Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: Guess how much money this sad college student has to her name? Did you say nothing? Well, then, you win! Unfortunately I have zero money to give to you as a prize...Yeah. In plain English, Harry Potter belongs to that rich lady and not me. That rich lady and her fellow conglomerates. So sue me not. I know not what I do
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: Wow. You like me. You really like me! Forgive the Sally Field moment. You so know that we all have them. Any who, thanks a gazillion, trillion, infinity-billion for the outrageous praise-filled feedback! Oh, kisses for all! You guys are super cool. Super cool for reading my crazy little tale here that I feel will eventually spiral out of control. But until then...I hope you enjoy what is now the seventh installment (!) of Fear and Loathing in Romania.
Chapter Seven: Appeasement
"You'll say you understand
You'll never understand
I'll say I'll never wake up
Knowing how or why
I don't know what
To believe in
You won't know who I am
You'll say I need appeasing
When I start to cry
But never is a promise
And I'll never need a lie"
- "Never Is a Promise" – Fiona Apple
He doesn't know why he kissed her. He has no idea what demon possessed him. Made him launch at her like that.
But she had been there. Cold. Scared. Vulnerable. She had killed three men to save their lives. Save his life.
In his mind it just seemed right.
But now. Now walking next to her, the her that can't meet his eyes. Most likely wondering why he stopped. Why he pulled away as she gave into him. But he knew. Knew he couldn't take her, right there. In a deserted alleyway. The both of them covered in blood. Blood that's not their own. Knew he wouldn't be able to stop. If they kept going. Knew it all. As the past caught up to him and he remembered her and remembered their history, their story, and realized snogging in the alley wasn't right at all.
His legs feel funny and his skin's still tingling.
He's never felt pain like that before. He's never wanted anyone that badly before.
He hates that he can't seem to straighten out his thoughts. Can't seem to connect them, even by the smallest thread. They're all just odd snippets. Coming into focus and then quickly fading. The alley. The pain. Oh, Merlin...the pain. Her. Broken glass in hand. Blood coating her delicate fingers. The rain. The pain. And she was there. The kiss. The kisses. The feel of her in his arms. Once again. Soft and hard and scared and brave. Perfect.
He has to stop thinking about this. Stop thinking about her.
You shouldn't have done it...
But it's too late. And he knows it. Knows it as he can still feel his heart beating in his ears. Knows. Because he's had a taste. And she's in him now. Pushing him forward. And back towards her.
They're turning a corner. Slowly. The rain still pounding. His mind still swimming.
He shouldn't have done it. Now he craves her. Like the drug she is. Clouding his senses and throwing him off balance.
It's always been like this. Seven years of pain, regret and anger weren't enough to erase those memories.
He wonders why he's so afraid to give in. Because bloody history is likely to repeat itself...
He's fighting a battle. Mind against spirit. Logic against desire.
He wonders which side will come out victorious. He kind of already knows.
He steps over a puddle. Watches her walk right through it. Her pants already soaked, and the water sloshes up her calves.
A creature of passion. He's always been that. Lashing out when the situation didn't warrant it. Letting his temper explode, let the lava slide down the cold rocks. Jumped into bed with nary a worry. Yes. A creature of passion.
They've left the town. The sign, dusted with age. Dripping with water. Thanking them for visiting.
He knows they won't come back.
And he sees the sign for Bucharest. White letters against the black. Announcing they still have a ways to go. And they won't be there by sundown.
He looks to her, but she just keeps walking. Down the dusty road. Shoes squishing against the ground.
He wonders if old dogs can learn new tricks. For his sake, he hopes so.
You killed them. You killed those men. You hurt them and you killed them and you made them bleed.
I had to. I had to. I had to. There was no other choice. We would have died and then they would have been the killers and they were hurting him and they were going to take us...I had no choice.
You killed them.
She knows she's slowly driving herself mad. And she can't think of a single bloody way to stop it.
Her hands are stained and her feet are cold and she let him kiss her and touch her and hold her and she let him end it. Just as quickly as it began.
She was confused to begin with. She really doesn't need him fucking with her head.
She can see him out of the corner of her eye. She can see his face. Slightly bruised on the side. A cut, arcing across his cheekbone. And she wants to take him and heal him and promise that everything is fine and that everything will get better.
They hurt him.
And in the process opened up something deep within her.
They say you never forget your first love. And she hasn't.
She never stopped loving her first love.
They hurt him. And she had to watch him bleed and ache and kill. Watch him die. Just a little bit.
And it was enough. More than enough. To cement it in her mind.
She loves him. She does. Loves him more than she knows what to do with it.
And she wants him. Wants him the way everything used to be. Before he became so disillusioned by love and before everything went to shit. She wants him. Wants him to love her and forgive her and tell her that he loves her just like he used to. That shy whisper in her ear. Telling her everything she's never heard before and everything she's dreamt of saying.
It's still raining. Monsoon season in Romania... She's just waiting for the ark to pass her by. And deem her unqualified to step on board. But they'll take him away. And he'll ride off into the grey sky. Down the river that was once hard land.
She used to like the rain. But that was before she spent an entire day stumbling through it.
Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink...
Her dad used to say that. Some random Muggle poet. She always liked Muggle poetry. It had its own magic to it. Magic that was foreign to her mother's world.
Magic she's been trying to fuse into her life. Ever since he left her.
She likes that he's beside her. Likes that's he's next to her. Not ahead. And not behind. Just there. Traveling alongside her.
She wonders how long he'll stay. This time.
It's late. Evening. Soon the sun will set and they'll still be on the road. Sad vagabonds her mother used to warn her about. Give them money, and they'll never leave you alone. Don't get a good education, you'll become one of them. Never in that order, of course.
She's been thinking about her mother a lot today. A habit she can't seem to wean herself off of.
She hopes they stop soon. But she's not sure where that'd be. They seem to be alone. Adrift. Lost.
"Tonks." They haven't spoken in what seems like hours. His voice, a strange, welcome interruption to all her disjointed thoughts.
"Yeah" She hates that her voice sounds so broken. So sad. So miserable. She used to be better at this game. She's not sure what happened.
"Should we...stop somewhere soon? For the night?" She hates that they always seem to be thinking the same thing. Knowing that they're thinking the same thing.
"Yeah. At the next place we see. We can stop." He nods. And they continue forward.
She wishes he'd call her Dora again.
There seems to be some sort of magnetic pull between them and fleabag motels. Or maybe it's just that the price is a major draw. Either way. They've found themselves in another tiny, stuffy room. That may or may not have seen better days.
She's tired and he's tired and she wonders if this is a bad combination.
He has his back to her. Turned away. Peering out the window. Stained with age and grime. And she knows she's staring. At the planes of his back. The way his shoulders tense and the blades peer out the wet shirt as he moves the curtain to the center. Blocking the street from view. Closing them off.
He turns around. And suddenly she feels embarrassed. Feels the color rising to her cheeks. Quickly averting her eyes. Without even meaning to.
She wants to hold him but knows she'll break him. Wants to keep him but knows she'll lose him. Wants to save him but knows she'll disappear in the process.
She knows. Knows that she can't win.
You can't always get what you want...
No. You can't.
"I think I'll go...get ready for bed."
She had to break the silence somehow.
Side by side. All they need now are the bloody his and hers towels.
They're sharing a sink and a bar soap. And even that is proving to be too much for her.
His close proximity. She can feel his body heat. Even from a distance. Sense his every movement. Notices her pulse as it steadily rises.
And she can feel it. Coiled up beneath her skin. Touch him touch him touch him. Her fingers itching to grab hold of him. Bring him down to her.
Her skin's on fire and she's can't think. He's here. He's right here. Right here. And it'd be so easy. So easy to give in. And love him.
But there are consequences for every action. And theirs have already been spelled out. Spelled out in the blood that has yet to be shed. Outlined in the pain, the agony, the grief. That they have yet to endure.
Take him. Take him. And love him. And make him yours again.
It's so tempting. Too tempting. Her world's seconds from exploding. Standing next to him. Accidentally bumping her arm with his as she washes her face.
Her heart is beating. And it seems far too loud. He has to be hearing this. Pounding, echoing off her ribcage. A heavy, earth-shattering noise. Hurting her. Too loud.
She's watching him. Out of the corner of her eye. Watching him watch her. She knows that he's looking at her. Can tell. Can feel it. She wonders if he knows too.
She kind of hopes he does.
All she has to do...move a little to the left. And he's there. And she'll be there. Pressed up against them.
She wants to repeat history.
But she knows. Knows that won't happen this time.
She catches their reflections in the mirror. He's pale. Pale and still freckled. Pale with the red hair. Strong jaw. She wants to trace the line. Kiss away the bruises that decorate his face. Robbing it of perfection. And let him melt away.
He's too good. Too good and too simple and too pure and too innocent. Too perfect. To ever make it through this world. With her by his side.
You know you'll hurt him...you know it.
And she does. She can still see the pain and the anger spread across his face that day. Seven years ago. And she can see herself hurting him again. Maybe not like that. But she will bring him down.
Demise of the father...grief of the mother.
She can't empty her head. Rid herself of the echoes of a most likely crazy women.
She's not sure why she believes the words. Why she lets herself think that this what will come of them. Their future. Him a father and her a mother. Together.
She watches him press a towel to his face. Blot the water away. Fresh and dewy.
Perfect.
And it breaks her heart.
The bed is cold and she doesn't understand. He was here just minutes ago. But it's cold and the sheets feel like ice and she just doesn't understand how body heat can evaporate that quickly.
The carpet's cold and she can see her breath. She runs her hands up and down her arms, covered in goose bumps. The movement is doing nothing. She's still cold. So cold.
She looks down. She's wearing a nightdress. A long, frilly nightdress. That almost skims the ground. White. Virginal. Pretty in all the ways that she never was.
She never wears these things to bed. She settled on boxers and t-shirts long ago. But she's wearing one. And it's oddly jutting out in front
She has a belly. A swollen belly. She can't see her feet or the ground beneath. Her belly's too full. She feels a kick. And shudders.
She's pregnant...Oh, Merlin. She has a fucking baby inside her.
She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand at all. She was normal last night...so normal. And where the bloody hell is Charlie?
He wouldn't leave...no, he wouldn't.
She's shaking. And looking all around.
This isn't the motel. This isn't the motel at all.
She's in a bedroom decorated in yellow. With curtains around the window. But the light isn't coming in and everything feels so strangely dim. There are pictures, moving pictures on the wall. She takes a step toward them. Oh, Merlin...
They're of her. And him. And his parents. And her father. And his brothers. And his sister. They're all smiling and waving. Laughing. Hugging.
She's wearing a veil in one of the pictures. Dressed in white. Clutching flowers to her chest. Shining. Happy. Pretty
She's backing away, not able to comprehend what's happening here. She brings a hand to her forehead. And feels cold metal touch her forehead.
We are married...we're married..we got married and they were happy and now I'm having a baby
This isn't right and she knows it. Not real. Not really happening.
She runs to the door and forces it open.
It's dark. Dim. As though the light switch is no longer working.
There are stairs. Long, winding stairs. Floral wallpaper. She would never decorate like this in a million years.
There's a mirror. She catches herself in it. Her hair is curly and black. Cut to just below her chin. Her eyes are grey.
I'm my fucking mother...
She feels off balance. Strangely so. Her equilibrium shot to shreds. And she's tilting off her axis.
She feels a pain. Deep within her. Pulsing from her gut, reaching out to grab her. It hurts it hurts it hurts. She's going to fall down the stairs.
She clutches the banister. I just have to get down there and find him and make him explain everything and I'll be okay and we'll all be okay.
There are so many stairs. And with each step she's sure it's her last.
"Charlie..." That's not my voice...no, it's not my voice. I don't sound like that...no.
"Charlie? Charlie? Charlie!" She's screaming now. And he's not answering. She's yelling and yelling and the pain is only increasing. There are just so many stairs
"CHARLIE!" He's not coming. And her foot misses the step and she's falling and tumbling and falling and hitting her head and her legs and her arms on the wooden stairs and the pain is too much and it hurts so much.
She's on the ground. On her stomach. And, Merlin, she's going to die. I have to...
"Charlie..." It's strangled, retching its way up from the catacombs of her soul. "Charlie..."
She can move her legs and is somehow standing up. Standing and shaking and shivering and wanting to lie down in that yellow room at the top of the stairs and wake up in that shitty motel.
She takes a step forward. And another. Walking on cold tile in a house that is not hers.
"Charlie..."
She's in a kitchen. With a stove and pots and pans and things she's never used nor ever planned on.
It's too bright. Yellow bright. Bright enough to make her raise a hand to shield her eyes. So bright...
This is not my kitchen...
This is not my house...my life...my world
This isn't me...
There are flowers everywhere...bouquet upon bouquet...Flowers. Everywhere.
No one buys this many flowers.
But they keep appearing. Popping up. Out of nowhere. On the floor. By the door. In the sink. At her feet.
Is that blood on the floor...?
She refuses to investigate.
She's afraid she knows the answer...
"Charlie..."
The Daily Prophet is on the table. She catches the date at the top.
That's not today...That's...No. If yesterday was yesterday then today can't be that...
Her thoughts are silenced by the headline underneath.
'Weasley Son Found Brutally Murdered."
The paper hits the ground with a smack.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
"No" She's moaning and burying her head in her hands and she's not breathing and it's so fucking cold in this house, this house that isn't hers and she just wants it all to go away and she doesn't want to be in the bright kitchen with all the flowers and she's not her mother and doesn't want to look like her and she doesn't use pots and pans and yellow isn't her favorite color and there were too many stairs and there's blood on the floor and she knows whose it is and why the fuck are there so many bloody flowers and she can't breathe or think and this isn't really happening and he's not dead.
She feels the rumbling. The kicking.
The baby. The baby. Oh, Merlin, the bloody baby...
I killed him...We killed him...
And she knows and she's screaming and sobbing and wishing she could tear her hair out...
It's laughing at her.
And she knows that this is real...
Thump.
What the fuck?
He's already out of bed and the lights are on and his fists are drawn and he's ready to deck whatever it is that goes bump in the night.
But it's just her.
It's always her.
She's on the floor. Shaking. Sweating. On the verge of hysterics. Running her hands over her belly. Over and over again.
"The baby...my baby...what happened to the baby?" She's rocking and gasping and her hair is just hanging there.
She looks so tiny and scared and she's wearing next to nothing. Just her knickers. And an oversized shirt. Of his. That's ridden up her trembling bare thighs.
He's not sure what to do...
"Tonks..." He's tentative at first. Not sure how unstable she is at the moment.
"Tonks..." She doesn't seem to hear him. She's still rocking back and forth, muttering to herself about babies and old women and her mother and...him?
"Tonks...hey, Tonks" Still nothing.
He's getting closer and closer to her. He can see the tears glistening on her cheeks and just how pale she is. Frightening in the lamplight.
He reaches a hand out. Almost touching her shoulder. Her injured shoulder covered in his clothes.
"Dora..."
She reacts. Her head jerks up and her hair falls back. She's looking at him with an expression he can't quite peg.
He frowns. She looks so tiny...Childlike. As though she was woken by a nightmare. A nightmare that's choking her. And he wonders what she's so afraid of. The monster hiding under the bed. Or maybe in the closet.
"Are you...are you okay?"
She's not breathing. Or moving. She's just staring. Oh, Merlin. What the fuck is wrong with her?
She's just staring. Not blinking. Huge grey eyes overflowing and locked on him.
She's gone bloody catatonic on me...
"Tonks...Tonks" He reaches a hand out. Touching her normal shoulder. "Dora..."
She's shaking. Shaking her head slightly. A small back and forth motion. Attempting to negate. Or clarify. Or erase. He's not sure.
He sinks to his knees beside her. Still touching her. He can feel the chill beneath the cotton.
"Dora..."
Her head drops. And pops back up again. And she blinks.
"We're still here...we're still here" A strangled whisper. Terror still eminent in her shaking voice. "We're still here..."
She keeps saying it. And he is beyond unnerved.
"Yeah'course we're still here. It was just a dream. A bad dream. But...we're still here" He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know that he's slowly stroking her shoulder and her upper back. He's just not sure why.
Suddenly she turns to him. Identifying the voice she's been hearing. The look in her eyes terrifies him. Grief and sorrow and fear and hope and desire...and something else. Something he's afraid to put a name to.
One tear drips down. He watches it splash against the grey t-shirt. Leaving its mark.
Her hands are on his chest. Sliding up and down. Clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Up and down, down and up. She's shivering and shuddering and her teeth are chattering. And she's whispering her own brand of nonsense that he's having difficulty understanding.
"Okay...you're okay...you're...alive...okay...okay...you're..." He swears he hears her say "mine." But he may be just as crazed as she is. At three o'clock in the morning.
She's sliding towards him. Her long legs tangling with his bare ones. Skin against skin. Smooth on rough. Delicate on barbaric. She's sidling up to him, hands still exploring him. She's breathing heavily. Drugged. Drugged by the visions only she has seen.
"Real...you're real...real...okay...real...you're real..." Words keep slipping from her lips. He can feel the breath spread across his neck. She's almost in his lap. Curling into him. Hands are creeping higher. Up to his shoulders and down again. Somehow his own hands have found their way to her hips. So tiny...and light...so small...
She's burying herself in him. Touching and feeling. Claiming him.
Her breathing's heavier. Labored. Intense. She pulls her head back. Letting dark hair hide her face. He pushes some away. Cupping her cheek in one hand. There's no color in her cheeks. And he wants to paint them pink.
Her mouth is moving. But sound is no longer coming out. She's in his lap. Hands resting on his ribs. Chest heaving. The portrait of all he wants.
Her lips find his. For the second time that day. Cold lips. Cold, trembling lips. Nipping at his own bottom lip. Softly. Lightly. Gracefully. Ghosts of kisses on his lips. He lets his tongue reach out to her. Warm on cold. Warm her up. Heat her soul.
He's kissing her. Hot. Wet. Open mouths. Aching hands. Tongues sliding against each other. Hands retracing bodies that have hardened tight with age. Her hands frantically clutching on to him. His shoulders. His chest. His neck his hair his arms his ribs his soul. She's so cold and so tiny and so close and so far and she's right here and so is he. She's clutching his shirt. Assaulting his mouth. Teeth are colliding, nails are scratching. He needs her. He needs her now. Seven odd years of want. Hitting the boiling point right now. She's arching into him. He's moaning and fighting back. He needs her. Desperate need. A crazed need that's fire in his veins, spilling out his fingertips. He needs her. Needs to be inside her. Presses himself against her, begging her pelvis to react.
He meets her eyes. And is met with disappointment.
They're blank. A slate grey. Without a trace of clouds. Or warmth. Or want. That he knows is bleeding from his own.
He watches her swallow. And lean back. Her hands falling to her sides. He lets his own do the same.
"It was just a bad dream."
She stands up. Shirt falling back along her thighs, hiding her black knickers his hands were just caressing. And crawls back into bed. Her back to him. Covers pulled up and over. Messy black head contrasting with the pillow.
He can't seem to get his legs to work. And sits there for a while. Back against the wall. He can feel the wallpaper peeling. Curling against his neck.
He knows she didn't fall back asleep. He watched for the rise and fall.