Hello! Again! I finally, after the best part of a year, managed to finish the other story I've been working on. Seriously. You have no idea how many times I've rewritten this trying to get it perfect. This sin't perfection, but I think it's as good as it's going to get, so… enjoy? Read and review if you like- I'd love to hear any improvements, any spelling errors, etc. This is less of a song fic than Between Sheets, but if you want to listen to something whilst reading, I'd recommend Lullaby, by One Republic. I've also begun yet another Remus/Tonks story, and I'd love to tell you that that'll be finished and posted, but hey, look how long this took me. Anyway. Read on, my friends.
Soph xxx
Her sweater was the first victim.
Once, the crumpled bundle of wool, a tight-knit, India-green, boat-necked creation, had been a favourite of hers- the last Christmas present from her paternal grandmother. Now, still warm from her body, it fell with the softest, muffled scream onto the cold, unforgiving wooden floor, discarded in a mangled tangle of limbs and arms, inside out and abandoned like a worn out lover; it stared pitifully after her with accusing, dark eyes where the sleeves gaped, left with only the slight trace of her fragrance and the assaulting, cold touch of the boards where she had left it to its fate. She still wasn't quite sure why she wasn't wearing a jacket- dimly, she seemed to remember putting on a drab khaki overcoat that once belonged to an ex-boyfriend, left to rot in her closet, only, now, to be lost en-route. Or had it been when they reached the house? Perhaps even after, in that hideous period of waiting for the officials to arrive- both wizarding and Muggle- neither of whom did anything of worth, when all that could run through anyone's head was how they had been just a few crucial seconds too late.
Her shoes were kicked of almost haphazardly; the pair of scuffed brown leather knee highs (perfect for the rapidly cooling autumnal weather) fell in opposite directions, the zippers glinting maliciously in the slight light coming from the living room. She hadn't meant to leave the lights on; it had just been such a flurry; a horrible, blurred whirlwind that contained far too much heartache and pain for her to fully comprehend it, that the small matter of the golden orbs left illuminated, and the cheap Muggle TV show still humming monotonously in the living room, had completely slipped her frazzled mind.
Her jeans were heard to get off, and she cursed under her breath as her frigid fingers shook, making undoing the leather belt she'd picked up in a thrift store harder than it should have been, and the silver button- cold from the night air repeatedly battering it, and shining sadly as if aware that it, too, was as expendable as her jumper- all but impossible to wretch open. Eventually, though, the chill the spiteful zephyr blowing outside of her door had given her fingers was overcome by the desperation to pull the blood-stained denim off her legs. The landing leading to her bedroom and bathroom became its grave; one leg stretched out after her, a desperate, zombie-like hand out to grab the pale, exposed ankle as she ran towards her salvation; the wooden door to her bathroom.
The simple white tank-top she'd decided would serve as some sort of primitive protection from the bone-deep saturation of cold, wet weather was the last piece of fabric before she reached her sanctuary; it was tossed backwards, landing mere inches from the stretching leg of her jeans, softening its appearance; suddenly, it was no longer an undead being out to kill her slowly, but a partner reaching out to its love in its final moments, craving the touch of someone who cared one last time before the abyss of death claimed it; one last tender touch before the blade of the scythe struck, leaving nothing but material remains.
With a sob, she pulled open the familiar wooden door, with its whirling knots and slapdash varnish, pulling the fraying cord to flood the small room with a kind of ethereal golden light that watched her body move, surprisingly fluidly, forwards with the concern of a worried mother. The bathroom was not, by any means, luxurious, but it suited her fine. The colour scheme, a variety of browns with white appliances, felt warm, and earthy, and soothing; into that small box room, she'd managed to cram in a sink, a toilet, a shower, a bath with claw-like feet, a mirror, a small cabinet and a bin, so it had everything she would ever need. For barely a second, she considered waiting for the bath, deep set and raised from the ground, to fill, but the lure of hot water became far too much for her to wait. The dial on the shower moulded to her fingers, turning easily up the highest setting, starting with soft buzz as water began its trek up through the pipe work. With a gentle sort of sound, the water began flowing, hitting the floor and spiralling towards the plughole and into oblivion. Steam began to cloud the room, but her reflection in the mirror was horribly clear; she looked crazed, with messy hair in a disgusting dull pink, dried blood crusting on her cheek and eyes rimmed with red and streaky mascara. Her fingers reached behind her back, gently releasing her breasts from their support; a white bra with far too much fussy, old-lady-curtained lace on it, which tumbled and caught on the handle of the cabinet, remaining suspended against the darker wood. Her hands then dipped to her hips, catching the edge of the mismatched midnight-blue boxers, slipping them over the pale skin of her legs to rest on the bathmat.
Shuddering with cold and shock, she stepped forwards, feeling herself becoming immersed in a comforting embrace; every droplet caressing her hair was there to whisper words of comfort In a language she did not understand, every touch to her shoulders was to ease her aching muscles, every stroke to her body ebbing away at the numb wall that had built up in the aftermath of the scene she had stumbled- literally- into a meagre two hours before. The blood tinged the water pink as it was pulled off her body, and she almost began to sob again as the last traces of that family- a mother, a father, two children and a dog- were swept away from society. Few would ever know who really tortured and killed them; fewer still would know the reasons and only the very core would ever understand the need for such a senseless killing. .
The water never faltered, as it sometimes felt the need to; no icy streams broke into her cocoon of heat and steam. The building itself seemed to have recognised that its owner was in no fit state to deal with as such, and acted accordingly, tactfully averting itself from the routine mishaps and instead offering a shoulder, a support.
She should just wash and step out. She should gather up her clothes, decide whether a simple wash would redeem them from their state, or if she should just abandon them altogether and condemn them to the cool interior of a silver bin. She should turn off the lights, flick the TV off and drag herself to a cold, empty bed to watch the faces of those poor dead children swirl in her mind, to wake after fitful dreams full of screams and spells with a cold sweat dripping down her back.
She remained in the shower, pausing only to turn up the dial, craving blistering heat.
A strangled cough eventually woke her from her slumber within the blissfully burning hot of the shower. He stood at the end of the corridor, swallowing in a sort of embarrassed way that despite herself she found endearing. His hands clenched, and unclenched, and then clenched again; slender fingers splaying sporadically, before retracting into their own primitive protection, short nails no doubt biting tender skin. Eyes shut quickly, lashes fluttering with each rather deep inhale, a flawed attempt to regain control she had seen so many times. She tried to find it in herself to have the same grace, the same tact, and close her own eyes. They refused.
He stood, at the end of her hallway, still in his coat, which shone with the diamond-like water drops clutching the dark woollen material like it was their messiah. His hair, too, was quite thoroughly soaked, each strand of silver-laced chocolate clinging tight to his skin, plastered on his head. He had obviously run straight through the rain, which she could hear was now at fever pitch, as if the sky itself mourned the death of those children, of that family, like they were its own. The coat was unbuttoned- in the gap she could see a much-worn old grey sweater, and the collar of a shirt, the edge of a tie, the silk now losing its shine, but remaining soft- a faded beauty. He wore black trousers as soaked through as the rest of him, and old, scuffed black leather shoes. She also noted, with the first thing like a smile she had managed since returning from the hell-hole she'd been stuck in for two hours (or possibly decades) that he had mismatched his socks. Her eyes flitted upwards, past the reflexive tensing of arms and shoulders, and the lower part of his back, to examine his face, with all the rapt attention of a scientist studying a subject. He was remarkably pale, even from his usual milky tone- his face was almost wan with it, making the pretty pink flush slowly spreading from the neck of his shirt even more apparent. But this, even now, when she was completely naked and strung out from the night's events, was familiar ground; his face was something she could probably map, accurately. From the surprisingly delicate lashes to the slightly aquiline nose, and that freckle near his ear, she could trace a pattern; she could sculpt out his features, to where her fingers would linger on those lips, trace round, converting their shapes, every dip and curve, to her flesh memory.
He was here for her. There was no other explanation. It had been almost two thirty in the morning when she had left the scene of the events, and outside was yet to show light. He should be in bed in Grimmauld Place, or wherever else he found slumber on those nights when he wasn't. He shouldn't be here, not so close to her she could pick out the fraying threads on his jumper and the stitching across the top of his socks. Even through that apathetic curtain the shower had enabled her to pull up, a tender part of her heart let out a feeble sigh, sending familiar warmth through her veins. He was here- at two thirty on a Saturday morning- to talk to her. Not Fleur, the haughty siren that had everyone bewitched by her icy beauty, nor Hestia, who she had seen him lean in to share a joke with the other day, but her- silly, bouncy little Tonks, who hid her real self in a corner of her mind she'd thought, before coming into contact with those infuriatingly knowing eyes, to be impenetrable. Her hands moved of their own accord, pulling back the door and wrapping a forest green towel around her naked form, her wet feet leaving markings on the boards of the floor as she moved, the cool air chilling against her wet skin, until she was right in front of him; close enough for his scent, that mix of cinnamon and earl grey and parchment and so many other things she couldn't quite define, to envelop her in a tight embrace. His eyes were still shut, but the sudden fluttering of the pulse point in his neck was a dead- she shuddered-giveaway; he knew exactly where she was.
"Remus." Her tone was surprisingly calm for what she felt, and managed a note of warmth.
"Tonks." his voice was breathy, and she felt it on her shoulder and gave a diminutive shiver. He looked to be struggling to find words- swallowing and drawing breath, only to exhale and for whatever he was about to say to disappear, swirling away without being heard.
"You're…" she said softly, suddenly feeling much that way herself. "Wearing odd socks." She finished, feeling foolish for stating the obvious. Lupin flushed further.
"I was in a rush." He said, tone equal to hers, instantly reassuring her and shoving away the embarrassment at such a moronic statement. "I… I wanted to see if you were alright." This was even softer, and the blush defied the realm of possibility and deepened, burning against his skin. "Moody got back and said-"she froze up, pushing back the wave of emotion at his statement, a shiver wracking her frame. She suddenly realised she was cold; her skin was covered in little goosebumps, and her wet hair was, much like his, clinging to her like she was some sort of rather unfortunate sea-nymph. He'd stopped speaking, seeming to sense her distress despite his self-induced blindness.
"We were… it was only seconds Remus. We heard them scream; and…" she suddenly went very still.
"And?" the prompt was gentle.
"God, he looked so much like you." The image had burnt itself onto the back of her eyelids- the Muggle man, dead on the kitchen floor, his eyes closed, giving the impression of sleep. His hair had been the same chocolate, his skin, although unscarred, had been the same pale hue as the man before her. His wife died beside him, falling under into his outstretched arm, as if death had claimed her in his arms. Her long hair, wavy and wheat-coloured, had spread out behind her head like a pillow. She could easily have been that woman. He could easily of been that man. The children- the boy who tried to stab his killer with a plastic sword, and the girl, no older than two, who clutched a blanket and screamed for her mother until that ominous flash of light- could easily have been theirs.
The tears were threatening to spill over again. She tried to stop them, gulping as she tried to swallow away the lump of molten rock suddenly wedged in her throat, ignore the lava burning at her eyes. His hand slowly rose, and, faltering as it knocked her shoulder, gently curved up touched her cheek. His fingers, initially, were still chilled from the rain, yet as they settled against her skin, overwhelming warmth took her. He radiated it; the kind of lucid, familiar security she normally looked for in the burn of a bottle of rum, the flowing sweetness of syrup and the pages of a good book. She couldn't imagine- she didn't want to imagine losing him.
"I'm right here, Dora." He whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
The warmth spread outwards, each cell of her body suddenly alight with it. A serpent coiled in her stomach; her fingers began to shake, silent tremors wracking her fingers at the sudden realisation of proximity. She looked at him again, at the mismatched socks, at the little toothpaste stain below his lip, at the normally neat hair in damp disarray thanks to that spiteful rain. He was here- for her. He'd always made time to be there for her; whether a soft word exchanged over toast on a morning, a lively debate about whether Cinderella was a good story or a lie, or a glass of whiskey left on the sideboard at Grimmauld Place, bearing her name on a sticky note after a mission, he was there. The gentle pressure of his hand over her forehead when she had contracted flu in the springtime. The laugh he tried to hide when she tripped over that damn umbrella stand, yet again. The serene smile when he sat beside her, busy with a crossword.
He was here. He was here at a godforsaken hour on a Saturday morning. That was all that mattered.
She wasn't quite sure how it happened, in the end; whether she leant forwards or his mouth was already there. They met with all the tentative, testing wonder a first kiss should have, his hand lingering at her cheek, curving slender fingers to a light grasp on her jaw, whilst her own touched at his collar, pulling him that bit closer.
It was soft, it was sweet; so very Remus. His lips everything and nothing like she'd imagined; his taste sunk deep into her blood and stayed there, refusing to allow her mercy. The break apart was abrupt- they both jerked back a little, breathing heavily, before a smile shattered his mask and he leant back in, capturing her lips with effortless grace. Their second kiss was different- no less loving, but somewhat less hesitant.
The first careful, testing touch with his tongue shattered away what sweetness lingered; giving way to desperation she could barely believe she was capable of feeling. He walked her back into the wall, lips never faltering, moving one hand to twist tightly around within her hair. Her leg snaked around his hip, fingers gently tugging his roots as she wretched her fingers through his hair, rewarded with the softest of moans. She couldn't find it within herself to be embarrassed at the whimper she gave when he broke the kiss with a teasing tug on her lower lip.
"Too many clothes." She said, stubbornly wrestling with his jacket, as he pressed little kisses against her jaw line.
"You want this? With me?" it was said with a kind of awe. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, silently affirming the statement. He hesitated a second, as if looking for words, for arguments against it, but, as her fingers moved to trace his lips, the thread of concentration slipped. A slight smirk appeared as her hand returned to tugging at his jacket, shoulders flexing as he shrugged it off, returning to her lips like a conquering hero.
The world seemed to condense itself down, until all that mattered was the little open-mouthed kisses pressed against her neck, the gentle tugging of cloth from his body, the heat from his palms as they traced her curves, seeping deep within her, making her almost dizzy with anticipation. She was almost drunk with it, stumbling back towards the bathroom, pulling him with her. Shooting her a questioning glance, he stopped her.
"Wher-" he managed, before his eyes fell on the shower, an understanding glimmer emerging deep within them. "Oh." He grinned, reaching down to pull off his socks as her hands started at his belt, frustrated it refused to comply. "Here." it relinquished under his grip, and he looked up one more time. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She whispered, trying frantically not to quiver under the depth of his gaze. He nodded and turned, pulling the bathroom door shut, as she stepped back into the shower, invading the path of the warm spray. He stepped in with her only a second later.
There was nothing and everything; the universe imploded and exploded, the stars shuddered with a sinful heat previously unknown and the whole structure of earth broke down and rebuilt itself. The water wet the leg of his trousers where they had fallen into the floor of the shower, her flailing arms knocked the bottle of strawberry body wash off and her box of a bathroom was filled with the sounds of tiny little moans and gasps of lustful delight as hands, and tongue, and fingers found back, and breast, and lower. And when she shattered, she did so with a gasp, a moan of his name and a tiny little shriek, burrowing her nose and mouth in the crook between neck and shoulder. Her name became a chant, and he came apart under her still shaking fingers with a groan, barely keeping them standing as he trembled, the hand that had been resting on the tile above her shoulder shifting to push back a fallen strand of hair.
And when he gently set her still shaking feet on the wet floor, the shower finally released the icy spray it had been desperately holding back for the past three hours. They both stood for a second, before the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. He reached for the towel as she shut off the icy jet, and wrapped her shivering form in the forest-green cotton, kissing her forehead affectionately.
"Better?" he asked, later, when they were both dry and dressed, sat on her sofa, hair still wet, cradling a steaming cup of tea. She curled into the safety of the space under his arm, her hair stroking against his chest, a cup of coffee safe in her own grip.
"Better." she breathed, allowing the warmth of his touch fill her body, keeping her safe from the cold. He was here, she thought, as his fingers fluttered softly across her shoulder, strumming her like a guitar. "I love you Remus, you know that, don't you?"
His lips, soft on her forehead, curved up into a smile as ethereal as steam. "I love you too." his voice was soft, and hoarse, and perfect. She touched her fingers to his chest again, warmth surging through her as her eyelids began to become heavy. He smiled down at her, grabbing a blanket from the back of the sofa and curling it round her, holding her safe and warm. "Sleep." The whisper was soothing, and she let her eyes slip closed.
It wouldn't be the last time she found comfort in the warmth of the shower after death on a dark night. It wouldn't be the last time he soothed her wounds. Tomorrow promised pain, and suffering, and that creeping, horrifying cold that jarred her very bones. But for now, she was safe, and she was warm, and she had him. He was here, he was hers and that was all that mattered.