Uncomfortable, R, Remus/Tonks
Remus/Tonks ficlette. (Yes, I know it's really ficlet. :P)
Title: Uncomfortable
Summary: "Some things are not enough, though she wishes they were."
Rating: R, for use of the f-word. Other than that, PG.
Word Count: 525
Notes/Warnings: Kingsley/Tonks, Remus/Tonks
Some things are not enough, though she wishes they were.
She knows that probably he is right for her-they are so much alike, after all, in their own ways. What matters to her matters always to him: life, death, questions. He likes the shade of her hair, and when she asks which shade? he says, all shades, and kisses her, and yes, she feels amazing, and she is supposed to want this. Since she was young she was supposed to want this, but she's not young anymore. She's seen broken bones, broken bodies, broken hearts, and no one can tell her what she wants anymore, not even herself.
It's not that she doesn't feel anything for him, but everything she feels for him is old. She knows these loves like she knows the back of her hand. She's tired of being comfortable. He's like a pair of old trainers-brilliant, brilliant and good-but after a while they lose support. After a while you begin to outgrow them.
So she goes, one night, in the rain and the thunder, to another house that she's all too familiar with. Her hair is brown today, and it is wet and clinging to her face, and she is filled with doubt, which is somehow amazing. When he opens the door, his face is haggard, as it always is.
What are you doing here? he asks. He is wearing a sweater vest-an actual sweater vest, honestly!-and it is diamond patterned, and is he really this old? The book in his hand is Oliver Twist, for fuck's sake; a fogey book if there ever was one.
I don't know, she says. She can see him begin to piece the facts together, as though he is examining her with a microscope and sticking her back together with tweezers, and she notices a new scar on his arm, probably from the last transformation.
Did you two break up? he asks tentatively.
Yes. And then, No.
You have to explain to me, he tells her, looking at her hard. I'm not going to jump to conclusions.
And he wouldn't, would he? He wouldn't; he's not that kind-and yet she sees the look in his eyes that she's seen before, and understood before, and forever that look has haunted her, because it's so strange on his face-out of place but somehow logical.
I found someone better. He is supposed to ask her who, but he won't, so she says impatiently, You.
He looks at her with a strange mixture of hope and trepidation as he says, I'm too old for you. You know that.
Don't be an idiot, she tells him, because she has seen young boys tortured and old men killed and she can change her face to be eighteen or eighty and age is meaningless to her. He swallows.
I don't have adventures. Once a month I go and claw myself to pieces. That's enough adventure for me.
Don't worry, she says, flashing a smile at him. He has laugh lines around his eyes, and his hair is half-gray, but she wants to try him on, and she has a feeling he'll never fit quite right, which is a thrilling prospect. Don't worry, she says again. I'm insane enough for the both of us.
Title: Uncomfortable
Summary: "Some things are not enough, though she wishes they were."
Rating: R, for use of the f-word. Other than that, PG.
Word Count: 525
Notes/Warnings: Kingsley/Tonks, Remus/Tonks
Some things are not enough, though she wishes they were.
She knows that probably he is right for her-they are so much alike, after all, in their own ways. What matters to her matters always to him: life, death, questions. He likes the shade of her hair, and when she asks which shade? he says, all shades, and kisses her, and yes, she feels amazing, and she is supposed to want this. Since she was young she was supposed to want this, but she's not young anymore. She's seen broken bones, broken bodies, broken hearts, and no one can tell her what she wants anymore, not even herself.
It's not that she doesn't feel anything for him, but everything she feels for him is old. She knows these loves like she knows the back of her hand. She's tired of being comfortable. He's like a pair of old trainers-brilliant, brilliant and good-but after a while they lose support. After a while you begin to outgrow them.
So she goes, one night, in the rain and the thunder, to another house that she's all too familiar with. Her hair is brown today, and it is wet and clinging to her face, and she is filled with doubt, which is somehow amazing. When he opens the door, his face is haggard, as it always is.
What are you doing here? he asks. He is wearing a sweater vest-an actual sweater vest, honestly!-and it is diamond patterned, and is he really this old? The book in his hand is Oliver Twist, for fuck's sake; a fogey book if there ever was one.
I don't know, she says. She can see him begin to piece the facts together, as though he is examining her with a microscope and sticking her back together with tweezers, and she notices a new scar on his arm, probably from the last transformation.
Did you two break up? he asks tentatively.
Yes. And then, No.
You have to explain to me, he tells her, looking at her hard. I'm not going to jump to conclusions.
And he wouldn't, would he? He wouldn't; he's not that kind-and yet she sees the look in his eyes that she's seen before, and understood before, and forever that look has haunted her, because it's so strange on his face-out of place but somehow logical.
I found someone better. He is supposed to ask her who, but he won't, so she says impatiently, You.
He looks at her with a strange mixture of hope and trepidation as he says, I'm too old for you. You know that.
Don't be an idiot, she tells him, because she has seen young boys tortured and old men killed and she can change her face to be eighteen or eighty and age is meaningless to her. He swallows.
I don't have adventures. Once a month I go and claw myself to pieces. That's enough adventure for me.
Don't worry, she says, flashing a smile at him. He has laugh lines around his eyes, and his hair is half-gray, but she wants to try him on, and she has a feeling he'll never fit quite right, which is a thrilling prospect. Don't worry, she says again. I'm insane enough for the both of us.