Birthday Fic #1! "Quiet" (Ron/Snape, R-ish)
It is officially March 17, so it is Day One of Flora's birthday extravaganza.
If you missed the explaining a few months ago, for my birthday, I hope/plan/intend to post a ficlet a day for as many days leading up to my birthday as I will be years old. I did this last year, and it was fun. If, you know, a little exhausting.
Onward.
This prompt came from painless_j, who suggested "Ron/Snape, with magical maladies, Post-war; h/c."
Title: Quiet
Pairing: Ron/Snape
Rating: R-ish
Words: 700
Warnings: well. Magical maladies, I suppose.
Quiet
They always have to be quiet.
Ron is surprised, initially, that this is harder for Snape than for him, but then, Snape continues to suffer the aftereffects from disparate curses that hit simultaneously on the field of battle, leaving him twitching and jolting while madness and streams of color and smoke raged above and around him. He remains jumpy in any bright light and uncertain when he isn't entirely in control, and the trouble, of course, is that he is never--can never be--entirely in control. Not any more. Neither of them can be; there are far too many rules for that.
Snape, officially, is a ward of the state. His mind is intact, and he is as vitriolic, as passionate, as angry as he has ever been, but his hands shake and his eyelids twitch, and too often, streams of words spew forth, words he wouldn't say, given then choice. Oh, he means them, but all control is eroded to nothing, and he's far too dangerous to possess a wand or be left to himself.
Ron, officially, is a hero of the war. His body is ravaged, as well, but he has his faculties. And he's better off than …than Snape, he always forces himself to think, because he can't think about Harry, any more than Snape can think about how many of his peers were lost, one way and another.
Both of them, officially, are non-existent. They are still too frightening for this world, it has been decided, and it might as well be, as they were once associates of a loose sort, that they remain out of bounds together. So, they share a little house, invisible to all eyes but theirs and two pairs more, because Ron is Snape's keeper--he keeps him safe--and Snape is Ron's job--he gives him a reason to keep on, and an income. All of this makes sense to the Ministry and to Mum, who visits on Sundays.
They're left to themselves, the rest of the time. The paper arrives in the Floo, as do miniaturized baskets of market-fresh produce and bags of flour and salt, and they play chess and talk, then read and pace, argue, shout, and cook supper, then sit down to eat and wordlessly pass the salt until it is time for Ron to help Snape bathe and dress for bed. In the morning, he will help him dress for the day, and they will begin again. Some day they won't be too dangerous, it is to be supposed, and they will leave, but until then, they are each other's company, nearly always alone.
And yet, at night, when they rock together on Ron's quilted bed or Snape's smaller one, when Ron comes on Snape's twitching thigh or Snape pulls Ron up on all fours to push into him, they have to be quiet, because they are alone, but not unheard and not forgotten. They work together seamlessly, keeping the bed springs oiled, moving together perfectly so as not to cause telltale creaks or cracks against the wall, and always, every night, Ron wants to cry out, to whisper the words that should be whispered to a lover.
They both know they can't take the chance. They know they will lose every comfort they have, if their keepers come to know what they do, and still, it is hard to restrain themselves. Snape bites his lip until it bleeds, the shuddering spasms tightening his bite on tender flesh, and Ron kisses the wound, and they pretend it is enough.
Until they can work out a way for Snape to wordlessly, wandlessly press into Ron's mind the way he presses into his body, it will have to be.
Then, they'll be able to plan an escape and restart that isn't vaguely plotted on a chessboard, isn't spelled out in single-word scraps of julienned pepper.
Then the world that is protected from them will no longer have to worry.
Then that world can go straight to hell while they go to …Ron listens from his bed to Snape moving restlessly in his own, and imagines. While they go to Tahiti.
And there, at last, stop being quiet.
If you missed the explaining a few months ago, for my birthday, I hope/plan/intend to post a ficlet a day for as many days leading up to my birthday as I will be years old. I did this last year, and it was fun. If, you know, a little exhausting.
Onward.
This prompt came from painless_j, who suggested "Ron/Snape, with magical maladies, Post-war; h/c."
Title: Quiet
Pairing: Ron/Snape
Rating: R-ish
Words: 700
Warnings: well. Magical maladies, I suppose.
Quiet
They always have to be quiet.
Ron is surprised, initially, that this is harder for Snape than for him, but then, Snape continues to suffer the aftereffects from disparate curses that hit simultaneously on the field of battle, leaving him twitching and jolting while madness and streams of color and smoke raged above and around him. He remains jumpy in any bright light and uncertain when he isn't entirely in control, and the trouble, of course, is that he is never--can never be--entirely in control. Not any more. Neither of them can be; there are far too many rules for that.
Snape, officially, is a ward of the state. His mind is intact, and he is as vitriolic, as passionate, as angry as he has ever been, but his hands shake and his eyelids twitch, and too often, streams of words spew forth, words he wouldn't say, given then choice. Oh, he means them, but all control is eroded to nothing, and he's far too dangerous to possess a wand or be left to himself.
Ron, officially, is a hero of the war. His body is ravaged, as well, but he has his faculties. And he's better off than …than Snape, he always forces himself to think, because he can't think about Harry, any more than Snape can think about how many of his peers were lost, one way and another.
Both of them, officially, are non-existent. They are still too frightening for this world, it has been decided, and it might as well be, as they were once associates of a loose sort, that they remain out of bounds together. So, they share a little house, invisible to all eyes but theirs and two pairs more, because Ron is Snape's keeper--he keeps him safe--and Snape is Ron's job--he gives him a reason to keep on, and an income. All of this makes sense to the Ministry and to Mum, who visits on Sundays.
They're left to themselves, the rest of the time. The paper arrives in the Floo, as do miniaturized baskets of market-fresh produce and bags of flour and salt, and they play chess and talk, then read and pace, argue, shout, and cook supper, then sit down to eat and wordlessly pass the salt until it is time for Ron to help Snape bathe and dress for bed. In the morning, he will help him dress for the day, and they will begin again. Some day they won't be too dangerous, it is to be supposed, and they will leave, but until then, they are each other's company, nearly always alone.
And yet, at night, when they rock together on Ron's quilted bed or Snape's smaller one, when Ron comes on Snape's twitching thigh or Snape pulls Ron up on all fours to push into him, they have to be quiet, because they are alone, but not unheard and not forgotten. They work together seamlessly, keeping the bed springs oiled, moving together perfectly so as not to cause telltale creaks or cracks against the wall, and always, every night, Ron wants to cry out, to whisper the words that should be whispered to a lover.
They both know they can't take the chance. They know they will lose every comfort they have, if their keepers come to know what they do, and still, it is hard to restrain themselves. Snape bites his lip until it bleeds, the shuddering spasms tightening his bite on tender flesh, and Ron kisses the wound, and they pretend it is enough.
Until they can work out a way for Snape to wordlessly, wandlessly press into Ron's mind the way he presses into his body, it will have to be.
Then, they'll be able to plan an escape and restart that isn't vaguely plotted on a chessboard, isn't spelled out in single-word scraps of julienned pepper.
Then the world that is protected from them will no longer have to worry.
Then that world can go straight to hell while they go to …Ron listens from his bed to Snape moving restlessly in his own, and imagines. While they go to Tahiti.
And there, at last, stop being quiet.