Vagabond
"Bloody... stupid- bollocks..."
Hermione cleared her throat and peered over the top of the book she'd been reading, raising an eyebrow in Ron's direction as he twisted his too-long body atop his mum's worn sofa, scuffed leather sticking to the bare skin of his arms.
"Reckon George'd let us kip at his? At least he'd have a cot for you-" he slurred, words tiredly running together. Hermione smiled, folding her book across her lap to keep her page.
"Yes, and you'd be much more comfortable on his wood floor," she teased.
"Right," and Ron sat up, pounding a fist into the lumpy pillow he'd been attempting to lie against. "I'm only taking first shift anyway 'cause you were so bloody invested in-" he squinted, attempting to read the title of the volume in Hermione's lap along the sideways spine.
"Nevermind," she sighed, flipping the book over again and slipping a tea cozy between the pages, dropping it to the side table as she yawned.
"I'm sorry," Ron said then, so sincerely that she jerked her head in his direction.
"What on earth for?"
He laughed, raking a hand through his shaggy hair.
"God, where would you like me to start?"
"Ron..." She softened, swallowing as she really noted his distress.
"Nevermind that either," and he closed his eyes. But he opened them again after only a moment, to stare across the fire-lit room at her. "For now, it'll do if I apologise for you having to shove off down here with me 'cause half our bloody extended family decided to show up-"
"This is only half?" she interrupted, incredulous.
He laughed again, softly.
"Ron, I don't care about that. I don't mind being down here with you. You know that, don't you?"
He nodded, slowly.
"Yeah," he said, voice suddenly hoarse. "Reckon anything's better than the goddamn tent..."
"It's not that," she nearly whispered, looking down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. "I wouldn't be anywhere else. You know that."
He was silent for a while, but she could feel his eyes on her.
"Hermione," he said, roughly, sending a shiver up her spine as her vision blurred, "c'mere."
She looked up, slowly, heart pounding. There he was, in a sleeveless undershirt, legs stretched along the sofa, sleepy eyed, thick hair mussed, several days worth of stubble... He was here. He was alive. And he was asking her to come closer. She nearly choked as the years seemed to hit her, attacking her one by one. So many memories, the good and the bad... all leading to now. To the end of the war. To peace. To what she'd wanted and feared she'd never have.
The distance seemed greater than she could imagine, but she crossed it in seconds, sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa, rapid pulse and shaking limbs.
He licked his lips before he spoke.
"You deserve a lot better," he said, quietly.
"Than what?"
"You know," he shrugged. "Me. Sleeping on ruddy sofas."
"Wait," she breathed, "those two things don't belong in a sentence together."
"What?"
"You've said you're sorry we drew the short straw on beds, but what is this bit about you?" She could hardly breathe, lungs tight as she watched him shrug again, almost smiling.
"Come on, Hermione," he tried, "you know I'm shit-"
"Stop!" she cried, actually feeling rather angry now. Who was he to call her over closer, to send her into internal hysterics over being able to be with him, and then to take it back... out of some ridiculous sense of sacrifice or pity or-
"I was going to say," he continued, softly, "that you know I'm shit... at this. Feelings and rubbish. It's fucking nerve-wracking."
She sighed, a bit of relief mingled with a bit of exasperation. At herself, for interrupting him. At him, for never quite understanding.
But she might as well make sure he understood now. What was the use in prolonging, now that they had nothing left to do but figure out what to do next?
"Ron, I don't care if we sleep in a bloody dungeon. I love you."
He gripped her wrist so tight he was surely cutting off her circulation. She resisted the urge to wince as she watched his darkened eyes widen.
She had actually said it! Her skin prickled and she couldn't quite feel her own feet...
"Y-You can't love me."
She let out a frustrated moan.
"Too bloody late!"
He grinned, fingers trembling and slackening their grip on her. She glared at him.
His hand slipped from her wrist to her thigh, and his smile vanished as he stared intently for a moment at his hand on her.
"You really..." he began, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I mean... Fuck, really?"
"Yes, you idiot!"
He stared... Might as well have been forever. Her heart rate doubled, overwhelmed.
"Well, say something, you arse!"
He let out a breath she hadn't known he'd been holding.
"Blimey."
He licked his lips again. Damn him.
"You're much too good for me. You're brilliant. I was sort of thinking, a few months back, that I'd be right lucky if you just forgave me for running off on you and Harry, much less had a proper row with me about anything ever again."
His fingers moved on top of her leg, and she twitched. He removed his hand, blushing. And her leg suddenly felt much too cold as she watched him, eyes darting, shy and unsure...
"Shit, Hermione. I knew I was in love with you when I left, you know. Reckon I knew at Bill's wedding, too. Actually-" and he scratched the back of his neck as her throat went dry, "-I could go back to earlier sixth year, really. Dunno, felt pretty amazing when you asked me to that party of Slughorn's that I blew the hell off..."
His blush deepened. She whimpered. And he met her eyes again.
"I'm a tosser. I knew there was something between us for a long time. I hoped it was as important to you as it was to me, but that seemed bloody ridiculous to think. And I left you. And I didn't mean it - I swear I didn't - but you still shouldn't love me, if we're being logical about it."
"L-Logical?"
"Yeah. You know... But what can I say? It's not logical you'd be here right now, especially not after all the rubbish I did and said this year. But you are. And... I reckon I'm too selfish to tell you to leave me, for your own good..." He shrugged, and she shook her head slowly, astonished.
"Y-You..." she trembled, "you said you weren't good at this."
"I'm not!"
Her eyes widened, locked onto his.
"Oh my God, Ron," she breathed. "What did you think I wanted you to do? Write poetry? You're amazing."
"Well..." he shrugged again, a small grin spreading.
"I've said things to you that I didn't mean," she explained. "I've been... really unfair to you."
He snorted.
"And I haven't returned the favour?"
Her head was suddenly spinning. They had somehow gone from apologies to love and back around to apologies. How far back could they go? How many unsaid words really needed to be said, anymore?
"What are we even talking about?"
"Well," he explained, "you've got to warn a bloke before you go rambling that you love him. I wasn't ready."
"Ready?" she gawked. "Should I have given you another few years, then?"
"No," he grinned, "not this time. But maybe five minutes would have done it. Thought I was going to get to go first when I called you over here."
"You were-" she gasped. "But... You told me I couldn't love you!"
"I panicked!" He sniffed and rubbed a hand across his stubble. "It's just a bit hard to actually imagine- I mean... Bloody hell, you love me? Ron. Just Ron. I've never done anything remotely fucking romantic, much less even been a decent friend to you, with all the Scabbers shite and that twat Viktor Krum and-"
He broke off, and she pressed her lips together, attempting to repress a rather ridiculous giggle. He shrugged, and she huffed at his short term memory.
"You offered to adopt me into your bleeding family tree, you git!"
"Well, of course."
She blinked at him.
"How is that not being a good friend?"
He shrugged again, and she shifted, inadvertently pressing her thigh to his, where his legs were still extended behind her. His hand gripped the back of the sofa a bit more firmly.
"It's only... you don't know you're so-" she gestured, flushed, for an appropriate word. Failing, she clicked her tongue frustratedly and gave it up as a bad job, eyes watering... "-which makes it even better, I think. Sometimes you say the most amazing things."
Stunned, he shook his head slowly.
"Alright, I knew you must have... fancied me a bit, you know, when you kissed me and nearly killed us both with those bloody basilisk fangs. Honestly, I could have dropped one, point down, straight through one of our legs and-"
"You're complaining now?"
"No! Do it again, any time."
She swallowed, hard. His eyes flicked to hers as he licked his lips.
"Well," she said, shifting a bit nervously, "maybe I will."
His lips curled slowly up in an anticipatory smile.
"I, yeah-" he started, clearing his throat, "I-I love you, Hermione. Just... thought I should say it properly. Don't think I've done that yet."
She pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head.
"So, are we really okay?" he whispered, and she had to take a moment to be sure she'd heard him correctly. She nodded, eyes burning.
"Trust me," she whispered back, dropping her hand to her lap.
"Right," he breathed. "Now you'd better let me do it this time. No fair you being that brave twice..."
He took a deep breath, sighed it out, and released his hold on the back of the sofa. Pulling his knees up, he rested his legs behind her back and slouched forward, reaching for her hand without looking directly at her. And then, with a determined sort of half-nod, he opened her hand and kissed her palm, pressing both of his thumbs to the spot as his lips left her skin.
He looked at her, then, eye to eye. She couldn't breathe. And suddenly, for no logical reason at all, she was crying. His look of momentary concern vanished instantly when she smiled broadly at him, through her tears. She twisted and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling their chests close together as he buried his face in her hair.
A long moment passed, holding each other as the light from the fire dimmed to a soft orange glow. At last, she could feel his lips move, somewhere close to her left ear.
"Reckon we can both sleep on this wretched sofa together?" he asked, voice muffled in her hair.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she smiled.
"We can give it a go."
They separated long enough for him to stretch out on his back, scooting to the outside edge to give her space. She slid between his incredibly warm body and the back sofa cushions, resting on her side, facing him. Her left leg had nowhere else to go but overlapping his. And surely he could feel the over-active beat of her heart against his own ribs.
And then, chewing his lip, he swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. The anticipation threatened to overwhelm her. She knew what he was going to do. And all she could do was wait.
As the seconds ticked past, the right corner of his lips curled up, and he let out a puff of air through his nose.
"What?" she whispered, not expecting her voice to sound so small. But he heard her, anyway.
"Just realising I'm lying here having a heart attack getting ready to kiss you, but you've already said you love me. So what the hell should I be worried about?"
She laughed shakily against him, her feet going numb again.
He cleared his throat, still not looking over at her. And she just simply couldn't take it anymore.
She pushed up onto her elbow and glared down at him, forcing herself into his line of vision. He raised an eyebrow, and she noticed, then, how pink his cheeks and ears were, how much his hands were shaking.
"Get on with it, then," she said. "I'm going to explode if I have to wait another second."
His confused expression grew into a wide grin, and he reached up a still-trembling hand to wrap around the back of her neck, pulling her down on top of him as he angled his head and shut his eyes.
She literally went limp, allowing her body weight to collapse on top of him completely, their chests pressed so tightly together that she could feel his heart beating as if it was coming from inside her own chest. His lips were warm and soft and perfect. And as his lungs deflated with pleasure, they sank even deeper into the sofa cushions, the tips of his fingers walking up into her hair. She made a tiny, involuntary sound in the back of her throat, and he parted his lips, his tongue finding her bottom lip as she gripped his hair in a tight fist. He winced and moaned simultaneously as her knee bent between his legs, simply to shift her weight to a more comfortable position…
His unoccupied arm wrapped around her, hand flattening to her back and drawing her even tighter to his own body. She somehow felt the irrational urge to get closer, though it wasn't strictly possible at the moment, save the layers of clothing they both wore...
And then she was unable to breathe properly, separating only far enough back from him to take in a gasp of warm air, blinking until his eyes swam into focus, half-lidded and glowing.
His lips still parted, he seemed to be struggling to find words to say, unable to call up the ones he wanted.
But it didn't matter. She understood just fine.
For a moment, tears seemed to well up in his eyes. But then he was pulling her down, burying his face against the side of her neck as she twisted her fingers up into his hair again. His hand swept her hair away from his face, and they were suddenly skin to skin again, his nose to her neck, sliding up to a spot just behind her ear. He pressed his lips there, tentatively. Her eyes fluttered shut, gooseflesh coating her skin from neck to ribs.
She sighed out months and months of relief, clinging to him as he rolled to his side, wrapping his arms around her as she did the same, tucking her knee between his legs once more, finding a perfect way to fit together on the narrow sofa.
He laughed lightly, surprising her as she had been on the verge of tears again, comforted as she hadn't been in so many months… perhaps years, even.
"What could possibly be funny?" she demanded, mumbling against his collarbone.
"Mm," he sighed, "disbelief, I think. A year and a half ago I thought you'd never speak to me again. Several months ago I thought you'd never forgive me for leaving. Bit of a contrast, this."
She pulled back, her nose brushing against his cheek as she lifted her eyes to his.
"Don't you like it better this way?" she asked, watching his eyes crease as he smiled.
"God, yes."
She shivered as she grinned back, shifting closer into him. He reached behind her, tugging a quilt down from the back of the sofa. And with a few adjustments, he managed to cover them with it, turning onto his back again and gathering her to his side, his arm around her, hand accidentally slipping down the back of her shirt.
But as he moved to pull it back, she clutched his shirt and shook her head.
"Don't," she whispered, and he swallowed as he slipped his hand further down her shirt to rest warmly against her bare back.
He pressed his nose to the top of her head, kissing her forehead almost without consciousness. His left hand moved to rest on top of his own chest, fingers drumming lightly and stretching as if asking her an unspoken question. Without thought, she moved her right hand up along his torso, linking their fingers together to rest over his heart.
She listened as he relaxed, his lungs deflating underneath her. And it occurred to her, not for the first time, just how lucky they were to be alive. How indescribable, to be with him here, now, with nothing left to do but this.
She felt as though she had been drugged with something light and wonderful, closing her eyes as she drifted to the comforting, rhythmic feel of his breathing against her forehead.