Procrastination is a terrible thing. And leads to the birth of my second fanfic! (You may notice that I seem to have some kind of obsession with the present tense, lol. I really don't know why, but I think it works for both the stories..)
Summary: Remus/Tonks. Slightly AU in that they are involved in a relationship whilst Sirius is alive. But then there's nothing to say they weren't.
The background to this is that R/T are having similiar issues as in HBP. I don't go into them, because there's no point in repeating the same things that are written in most R/T fics: it gets boring. But they should be clear enough subtext, and aren't really relevant to enjoyment of the story.
Let's say they have flirted, are very close, and in love. Maybe they've kissed once or twice. But Remus has his usual doubts and insists they should remain only friends.
OOTP spoilers I suppose. But if you hadn't read OOTP, you wouldn't know who Tonks was, so you wouldn't be reading this anyway ;)
Disclaimer: Characters belong to J K Rowling.
Author's Note: Hey. Thanks for taking the time to stop by. Hope you enjoy it! Comments/criticism most welcome :)
Restless
He waits in the dark corridor of the uppermost floor of Number Twelve Grimauld Place. In the shard of moonlight visible from a crack in the boarding of the only window, he sees her dooor ajar. He makes it five paces away from the doornob before he turns back. Lowers the hand which is poised to turn it. Retreats to his solitude.
From his small bed in his small room, he can hear Sirius snoring. It is a loud, uneven sound that disrupts his peace, even as he remembers it fondly from his sleepless nights in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. He never slept peacefully in the days preceeding full moon.
His unsettled thoughts drift to the Auror down the corridor.
They drift all over her. From head to toe, he has memorised every contour. He hears her laughter ring in his empty room. A flash of pink behind his closed eyes. His thoughts caress her pale, smooth skin the way he knows he never can. In his restless state of half-sleep, he can take her warm softness in his arms, whisper sweet nonsense at her moist lips, and feel her love quence his thirst. If only he had Nymphadora Tonks, he would never be thirsty again.
After forty minutes of tossing and turning, he tries again. This time he makes it to her door. It creaks open. Slightly alarmed, he hesitates. But her gentle breathing continues undisturbed; the only sound apart from the echoes of Sirius' snores, which reverberate around the old house. With the stealth of his wolf, he slips through the shadows to pause at her feet. He detects the gentle waft of aromatherapy oils, rose and patcholi he thinks, buzzing in the air with the hum of warmth she seems to exude, even alseep, so that the atmosphere in the room is dense with her. His left foot is tangled in a discarded robe, and as he lifts it, a squelch informs him that he's stepped on a rogue chocolate frog.
But his courage fails him once again; or he comes to his senses. One of the two. Retreating for the second time that night, he hears a sudden rustle as she stirs, and turns to greet her intruder. Sharply he spins, like a guilty schoolboy, to face her. Her face is barely visible, cuddled deeply into her thick cushioned quilt. Muttering warmly, and squinting through half-asleep eyes, she mumbles, "Wotcher, Remus."
He feels the tension sweep through his body, beginning in the pit of his stomach and capturing every muscle. He wants so desperately to hold her. To be in bed with her. He wants to brush his lips against her ear and whisper that he loves her. He wants to kiss her sleepy eyes and tell her not to bother waking up because they are the only two people in the world, and they will never leave her warm, safe bed.
Instead, he clears his throat. Quickly. Awkwardly.
But he can't seem to pull himself away. He is rooted to the spot, with the chocolate frog growing increasingly melted and sticky between his toes.
As is if telling a broom it should fly, she holds open the cocoon of her quilt, "Get in then", she says. Weary, resigned and physically unable to do anything else, he doesn't resist. He is drawn as if by force towards the opening. To her. "If you're sure.." he manages, before she grasps a dry, calloused hand, and pulls with determination. He lands with a small "oof!" on her soft pillow, and her pink spikes tickle his face as she leans in to kiss him. Her lips are soft and moist and she smells like Tonks. Her bare legs wrap around his body, drawing him to her, and her arms spread protectively across his chest. Her pink cotton tshirt is soft against his bare skin, intimately brushing the coarse scars, and when she rests her head on his shoulder, her breath is a warm, dense caress on his neck.
She falls asleep almost instantly. He can feel her smile against his skin. As he drifts off, he tries to imagine the implications of this moment of shameful weakness. A contented haze clouds his mind, and he finds it impossible. So he does the only thing he can - gives in to her. Relaxes against her warm, pleasant body. He thinks he must be the luckiest old werewolf in the world.