Ficlet for Napchic: Cinema Verite
Title: Cinema Verite
Pairing(s): Ron/Hermione, who else?
Medium: Watercolor, graphite and ink on paper
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The film's over, but Ron and Hermione aren't ready to leave.
Warnings: Language and suggestiveness
A/N: This is for napchic , who shares my love of films. *Hugs*
Many thanks to wordsmithsonian and tmblue for their brainstorming and Beta-ing skills.
The theatre emptied out slowly.
That always seemed to be the case with these cinephile arthouses and their limited-engagement retrospectives. The audience tended to stay until the very last credit, all of them fearing being judged Philistines if they left immediately after the leading actors' names rolled by.
Hermione usually saved trips to this particular cinema for her monthly nights out with her Mum, but she thought this time Ron might actually enjoy himself. She lured Ron with promises of more American screen violence, popcorn, and candy than she usually thought acceptable.
"Please, I've read it's a revolutionary film, and we missed his last big one entirely," she had nearly begged. "They sell beer now. You can have one -- two, even."
"Real beer or that poncy Belgian stuff Percy's always going on about to impress Dad?" he had asked, knowing full well it was exactly the sort of place that would only sell imported beer.
"I'm sure they'll have at least one lager you like. Besides, it's a double feature honoring an American filmmaker... no subtitles for you to read. And I promise, Hollywood directors don't kill everyone off," she'd added in her most comforting tone.
At that point, she thought she'd have to offer a mid-movie snog; she knew he was still traumatised from the time she'd dragged him to see the ironically named "Funny Games." After tonight, though, she'd be lucky if he'd ever accompany her to the cinema again.
She overheard two hipsters discussing the surprising talents of Brad Pitt as they walked toward the exit. About three rows away from her, the fellow with the unbecoming goatee stared directly at Hermione, turned to his stylishly unkempt mate and stage-whispered: "That's the bloke who lost it..." The friend gawped silently for a few seconds, shook his head in disbelief, and then continued jabbering about Brad Pitt. "He's not just a pretty boy like Tom Cruise. He has real range," she heard him say before the doors swung open and closed.
Ron slowly lifted his head, as if it were a heavy and foreign object, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief. The ushers would be in soon to start cleaning, and she didn't fancy being caught in this odd position. She was about to ask if he was all right when he narrowed his eyes up at her and spit out: "You could've bloody warned me."
"Warned you?" she repeated in a confused tone, still pinned to him with the weight of his arms engulfing her. "About what?"
"You know what," he said, shivering a little and awkwardly burrowing his head once more into her neck. "We should've left after the first one."
"But you liked the first film, and it was incredibly violent, so how was I to know the second one would be so --"
"You lied to me, by the way," he interrupted, clutching her impossibly tighter.
"What? How?" she carefully extracted her left hand to push his fringe out of his eyes.
"I distinctly recall you prattling on about how American directors never kill everyone off," he said, his eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to push some painful memory -- or more likely this very evening -- out of his head.
Hermione felt frozen in the moment. She mentally replayed the final sequence of the film. She had been shocked along with the rest of the audience and had expected a comforting squeeze of the hand or tug on the shoulder from Ron, but instead, just as the collective gasps had subsided, Ron scooped her out of her seat, pulled her onto his lap, and began to tremble so violently it must have appeared like he was having some strange seizure.
By the time he started to cry in earnest, the credits were half over, so Hermione decided to close her eyes and pretend they were the only ones in the theatre, even though she could obviously hear the murmurs and feel the stares all around them. She had opened her eyes when the lights came back on, but Ron hadn't made any movements, until the two Brad Pitt fans walked out. Now they literally were the only ones left in the theatre. They really did need to clear out, but she didn't want to rush him when it had been nearly a year -- with the exception of May 2nd -- since he'd cried in front of her.
"I didn't prattle on," she finally replied, continuing to gently stroke his hair, "and I didn't lie. Not everyone died -- just one, well, no, OK... seven characters, but the first ones are already dead when we see them, only the last two are that upsetting."
"Upsetting?" Ron's eyes flashed wide open with indignation. He grabbed hold of Hermione's wrist and held it against his chest, rubbing her pulse point with his thumb. "It's upsetting when I can't have seconds of Mum's treacle tart. It's upsetting when the Cannons finish last every year. What happened to that young detective wasn't upsetting. It's my fucking worst nightmare."
"Oh, Ron," she whispered to the top of his head, not wanting to look him in the eye lest she start to tremble and cry herself. "I'm here, safe and whole, and..."
"Your head's still on," he croaked, finishing her sentence and kissing the wrist he'd spent the past several minutes caressing.
"Exactly," she said, shifting her body to face him and straddling him in the process. "But you could say that I've lost my head over you."
"Very funny," Ron replied sheepishly, one hand reaching up her back to hold the back of her neck.
"It's true, I'm head over heels, and I've got no plans to get killed by a serial killer," she said adamantly.
"But you almost were once, and seeing that bloke lose his shit... It just reminded me of being trapped in that cellar... Of thinking you weren't going to survive," he swept his finger across her collarbone to rub circles on her silvery scar. "If anyone, anyone, ever hurt you --"
Hermione couldn't take it any longer. She pushed forward and kissed him so hard that whatever he was going to say was swallowed by the impact of her lips on his. He kept one hand steadily in her hair, cupping her head like a recently discovered treasure while his other hand reached under her skirt to rub her leg from calf to thigh. She was far less gentle, flicking her tongue to seek his, pulling his hair, digging her fingers into his shoulders and sides.
For several moments they were a tangle of well-practiced tongues and hands and teeth. Hermione wasn't sure if it was appropriate to be this turned on by an emotional declaration, but she was, and it was obvious he was too. She summoned her strength to detach herself enough to say "Let's go" against his lips.
"Yeah," he whispered huskily, hoisting her up with him as he stood.
They each wrapped an arm around the other, walking nearly as one up the aisle, nearly tripping in their haste to exit the theatre. When they reached the lobby, Ron gathered Hermione to him, tucking her head under his chin. "Next time, I pick the film."
"Absolutely," she replied, planting a kiss on his freckly neck. "Now let's go someplace where I can show you what I can do with my pretty little head."
Pairing(s): Ron/Hermione, who else?
Medium: Watercolor, graphite and ink on paper
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The film's over, but Ron and Hermione aren't ready to leave.
Warnings: Language and suggestiveness
A/N: This is for napchic , who shares my love of films. *Hugs*
Many thanks to wordsmithsonian and tmblue for their brainstorming and Beta-ing skills.
The theatre emptied out slowly.
That always seemed to be the case with these cinephile arthouses and their limited-engagement retrospectives. The audience tended to stay until the very last credit, all of them fearing being judged Philistines if they left immediately after the leading actors' names rolled by.
Hermione usually saved trips to this particular cinema for her monthly nights out with her Mum, but she thought this time Ron might actually enjoy himself. She lured Ron with promises of more American screen violence, popcorn, and candy than she usually thought acceptable.
"Please, I've read it's a revolutionary film, and we missed his last big one entirely," she had nearly begged. "They sell beer now. You can have one -- two, even."
"Real beer or that poncy Belgian stuff Percy's always going on about to impress Dad?" he had asked, knowing full well it was exactly the sort of place that would only sell imported beer.
"I'm sure they'll have at least one lager you like. Besides, it's a double feature honoring an American filmmaker... no subtitles for you to read. And I promise, Hollywood directors don't kill everyone off," she'd added in her most comforting tone.
At that point, she thought she'd have to offer a mid-movie snog; she knew he was still traumatised from the time she'd dragged him to see the ironically named "Funny Games." After tonight, though, she'd be lucky if he'd ever accompany her to the cinema again.
She overheard two hipsters discussing the surprising talents of Brad Pitt as they walked toward the exit. About three rows away from her, the fellow with the unbecoming goatee stared directly at Hermione, turned to his stylishly unkempt mate and stage-whispered: "That's the bloke who lost it..." The friend gawped silently for a few seconds, shook his head in disbelief, and then continued jabbering about Brad Pitt. "He's not just a pretty boy like Tom Cruise. He has real range," she heard him say before the doors swung open and closed.
Ron slowly lifted his head, as if it were a heavy and foreign object, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief. The ushers would be in soon to start cleaning, and she didn't fancy being caught in this odd position. She was about to ask if he was all right when he narrowed his eyes up at her and spit out: "You could've bloody warned me."
"Warned you?" she repeated in a confused tone, still pinned to him with the weight of his arms engulfing her. "About what?"
"You know what," he said, shivering a little and awkwardly burrowing his head once more into her neck. "We should've left after the first one."
"But you liked the first film, and it was incredibly violent, so how was I to know the second one would be so --"
"You lied to me, by the way," he interrupted, clutching her impossibly tighter.
"What? How?" she carefully extracted her left hand to push his fringe out of his eyes.
"I distinctly recall you prattling on about how American directors never kill everyone off," he said, his eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to push some painful memory -- or more likely this very evening -- out of his head.
Hermione felt frozen in the moment. She mentally replayed the final sequence of the film. She had been shocked along with the rest of the audience and had expected a comforting squeeze of the hand or tug on the shoulder from Ron, but instead, just as the collective gasps had subsided, Ron scooped her out of her seat, pulled her onto his lap, and began to tremble so violently it must have appeared like he was having some strange seizure.
By the time he started to cry in earnest, the credits were half over, so Hermione decided to close her eyes and pretend they were the only ones in the theatre, even though she could obviously hear the murmurs and feel the stares all around them. She had opened her eyes when the lights came back on, but Ron hadn't made any movements, until the two Brad Pitt fans walked out. Now they literally were the only ones left in the theatre. They really did need to clear out, but she didn't want to rush him when it had been nearly a year -- with the exception of May 2nd -- since he'd cried in front of her.
"I didn't prattle on," she finally replied, continuing to gently stroke his hair, "and I didn't lie. Not everyone died -- just one, well, no, OK... seven characters, but the first ones are already dead when we see them, only the last two are that upsetting."
"Upsetting?" Ron's eyes flashed wide open with indignation. He grabbed hold of Hermione's wrist and held it against his chest, rubbing her pulse point with his thumb. "It's upsetting when I can't have seconds of Mum's treacle tart. It's upsetting when the Cannons finish last every year. What happened to that young detective wasn't upsetting. It's my fucking worst nightmare."
"Oh, Ron," she whispered to the top of his head, not wanting to look him in the eye lest she start to tremble and cry herself. "I'm here, safe and whole, and..."
"Your head's still on," he croaked, finishing her sentence and kissing the wrist he'd spent the past several minutes caressing.
"Exactly," she said, shifting her body to face him and straddling him in the process. "But you could say that I've lost my head over you."
"Very funny," Ron replied sheepishly, one hand reaching up her back to hold the back of her neck.
"It's true, I'm head over heels, and I've got no plans to get killed by a serial killer," she said adamantly.
"But you almost were once, and seeing that bloke lose his shit... It just reminded me of being trapped in that cellar... Of thinking you weren't going to survive," he swept his finger across her collarbone to rub circles on her silvery scar. "If anyone, anyone, ever hurt you --"
Hermione couldn't take it any longer. She pushed forward and kissed him so hard that whatever he was going to say was swallowed by the impact of her lips on his. He kept one hand steadily in her hair, cupping her head like a recently discovered treasure while his other hand reached under her skirt to rub her leg from calf to thigh. She was far less gentle, flicking her tongue to seek his, pulling his hair, digging her fingers into his shoulders and sides.
For several moments they were a tangle of well-practiced tongues and hands and teeth. Hermione wasn't sure if it was appropriate to be this turned on by an emotional declaration, but she was, and it was obvious he was too. She summoned her strength to detach herself enough to say "Let's go" against his lips.
"Yeah," he whispered huskily, hoisting her up with him as he stood.
They each wrapped an arm around the other, walking nearly as one up the aisle, nearly tripping in their haste to exit the theatre. When they reached the lobby, Ron gathered Hermione to him, tucking her head under his chin. "Next time, I pick the film."
"Absolutely," she replied, planting a kiss on his freckly neck. "Now let's go someplace where I can show you what I can do with my pretty little head."