A/N: I am relatively certain that this is not at all what DivaGonzo had in mind when she sent me the prompt "Hermione watches Ron work with his Dad in the orchard picking apples for summer dessert" - but this is what happened, so it is what it is. This is officially my first multiple chapter fic... although really, both chapters stand alone. They are just so interrelated I couldn't justify separating them. I really appreciate the reviews on the first part of this - love you all! - and I'll get around to answering them as soon as I can, but I wanted to post this first. It was supposed to be finished for May 2nd... but, alas, life happens. I hope you enjoy!
Hermione has to find him before she can relax. Part of her thinks this is ridiculous - they won the war and they are safe within the Burrow's wards, after all. Another part, however, acknowledges that she spent months keeping track of his every move, and it would be unreasonable to expect herself to drop the habit instantly.
Another small part of her that she tries not to pay too much attention to says: Besides, Ron likes it.
She finds him in the orchard. He is standing precariously atop an old wooden ladder as his father holds it steady. She is confused, at first. She wants to remind him - you are a wizard, you do not need a ladder - but she continues approaching, and the silly critique gets stuck in her throat as she reaches them.
They are speaking softly in words she cannot hear but a tone that cannot be mistaken. She can tell that both their eyes are red-rimmed. They are not looking at each other. There are multiple baskets on the ground full of far too many apples - far more than even Molly can turn into dessert in a single day - and she suspects that, if she had not happened upon them, they would have continued to pick the trees bare.
As soon as they catch sight of her Arthur makes his exit so quickly with a bushel of fruit under each arm that she doesn't even get to greet him. She means to comment on it, but Ron is standing next to her, towering over her (when did he get back on the ground?) and he is pushing a wayward curl back behind her ear and she nearly melts beneath that simple touch.
"I didn't mean to chase your dad away," she apologizes.
"You didn't chase him. I suspect he would have left far earlier, had I not pulled the ladder out." Her confusion must have been apparent, for he continued. "He's been leaving abruptly every time he starts to tear up. I don't think he wants us to see him cry. I thought maybe if he knew I wasn't looking at him, he'd stay a little longer."
"That's really sweet of you," she whispers, her own eyes beginning to water. She can tell Ron's are, as well, even though he isn't looking at her.
He shrugs. "I'm not really good at this stuff," he says, pulling an old bed sheet out from between the apple baskets that still remain and spreading it out on the ground before them. He sits down on the center of the cloth and she joins him, sitting far closer than she would have dared a few short weeks ago. It is warm – warmer than late may should be – but she relishes in the heat that passes between them.
"I beg to differ," she counters. He shrugs again, but he leans into her bare shoulder as he does.
"I don't know how to do this part," he insists.
"No one does," she assures him.
"That's not - I mean-" He shakes his head, so close to her own that she can feel the movement. "I never imagined it turning out this way."
"How did you imagine it?" she asks, wondering what he will say (wondering what she wants him to say).
"I guess I thought it would be the other way around," he answers, before she could decide.
"Your dad comforting you?" she questions.
"No," he whispers. "Fred would be the one on the ladder." The I-would-be-the-one-in-the-ground is silent, but she hears it loud and clear just the same. Her heart twists and pounds painfully in her chest and she gulps, the warm air that was so comforting moments ago completely stifling her.
"Ron," she very nearly sobs at his profile, willing him to face her.
"Don't look at me like that," he whispers. It is very clearly a challenge, and she takes it.
"Like what?" she asks. She doesn't bother to attempt the Weasley eyebrow-raise that should accompany the question. He isn't looking at her, and she couldn't pull it off anyway.
"I don't know," he admits. "Just don't." He turns his head even further in the other direction and wipes his eyes with the back of his freckled hand. "I don't know how to do this," he repeats.
"I could climb the ladder, if that would make it easier," she offers. It's not a good joke, but he manages to breathe out half a laugh anyway.
"I deserve that, I guess," he mutters.
She thinks about the last time they sat like this, side by side, and had a difficult conversation. She thinks about that night all the time, and she thinks about it again now, and she forces herself to be brave – as brave as he was – and she takes his left hand in her right and leans further against him, resting her head against his shoulder.
It's silly, considering they are the best-friends-plus-maybe-more and they have already shared a kiss where he quite literally lifted her off her feet in the middle of a battleground, but this is somehow the most heart-racing and intimate thing she has ever done.
"You're warm," he comments, a smile growing on his profile, and he threads their fingers together. She heats further at the contact.
"It's warm out," she responds, hesitantly.
"It was warm in Tinworth, too," he challenges.
"Not this warm," she argues, because it feels wonderful to argue with him. His voice is still rough with emotion and she knows there is nothing she can do to fix this for him, but this is a start.
"No, not this warm," he concedes- more a I-will-let-this-go-for-now than a you-are-right. It's enough for her.
"New dress?" he rasps. He isn't looking at her, which is probably for the best. She blushes.
"New to me," she admits. "Fleur brought it over this morning. Most of my things had to be tossed, after everything."
"You should keep it. You look great," he says softly, bravely.
The compliment is new and overwhelming.
"Thanks," she whispers back. "You do too," she forces out, because he does. He has gained a few pounds since the end of it all, and he is so freckled from the sun he is almost tan, and he is alive (and really, it is only the last one that matters).
He huffs, as if he doesn't believe her, but he doesn't protest. In fact, he runs his thumb along the back of her hand and squeezes her fingers within his own, and really, it feels like the exact opposite of protesting. She gasps a little at the contact, and he turns to look at her, searching. She doesn't know what it is he is looking for on the planes of her face, but she hopes very much that he finds it.
"Is this ok?" he asks, meeting her eyes, clasping their palms even closer together.
"Yes," she insists. "Of course," she adds, because she can't bear the thought of him doubting this. She may not know what this is, but she knows that she wants it desperately, and she worries that maybe he doesn't know that - but she doesn't know how to tell him.
"I'm not really good at this, either," he says. It sounds like an admission of guilt, although what for she has no idea.
"I beg to differ," she counters. Again.
"That's kind of you," he chuckles. "False, but kind of you."
She shrugs in response. "Maybe I'm just misunderstanding what you mean by this," she says, because that is possible. If she doesn't know quite what the word means to her, how could she know what it means to him?
He is still staring down at her, that inquisitive look on his face. He must find what he is seeking, finally, for he lifts their joined palms and presses a kiss to the back of hand.
Oh.
His lips linger on her skin far longer than necessary to get his point across, and when he finally ends the contact he keeps her hand close enough to his mouth that she can feel his warm breath on the damp imprint he has left behind. She shivers, despite (or perhaps because of) the heat that flows through her at the gesture.
And then he raises a single eyebrow.
"Is that what this is?" she breathes, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage she has left within her to maintain eye contact.
It is difficult to do. His eyes are breathtaking.
"This is whatever you want it to be," he says, lowering their hands and separating them so he can rub his palm nervously on his trousers. "I mean it," he says, unnecessarily, because she can tell that what he says is true, "Literally, whatever. You are - this is -" he shakes his head, as if the action will help the words he is desperately seeking come to the surface, and looks away.
She turns to face him, folding her feet underneath herself and pressing her knees against his thigh, raising herself to as close to his eye level as she can manage. She runs her own hands down the skirt of her borrowed dress, smoothing it across her lap. His eyes follow her movement and he gulps noticeably.
Oh.
She reaches up to place her left palm against the right side of his face, turning him towards her again. He is warm, so warm, and his cheek is rough with stubble, and he must be able to tell that she is shaking, but he doesn't seem to mind.
He doesn't seem to mind at all.
"I want this," she says, "with you," and she is so glad she continued, because she actually watches his eyes darken with the last two words she says and he wraps his palm around her shoulder and tugs her toward him, gently, meeting her halfway to close the distance between them.
She sighs into him. His lips are pressed against her own, warm and insistent, and she shivers yet again, overwhelmed. Her last coherent thought is that she may not have the words to describe this, this thing they are becoming that causes her heart to balloon wonderfully in her chest, but that's quite all right- no - more than all right, for now.