Variations on a Theme
Characters: Angelina Johnson and George Weasley
Writers: nbaeker and fiery_flamingo
Rating: PG-13/R
Word count: 1531
Summary: A pair of drabbles about George and Angelina getting together for the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and Fred's death.
Warning: ANGST!
May 2, 2004
The room was beginning to spin around Angelina; not a lot, just a slow turning that made it hard to focus on any one object. Closing her eyes, she slouched further down into the kitchen chair until she was nearly out of her seat and her nose was level with the table.
She wasn't sure how many she'd had, only that this was the second bottle of firewhisky and that she was keeping pace with George.
A clinking of glass drew her attention. A single eye cracked open.
George was setting up another round.
Pulling herself back up, Angelina grabbed the shot a little too roughly, mumbled an apology for the mess and tossed back the alcohol.
The double sound of her glass and George's hitting the table at the same time made Angelina wince.
"Wotcher, George?"
She knew exactly how she felt. Might as well check in with the company.
"Not drunk," was the response. George didn't know why this is what their yearly tradition had evolved into, but he could still remember why they got together every year. It was always worse today. All he could see was his missing brother laughing with Angie, and he knew it was time for another round.
"Cheers," he said, pouring another. His hands shook a little. Maybe it was time for them to slow down. But once, just once, he'd like to reach the 'passing out' stage without the 'crying' stage.
Raising her glass in a salute, Angelina sighed and took the shot, settling in for the long haul.
The process differed from year to year. Sometimes it was Angelina on George's doorstep, booze in one hand and a chip on her shoulder; others it was George knocking at her door, already a few drinks ahead of her. Sometimes it was an almost joyful occasion, filled with laughter, stories, and song.
Then there were nights like this.
"We could go down to the pub," she suggested with no real conviction.
"They'd call Ali before we sat down," George responded. "You remember the last time."
He was silent for a moment, and then spoke again. "Shoulda been me, I think sometimes."
Angelina didn't reply immediately. Didn't jump to negate the statement. She'd thought the same sometimes, in the days just after. Admittedly, not her proudest moment.
"I'd just be doing this with a different twin then, wouldn't I?"
George shrugged, shoulder lifting as if in nonchalance. He silently poured another round and knocked the drink back before he speaks again. He wanted to apologize, felt like he should. Fred had loved her, after all. It was all passion with the two of them, and now it wasn't there. George's twin had said things to him like 'I think I'll marry that woman," on more than one occasion.
"Be a bit of a different scenario," he said finally. The truth had a way of spilling out of him when he's drunk, and he could no longer deny that he was.
"But not a better one," Angelina snapped back. "Not for you, anyway. Maybe not even for me." She was beginning to build up momentum, each word came out louder and faster "Who knows what would have happened? Maybe you being dead would have been infinitely worse than-"
Angelina stopped abruptly - a thought occurring that she wasn't particularly comfortable with. She played with her still full glass, considering it. Softly, she continued. "Maybe the best case scenario would've been both of you dying. Together to the end and all that."
Then she'd just be drinking with Alicia. Fred and George wouldn't have to worry about being apart. She could get along without.
George didn't say anything to that. How could he? He'd tried, god knows, to simply wither away; to not still be there reminding everyone, including himself, of what had been lost. He'd not been allowed to - Ali hadn't let him, and then no one else had either.
And then he looked at Angie, and she seemed so lost. "I'd give him back to you if I could, Angie, you know I would."
Angelina looked at him with a sad solemn smile, "Not if I gave him back to you first."
She grabbed the bottle and set up the next round.
May 2, 2000
"Be him," Angelina sobbed. The alcohol had made her more emotional than normal. More needy. "Please, George, just for tonight."
He couldn't deny her this. Not after everything they'd been through. She was the only one who had known Fred nearly as well as he had. He had known her through his twin, and he could give her this.
"Alright, Fury, alright," he murmured, the way he knew that Fred had countless times after their rousing arguments. Fred had been gone for what seemed like ages, but George knew how to be Fred, if only for a little while - if only for this one woman.
George pulled her closer to him and kissed away her tears, following the trail and capturing her lips with his own.
She knew it wasn't real; could feel it in his touch. But she wanted it to be. Wanted it so damn much that she deepened the kiss, hands moving upwards to tangle in his hair.
She'd been staring at the face of her dead lover all night. Every twitch of the lips and lift of the shoulder, it was a perfect mirror image of Fred, the same but opposite. Each nuance was a stab to the gut in its familiarity.
Angelina shifted position on the couch, straddling George, pushing him back into the cushions. She kissed him like she wished she'd kissed Fred before the battle: like he was the sun and the moon to her, like she wanted nothing more than to be with him forever.
She almost stole his breath. He felt it catch, felt himself responding in kind before the voice in his head, Fred's voice spoke up. It's me, the voice whispered, it's always been me.
For once, George shoved the memories aside, pushed away his twin. He wrapped his arm around her, and brought his other hand to her face, brushing away a stray teardrop with his thumb, and groaning as she moved herself against him.
Pulling away, Angelina stared at George for a long moment. They shouldn't be doing this. It was for all the wrong reasons.
But she found it nearly impossible in her inebriated state to resist that face with those familiar eyes, dark with lust for her.
So instead of stopping, she pulled off her shirt.
He watched her carefully, noticing the hint of regret that settled in her eyes. It was overshadowed, however, by hunger - by need, and he dropped his head to press kisses along her breasts. His hands splayed across her stomach and he watched her, using her gasps and her facial expressions as cues directing him where to go next.
He was good, Angelina admitted. Maybe better than Fred. But it wasn't right. It wasn't him. With every kiss and caress that made her body feel oh so good, a tiny voice railed against it in her mind.
Notfrednotfrednotfred!
"Stop," Angelina whispered.
George could have groaned, but he bit his tongue and complied. He could see it in her eyes, and nodded, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. Wryly, he pressed one last kiss to her cheek. He had been selfish in allowing it to continue, hoping to find Fred again through her love for him. Hoping to find his twin in himself.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, their heads close together. "Drink?"
Tugging the blanket closer, Angelina shook her head, "I think I should go."
He released her completely, then, standing and heading towards the bathroom. He knew she'd be gone when he returned. It would be easier for her this way. He moved into the room and shut the door, glaring at his reflection.
Why would you leave? We're so broken we can't even find you in each other.
Her shirt had ended up under the couch in the short amount of time that it had been off. Angelina threw it on, not caring that it was inside out. She just wanted to get out as quickly as possible.
Stupid bloody fucking bint, why?
She found her shoes by stumbling over them. Once pulling them on she tugged her wand out and prayed that she wouldn't drunkenly splinch herself. Her vision was blurring with tears again and the last thing she needed was George to ride gallantly to the rescue.
With a twist of her wrist and a pop, she was gone.
George heard the sound of disapparation and sighed. He glanced up at the mirror, at Fred and punched it.
Cursing as the pain radiated through his hand, he grabbed his wand to clean it up. He wondered if he'd ever see her again, or if the pain of Fred being there-but-not-there was going to be the end of their friendship.
He stumbled back out to the couch and pulled the bottle to himself, not bothering with glasses at this point. He just wanted to forget.
Writers: nbaeker and fiery_flamingo
Rating: PG-13/R
Word count: 1531
Summary: A pair of drabbles about George and Angelina getting together for the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and Fred's death.
Warning: ANGST!
May 2, 2004
The room was beginning to spin around Angelina; not a lot, just a slow turning that made it hard to focus on any one object. Closing her eyes, she slouched further down into the kitchen chair until she was nearly out of her seat and her nose was level with the table.
She wasn't sure how many she'd had, only that this was the second bottle of firewhisky and that she was keeping pace with George.
A clinking of glass drew her attention. A single eye cracked open.
George was setting up another round.
Pulling herself back up, Angelina grabbed the shot a little too roughly, mumbled an apology for the mess and tossed back the alcohol.
The double sound of her glass and George's hitting the table at the same time made Angelina wince.
"Wotcher, George?"
She knew exactly how she felt. Might as well check in with the company.
"Not drunk," was the response. George didn't know why this is what their yearly tradition had evolved into, but he could still remember why they got together every year. It was always worse today. All he could see was his missing brother laughing with Angie, and he knew it was time for another round.
"Cheers," he said, pouring another. His hands shook a little. Maybe it was time for them to slow down. But once, just once, he'd like to reach the 'passing out' stage without the 'crying' stage.
Raising her glass in a salute, Angelina sighed and took the shot, settling in for the long haul.
The process differed from year to year. Sometimes it was Angelina on George's doorstep, booze in one hand and a chip on her shoulder; others it was George knocking at her door, already a few drinks ahead of her. Sometimes it was an almost joyful occasion, filled with laughter, stories, and song.
Then there were nights like this.
"We could go down to the pub," she suggested with no real conviction.
"They'd call Ali before we sat down," George responded. "You remember the last time."
He was silent for a moment, and then spoke again. "Shoulda been me, I think sometimes."
Angelina didn't reply immediately. Didn't jump to negate the statement. She'd thought the same sometimes, in the days just after. Admittedly, not her proudest moment.
"I'd just be doing this with a different twin then, wouldn't I?"
George shrugged, shoulder lifting as if in nonchalance. He silently poured another round and knocked the drink back before he speaks again. He wanted to apologize, felt like he should. Fred had loved her, after all. It was all passion with the two of them, and now it wasn't there. George's twin had said things to him like 'I think I'll marry that woman," on more than one occasion.
"Be a bit of a different scenario," he said finally. The truth had a way of spilling out of him when he's drunk, and he could no longer deny that he was.
"But not a better one," Angelina snapped back. "Not for you, anyway. Maybe not even for me." She was beginning to build up momentum, each word came out louder and faster "Who knows what would have happened? Maybe you being dead would have been infinitely worse than-"
Angelina stopped abruptly - a thought occurring that she wasn't particularly comfortable with. She played with her still full glass, considering it. Softly, she continued. "Maybe the best case scenario would've been both of you dying. Together to the end and all that."
Then she'd just be drinking with Alicia. Fred and George wouldn't have to worry about being apart. She could get along without.
George didn't say anything to that. How could he? He'd tried, god knows, to simply wither away; to not still be there reminding everyone, including himself, of what had been lost. He'd not been allowed to - Ali hadn't let him, and then no one else had either.
And then he looked at Angie, and she seemed so lost. "I'd give him back to you if I could, Angie, you know I would."
Angelina looked at him with a sad solemn smile, "Not if I gave him back to you first."
She grabbed the bottle and set up the next round.
May 2, 2000
"Be him," Angelina sobbed. The alcohol had made her more emotional than normal. More needy. "Please, George, just for tonight."
He couldn't deny her this. Not after everything they'd been through. She was the only one who had known Fred nearly as well as he had. He had known her through his twin, and he could give her this.
"Alright, Fury, alright," he murmured, the way he knew that Fred had countless times after their rousing arguments. Fred had been gone for what seemed like ages, but George knew how to be Fred, if only for a little while - if only for this one woman.
George pulled her closer to him and kissed away her tears, following the trail and capturing her lips with his own.
She knew it wasn't real; could feel it in his touch. But she wanted it to be. Wanted it so damn much that she deepened the kiss, hands moving upwards to tangle in his hair.
She'd been staring at the face of her dead lover all night. Every twitch of the lips and lift of the shoulder, it was a perfect mirror image of Fred, the same but opposite. Each nuance was a stab to the gut in its familiarity.
Angelina shifted position on the couch, straddling George, pushing him back into the cushions. She kissed him like she wished she'd kissed Fred before the battle: like he was the sun and the moon to her, like she wanted nothing more than to be with him forever.
She almost stole his breath. He felt it catch, felt himself responding in kind before the voice in his head, Fred's voice spoke up. It's me, the voice whispered, it's always been me.
For once, George shoved the memories aside, pushed away his twin. He wrapped his arm around her, and brought his other hand to her face, brushing away a stray teardrop with his thumb, and groaning as she moved herself against him.
Pulling away, Angelina stared at George for a long moment. They shouldn't be doing this. It was for all the wrong reasons.
But she found it nearly impossible in her inebriated state to resist that face with those familiar eyes, dark with lust for her.
So instead of stopping, she pulled off her shirt.
He watched her carefully, noticing the hint of regret that settled in her eyes. It was overshadowed, however, by hunger - by need, and he dropped his head to press kisses along her breasts. His hands splayed across her stomach and he watched her, using her gasps and her facial expressions as cues directing him where to go next.
He was good, Angelina admitted. Maybe better than Fred. But it wasn't right. It wasn't him. With every kiss and caress that made her body feel oh so good, a tiny voice railed against it in her mind.
Notfrednotfrednotfred!
"Stop," Angelina whispered.
George could have groaned, but he bit his tongue and complied. He could see it in her eyes, and nodded, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. Wryly, he pressed one last kiss to her cheek. He had been selfish in allowing it to continue, hoping to find Fred again through her love for him. Hoping to find his twin in himself.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, their heads close together. "Drink?"
Tugging the blanket closer, Angelina shook her head, "I think I should go."
He released her completely, then, standing and heading towards the bathroom. He knew she'd be gone when he returned. It would be easier for her this way. He moved into the room and shut the door, glaring at his reflection.
Why would you leave? We're so broken we can't even find you in each other.
Her shirt had ended up under the couch in the short amount of time that it had been off. Angelina threw it on, not caring that it was inside out. She just wanted to get out as quickly as possible.
Stupid bloody fucking bint, why?
She found her shoes by stumbling over them. Once pulling them on she tugged her wand out and prayed that she wouldn't drunkenly splinch herself. Her vision was blurring with tears again and the last thing she needed was George to ride gallantly to the rescue.
With a twist of her wrist and a pop, she was gone.
George heard the sound of disapparation and sighed. He glanced up at the mirror, at Fred and punched it.
Cursing as the pain radiated through his hand, he grabbed his wand to clean it up. He wondered if he'd ever see her again, or if the pain of Fred being there-but-not-there was going to be the end of their friendship.
He stumbled back out to the couch and pulled the bottle to himself, not bothering with glasses at this point. He just wanted to forget.