Iris

Iris, III: Collapsible

It grew, then, until it was maddening if he was alone and idle long enough to question it too much; as he lived most of the time by himself, he strove to find more things to occupy his mind or hands. He didn't need to look far. He assumed that it would pass eventually, and cease to bother him, but he only assumed this when he thought he was almost out of its reach; then something would happen between them, and he'd spiral downwards again and not remember what it was like to not wonder what her skin felt like or the scent of her hair.

The night she invaded his dreams he woke not knowing the time, lost in the vague darkness of his lonely room. The air was stale, the single window red and gloomy.

She hated crushes.

Generally, they made her feel bad; dissatisfied with herself, immature, dependant. She didn't enjoy the disappointment she experienced if she didn't see him of a day; she didn't enjoy knowing that the presence of one person could affect her mood so drastically. She had breakfast with him, when she had the time before work and he wasn't on a mission; she resented herself, or maybe him, for the way she spent the rest of the morning and afternoon recreating his smile in her mind, or memorising the exact words he had said to her--just to her.

When the discreet others asked her where she went mornings, and she answered 'Remus' ' regularly, they began to understand that it was a ritual, and ceased to interfere.

He charmed the kettle, poured, dropped in teabags, handed one mug to his companion. All in silence.

Her eyes were hooded; she had woken up a bit earlier than usual just to stop by before an early assignment, and she was obviously not fully awake. He reached around her to the other side of the counter, and drew out a battered tin of biscuits, opening it and holding it out to her. She regarded it in bewilderment before aligning her eyes with his.

'Chocolate?'

'If you don't have any objections, I haven't been to the grocery lately.'

She rewarded him with a sleepy grin before stuffing a cocoa biscuit into her mouth.

They stood there in the kitchen in comfortable silence while she gradually woke up. She used to roll out of bed mostly alert and mostly resigned to being snatched out of someplace dark and comfortable to head to work. Somehow, seeing him mornings was like inviting back sleep, so that in his comforting scent of worn fabric and mild soap and sometimes salty skin she drifted backwards into a walking doze, and when she was lost in his warm presence, her dreams seeped back in.

She yawned abruptly and mewled as she stretched herself from fingertip to toe after remembering to set down her mug.

He heard the huff of breath and the twang of her sleep-possessed vocal chords, and smiled slightly at her when she was done.

'I hope the biscuits were enough. I should have thought to buy you something, since you were going to come over...'

It was the first time he had admitted it was a habit.

'Don't, I'll snatch something on my way to work. I'm the one barging in on your house every morning, after all.'

'It's not my house.'

Said a little too quickly.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his. The rest of their bodies were not pressed together, but she could feel his warmth like a return of the embrace.

'Of course it is. What would it be like without you?'

She didn't make a big deal out of leaving, but did so swiftly, and only stumbled mildly on the corner of the hall carpet upstairs.

Her breath had whispered by his ear when she spoke, and he touched the place on his cheek where they had touched while he thought about her words.

He did not usually savour voices when he tried to capture a person in his mind; voices where far away and sometimes deceptive. Some voices were warm and fragrant, others reedy or chill or coarse, but they did not always reflect the sensibility of the possessor. Voices could be heard from a distance; scents lingered and clung, taste barely drifted, and touch--touch was for that moment. These were the things he liked to try and recall; he remembered the ocean by the taste of the salt and not the sound of the waves; he held his Hogwarts memories in a vial of sharp, crisp rain-scented air; he smoothed Tonks' words into the sensation of her face so close to his, and her warm hands, and the tone of her body's attitude, and he smiled to himself.

He had to remind himself, he jotted in his mental journal, to invite her over properly one day.