A/N: Same as Stolen comfort. I changed the title and added a little more. Just because I wanted to. (I was bored basically.)
Lullaby
It is not right. That's what I have to remind myself every time I hear your laugh or watch you twirl your newly lengthened hair between your fingers.
It's what I say to myself when I hear the clink of breaking china and your wailed apologies in quick succession.
'I'm sorry! It's that bloody doorstop! I've been tripping over it all week...'
It seems that as soon as the sentence has fallen from your lips I am forced to beat myself down for smiling too affectionately, for taking comfort in knowing that you are you, and always will be.
I am not supposed to take comfort. It is selfish of me to do so. I give comfort. I am one that every one runs toward for relief, for guidance. I give it freely. The compassion, the comfort, support I have been there to give it to everyone I know at one point or another...
Every one but you.
I have never been able to feed you the strength that I have shown to the others. I tell myself that you have never needed it.
You always seem to carry the light of youth. Your mere presence fills any room you enter with a spark of hope that comforts the souls around you far better than I ever could. How could I comfort you? This is the lie I have told myself time and again.
I choose to ignore the truth that I have heard your own cries for help, for comfort, more clearly and more forcefully than anyone else I have ever known.
I have watched you in your weaker moments. I've seen you when you thought you were alone. You let your guard down at these times, and it is then that I see the sadness that I recognize vaguely as my own enter your eyes. The sadness that I never thought could come out of you.
It is then that you beg in the silence for comfort.
God knows how I have longed to be the one to provide it for you, to throw my arms around you and fill you with the light and hope that your presence provides for me. It is at these moments most of all that I long to hear the steady flow of your breath, to feel your smooth skin that never changes (no matter how many times your hair or nose does) beneath me, to taste the youth of your spirit that hangs lightly along your lips. I long to take the love that your life gives.
But as soon as these blissful desires come to me, my own thought process returns. It is not right.
You are young, pure, naïve. You are barely accustomed to the true cruelties that the world hands to the saints. Your skin is too soft, your breath too steady, your voice too light.
I am old, blemished, wasteful. I am too aware of the dark and cruel manner this earth has of handing you hope only to snatch it back in the most harmful and shameless way possible. My skin is wrinkled and patched, too rough to dare touch your smooth hands. My breath comes in slow dying sighs, too poisonous to meet your lips. My voice is hoarse and deep, too dark to speak to you of comfort, of love.
So I silently stand and watch over you, without your knowledge. Knowing that I will never say what I mean in your presence.
Knowing that the closest I will ever come to allowing my feelings to show will be to call you by your first name.
The name that skips off my lips like a flower in the spring.
The name that inspires almost as much hope as your presence.
The name you hate but the name that suits you better than any other.
Even now as you sleep, I can see the purity, the air of mischievousness and the beauty of the forest spirit for which you were named.
Even now, when your eyes are closed and your soft hands are balled into tight fists beneath your chest, I can draw in your hope and keep it selfishly locked away in my heart.
I know it is not right, the way I am feeling. That is why I will not reach down to tuck a strand of your new blond hair safely behind your ear. That is why I will not kneel down beside you and stroke your peaceful face. That is why I will not whisper the three words I am desperately aching to voice.
Instead I will stand and silently vow to protect you, to watch over you, to die for you.
Instead I will silently watch you turn in your sleep and allow myself for once to smile too affectionately.
Instead...
'Remus?'
'Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.'
'No, it's all right. Did I fall asleep here?'
'I think so yes.'
'I didn't even think...'
'No use worrying about it now. Your tired, go back to sleep.'
'Those night watches are going to be the death of me. I swear it. Good night Remus'
And with that you've closed your eyes again. If I had any sort of courage what so ever I would tell you now. Even if it is not right. Even if you have just used the last spurt of energy left for the night. Even if the consequences would be greater than I can possibly imagine.
But I am not courageous.
Not in the way I should be.
So even as I move the blanket lying on the couch to cover you. Even though you have already begun to breath with sleep, I will not bring myself even to whisper what should be said.
...Instead I will allow myself to whisper the name that I love with my last sigh before the light.
'Good night, Nymphadora'
Lullaby
It is not right. That's what I have to remind myself every time I hear your laugh or watch you twirl your newly lengthened hair between your fingers.
It's what I say to myself when I hear the clink of breaking china and your wailed apologies in quick succession.
'I'm sorry! It's that bloody doorstop! I've been tripping over it all week...'
It seems that as soon as the sentence has fallen from your lips I am forced to beat myself down for smiling too affectionately, for taking comfort in knowing that you are you, and always will be.
I am not supposed to take comfort. It is selfish of me to do so. I give comfort. I am one that every one runs toward for relief, for guidance. I give it freely. The compassion, the comfort, support I have been there to give it to everyone I know at one point or another...
Every one but you.
I have never been able to feed you the strength that I have shown to the others. I tell myself that you have never needed it.
You always seem to carry the light of youth. Your mere presence fills any room you enter with a spark of hope that comforts the souls around you far better than I ever could. How could I comfort you? This is the lie I have told myself time and again.
I choose to ignore the truth that I have heard your own cries for help, for comfort, more clearly and more forcefully than anyone else I have ever known.
I have watched you in your weaker moments. I've seen you when you thought you were alone. You let your guard down at these times, and it is then that I see the sadness that I recognize vaguely as my own enter your eyes. The sadness that I never thought could come out of you.
It is then that you beg in the silence for comfort.
God knows how I have longed to be the one to provide it for you, to throw my arms around you and fill you with the light and hope that your presence provides for me. It is at these moments most of all that I long to hear the steady flow of your breath, to feel your smooth skin that never changes (no matter how many times your hair or nose does) beneath me, to taste the youth of your spirit that hangs lightly along your lips. I long to take the love that your life gives.
But as soon as these blissful desires come to me, my own thought process returns. It is not right.
You are young, pure, naïve. You are barely accustomed to the true cruelties that the world hands to the saints. Your skin is too soft, your breath too steady, your voice too light.
I am old, blemished, wasteful. I am too aware of the dark and cruel manner this earth has of handing you hope only to snatch it back in the most harmful and shameless way possible. My skin is wrinkled and patched, too rough to dare touch your smooth hands. My breath comes in slow dying sighs, too poisonous to meet your lips. My voice is hoarse and deep, too dark to speak to you of comfort, of love.
So I silently stand and watch over you, without your knowledge. Knowing that I will never say what I mean in your presence.
Knowing that the closest I will ever come to allowing my feelings to show will be to call you by your first name.
The name that skips off my lips like a flower in the spring.
The name that inspires almost as much hope as your presence.
The name you hate but the name that suits you better than any other.
Even now as you sleep, I can see the purity, the air of mischievousness and the beauty of the forest spirit for which you were named.
Even now, when your eyes are closed and your soft hands are balled into tight fists beneath your chest, I can draw in your hope and keep it selfishly locked away in my heart.
I know it is not right, the way I am feeling. That is why I will not reach down to tuck a strand of your new blond hair safely behind your ear. That is why I will not kneel down beside you and stroke your peaceful face. That is why I will not whisper the three words I am desperately aching to voice.
Instead I will stand and silently vow to protect you, to watch over you, to die for you.
Instead I will silently watch you turn in your sleep and allow myself for once to smile too affectionately.
Instead...
'Remus?'
'Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.'
'No, it's all right. Did I fall asleep here?'
'I think so yes.'
'I didn't even think...'
'No use worrying about it now. Your tired, go back to sleep.'
'Those night watches are going to be the death of me. I swear it. Good night Remus'
And with that you've closed your eyes again. If I had any sort of courage what so ever I would tell you now. Even if it is not right. Even if you have just used the last spurt of energy left for the night. Even if the consequences would be greater than I can possibly imagine.
But I am not courageous.
Not in the way I should be.
So even as I move the blanket lying on the couch to cover you. Even though you have already begun to breath with sleep, I will not bring myself even to whisper what should be said.
...Instead I will allow myself to whisper the name that I love with my last sigh before the light.
'Good night, Nymphadora'