Consequences

Chapter 23: Within/Without

'Simon!' The waxing moon hangs large and orange against the black sky and bathes everything in an eerie light. It'll be full tomorrow. It would be a perfect Halloween night if it weren't for the ever-present drizzle and fog. I'm sure celebrations at the school are well under way. From my window I could see the lights twinkling over the treetops. I am tempted to crash the party, just for a bit. But ... I've go to find the damn cat. It's after nine and Simon only just went out my window so he's got to be down here somewhere but as I walk around the outside of my building there's no sign of him. 'Simon!' Still nothing. I can't lose him now; it took me two days to find him after the fire. I promised Mrs Fuller I'd look after him. She's not well. Her son asked that I keep him. So technically, I suppose, he's mine - but I still don't want to lose him.

'Simon!'

He's there on the roof of the shed. He jumps down to the bins and then to the ground calling back to me as he saunters slowly toward me. I have to remember the fascination he has with open windows. Stupid little thing.

But he suddenly stiffens, turns and runs --there's a loud baying as Mr Ferguson's wolfhound comes barrelling around the corner, his long red lead trailing behind him.

Damn it!

Mr Ferguson appears a moment later at a dead run. 'I only let go for a minute,' he pants. 'What's he chasing?'

'My cat!'

'Oh shite.' And we're both off running again. 'Seamus! Seamus!' he calls after the dog. 'Seamus!' The dog seems to have gone deaf. 'Seamus!'

But they're disappearing fast and we find ourselves running out of the village down the muddy dirt road. Simon bounds through a fence and the dog finally heeds his master.

'Stupid bloody dog,' Mr Ferguson mutters picking up the dirty lead and giving it a hard jerk. 'Come on. Sorry,' he says to me.

I nod and look back toward Simon as he leaps through the tall grass toward the small house on the hill.

'Simon!' But he doesn't stop. So ducking through the barbed wire, I begin my sprint across the wet field. He vanishes through a small hole just to the left of the boarded up door and I bring myself to a full stop, suddenly realising where I am. Over my left shoulder is a clear view of the castle...

I'm standing in the shadows of the Shrieking Shack.

Damn it, Simon.

I hate this place; it gives me the creeps. I know it's not really haunted. I know the real story behind it. But somehow that doesn't make it better. In fact, it makes it worse.

It's been years since it was used...

But that thought doesn't make me feel any better either as I drop to my knees and begin to pull at the loose boards just to the left of the door. It takes a bit of muscle and a strong charm to move them enough to be able to squeeze through.

Fuck!!!!

I look over my shoulder at the tear in my robes that's rapidly gathering blood. Stupid nail. At least I think it's a nail. It's still stuck in there and I know I'm going to have to pull myself off it and that'll be worse, so I clench my teeth and throw myself forward onto the dusty floor. Dammit!!! Clamping my hand over my shoulder I roll over, turn and look back; I see it now bloody, rusted and jagged and sticking out of the wall. I raise my wand and reduce it to a pile of dust. Fuck, this stings.

Now where is that damn cat?

Scrambling to my feet, I am about to call for Simon again, but the words die in my throat.

There's a light.

A dim light that casts a soft glow onto the landing. A light that was not visible from outside. A small white-tipped tail has just rounded the corner into that room. Tightening my grip on my wand, I begin to climb the stairs, sticking to the edges, trying not to make any noise, thankful that I opted for trainers instead of boots.

The whole house is creaking constantly anyway I shouldn't be so paranoid.

I slide quietly into the room. Ready.

But it's empty. Empty --but much cleaner than the rest of the house. The light comes from the fire in the hearth and a small lantern on little round table. It's a bedroom with a large four-poster bed. The linen is clean but tatty. The floor is neatly swept, a broom leans against the far side of the fireplace. There is a small armchair with a matching footstool and the little table in front of it. There are books, piled in a tall stack on the floor beside the chair. Books and ... I'm not alone anymore.

He spins me around and slams me backward against the wall, the pain in my shoulder making my eyes water. But I don't fight him; don't utter a curse. I know who he is and, despite his actions, I know he knows me.

His expression is intense as he stares down at me -- only inches away.

'What are you doing here?' I ask slowly.

But Remus just stiffens. 'You're bleeding,' he says in a strange, very matter-of-fact tone; it makes me shiver. He releases his grip on my arm and takes a step back from me; a moment later his expression has shifted to one I recognise.

'As to what I'm doing here.' He draws his breath and takes another step back. His voice is cold and he runs a hand through his hair before looking at me again. 'I'd say I have far more right to be here than you do.'

'I just came in after the cat.' I nod toward Simon who has settled himself on the foot of the bed. Remus looks from me to Simon and back again.

'Isn't that ... Mrs Fuller's...?'

'Yes, but he's lived with me for a month now --Since the fire...'

He nods and his face seems to soften. 'I heard. I'm sorry.'

'Me too.'

'I heard you were the hero of the hour.'

'Half the street burnt.'

He nods again. 'I'm sorry.'

'How have you been, Remus?'

'You're bleeding,' he states again, ignoring my question. 'Why?'

'Caught myself on a nail on the way in,' I reply, realising I am once more gripping my shoulder.

'How badly?'

I shrug. 'Don't know. Just hurts.'

'May I see it?'

I nod and turn my back to him, undoing the top two clasps on my robes. The feeling of his fingers on my neck sends shivers down my spine as I allow him to pull the torn fabric down from my left shoulder. He draws his breath through his teeth.

'You don't do anything half way, do you?'

'So bad then?'

'Needs a good clean. Sit,' he commands, indicating the stool beside me. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

I do as I'm told, although I'm not sure why. Part of me really doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want him touching me --doesn't want him this close. I could just pick up Simon and leave. But I don't. I stay sitting on the footstool by the fireside until he returns. He has a towel over one arm and he carries a small, black satchel and a shallow basin. He pulls the chair up behind me and sits down. I can't see what he's doing anymore. I can feel it though as he tucks the towel in around my shoulder --presumably to stop my robes from getting too wet. He picks the kettle up from the hearthside and I hear him pour. Then warm water on my shoulder as he begins to wash away the blood.

Dropping my head to my hands, I try and concentrate on the pain. Pain. It's better, easier. And I try and think only of that in the hopes of quelling the other feeling that is beginning to rapidly build inside me. Want. This sudden need to turn around, to run my hands over his chest, to kiss him, to feel his skin against mine, to ... Stop it. I screw my eyes tight shut and try and think of something else. Try and pretend I'm in St Mungo's and the man tending me as an elderly, wrinkly, old wizard. But if that elderly, wrinkly, old wizard happened to be a werewolf and it happened to be the night before the moon, I'd probably be in a similar situation ... I said it myself, didn't I? --Dead sexy before the moon. But even then it never felt like this. It's never been this intense before. All it's ever done is make me look at him differently; make me smile more. But then ... I've never been near him the night before. At least I don't think I have, in all the time I've known him.

'... afraid I can't just close the wound.' He's speaking again now. 'There are probably more rusty fragments in there than the few I've found. I'll put Beck's ointment on it though, that should draw the rest of the metal out probably in the next few hours.'

'Thank you,' I say with some effort.

'And I seem to be out of anti-septic too, so we'll have to improvise.'

I don't quite know what he means by that but he stands briefly and pulls something off the mantelpiece. I hear him uncork a bottle.

'I'll warn you this may sting a bit.'

Fuck!!! Leaning forward, I hug my arms to my chest; my feet are vibrating against the floor. More than just a bit, Remus!

It's Firewhisky. I can smell it.

He leans forward over me. I can feel his breath against my ear; his hand slides down my thigh to my knee. 'Sorry. You all right?' he asks.

I nod. 'I hate Ogden's,' is all I manage.

He chuckles softly against my ear but he doesn't move, not his hand, not his body, not for what seems like ages. My head is spinning. Am I affecting him this much?

And, if I am, does it even mean anything tonight?

The ointment is cool as he brushes it across my skin but it's the feeling of his fingertips that's making me shiver as he bandages my cut, carefully taping down the edges. 'There,' he says when he's finished. 'Better?'

'Much. Thank you.' I sit up a bit but make no attempt to stand or move away. I can still feel his breath on the back of my neck. He hasn't moved either. And I'm desperately fighting the urge to lean backward, to turn my head –kiss his neck.

This is ridiculous; I should go.

I look back over my shoulder at him and am surprised to see that his eyes are closed. He opens them almost immediately. 'I should be going,' I say determinedly.

He nods slowly in agreement. Pulling my robes back up onto my shoulders, he smoothes my collar; my eyes close involuntarily. This is stupid. Drawing a deep breath I turn to face him, fully aware of the fact that I haven't refastened the clasps on my robes. I'm not quite sure why but I really want him to tell me to. Perhaps I want to argue. Perhaps I want him to notice what he gave away. Perhaps I'm sick of playing nicely...

He glances briefly down at me before fixing his eyes somewhere above my head. 'You didn't answer my question before,' I continue.

'What question?' Again his eyes come down for the briefest of moments.

'How have you been? You haven't been to a meeting for over a month.' I put my hands on the outside of his knees, run them up to about mid-thigh. Vengeance I suppose, for all those Order meetings.

'Busy,' he stutters. His hands cover mine and he squeezes my fingers, removing them from his thighs, directing them gently into my lap. 'Greyback's people are always on the move. It's nice coming here once in while. Warm bed and time to myself.'

'And I've interrupted. Sorry.'

'S'all right.' He looks at me full now, smiling softly. His fingers brush my cheek, smoothing my hair back behind my ear. 'I can think of worse things.'

What's that look supposed to mean?

'But you do need to go now,' he continues; his hand moves back down to mine and he squeezes gently.

'It's affecting you already, isn't it?'

'You need to go.'

'Is that why you stayed in Hogsmeade?' I can't help but ask the question.

'Sorry...'

'At the St George, before the moon, you went overnight to Hogsmeade. Why?'

'Tonks -' He lets go now, pushing his chair back from me, standing up and walking away.

'Was it because I was sharing your bed?' I follow him, stepping into his personal space but he takes an equal step backward, shaking his head at me. 'What happens if I stay?'

'Tonks, don't do this.'

'Do what?' I ask as I slide my hand down his arm, entwining my fingers in his. He bites his lip and his eyes lock mine.

'Tempt me.'

'Is that what I'm doing?' I raise his hand in mine and place his palm against my chest, over my heart. His eyes close.

'I'm just asking for an explanation,' I continue. 'Did you go because I was sharing your bed?'

'Yes,' he breathes. I step closer again. His eyes don't open but his other arm slides around my waist and his fingers begin to move on their own accord –sliding over my breast. My breath catches in my throat and suddenly I don't feel so bold anymore. I slide my arms around him; rest my head against his chest. He leans his head on mine and I hear him inhale deeply, his touch become heavier.

'You should go,' he says again. But he's still holding me.

'I know.'

'I'm too ol—'

'I know,' I say before he can begin his little speech. I don't need to hear that again. 'But what if I stay?'

I hear him draw his breath, feel his body stiffen and suddenly our connection is broken; he steps back from me again. 'You can't,' he begins. 'I don't know... I wouldn't...'

'I trust you.'

'I don't.' His expression is determined. His jaw is set. I know he's serious. So I nod and stand on my toes, kiss his cheek. I mean only to kiss his cheek but I can't help myself. Can't help letting my lips drag down his jaw to his chin, his lips. Sliding my hand around the back of his neck, I kiss him. It still makes me light-headed. Gawd, I shouldn't do this. But I want to. I need to. I need to take something away from this. He says nothing when we part. When I finally step back. He just looks me solemnly up and down, so I turn toward the bed, toward Simon. I really should go. I pick the black and white cat up in my arms and turn the door, feeling a rush of cool air as my robes slip from my shoulder again.

'Xena.'

There's something in his voice this time. Something different. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and suddenly everything in me tells me to run.

Simon gives a small yelp of protest as he drops to the floor and I find myself propelled forward by the weight of the man behind me, my hands coming down hard against the open door. One arm is around my waist, the other across my chest; his teeth scrape the back of my neck.

'Do you want to leave?' His voice is heavy against my ear.

I don't know. I should. I know I should. But... how can I? He's so close. His breath is in my ear; his hands grope my body through my robes.

'Xena?' He says it again, that same breathy tone.

And I shake my head hard. 'No,' I manage. 'I want to stay.'

He doesn't say anything else. I can feel his open mouth against the back of my neck. His hands make short work of the clasps down my front, his fingers slipping inside my robes, digging greedily into my skin. My head is spinning; I don't know if I'm breathing. I push against the door. Push myself backward further into his embrace. What the hell am I doing?

He tugs my robes off my shoulders, pushes them down; cool air on my skin as I watch them fall about my ankles. He's unhooked my bra. Large hands caress my breasts, slide over my ribs. I feel his kisses -- wet and warm down my spine, all the way down my spine; he slips my knickers from my hips as he drops to his knees behind me. And I want to turn around, want to touch him, run my fingers through his hair... But the grip he now has on my hips tells me he doesn't want me to move. I'm not going to have much choice soon though. My legs are giving out. I can feel myself sliding... But then he's on his feet again. His hands moving roughly up my body, kneading my breasts. His right hand then slides down, over my stomach clamping firmly between my thighs. And I'm at he mercy of those exquisite fingers as he pulls me to back to him, moving against me, the power of his erection making me dizzy. My head falls back to his shoulder, his kisses move down my jaw to my chin. Then teeth once more scraping the skin down my throat. It has my heart racing -- scary but amazing.

His hands are on my hips again and he turns me around, pushing me against the door once more. I reach for him immediately but I've barely touched his robes when his hands slide into mine. His fingers crushing mine as he pushes my arms back against the wall. 'Don't touch me,' he growls against my ear. How can I not touch him? His kisses move from my neck to the side of my face, to my lips. He lets go of my wrists and his hands move to my breasts once more. I want to undo his robes, slide my hands inside, pull him closer, feel his skin against mine. But I don't. His lips trail down to my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, joining his hand on my right breast.

He may not want me to touch him but I do have a wand. It's still holstered to my right forearm. He didn't take that off. It takes me a moment to remember the charm; I don't think I've used it since school, but the clasps on his robes undo themselves in an instant. The fabric flurries a bit and slips from his shoulders. He raises his head and his eyes lock mine. I can't help but smile and raise an eyebrow at him as a slide my wand back into place. He lets his robes fall to the floor and he stands before me in grey boxers. Grey boxers, which don't quite contain him at the moment. His lips crash down on mine a second later and I run my hands over his shoulders. I know he said not to but his moan is low and guttural and only makes me want to touch him more. His kisses rapidly become fevered, his touch far more intense –desperate. His hand slides down over my arse clutching my thigh and he's lifting me off my feet. And ...

Oh God ...

With one sharp movement of his hips he enters me. At the same time his teeth come down hard on my shoulder and I have to remind myself to breath as he begins to thrust into me. Catching my breath, I glance instinctively at my shoulder but he hasn't broken the skin. His lips are on the side of my face again and I turn my head and capture his mouth. The door behind me is making a ridiculous amount of noise and I'm probably going to have bruises down my spine but at the moment I really don't care.

The noise must wear on him though because he soon pulls me against him and carries me to his bed. He slides out of me as he lays me on the old quilt, finally slipping his boxers the rest of the way off. I slide backward on the bed and a few moments later he's stalking over top of me. He kisses my lips, my neck. His hands slide into mine and he pulls them gently above my head, kissing me as he pushes into me once more.

His movements are slow and lovely and ... Gawd, I love him. But I want to touch him again, want to slide my hands down his back, over his arse. I want my hands back. I tug at his grip to let him know. And again. But he's unyielding; in fact his fingers tighten around my wrists. I feel the flush in my cheeks, a tightening in my chest as panic begins to set in.

He can't do this. He knows he can't. I hate being held down. I can't do this. He knows that. He knows why.

I try and pull my arms down again, but this time he's not as forgiving, slamming me back the bed with the full weight of his body. He seems to have forgotten about my shoulder and the pain that radiates through me causes me to catch a sharp breath.

You told him you trusted him, so trust him.

But it's so hard to.

So I try and concentrate on the feelings that sweep through me with every amazing movement of his hips, his breath in my ear, stubble scraping the side of my face. I look up at him --at his eyes. They're closed. But he is beautiful. And I know he loves me. And slowly I feel myself relax a bit. Begin to enjoy myself again. The temptation to use my wand is fading.

He shifts his position, pulling himself up a bit before laying his body fully over mine. I love when he does this. The angle of his hips changes and his movements quicken, deepen. I swear I see stars. He finally releases my wrists and I immediately slide my hands down his sides grabbing his arse pulling him closer, lifting my hips from the mattress. He's amazing and it doesn't take me long before I'm stilling his movement and calling his name. He sits up a bit when I finish looking down on me. His muscles are taut, his chest his sweaty, wet hair stuck to his forehead. When I meet his eye, he gives me two sharp thrusts that make my breath catch in my throat. A little pain for the pleasure I have taken. He leans down again.

'Over,' he whispers against my ear. And I obey, rolling over onto my stomach, gripping the pillow in fists. I can feel the heat of his body as he moves behind me, his hands sliding over my backside them up between my legs. I rock my hips gently backward at his touch; bite down on my lip as he slowly enters me again. He's so warm as he leans forward over me, the weight of his body pushing me to the mattress, the low growl of his moan against my ear. He moves slowly at first, his mouth still at my ear and I'm treated to a litany of noises some of which I've not heard before. The feeling of this breath making me shiver. I feel his lips on my shoulder, my neck as he shifts his position. His strokes become harder, harsher, too harsh and it hurts and I don't want to do this anymore. I try to move, to adjust, perhaps if I can find a different angle it'd be better. But then his elbow digs in between my shoulder blades, he's pinning me down and I can't move. Damn it.

If I say something will he hear me?

I still have my wand...

But is it fair of me to use it?

Not tonight.

So I close my eyes and clench my teeth and hope he finishes soon.

Turning my head from the coolness of the pillow, I seek the comfort of his face. His eyes are shut. His mouth hovers over my left shoulder almost touching ... Almost touching the bandage there. There's blood coming through it: stark red against white. Does the blood affect him as well? It must. He wets his lips, his nostrils are flared, his tongue darting out of his mouth but not quite making contact with the wet fabric. Tempting himself? His teeth scrape the edge of the tape he so carefully put there. And ... Fuck ...He begins to move faster...

His breathing is ragged. His rhythm has gone. He screws his eyes shut and with a roar, he throws himself forward, sinking his teeth into the flesh of his own forearm. I bite my lip, stifling the scream that's raging in my head. Is it over now? For a few moments he doesn't move --just stays there, his eyes still shut, breathing heavily over the wound in his arm. Blood on his lips, on the white linen of the pillowcase. Slowly, he begins to regain himself; he raises his head rolls off me. Lying on his side, facing the wall.

'Remus,' I whisper.

But he doesn't answer. I sit up slowly; drawing my knees to my chest, touch his shoulder, run my hand down his side. 'Remus?'

He blinks a few times and rolls a bit so he's looking up at me. His look – somewhere between fear and distain... For me or for himself? He still doesn't say anything. I stroke my fingers through his hair and he rolls away from me again. Turning his face further into the pillow this time, shutting his eyes. I don't know what to say. Don't know, so I just sit there -- for the longest time, watching him. I think he's pretending to be asleep now, he hasn't moved. Blood still trickles from the wound in his arm. I flick my wrist and grasp the handle of my wand, touching it gently to his forearm. I mutter my charm and watch the wound seal itself. Again, no reaction from Remus; I didn't really expect one. Obviously, he's not feeling particularly sociable. And well, neither am I. Leaning down, I place a kiss on his temple and then another on his shoulder.

'I love you.' It's the last thing I say before I slide off his bed. I pull on my clothes, pick up a sleepy Simon from the chair and Disapparate.

A moment later I am standing in the kitchen of my little Hogsmeade flat, Simon quaking in my arms. I put him down on the floor and he's promptly sick. Suppose that's why you're not supposed to Apparate with pets.

Now what do I do?

Sorting out the mess with a wave of my wand, I head into my bathroom. I think a bath is in order. I run the water and add generous amounts of my favourite bubbles and then nip back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Soon I have a steaming mug of tea sitting on the edge of a lovely foamy bath. Stripping off my clothes, I let them fall in a messy pile on the floor and I slide into the water. My whole body aches and for some reason I feel like I'm about one hundred years old. I slide my hands through the bubbles and rub my wrists raising them out of the water. I can still see the marks from his fingers...

Tonight didn't change anything. I know that. We're still in the same place that we were in yesterday, that we were in last week, last month. It may even be worse now. I may have fucked it up for good. Is he still where I left him? Is he all right? Will he be all right? I wonder what he's thinking. Does he value the fact that I stayed? Would he have more respect for me if I'd've left? I just don't know.

I slide my wet hands over my face so I can't feel the tears. I hate this. I hate the fact that it happened. That tonight happened, that any of it ever happened. It's just not fair.

Picking up my tea, I take a long drink. For some reason I wish Charlie were here. I really need to talk to Charlie.

**