Iris

Iris, IV: Earl Grey

Soaking, floating is how she takes her baths, when she has the time to take them. This isn't often, but nonetheless she enjoys them immensely. Bubbles, rubber duckies, a cheap, silly and entertaining Muggle novel, and she's set.

She watches the way the sun brings out the pretty, colourful things in the bathroom of her flat. An electric-blue toothbrush. Shockingly pink towels. Brilliantly green curtains.

Then she closes her eyes, and sinks down. She has told herself she'd treat herself this afternoon. No more sitting around in that big old gloomy house. No more needing to see Remus in order to relax. She can relax on her own.

It feels good.

She doesn't fall asleep, but she approaches dreaming. She tries not to think; she concentrates only on the sensation of the warm water, and steam on her face, and the scent of bubbles. She can't keep her eyes closed for long, however, and so she opens them and stares at the sudsy water instead. She doesn't think about Remus.

She doesn't think about his eyes illuminated in the morning sunlight, or the silver and gold that shine threaded his hair at that time.

She doesn't think about his mouth curving up in a small smile, or the little lines that deepened around the corners of his lips when he was amused. She doesn't think about kissing that mouth.

She doesn't think about the sound of his voice, or the warmth of his skin against hers, in the simplest of touches.

She does not fantasise.

She just hypothesises.

For example, if she were to kiss him one morning, on his curving mouth, would he close his eyes? Would he let her wind her fingers in his hair?

Would he taste like the tea he always fixes? Or like tangerines?

Or like Remus?

Would touching Remus be like a long bath, warming and loosening and delicious? Could he wait for her at the end of a long day? Could he keep her in dreams, even while she was awake?

What would it take, for her to feel him? It would take an invitation.

An invitation is exciting at first. Thrilling, full of acceptance. Then, a wonder that it's been delivered to her. Then, doubt as to whether it was fully meant.

An owl taps at Tonks' bathroom window, and she rises, startled, and wraps herself in a towel. The owl politely averts its eyes.

Tonks opens the window wide enough for the messenger to hop in, and unties its letter.

"Dear Tonks,

"I had thought we might have things to talk about--the Order, and Sirius, and whatever you're reading right now...well, would you have the time to join me for dinner one night? Tomorrow night, at six? Meet me at the house. If you can't be there, I understand completely. You have work, a life...but I thought you'd like some company, anyway.

"Yours,

"RJL."

She drew on a robe and scrambled for parchment while the owl nibbled crumbs of lunch (take-out meatball sub) in the kitchen. Her reply was succinct.

"I'll see you there.

"Yours,

"T."