Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling I am not.
Rating: R (language, sex, violence)
Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.
Author's Note: Woo-hoo! You people make my world. Thanks a gazillion for reviewing. And the story...this story is rated R. Just want to make that clear. There will be violence. And the bad language will continue. And, yes...there will be sex. Eventually. I'm a tease. And nothing's better than some major foreplay. Take that comment as you'd like. And this story will get ugly. Not all idyllic and perfect and the way everyone might want it to be. Yeah. And on that note... please. Keep reading. And keep letting me know what you think. And go write a Charlie/Tonks fic of your own! There are too few of those! We need more! Now! Okay...The commercial break is over. Here's the story...
Yeah. I already posted this. But decided to fuck it up. So I'm trying again. Arghhhh...
Chapter Five: Traveling Beauty
"To me the most important thing is the sense of going on. You know how beautiful things are when you're traveling." - Edward Hopper
She's cold. She always wakes up cold. But today seems chillier than usual.
She's missing half the covers. Her left leg is hanging off the bed. Toes almost skimming the ground. She can feel the goosebumps rising on her thighs.
Her head hurts. Aches. Feels like its full of sand.
She can't seem to open her eyes. They seem to be glued shut. Her arm is stinging. Painfully so.
She's so cold. Almost shivering. She hitches her leg up, back in bed.
She can hear breathing next to her. Feel the heat emanating off the body next to her. The heat. Warmth. She needs some of it.
She rolls to her side. Arms flailing in the air. They land on the chest of the man next to her. She lets her hands slide up and down him. Taking in his warmth. Trying to get warm. He feels good. Desperately good.
Too good.
She slides her body further. Closer. Itching to get near him. The man. Her head feels funny. And she's not thinking straight.
Her leg crosses over him. She can feel the hair, his bare legs. Hers pressed to his. She's halfway laying on him now. Her head buried in his shoulder. He smells good...
She feels him shift. Grumble. Arch his body up. His hand sliding down her back. She sighs into him. Goosebumps fading. Breathing evening out. Head clearing slightly.
She clears her throat. And hears him groan. Right in her ear. It doesn't matter who he is. Doesn't matter at all. He just feels so warm and welcoming. Safe. Everything will be okay.
She can feel the stubble of his cheek brushing against her own. She can't ignore the thrill that courses through her.
Her eyes flicker slowly. Eyelashes fluttering. Eyes trying to open and see. But the room is grey. And dark. The windows aren't on the right side and her walls were never wallpapered. She realizes she's not in her room. Not at all. This isn't her flat. She doesn't know where the fuck she is.
Or who she's lying next to.
She's awake now. Awake and a little frightened. Confused. And distinctly hungover.
"What..." she croaks out. Her voice not working the way it used to.
She looks up. Up and sees freckles. Freckle covered skin. Red hair. Strong shoulders. Broad chest. And she feels her stomach drop.
Oh, fuck...
And he's waking up. She watches him yawn. Feels the arm on her back drop lower. Fingertips pressing into her skin.
It's funny having the past catch up with you. She suddenly remembers everything. The train ride. Arriving at the camp. The attack. Running. The fact that they are basically equivalent to Muggles. Stealing a cab. The sad excuse for a motel.
Oh, Merlin.
She feels him stirring. And watches him open his eyes. And wonders why she hasn't moved yet. And knows that he'll ask the same.
"Um, hi."
The awkwardness behind his words makes her cringe. She can tell that he's uncomfortable. That he hadn't expected to wake up with her in his arms. But he hasn't moved his arm off her back. It's still there. Unmoving. Transferring heat from him to her.
"Hi." The single syllable speaking volumes. "I- I must have rolled over. At some point in the night." She sounds like a frog. A toad. A dying amphibian. "I move a lot. When I'm sleeping. I can't ever seem to stay in one place. I mean, I've fallen out of bed so many times that I must as well just start out there. Be a lot easier. And I wouldn't wake up nearly as bruised."
She falls silent. Realizing she hasn't done a single klutzy thing in the last twenty-four hours. Wonders what that means. And why she has to talk so much.
He's just looking at her. A strange expression across his face. She's not sure what to say.
His hand is still on her back. He's going to drive her mad.
"I think I'll go shower."
He just lies there. Feeling the chill fall all around him as she gets out of bed. Watches her untangle herself. Her legs from his. Herself from the old sheets. He watches as she walks to the bathroom. The shirt barely covering her knickers. Her hair sticking out at strange angles. He watches as she self-consciously pats at it. Unable to smooth it out. He can't seem to stop watching her. The thin pale legs carrying her to the door. Her slightly swaying hips. Sensuous. Without even trying.
Maybe that's why he's so attracted.
That. And because he can't have her.
The door shuts. With a thump. He can hear her padding around. On the mildew coated tile. Wonders if she's as revolted as he was. Is almost positive that she is. If she notices.
He can hear the shower start. The steady stream of water hitting the porcelain tub. And he's seeing things inside his head. Soap. And suds. And a body that he's craving. No matter how hard he's trying to squelch it. The strange desire. Lying dormant for so long. In the pit of his stomach. He can feel it stirring. And wonders if there's anyway for this to end well.
He stays in bed. Hand laid out where she once was. And curses himself silently. For being such a fool.
The water's still running and he's still painting pictures. Portraits in his head. Scenes he's never going to enact.
He hears a thump. A loud thump. The sound of something hitting the floor. Someone hitting the floor. He can hear a thump. A thump and a strange yell. A strangled cry.
He's out of bed. And across the grungy carpet. Throwing the door open. Ignoring its squeaks of protest.
And he immediately forgets why he ran into the room.
There she is. Tiny and wet. Naked. Sprawled out on the floor of the shower. Water dripping down her. Legs crossed at a funny angle. Her trying to cradle her arm. The injured arm. He had forgotten that she had hurt herself. She's grumbling to herself. And he can't seem to take his eyes off her. The mirror fogging up behind him. The water continuing to fall.
Her eyes meet his. And he realizes that he's standing here. And she's lying there. And she's not wearing clothes and this has to be the most embarrassing thing ever for her.
"Ummm, are you...alright?" Oh, you fuck. Stupid git. Moron.
She glares at him. "No." Her voice cold. Freezing the steaming room. "I'm naked." Stating the obvious. He realized that the second he walked in.
"I've seen it all before." He immediately regrets saying that. The look that crosses her face. The way her eyes seem to cast over. At the anger in his tone. He's a Weasley. Rage runs in their family. That and the inability to say the right thing.
"Yeah. Like a decade ago." He always loved her temper. Loved how easy it was to set her off. Their two tempers. And how they were so easy to ignite. And impossible to put out.
They're both staring. At each other. "What happened...?" His voice trailing off.
"My arm hurts. I – I tried to wash my hair...and I shouldn't have...lifted my arm, I guess...and I...well. You see."
He's shocked. Shocked that she hasn't screamed at him to get out. Shocked that she's lying there. Naked. And letting him continue to look at her.
"Oh." He's not sure what you say. What you say to the girl who broke your heart seven years ago and became a woman and is now lying in front of you and you can see everything and she seems completely unaware of it all as she just lays there. Immobile. Frozen.
He can hear his name. And his head snaps back up. "Charlie? Can you maybe...uh...help me? Here...please?" He's blushing. He knows he is. Wonders how red his face is.
"Oh, yeah. Sure." He feels like the bumbling idiot. That guy that people laugh at. And sympathize with.
He grabs a towel off the rack. Realizes in the back of the mind that it's the same one he used last night. But there aren't anymore. In this bathroom at least.
He walks over. To her crumbled form in the corner of the tub. And he realizes that she is indeed blushing. Furiously so.
Of all the bloody situations imaginable...
"Um, right." He's rambling. Talking to fill the silence.
He wraps his hand around her good arm. Hoisting her up. Into standing position. Don't look down. Do not look down. Maintain eye contact. Do not look down.
It's harder than he thought it would be.
He puts his arm around her. Wrapping her in the towel. Her grunting when he bumps her sore arm.
"Sorry..." Muttering apologies without thinking about their meaning.
He looks at her. Her sad, solemn eyes. She refuses to look at him. He understands.
"Is there..." He starts again. "Is there anything...I can do? For you?"
She looks at him now. Curiously. But she's looking at his forehead. Not at his eyes. She's staring at his forehead.
"Think you could wash my hair for me?"
He will never understand this girl.
He's made her a makeshift sling. And she wonders how the hell she'll be able to drive.
Her arm really hurts. Really, really hurts.
And she's convinced that she's still blushing. She can't believe that he saw her. Like that.
We're not going to think about that right now.
She's wearing her jeans now. And still wearing his shirt. For some reason that makes her feel strange. Wearing his clothes. Having him on her. No. It's not like that.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed. Idly playing with the edge of the bedspread. Waiting for Charlie to get out of the bathroom. Waiting to face him again.
Patience is a virtue she has never learned how to possess.
She wants to get out of here. She wants to leave Romania. And everything that's happened here.
She stands up. Staggers over to the mirror. The old-fashioned mirror. One of those full-length ones. That you can turn and slant and try and obtain that ideal angle.
She stares at herself for a minute. The dark hair. The dark hair that today she can do nothing about. It just seems to hang there. Kind of curling. Hanging in her face. She had never realized how truly pale she was. Until now. Now looking at the stark relief between her dark hair and light skin.
Her eyes make her seem innocent. Too innocent. And she knows she's not. The big eyes. Seemingly hopeful and naïve. She's been there before. But once you leave it you can't go back. No matter how hard you might desperately try.
She never realized she had such striking cheekbones. The way they jut up and out. Making her look more docile than she actually is.
She has thin lips. Lips that no woman would envy. Thin. The kind of lips a librarian would have. Pursed in disapproval. Looking stern and bitter. Resentful. She's neither of these things.
Her whole appearance makes her a paradox.
She can't remember the last time she looked at herself this way. Stood in front of a mirror. As herself. The woman who couldn't change her hair from orange to pink to electric blue. The woman with the Black features. She realizes how much she looks like her mother in that moment. How similar the two are. In appearance. And bizarre first name. Andromeda. Nymphadora. Two crazy women with names to match. Sometimes things can make sense.
She's scanning her profile. Scrunching her own nose up. And down. Watching the lines appear on her face. Watching the way her lips almost protrude. Arching an eyebrow. And letting it fall. Analyzing herself. Naming and cataloging each and every feature. That is distinctly her own.
She hears the door open. And turns around. Watching the man walk out of the bathroom. Running his fingers through his hair. Adjusting his jeans. That seem to hang a little too low. For her taste.
She wonders why she had to be so stupid. Why things turn out the way they do.
She looks at him. And feels sad. Sad for the man standing in front of her. The man with hair that is still wet. The man coated in a layer of freckles. Freckles she wants to touch and count and call her own. Freckles have to be the most underrated trait in a man.
He has a funny grin on his face. A half grin. A curious little smile that doesn't quite make it to his eyes.
"Ready to go?"
She merely nods. Not sure what else to do.
They're walking down the stairs. Her in front of him. He with his bag slung over his shoulder.
He could use a whole other day's worth of sleep. But they apparently have no time for that.
The stairs are creaking. Groaning under their weight. Creaking and sighing. Another day gone by. And somehow they're still standing.
He wonders what they do next.
They've gone down three flights of stairs. Three flights of dirt and grime and age and dust. He feels the urge to sneeze. And curses the housekeeping staff.
They've reached the lobby. The old bat behind the front desk is still there. Blending into the wall behind her. Plain clothes. Plain face. Plain woman. But today she has company.
Two men. Both in uniform. What did Dad call them? Please-men?
Out of the corner of his eye he notices that Tonks looks fairly alarmed. He's unsettled. The woman hasn't shown any true emotion since they left. Until now. The fear. It's contagious. He can feel it creeping in. Seeping under his skin.
He's afraid of a pair of Muggles.
He can only imagine what his brothers would say.
"Stay calm. Just act...normal." Her mouth is barely moving. But he can still hear the words leaking out. Like a deflating balloon. Full of air and breath.
She starts to walk. Towards the men. The men with the uniforms. The men with weapons. Guns. He's read about them before. Most boys have. Must be the testosterone. That leads to the fascination with firearms.
He's walking next to her. Clutching his bag. He hates the nerves that are dancing in the pit of his stomach. The crazy little jig that is making his head spin.
He swallows.
They're there. In the lobby. She walking to the front desk. Calmly. As though there's not a thing wrong with the world. With the day. With them. Hands the woman the key. The old skeletal looking piece of metal. That opened the gateway to hell. The woman merely nods. And Tonks goes to step away.
"You, there. Miss." They're talking to her. He wonders what they want. He wonders if they know. Know that it was them that killed people and stole a car. And money. He wonders if they can just look at someone and see everything bad that person may have done.
"Yes." Her composure is shocking. Calming. Surprising. She's usually the crazed one. The neurotic one. The one flying off the handle and saying, doing something stupid. The one who fucks it all up for them.
This game of role reversal is completely unnerving.
"Whaddya know 'bout that car out front?" He has a pen and a pad in hand. Using the uncapped pen to point out the dirty window. Half obscured by ratty lace curtains. He's sure they were white once. But time never keeps anything clean.
He's pointing at the cab. Their cab. The cab she drove here.
"That car? Nothing. We walked here." She looks defiant. Almost. Almost looking as though she's begging this tubby man to challenge what she's saying. One hip cocked out front. Arms crossed in front of her. Injured shoulder obscured by his clothes.
When did she become such a good actress?
But he knows that she's always been good at pretending. Pretending to be anyone but herself. Pretending she was capable of things that were beyond her reach. Pretending she loved him.
Sometimes the sting just never goes away.
The other man is approaching him. "You with her?"
He merely nods. Not trusting his voice. Afraid he'll open it. And words will just come rushing out and he'll tell them about the camp and the Death Eaters and the dementors and that he killed a guy, stuck a knife in his back, and the running through the woods and stealing the car because they had to and how this hotel is disgusting, but they stayed here anyway and they slept together last night, but there was no sex, but he saw her naked anyway and he just really, really, really wants to get the fuck out of here.
He's got a lot on his mind.
"What's your business?" My business?
"Just trying to get back home. London. We're taking the train today."
He doesn't know how he managed to spit out a logical response. He's too busy thinking about the fact that they no longer have a source of transportation. That in all likelihood these please-men won't believe them and take them off to jail.
He wonders if Muggle jails are anything like Azkaban...
"Are they who you're looking for?" He forgot how high-pitched that receptionist's voice was. He hates the fact that there's a sense of thrill and exhilaration behind it. She's smiling. And it is completely unsettling. "They the...murderers?"
It feels like someone just dropped ice down the back of his shirt. A cold chunk of it. He wonders if he's shivering. Or just imagining it.
How the bloody hell could they possibly know?
"No, ma'am. They're not it." He's still eyeing them strangely. But then again, they do make an odd pair. The tiny, doll-like girl. And the masculine, tall man.
"Murderers?" He can tell Tonks's curiosity is piqued. He thinks they should have found the back exit.
One of the men nods. The smaller of the two. "Yes. Damned strange. Found a field and it was just full...of bodies. A bloody massacre." He shakes his head. Pulls out a handkerchief. And dramatically blots his forehead with it. "And then a cab went missing some miles down the road. We're trying to see if the two events were connected at all."
Tonks looks pale. He's sure he looks the same. "A field..." She whispers it. And the man nods. But Charlie knows the question wasn't meant for him.
He doesn't understand at all. He thought the area was magically protected. That no Muggle could infiltrate the area.
He realizes that the Death Eaters must have broken the barrier. Let the world see the casualties. The casualties from a battle they don't even know exist.
Tonks seems to be in just as deep of thought. Lost in a reverie. In images and ideas that only she can see.
He's not sure why. He's not sure why but he hates her right now. Hates the tiny girl with the tiny nose and tiny hands and huge eyes in his huge shirt. Angry at her attempt at innocence. Angry at her attempt to put the past behind them.
The past always ends up just being the present.
But he knows what he hates about her the most. He knows what it is that's pissing him off more than anything.
Despite seven shitty years he still wants to fuck her senseless. Fuck her and love her and call her his own.
Knowing that can't happen makes him see red.
"We...have better be off." He's heading towards her. Loosely holding her arm in his hand. Steering her to the exit. "Uh...best of luck. With the investigation."
He attempts a smile and pushes the door open. And is met by a blast of cooler air.
He doesn't know what to do now.
She never understood how things always seem to manage to go from bad to worse. And now is no exception.
She wonders how close they are to hitting rock bottom.
They have no car. No money. She's injured. He's inept in the Muggle world. And for all they know, they may very well be lost.
She always wanted to travel the world. But not like this.
They've been walking for a half-hour now. They took a right out of the building. And they just kept going. Walking on cracked pavement. Avoiding wads of old gum. Shards of broken bottles.
She thinks they've left the city. They seem to be in some strange suburban area. With sad streetlamps that will attempt to glow at night. And buildings that leave their windows closed at night.
They haven't said a word. Not one. Not a glance between each other. She wonders if he's angry. Angry with the state of things. Angry that they're seemingly lost. Angry at her. She wouldn't be surprised. He's been angry with her for the last seven years. No sense in breaking the trend now.
"Charlie...?" Her voice sounds so soft. So quiet. He doesn't answer. And she wonders if she got lost in the cool wind.
"Charlie?" She hates that she's so apprehensive around him. So careful. Walking on tiptoe. Afraid to make a sound. Afraid to disrupt the delicate balance they have yet to obtain.
She's staring at him. At his ear. The side of his face. And he turns. Just barely. Enough so that she can see one eye.
She hates that she has to look up to him.
She's still looking at him. Forgetting her thoughts and questions. And promptly trips on a crack in the sidewalk. Arm flailing forwards, the other still delicately tucked against her. Staggering movement, pitching towards the ground.
She doesn't fall. But he doesn't move to catch her.
"Um..." Trying to swallow both embarrassment and pride at the same time. She's learning that's no easy task. "Charlie?"
He looks at her full on this time. And she can see a feral anger beating behind his eyes. Attractive and terrifying at the same time.
"What?" She wants to smooth out the corners of his sharp, clipped tone. Smooth it out and make it better. Kiss away the wounds seven years have proven too short to mend.
"Where are we?" She wonders if she sounds as pathetic as she does in her head. Sad, lame echoes are dancing in the corridors of her head.
He gives a dry chuckle. A humorless sound. "I haven't a fucking clue."
"Right," she whispers. "Right..."
He's still looking at her. She prays that he doesn't expect her to have the blueprints for what they do next. She's drawing a blank. And that's not going to help them.
He's still looking. And she's shrinking under his gaze. Soon she'll be just an insect on the sidewalk. And she assumes it's a guarantee that he'll step on her.
"I could always steal another car for us?" Her tone was supposed to be light. But instead sounds heavy. A desperate attempt at humor.
He smiles, nonetheless. The closest thing to a real smile she's seen from him in awhile.
She always liked it when he'd smile. She liked it even more when it was her that made him do it.
"And have those please-men come after us again? I don't think so..." She's laughing. Harder than his sarcasm deserves. Laughing at his ignorance. Laughing at him. Please-men?
Her laughing subsides. And of course she has to be herself. And ask the least appropriate question imaginable.
"Charlie, why do you hate me?"
It's amazing how quickly the mood between two people can change.
"I don't." The words are soft. And all he says. 'I don't.'
She wonders what this means.