Pairing: Molly Weasley/Kingsley Shacklebolt
Assigned by: Prongsie
Written by: Verbalklepto
Molly had been in love with Arthur since their Hogwarts days. He was calm, steady, kind, and he certainly loved her back; he was a wonderful father and a devoted husband. She loved the crinkle that lingered in the corner of his eyes even when he was being serious. She loved how his smile was lopsided. She loved the sparse grey that dotted his hair. She loved the little ring of golden brown that encircled his pupil. She loved the callouses of his hands. Truthfully, she loved every single bit of him, and she had no problem admitting it to anyone who asked.
Admitting it to herself, however, was occasionally another story entirely—sometimes, in the bleak hours of the night spent fussing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, she wondered what she had ever seen at him at all. When she was at her most weary, her most jaded, she tended to look back on her life and think what was I doing? She had settled so early, so young... she had decided her life so quickly that she hadn't truly given herself an opportunity to taste every flavor available. It was during these dreary moments, her hands shriveled by soap and water, a pile of clean dishes on the counter, her hair in a mess and her apron fastened tightly around her waist that he would appear.
It was completely coincidental, at first. He would appear in the kitchen, looking drawn and weary, the spaces beneath his eyes tinged deep purple, and ask her very politely for something small to eat. She smiled, the first time, and obliged, bustling to and fro, starting conversation in that falsely cheery voice she always adopted during wartime.
"Thank you, Molly," he had said, that first evening, his deep, dark eyes meeting hers and leveling, his expression so astoundingly serious, his voice a low hum. And she had blushed. She loved Arthur more than anything in the world, she missed him every moment he wasn't with her, but when he said those three words—those three, completely innocent, completely insignificant words, she had blushed.
Their meetings continued approximately once a week. He would show up, long after the rest of the Order had gone home, long after Arthur had kissed her goodnight and gone back to the Burrow, and she had insisted that she would clean up, ask for food. They would talk frivolously, and she would give him his food, and he would respond, "thank you, Molly."
And she would blush. Stammer. Her heart would patter against her ribcage. She would pat her hair, as though to impress him.
He'd come the following Wednesday.
They'd chat. She'd cook. Pass the food.
"Thank you, Molly."
Blush. Stammer. Heart. Hair.
Eventually, his words were accompanied by his hand covering hers briefly and squeezing around her fingers.
Eventually, her blush, stammer, heart, hair was accompanied by a fleeting weakness in her knees.
I miss Arthur, she'd say to herself, almost as though she were reinforcing the idea, and then turn away, but not before seeing the rare, small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret.
Two weeks later, he said, "thank you, Molly."
Blush. Stammer. Heart. Hair. Wobble-kneed. And abruptly, "you're welcome, Kingsley."
It was his turn to blush. A deep, dark hue to his high cheekbones that for a moment made her forget the weariness in his eyes as his hand lingered over hers for several moments. They stood, adjusting their routine with every week until he no longer seemed hungry. His appearance in her kitchen was a perfunctory performance, and he hardly ate the food she prepared. Eventually, she ceased preparing the food altogether, and spent a couple hours every week discussing everything with him.
Their fingers would entwine for a beat longer. Their eyes would hold. Molly would wonder, what was I thinking? And then, the longer she spent with Kingsley, what am I thinking? For though they never yet broached the border between friendliness and something more, she knew that the though crossed her mind. She knew that the thought tossed her stomach and made her shiver-spined and wide-eyed.
His fingers would run over hers as he clutched her hand, his eyes fixed on her skin as though he would memorize the labor-calloused lines. She watched, blue eyes a little wide, as he flipped her hand over, suddenly, and his fingers began to trace along the lines across her palm. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers inched along her wrist, and slowly, slowly, slowly—much as their interactions had progressed—he brought her hand to his lips, his breath ghosting over her freckled skin before pressing softly to the palm of her hand. Her eyes fluttered, but she continued to regard him carefully. His lips moved down to kiss the inside of her wrist, and her lips parted, a soft breath escaping.
I should go home, she thought as he drew her forward and she obliged, Arthur will be wondering where I am. She was suddenly against his chest, and she didn't know how she had arrived there—that was the way things were during war, though, wasn't it? Things just happened; there were casualties—but she didn't mind, either, as his face grew nearer and nearer. Her hand pressed against his dark, worry-lined face, her eyes searching his for some kind of explanation or excuse, but she found only his lips pressing cloyingly against hers. Soft and slow, he kissed her much like one would be kissed by their first boyfriend—gingerly, unsurely, but with a firmness that did not belie the fact that he was very much a man, and not a boy at all. Nor was she a girl. The thought was sobering, and it had her pulling away hurriedly, peering into his equally unsurprised face.
"Thank you, Molly."
She felt bile rise in her throat and so couldn't formulate a proper response. Instead, she took off her apron, placed it on the counter, and brushed past him into the floo where she would return to Arthur. Molly Weasley wondered if she had given herself away too soon—the thought caught in her mind like a burr in lamb's wool, because she loved Arthur. She really, truly, deeply did.
But sometimes she wondered what things would have been like if she had never met him.