Consequences

Chapter 24: Wishing

He hasn't looked at me all meeting. He's given his report, we've sat through Kingsley's and Dumbledore's and another colourful Mad-Eye rant. He's refilled his tea three times, had two jam tarts—but he hasn't looked at me. Odd, because he's all I seem to be able to look at. Glancing down at my now cold mug of tea and the parchment in front of me, I'm glad I did take some notes. I doubt I'll remember much of this in the morning. I've just come off another eighteen-hour shift and, although I don't work tomorrow, I have volunteered to go to Brighton with Mad-Eye. Glutton for punishment, really. Speaking of which—my gaze seems to have drifted back to Remus again. He looks tired too; his temple rests against his palm as he stares down the table at Hestia. She's saying something about St Pancras Station. I should really be listening. But I'm losing focus— watching his fingers slide in bored circles across the polished surface of the table. I love his hands ... I feel my eyes close as one brilliant shiver slides from the top of my head all the way down my spine recalling the events of a fortnight ago: the weight of his body behind me as he pushed me forward against the door—open mouth on the back of my neck… How often has he thought about it?

The sound of chairs scraping across the stone floor breaks the spell; everyone rises from their seats. The meeting’s over and I watch, bleary eyed, as parchments are rolled or stacked and shoved into bags or boxes of varying description.

Not ready to move yet, I stay in my seat; Remus disappears up the stairs with Dumbledore without so much as a glance in my direction. The others Disapparate or make their way upstairs too. I sit and wait as I used to do. I would sit until only Sirius and I were left at the table. When the room was empty he'd give me a wicked grin, probably make a few rude comments on the evening’s events and inevitably challenge me to something. Whether it was jinxes, or Firewhisky, or stuffing our mouths with liquorice slugs… It was always something. That's the thing I hate the most about being back here at Number Twelve. It's far too familiar. It makes me miss him more.

The room is almost empty when I finally rise from my seat and carry my mug slowly to the sink. Molly's hand brushes my arm as I pass by her on my way out of the room. When I look up at her, she smiles kindly and simply says, 'Goodnight, Tonks.'

Suppose I look as tired as I feel.

I nod and smile and head upstairs to bed.

My little room is how I left it. Having washed and cleaned my teeth, I change into my pyjamas and pick up my book, 'The Chronicles of Myrddin'. I stare at the plain black cover for a moment and wonder why I chose this book. Although interesting, I know it'll be a bit of a slog. Still, I might learn something. And I wasn't much in the mood for romance. Pulling back the covers, I crack the spine and climb into bed.

There's a knock at my door. Molly …

'Come in,' I call; don't feel much like getting up. There is a moment's hesitation before the knob turns. But, instead of Molly, Remus steps into my room. I thought he'd gone. He has a look on his face—like he's expecting me to scream at him to get out. I'm quite tempted. I know why he's here. I know he's going to tell me how wrong Hallowe'en night was, how foolish. That he's too dangerous and too old and—I don't want to hear it.

'Can I come in for a bit?' he asks. I nod slowly, silencing the voice in my head that's screaming “No!” He shuts the door quietly behind him and a moment later, he's standing at the foot of my bed. 'I just wanted… I need to—'

'Why don't you sit down?' Not sure why I asked him to do that; not sure I want him that comfortable.

Still, I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them; Remus sits slowly on the end of my bed, pulling himself backward so he can lean against the wall.

'What can I do for you?' I sound very business-like. That's good, isn't it? I refuse to get emotional about this.

He draws his knees up, resting his elbows on them and fidgits with his fingers for a moment before looking at me. 'I just wanted to say, I'm sorry.'

Here it comes. 'For what?' I ask deliberately.

'You know for what. For that night; for Hallowe'en.'

'It happened, Remus. Lets just leave it at that, shall we?' Gawd, I sound like a bitch. But I pull my gaze down, away from his, finding I can't look at him for long.

Emotionless. Calm. I have to remind myself.

He's shaking his head at me. 'I had no right to subject you to that …'

Subject me? I'm forced to look at him now. 'I wanted to stay.'

But there's a pleading look in his dark eyes and I instantly feel my chest tighten… Why is this is so much harder than I thought it would be?

'You couldn't have known,' he continues.

'I thought … I knew, it would be different.'

'I hurt you, I know I—'

'I'm all right,' I say quickly, drawing a deep breath and steeling my gaze before looking up at him again. Of course I'm all right, aren't I?

My left hand finds his quite of its own accord. Threading my fingers through his, I draw it down to my knees; he squeezes my hand gently, his thumb brushing across my kneecap. A simple, gentle touch, but one that has tears burning behind my eyes—makes me feel like I might suffocate. I can't look at him at all now.

'Xena …' he whispers. Hot tears down my cheeks. Damn it! I wipe them fiercely with my palms. How pathetic is it if I start crying? But his hands are on my face now too, thumbs brushing the tears from my cheeks. I keep my eyes down. Won't look. 'Xena, I'm so sorry.'

I draw a deep breath through my nose and hold it, shaking my head. 'Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry for.' I manage to look up now, though not quite at him. 'You took nothing from me that I wasn't willing to give.'

He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. 'How can you say that?' He sounds angry. 'How can you say that?' I hear the clunk of his head hitting the wall behind him. He's staring off somewhere at the ceiling. He screws his eyes tight shut and a pained expression crosses his face. 'I—I held you down. I pinned you to the bed. I know I hurt you. And I very nearly—' He doesn't finish the sentence, just throws himself backward harder; his head makes a much louder sound this time. 'I'm as bad as he is.'

As bad as who is? But then I know…

'Don't say that.' Sliding from my position on the bed I move in front of him, so I'm sitting between his knees. He can't really believe that he is anything like—

He looks at me now.

'Don't you ever say that,' I repeat. 'You are nothing like him.'

'What I did to you—'

I pull myself up on my knees, closer to him, so that I'm slightly taller. 'I chose to stay. Auror, remember, with a wand? I chose to stay. It may not have been the best decision I've ever made but I chose it. And you, you could never be anything like Brennan Caede.’

But he's shaking his head again, dropping it down, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. 'You don't understand. What I wanted to do to you.'

That stops me a bit and I find myself shrinking away from him a little without meaning to. 'What did you want to do to me?' I ask; I can hear the nervousness in my voice and I wonder if I really want to know the answer.

He doesn't look at me at all now, just stares straight ahead at the opposite wall. He wets his lips before speaking. 'I wanted to hurt you,' he says in a voice that is little above a whisper. 'I wanted to cause you extreme pleasure, yes, but I wanted to pain you as well. I wanted to make you scream. I wanted you to beg me to stop and I wanted to keep going. I wanted to taste your blood. I wanted to hurt you …'

'I'm all right.'

But he's not. His eyes are shut tight again and he speaks through his teeth. 'I love you more than I've ever loved anything and I wanted to hurt you. Desperately wanted to …'

'But you didn't.' He looks up at me. 'Not really.' I nod as if to prove my point further. 'You scared me a bit, I admit. And well, it's not something I'd like to do every night, or even every month but I know now, and next time—'

'There's not going to be a next time. There will never be a next time.'

'If—'

'I will not risk that again.'

'Remus, I—'

'I never want to feel like that again.'

I think I understand and I nod slowly in agreement. 'Okay.'

He scrubs his hands over his face again and once more looks up at the ceiling.

'Sirius always said that I was a bit of a dreamer. Always with my nose in a different book.'

'I don't follow.'

'It was extremely irresponsible of me to let myself believe that a future with you was possible. But it was worse to draw you into that fantasy as well.'

He's rehearsed that little speech, I know he has. He says it in the same tone as his too old, too poor garbage.

'It's not a fantasy. We had … we can have that.'

'No,' he says firmly. 'No, we can't. Tonks, I am cursed and no amount of wishing or pretending will ever change that. What I am—'

'I know what you are. I also know who you are. Don't confuse the two.'

'It's the same thing.'

'No,' I shake my head, 'it's not. Yes, you're a werewolf, and believe me I do know what that means. You know I do. But you are also a kind, brilliant, wonderful man.' I let my head drop down to his, cheek to cheek. 'And I adore you,' I speak against his ear. His lashes brush my cheek as he turns his head.

'Tonks, please don't,' he whispers.

'Don't what?' I move back a bit so that we're eye to eye but he casts his gaze down. 'Don't feel that way? You may as well ask me not to breathe.'

He looks up at me now. I brush my fingers down the side of his face, into his hair, the stubble on his cheek against my palm. 'Believe me, I know I'd be better off if I didn't. But it's done. I can't change it, anymore than you can change how you feel. I can only hope one day you'll see what I see.'

He looks down, away from me again but his hands move to my hips and I can't help but shiver at his touch. I can feel every one of his fingers …

'I love you,' is all I say as I lean forward and kiss him. Just lightly at first, letting my lips brush his; testing the waters. He kisses me back which is all the encouragement I need to kiss him again. Properly this time, sliding both hands through his hair, wrapping my arms around him. He hesitates a moment before he opens his mouth to me. Before his hands slide up my back and he's pulling me closer, propelling me backward to the mattress. I shut my eyes, tighten my embrace, and continue to kiss him. I love the taste of him, the smell of him, the weight of his body on mine. My hands slide down and untuck his shirt, move underneath it up his sides, and down his back. I can feel him shiver. Sliding my hands in between us I tug on the tongue of his belt and feel the buckle give beneath my fingers. His mouth leaves mine and kisses a trail down my neck, his hand gropes my breast through my pyjama top and then he's undoing my buttons … I'm holding my breath waiting for the divine feeling of his lips; but it doesn't come. He's stopped moving. I'm still not breathing. I can't breathe; my chest is too tight. I can feel tears behind my eyes. I know what happens next—he's going to stop. I blink in the dim light, look up into those dark eyes of his. His expression has changed. Solid. Determined. My heart plunges to my stomach. I was right. He's going to leave me again. 'I love you,' I repeat, even though I know it's futile.

'We … I can't.' He moves from me. The room is suddenly cold as his body leaves mine. He's on his feet.

'Remus—' I pull myself up. He's buckling his belt. 'You don't have to go.'

'Yes, I do’

'This can work. We can—'

'I am poison to you!'

The anger is back in his voice and I don't know why. How can he say that?

'That's not true!'

'Yes, it is. And the sooner you get that through your head the better off we'll both be!'

With that he's gone. My door slams shut with a resounding bang, and I let myself fall backward to my bed, burying my face in my hands. He can't actually believe that? I feel sick.

There is a soft knock on the door and my heart catches in my throat. Perhaps he's changed his mind?. The door opens without my invitation and I'm forced to look up, the room blurry through my tears.

But the man who's just stepped into my room isn't Remus. This man is barefoot, wearing worn Chudley Cannons pyjama bottoms and a faded orange vest. His form of public decency—much appreciated. I look from his clothing to the multitude of freckles to his concerned expression.

'Remus passed me in the passage. He looked … and I thought. …' he begins. But I don't let him finish his jumbled explanation, just throw myself forward against the solid warmth of his chest. His arms close immediately around me. Tightly. And I'm suddenly so grateful for him.

'S'okay. You're all right,' he whispers against my hair.

But I'm so far from all right I can't see it from here. I feel nauseous, can't stop crying, my legs feel weak; headache is pounding behind my eyes. This is so unfair!

'Sshh … ' Charlie's voice again. 'It'll be all right. You'll be all right.'

I wish I believed him. His arms tighten even further and I hold my breath and try and compose myself. Not working. Sod it.

So we just stand there in the partial darkness of my room for the longest time. I just try to concentrate on his breathing, his heartbeat. It seems odd to me now; I'm so used to another's. And that makes me sad too, makes me cry more. Charlie begins to sway a little, like we're dancing, and eventually I'm able to look up at him.

'Charlie, can you please sleep with me? Just … stay with me. I can't be alone.'

'Sure, sweetheart,' he says softly and I feel him nod. A few moments later he disengages himself gently from my damp embrace and he's pulling the quilt back from my bed sliding his large form back against the wall. I drop down beside him, burying my face once more in his chest, my hands sliding up under his tatty vest, seeking the warm comfort of bare skin. He wraps the quilt around me carefully and I shut my eyes to all that today has brought me. It's funny, he's so far away from his dragons yet he still smells vaguely of ash; and sweat; and general Weasleyness. And I immediately feel myself relax. I know I'm safe here, know I'm loved here. His lips brush my forehead, his fingers stroke slowly through my hair, and part of me really wishes things could be different, easier—really wishes that I were still in love with him.

~