On Interruptions and Indian Food

Author's Note: I love playing around with Remus and Tonk's interactions, and this is another example of what happens when my mind starts wandering. Set post-OotP. I don't think you'll need to read any of my other stuff to get this. I like them together, like this. It works for me, for some reason. Continued, possibly. Or not. We'll just see.

Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Rowling, not me, as we are two different people. No copyright infringement is intended, and all of that rubbish.


March 10, 1:15 p.m.

He was listening to Dylan in his bedroom when she entered, catching the scent of cigarette smoke that was not entirely displeasing. She liked this penchant of his. It made him more real, somehow. She also liked to see that look on his face-eyes closed as he exhaled, lips forming an "o" as he leaned back in his worn desk chair. When he opened his eyes they were half-lidded and murky, and he smiled a sort of lazy grin. Good. He was in a good mood.

"We're going to Yorkshire."

He paused, elegant fingers holding out the smoking roll of paper only centimeters from his mouth. "We most certainly are not."

"Day after next. Weather's shit, so pack warm." Why she had added this, she didn't know. The man certainly didn't need mothering. A rough shag, true, but not advice from a twenty-something with hair that would make an epileptic go into fits.

"What happened to Kingsley? Thought he was covering that." He rose from the chair, snuffing out the cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. The stubs made a miniature forest of sorts, she thought idly. She moved to take his seat; drew her legs up into the chair and looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"Ministry work comes first, you know."

"Ah. So how does the 'we' factor?"

"I volunteered."

"Considerate of you."

"I'm a considerate person."

"Close the door."

She did, with a slight movement of her wand, and grinned as he leaned over to kiss her neck. "I could say you were a distraction and have you reassigned," he murmured against her jaw.

"You won't." Fingers in his hair, threading through it. "You won't, because you want me to go with you."

"That's rather presumptuous."

"Hmm, but true." The wall clock chimed, out of tune, but appropriate. Lunch breaks had limits. He released her with a touch of agitation, wearing the look of one whose routine has been interrupted countless times before.

"I'm on duty tonight," he said offhandedly. So we won't be able to finish this, the tone finished. She studied him for a moment.

"Tell me you want me to stay, Remus."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I want to hear you say it."

"Go back to work, Nymphadora Tonks. Stop hanging about this place."

"All right then. Fine with me."

She rose from the chair, leaving him leaning against the edge of his desk. She was halfway down the hall when he opened the door and said, sighing somewhat, "No, wait. I don't want to have to catch up with you at the bottom of the bleeding stairs."

She turned, tapping a finger to her lips. "You used to be eloquent."

"Your hair used to be green."

"Ah, romance!" She put a hand to her head, fluttering her eyelashes at him, and he frowned.

"Please, stay."

The corners of her mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. "There now. That was lovely." He shook his head, but she remained in the hall, shrugging her shoulders a bit. "Wish I could, too. After all that. But I can't."

His mouth dropped open slightly, and her grin widened. "But I got you to say it, didn't I?"

"Right," he muttered, retreating back into his room.

"Yorkshire, Thursday," she called out, bounding down the stairs.

March 11, 2:35 a.m.

( found scribbled on a piece of parchment atop his bureau)

Come to my flat. I don't care what time it is.

T.

March 11, 2:41 a.m.

Takeaway Indian food and citrus-scented candles. His nose tingled as he moved past her small kitchen table-plain wood painted bright green. Her flat assaulted his senses somewhat. Oranges and reds, paper lanterns above him and half the contents of her wardrobe strewn about over countertops and chairs. A skimpy pink bra was draped over the arm of her sofa. That he'd seen before.

He'd long given up on pondering the ultimate question of why she held any interest in him, mainly because he didn't understand exactly what it was that made him want her. Stepping over t-shirts and panties only seemed to amplify the insanity of his present situation. It was not, at this point, love, as he didn't know if such an abstract term even existed. Companionship, perhaps. True enough, there were elements about her that he'd grown fond of. That satisfied little mewling noise she made when he'd done something particularly good in bed. Her hands, surprisingly dainty with fingernails coated in some outrageous color of nail polish. The nonchalance she constantly exuded, sometimes slipping into the bathtub with him, or draping her legs over his lap while they sat on the couch.

She slept deeply, and he'd already turned her bedroom doorknob before she woke, already a smile forming. Without light, the room looked very calm. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

"Something you wanted?" he asked casually. "Must have been fairly important, for you to leave me a note."

"You are-" she reached over to turn on a lamp, "-supposed to go over these before we leave." Holding up a stack of papers, she waggled them around for him to see, and gave him a cheeky smile. "Top priority."

"Work always is, Nymphadora." He caught her eyes, enjoying the grimace the name produced, and moved to take the papers from her hand.

"Touché, Remus," she allowed, and stifled a yawn. "Now, you great sod, get into this bed."

"Would that I could, but you see, I've responsibilities to the Ord-" he let out a laugh as she grabbed his jumper, tugging him down onto soft sheets. And then, his mouth was on hers.

March 11, 7:29 a.m.

(beside her coffee pot on the back of her 'things to do' list, to which he has added the name "Remus Lupin" in small script between 'buy milk' and 'floo E. Vance')

You snore most beautifully, Nymphadora. Dinner at Number Twelve tonight? Dung would greatly miss you, should you decide not to come.

R.

March 11, 10:57 a.m.

(sent by obese Auror Department owl)

And what about you?

T.

March 11, 11:24 a.m.

(returned by same harassed-looking owl)

Oh, yes, I should imagine he would be disappointed if I were not there either.

R.

March 11, 12:36 p.m.

(this time, delivered by a healthy tawny)

You are a wanker. See you at six.

T.