FIC: Filling a Void
Title: Filling a Void
Author: luvscharlie
Pairing: George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Rating: R
Word Count: 1037
Prompt: 35. Sometimes she thinks it's a little fucked up she married his twin.
Content Information/Warnings: language, depressive tone, pregnancy, 2nd person POV
Summary: Angelina always thought she'd marry Fred Weasley, but when Fred was no longer an option, she finds herself caught in what feels like a chain reaction that she just can't step away from.
Author's Notes: I planned for dysfunction, but I really didn't plan to be so depressing. Thank you K for the beta and making this far, far better than it was! *mwah*
You know it's a bad idea the minute George Weasley asks you to go out with him. He smells of bad gin and body odour. You wonder when he last bathed, and he certainly hasn't shaved in ages from the growth on his face. It's two months since the Battle of Hogwarts and pity is the driving force behind your acceptance. At least at first.
Maybe you accept because of the three months prior to the Battle that you spent fucking Fred Weasley, and maybe loving him a little bit-- though you won't let yourself admit it was more than just a little--and that fucking frenzy of feelings left you wondering what to do with yourself. You need to fuck away his memory, find some random man and feel him drive himself into you until that's all you feel. But that's not an option. You've certainly tried it enough, and when the fucking is over, you still have all the feelings and none of the relief. You're pretty sure no one else will ever understand what you need.
But there is George. George is probably the only person in the entire world who knows the loss you're feeling, because the hole in his heart matches the hole in yours. So you agree to see him. Only once. Just once. That's all.
And one time turns into another.
But it should have stopped with drunken fucking and late night takeaway where you talk about Fred and miss him together, sometimes crying as George thrusts into you, and sometimes drying his tears as you straddle his hips. It really should have stopped there...
Only it doesn't.
There are times you hate him and times you know he hates you-- you are the replacement, just as he is, and the replacement never measures up. You both loved and hated one another equally.
It should have ended there, but like a train set on a collision course, you continue. Fucking and crying and wishing you were with someone else. Or dead. Sometimes you wish you were, and you know George wishes the same.
***
The day of your wedding, you look at him at the altar and wonder what the hell you're both doing. This wasn't meant to be forever. None of it was. It was temporary, but "I Do" was permanent, and since the world didn't end for either of you that sad day in May, you think you have to keep moving forward. This seemed the next logical step in lives that no longer made sense or had direction. It's not that George isn't a good person. He is. Most people would be elated to be marrying him. But you stopped feeling anything a long time ago, and you're pretty sure he did too.
Your wedding night, you fuck him hard and say the word love that you really don't feel, and hope that when you're finished and he's sleeping you didn't slip and call him Fred. It's happened before. In the heat of passion, if passion truly exists in your lives anymore, he's never called you the wrong name. He's never called you anything at all during sex.
***
You have months of sex and drunken evenings and the shop, where you spend your endless days.
Then one day you realise that you really don't grieve anymore. The months have lessened the pain. You wish Fred had made it, but it doesn't hurt you like it hurts George. You didn't have as long to love him. For George the wound is still fresh, with no scar tissue to make the days easier. For you, time has lessened the hurt and formed a thin barrier across it.
You are almost normal again. You look at your marriage and are ready to get out. George is a perfectly nice bloke, and you wish him well with no desire to cause him more pain, but life moves on and you want to move with it. You are done with days in the rain, and are looking for some sunlight to warm your face. You are ready to step outside your marriage when the news comes.
You're pregnant. Pregnant. You still can't wrap your head around that word. Four months along and you never had a clue. All ready to walk away and on to something better and now you're going to be someone's mum.
***
Trapped. Pregnant. The words are synonymous. You could walk away and raise the baby on your own, but you made the mistake of telling George, and you watched the way his eyes lit up. And now you're pregnant and trapped. You can't take away the one thing to give him pleasure in ages.
As your belly grows, so does George's excitement. He's almost the old George again. Almost. You notice how his mother smiles at the change, and how she pats your shoulder, like you've done this miraculous thing and given her son back. At least one of her sons; the one still breathing.
And you can't disappoint them all; the Weasleys have been too kind to you for that. So you plaster a smile on your face, and you stick it out.
When the baby is born, you are excited to hold her. She is all flailing feet and dark skin and an abundance of hair. And she's yours and somehow that matters more than you thought it would.
"We'll name her Fred," George says, as if that's the biggest joke of all.
You look and are surprised to see he's serious. You should protest. What kind of a name is "Fred" for a little girl? You're her mother. You owe her a decent name. Only when she looks at you there's a twinkle in her eye, almost like she approves of the unconventional name. Like there's nothing about her that will ever be conventional and you're glad of that. And somehow when you say it, hear the name roll off your tongue, you know it's right. It fits her.
As the time passes, you hope the fucked up-ness of it all will lessen. But who are you kidding? It's been pretty fucked up all along. And it probably isn't changing any time soon.
The End.
*Additional Author's Note: I have wanted to write this fic ever since a conversation with a fandom friend years ago about how she always wondered why people assumed "Fred" would be a boy, as it would be just like George to name his daughter Fred. It stuck with me. He would totally do that.
Author: luvscharlie
Pairing: George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Rating: R
Word Count: 1037
Prompt: 35. Sometimes she thinks it's a little fucked up she married his twin.
Content Information/Warnings: language, depressive tone, pregnancy, 2nd person POV
Summary: Angelina always thought she'd marry Fred Weasley, but when Fred was no longer an option, she finds herself caught in what feels like a chain reaction that she just can't step away from.
Author's Notes: I planned for dysfunction, but I really didn't plan to be so depressing. Thank you K for the beta and making this far, far better than it was! *mwah*
You know it's a bad idea the minute George Weasley asks you to go out with him. He smells of bad gin and body odour. You wonder when he last bathed, and he certainly hasn't shaved in ages from the growth on his face. It's two months since the Battle of Hogwarts and pity is the driving force behind your acceptance. At least at first.
Maybe you accept because of the three months prior to the Battle that you spent fucking Fred Weasley, and maybe loving him a little bit-- though you won't let yourself admit it was more than just a little--and that fucking frenzy of feelings left you wondering what to do with yourself. You need to fuck away his memory, find some random man and feel him drive himself into you until that's all you feel. But that's not an option. You've certainly tried it enough, and when the fucking is over, you still have all the feelings and none of the relief. You're pretty sure no one else will ever understand what you need.
But there is George. George is probably the only person in the entire world who knows the loss you're feeling, because the hole in his heart matches the hole in yours. So you agree to see him. Only once. Just once. That's all.
And one time turns into another.
But it should have stopped with drunken fucking and late night takeaway where you talk about Fred and miss him together, sometimes crying as George thrusts into you, and sometimes drying his tears as you straddle his hips. It really should have stopped there...
Only it doesn't.
There are times you hate him and times you know he hates you-- you are the replacement, just as he is, and the replacement never measures up. You both loved and hated one another equally.
It should have ended there, but like a train set on a collision course, you continue. Fucking and crying and wishing you were with someone else. Or dead. Sometimes you wish you were, and you know George wishes the same.
***
The day of your wedding, you look at him at the altar and wonder what the hell you're both doing. This wasn't meant to be forever. None of it was. It was temporary, but "I Do" was permanent, and since the world didn't end for either of you that sad day in May, you think you have to keep moving forward. This seemed the next logical step in lives that no longer made sense or had direction. It's not that George isn't a good person. He is. Most people would be elated to be marrying him. But you stopped feeling anything a long time ago, and you're pretty sure he did too.
Your wedding night, you fuck him hard and say the word love that you really don't feel, and hope that when you're finished and he's sleeping you didn't slip and call him Fred. It's happened before. In the heat of passion, if passion truly exists in your lives anymore, he's never called you the wrong name. He's never called you anything at all during sex.
***
You have months of sex and drunken evenings and the shop, where you spend your endless days.
Then one day you realise that you really don't grieve anymore. The months have lessened the pain. You wish Fred had made it, but it doesn't hurt you like it hurts George. You didn't have as long to love him. For George the wound is still fresh, with no scar tissue to make the days easier. For you, time has lessened the hurt and formed a thin barrier across it.
You are almost normal again. You look at your marriage and are ready to get out. George is a perfectly nice bloke, and you wish him well with no desire to cause him more pain, but life moves on and you want to move with it. You are done with days in the rain, and are looking for some sunlight to warm your face. You are ready to step outside your marriage when the news comes.
You're pregnant. Pregnant. You still can't wrap your head around that word. Four months along and you never had a clue. All ready to walk away and on to something better and now you're going to be someone's mum.
***
Trapped. Pregnant. The words are synonymous. You could walk away and raise the baby on your own, but you made the mistake of telling George, and you watched the way his eyes lit up. And now you're pregnant and trapped. You can't take away the one thing to give him pleasure in ages.
As your belly grows, so does George's excitement. He's almost the old George again. Almost. You notice how his mother smiles at the change, and how she pats your shoulder, like you've done this miraculous thing and given her son back. At least one of her sons; the one still breathing.
And you can't disappoint them all; the Weasleys have been too kind to you for that. So you plaster a smile on your face, and you stick it out.
When the baby is born, you are excited to hold her. She is all flailing feet and dark skin and an abundance of hair. And she's yours and somehow that matters more than you thought it would.
"We'll name her Fred," George says, as if that's the biggest joke of all.
You look and are surprised to see he's serious. You should protest. What kind of a name is "Fred" for a little girl? You're her mother. You owe her a decent name. Only when she looks at you there's a twinkle in her eye, almost like she approves of the unconventional name. Like there's nothing about her that will ever be conventional and you're glad of that. And somehow when you say it, hear the name roll off your tongue, you know it's right. It fits her.
As the time passes, you hope the fucked up-ness of it all will lessen. But who are you kidding? It's been pretty fucked up all along. And it probably isn't changing any time soon.
The End.
*Additional Author's Note: I have wanted to write this fic ever since a conversation with a fandom friend years ago about how she always wondered why people assumed "Fred" would be a boy, as it would be just like George to name his daughter Fred. It stuck with me. He would totally do that.