bait_backup | If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

*For a few days, Amrita could barely feel her feet touching the ground as she worked her shifts downstairs at the Leaky. She couldn't believe her luck, meeting (or re-meeting) Remus: he'd somehow taken a horrible day and spun it into something good, something hopeful. But it's been awhile since they met—in that very booth right over there, which her eyes keep flashing to worriedly--and she's long since started to doubt that he'll owl at all. The pub's near-empty most days, like much of Diagon Alley, so she's been spending a lot of time brooding and washing out glasses that don't need to be washed out, oscillating wildly between hope and despair and inventing less-and-less plausible reasons for the delay until she's driven herself half-mad with it for no particular reason.

It's foolish, but she can't help it, and tonight's no different. The early promise of the night—patrons, laughter, tips—has turned into achy feet and endless one-more-rounds for the only customer in the place, a regular who's neither charming nor a particularly good tipper. Still, she puts on her best smile for him as she refills his drink again and again. Behind it, her mind helplessly worries at itself like a well-picked bone: maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning. Or the next day. Or never. Best give up now. Oh, don't be ridiculous. Maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning.

This is what's galloping through her head like a centaur on uppers as she smiles prettily at the regular, waiting for last call, or for him to leave, or for her headache to simply kill her—whichever comes first.*

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*That hadn't been what she was getting at at all, but she rolls with it: only a little flustered, just the least bit blushing.*

Oh. Well--yes. Of course!

*He watches her blush as the check and its hefty tip is taken and decides, for a moment, on honesty.*

You know, if it weren't completely ungentlemanly and if I weren't certain you'd turn me down, I'd invite you back to my flat tonight. I have some lovely mead I've been loath to open without company.

*If Amrita's face goes a bit blank, it's understandable: it's distracting, the bright flashing like one of those horrible advertisements in Witch Weekly: SHOULD I-- NO--SHOULD I--NO--SHOULD I—NO-- BUT CAN I ANYWAY--NO

Eventually, reluctance wins—but ever so barely, and she presses her hands to her flaming cheeks.*

It's a good thing you're such a gentleman then, isn't it.

Another time, perhaps?

*She isn't cruel with it; in fact, she's fidgeting like a house-elf, and it couldn't be clearer that most of her is regretting it as soon as it's left her mouth. But in truth, it's all coming on rather fast as it is.*

*The debate is plain on her face, and it makes him grin only a little wickedly.*

The mead's kept for about fourty years. It'll keep a while longer.

Would you like me to walk you back to the Leaky?

Yes, I'd like that very much, please.

*It feels like they'd sat down only seconds ago, and in what seems like only an instant longer she's back in her cloak and leaving the place with a peculiar pang of regret. Her breath steams instantly in the frigid air, and she warms her hands in her pockets.*

*Cloaked and cold again, he offers her his arm as they stroll back to the Cauldron, leaving the warm and enchanting hustle and bustle of Rinard's behind. The street is cold and truly dark now, and the hour is later than either of them could have anticipated.

Reaching the side door, he releases her arm but catches her hands, drawing her a closer in the shadows of the alley than either of them might come on the street.

When he speaks, there's a bit of rough need in it that he can't disguise, a tiny speck of desperation and want.*

When can I see you again?

*She does a little quick math: certainly the strangest situation in which she's had to do so. She's working nights at the Leaky the next two days, and after that--well. She won't be seeing anyone but the inside of the sub-cellar. A few days to recuperate, and that left...*

A week from tomorrow.

*His crooked finger finds her chin and tilts it up toward his face, gently.*

That's awfully precise.

Seven again? I have a place in mind, if you enjoy Italian. It's a bit further away, but not too long. And we can always grab a Muggle taxi if we don't want to walk.

*He's far too close, the taste of blood in her mouth too lingering. She's outright trembling.

SHOULD I—NO--SHOULD I—NO.*

I'd love to.

*He decides to help her along with her indecision, and lowers his mouth to brush her lips.

Evan was taught to kiss by an older French girl the summer he turned 14, and was a very careful study of the art. He has kissed plenty of girls, both at Hogwarts and after, but is still surprised by the thrill that goes through him when he kisses this girl. It's all strange and tangled up, and there's the taste of blood in her mouth even though she's just a tiny trembling thing in his arms.

But if he knows anything, he knows it can't go on too long. One hand slides up her back to press her tight and close for a moment, and he breaks it off quicker than he'd like.*

. . . A week from tomorrow, then.

*As far as first kisses go, it isn't bad.

Not that she'd have anything to compare it with, of course, apart from childrens' games and a few clumsy busses from rowdy patrons at the Leaky. This is different. This counts. She stiffens at first, caught between twin ripcurrents of fear and desire, but she warms to it, and leans into him, her fingernails finding his upper arms and digging in hard—she can't help it, he almost tastes better than blood. And then, before it's barely begun, it's over, and she's got what must be an idiot grin plastered on her face.*

Er, right. Goodnight.

*He's got the grin too, although he'll deny it to himself all the way home.*

Good night, Amrita.

*He gives her hand a slight squeeze and turns, exiting the alley, resisting the urge to look behind him as he goes.*

*She positively flies up the stairs to her room, and sinks into bed fully-clothed and shoed, directing her idiot grin at the ceiling.

"Hussy." says the mirror.*

Shut up.

If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

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