The first few times Nymphadora asked him a question Remus felt surprise, and a vague uncertainty as to whether she was actually speaking to him. This uncertainty was, of course, absurd, because they were inevitably the only two people there– he, because his complete lack of either a job or any social engagements left him totally free to be anywhere or do anything for the Order at a moment's notice, and she because she was so very, almost painfully, eager to help. He found this even more commendable because, in stark contrast to him, her schedule was full of 60-hour work weeks and social engagements with a rotating cast of characters whose names he quickly came to know all too well.
She reminded him uncomfortably of James, and of Sirius, just a little, during the first war– she had the same unwavering energy, the same defiant spirit, the same unshakable and totally unjustified optimism–
But then, in quiet moments, he saw differences too. She could be serious in a way that they weren't, and while she bantered easily, beautifully, in solemn moments she was far more likely to say something painfully sincere than to crack a joke to get past the moment.
He learned that she could prank with the best of them, and that, in stark contrast to most of the people around him, she has no intention of sparing him from her antics – but unlike his friends in their youth she only seemed to think it was fun if no one got hurt.
And unlike James and Sirius, who were only ever perceptive at the absolute wrong moment, getting right the one thing you were trying to hide, Nymphadora was always watching and noticing absolutely everything about absolutely everyone , though if you weren't always watching her, too, you'd never see it. She was so loud and bright, even brash, that it seemed nearly unfathomable that she could notice anything and yet–
Out of nowhere, suddenly, some keen and uncannily perceptive comment when he'd been sure she wasn't listening.
A hand on his shoulder, when not even Sirius had realized he was upset.
Or a sharp, painful push to the left as a hex he hadn't even seen coming appeared out of nowhere, searing brightly into the wall directly behind where he'd been standing.
Remus rarely knew who his partner would be on any given mission until he arrived, and the first few times Nymphadora came to meet him he felt near total ambivalence. She was an auror, which spoke well for her, and she was vouched for by Moody, who Remus had never heard vouch for anyone else in the 17 years he had known the man, so of course Remus didn't doubt her competence. Competence was all he felt he could hope for, but she was so young, and garishly colorful, and unjustifiably loud that he couldn't imagine they'd have anything in common, much less anything to talk about. He quickly resigned himself to a few awkward hours spent together, with talk centering around the mission and the Order and nothing else.
The third time she arrived to meet him, when he was happy to see her and flashed her a real smile before he realized he was doing it and made himself stop, he realized that he had been mistaken. He enjoyed her company immensely despite their different ages, and hobbies, and (to a slightly different degree than he had imagined) interests.
And when she shot him an ear splitting grin back, even though he was quite sure he wasn't smiling anymore, he felt sure he was in trouble, though he couldn't quite say why.
Her questions started around then, some so personal in nature that they could only be considered rude, and he felt no compunction about not answering those. But most were innocuous, almost silly. Initially he sidestepped them anyway, more out of long standing habit and a sense of disbelief that anyone could really want to know his answers than out of any principle. But Nymphadora always looked at him intently, when she asked, her eyes meeting his and holding as though she actually, truly cared about his favorite beast, or school subject, or non-authorized spell.
It was around when he finally wrapped his mind around the fact that she might, in fact, care, that Remus realized he'd like to tell her the answers. This, somehow, more than anything else, made him feel certain that he shouldn't.
He continued to evade what he thought was increasingly skilfully, until one night Nymphadora asked, out of nowhere, what his favorite color was. He looked at her hair and thought pink, and then thought again that he was in trouble, though this time, to his mortification, he had some idea as to why.
"I like the color the sky is now," he offered instead of the exact truth, reflecting that the brilliant purple orange of the sunset truly was lovely.
Remus expected the answer to be enough for her– as his evasions had gone it was really one of the better ones – but her eyes flashed with something that might almost have been anger. For an endless moment as she half-glared at him he suspected that she was going to tell him off, and he felt that he would deserve it. The days when he'd thought she wasn't entitled to ask him questions – even questions of the rude, personal variety– had passed some time ago now, as October had bled into November and he'd unthinkingly, embarrassingly, started telling her everything about James— about Lily. He'd told her things he hadn't even told Sirius, and while he still wasn't sure exactly what about her continued to inspire such confidences, he was sure he couldn't blame her for thinking that they were friends. Friends could be expected to just answer, when asked their favorite color, only– he couldn't.
He wasn't sure exactly what Tonks saw as she glared at him, but her face slowly softened as she moved closer to him, placed a hand gently on his arm, and squeezed.
"I like this color too," she said, then, and to his surprise she morphed her hair the same shade, shooting him a cheeky smile as she finished. Despite himself he smiled back, a real smile again, but instead of returning the gesture she bit her lip, looking thoughtful and slightly pained.
"Remus?" she asked suddenly, reluctantly. "Would it really feel so awful for you to answer, sometimes?"
He thought of evading yet again, of three different ways that he could do so, but he couldn't stop focusing on how she was worrying her lower lip and so he told the truth instead.
"No," he replied hoarsely, after a too-long pause. "It wouldn't. And that is the problem.:
He didn't expect her to understand what he meant– after all who could – and so he braced for a follow up question that didn't come as she continued to bite her lip. Her expression shifted slowly, becoming thoughtful and slightly sad as she squeezed his arm again, her hair turning back to the pink he truly preferred.
"Okay," she said simply, and he was seized with the uncomfortable sensation that she had understood, after all, as they sat in not wholly uncomfortable silence, her hand still on his arm.
Tonks didn't ask questions, after that, and he was initially worried that conversation without them would be awkward, but to his surprise it flowed increasingly freely. If he were being really honest, this was perhaps not such a surprise, but to acknowledge that only contributed to his increasing certainty that he was in trouble, a fact which he was still trying his hardest to ignore.
Remus found that he liked making Tonks laugh, and then began to actively try to do so, with extremely favorable results. He told her more about James, and then, to his own real surprise, about Peter. She started to tease him, and he knew that he really ought to mind it, or at least try to stop her, but instead he laughed, really laughed for the first time that he could remember, and he started to tease her back.
And so he was startled, one morning, when she asked brightly, "How do you like your tea, Remus?"
His surprise was partly because she had so carefully, so deliberately, avoided asking him any questions at all for weeks, and partly because he was absolutely sure she knew how he took his tea, having been giving it to him that way for months.
"I take it black," he replied easily, automatically, and it was only after he'd already said it that he realized that it was, in a way, another evasion.
"M-hmmm," she murmured, lips pursed. "Black English Breakfast tea bags, every day thrice a day, even though you prefer Darjeeling and really love the Oolong Sirius has, those loose leaves seeped for four minutes, the muggle way."
For a long and terrifying moment he was scared she'd ask why he consistently had one kind of tea when evidently it was obvious to everyone that he preferred another. He wasn't sure he'd be able to evade that particular line of questioning, and so thought he'd have to choose between silence or coming out with the humiliating truth that tea bags, black, had been the only thing he'd been able to afford since he turned 17.
"So, Remus" she mused, breaking his train of thought with a single quirked eyebrow that he very much feared she'd adopted from him, "how do you like it?"
He thought again that he was in trouble before realizing that it had gone far beyond that, now, and the certainty that he was doomed, more than anything else, gave him the courage to answer. "A splash of milk."
She looked surprised, then pleased, and he wasn't sure whether it was because he answered at all or because of the preference itself. Regardless, she quickly poured an extremely generous portion of milk into his teacup, turning the contents a shade closer to egg white than the light brown he'd envisioned, and she grimaced as it lightened.
"It's too much," she said, sounding far more despairing than tea should allow, and he opened his mouth to tell her it was alright even though the truth was that it was too much, she was too much.
"No, it's perfect," came out instead, far more hoarsely than he intended,
She looked at him in disbelief, but then, as he took a generous sip of what turned out to be the oolong seeped exactly as he liked it, she must have seen something in his face because she smiled, warmly, and without allowing himself to overthink it, he smiled back.