Hello! It's been years since the last time I wrote about my otp. Looking through some old files I found the beginning of this story and I couldn't remember why I stopped writing it. So, I'm doing that now. I hope you enjoy.
She makes a habit of noticing newcomers. Maybe it is all the training, finally kicking in. Maybe she is just observant that way.
The first time he comes, there is nothing strange about him, but for the fact that he sits facing the window, his back to the dining room. People who come alone usually do the opposite.
The man orders the day's special and a beer, and eats quickly while reading a book. That is unusual, too. He leaves right after finishing, with a polite "thank you". Nothing really extraordinary. But then, the small bistro is full of such clients. People on their lunch breaks, quickly eating something and rushing back to work.
When he comes for a third time, in her mind he becomes a regular. It's always nice to have decent people who would not try to flirt with her or to be rude to the staff for no particular reason.
"Special of the day and a beer?" she smiles at him, while quickly cleaning the table with a damp cloth. He looks at her, a bit surprised, and she has the impression this is the first time he is properly looking at her. For a second she braces herself, ready for the lame opening line or the joke, but there comes none.
"I didn't realise I'm that predictable," he says instead.
"It's my business to remember these things," she replies, and he nods, with a shadow of a smile.
He doesn't come every day. Sometimes he'd be there three times in a row. Then, absent for a couple of days, then another day, then nothing. She wonders now why she is noticing this man in particular. What is it that makes him remarkable above the other patrons of the bistro? She doesn't know, but she catches herself, more often than not, glancing at him. Checking that everything is alright with his order, that he doesn't need anything else, or even trying to read the title of the book he's reading. It's always a different one.
Except for a bit of small talk when he places his order, and a murmured "thank you" before leaving, he is silent. She knows that's for the best, ten times preferable to loud clients, but she is intrigued. Still, she doesn't want to appear as the average annoying, chatty waitress, so she is silent, too.
One week he doesn't show up five days in a row and she can't help but wonder. Is he away, on holiday or on business? Or has he decided to go to eat somewhere else? That thought makes her a little sad, for no particular reason.
On Monday he is back, though, and the dark circles under his eyes and how pale he looks, make evident that he must have been ill.
Silently, she places the hot plates in front of him and hastens to go back to the kitchen, fighting to hide her blush.
"Er… excuse me."
She turns around, is he going to get mad at her?
"I didn't order onion soup," he says, looking at the steaming plate next to his usual dish.
"It's on the house," she says and she has to make an effort to meet his eyes. Brown or grey, she can't be sure.
"Oh-"
"You look as if you need it," she blurts, and before he can ask any further, or she can say… anything, she turns around again. She hears his hoarse "thanks", though, and it's warmer than everything he's said so far. She beams even though he cannot see it.
She was busy by the time he left, and she is sad to find just the empty plates. Somebody else took care of the bill in her absence. Still, it felt nice to do something for him. The owner will take that plate of soup out of her wages, but it was worth it.
A couple of weeks pass by. She would very much like to say she doesn't notice him more than any other customer, but that's not true. In the middle of whatever she might be doing – carrying plates, taking an order, bantering with a colleague – she always notices the moment he enters through the door, even though he's ever so silent. And she will be next to his table as soon as humanly possible, racking her brains for something to say, and failing. Every time.
Until she gets her opportunity.
"Hello," he says and sits on what has become his usual table.
"Hi," she says brightly.
He points at the blackboard and both know there is no need because he always orders what's written on it. Only this time-
"Can I…" she hesitates. Her voice drops and she gets a little closer than what professionalism asks for. "I wouldn't advise today's special."
He raises his eyebrows. "How come?"
She fidgets with her sleeve. "Don't get me wrong. The cook is very decent but… we all make mistakes from time to time."
"And today was a day for mistakes?"
"Well… some people are partial to stone-dry chicken. I'm not one of them."
"Neither am I," he says, smiling. She can't help but smile back. "Thanks. What would you advise, then?"
She is suddenly and inexplicably nervous. "Pasta?" She doesn't want to suggest anything too pricey. He doesn't look like the sort of bloke that carries loads of galleons.
"All right," he looks down the menu. "What do you think of the carbonara?"
She smiles at him. "Good choice."
He smiles back, and this time it reaches his eyes. Grey. "I'll have that, then."
"All right."
When she comes back with the bill, he pays, as usual, only pausing to tell her it was very good. She grins and is about to turn around when he speaks again.
"Er… What's your name?"
Inexplicably, she feels nervous.
"It's… call me Tonks. What's yours?"
"I'm Remus."
He doesn't offer his hand to shake, so she nods. "Nice to meet you, Remus. See you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow." And with that he goes, leaving her to wonder if the heat in her face is normal.
He keeps on coming, and she is a little disappointed that his demeanour towards her hasn't really changed, except for the fact that he adds the "Tonks" after his usual "Hello". She can't for the life of her, tell what exactly is she expecting, but she feels frustrated. Of course, she could always start a conversation, but she doesn't really know what to say that doesn't sound intrusive. So, some silly remarks about the hot weather are the most she manages.
One day he doesn't come for lunch, but that's not strange. Way past the rush hour she is enjoying the relative tranquillity and catching up with some reading when the door opens, and she jerks her head to look at him, looking a bit uncertain at the almost empty place. He sees her and smiles; she can't help but beam back at him.
He walks to the counter and stands in front of her, looking uncertain. "Hello, Tonks."
"Hi, Remus."
"I suppose it is a little bit late for lunch…" he trails off.
"It is," she nods. "Kitchens close at three. I can offer you a sandwich though..."
He looks disappointed. And hungry.
"Let me see if there's still something I can get you." She adds, and he smiles.
"Would you do that?"
"I'll see," she emphasises. "I can't promise you anything."
"Fair enough. Silly of me to come this late."
"I'm glad you did anyway." He looks at her and smiles and she feels very foolish. What is she thinking?
Leaving the book she was reading open over the counter, she hurries to the kitchen.
She has to talk to the cook for a while until she manages to convince him to serve a plate of some of the remaining meatballs. Tonks suspects he'd wanted to take them home for supper, but she doesn't really care.
When she comes back, she is glad to see Remus is not sitting at his usual table, but he has taken one of the high stools at the counter, right where she left him. And he's reading her book.
He beams at the sight of the meatballs. "Thank you very much."
She can't help but beam, too, noticing how much she likes it when his smile reaches his eyes. "Don't tell the others though," she looks around as if it is a great secret they're sharing, and he gives a chortle.
"I'll take the secret to my grave."
She smiles.
"A little bit worried about burglars?" He says, and it takes her a moment to realise that he's talking about the book. A very deep guide to nonverbal hexes and countercourses.
"No. I'm just doing a spot of studying before training starts again in September."
"Training?"
"Third-year Auror training." She always feels proud when she has to talk about what she does.
Remus whistles softly. "Very impressive."
"Thanks. This is a part-time job. The owner is a friend of my dad, and decent enough to cope with changing my hours from time to time."
"And do you manage to keep on working while training?"
She shrugs. "Have to. Who's going to pay the bills otherwise?"
He nods and resumes eating.
"Forgot your beer, sorry," she says, glad that there is something she can do other than look at him.
"Have one with me," he suddenly says, and she could swear it's him who's blushing a little now.
"I shouldn't. I'm not supposed to drink while on the job."
"Right. Glass of water?" he suggests.
She looks around again. "That's two secrets you're taking to your grave."
"You have my word."
It's a miracle she manages to get back without dropping the contents of the pint and her glass of water. Why is it that it makes her nervous to finally get the chance to talk to this man?
"Cheers!" he says, and both clink their glasses. This time she does drop some of it, but he doesn't say a thing and she cleans it as fast as she can. After a generous gulp, she takes the stool they keep at the other side of the counter, and sits in front of him.
"Am I distracting you from your reading?" he asks.
"I can use a break," she replies. "Thanks."
"The least I can do," he points at the food on his plate and she doesn't know if she ought to feel disappointed for the fact that he might have offered just as thanks, and not necessarily because he wanted to share a beer with her. "So, you must know Alastor Moody, then," he says out of the blue.
"Who in the Law Enforcement Squad doesn't?" she replies.
"Is he still in the habit of hexing first and asking questions later?"
She chuckles. "I'd show you the scars, but you're eating."
Now he really laughs. "He's a good man, Moody. Did you have the chance to get trained by him?"
The chance indeed. "You can tell. He's sort of my… well… Can you say somebody is your mentor if said person is trying to kill you every couple of days?"
Remus seems to consider the question.
"I'd say that's the trait of a very good mentor."
"Oh well," she smiles. "Then, he's my mentor. For better or worse. How come do you know him?"
"Oh, life," he says dismissively. "He's a very known name in some circles."
"Which circles are those?"
He sighs. "I might as well get out with it and give you some room to run away. I'm a werewolf."
He doesn't look at her. His eyes are on the plate, and he seems to take a long time to put some food on his fork. And it takes her some time, too, to realise she is supposed to say anything.
"I'd never have guessed." She manages. And it's the truth.
He takes the bite and looks at her. "Not all of us wear rags."
"No, I suppose not… wait. That's why you were ill! Three weeks ago?"
This time he manages a tense smile. "Yes. I was lucky most of it was during the weekend. My boss didn't find out, but I was very tired the day you brought that soup. It was exactly what I needed."
She doesn't know what to say. He takes a long sip from his glass, and for a moment it seems as if he's miles away.
"You're not running away," he finally says.
"Should I?"
"Most people do. I've even been politely asked to leave a restaurant once."
Tonks feels uncomfortable. Would her boss kick Remus out because he is a werewolf? She hopes he won't.
"I'm not running away. But why say it, then?" she asks. "Most people wouldn't know."
Remus shrugs. "Why indeed."
He stays silent and she doesn't know what to say or how to get rid of the sudden uncomfortable atmosphere that seems to surround them.
"So, what do you do?" she finally asks, afraid of the stretching silence.
"I'm… I work at a muggle shop. Right around the corner of the Leaky Cauldron. I'm lucky I can come here to eat."
"Is it better than working for wizards?"
He sighs. "Easier. If I'm ill too frequently, say once a month, it takes muggles more time to realise something's fishy. Wizards are more aware of such patterns." He takes the last sip of his beer. "I can barely remember the last time I'd worked for magic folk, to be honest."
"I'm sorry," she says, not knowing if it's the right thing to say.
"Don't be." And just like that, he's on his feet. With a small smile, he takes some sickles from his pocket and leaves them on the table. "Goodbye, Tonks. Thanks very much."
"Bye, Remus."
She feels a tad uncomfortable, not about him being a werewolf, although if she is honest with herself, the thought is a little disturbing. She thinks that, somehow, she's said the wrong thing, only she can't tell exactly when.