wl_mods (wl_mods) wrote in wizard_love, @ 2010-02-10 00:15:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *fic, 2010, angelina, george |
Special delivery for eruditefics
Title: The Remains At Play
Author:
Recipient's LJ name: eruditefics
Pairing(s): George/Angelina
Rating: NC-17
Summary George and Angelina, after.
Word Count: 3867
Warnings/Content: explicit sex
Angelina falls on hard times and comes to stay in the flat over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and damn straight did he keep the plural possessive. There's probably definitely more to the story than that -- George knows he's been told, because Lee gets this look in his eye when George asks that makes George laugh the question off as a joke -- but he can't quite seem to retain the details. Something with her parents, maybe, and wasn't there a Quidditch accident? Anyway, she's there and--
It's not that he minds or anything. There's plenty of space, after all.
It's summer and Angelina's shampoo is in the bathroom and he thinks about smells and Quidditch until Ron is pounding on the door and yelling, "Hurry it up, George; I need a slash!"
Ron is working for him, although Ron insists it's 'with' not 'for'. Hermione's gone parent hunting in Australia and George supposes Ron needs something to keep him occupied. Bathroom stealing aside, it's not that bad, even if Ron is taller than him now, which is just plain wrong and George scribbles 'Shrinking Solution Shoes' down in the left-hand column on the ideas sheet pinned to the storeroom mirror. Ron should go off with Harry, George thinks, but there's no point saying anything. Stubborn as a Weasley, that's what they say.
He should write Percy. He will, later.
There are many mirrors, now, all over the shop proper and the storeroom and workshop, the bathroom and little lounge and the bedrooms. He can see them out of the corner of his eye, wherever he goes. They're useful, he tells Ron when has asks. They make the store look bigger; you can use them to watch out for shoplifters; you can use them to watch one potions bench while working at the other; you can write on them when you can't find any parchment and you've just worked out the new autumn range of Wonderwitch products.
"You can do your braids in them," George offers Angelina, generously.
Angelina says something about hairdressing spells he doesn't quite get; she's standing on the wrong side and, anyway, his good ear is occupied. The singing jewellery needs work. George scratches at his beard, humming absently along as he scribbles notes to himself. It's good to stay busy, keep the momentum going. He reassures her that she looks good and she gives him an odd look and he realises it's six hours later than the previous conversation, but she does, so he shrugs it off.
It's summer, and Ron is working with him, which makes up a bit for the lack of, of Verity, and Angelina helps out in the store too, which is good too, George supposes. If she's an invalid or, or, or whatever. You're supposed to encourage them to talk to people, he's fairly sure. Mum keeps bringing soups and stews and things by, so he's probably supposed to feed her too. Even if that does sound like he's keeping a pet and he spends a weird few hours in the workshop trying to work around sneaky sidling-in thoughts of Angelina with cat-ears and a tail curled up against him.
They eat together, mum's casserole, and make awkward small talk. The windows are open but the breeze barely stirs the heat. There's an itch under his skin. He stands in the shower until the water runs cold. The mirrors all steam up, blurred and ghostly. George uses Angelina's shampoo.
When he looks at the clock, it's almost three in the morning. His hands are stained blue and green, ink and potions. There's movement in the corner of his eye, but there always is, so he ignores it until Angelina's right there in front of him. She's wearing, it's an old dressing gown, pulled tight around her, though it's warm.
"Can't sleep?" he asks her. "There are Sweet Dreams potions in here somewhere." He frowns at the workshop. "I, um. I'm not sure where, exactly."
Perhaps he'd put them in the Light Lollies. He shrugs a little and offers her one.
"What does it do?" Angelina asks, though she takes it.
"It makes you lighter in every sense simultaneously," George explains. Cheering charms and brightening charms and buoyancy charms, all cobbled together in a sweet, lickable package. "They don't sell as well as I thought they might. I've been tinkering with the recipe a bit."
"It's late," Angelina says. George shrugs. Angelina studies him for a long moment and then, just when George thinks she's going to leave, says, thoughtfully, "What proportion of pixie-puff pollen are these?"
In the end, he calls them Angel Pops, over her protests, and puts them in the window. She beams. He smiles back a little.
Percy comes by, but George hides in the storeroom until he goes away. Percy blames himself for things. Some of them really are his fault, though, so George never knows what to say. A letter will be much better.
Bill swings by the shop. George frowns and says, "Weren't you in Kazakhstan or Turkmenistan or -- one of the -stans?" and Bill just shrugs in that way of his. "Did mum send you?"
"Why would she do that?" Bill asks. He's poking one of the mirrors on the shelf, making his reflection pull faces at him.
George frowns at him some more. "Angelina's staying here."
"Yeah," Bill says. "We know." He tries on a cheering cap, chuckles.
"I think she's feeling better," George offers.
"Better?" Bill blinks at him.
"Than she was?" George tries.
Bill considers him for a moment, then nods. "That's good then. You want to come down the Leaky with me? My treat."
"I have work," George says. It's summer. Summer brings the kids in.
"Ron and Angelina can mind the store for a bit," Bill says. "They'll be okay together."
"I have work," George repeats until Bill gives up. He does. Besides, he's not hungry now. There's work to do. He watches Ron and Angelina chat at the counter between customers; her smile; the bounce of her hair as she laughs; the relaxed curve of her shoulders.
It's summer and it's hot and he retreats into his spell-cooled workshop and eats plain toast until his stomach settles.
Angelina's staying in the flat. It's hard to miss. Things are always where they should be. The pantry stays stocked and nothing goes off. Lights come on when it gets dark. She asks about the wireless and, eventually, he fixes it, and now, sometimes, he wakes to soft music and breakfast because Angelina always cooks too much for one. He doesn't want her to feel bad, so he eats without comment.
Not that they don't talk. They do. He learns all about Angelina's parents and cousins and things, filling in the gaps between the sort of background trivia you pick up when you're at school with someone for seven years and play on a team together.
"I was thinking we could invite Oliver round," Angelina says. "Katie and Harry and all the old gang."
"It'd be a bit crowded in here," George says. "You should go down the Leaky." When she doesn't say anything, he offers, "It's good to get out?"
She snorts. He's long since given up trying to understand women, though. Being the eldest didn't confer much more wisdom. Robbed there. He catches a grin out of the corner of his eye and hides his own in his cereal, which is probably breakfast, although it might be dinner.
The workshop smells like her, sometimes, and there are notes added to his own in a neat hand he doesn't recognise. He frowns at them, but they make sense, so he uses them anyway.
It's summer, too hot, and Ron is yelling "Oi! Give us a hand, would you? It's murder out here!" George wanders out eventually with two spray cans of Calming Clouds to find Lee and Angelina in the corner, leaning in to each other, deep in private, intimate conversation, sharing secret smiles. Lee's fingers brush Angelina's cheek, and George thinks about Quidditch commentary.
Lee's on the floor and George's knuckles hurt.
There's something, and it's not as if he can't work out how one turned into the other, but, still. A jump. Disconnect. Something pounding in his skull, and Angelina's looking at him, eyes huge and dark.
"You don't," George says, to her, to him, "you don't--" He doesn't know how to end the sentence. Lee's looking at him, eyes wide and sad. George's fist is still raised. He lowers it. He says, "You don't do that."
Lee asks, "Why not?" real quiet like. "Come on, mate."
"Because," George says. "Be-because..."
He hides in the back of the storeroom until everybody leaves. He stands in the workshop. There's a list, but he can't bring himself to think about any of them. He thinks about pixie puff pollen and mellow-sweet and calming draughts. He thinks, why not? He thinks, because, because she's not yours, because she's-- But, of course, she isn't. Not now, anyway, and not even really before, except maybe once at a Yule Ball on the other side of the universe. He picks the mirror up and then puts it down and throws the cauldron instead, shoulders wrenching and hands burning.
"You're a fucking idiot," Angelina says from the doorway. It's late. Everything's purple. She smells of firewhisky. "I mean, I've tried -- we've all tried -- but you just. You take the biscuit. You take the whole fucking box."
George doesn't know what to say to this either, blinks at her. "Are you drunk?"
"Hardly," she snaps. "What are you working on this time? Cheering Coins? Peaceful Pillows? Happy Horns?"
"I don't know," he says, and then, because, what the hell? "What's wrong with--"
"It's a joke shop," Angelina says acidly.
"We have jokes," George says, annoyed now. "We out-sell Zonko's forty to one."
"Yes," Angelina says, only she just sounds tired now. Exhausted, even. "You have all the classics. And the mirrors."
"They're useful," George says, because they are, damn it.
"Always seeing yourself out of the corner of your eye."
He waits for a point, but that's apparently all she was going to say.
"I have to," he says, vaguely, waving a hand at the mess. He can't remember what was in the cauldron, but it's gone yellow and sticky on the stones and everything smells oddly of camomile tea. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry," she repeats, a little incredulously.
"About-- I shouldn't have hit Lee. I mean, it's none of my business if you-- It's good to move on with your life. You, you know." There are things you say here. He searches for one. "You shouldn't feel -- I don't know. Guilty, or."
She's just staring at him. Gaping. "Wow. That's just, wow."
"You should go back to, to Ron, or Lee or whoever," George says. "I-- You weren't drinking by yourself, were you?" He gets a death-glare. It's oddly like being back at school. His hands itch for a broom or a bat or something, something to do. "You should go back. They're probably worrying about you."
"They're not worried about me," Angelina yells. "They're worried about you."
It's George's turn to gape. "Me?"
"Fucking war," Angelina says, and then she's across the room like she's flying, best catcher in the school, her arms around his neck, her lips finding his messily, pressing with desperation. And it's not like he means to kiss her back, but his mouth opens to -- to gasp or curse or something -- and she's right there, teeth nipping at his lip, her tongue sliding against his. Something crashes as they go backwards into a table. George drops a hand to steady them, wraps the other around Angelina's waist to stop her falling. Her arms wind around his neck, her hands buried in his hair. She tastes like fire. He can't breathe.
"I want you back," she says, fiercely and against his lips. "I want you to stop fucking scaring me."
He can't breathe. It's too hot. Everything's too hot, too close, too real. "You're drunk."
"Ron's drunk," she corrects. "Spilled his damn drink on me. Came back to dry out, but I'd much rather get wet with you."
"Merlin," George curses, but he's, he's only fucking human, right? And it's really no effort at all to turn them round, pusher back against -- he doesn't even know, just that his hands are caught in her braids, his lip in her teeth, her hands stroking down him to fumble at his belt. "This is-- I don't know what--"
"Shut up," she says, not unkindly, and pulls at his top. George pulls back enough to let her take it off him, and she pulls him back to kiss him again, muttering "Fucking beard" and scratching her fingernails down his back, which, fuck--
"Do that again," he says.
She huffs a laugh and does, harder. He really doesn't mean to moan like that, like he's still a teenager who can't keep it in his pants. He tries again to say they shouldn't do this, but Angelina's pulling his hands to the heavy swell of her breasts and it's not like he hasn't thought of this. They all had. Quidditch locker room orgies. Never did anything about it, for all they were Gryffindors, but they had the laughs, the thoughts, the spit-slick nights.
He tears at her blouse, and she does too, reaching back to unhook her bra when he fumbles, drawing him back to her. She's soft under him, heavy, hard too. Her breath catches when his palms rub circles against her nipples, when his fingers press, squeeze. His eyes tries to close, but her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard, making him meet her gaze. Making him see her, panting a little, lips parted and wet, eyes dark pools.
"Have you been thinking about this?" she asks. "Did you even notice I was here?"
"I noticed," George insists.
"I've been here three months," Angelina says, and George shakes his head because, no, it can't have been that long, he'd know, but she nods, emphatic. "Three months and you never even -- not once --"
He kisses her, because he can, because he doesn't want to talk. She makes an annoyed noise and shoves against him but, when he moves back, she comes up away from the table with him. They stumble across the workshop till the huge sofa -- some large and hideous French chaise Fleur forced on him -- hits George in the back of the knees, and they go down, Angelina on top.
"Stay with me now," she says, and the heel of her hand presses against the hard length of his cock.
George groans, bucking a little, and she shifts, pushing him and back onto the sofa proper and following after, straddling his hips. He fingers scratch down through his chest hair. He bends up, pulls her down, nuzzling a breast, finding her nipple with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. There are mirrors, somehow there are mirrors everywhere, above them, to the side. He can see them in every direction, over and over, doubles, triples, twins of twins. Angelina drags a sharp nail across his nipple, drawing his attention back to her.
They've both lost their trousers somewhere -- so much more practical than robes when you're on the run, and then just a hard habit to break -- and there isn't enough light for him to tell the colour of her underwear; light, enough, though, to follow his hands as he slips the thin strips of cotton off her hips and pushes them down. She wriggles helpfully, kicks them off. His own are straining obscenely, getting wet where his cock-head presses against them, demanding freedom. Angelina licks her lips.
"I want to--" George's hand dips between her legs, hesitates in her curls.
"Yeah," Angelina insists, shifting forward, grinding herself against his fingers. He rubs her lips, making her gasp; she moans when he slides a finger inside, into thick, wet heat, and again when he adds another, squeezing around him. His thumb finds her clit, strokes slow circles around it. She makes a noise, half gasp, half hiss, and tugs at his underwear. "Get your damn kit off."
"Sexy," he says, and she laughs, lifting her hips a little as he wriggles free. His cock springs up, falls back, a thin strand of pre-come stretching from its head to his belly. Angelina closes her hand around his cock, skin burning, calluses rough as she strokes and George tries to say something, but it comes out as spluttered expletives. Angelina laughs again.
"I've been thinking about this," she says. "Since, god, fifth year. You really filled that uniform out."
'Fifth year', thinks George slowly, almost absently as he fucks her with his fingers, as she strokes him and then, cutting through the rising heat and coiling tension there's a sudden sharp, bright, 'oh', because he reckons he understands, now, or, at least, more than he did. And even though his balls are going to fucking hate him, he tries to say, "I'm not," him, I'm not--
"Don't you dare," Angelina says, sharply, wriggling against him in a way he can't follow until she huffs and pulls his hands away from her. When she moves, George half-expects it to be off the sofa, but instead she just lifts herself a little for a better angle, her hand aiming his cock against her. He finds he's holding his breath, can't breathe out. She's too hot, too wet, too tight as she slides down around him. She makes this deep, pleased, guttural noise. His hands go to her hips of their own accord.
Angelina starts rocking against him, and his body goes with it, hips jerking a little, getting in, getting deep, but his head's all over the place. Sweat makes his hands slip, up and down. Angelina falls forward, her hands on his chest, fingernails scratching in all sorts of interesting ways. Her breasts hang -- he can't think of anything that does involve ripe, succulent fruit, and it startles a laugh out of him. Angelina's rising now, and falling, slow and perfect friction, her head now back, now forward, braids flying, lips parted, eyes half-closed; half shadow, half gleaming goddess.
George sees their reflection, dark in the mirror, ghosts save where the odd dapple of light -- and those lollies are going to need work, because, fuck, glowing children is just, harder, just -- the odd light gives life to a swathe of freckles, to a gleam of red hair, to an expanse of dark thigh, to black curls, to coming apart and together, apart and together and. And his body knows what to do, wants to do it, is hot and tight and right up against that perfect edge, but he can't, he can't; and he tugs her down to tangle his arms around her, to feel her sweat-slick breasts rub against him, to kiss her, to apologise over and over because "I'm not him, Angie, I'm not him, I'm not--"
"I've always been able to tell you apart," Angelina says against his mouth. He can taste tears on his lips. "Always, George; you hear me?"
He shakes his head. There's a hole where his reflection should have an ear. Holy, George thinks, I'm holy. Angelina's hands are on either side of his head.
"Always," she says, rocking harder, and his hips lift to meet her falls, swift and hard and deep and he tries to say something, anything, her name, but it spills from his lips as a wordless moan as something breaks and there's light and he's jerking up and in and coming hard.
There's a grin in his head, bigger than the world.
He pants. She hums, half-pleased, half-amused, still moving slowly against him and it's good and it hurts all at once. He's suddenly very aware of the itch of the sofa against his ass, the wooden arm digging into his leg, that, "You didn't--"
"It's okay," she says, and then yelps when he twists them around.
He catches her before she can bang her head, lowers her the rest of the way to the sofa, and slides backwards, out and down and, before she can say a word, his mouth is where his cock just was, tasting her, tasting himself in her. Fingers now, sliding in, and he writes her name against her clit with his tongue, licking, sucking, nibbling, and Angelina bucks against him, back arched, his name on her lips over and over, like a chant, "George, George, George!" and she goes tense, strained, clenching against him and then loose, boneless, all at once.
There's a long, satisfied sigh, and he licks her once more for luck, kisses her thigh, and lifts his head.
"I've changed my mind," she says, and he blinks at her. She grins back, slow and lazy. "You can keep the beard."
He chuckles a little, crawling up her. It's warm enough not to need blankets, though he would have liked a little more space. They shift until they're comfortably entangled and she kisses him, slow and sweet, and George smiles and surprises them both by suddenly sobbing. Angelina just pulls him close and lets him cry against her neck, stroking his back and saying, "I know," and "Me too," and other soft nothings until he sleeps.
It's dawn when George wakes. He feels -- empty, maybe. Clear. Fragile, maybe, or. Different, is the point. Not a lot, but, just enough. Like he's begun. He stares at himself in the mirror and has to suppress a laugh so it doesn't wake Angelina. He looks like shit, like a short troll or an over-sized gnome, which makes him think of the list, and he clears up the fallen cauldron and sets to work.
Angelina stirs as he's adding the finishing touch, wakes as he pours a little of the potion, diamond clear and sparkling into a small vial. She watches him as he crosses the room and puts a drop, no more, no less, into each of the heavy work boots lined up against the wall. Angelina gives him an inquisitive look when he turns back, but all she says is, "I'm going to take a shower."
"Okay," he says. "Coffee?"
"Sure," she says, crossing the room with an easy, athletic tread he can't help admiring. It helps that she's still naked. "Or you could join me." The smile is half-insult, half-tease, all promise. "You do remember how to wash, right?"
George does. He demonstrates, thoroughly enough that the morning gets eaten up and they're still damp and giggling together when there's a loud whump and a startled screech from the workshop.
"What--?" Angelina asks.
He tugs her towards the door, just as is its shoved open from the other side and a small, redhead boy in boots, barely as high as the handle, storms in, screaming, "George! You prick!"
George doubles up laughing.
"Shrinking Shoes," Angelina says, grinning and nodding. "Nice."
"I hate you," Ron squeaks, but he's smiling too. "Seriously, I hate you so much."
George, still laughing, pats Ron on the head -- the fuming is just so cute! -- and wanders out to start the day.