A Bit Unhealthy

Of all the stupid things George has done in his life, sleeping with Angelina Johnson definitely rates as the very stupidest. And yet somehow they are slowly working past it. Their old camaraderie is gone and over and he deeply regrets that, but she's started to drop by the shop for a bit every few days. They're slowly getting used to each other again.

She's bored stiff at home, he gathers. Misses her job on the Isle of Man. She's taken to shopping and watching her mum's Muggle picture box and hanging about with various girlfriends. For a girl as driven and focused as Angelina (painful memories of his brief time under her Quidditch Captaincy come to mind), it's got to be frustrating to have so little to do.

Although maybe she's also preparing for the baby. He wouldn't know. He doesn't ask. Whenever he thinks about the baby, he fills with dread and regret and shame, so he tries to think about it as little as possible. She doesn't seem to want to talk about it with him either. He can't blame her.

If only he hadn't slept with her. If it was unquestionably Fred's child she was expecting, her pregnancy might even have felt like a positive thing, as if part of Fred had lived on. And he would've wanted to be there for Fred's kid, no question, and Angelina would've probably welcomed his help.

And if it was unquestionably his own child, he'd... Merlin, he'd feel buggered six ways to Sunday and in a state of constant panic over it, but he'd be involved.

As it is, he just tries to not think about it.

He tells himself that the shop isn't really the right place to talk about the baby, either, what with hordes of people constantly coming in and out and shrieking and buzzing and clanging and small children turning into all sorts of alarming things and parents overreacting to their children turning into all sorts of alarming things.

The shop isn't the right place to talk about anything serious, really. Which is nice when Angelina first starts coming around, as they sort of overdid serious in the last few months. But eventually seeing her only in the shop starts to get on his nerves.

The fourth time she drops by, for example, she's just discovered the Emu Enemas and is laughing her head off, and he's thinking it's been a long time since he's heard any of his friends or family really laugh - or felt like joining in - when a customer barges in, loudly complaining about a runaway violent Bellatrix Pygmy Puff. He tries to put the man off, to no avail. The man's an idiot; the box very clearly said BellaPuffs Are Not Pets, but he's full of righteous indignation and George feels Fred's absence like a dull ache. It was bloody unnerving, they'd been told, when they stood side by side and combined finishing each others' sentences with speaking at the same time. They used it to full effect with belligerent customers, and it worked like a charm.

He can't do that any more. He tries tact, he tries reason, he tries to give the customer his money back, and then he politely suggests that the man do something physically improbable, painful, and potentially unhygienic. As the man splutters, George politely asks him to leave. And not darken his doorstep again, thank you.

By the time the idiot leaves, Angelina's got to go home. Her mum is expecting her for dinner.

The sixth time she drops by, she mentions missing her job and he hesitates for a moment and then asks her if she's going to go back to work after the baby's born. They can't exactly ignore the topic forever.

"I don't know," she says after an awkward pause. "Maybe. Mum wants me to put it in day care when it's old enough."

"Day care? I didn't know there were any wizarding ones in London."

"Muggle day care."

He doesn't really have anything else to say about that.

ooo000ooo

Angelina's stopped by just as the shop is closing for the day and George is getting ready to head upstairs.

"Don't you ever go out?" she asks curiously.

"Where would I go?" he asks tiredly, wiping down canary-yellow residue on a cauldron.

"Fred told me you two used to go out in the Alley after work sometimes," she says. "He missed that, when you were holed up at your aunt's."

George sighs. "Me and Fred used to be two people running the shop, and we still hardly ever got out. It was bloody exhausting then. It's more so now."

"The shop's doing well, though," she says. "And I thought Ron and Percy were helping."

"They are," George admits. "A lot. And so's Lee, when he's home. Still really time-consuming, though." The cauldron sighs with satisfaction as George finishes cleaning it, and he quickly glances over all the ongoing projects, makes sure everything is secured for the night. "Besides, there's nowhere I want to go."

"Where's Lee tonight?" Angelina asks as George locks the lab for the night.

"Covering a game in Wales. Back tomorrow." And for only the second time since he moved in with George right after the war, Lee is away and neither Ron nor Percy have a suspiciously convenient excuse to ask to stay at his flat. He's not sure whether to be amused, relieved, or saddened.

"Can I come up?" asks Angelina.

"Oh. Erm. Sure."

They go upstairs, and he putters about getting her tea and something light to eat. It strikes him that perhaps he ought to know what pregnant women like to eat, but he doesn't. It also strikes him that they're chatting a little too politely, and he wonders at it. Though their friendship was undeniably strained almost to breaking, this stilted carefulness between them has been wearing down recently in the shop. What's going on, then?

Possibly the fact that this is the first time she's been up here since... well.

He gets her some biscuits and a herbal tea he knows she likes, then glances around the living room and flicks his wand about to make it look a little less like two overworked single blokes live here. Lee's neon yellow socks cheerfully fly off the coffee table and into the room that used to be Fred's.

He brings her the biscuits and tea and reflects that it's a little weird that, despite the fact that he sees evidence of the fact that they had sex whenever he sees her, he's not that conscious of her as a girl most of the time. Probably too bloody tired and distracted to think of anybody that way, really. When you're spending a great deal of your time trying to run something that once required two very energetic people to give it their all and all you've got is your own exhausted self, often bleakly wondering whether the effort is even worth it, thoughts of sex don't, amazingly, come up often. Sure, he's had a couple vague dreams about her, but what little he remembers of their one night together didn't make that big an impact on him.

Sexually, that is. It definitely made a hell of an impact on his self-esteem. The fear that the shop might fail is nothing; Fred would've understood. Fred might have let it fail himself, if he'd been the one to survive; he was better at organization, but freely admitted that he wasn't quite as creative as George was. But Fred had asked one thing, just one thing, of George, Just In Case: take care of Angelina. And George had fucked up. Literally.

So, naughty thoughts about Angelina? Not high on his agenda right now.

And at that precise moment she pauses in the middle of a story about some Muggle music band, her face animated, sitting closer to him than he's used to - on the same plaid and polka dotted couch they were on that night - with no shop counter or customers or Verity or Ron between them, and he's suddenly conscious of her. He's very aware of her slightly cinnamony scent, and it's disturbing. He doesn't want to be aware of it, doesn't want the almost immediate visceral reaction to her and the sensations and memories that crowd through him. Groans and whispers in the dark, the relief of feeling something that wasn't sorrow, the mindless drunken bliss of losing himself in her.

The shame that flooded him the next day, the disgust and regret and anger. At himself, at her... even at Fred, for pushing them together by his death.

He bites his lip and looks away, telling himself to get a grip. Glances at her and sees her looking right back at him, and his heart skips a beat.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice low, and God, no, there is no way he can tell her, but for all that he and Fred were accomplished liars, he can't think of a thing to say right now.

He's remained silent too long; she knows what he was feeling, and if she didn't before, the flush heating his cheeks is surely telling her now. He knows exactly what he looks like when he blushes; he saw Fred blush a few times and there was no absolutely no disguising it, not with their colouring. Fuck.

She puts a hand on his, and he has a brief moment of panic, followed by relief that she's not stalking away in revulsion, before panic sets in again because she's now also moved closer to him. And she's got a complex, hopeful look in her eyes, and against his will he's feeling all the things he told himself he couldn't and didn't feel, not towards her, not without a lot of alcohol or a dose of temporary insanity.

She caresses his hand and his body goes into overdrive, hardening within seconds, nerves singing with anticipation and fear. He feels almost completely helpless as she comes closer to him and lifts one hand to his cheek. No, no no he doesn't want this, she doesn't want this, it's not right, they're both doing it for the wrong reasons, it was fucking hellish afterwards the last time, and he's only ever had sex once and would really very much like to forget it so that if he ever does it again he can just pretend he lost his virginity in a way that wasn't pathetic and shameful but he really won't be able to, will he, if he does it with Angelina, again...

But this feels so good, as she tilts her head slightly and touches her lips to his. She feels warm, she's touching him, and what little he remembers of their one night together had a few completely brilliant parts. And it's so exhausting, feeling almost nothing but sorrow and determination to plod onwards, all the time. Feeling something else is good. She kisses him again and he kisses her back, feeling a disorienting mixture of eagerness and dread, relief and grief.

After a moment he pulls away slightly. She lets him go and looks down. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "We're friends. I don't want to ruin that again."

He rests his forehead against hers. "I don't either."

"I do want you, though," she says simply.

He shakes his head. "No, you don't. You want Fred."

She doesn't insult him by denying it. "You're close enough," she says after a few moments, and somehow the quiet tone of her voice makes it so that words that should repel him just make him sad.

He shakes his head again. "I'm not." He sighs. "Look, last time..."

"Last time we were both drunk. This time we're not."

"I don't much want a repeat of the next morning, Ange."

She doesn't answer, just shakes her head and strokes his hair and he closes his eyes, feeling himself relax into her caress despite his best intentions. And when she brings their lips together again, he goes along with it.

Merlin, he almost feels young again. Like he really is only twenty, with no responsibilities other than those he chooses, instead of worn down and half-dead and well on the way to reluctant fatherhood. Unclehood. Whatever.

Besides, the way his life is going these days, it's going to be a long, long time before he ever gets laid again. The ear has nothing to do with it; if anything, it makes him 'dashing' or something, to birds who care about that sort of thing. But who's going to want a moody, overworked, grim bastard who can't remember what it's like to crack a smile outside of work hours and who hasn't thought of pulling a bird more than once in months?

And it's more than he can do to resist her, as she gently presses up against him and his body responds to hers.

She's probably pretending he's Fred again. Last time, he did too. He can't go there again. But maybe he can pretend he's just some bloke about to get lucky, and that his brother's ghost isn't floating between the two of them right now. And there's no child inside her, no guilt, no bitter certainty that they're both using each other to try to deal with the loss of the one person who would most want them to treat each other better than this...

Fred, I'm sorry, he feels like saying. You didn't have much control around her either, though, remember?

I'm sorry.

She parts her lips and so does he and the heat of her tongue shocks him, and he briefly wonders if he's going to start crying, but then that's gone and he's just feeling. Her braids are slipping through his fingers, and he remembers that from the last time they did this. Her hair is heavy and soft and her lips are warm, and her hands are cool and gentle on his cheek, his back, his arms.

Things are a little different now, though. He can understand what's going on, for one thing, what with being fully sober. And although he was a virgin before her, he's not exactly inexperienced; he does know what to do, up to a point. He kisses her neck, smiling at the moan that escapes her, gently caresses her breast and draws his thumb across the nipple, making her gasp, and doesn't wonder if Fred did the same things with her.

She's kissing the side of his neck and he shivers under her touch and then her hands have slipped under his shirt. He's sober, and so is she, and he can feel her trembling as she slips a finger behind the top button of his trousers and waits for him to nod before undoing it and slipping a hand inside. She nods quickly at his own unspoken request for permission to unbutton her blouse. He draws it off, and there's another rather noticeable difference between then and now. Her eyes are shy as the swell of her belly is revealed.

It's a little hard to not remember the baby when it's poking out at him. Besides, he can't - last time he ended up on top of her, he remembers that much; disjointed images, entering her and taking her lips in a kiss, her neck arching back under him, hands gripping his shoulders - but this time he'll hurt her if he does that. She's either five or six months along, depending on whether the baby's his or Fred's.

She sits up, then pushes him back so that he's half-sitting against the back of the couch. The soft swell of her belly lies between them as she carefully straddles him, and he gasps as she presses up against his groin, the friction sending sparks through him as she draws his shirt off, and a snippet of conversation in a darkened room flits through his memory.

"What, you did it right there, on the bloody peacock rug in Auntie's parlour?" he'd laughed when Fred had told him.

"No, mate," Fred had laughed too, "we were on the couch and she sort of sat on my lap and... Merlin, it was bloody brilliant."

"The flamingo next to the couch would've put me off, to be honest," George had said, sniggering.

And then he's not thinking or remembering any more, at all. They're both hastily removing her trousers and drawing his down and then he's moving with her as she straddles him again and he slips inside her, groaning, throwing his head back as she moves over him and makes him feel a dozen sensations that drive everything out of his mind but the magic of the moment. And there's nothing like this in the world, wanking is no substitute, and how he's seriously considered never doing this again with anybody is incomprehensible. One hand cups a firm breast and the other cradles the back of her head, and he kisses her deeply, moaning as she tightens her muscles around him and threads her fingers through his hair, her lips caressing his.

Angelina bites her lip and then cries out, and he cries out with her, thrusting up into her and his climax rushes through him and leaves him shaking.

He leans back against the back of the couch, chest heaving, Angelina's weight and warmth surrounding him, her scent still filling his senses, her breast heavy in his hand, the roundness of her taut belly between them.

He catches his breath, heartbeat finally slowing down. She sighs, loosening her grip on him, and he glances up at her. Her eyes are downcast, and she's biting her lip.

Merlin no, please not again, he wants to say, but she doesn't look upset, exactly. She glances up at him, then away. Shifts slightly. He tries to suppress a wince - he's always a bit sensitive after coming.

"Oh. Erm, am I too heavy?" she asks nervously.

"What? Oh. No, no not at all," he says quickly.

"I'll... erm." She shifts slightly. "I'll just, erm." She starts to move and he holds still, helping her a bit as she shifts up, sliding off of him.

She sits up, gingerly, takes her wand and murmurs something. His body is cool where she was just resting against him. He bites his lip and looks away from her, their nudity seeming somehow awkward.

She clears her throat. "I should go." He looks at her and she gives him a hesitant smile. "I... I'm supposed to be home not too late, Mum works early tomorrow..." She reaches for their clothing, hands him his shirt, and they start getting dressed again.

"I'll... do you mind, then, if I come by the day after tomorrow?" she asks.

"No. I don't mind."

"All right then," she says, and they finish dressing and head for the door. She hesitates, then quickly gives him a kiss on the cheek before heading down the stairs. He leans against the door of the flat, listening to her footsteps and the sound of the door to the shop being opened. Hears a pause, and two voices at the bottom of the stairs.

Lee.

Oh shit. Lee's home. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow at the earliest. George suddenly feels a little ill. He closes the door of the flat and heads for the kitchen, pouring himself a Firewhiskey with slightly trembling hands.

The front door opens and Lee steps in.

"You're home early," says George, his voice surprisingly steady.

"Yeah, the game took all of twenty seconds," says Lee. "And both Seekers took Bludgers to the head after the game was over, which was weird. Plenty of game analysis, but no interviews."

"Too bad."

"Just met Angelina coming down the stairs."

"Yeah."

Lee comes into the kitchen. "She all right?"

"Yeah."

Lee gives him a measured look, and George feels himself blushing, for the second time in one day.

"You all right?"

George nods, knocks back the Firewhiskey, and heads off. "Bed early. Have to catch sunrise tomorrow for the Dawn Ding-dongs." He goes past Lee.

"George."

Lee's voice is very quiet, but George doesn't stop. "Good night, Lee." He hears Lee blow out his breath in frustration.

He lies down and stares at the ceiling, his heart still beating rapidly and Angelina's scent still lingering about him.

"The flamingo next to the couch would've put me off, to be honest," he'd said, sniggering.

Fred's grin had been so bright it almost hurt to remember it. "Didn't notice the flamingo at all, mate. She just bit her lip and kept quiet, and I was dying to go faster but she was running the show, and I couldn't even say anything, because, you know, what with Auntie Muriel's bedroom being right next--"

"Oh, ugh, don't think I'd ever get it up again if I'd had to think of Auntie Muriel during sex."

"Not a problem. Seriously. Not a problem at all."

Fred had been almost humming with energy for days after Angelina's visit, to George's amusement, and George was amazed that the rest of their family hadn't noticed. Maybe they thought he was just happy to see a friend, any friend, after being cooped up under Auntie Muriel's roof for so long. Or maybe they'd noticed but didn't bother to ask, because he and Fred were highly skilled at not letting anyone know their private business.

Not that it mattered. He'd died a week later.

Two nights. That's all Fred ever got with Angelina. The first night left him uncharacteristically subdued and pensive, because although they'd slept together, they hadn't agreed to anything more permanent or exclusive. The second - more like an evening than a night, actually - at Aunt Muriel's, had left him bright-eyed and almost brimming over with joy and hope that he had valiantly tried to wrestle down. Fred being cautious: a sight George had never thought he'd see.

He had been fairly quiet late that night, after Angelina had left. In their room at Auntie Muriel's, Fred had gone to bed without a word - without even the in-depth account of Angelina's visit that George had expected.

Not that he'd stayed quiet. George had woken up a few hours later to indistinct moans from Fred's side of the room, and immediately thrown a pillow in his direction.

"Oi! Romeo!" Fred had opened his eyes, dazed and obviously still in the grip of whatever Angelina-filled dream he'd been having. "Some of us celibate types are trying to sleep off Auntie's bloody pumpkin stew. Go pull off in the loo." Fred had groaned, eyes flicking towards the door, obviously not eager to leave the bed at this delicate juncture. George snorted. "Fine, cast a bloody silencing spell, then, you tosser." He'd turned over and put a pillow over his head, and it hadn't been terribly long till a pillow hit him back.

"All better now?"

"Much," Fred said brightly.

"So. Spill."

"Just did."

"Ew. I mean, what happened? With Angelina?"

"Told you."

"Details."

And Fred had given them. Vividly and enthusiastically. And concluded with, "And you need to get your leg over."

"Thanks, I gathered that," George said, laughing. "Bit difficult right now. Dunno if you've noticed, but we're in hiding."

Fred waved that away. "Play up the heroic missing ear."

"The only birds I'm in contact with are Owl Order customers, remember? Can't work the ear into an invoice."

"'Course you can. 'If you've enjoyed this fantabulous Wheeze, why not hook up with its creator? Lugless, wanted by the Ministry, and not nearly as handsome as his twin, but-'" Another pillow went flying. Fred was undeterred. "Or you could always try and pull one of Auntie's friends. Most of them can't hear, so you can work the ear angle with them too-"

"Sod off," he'd chuckled. "Wanker."

Fred grinned happily. "Only part-time wanker, mate, as I just got laid, whereas it's a full-time occupation for you. Serious here: you need a girl."

Well, he'd got a girl, George reflects now bitterly. Only five weeks later. The same one as Fred.

He shivers and turns over in bed, closing his eyes and wishing for sleep.

ooo000ooo

The morning after... is not that bad, comparatively speaking. Angelina doesn't disappear from his life again. He kind of wishes he could disappear from his own life, or at least from his conscience, but that's another story.

And then it happens again. Pretty much a replay of the second time. Awkward, exciting, and hell to live with the next day. He tries to tell himself it didn't happen, and even if it did, it doesn't matter.

The fourth time he really can't tell himself that any more. Although denial has become his coping mechanism of choice for many aspects of his life, the fourth time he sleeps with Angelina is different, in that he initiates it.

He's been feeling like warmed-over shit most of the day. The shop insists on switching without notice from a comforting sanctuary where he can actually find life worth living to a fucking technicoloured mausoleum. One that traps him, mocks him with its cheer, with his obligation to keep the smile on for the customers when what he wants most is to hide under his bedcovers until the hurt is gone or maybe just set the entire place on fire. He's walking around without a soul, battered by memories and unfinished sentences, and the shop just keeps whirring and blinking and strobing and shrieking cheerfully on. It's one of those days when every aisle and every corner and every product has a memory of himself and Fred, laughing together and innocently believing that if they just looked at it the right way, anything, no matter how dark, was worth living through. Even with a little brother gone missing, a little sister trapped in a school-turned-insane-asylum, and an entire world in danger from a vicious madman, there was some way to laugh. To reach past the darkness and make what light they could.

He doesn't believe that any more.

The final straw that day is a pair of small siblings, identical curly blond heads bent over a shelf, bursting into delighted laughter at one of the oldest Wheezes products, a chicken wand.

They're not identical, on second look. They could be anywhere between six and ten - he's not terribly good at distinguishing kids' ages - one is slightly taller than the other, and the taller one's eyes are dark, where the shorter one's are blue. But they're having a wonderful time in the shop and eagerly pointing out products to each other and finishing each others' sentences and he aches to share it with Fred.

The shop turns into a nightmare of colour and noise and laughter. He stays as long as he can, and when he realizes he's idly wondering whether the coming breakdown will consist of hexing a customer or bursting into tears, he tells Verity he's got some restocking to do in the lab and barricades himself inside. He works mechanically, brewing and charming and packaging for hours, skipping dinner. Verity and Ron, bless them, let him be. By the time the clock finally strikes nine he's realized that if he doesn't do something, he's liable to take out his wand and see if you can cast Avada Kedavra on your own sorry arse, just for something to do.

No, not really. But whatever he does won't be pretty. The one person he needs the most, the one person who knew how to settle him down with a casual quip or a prank whenever he got into this kind of headspace, is the reason he's in this headspace and is sadly unavailable for quips or pranks or anything useful at all.

There's somebody else who is available, though. He goes to Angelina's house.

It's ridiculously simple to get her to let him fuck her. He's the closest she can get to Fred, after all. And she's vulnerable, and bored, and who knows what happened in her day, and she's pregnant and apparently pregnancy can do funny things to a girl's libido and judgment.

For an hour or so, he's just living in the present and the present feels pretty damn good. It's not full of jokes that can't be shared and tears hovering just out of reach. It's filled with panting and gasping and heat and pleasure, with movement and sound that have nothing to do with memories of Fred - not for him, anyway - and it's a blessed, blessed relief.

There's no describing how he feels after that hour is over.

ooo000ooo

Lee plods up the stairs and opens the door, finding George at the table doing the accounts for the shop. He waves tiredly and trudges to his room and tosses his pack on the bed.

He debates throwing himself onto the bed too, and just going to sleep. He's exhausted. Coverage of the Death Eater trials has been bloody grueling, and although he's grateful for the chance to prove himself as a radio personality - Potterwatch looks good on his resume, but he can't live off that forever - he's bloody well knackered.

He's also bloody hungry, though. He sighs and makes his way to the kitchen, hoping George has managed to go shopping in the three days Lee's been gone.

Bless him, he has. Lee grabs a chicken pasty and some Butterbeer, pauses and adds an apple, and settles down at the table. George moves his scroll to make room for him, and his quill continues busily scratching the parchment.

"Tired?" George asks, and Lee makes a muffled sound through the pasty. "Went well?"

Lee shrugs. "Ang'roo ort," he mumbles, and swallows. "Sorry. Kangaroo court. They're just going through the motions."

George nods, not looking up from his parchment.

"Should probably say something on the wireless about rights being violated or something," Lee says, and takes another bite. "Would care, 'cept I don't."

George nods.

"Only interesting thing I found out, I can't report on. There's a group of morons asking to bring Dementors back to Azkaban."

George nods.

"Which is bloody disturbing," says Lee. "It's not just people like Umbridge, but even relatively sane folks like the Abbotts. Kingsley asked me not to report it; he says he doesn't know what's going to happen if it gets out and they get even more popular support."

George nods absently again, and Lee frowns. "And they're not even asking for them to guard the prisoners," he adds. "It's just to provide air conditioning. Azkaban gets pretty hot in summer, apparently."

George nods again, clearly not listening. Lee sighs, and glances over the parchment George is working on. A column of figures marches solidly down about a foot, but there are scratched out bits everywhere. He leans back and gazes at George's face, taking in the small line between his brows, the air of distraction.

He looks thin, and he apparently hasn't shaved since Lee left, judging from the faint reddish shadow along his cheek. His hair is much too long, brushing his shoulders. There are lines on his face that weren't there six months ago, and an air of exhaustion and quiet hopelessness.

Lee wonders how much of that hopelessness has to do with the shop accounts. Fred was always the better of the two when it came to paperwork, and George struggles with it. Of course, he can always get Percy to help. Lee has come to realise that if George had been the one to snuff it, Fred would've been in even more dire straits, as George was the more creative of the pair. No sense keeping a shop's accounts shipshape if your products are no longer as inspired.

He glances down at George's potion-stained fingers, the nails bitten to the quick again, and sighs. The accounts are not the problem, he's sure. Lee really doesn't have the energy to try to help George today... but unfortunately, there isn't anyone else.

"How's it going?" he asks.

George nods. "Good, fine."

Lee blows out his breath. "Right. Tell me another one," he says, and George finally looks up.

"What?"

Lee gets up and pours them both a Firewhiskey. He comes back and sets the glass before George, pulling the parchment away.

"Oi," says George.

"Percy can do it tomorrow. You're messing it up."

George glances over the parchment and shrugs, picks up the glass and drains half of it.

"Going that well, is it?"

George shrugs and quietly studies the light playing through the glass of Firewhiskey. Funny how antithetical 'quiet' was to 'George' once upon a time, and how much the word defines him now. Lee doesn't have the patience to try to draw him out gently, not tonight. "You look like yesterday's shit," he says bluntly.

"Top of the evening to you too," George says dryly.

"How was your day?"

George sighs, realizing Lee's not going to be put off. "Not a good day in former twinland," he says wryly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing major, just a lot of annoying crap. Let's see... the new clerk spilled some Drama Llama powder on herself, and spent the entire day flouncing about and having temper fits and crying. Ron's tired out from night training; picked up some Bi-curios without shielding and kept giggling and getting flustered with any fit men that came into the shop for the rest of the afternoon. And we ran out of wrapping paper."

"You need to take a day off."

"Can't. Ron's Auror training's getting intense. He can't keep putting in as many hours at the shop. Besides, Christmas rush coming."

Right. Christmas. Crap.

"How's that going? Christmas, I mean."

George shrugs. "It's Christmas. Busy time." Lee blows his breath out in annoyance. George rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know, buying presents alone, supposedly deeply traumatic, Mum's worried about that too. Keep trying to tell her it's not a big deal; I've already done it for how many birthdays?"

Five, thinks Lee. Ginny, Percy, Molly, Bill, and Charlie. Hard to miss the massive drinking bout that followed each one. "Haven't done it for everybody, all at once," Lee points out quietly.

"Not a big deal. I just have to... keep going." George sighs and pulls the parchment back towards himself, and Lee lets him, not knowing what else to do.

He's worried, though, as he finishes his pasty and watches George try to add up the figures. First Christmas without Fred, and it's going to hurt. Especially considering how much both of the twins loved Christmas - celebrating it, making fun of it, spending time with their family... he doesn't even want to imagine what Christmas will be like for any of the Weasleys this year.

And that's not all that's bothering George, Lee thinks as he finishes his pasty and starts on the apple. As if the shop and the family weren't enough, there's the baby, due two months from now. As well as this thing with Angelina, eating away at him.

George frowns and crosses out yet another error.

It was bad enough that he slept with her the first time. Lee remembers coming back from a late night at the radio, seeing a bit of a mess in the living room, and stumbling to his bed without much curiosity. George is normally a fairly neat person, surprisingly - comes from dealing with dangerous substances, you either get neat or die - but he'd been drinking a lot at the time. Lee remembers vaguely thinking he should slow down before it became too much of a habit, but it was only a month after the war, they were all needing something to deal with what had happened, and he hadn't even bothered to go into George's room to make him take a precautionary hangover potion.

The morning after had been horrifying. Waking up to the sound of a girl crying, realizing it was Angelina, and emerging from his room just in time to see her stumbling exit from the flat. George, still hung over, explaining what had happened the night before, his face ashen, his voice hollow with self-loathing.

Lee had never seen a Weasley twin beaten down by remorse before. They tended to act first and apologize later, with sheepish grins that made it impossible not to forgive whatever they'd done, even such major transgressions as flying out of school in a blaze of glory and leaving their best mate behind. Lee had no idea how to comfort George, and had settled for simply accompanying him in getting blindingly drunk again.

Lee cares about Angelina, he really does. And once he would've given his right nut to sleep with her. But that was before she went and used the surviving one of his two best friends and then buggered off, leaving Lee to pick up the pieces - and before she came back and decided to pick up where she left off. Not that Lee is under the illusion that this sick thing they have going is all her doing, but he doesn't get to see the aftereffects on her. He sees them on George. Every single time he's with her.

This thing with Angelina is killing George. Bad enough that she's pregnant, bad enough that he feels guilty about that, whether the baby's his or not; sleeping with her is like poison to him. Every time it eats away at him more and more.

George is still trying to make the bloody numbers add up and Lee's lost interest in his apple as they sit in silence. Lee stares at the scratched and stained magenta tabletop and George writes, his quill moving slower and slower. Lee's noticed that George is slowing down these days. Like sometimes it takes all he's got just to move at all.

Lee starts as George suddenly shoves aside the parchment. George gets up, taking his glass to the kitchen counter.

"Sod this," he says wearily, his back to Lee. "Fred could make the numbers dance. I can barely count to ten these days." He rubs his face wearily. "I am so fucking tired," he says, his voice almost inaudible.

Lee stands and goes to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. He can't even imagine. His own sense of missing Fred is a constant ache. Every time George says something that should be followed by Fred's hoot of laughter, every dirty joke George makes that should be expanded upon to the point of utter tastelessness, every time somebody does something stupid that Fred would've skewered immediately. If that's how Lee feels, he can't imagine what's going on inside George, but whatever it is, is breaking him.

George's head is bowed and he's taking deep calming breaths, and Lee's not sure what to do. He's seen George upset in the last several months, but there's always been copious amounts of alcohol to help them both through it.

"I can't. Fuck this shite," George says, and his voice roughens on the last word. He clears his throat. "I miss him. I can't do this on my own. God, I miss him..." He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter, putting his face in his hands.

"George..." bloody hell, he can't think of anything to say.

"And I'm fucking up," George says, his voice muffled. "So badly."

"The shop's doing--"

"I'm not talking about the bloody shop, I don't give a flying fuck about the shop," George says savagely, struggling for control. "I... it's not the shop, it's, it's everything else, the kid, the - I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with, with - fuck!" George breaks off and Lee winces. He's incoherent, with not enough alcohol to blame it on. He's one of the two sharpest wits Lee has ever met, one of two people who were never at a loss for words, never without a ready quip or rude comment, and seeing him struggle for words never stops being painful. George never had to work to make himself understood before; there was always another person who could always tell what he wanted to say, and jump in with the right words. Lee just can't step in and fill that void, no matter how much he wants to.

George takes a deep breath. "Fuck, the one thing Fred asked me to do, I can't."

"What's that?"

"He asked me to take care of her," George says miserably, still hiding his face in his hands. "How the hell can I?"

Lee thinks for a moment. "D'you think it might help if you stopped fucking her?" he asks, bracing himself for George's denial, as he's never confronted George about this before. He's not supposed to know.

No denial is forthcoming. George laughs bitterly, meeting Lee's eyes briefly before looking away. "Oh, d'you think? Yeah, it might help, not feeling like my brother's fucking ghost is going to show up any minute and disown me. Yeah, that might be nice."

"Why do you keep doing it, then?"

George laughs again, and the humourlessness of the sound grates on Lee. "You have to ask?" He shakes his head. "She... I can forget, with her."

"Just not for long."

"No." George puts his head down again, drawing in on himself. "Oh God, I can't, I can't keep doing this," he says, and then he can't speak any more as he fights to stay in control.

Lee puts an arm around him, ignores George's initial resistance and pulls him closer. "Come on, mate," he says gently. "Let it go."

George shakes his head, trembling. "Let it go," Lee says again, and a sob tears from George's throat, and his shoulders heave. His entire body shakes with the force of his sorrow, and Lee simply stands and holds on to him and gives him time to get through it.

All right, enough of this, Lee thinks, his own throat aching as George weeps bitterly. There's a time to be a friend and stand by and be ready to help when you're asked to, and there's a time to realize that you probably won't ever be asked to help, but the time to just stand by is over.

ooo000ooo

Angelina's a little surprised to see Lee at her mum's. They sit in her mum's kitchen, with its Muggle microwave and Muggle telly in the living room. She's never quite become used to Lee being in this world, although he's visited her fairly frequently ever since she and George slept together that first time. Not so frequently since she and George got back in contact again.

Contact. What a nice euphemism.

They chat about nothing for a few minutes, and then there's a lull. Angelina thinks Lee's working up to the reason for his visit.

"Can I ask you something?" Lee asks, and there's a tone she can't identify in his voice.

"What?"

"Do you ever go to Fred's grave?"

Angelina blinks, confused. "Erm. I've gone a few times."

"Ever pissed on it?"

Angelina's mouth drops open. "What?!" She stares at him, identifying the tone. Anger. Not his regular pyrotechnics, full of wit and sarcasm, but quiet and deep anger.

"Because you might as well, you know," he says. "In fact, I'd rather you did."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're fucking George," says Lee flatly.

Angelina feels her cheeks heat up. Briefly she considers denying it. But sod that, she was a Gryffindor once. "What George and I do is none of your business," she says instead.

"Excuse me, he's my best mate," says Lee. "Used to be one of my two best mates, except the other one's kind of beyond my help right now."

"What do you--"

"You don't love him. You're just using him. And you're messing with his head."

"What--"

"Look, I'm so sorry you lost the love of your life, Angelina," he sneers, and then falters as she draws in her breath, hurt. "I... I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "You... look, I am sorry you lost Fred. I'm sorry you and George both made a mistake, that first time. And I'm sorry you got pregnant. I know this is hard for you. But." Lee gathers his thoughts and when he speaks again Angelina's shocked at the seriousness in his eyes. This is the boy who flirted shamelessly with her for years, back at school, the only one who could almost match Fred and George for outrageous obnoxiousness and a firm refusal to take life seriously.

How they've all changed.

"George is doing shitty," he says, his voice low. "Really shitty. He's having a hard enough time learning to be a person on his own, all right? You lost a boy you were in love with, and that's terrible. But George lost his brother and himself - the person he was when he was part of a set. He's trying to figure out who he is without Fred, and run a business, and grieve without going insane, and deal with the baby, and then you go and..."

Angelina stares at him. "I'm not the only one who-"

"I know, all right? I know he comes to you at least as often as you go to him."

"How do you-"

"I've got eyes," he says impatiently. "Angelina, he doesn't need this on top of everything else. He doesn't need the guilt he feels every time you two fuck."

"Why? Because Fred wouldn't have wanted him to? Maybe that's between him and Fred, have you thought of that?"

"No," says Lee. "Because he's feeding in to your need to hold on to someone who isn't here any more."

Angelina flinches.

"I'm sure it also doesn't help to know that you're willing to use him, just to pretend Fred's still with you."

Angelina pushes that thought away angrily. "I'm the one who's dealing with this!" She makes a motion towards her distended middle. "I'm the one who's got to think about how my life will change - fuck him! He's still got the shop, he's still got his life, I'm the one who-"

"He's also trying to figure out what it means that you're having this kid. He doesn't carry it with him the way you do, but he thinks about it. All the time."

"But-"

"And it's all killing him - he doesn't sleep well, he's too thin, he doesn't take care of himself, he's on the verge of tears a lot of the time, he's slowing down - he's bloody well falling apart-" Lee stops himself, then takes a deep breath. "Please. Just let him be. All right? If you're that desperate, find someone else to - I mean, it's not like you can get pregnant again, right?" Angelina opens her mouth for a retort but Lee pushes on. "And if you won't do it for George, do it for Fred. Because if you're looking to keep Fred with you for a little longer... all you're doing is destroying part of what Fred was."

"That's not..." Angelina trails off. That's not what I'm trying to do, she wants to say, and That's not what I want, and I need him, and Maybe he needs me too... and she can't really bring herself to say any of it.

Because Lee, damn him, is absolutely right.