Title: Real
Word Count: 1,223
Rating: Light R
Pairings: Remus/Tonks, implied Remus/Sirius
Summary: This is a language not taught in school, but she intends to learn.
Tonks has never been much good with speaking with her body, she can shift and squeeze to try and get the right words to come from her finger tips but she’s never gotten it correct and it’s never been natural. She works better with words, spluttering and spilling from her mouth like uncontrollably lava. She’s not okay with the words that come off her tongue, but they are hers and hers alone; it is un-changeable in a life and body that does nothing but change.
So when she meets Remus, it feels as if something has wedged in her voice box; thick and odd shaped on her tongue. Tonks can’t help but stare across the Order table at the older man, because he manages to say volumes of books in the subtle shift of his wrist and the arch of his left eyebrow or tilt of his head.
Just because she failed stealth and tracking doesn’t mean she can’t be sneaky… and she is. She slips into dark corners and slides against walls to watch him uninterrupted. He’s possibly the best muggle film she’s ever seen; he’s romance in the library, surrounded by books and Sirius, he’s mystery in the long dark hallways, soft murmurs and troubled eyes, he’s action in the kitchen, maps and plans and command in his voice at Order meetings, he’s comedy by the fire, wit and friendship and curving lips; Remus is wonderful.
She tries to learn what each and every movement means… and grows tired of watching in the shadows, suddenly has an undeniable urge to be apart of the play. Tonks finds every excuse to be near him, without looking young. And so she drinks with him in the den by the fire and walks close to him in hallways, she sits across from him at the table and places herself in the library when she has free time because, she thinks, because she likes the romance the best.
Even after months of careful observation, she still doesn’t catch every word that passes through his body. She tries to desperately to listen as intently as she can, but Tonks can be as impatient as her cousin and she knows that. She can hardly stand not knowing… whether all the hand holding between him and Sirius is just a friendship, is just need and love when he holds Sirius to rock him to sleep and romance of a brotherly bond that maybe used to be something more but has now simmered low or if it’s a continuation of a boyhood lust and love that runs deeper than blood, if it’s something she can’t ever be apart of…?
Tonks tries not to get too hopeful when the pads of his fingers brush her in an exchange or when his gaze lingers longer than socially acceptable on the pale column of her neck and the dip of her wrist. She pushes the tiny actions out of her mind because she has reason to believe they are just subtle recreations of her mind.
So when he leans against the mantle, facing her own lean, and puts his hand on her hip it’s like a thousand fireworks shoot from his palm to her heart. She can smell the mix of spice and parchment and wood and leaves, of Remus. This is not a subtle movement that can be ignored; it’s a boulder in an ocean that has never been quiet calm. And she watches his face, almost calm except for the spark in his eye and the colour in his cheeks.
A tilt of his head, ‘Will you listen?’ and muscle in his arm twitches with the plea.
When his finger starts to rub, in a back and forth then swirl pattern she almost falls into the fire because he’s telling her it’s alright. Words stick in her throat as she tries to tell him that Sirius is sitting on the couch reading a comic and ohmygodwhatifhe… but her thoughts are cut off as Remus tells her that what once was love is now an epic romance between him and her cousin with a clench of his jar and a sorrow filled brow.
She can not help but be confused because she is not fluent yet, she does not know all the tenses and syntax of his language.
He bites his lower lip and shuffles his foot; she understands that to mean he loves the boy who lies on the couch but is tormented by the man. And when he closes his eyes and swallows hard she knows that means it’s not the same between the two of them. And her heart is frantic and her hands are twitching but she doesn’t know what that means and she’s panicking because he could misunderstand and then where would she be-
His lips press against hers.
‘HeneedsmeandIneedhimbutIneedthisyoudifferentlyandwearealltryingtostayaliveandIcannotstandonemoremomentwithoutyour
laughterandyourvoiceandthisisrightandokayandIjustneedthisintheopen.’
When he breaks away she can taste tea on her lips from his chaste kiss. Her mind is still, for the first time in what feels like her lifetime she can not feel and hear the constant chatter in her head of a millions words and phrases just begging to be let loose. Tonks can only feel the break of a new dawn and the stroke of his hand across her cheek and hear the wolf whistle of her cousin.
“Alright.”
It’s a whisper in a voice she’s never heard come from her, in a tone that can only be his. And it’s the first time, in a long time, that her vocal chords seem to have it right because Remus’ face breaks out into a flurry of conversation that she doesn’t have the focus to decipher because he’s smiling.
He’s smiling and it’s reaching his eyes.
And when he squeezes her hand before letting it drop back to her side and walks back to the couch to curl around Sirius. Tonks is content to walk to the chair and stare at the fire, to watch friends laugh and bicker. She is content in knowing in full knowledge instead of guessing, and to wait for more chapters to her own tale with him.
Months later she is glad she spent so much time learning because it is only by careful observation does she notice the invitation into his bed. His calf flexes in the door way and his collar bones shines in the fire light, she wonders if he has the ability to manipulate the light to speak for him too. She still stumbles into his arms and it carries them onto the fluffy coverlet and she still can’t help but speak too much and need too loud.
Tonks is so grateful to know that each kiss holds much more than a kiss, as it trails paragraphs down her arms and across her breast and embeds longing in every inch of her skin; that the reason his hands grip the sheets so hard is because he needs her and he shakes because he wants her. The words behind his blissful face and sweat sheen skin, the conversation that is pulsating in each push and pull of his hips against hers; the sound of slapping skin is a symphony of ‘I love you’s.
He doesn’t speak a word and yet her heart is still full of his voice.
Maybe that’s the distinction of love and being in love.
