I say eventually, stroking his thumb with my own. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“It’s our room, and someone has to swear at mum for me. I’m too bloody scared to do it myself,” Ron quips, and I can hear him smiling. “And if I’m mental, well, I’ve got company.”
“I don’t understand you,” I tell him, unable to comprehend why.
“Well, you said it,” Ron says, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m mental. My logic is unfathomable.”
I tilt my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in a frown. “Unfathomable?”
He grins cheekily. “Incomprehensible.”
I squint at him suspiciously. Before I can accuse him of being Hermione, Polyjuiced, he leans down and kisses me on the lips. Though it’s simply his lips on mine, there is nothing chaste about it. I lie, pliant and passive in his arms as he cradles me, threads a hand into my hair, and tells me slowly, tenderly, and without words just how much he loves me.
I’ve never felt so safe.
When we pull apart, I look up at him, and he seems about as stunned as I feel. Something just happened, then, something important. Something that neither of us are quite ready to talk about, yet.
Ron clears his throat. “Mum should be making lunch. Are you hungry?” he asks, lightly.
I’m not, really, but I shrug, and make an effort to stand on my wobbly legs. I wrinkle my nose when I see the shoulder of Ron’s shirt. It’s still damp with who knows what from my outburst. Ron seems unconcerned, and simply strips it off and tugs on another.
As we walk down the stairs together, I can’t help but ask. “Where did you pick up a word like unfathomable?”
Ron looks slightly chagrined. “Quidditch Monthly used it a few years ago when they were talking about the new Cannons signings. I had to ask Hermione what it meant.”
I laugh out loud, and it takes me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Even Ron seems startled, though he looks pleased.
When we reach the kitchen, there’s a glass in front of my regular seat with a dose of potion in it, waiting for me. I take it and swallow it down, and when I look up, I see that Molly is watching me with something like pride on her face.
***
Author's Afterword
* Yes, I know Kate Bush wrote and released it originally, but I infinitely prefer Placebo's version.
<- 44. Anticipation c@r 46. Edible ->