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: Hey, all. Been busy. But here it is. Chapter Six. For some reason I had a really hard time writing this. Writer's block kept sneaking up on me. That and a boatload of reading. Grrr. But thanks for sticking with me. I love your input. Makes my world. So, without any further ado...Fear and Loathing in Romania: Chapter Six.
Chapter Six: Ball and Chain
"You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight - tie me up again
Who's got their claws
In you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again..."
- "Crash Into Me" – Dave Matthews Band
The diner they're sitting in smells funny. Charlie wonders why they're eating here.
He has a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. A sad cup. A tepid cup of coffee that tastes like it has been sitting out for days. He drinks it anyway. Grimacing as it worms its way down his throat and splashes in his empty stomach.
He feels like he hasn't eaten in weeks.
He doesn't know where the fuck they are. And she knows this. He can tell. It's in her quiet acceptance. And the fact she hasn't asked where they are in the last few hours. She knows. And he wonders why she hasn't thrown it in his face. That's the sort of thing he remembers her doing.
She looks tired. Paler than usual. Paler than she's ever been. Sad arm tucked against her chest. She's staring. Staring at the corner of the table. Eyes glazed over. Wide. Wider than usual. He can almost feel the fear glistening off her like tiny beads of sweat. She looks so mournful. So scared. So utterly alone.
He's not quite sure why he feels so guilty. But he does.
Until he remembers that it's her fault that things are this way between them. If that's what she's even thinking about.
He watches her shake her head slightly. Blink a couple of times. Raise her head. Swallow. And look at him.
"How's the coffee?" Cracking voice. Tired tone. This is what we've become...
"Tastes like shit." And he takes a giant swig. Not sure what it is he's trying to prove as the lukewarm poison slides down his throat. He kind of hopes it kills him.
She looks out the window. They're on some street. Some random street. There's a toy store across the way. A little girl standing outside it. Holding her mother's hand. Pointing eagerly at whatever shiny thing is glinting in the window. He always forgets that she doesn't have a mother anymore. He always forgets that he doesn't know the woman sitting in front of him.
And he doesn't. She hasn't cracked a joke in hours. Relayed an entirely unfunny anecdote that only seems to amuse her. Ended up on her arse on the pavement. Looking up at him, laughing in earnest. Thrown her arm around his shoulder, convincing him that everything will be okay. Regardless as to how shitty it's all become right now.
No. She's not doing any of that. She's just sitting. Frowning instead of smiling. Worrying instead of laughing.
He wonders when she became so docile. And he's jealous. Jealous of whatever, whoever, it was. That was able to tame her.
He's not sure what's on her mind. But knows it's not his place to ask.
She's not sure how long they've been here. In this shit-hole of a diner.
She's tired and in pain. She's lost and he's lost and she knows that eventually they're going to have to meet in the center. And that worries her. Scares her.
They didn't order any food. Just coffee for him. And tea for her. They can't even agree on which beverage they prefer.
She can't seem to keep her eyes on him. He makes her mind drift and twist and flip. And suddenly her head is just a kaleidoscope of emotion. No one color coming into focus.
She's afraid for him.
She hasn't forgotten the train-ride here. Hasn't forgotten the now dead woman she shared a compartment with. Hasn't forgotten her words. They've been swimming and weaving through her brain since then. Reaching ear-splitting volumes at times. Watching him kill a Death Eater. Having him touch her. Lie next to her. She hears it. Words. That supposedly spell out their future.
She's been trying to talk herself out of believing ever since she stepped onto that platform.
Men like him don't die because of women like me.
She knows that's a lie. But it satisfies her. For now.
She twists in her seat a little. Wincing at the pain. Fucking arm.
She knows he's been watching her the entire time. But she'll let him think she's oblivious.
She's staring at the ceiling. Identifying all the cracks. And praying that the roof won't fall in upon their sorry heads. Her sorry head. Her extremely sorry head.
That woman can't possibly be right. He would never have me.
They're both in love and at war with their former selves.
"Charlie."
She brings her eyes down from above, cocking her head to the right. He merely raises his eyebrows. Begging her to continue. Behind the safety of his cracked coffee mug.
"What do we go from here?" She wonders how he'll interpret that. Where do we go from here...Home? Bucharest? Hell? Back into each other's arms?
"Umm, well. I guess we work our way back into...Bucharest. Find the train station. Ride to London. And we get to Headquarters." A light seems to go off inside. She hopes it's a brilliant idea. "Hey. No one ever told me exactly where you guys meet. Where are we headed?"
Of course. He doesn't know where the fuck Headquarters is. That's why she was sent in the first place.
She figures there's no point in not telling him now.
"It's...well...it's...oh, fuck..." She can feel her heart plummeting. Landing right next to that long lost hope that used to be such a great companion.
She can't remember.
It's like a slate wiped clean. Erased. Missing. Cut out and thrown away.
He's looking at her. Staring her down. "What do you mean exactly by 'oh, fuck?'"
She has her head in her hands. Trying to remember. Anything. It must have been when they took her magic. It has to be. They took it all away. Everything.
And she's right. She can't remember a single spell. A single creature. Location. Famous landmark, person. Law. Rule. Guideline. How to find Point A or get to Point B.
"Charlie. Charlie, name – name a spell or – or something. Right now." He's looking at her. Like she's gone mad over the length of time that they've been sitting here. Which has been a while and in all honesty a true possibility. "Just do it."
"Okay...there's...it's in like Latin...or something..." His hands are in his hair again. She's figured him all out. He with the nervous habits.
"They took it all." They just sit there. Eye to eye. Alone. Not quite Muggle. Not quite wizard.
She knows that look. That look he gets. That look that screams 'I can't accept that.'
"But...Someone has to know by now. Someone must know. There was a whole fucking field of bloody corpses. The Order has to know by now. And the dragons...what the fuck do you think happened to them? No. The Ministry...the Order...Dumbledore...someone will realize. That we're missing and something is severely wrong. They'll – they'll find us."
"Unless they think we're dead." Half full. Half empty. She knows who's who in that silly game.
He just looks at her. She can see the logic. And the reality of the situation flooding his features. "I don't even remember how to get to the bloody train. The fucking platform."
"What do we do?" She doesn't know why she's whispering. She figures the situation warrants it.
He exhales. Heavily. "London. We go to London. And we figure it out from there."
It took two hours. Two hours to revert back to the plan they had started with.
She looks out the window. And realizes a single car hasn't passed by.
He watches her lay the money out on the table. The crinkled folded bills. With numbers and faces decorating them. He realizes she only has a few left in her hand.
"We'll have to find a bank soon," she muses. He nods. Knowing she was just thinking out loud and not really talking to him. He likes to pretend though.
She's standing. And he rises as well. Leaving the napkin that was sitting on his lap crumpled and limp on the table. He can still taste the coffee on his tongue. It's revolting.
"Ready?" He doesn't know why he asks. She was the first one up and at the door. Of course she's ready. He just feels the need to ask.
She rewards him with the slightest of smiles, a brief head nod. And pushes open the door.
To rain.
It figures...They had been sitting next to the window. The entire time. And he's just now noticing it has begun to rain.
She doesn't seem to mind.
The puddles splash around her feet as she climbs down the stairs. The metal railing glistening wet. Slippery against his palm. It's raining. Water bouncing off his face. Dripping off his lips. Not a light rain. Not a hard rain. Just rain. The kind of rain they talk about when spring rolls around. Cold. Wet. Sticky.
She's walking in front of him. Delicate. Dainty. He never realized how graceful the clumsy girl could be. Her head dipped low. Wet dark hair spread across her shoulders. They're not walking together. Now. Or before. She's ahead and he's still struggling to catch up.
She's not going to slow down for him.
He watches her turn around. Just her head. Wet hair arcing around her. Looking at him. To see where he is. How far back he is. How far off in the distance he's let himself drift.
He looks at her. Walking forward. But looking back. He can see the water droplets falling from her eyelashes. She's never let him see her cry. She's not crying now. But the rain leaves tracks down her cheeks. Spiraling down to her lips. Her lips.
He remembers the way she used to kiss him. Remembers has he shuffles his way down the wet, cold stone street. The way she'd do that little head-butt thing. Letting her forehead collide with his own. Knocking his head back. Nipping his lips. Softly. Lightly. Teasing him. And drawing him out. All with that tiny smile pressed against his own. Looking at her now. Soaking wet and almost innocent, all he can think about are those kisses.
He hates what she can do to him. He hates that despite everything he still wants her.
He wonders if she knows.
He doesn't know where they are. He gave up trying to figure that out hours ago. He doubts it's safe to go back to the city. They know that the car was stolen. He's surprised they got off so easily. Too easily. He can feel the pessimistic cloud taking over his mood. Nothing good can come of this.
He hates that he knows that he's right.
He's almost caught up with her. Right behind her slapping footsteps.
He wonders where all the traffic is. He wonders what happened to the little girl and the mother at the toy store. He wonders why they're suddenly so alone.
And they really are. They haven't passed a soul while walking down the sidewalk. A single soul. The town they've stumbled upon hours ago has emptied out. A ghost town. Over the course of minutes.
His hand goes to his right pocket. Nothing's there. Old habits die hard.
No town is ever this empty.
He can feel the dread coiling in his stomach. A tight spring. Preparing to snap. The second his fears become reality.
"Tonks," he ventures. Destroying the silence built between them. He laid the foundation. She's just been filling in the walls. He's still searching out the cracks.
She slows. Slightly. Turning her head enough for him to see one eye. Hidden by dark hair. One eye locked on him.
"Where the fuck is everyone?" Aren't you quite the eloquent wanker?
She stops walking. And turns to him. He shouldn't notice that her shirt is wet. But he does. And he hates that he likes what he sees.
"I was just wondering that, too." The worry is too strong in her voice. Too heavy. Adding weight to his anxiety. "It doesn't feel right, does it?" He shakes his head. Looking around. Taking in his surroundings.
There's no one.
"Let's just...keep going. Get to the train station." She turns around. And begins to walk again.
He hates that he's let himself become the follower. The one lagging behind. Waiting for directions. Begging to be commanded. But he'll let her. He'll let her drag him by a leash even if it chokes him. Makes him gag and shrink away. Because it's what they do. Because it's what they've always done. She the ringleader, and he jumping through hoops for her.
Things haven't changed that much.
They've reached a corner. And she's just standing there. Letting the water collect at her feet. Fill her shoes. And freeze her toes. Looking left and right. Forward and back.
"Do you remember which way we came?" She's not asking him for help. That's a technique she never mastered. She'll beat around the bush. Collect all the information she needs. Try and continue to fail. But never ask for help. At least not from him.
He hates this game.
"No...I don't." Honesty is sometimes easier. And now is one of those times. Fuck the stereotype. Not all men are afraid to admit that they're lost.
"Right..." She's mapping out a plan in her head. He can see the wheels spinning and the thoughts churning. "We'll go left...I guess. Yes. Left."
She turns quickly and runs right into the stop sign. Hitting her head on its post. He doesn't know if he's supposed to laugh. But he can feel the amusement and the mirth reaching a fever pitch inside him as she rubs her head and lets out a string of whispered curses that are almost enough to make him blush. Almost.
She won't look at him. And it's a good thing. For sure he'd laugh then.
He follows her, swallowing unshed laughter. Reminding himself to stay alert. Be aware of his surroundings. All that jazz he learned years ago in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He's beginning to wish he had paid more attention. And spent less time on dragons. And her. You can't change the past. You can't change it.
But I keep trying...don't I?
He runs into her. Not aware that she has stopped. They've entered an alley. Old laundry hanging above their heads, condemned to an ever soaked state. Trash cans are knocked over. Bottles, broken and whole, food, half-eaten and rotten, scattered across the stone.
There's not a single rat. A single rat or alley cat. Any old creature who prowls the waste. There's nothing.
He backs away a bit from her. "What? Why'd you stop?"
"Look..." He hates her choked tone. He hates her outstretched hand. Pointed finger. He hates that the dread is about to snap and take him down. Down into the awful reality that is their world.
Bodies. A couple of them. Still and motionless. Absorbing the rain water as it falls down around them. Lifeless on the cold stone street.
They're dead. They have to be.
Suddenly he remembers yesterday. And driving a knife through another man's back. A knife. In his hand. Blood. That he drew. A life. That he ended.
Guilt is a scary, ugly thing.
He stares at the dead. Three of them. The look upon their faces all the same. Wide-eyed. Terror. Half-open mouths. Faces gone pale.
There's not a mark on them. Not a single mark. No blood on the pavement. No scratches, bruises, wounds. No sign of struggle.
He knows why the streets are empty. And all he can think about is the girl with her mother at the toy store. And he wants to puke.
The spring has snapped.
He's watching his worst fears pan out.
She's too young to have seen so many bodies. But death has decided to be her friend. Her shadow. Her future.
Too many bodies. Enemies. Strangers. Friends. Men. Women. Children.
She doesn't want to add lovers to the list. But she fears his days are numbered.
They're not. He'll be fine and we'll be fine and everyone will be just fine.
She doesn't know the people lying before her. Staring up at her without seeing. But she does know what they mean. She does know and understand the gravity of the situation.
And wonders how they'll make it out alive.
"We have to go." She doesn't know how she got the words out. Her throat feels stuck. Closed up. Choking on fear. Disgust. Grief.
"Yeah..." He's just staring ahead. Lost. Adrift. She wants to shake him. He's supposed to be the calm one. The one in control. But he looks just like her now. Scared. "Yeah..." With that, he turns. And begins to walk.
She follows. Leaving the alley. Leaving the bodies.
She wonders if there's anyone left to take them away.
They seem to have reached some town square. A fountain in the center. Shooting water up into the falling rain. Old stone crumbling. Old engraving smoothing out, the words illegible now.
He's there next to her. Turning in a slow circle. She knows that they're both just waiting. For the inevitable to strike them down. She can feel the hysteria bubbling up deep within her. I can't take this...I can't. I can't do this.
She feels half crazed with fear. And wants to run. But there's no one left to help them. No one in this city. They're all dead. Dead dead dead dead dead. And a part of her knows that it's because of them.
There were no marks on the bodies. No marks. Just wide empty eyes. And stiff corpses.
They're coming for them.
For the first time in hours, she meets his eyes. He's on the other side of the fountain. Looking at her through the cascading water. She can see his eyes. And she can see that he understands too. She wants to go to him. But seems rooted to the spot.
They never seem to be able to stay on the same side.
Then she hears it. The tell-tale pop. The resounding crack. They're here. Behind her.
She lets herself look one last time. Look at the man who was her world. Who might still be. Look at him. Through the spurting water and the drenching rain.
He's still mine.
She turns. Feeling nauseous. Uneasy.
And they're there. Men in black robes that cover their faces. Hiding in the shadows. Wands protruding beneath voluminous sleeves. Cold, icy fingers. Clutching their weapons of destruction. She imagines that they're smiling. Menacing smiles. Sadistic smiles.
She hasn't done half the things she wanted to before she died. She's not married. She has no children. She's never been to Africa. Or Paris in the spring. She can't speak Chinese. Or Goblin. She never found the meaning of life or the bloody Holy Grail.
He never forgave her.
They're walking towards them. There's still a distance between them. She wonders if she runs if they'll kill her faster.
She's wasting too much time. Thinking. Planning. Worrying. This is why they train. What would Moody say?
"Run!" And she's off. Sprinting back down alleys. Back they way they came. She can hear him at her heels. And is oddly comforted by this. The steady rhythm of his shoes beating hard behind her. She sees green hitting the walls around her. Buildings coming apart in chunks. Debris flying every which way.
She must have taken a wrong turn. She had to have taken a wrong turn. Because all that's in front of her is a brick wall. An ugly brick wall standing tall and proud. Blocking the way to freedom.
She doesn't stop running until she hits it. Out of breath, chest heaving, she turns. Back up against the wall. Slowly slouching down.
They're coming.
The bad guys always walk slowly. Dressed in black. And meandering their way in. In for the kill.
Trapped trapped trapped trapped.
She can hear him breathing heavily beside her. She can't look at him. No, she can't. She'll lose it then.
And they're there. In front of her. In front of him. They're there. As she desperately tries to tame her breathing.
"A Black and a Weasley. Must be our lucky day." Drawling tone. She knows who he must be. And hates the injustice of it all.
Neither of them say a word. They just stare. Into the face of death.
"Come with us."
Out of all the words she had anticipated, those had not been it. But then she remembers. Remembers the dragon camp. And the field. And the man saying that he wanted them. Whole and alive.
She's afraid that she's visibly shaking. But she keeps the defiant edge to her stare.
"No." Her voice an angry croak.
Dry laughter. That scratches at her heart. "That wasn't a request." She swears she heard amusement in that.
There's four of them. Four of them. And just the two of them.
She watches them come towards her. Towards him. She watches him reach a hand out to grab her, snatch her by the arm and carry her away. And she knows she can't take him and there's no way she'd win in a fight against him. But his head sways to the side with a disgusting crunch. Smacking his skull against the wall. Slumping toward the floor.
And there's Charlie. With a look to him that she has never seen. She's scared and there's hope but she's so afraid. And he's fighting them. Three versus one. Punches and kicks and blood spreading its way across the pavement.
"Crucio!" A foreign word. She can't remember its meaning. But Charlie...lying on the ground. Mouth open wide. Convulsing and shaking and so is she and she can't look at him but can't seem to take her eyes off him as he lies there. Helpless and twitching and in what appears to be the worst pain imaginable. There's screaming and she doesn't know if it's coming from her or from him and it really doesn't matter. But it's Charlie and he's not allowed to hurt.
The trash is still spread across the ground. She has to look away. At something. The old newspaper. The cardboard boxes. The broken bottles.
Broken bottles.
In this world there are weapons everywhere. You just have to know where to look for them.
She lunges. Realizing the man has lowered his wand. And Charlie is now panting and retching on the ground.
No no no no no.
And they turn. To her. But she's quick. And has the cool glass in her hand. Clutching it tightly. And on the man's back in a second. She's slit his throat and feels him drop. And there's only two now.
She realizes she can't quite recall what happened next. The events a tangled mess of blood and violence. And her as the killer.
Self-defense. It was all self-defense. We would have died. We would have died...He's still on the ground. Staring up at her. An unreadable expression across his pale face. Wet hair matted down and dripping in his face.
She has blood on her hands. Metaphorically and otherwise.
She feels sick.
She hears the bottle hit the ground. A loud clink. She feels herself swaying. Swaying in the steady rain. That's turning their street an ugly shade of brown. Brown with mud and trash and blood.
He's standing now. On unsteady feet next to her.
She's watching her hands turn pink. Blood slipping down soft fingers.
She feels sick.
She feels a hand on her arm. And recoils. Not meaning to. But shrinks away nonetheless.
He's moving forward. Away from her. Saying something that doesn't seem to reach her ears. But she follows him anyway. Suddenly feeling the urge to run. Sprint. Race through empty streets. Begging another soul to show its face.
She can feel the water dripping off her chin. She knows that it's not just the rain that's sliding off her cheeks.
She's passed him. Walking quickly. On some unstated mission. Nearly running now. She feels sick. So sick. And scared. And angry. Bitter. Sad. Lost. And not sure what a person does with that mangled heap of emotion.
Faster. Faster. She's found another alley now. Stumbling on slick brick. But still going forward. Shuddering breaths and near sobs echoing off the tired walls.
She feels a pull on her arm. And yelps. Backs into the wall. For the second time that day. Her sore shoulder aching. She can see him. In front of her. Clutching her arm. Holding on. The anchor as she tries to drift off to sea.
He doesn't say a word. Just stares at her. The shaking, barely breathing mess of a woman before him. Hair sticking to her washed-out complexion.
His hand is still on her arm. A death grip. She's sure that he's left a mark. She can feel his fingers digging into her skin.
His other hand is moving. Rising. Coming up. To her neck. Curling around, clutching the nape. She shivers.
And he's there. Lips pressed to hers. Nothing tender about the action. A brusque attack. Lips roughly attached to hers. Teeth finding her bottom lip.
Shaky bloodstained hands gripping the front of his shirt. Begging him to stop. Pleading for him to continue.
She's giving in. Arching against him. And licking his soft lips. So warm compared to her own. She's so cold and he's so warm and she has to let him in. He's the fire that burns late at night. The flames she dreams of coming home to. After each horrific day. Curl up at the hearth. And let him overwhelm her.
His hand is gripping the back of her head. His fingers lost in wet hair. Like black rope. Binding him to her.
Don't let go. Don't let go. Don't let me go.
She's up against the dirty wall. Fingers stained with blood. Cold and wet.
His hand has left her arm and is gripping her hip. Holding her still. While he continues his assault. Tongue tangoing. Stomach doing flips. They never used to be so violent.
And she's given in. Reconciling herself. To the fact that maybe. Just maybe. Maybe...
He pulls away. Abruptly. Minus any warning. Or prelude.
He's stepping away. Hands untangling. Panting. Mask put back in place. She wonders if he'll let it slip again.
"Sorry." An apology she never asked for. But then again, he's always been big on the whole apology thing. Making people beg for his forgiveness.
"We should really get going."
She wishes she could remember how to speak. But his kisses were always like this. Mind-blowing. Stripping her of all vestige of thought and reason. Why should now be any different?
And they begin to walk. A brisk tempo. Side by side.
She knows they're not going to be able to escape each other this time.