True Colours

Bill waited until Tonks had settled herself by his side once more, with the duvet pulled up so that it just covered her breasts, before he told her:

“You change colours.”

“I know that,” she said, her voice rippling with amusement, and still a bit rough from all the moaning she’d been doing a short while ago.

“I mean before, when you came. Your hair and eyes changed colours.”

“Did they? Really?”

“You didn’t know you did that?”

Tonks tilted her head back and quirked her eyebrows at him. “Contrary to what some may think,” she said dryly, “I don’t often shag blokes in front of mirrors. And when I do, it’s not myself I’m watching.”

“We could get a mirror,” Bill suggested, tracing the curve of her lip with his fingertip.

“Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?”

“Only if you’d like,” he said, matching her prim tone and grinning.

“Yes, I’d like. But without the mirror. I’d break it.”

“If it were on the ceiling?”

“I’d find a way,” she said confidently.

“Blimey.”

“Yes, rather,” she agreed. She leaned over to kiss his chest, then wriggled kittenishly back down against him.

They were quiet for a little while after that. Gradually, the sweat on their bodies cooled, the London traffic once more became noticeable from the street outside Tonks’ flat, and the Death Nells’ album they’d left playing stopped and then started up again. Bill was aware of the passage of time, aware that at some point he ought to get up, dressed, and back to work, but it was a muted awareness. Far more pressing was the smoothness of this woman’s skin, the heady scent of her, and the way her hair continued to change as he sifted his fingers through it.

At length she said, “So what colour did I turn? Just out of curiosity. Usually I’m aware, but at that particularly moment I have to say I was rather distracted.”

She was so much fun, he thought, smiling, as he twisted a lock of her hair, still damp with sweat, around his fingers. Maybe he could skive off work for the evening; at this rate he’d never muster the strength to get out of bed, anyway.

“Gold,” he told her. “Your eyes turned gold.” He didn’t think he could tell her about the sparks he’d seen; he wasn’t feeling remotely poetic and anyway, if he managed not to muck this up--not likely, but one never knew--there’d be ample opportunity to tell her exactly what her eyes had done. Or maybe they would get a mirror.

“Gold,” she said. “Interesting. Anything else?”

“Your hair turned sort of red--” It was dark brown now--its natural colour, she’d told him--except for the strands wrapped around his fingers.

“Interesting,” she said again, contemplatively, and rolled over on top of him.

Nice of her to make up his mind for him, he thought, as he kissed her, and shifted so that her slim thighs straddled his. He’d never get back to work at this rate. He’d be forgiven.

Tonks tossed her head and her hair spilled down over both of them, like a curtain of flame.

12/05/03