Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: I believe in Santa Claus, but I don't believe FalseEyelashes owns the Harry Potter empire…
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: Merry Christmas! Happy Kwanza! Happy Holidays! And Yuletide Greetings! Got that out of my system…
It seems as though every time I come home, my muse kicks me in the ass and the words start flowing. And tonight, Christmas Eve Eve seems to be no exception. I find myself writing once again, starting at the advantageous hour of 12:34 AM. Godspeed to me…
I'm going to be honest: This story has taken more twists and turns than the turnpike in the middle of this Midwestern blizzard we've got going on here. I don't know where the hell I'm going with this story. I've got a couple of random ideas floating around, mainly for the grande finale, and they range from skipping through the daisies to slit your wrists depressing. Guess we'll see how angsty I'll be feeling at the time…But I don't want to give too much away…
And it depresses me that I'm writing a story with a pregnancy. I feel like I've fallen in some god awful fanfiction cliché. Meh. We'll see how I handle it.
Oh! And we're looking at roughly twenty-three chapters for this here fanfic. Yeah. But I'm a pathological liar…so who the hell knows…
Hope you enjoy! Chapter Nine! Woo-hoo…But I apologize: This one's on the short side, yet it is full of all kinds of guilt and self-evaluation and temporary insanity and dirty deeds and of course, sleigh-loads of angst. But don't let the angst ruin the holidays! Oh, and quick parental advisory warning: this chapter is a bit…how shall we say this? Sexually-laden? Right. Don't sic the FCC on me. Just avoid the juicier bits of this here chapter…
And I will be back soon…hopefully…Tell me you love me and I might return sooner… (hee hee…just kidding…not really…I'm a review whore..;) )
Chapter Eight: Two Walls
"The chemicals between us
The walls that lie between us
Lying in this bed
The chemicals displaced
There is no lonelier place
Than lying in this bed…"
- "Chemicals Between Us" - Bush
She just lays there, half covered by the sheet. Post-coital guilt swarming all around her like the clichéd cigarette smoke they're sorely lacking.
Yes. They fucked. And she knows that they've fucked up.
Fighting and sex go together quite well. But forgiveness and closure don't fit into the equation nearly as neatly. She's slowly learning that fact. The hard way. The temporarily satisfying but permanently damaging way.
He exhales heavily next to her. She can't bring herself to turn to him.
They never spoke a word.
Silent sex is strange sex in her book.
The shower continued to pound in the background, still raining down on slick porcelain, accompanied by the passionate pants and typical heavy breathing.
She knows the shagging was just the ephemeral stitching shabbily holding together the so-called fabric of their relationship. She fears the second she looks his way, makes a noise or merely leaves the bed the stitches will be roughly ripped apart and all will come undone.
She just lays there. Ignoring the fact she's naked and almost fully on display. For him.
Temporary…everything is just temporary…
She knows the peace is. Yes. She knows and she acknowledges the fact that silence of any type between the two of them can't be long-lasting.
But she knows the rest can't be.
There's something staining about lying there, awake and conscious next to him. But she's sick of naming and categorizing emotions and lets the feeling rest. Unclaimed in her breast.
It makes her want to explain. And apologize. Even though those lines have been done to death and more.
"It's two o'clock."
His voice breaks everything. And she feels a silent tear slip down her left cheek, hidden in the shadows away from him.
"Is it." Automatic response number twelve.
"Yeah."
"Okay."
And she continues to look, straight ahead, head in a vise, staring straight on into nothingness and nowhere. Eyes glazed, drugged, heavy, closing slightly, then slipping open.
She feels the need to speak. And obliges.
"I'm still Dora, you know… I still am. She never left…"
Monotonous. She never used to talk like that. And wonders if it's her that's really speaking. Or merely the ghost of a spirit that's been dampened by the weather of the past few days.
It's been pouring.
She wonders dimly where the passion went. In her. It's not in these sheets or coursing through her veins. But a week ago it was falling from the tips of her shorn red locks. Now chapped lips can't seem to find it anywhere.
And she can seem him. In the corner of a wet eye. He turns to her. She watches him watch her. Watches him analyzing her jaw lines, her slightly gaping lips, the tongue that peeks out to wet them.
She needs to stop turning to the past. Ghost merely haunt, rather than recreate.
I can't go back…
She closes her eyes. Shoveling the last mound of dirt.
"She's still here…" And the dirt lands with a plop. And the gravedigger can go home now. "She's still here…"
She wonders if she says it enough that the words might just be true.
She's always believed in a difference between flat-out lying and merely storytelling, crafting fantasy out of reality.
She thinks that it'scalled survival.
"Okay." Two short syllables spell out a disbelief even he can't hide. For her.
She almost admires him for it. His half-assed attempt at appeasing her.
"I think I'll finally shower."
And she finally rises. Leaving the claustrophobia of that stale mattress and her equally empty former lover.
Lover. L-o-v-e-r.
She walks naked to the bathroom. Feeling his eyes on her arse the entire way. Charlie always was an arse man, not nearly as interested in the tits. She's not nearly as accommodating as she once thought she was.
In the back of her head, she hears a voice, a cute, pixyish voice, reminiscent of Tinker Bell, her favorite, whispering "But you can change that," but she doesn't understand. She can't change her appearance on whim, make herself shrink and grow and mold and shift.
The voice moves farther into the back of her brain.
She shuts the door and locks it. Not sure if she's trying to keep him out or barricade herself in.
The water is like ice now, running for longer than it's ever been meant to. Water pressure steadily falling to a near drip. She turns it off. She'll wait.
She turns on the sink instead, washing her face, scrubbing it.
She wants to go home, but is hit by the realization that she's not sure where that is.
"London." She mutters it out loud. "I live in London."
False comfort really is a beautiful thing.
"My name is Dora. My name is Dora. Dora. Dora Tonks. Hello. My name is Dora. Yes. I am Dora. I am Dora. I am I am I am I am."
Staring into bloodshot eyes, she didn't even realize that she had been speaking. But she is. Whispers that fog up the mirror courtesy of their intimate proximity.
"I am I am I am…"
She remembers having blue hair and green hair and blue eyes and hazel eyes and being tall and short. She remembers being everyone but the girl whose reflection she can't get rid of.
She wonders if it's possible to cease to exist.
"I am I am I am I am I am I am…"
And she doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Locks eyes with the stranger and refuses to go down. Naked and alone and in the company of a person she no longer knows yet has always called herself.
"I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am…"
She pictures the girl with the bright orange hair. The pink, the purple, the turquoise, the black. She pictures the girl he once loved.
She pictures the woman he can love.
"I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am…"
Borderline gibberish.
She pictures him.
She's falling apart at the seams.
"I am…"
He blames Will for the cigarette craving. He's the one who brought the smokes to the camp.
The camp…Bloody hell, what the fuck did I do for a living?
He honestly can't remember.
Animals? Something like that…maybe. Or not. I lived in a bloody tent…
Will.
Will was dead. He saw him die. But he doesn't remember how.
I killed someone too…and so did she.
He wonders if this makes them bad people.
He has enough guilt to live with as is. And he can't seem to shut any of it out.
He's felt lost before. He's a man in his mid-twenties. He's had his share of "where do I go from here?" angst. But not like this.
He knows that they're in Bucharest. He knows that he has a family waiting for him somewhere near London. He knows he went to school in England. He knows that they were classmates.
He knows that she's a stranger now.
He prays that she hasn't always been.
She was always an engaging creature, the kind of person that draws you in but holds you back. A leash. She kept him on a leash when it came to her emotions. And he was never given enough slack.
For such the passionate person she once was, he's never seen her come unraveled like this.
Makes sense…dead mother, dead cousin…now this mess…
He misses her. More than he cares to admit.
He stands up. In the cold grey glare of the outside world.
They need to leave.
She's re-entered the room. Wet hair and towel-clad. A reprisal of earlier that day, merely a role reversal.
She looks at him. Buttoning his shirt. Concentrating.
"How's your arm?"
She had forgotten…
"Fine." She can't take her eyes off his fingers, slipping the button through the hole.
The emotion, that nameless, feared emotion dredged up out of her while lying with him in bed begins to resurface.
She feels adrift. And something tells her that only his fingers will hold her down in place.
She wants him.
And hates herself for recognizing it.
She wonders if this is what it feels like to go mad.
Admittance is the first step to solving the problem…
He's always been her problem.
"You alright?"
She clears her throat. Realizes she's been standing in the doorway of the bathroom, bare save for the towel, staring at him. She's been caught. Red-handed and starry eyed.
"Fine." She moves forward, grabbing her one pair of pants. And his shirt. Again.
"Where are we going?" Her attempt at small talk. A graver question than she understands.
"I…I don't really know. I just felt the need…to get out of this room."
They stand on opposite sides of the room. Charlie to the west; her to the east. A stalemate all their own. They both have their own weapons they could launch. But they're under a peace accord for now. A sham document signed mid-copulation.
And those never last.
"Right. So, do we…do you want to head…back? Tonight? To London?"
He exhales slowly. "What do we do when we get there? I mean, Tonks…don't you think this is pretty fucked up? We don't remember where we come from. I mean, hell, I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it how you get to the house where I grew up, despite the fact I can almost picture it perfectly. How the bloody hell do you explain that?"
"I don't know…" She hopes his question was rhetorical.
"Maybe we…maybe we wait it out here. For just a spell."
A spell. She can't explain why the word spurs her mind on. The meaning lost in a morse code she can't quite tap.
"Stay here…"
"Yeah. Bad idea?"
"I –I don't know. Weren't we kind of on the run? I…I don't really remember why…" She's clutching the towel as though a life preserver. "But…should we stay? Do you think it's safe?"
"We've been here, what? A day. And nothing, no one has shown up in that stint of time. I think we'll be good for one more night."
His naiveté makes her swoon. She can feel the neediness boiling in her belly. She wants for nothing more than to throw her arms around him and make him hers again.
He loved Dora. He loved Dora. He loved Dora.
She's still banking on the fact that he still does.
"Okay. But…um. Can we get some food first?"
She feels as though it's been her first good idea in weeks.
They found food. Not good food, but food nonetheless.
He's found out that Romania is definitely not the food capital of the world. For a reason.
She made them stop in a seedy clothing store near the motel. He doesn't blame her. The idea of living in the same clothes for more than a day at a time, especially with the type of days that they've been living, would make him sick too.
They still haven't run out of money from the taxi yet.
He's not sure who to thank for that one.
But they're back. In a room that could double as a prison cell. Locking them and their emotions inside for fear of the outside world.
He's not sure when they became such agoraphobics.
He heads to the bathroom. Only to find her in there already, trying out her new toothbrush.
She spits. And looks at him. Then gargles.
After that look, he knows he should leave. Nothing good can come following a look like that.
He turns.
"Charlie."
Rooted to the spot. She strikes again.
"Yeah?"
"Charlie." The way she says, he can't respond. She says it like a prayer, and incantation. A hope for what she needs.
His heart has already sped up, breathing has already quickened. Innate reactions beyond his control.
And she's there. Grabbing him by the sides.
He thought that earlier had been a mistake. A rare occurrence. An accident that had been waiting to happen, but has now been cleared off the road.
"Charlie."
She has his shirt bunched up in her hands.
He swallows.
You're not supposed to want a stranger this badly.
But he does.
And she's closing the short distance between them.
Not again not again not again…
And they're kissing and she's up against the wall and he's wondering where his willpower went and he can feel her moving against him, with him, to him. So perfect and so fitting in his arms.
He pictures her from earlier. Pictures how unfamiliar she had become. The stranger he had shared a bed with few hours before.
I can't do this.
He steps away, shaking his head, eyes on broken linoleum and scuffed boots. Refusing to make eye contact. Refusing.
"Charlie? Charlie…what?" She's coming towards him, placing hands on either side his face, wrenching him towards her. Always towards her.
"No…no, I can't…" Swats her away. His fly on the wall. And finally dignifies her with a glance.
She has a look to her now. A look utterly and completely foreign to him, but that's become the norm as of late. A look reeking of anger. Of resentment. And overcome with grief.
Her shoulders are slumped. Her shirt open. Hair rumpled. He wishes his fingers were back in it. Again.
She's hunched. And looking at him. Unwavering eye contact.
He's not sure what he's feeling right now. An odd concoction of impatience. Lust. And terror.
"What do you want from me, Charlie?" He never wants to hear that voice again. That sad, sad and sorry and all too apologetic tone.
It kills him that she thinks that the past is what this about.
It kills him that actually that is what this is about…
He doesn't know what to say. It's easier to just let his fingers roam his messy head. And look at the floor. Hoping the answer spells itself out in the cracked linoleum. He doesn't know what he wants. And he does. He wants the past to be undone. He wants to start over again. And have everything that has transcended between the two of them be just a strange dream.
He wants her to come back to him. The her he continues to place on a pedestal no one has come close to toppling. He wants her, the her he could wax poetic on all night, the her he loved and continues to love, the her that's not standing in front of him.
But that can't happen. What's done is done and can't come undone.
It's always been easier to take it out on her. Instead of moving on.
"It's been years. Charlie, it's been forever. I was young. I - - you were young. We were kids. We were just two stupid…kids in…love."
He's surprised. Surprised she dared to call it that. Surprised she thinks that's what this is about…two teenagers and their fucked hormones. No. Today, it's about her.
But she keeps talking. Needy apologies spilling from her unceremoniously.
"And I fucked up. I know I did. And I've said I'm sorry. I've said I'm sorry so many times. And I am." She's stepping towards him. Small, mincing steps. As though the tiny bones holding her toes together will shatter if her feet press too soundly. "I'm sorry." A breathy whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Her hands are on his chest. Her mouth against his ear.
He doesn't want to hear apologies anymore.
"Let me make it better."
A handful of simple words. Meaningless on their own. Together, they become his undoing.
Her lips press below his ear. And he's given in and he knows it and moans. Softly. Burying his face in the crook of her neck. Inhaling her. Claiming her. For the few minutes that she allows herself to be his.
She's whispering nonsense, babbling breathless, and him, appreciating the energy, the passion this time around. Not like earlier. She wants this too. And she's so tight against him. But he wants more.
His hand on her arse. Pressing her into him. Making her groan and grind.
He pulls her up to him. Seeing her eyes. Her eyes and everything that lay behind them. Secrets and lies and things that only one of them could ever understand. He sees the past and her. And him. Every angry word ever said. Every tryst behind unlocked doors. Every boy, every man she's been with. Since him. Faceless, nameless men. Men who have touched and felt and had everything that was his first.
He knows she's going to hurt him. He knows. Knows as he grips the dark hair at the base of her neck. Grips and brings her down to him. His lips. Licking and devouring. Invading and diving. She's always been the best. Always knew the right way to kiss. How to catch his bottom lip right there. In between her blunt teeth. How to touch him. Make him arch and murmur words no one hears but her.
She's changed, but she's still the same.
She's always known how to get him to walk the earth. Barefoot if necessary.
She's making sounds in the back of her throat. Whimpering, desperate noises. That are driving him mad.
He's going to fuck her. He knows this. He's going to fuck her right against the bathroom sink.
She seems to know it too.
She's clawing at his shirt. Attempting to pull it over his head. Without breaking away from him. He does it for her. Grabbing the hem and wrenching it up. Up and over. Bare chest to her opened shirt. He's feeling her beneath it. Running hands over black lace. Wondering why a girl like her owns such fancy underwear. Glad that she does nonetheless.
She drops her shirt to the floor. Rubbing against him. It's too good…it's too good…it's too fucking good…
Her hands at his belt. Tiny fingers playing at his waist. She's grunting in frustration. Small puffs of air against his mouth. And he's so ready and needs this so bad and hears the buckle hit the sink behind him. A metallic clang. Ringing out through the room. The odd cymbal crash to their own frenzied cadence.
He can feel them falling down. Feel her hands. And he's spun her around. And lifted and dropped. Peeling down her knickers. Pleased that she's enjoying this as much as he is.
This can't last…it can't…it's too fucking good…They're frozen for a second. Speechless. Wordless. Breathing. Heavily. Hands on her hips.
He's afraid to meet her eyes.
He pulls her roughly towards him. Watching her bite her lip.
"Love me…"
He growls as he slides in, watching his reflection instead of her.
This can't last…He catches her eyes. And knows.
He's not going to win this one.