Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. You really ought to know that by now. J
Notes: I'm desperate for fluff and think I've exhausted all the fluff on ff.net and all other R/S fluff sites. This actually came from a rereading of a piece of D/G fluff I did a while ago in which she says his kiss was 'okay'. It seemed oddly R/S to me. Takes place in the summer between GoF and OotP.
Better Than Okay
By Bohemian Storm
So you look more nervous than I've ever seen you look before. So what? It's not like you've changed or anything. Or have you? Maybe you have. And now that I think about it, that sounds rather stupid, doesn't it? Of course you've changed. You've spent twelve years in prison, more than a year on the run and now Voldemort nearly killed your godson just to bring himself back. Of course you've changed.
"Are you okay?"
I hear myself asking that and I wonder how I can sound so utterly brainless when people tell me how incredibly intelligent I am. If only they could hear me now . . . they'd laugh. They'd probably shake their heads in wonder. What happened to the bookish, astute Remus Lupin they once knew?
You're still shaking and I want to do something about it, but know that I can't. You can't be okay, I know that and I asked it anyway. You're not just going to be okay because being okay generally insinuates that you're not hurt or sad or desperately terrified for the lives of everyone you love. So I think I've established that you're really not okay.
You kind of smile and it hurts me. You look both terrified and like you're ready to give up. You look like you're getting ready for a fight and getting ready to die at the same time. I don't like it. It scares me, so stop it. I'm so used to seeing you with a cocky smile and an arrogant air about you that can't be penetrated. I'm used to seeing you like some sort of supreme person that the rest of us can never even hope to become like. I'm not used to seeing you trembling and scared and dying.
But you're not dying, right? You're sick and you're tired, but there's nothing wrong with you physically. You just need to rest, to sleep and eat. You need a shower, you need a few good meals and a comfortable bed with a pillow and a down filled comforter, but you really don't need death. You're living, but you look like you're dying.
"Padfoot," I hear myself say your name. "Are you okay?"
There's that stupid question again. How can I possibly ask you if you're okay? I just don't get it. You've been at my home for exactly eleven minutes and everything has just exploded around us. You came here with information, with instructions to relocate all the members of the Order and bring us together again. You came here with a purpose, you came here to attempt to save the world from being drowned in him again, and all I can think about is getting you into warm clothing and settling you in a comfortable chair before a roaring fire.
Everything is about to be turned upside down – everything that hasn't already been destroyed, I mean – and all I can do is ask if you're okay. All I can think about is you. I can't seem to comprehend that Harry nearly died only two nights earlier. I can't grasp the idea that Voldemort has actually returned. I can't fathom that he's already killed an innocent child and that hundreds more are sure to follow. I can't accept any of this because all I'm concerned with is you.
That thing that was kind of a smile is twitching once more and you're staring up at me with a lopsided grin. I can't help but notice just how sad you look, even when you're smiling. This is my answer, isn't it? I asked a stupid question and you won't answer me with words because your response is all too apparent in your eyes. When did you get so old? When did your eyes become so sad?
Why do you look so nervous? You ran here from Hogwarts in less than two days and that baffles me. You ran as Padfoot without stopping once and now you've collapsed on the threshold on my tiny house. You're dirty and you're far too thin. I can see that clearly now that you've become yourself again. The fur covered that before, but now I can see how your arms seem to be nothing but bone and your face is gaunt and sunken.
You just collapsed and I sat down heavily beside you. We're sitting in the doorway together, staring at each other, me with these stupid thoughts running through my mind. You must think I've gone dumb because it seems that I can't even speak. All I can do is ask silly questions about you, ignoring the fact that the world has changed around us in a single instant.
"We need to get you inside," I say, then move to help you up.
Your hand is on my arm and I can't move. You've paralyzed me. Your bony fingers press into my forearm and I just stare at your hand like I've never seen anything like it before. You're cold and you're so thin. Good Lord, you're so thin. I can't deal with you like this, it hurts too much. When in Merlin's name did you get so thin? Haven't you been eating?
I slump back down and continue to stare at your hand. It's connected to the most horribly fragile wrist. I've never thought of you as fragile . . . it seems silly, doesn't it? Me thinking that a man like you needs my protection. You've never needed anyone's protection, let alone mine.
But your arm . . . oh God, your arm is so small. I don't know what to think anymore. Why did I ever ask if you were okay? Why couldn't I have just looked at you and know that you're the furthest thing from okay? Why couldn't I have realized that, despite what I might have thought, you do need my protection, at least for a little while?
I'll drag you into my home if I have to, but for now you seem content just to sit and stare at me while I stare back at you. You haven't said a single word to me yet, just stared at me with that silly half smile on your face. Dumbledore's owl told me everything I needed to know, but I expected to hear it from you too. I must have expected wrong. You're still trembling, still sad and old and more nervous than I've ever seen.
What are you so nervous about? You've made it. You've come this far and you've made it. Everyone knows what's happening; you've done your job perfectly. Why then are you so nervous now, when this part of the journey is all over? You have nothing to worry about for a while . . . you've done your part. You've done everything perfectly.
I want to move again, or ask my stupid question a third time because there's nothing else that I can think to say or do. I stare at you, stare at your wide eye and I open my mouth to ask my ridiculous question. I can't do anything else. I can't think beyond 'okay' and 'not okay'.
But apparently you can, because when I open my mouth to ask, you shake your head, then lean toward me and ever so lightly press your lips against mine. I blink and I stare, but there are still no words in my mind for you. You smile and kiss me again, and this time I have enough sense to kiss back. You pull away and I realize that I don't want you to go anywhere. I want you to curl up against me and kiss me until the world around us has forgotten that we even exist. I want the world to just leave us alone because it's done its share to both of us already.
And then I remember what happened and I remember my silly question.
"Padfoot," I ask, my voice trembling. "Are you okay?"
Your smile is real this time and suddenly your eyes don't look quite so sad.
"Moony, I'm better than okay."
I smile because I know why you're better than okay and it feels wonderful.
End