Ink: An Epistolary Romance

Seven notes later, he finally asked what she'd been hoping he wouldn't.

No: that was a complete lie.

The proper part of her had been hoping he wouldn't ask it, out of gentlemanly respect or some such nonsense; every other part of her had been hoping he would be interested enough in her to disregard respect and just ask anyway.

And since she had already resolved, for some reason that she couldn't quite name, to be completely honest about these matters, her reply to him was a rather long and somewhat complicated version of No.

She hesitated for a long time before leaving the note for him, and when she did she had to race out of the house before she could think twice and rewrite it for a fifth time. All day at work she was distracted by it. Wondering if he'd read it yet. Wondering if she should go back and reword things. Wondering whether he'd be turned off by her reply.

But of course he wouldn't be, she tried to tell herself. He must have at least suspected that her answer might be no, or else he wouldn't have bothered asking... right?

Besides, he'd already asserted his opinion that she wasn't a prude - and their letters following this assertion had proved him right. Prudes didn't think like she thought, or do the things that she did in the privacy of their rooms at night, or write in increasing detail about their personal fantasies to men they rarely saw face to face. The fact that she'd never done Those Things with other people was not a product of prudishness at all. She just hadn't found the right person yet.

And besides, it didn't matter if he thought she was a prude. She was an independent woman, her life was her own, and it did not matter what he thought.

It did not matter at all.

She remained utterly convinced of that fact for about four seconds, before she finally gave up and admitted that she was nervous as hell about what he'd say. So she settled for spending the rest of the afternoon trying to dissuade herself from worrying, and by six o'clock she was absolutely certain he would understand her position.

But by the time his reply was in her hands, she wasn't so certain anymore.

She worried the unopened envelope with her fingers for at least five minutes, perhaps ten, until she finally convinced herself again that she was being silly and probably worrying over absolutely nothing. She opened the envelope.

Sweetheart, it began. She felt something clench in her chest, and she read the rest with a mixture of relief and - well, something else. Something that she couldn't quite name, but something that made her eyes go misty and her hands a bit shaky. Words like beautiful and phrases like smarter than most popped out at her, and she found herself wondering why she'd even bothered to doubt that he'd approve.

She frowned at the word Approve as it floated through her mind, and wondered why it was there. She did not need approval.

Or, who knew? Perhaps she did.

You'll find the right one, was the second to last sentence. The last was, I promise. He didn't sign the letter.

If Sirius hadn't been puttering around downstairs and hadn't therefore been in danger of coming upstairs and stumbling upon her at exactly the wrong moment, Tonks may have burst into tears. Granted, she would be the first to point out that bursting into tears wasn't exactly something that she often did, but then, it also wasn't often that she received such a tender sort of letter from someone whose opinion mattered that much to her.

As she thought about the hows and whys of bursting into tears, the urge to do so gradually passed. Then, feeling oddly buoyant, she tucked the letter into her pocket and went downstairs to bother Sirius.

She felt more sunny and cheerful than she had in a long time, but Sirius didn't seem to notice. She was willing to bet, though, that if Remus Lupin were there, he most definitely would.

*

How will you keep that promise? she wrote back half-jokingly. The right one doesn't exist, maybe. I'm too picky, and I don't expect you to be able to find him for me. I shall die alone, surrounded by hundreds of cats. I like cats.

He's out there, and we will find him for you, replied Remus. You want someone who will be gentle, but not so gentle as to be boring. Am I right?

His note went on, but that was the only bit she cared about. And when she wrote back, her letter spanned two pages, but the only part she cared about him reading was this:

That sounds about right. How do you know these things? I thought men were supposed to be insensitive and uncaring. You don't seem to be either one.

I am both very insensitive and highly uncaring, he replied. But I am all too aware of these facts, so perhaps I am overcompensating?

Then that settles it, she wrote truthfully. I want a man who will overcompensate.

I thought as much, said the next note, which made her smile.

*

She thought long and hard about Gentle and Overcompensating, and the next word she thought of was Exciting.

He'll walk in the door and pounce on me, she wrote, and wrestle me to the ground and bloody well have his way with me.

Pounce may not be the best word to use around the likes of me, he replied. A certain friend of mine once suggested that girls might be attracted to the, shall we say, feral side of me. (In case you haven't already guessed, this is a friend whose name happens to rhyme with "delirious.") Pounce on her, he said. I did just that, and I ended up knocking her head against the side of a table. She didn't speak to me for weeks. In a perfect world, though, a shag carpet would have cushioned her fall, and she would have thought it terribly romantic.

A shag carpet sounds just the thing, she wrote, striving to keep her penmanship even. Soft carpet and skin against skin must feel marvelous.

Then she looked at what she'd written, blushed furiously, tore it up, and wrote instead: That poor girl! She must've felt awful.

After a moment she tore that up too, steeled herself, and rewrote the first thing she'd written. She added, He could undress me as I lay on the carpet, and then let me undress him too. Provided, of course, that he didn't have too many complicated zippers and buttons on his clothes.

I like that idea, he wrote. Nobody has ever let me undress them before, or vice versa. I think that I should like to undress her first, so that I could see the way her body moves as she does the same for me.

Tonks wondered what would happen if she wanted to see his body move instead. Would they have to fight it out?

Perhaps they could just take turns.

*

Tonks was fond of kissing. She didn't mind the tongue part, but she thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of someone's lips against hers. When she mentioned this to Remus in writing, he agreed with her.

I love the feeling of lips too. They can tell you things, and show you things at the same time. They can say "I love you," and then show you how much by rubbing against your skin just so.

I'd like to be able to tell someone that way, she wrote back. I would kiss him however and wherever he liked.

Wherever?

Yes. And I do not mean geographical location.

So would I, he replied. Though if we did decide to speak in terms of geographical location, I myself should fancy someplace just below the equator.

So would I, she wrote, and then sat back and thought about that. She thought about how it would feel to put her lips in that particular place. How it would feel to have someone else's lips....

And how it would feel to do all these things as a way of saying Love without actually saying it.

How it would feel to love someone that much.

A few moments later, she realized - with no great amount of surprise - that she already did, and that it felt very good indeed.