Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: I may have delusions of grandeur, but owning Harry Potter and the like are not a part of those…
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: I'm just going to start this off with a huge-ass apology. I know. It's been over three months and I pray you guys haven't completely given up on me. First semester has been a bitch, but I'm done! And it's now Winter Break, and I am really, really, really hoping to churn a couple chapters out before I go back to school, because it's there that this story can't seem to grow. And grow this story has. I have two different endings in mind and about fifteen chapters to go before I can get there. Let me know what direction you want this story to go in, and I just may consider it, despite the fact I have most of this pretty clearly mapped out in my fuzzy head. The characters are going to get ugly, just because I love fucking with made-up people. You've been warned…And I have to say, I love all of you for the personal e-mails and such. They really are a great inspiration for me, and I sincerely thank you for it. Please be patient with me and my lack of time, and continue with the honest reviews. I appreciate the hell out of them. And now, after this hella long author's note, a Christmas present from me to you…Chapter Eight of Fear and Loathing in Romania…
Chapter Eight: Hero in the Sky
"And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky…
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you…"
- "The Blower's Daughter" - Damien Rice
"No!"
Panting, heavily, chest heaving, restricting breath. She's sitting up, back rigid and upright. Trembling hands clasped above breastbone, eyes still dimmed by sleep.
She can hear the shower running in the next room.
Idly, she rubs a hand over her chest. A vain attempt to still a hammering heart.
She can hear names but can't sound them out. She can see faces but forgets who they are. She has seen things that she knows can't exist, can't be tangible in the real world. Foreign syllables that slide from one synapse to another but get lost in translation.
She knows that something's missing. But it's lost with all the rest.
She's trying to remember why she was so afraid.
She remembers a train ride. She thinks about it as she glances out the window, past the wrought iron grate, and out upon the grey. She rode a train to get here. And she wasn't alone in the car. There had been a woman, a woman whose features have already faded and turned fuzzy, a mental image that has decayed over time.
It's only been two days. She should still be able to recall it all.
But she can't.
It's her head.Muddled and stuffy, the way it should feel after a night of hard drinking, but she knows alcohol consumption wasn't a part of the night before.
Men in hoods dance through her visions, a menacing two step through dark alleys. And her with blood on her hands. She realizes that she's staring at bare palms, waiting for the red to seep out through the lines, spelling out her future through the remains of another.
"Born out of love from the unwed. Blood that flows through his veins shall be the key. Open the demise of the father, the grief of the mother. The power to the Dark Lord."
Where did she hear that? Where did those words come from? Some sick prophecy. She can't remember if the sentence was place upon her head, or merely gossip overheard, drama from a novel she can't remember reading.
"Born out of love…of the…from…blood…father and mother…Dark Lord."
She can feel the words, the thought pattern leaking slowly, the slow fizzle of a balloon with a pinprick, deflating, quietly, unconsciously.
Who the bleeding hell is the Dark Lord?
A flutter of panic works its way through Tonks's chest. She can't place his name, but she can the fear.
I have to write this down…I have to write it down…write it and keep it…
She's not sure why, but she knows. Knows this message is important. Knows she must remember it. Remember the words and not necessarily the meaning.
She's across the room in a matter of seconds. Wrenching drawers open in a manic search for pen, paper, lipstick, writing utensil. Anything.
A pencil. A stub of a pencil rolling through a middle dresser drawer.
It's enough.
The map of Romania sits there in the shade of the mirror, useless and ignored. She snatches it, paper ripping at overly folded edges.
Her hands are shaking, she's muttering to herself.
"Born…born…the father…and…and the mother."
"Fuck." A breathless curse refracted off the mirror. She stares intently at her collarbone, then the wasted pencil in her still shivering hands. "God…fucking…dammit."
It's lost.
He's been wearing the same clothes for what seems like the last lifetime and a half.
But he left his bag in the other room. The other poorly decorated room. With her.
He lets the hot water abuse him for a couple seconds longer, recognizing the slow shift from hot to cold, the water heater bidding him farewell.
He wishes he was at home. He wishes he was fourteen again when the world made some sort of sense and all that really mattered were sport and home-cooked meals.
What the hell was the name of that game? Started with a "Q." Damn sure of that…
It bothers him a bit that he can't place his thoughts in a logical order. That he's forgotten the names of things, the locations of others. He dimly remembers a conversation in a diner regarding this matter. He just can't remember the information exchanged.
"You need some more sleep, mate." He almost expects his reflection to answer, so like a stranger he appears.
He remained at his post against the wall all night. Staring at her still form, curled in a relaxed fetal position, spine poking out in the gap between t-shirt and knickers. He watched her take form in the gathering sunlight, then hidden by approaching clouds. Lost in the reverie of her.
She was always easy to love from afar.
Running a comb through messy hair, he thinks of her and the way she used to be. Pictures her moss-covered epitaph. "Here lies Dora. Rambunctious student, zealous lover. Master trouble maker, supreme klutz. Infamous for her grin and ever-changing hair." He can see Tonks walking away from the grave, climbing out from six feet under and still the color of dirt and death.
He didn't think it was possible for a person to change that much. He misses her clumsiness and her politically incorrectness. Her pen chance for always saying the wrong thing, too much, information utterly off topic. Her pink hair, green hair, blue hair. Impish grin and mischievous shrug of the shoulders.
He wishes she was still innocent.
And throws his comb down in defeat.
All he can see now is her. Standing there with cold eyes as he called her a whore.
He hates that when he looks at her now he sometimes still feels the same.
He opens the door a crack, still clad in a towel. Damp feet sticking to a stale mint carpet. He doesn't like to think about its possible past as it stamps itself on his bare feet.
And there she is. Tonks. Standing in front of the mirror. Staring at a map.
He clears his throat. Not sure what reaction he's going for here.
"Charlie." She doesn't look up. Head still tucked to chest. Fingers tracing roads and rivers, rails and streets. "Do you know where we go once we get to London?"
"We go to…Wait." He knew that they were headed towards London. He's just not sure why anymore. But her nonchalance makes him wonder. She asks as though inquiring about the health of a miscellaneous third cousin. "Um, why is that we're headed to London again?"
Her head jerks up at this. And the map flutters to the dresser. "I thought you knew…"
He realizes that she's not looking at him. Instead, her eyes are firmly planted on the chunk of wall located directly above his right ear.
"Charlie…what's going on with us?"
He almost wants to laugh. Thinking they could fill a thousand pages with what's going on between the two of them. But she wouldn't ask about that. Especially with the tension now. He can feel the rubber band stretching, impatiently waiting for the resounding snap and the stinging pain.
"I don't quite know. Actually, I'm not quite sure I know what you're talking about. Our apparent issue with amnesia or the shit that's built up between us for the last seven years?"
Snap.
She can't seem to understand him and his motives.
She saw the bathroom door open. Caught his reflection in the mirror. Caught the towel. And the perfect abs. The chiseled physique and muscled arms. She just didn't catch the point.
She's well aware as to what she's lost.
And now. Now she hears the things he says, and more importantly the emotions allowing them to surface.
She doesn't like it.
"I was referring to our inability to remember where the bloody hell we were going, but if there are other issues you'd like to discuss…" She can hear the edge. Feel the ice with each breath. She's not sure when she became so cold. She does know that only he seems to have this effect on her.
They all used to say she was such a happy girl.
"Well," The forced courtesy makes her ears ache. "We can discuss memory loss, I suppose…"
It's getting a bit too old for her.
"Cut the shit, Charlie."
"Right. We're all friends here."
The sarcasm cuts her to the quick. And she feels twelve years old again, the old "eye for an eye" revenge tactic understandable once again.
She can sometimes almost hate him.
And she's tired of it. Tired of walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting him. Feeling as though she owes him something for being young and stupid and careless with other people's emotions.
He can be just as dumb.
She's sick of suffering alone.
"Charlie…" She begins to pace. Nervous habits reaching the forefront. "I can't keep doing this. Tiptoeing around you like you're a bloody volcano…and one wrong fucking step, and boom! Molten lava everywhere! I mean, God, when did we become so well-mannered? Do you not remember what arses we used to be? Let's go back. Honesty makes us arseholes. Okay. It's a given. So let's forget this…politeness and be honest for once."
He's massaging his neck, staring at the corner of the room.
This irritates her for some reason.
"You could at least look at me." And he does. An arched eyebrow spelling out his anger and impatience. His desire for this conversation to have ended minutes in the past.
"I thought we were being arseholes now. My mistake. Never yours."
"Fuck you, Charlie." She pauses. Counting to ten and picturing rainbows that are supposedly soothing. Temper, temper, temper. "Sorry. I - I just…I just don't get what it is that you want from me, Charlie. I – I understand that I hurt you…"
Laughter meets her ears. And she doesn't like it.
"Do you? Do you really understand, Tonks? Do you get it? Because, I happen to be of the belief that you don't."
The cloak of civility hits the floor forgotten. Crumpled in a messy ball, waiting to be trampled to death.
"What is there for me to not understand?" Words shot at him like a magician's daggers, hitting the wall around him, the map of a corpse. "Huh, Charlie? I'm only reminded of it every bloody second of every bloody day. So tell me. What is it that I am just not understanding here?"
"What is there to understand? You want to know, what is there... Jesus, everything… Fuck, Tonks. Everything."
"Like what? Explain it to me, since I'm apparently too fucking dense to get these things. So, please, tell me."
He chuckles. Again. A humorless laugh at her own expense. A laugh to hide the grief. "Do you know what it's like to be so bloody in love with someone? Do you know what that's like? Do you know what it's like to love them, have a row with them, return and find out they fucked someone other than you? That they went to bed, let someone else touch them and feel them and make them come. Do you know what it's like to be lied to, betrayed by them? Be asked by the bleeding tosser himself if you're still together? That he's sorry but he kind of shagged your girl two fucking months ago and a couple of times since then? Do you know what it's like to find out that they don't care? That they've been working alongside your entire bleeding family, and not once, not once do they ask how you are? To never hear from them again, then have them show up on your bloody doorstep pretending nothing happened?" With each question he's come closer. Closer and closer, gesticulations coming near to spousal abuse. "Do you know…do you know what it's like to still want them nonetheless?"
She wants to cry. But she doesn't cry. She's Nymphadora Tonks and she doesn't cry. She just smiles and trips and falls down stairs and makes the kiddies laugh and no one knows that half the time laughter is the closest thing to tears and it's just easier to smile than frown, but she can feel them. The tears. The choking of her throat, and her desire to slide down the grimy wall, into a ball, and just let them take her over.
She had let herself forget that she had fucked him more than once. But she remembers now. And the shame is just as fresh.
"I'm sorry…"
A puff of hot air, an attempt at yet another wry, bitter chuckle. "I don't want to hear it. Nymphadora." Fear. Coursing up from her toes and into her heart. He never calls her that. Dora…call me Dora again…His hands gripping her shoulders, trembling under the weight of the world, the weight of his stare. The weight of a guilt that has only exponentially grown over the years.
"Charlie, please. I just want…"
"Yes, Tonks. You want and you want and you want. You want what you can't have and what's being denied you. I get that. You wanted me and then you got me and suddenly the game wasn't as much fun as you thought it would be. So we fight and we fight and we fuck because it's what you want. You get bored and you want and I leave and you fuck whoever happens to be around –"
"That's not fair –"
"I'm not fucking finished! Jesus, Tonks. It's always about you. Always. You want to be forgiven, you want to be loved. You want things to be right. For your benefit."
"And you want to hate me." She lets the words hang in the hair, bubbles weighted with lead, her voice the child blowing them into the air. "You want to hate me." She's not asking; it's a mere statement of fact.
She shoves him off her. Tripping over her shoes, sniffling, banging her shoulder on the doorframe leading to the bathroom. Early afternoon sun angrily entering the room and calling them its own.
She hates that he reduces her to this.
"Does it make it that much easier for you?" She can't bring herself to look at him. Not yet. She's afraid she'll see the seventeen year old boy she saw all those years ago. The boy who yelled at her, in front of friend and foe, the boy who brought her down to the gutter he felt she belonged in.
They always say the Weasleys are such good people. She has a feeling they could easily be the bad. Set their mind to something, set their souls on fire, and someone's sure to fry.
"I was in love with you! And you fucked someone else! Bloody hell, Tonks! Do you not understand? Do you not get what I've been telling you? I loved you!"
She's heard the accusations long enough.
She whirls, caught between the two points of the wall, glaring at him. "We were sixteen! We were sixteen years old! What the fuck did we know about love?"
He's closing in on her once again. "I know…I knew it wasn't supposed to end like this."
He's face to face with her now. And she can feel defiance mingling with her anger. "Charlie, there are no such things as love stories and happy endings. Even a bitter bastard like yourself must know that. There's merely the tragedies and the comedies. Nothing in between." Inhale. Exhale. Let him feel you breathe. "I'm done apologizing. We're all allowed to fuck up every now and then."
She pushes him aside, once again. Sidesteps him. With two doors as options, she heads to the bathroom.
"Why do you have them call you Tonks?" She freezes. His voice as soothing as a death-filled lullaby. "Why aren't you Dora anymore?" He's going to rock her straight to sleep. Forever.
She pulls at the shirt, attempting to lower the hem even more, realizing now that she has yet to shower and get dressed and it's already after noon and where did the time go and why are they still here, stretching the neckline as she goes. She turns her head, slightly. Eyes veiled by darkness.
"You don't get hurt with a name like Tonks."
And she turns into the door, closing the door behind her.
She turns the cold porcelain knob, igniting the shower. And slides. Slides down the door, praying she doesn't catch a splinter.
"Why aren't you Dora anymore?"
And sobs.
It's easy to be disgusted with someone else. Hell, at times it's just plain natural. But to be disgusted with yourself? Few feelings compare.
He hates that he can hear her crying.
He hates that he was in a towel during the entire exchange. And only a towel.
He can still hear her crying. And buries his face in his palms.
"Shit…"
He wonders when he became the champion of fucking things up.
Stop crying…please…stop crying…
He meant every word he said. But hearing her in pain, knowing that behind a strip of dry wall and plaster she's letting tears slip away kills him. And makes him wish he could take it all back.
"Fucking honesty…"
She's right. Honesty merely makes them into villains. And he's the one in the black cape this time as she cowers behind closed doors.
He hates that he's made her into a damsel in distress. He hates that he feels the need to save her.
She killed three men yesterday.
Yet she fears him and the things he can do to her.
He finds the thought jarring and unsettling. And wishes he hadn't come across it.
He's not sure why he moved to the door. The same spirit that forced his tongue down her throat in the alley and his hands on her ass the night before. Lust. Temptation. Possession and ownership. Need. Fear.
He can feel the doorknob in his hand, twisting under his will. Door stuck behind her weight, creaking slowly open.
"Tonks…"
She's on her feet. Holding herself as though she's been struck. He can feel the guilt. He feels a wife-beater and can't quite explain why.
He never wants to see her like this again.
Tear-streaked and empty. Sad, alone, a waif. Crooked hips and crossed arms, bending knee and curled toes.
She's not supposed to be weak.
She's never weak.
"Is everything…are you…" He doesn't know what he's asking. He doesn't even know why he's here. He does know that the idea of leaving refuses to lodge itself in his head.
"There's something…wrong…with me…" And she's sobbing. Chin to chest and arms around her middle. "And I don't…know what it is…"
It's last night all over again. Her on the floor and shaking and suddenly in his arms. She wasn't crying then, but she is now. Trebling against him.
He doesn't know why he does this to himself. Get this close and resist against the tide to pull away.
He's going to drown eventually.
"We shouldn't be here…" A quiet whisper in her shoulder. "But I don't know where we're supposed to go…"
He knows it's wrong, but does it anyway. Kisses her. Softly. Along her cheek and up to her eyes. Soft kisses meant to comfort and erase.
"We're all wrong…" Her hands on his bare chest, searching for something to cling to. "But I don't know what right is anymore…"
Her mad version of poetry lost as her mouth finds his. And right and wrong and here and there and good and bad and win and lose all vanish from his mind.
It's just the now. And her. Kissing him like he'll disappear the second they come undone.
She's no longer crying, merely breathing in heavy gasps.
And he's kissing her and bruising her and knows that they're still fighting just in a new arena.
"You want to hate me…Does it make it that much easier for you?"
No. It makes it that much harder, he thinks as he pushes her knickers to the floor. His towel sliding down to greet them there and warm the ground. Propelling her out of the bathroom and towards the bed. The bed only one occupied last night but two will share right now.
She's down on the bed, and shirt's overhead. And they're naked. And he knows what comes next. They've practiced this time and time before.
The pounding shower becomes their score.
The kisses don't slow down and hands scurry in their wake, desperate to match the frenzied tempo already set by history and time.
She's arching and they're meeting…
And it's begun.
"I knew it wasn't supposed to end like this…"