Fic: This One Goes Out to the One I Love - Part 2 (Dominique/Teddy)

[hpraremod]

Lying in a sweaty tangle they smile at one another before Teddy sits up and fetches a smoke. “You fuck like a whore,” he says, but they both know it’s not a complaint.

She scoots her head closer to his stomach and he moves his hand down so that she can take a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve ruined you for other women, haven’t I, Ted?”

Smiling, “You wish.” He burrows further into the blankets and with a yawn says, “Now belt up—you’ve got to help me again tomorrow once you’re done at Dean’s.”

She grins but he cannot see the expression. “I know, Teddy. I’m ready.”

They’ve never really fought—not really. There are arguments—rows started by one or both of their stubbornness, and then there is the healing calm of forgiveness. It’s never truly a fight—because Dominique’s never been strong enough to say when. She caves and shoves all her feelings aside so as to never hurt Teddy. Feelings aren’t meant to be bottled. This is their demise—the slow decay.

And one day there is nothing to stop the flow of the festering wound.

“Fuck you,” she shouts as she starts shoving her clothing into a duffle. Yanking her precious frocks roughly from Teddy’s wardrobe. “What do you know?”

“He’s not right, Nikita and he never fucking will be,” Teddy shouts back and she pauses by the wardrobe—her hand gripping at its open door.

“He’s my father,” she whispers. “He’s all I’ve got.”

Teddy wants to tell her she’s got him, she can see it written in his eyes, but they both know that’s not completely true. Dominique only gets him when he’s alone, frightened, depressed—everything not happy. She has none of his easy smiles and warm gestures—not any longer—and she thinks she never really has.

“Why do you do this to yourself,” he asks instead.

And the anger comes back. “It’s the same reason I torture myself by being here with you—you fucking twat—because of love. Love—that stupid retched thing I hate the most.”

She’s gone soon after—and his answer rings out in the emptiness she’s left behind. “I hate it, too.”

Al tells her she’s a twat when he meets her for lunch in Hogsmeade the weekend before Winter Hols.

“Why am I the twat?” She’s sketching out a tattoo for him—he wants her to be his first and she’s preparing something she can be proud of while being scolded by Uncle Harry.

Al lays his head against the booth’s back and she kicks him playfully beneath the table. “You’re both twats,” Al says with one of his easy going smiles. “You’re both idiots.”

When their drinks are almost empty she says, “I know.”

Bill’s never been an easy man to deal with, at least not during Dominique’s life. She’s been told by every relative she has that once upon a time her father wasn’t so far gone with fits of rage and days of apathy. She’s the one who has to keep telling herself that—matter of fact, because any more she doesn’t want to forget her dad. Those few sunny moments when he was doting and fun and everything a father is meant to be.

He’s in one of his apathetic moods when she comes in after work. Dean told her he could close up alone when she got the message from Victoire, and she’s here now. In this cold house, staring at the corpse she calls father.

“Dad,” she says, but he shows no sign that he’s heard.

With a sigh she sets the bag of groceries on the counter and opens the icebox—the smell of old food filling her lungs. A cough and a scowl as she starts ridding the icebox of all its contents.

When she’s frying mushrooms in the pan she remembers being seventeen and cooking Teddy’s birthday dinner. He was nineteen then—playing his guitar, singing a song she didn’t know, and she watched over him as she had when they were children. She remembers—then—he suddenly felt so distant.

“I made your favourite.” Calling out to him hadn’t bridged the gap—even now she’s not sure anything can. For all they fuck there is still something missing. Or maybe it’s not—maybe they just aren’t strong enough for this to work yet, maybe they’re too young.

Now she rubs her eyes and pushes her hand up her forehead when she’s got dinner ready. The plate is loaded and she takes it to her dad—setting the food before his red-rimmed eyes. Even when she touches his shoulder he doesn’t turn to acknowledge her presence. Teddy says she’s allowing Bill to hurt her—believing in a man who never was. If that’s true then she’s allowing Teddy to hurt her as well.

Mum rings on her Pocket Mirror and Dominique is tempted to ignore it but she answers because she knows Mum’ll just send Victoire round if she doesn’t and she might just commit murder if she has to see Victoire now.

“Yeah,” she says and she can see Mum’s elegantly painted face as it ripples into view.

“How’s your father?”

Bitterly she says, “As if you care.”

“Nikita-,”

“Don’t call me Nikita—as if you care for me, or him, Mum.”

“Dominique,” her mother looks genuinely upset. “I have always loved your father, always will—just like I will always love you.”

She snaps the compact closed, not wanting to hear more of her mother’s tired excuses, and leans against the counter, a beer sounds fucking fantastic right now but she’s not ready to see Ted. It’s too raw—this hurt, this anger. She pulls a canned lager from the fridge. It’s not great but it eases a bit of the tension and it makes her feel warmer.

When there are five or more empty lager cans in the rubbish bin she moves to walk Bill up the stairs. He’s in bed after much fumbling on her part, and he still hasn’t spoken. “Night, Dad,” she whispers—brushing an alcohol scented kiss against his forehead.

In the cloak of night she finds a pub—dodgy like Ted’s and sets about vying for a companion. She hates sleeping alone. An empty bed reminds her she has nothing in this world. If only for a night she wants someone to steal away the cold that has settled in her soul, and if they can’t she’ll settle for their brief distractions.

Sex has always come easy to Dominique—she was a creature born to entice and she does so as easily as she breathes.

Teddy often calls her a decadent whore—reckless and passionate, she gives her everything in sex. Even now, in bed with this stranger, she clings to him and encourages him to go deeper, harder. She’s demanding he give her his all as she lays her everything out before him.

He told her his name—they all do, but it’s never their names she calls. She’s always silently calling for Teddy, and there is never an exception.

In the morning he asks if he can come by again—they all do, but she doesn’t do repeats.

“You know my mum’s a tattoo artist,” Toby says one night when Al’s over and Scorpius is droning on about how Teddy and Al need to quit putting so much ink into their skin.

Toby’s interjection into the conversation causes one of Scorpius’s well groomed eyebrows to arch towards his hairline, “Really?” He gives Toby an obvious once over. “Don’t tell me you’ve got markings all over your skin like these idiots?”

The smile Toby gives Scorpius is positively sweet when he says, “My first one was a Christmas present from Mum when I was fourteen.”

Teddy and Al laugh while Scorpius rolls his eyes in an uncharacteristic way. “What’s the world coming to,” he moans dramatically. “Pretty soon it will be the brats at primary sporting the logos of their favourite kiddie bands.”

Al cracks a smile, “I can just see it now, Scorpius the dancing pygmies tattooed on every round toddler belly—such a lovely thought.”

Toby cackles. “My mum’s gotten requests for the pygmies several times, by big burly dudes.” Teddy loves how every single time the word ‘gotten’ slips out of Toby’s mouth and is spoken with that believable accent Scorpius winces. It’s almost worth hearing the word.

“How did your mother get into the business,” Al ventures later when the game of 999 Quidditch Problems but a Broom Ain’t One gets rather tedious and boring—as if Teddy cares what year Sonny Connelly got a foul for grabbing a hold of Seth Jameson’s arm when he tried to throw the Quaffle into the middle Quidditch Hoop.

“Some guy offered to buy her a tattoo when she was fourteen or fifteen and she said what the hell. Says she was taken with the process more than the shitty flash she picked for her ankle.”

“That’s a bit insane,” Scorpius mutters, incredulous.

“Mum says nothing’s insane unless you haven’t lived it.” Teddy thoroughly agrees with that sentiment.

Once Al and Scorpius have left Teddy and Toby sit around, listening to the wireless while Teddy reads through The Prophet and Toby plucks at the strings of Teddy’s old guitar.

“What’s your mum look like?” Teddy inquires, breaking the silence.

“Tall, blonde, pale, tattoos—blue eyes,” Toby says, and then puts his tongue between his teeth as he tries to play the same refrain he’s been stumbling over for weeks. Teddy figures one day he’ll get the courage up to ask for help, but until then Teddy’s not offering—he finds amusement in the way Toby’s always cursing, quite colourfully, each time he messes up.

“She sounds like my type,” Teddy says teasingly—hoping to get a rise out of Toby.

What he doesn’t expect is the hopeful, “Really?”

“Well, blonde and pale, really, and tattoos turn me on right quick but, I mean—there’s more to it than that, yeah?”

“Dunno,” Toby mutters, suddenly moody, “Mum says physical attraction’s all there is to it—love’s only for your kids, it doesn’t exist where sex happens.”

Teddy thinks that’s terribly jaded but doesn’t contradict the statement—he can see the truth in the words; it’s how he feels in relationships. All sex, no love, loads of eventual misunderstanding.

Fights always manage to make situations uncomfortable—this odd silence that continues while they are together at a family function increases the awkwardness. She tries to avoid him, he tries to avoid her, and then suddenly they can’t.

Then they are in the broom shed, buggering like a couple of bumbling teenagers who’ve just discovered the delicious friction of touching, tasting—fucking. Dominique’s mouth is on his, swallowing any and all words he might have spoken. She’s not here to listen, she’s here to feel less lonely—Teddy is as well.

Her knickers are on the dusty floor and she digs the heels of her boots into the splintering wall while she uses a shelf just above Teddy’s head for leverage. She rides him ruthlessly—her arms straining, her lip bitten between her teeth, her thighs tight against him on every downward thrust. His hands grip her arse; harshly his nails dig into the soft flesh of her skin—leaving little red crescent moons.

Sex doesn’t have to take hours to be amazing—a fifteen minute quickie with Teddy is more enjoyable to Dominique than a marathon fuck with the boring blokes she often follows home.

By the time they come sweat soaks them, blush stains their skin, and their clothing is wrinkled beyond decency.

She lights them a fag and takes the first drag before she lets him have a taste.

“Why do we do this?” Teddy suddenly speaks.

Dominique looks up at him. Her eyes heavily shadowed with greys and black; her colourless mouth pulls into a lazy white smile. “This is the only truth we know—you, me, and a shag between us.”

“Do you ever want more?”

She watches him for a long minute and finally with a sigh says, “Will you ever be willing to give more?”

“I don’t know.”

She doesn’t say anything, she expects as much from him—somewhere he knows this is a losing battle. Somewhere Teddy knows he is yanking the thread to unravel the sock. Dominique knows it as well, but neither of them tries to make this more.

Dominique is out with her mates. It’s the usual scene—booze, flirting, a bit of potions, and meaningless heavy petting in dingy loos. As she crushes a cigarette in an ashtray outside the pub, sitting on the cold bench, she thinks this isn’t the life she wants to remember as she dies. This isn’t the way she wants to be remembered—the drunken slag who was always up for a bit of the ol’ in and out.

These aren’t the friends she sees with her in the darkest of days—these are the flakes that will leave her stranded in a loo, surrounded by a pool of her own sick. She knows because as it becomes harder and harder for her to keep the sickness at bay she’s been left, in solitude, leaning against more and more smelly u-bends.

Teddy’s Floo is always open at this hour. Dominique pours out of the flames and manages not to sprawl against the unkempt carpet. He doesn’t hear her as she slips into his room, and barely stirs when she warms his skin with her own.

“Teddy,” her voice smells sour, but he’s not awake to notice. “Teddy,” she whispers, “What if I want more?”

Christmas is always a jolly affair. More so when Gran Weasley is meeting a new member of the growing family. Today that person is Toby. Poor bastard is getting the full brunt of her cooing and coddling, and Teddy can’t help but feel amused.

“He reminds me so much of you,” she whispers to Teddy with a happy tone. “But even more so he reminds me of Dominique.” Teddy nods, he’s seen the similarities plenty over these past months—in an odd way he’s falling in love with Dominique all over again and it’s all thanks to a stranger.

The presents are just done being torn open by the children—everyone’s got a plate of cobbler and Teddy is feeling full, warm, and happy. Toby is beaming—Harry bought him a new broom, Scorpius spoiled him with a pouch of gold, and Al gifted him with a drum set. Teddy could kill them.

“We’re gonna play a pickup game in the yard,” Toby says and Teddy waves him on. Toby’s leaning towards Roxy’s daughter Memphis and her big hazel eyes. It makes Teddy grin as he watches them move towards the door.

“Have fun—I am not getting on a broom.” Al and James are standing to join the younger members of the family and Teddy is about to reply to some glib remark Al’s made about him being old and out of shape when a very familiar, very upset voice fills the den from the mouth of the hall.

“Sidney Tobias,” she says—flushing with a mix of anger and relief. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” And she’s got her hands on her hips—a great representation of Gran Weasley.

“Mum,” Toby whispers and something terrifying—yet something Teddy knewinstinctively—happens. Toby’s hair, in his fright shifts through an array of colours and his appearance changes rapidly—until finally he is a little white mouse trying to bound away.

Dominique seems rather used to this for a short wave of her arm and he’s squirming in the palm of her hand. “We’ve got some serious talking to do. I’ve just spent five months worried out of my fucking mind!” Harry’s a pace behind her and Teddy’s just now noticing him. His eyes tell Teddy something and he jerks his head, indicating Teddy should join him for a moment.

The Weasley house is never quiet, but right now Teddy can hear the tick of every clock and the creak of every old board.

When he’s in the back garden with Harry—Dominique and Toby off to the side, her yelling under the veil of a silencing charm while Toby cowers—Teddy lets out a low breath.

“What the fuck is going on,” he asks Harry quietly as he lights up a fag.

“Looks to me like you’ve got a son.” Harry says this with a very droll tone and dry glance.

“Yeah and it looks to me like you knew.” Teddy’s not sure what he should feel so he speaks with indifference. Mostly he’s not surprised he’s got a son, and he’s even less surprised the child is also Dominique’s—it seems like the sort of fuck up they’d manage.

“For what it’s worth, Ted—I found out just before she came into the house.” Teddy believes it—Dominique would never tell Harry something unless she didn’t mind Teddy knowing. Harry’s always been honest to a fault with his children and Teddy.

She’s got the little plastic stick, and is looking at the disrespectful smiley face. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It doesn’t change—the smile is still there and it’s still mocking her.

In reality, she knew this would happen. She is reckless with Teddy—they are usually drunk, too miserable, too in need, and too lonely to spare a thought for the consequences. And now those consequences are giving her a sarcastic laugh while staring her in the face.

“Shit.”

Dominique’s not got anyone she can talk to—no one other than Teddy and even he hardly listens, just as he hardly speaks. So she winds up at Dean’s. He’s got a customer in a chair and the steady buzz of his tattoo machine calms her as she sits near him. Dean’s always been a mentor—he gave her a job when no one else would, and he’s taught her a trade that keeps food in the icebox even if Gran doesn’t approve, and he’s never once judged her for her weaknesses. He’s like her family, but better because she feels as if she can be honest with him. Right now he is just what she needs—Dean is like the father she’s always wanted.

She’s lying on the bar looking up at the glasses with her blouse open as Teddy’s hand snakes up her stomach, over her breasts, and she’s telling him all about her plans.

“I want to run this place,” she says—back arched as he half listens-half devours her. “Make it a nice pub—like The Three Broomsticks only better—more us. You and I –we could do it, Ted.” He’s on her, over her, pressed close so as not to knock glasses from their resting spots. She’s gasping and he’s grunting and all the while she never stops dreaming, “We could run it—have a couple kids—buy a crup—fuck yes, Teddy, there!” And then she’s be arching, clinging, begging and he’s giving her more as she demands.

“Teddy,” she calls and he stops staring at the bartop. His eyes—an array of endless colour—are on her face.

As he looks at her he says, “Yeah, all right—it’s yours.” His tone breathless as his eyes slip half closed and his damp lips part when his orgasm comes.

Only a few days later she knows he doesn’t mean it—he’ll never be the dream she wants. She’s behind the bar, wiping it down and says, “Would you marry me?”

He laughs. “That’s not exactly a romantic proposal.”

She doesn’t smile and he wears a sobering expression when he faces her. “You’re serious?” Another laugh though this one is full of more scorn than she cares to hear. “Dominique,” he never calls her by her name—not unless he wants to hurt her. “You and I—this is convenience, a way to fill up the empty, yeah? What kind of marriage would we have? It’d be like it is now—only more jealous, with more hurt. At least now we can ignore the fact we’re fucking not right for one another—you’re a slag, I’m a dickhead, and we warm each other up at night, that’s it. We’re not in love.”

She swallows. “Of course not, Ted—who could love you?”

She’s not supposed to be back here—this isn’t supposed to be happening, and the tea Gran sets in front of her is too bitter for it to be any form of calming.

“Dominique,” Gran says—and they both pretend they cannot feel the gaggle of nosy listeners who hover near the opening between the dining area and the living room. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Of course Mum doesn’t care—she’s never so much as responded to Dominique’s letter about Toby, nor has she made any effort and Dad would be a lost cause if he was still alive to tell—Gran’s the only one who wants to know, she’s the one Dominique should have told. But she didn’t—she couldn’t bring herself to tell any of them, back then. And as the years wore on the ease of writing a letter became more and more difficult.

Sixteen years too late for regrets.

“I wanted to start a new life.” It’s mostly true. She wanted to leave Teddy behind and in order to do that she had to cut out the rest of her family—they were just as much his, and she figured he needed them more than she’d ever want them. She’s never exactly known true attachment or affection for the people she was born knowing—only her father and Teddy, but loving them did nothing more than break her heart.

Gran doesn’t say anything, but she looks so terribly upset by Dominique’s words—she almost regrets saying them.

“When was he born?”

Dominique smiles then. “March 22—best and worst day of my life.”

Teddy is sitting with Toby on the sofa when she exits the dining room—they are huddled there, awkward and terribly silent—she goes to them and jerks her head at her son.

“We’re going.”

“But-,” he starts and she cuts him off with a look, the look that allows no room for argument.

“We’re going—now, and I’d better not hear so much as a sniffle out of you when we leave.”

“Where are you staying?” Teddy inquires—the question she knows Toby wants to ask and it sets her nerves on edge when they share a silent communication, as if in this short amount of time they have become old chums.

“The Leaky for tonight—tomorrow I plan on finding more suitable lodgings.” The unspoken now that you know about him hangs in the air between them, and she wants to breakdown—scream and demand that things go back to the way they were when it was just her and her son.

“How long will you be staying?” Teddy tries to sound casual, but they both know him better than that—he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to know. She wants to ask how he expects her to leave now, but she doesn’t.

Instead Dominique states with cool calm, “I’ll let you know when I have a place.”

It is a warm day in May—the fourth—and Teddy is at Gran Weasley’s, dying to eat cake and ready to go flying with Harry. Everything is set up for Victoire and Dominique’s joint birthday party. A year and two days between them, Dominique and Victoire are really close, or so it seems to Teddy because they do all the same things and do those things together all the time. They are lucky to be so much alike and have enough in common not to fight over the details of their party.

Only things are never as they seem.

Dominique is sitting under the long branches of a lone tree by Granddad Weasley’s shed. She’s looking up at the branches and as Teddy approaches her he can hear her sniffle as she sings softly to herself.

“Are you all right?” he says as he moves to join her in the shade.

“Why do I always have to share a cake?” She sounds bitter and annoyed at seven.

“Because it’d be a waste to have two?” Teddy is trying to be diplomatic at nine.

“But then at least I’d get to pick my cake and maybe my party decorations, and maybe for once it wouldn’t be all about Victoire.”

“But today is your birthday.” Teddy says and Dominique is annoyed when she glances at him.

“I know.”

“Happy Birthday to you then, and not Victoire.”

He’s never seen anyone smile quite as brightly as Dominique.

“Mum,” Toby starts as soon as he sees her in the morning. She told him the night before, with a short dismissive tone, to put himself to bed and not bother her until daybreak. It’s well past daybreak now and he’s fidgeting where he stands by the entrance to the in-suite bathroom.

She sighs and puts her hands in her long hair—Dominique wants to ignore him, she wants to be silent and not yell, but most of all she wants to bury her anger and hurt though she knows, from experience, how much damage that will do.

“How could you do this to me?” It’s not where she wanted to start but the question spills out before she can form any other coherent thought.

He recoils, a pained wince scrunching up his handsome face, and she feels a momentary thrill of satisfaction over the fact he knows he’s disappointed her. She wants him to suffer a bit, too.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles, crossing his thin arms as he glances at his bare feet against the cheap carpet of the Leaky’s room.

“Don’t fuck with me,” she shouts and moves before him—nose to nose—and she narrows her eyes, “You wanted to hurt me, Toby! I know you, and you know what you fucking did—you hurt me more than anyone ever has dreamed of hurting me, even more so than that bastard you call a father!”

Her parting shot garners a reaction and Toby yells back at her, “Teddy’s not a bastard and he’s not worthless like you’ve always said!”

Dominique smiles—a grim little quirk of her lips—and folds her arms over her chest, “You know him so well, do you?”

“No,” Toby speaks out, in obvious anguish, “And that’s what sucks, Mum—you never gave me the chance to know him.” He might’ve said more but he’s gone with a crack before she can stop him. Now she knows where he’s going—but she’s still filled with the same hopelessness as the last time he deserted her.

Dominique is sitting on the low tire-swing, humming as she pushes her old rubber seat back and forth with the ball of one of her feet. Harry has her for the weekend and Teddy doesn’t understand why she’s been spending more and more time at Harry and Ginny’s.

“You want me to push you,” he asks and it is a long while before she shakes her head ‘no’ after glancing his way. Teddy frowns, “You look sad.” He ventures closer and she spins away from his gaze, twisting the three ropes round and round each other while Teddy chases her face and she runs from his stare. Finally she is wound too tight and starts twirling in the swing—giggling like mad when she finds she cannot stop.

When she slows enough Teddy reaches out a hand and grabs one of the ropes, smiling when she has to face him. “You are much more fun when you laugh.”

She laughs again and Teddy finds the sound infectious.

“Spin me around, Teddy,” she commands and he does as told. This is the first time he realises he will always do exactly as she tells him, and he’s not old enough yet for that realisation to frighten him.

Teddy doesn’t seem surprised to see her when she steps out of his Floo. He glances up at her from his old tweed sofa and folds his evening edition paper, setting it on the side table as he says, “I was wondering if I should ring you.”

“Where is he?” She’s not accusing or angry, just tired and unsure of how this will all play out.

“Sleeping,” Teddy says with an almost fond expression softening his expressive eyes. “He asked to help Louis in the kitchen—Louis seemed eager to spend more time with him, and even allowed him to help prepare starters. Finding out you have a nephew changes heartless bastards apparently.”

Dominique gives a short snort of a laugh, “I bet that was odd to see—Louis being anything but a twat while preparing food.”

“I swear Hell froze over, by morning we’ll all be dead.” She rolls her eyes in response.

Silence descends on them like a thick blanket in winter: warm and musty and hard to kick off. Finally, Teddy breaks the ice and addresses the griffin in the room.

“When did you know he was mine?” He’s not half as angry as she’s often imagined. Then again Teddy’s always been the apathetic sort, he rarely gets upset and when he does it is in lonely solitude so he can fall apart alone. She always hated that side of his personality as much as she’s loved him.

“I knew before the piss hit the stick—you were the only one I was never cautious with.” She gives him a sarcastic smile, “I might be a slag, Ted, but I am hardly stupid. I wasn’t looking to catch something I couldn’t wash off.”

The expression on his face is unreadable and she gives up trying to see through his emotions after a few more moments—staring into his eyes is uncomfortable. She decides to take a seat in the old armchair he has, and picks at the fraying arm if only to avoid his gaze.

“I don’t have to ask why you didn’t tell me,” he says when more quiet drags tension between them. His tattooed knuckles—Live Life—mesh the lettering together before he puts his hands behind his head. “I-,” he stops when he hears Toby in the corridor.

“Mum,” Toby says, awkward and too tall in the opening of the hall, “Why’re you here?”

“I’m here because you’re here,” Dominique says—and she means it. Her life will always be where Toby is and she doesn’t dare to dream of where she will be when he is grown and gone. It’s a heartbreak she doesn’t care to think of until the day it arrives.

He is scared of leaving. School is forever away and he won’t be able to keep Nikita company—keep her sane and happy and smiling while her parents slowly rot and fall apart. Her mum is ripping at the seams; he’s heard Ginny and Gran talking about it with Harry in hushed whispers, lately. Her mum is straying they’ve said, but he’s not sure yet what that means—he only knows it will end with Nikita crying.

At the platform he can hardly keep it together—she’s trying hard to smile and tell him to have fun and he knows inside she’s screaming, she’s dying. He knows because inside he’s dying, too.

One, two, three constant letters—but after the third he’s finding it harder and harder to keep up the pretence of indifference. He sees the way her hand shakes—sees it in the wobbling curve of her letters. He notices the smudges of ink from little drops of “rain”—she’s not fooling him and Teddy’s not sure he knows how to comfort her through the cold distance of a letter filled with meaningless dribble.

So he doesn’t try and as the days go by he finds it harder and harder to sit down and write her back. More often than not he feels as if he’s failed her.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to the crumpled parchment in his hands as he stares out of the window of his dorm—wondering if she is looking at the same cloud covered moon.

She goes to see Dean and the smile he wears when she steps into the shop is priceless and she feels as if it hasn’t been four years shy of twenty. She’s twenty again when she hugs him close and breathes in his familiar scents. This moment, for her, makes her finally feel as if she is home.

“Dominique,” he says—wrapping her in another fierce hug. “Is it really you, love?”

She’s got a film of tears as she grips him tight, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He swallows, she hears it, and they stand there together until Toby clears his throat. He’s obviously not fond of Dean—brat probably thinks Dean will be another of her shite boyfriends and she nearly laughs.

“This is your boy, then?” Dean wears a proud smile, almost like he loves Toby even though he doesn’t know him, and she grins in response while giving a short nod.

“Sidney Tobias Lupin, my son.”

Dean smiles, an almost sad expression. “And Teddy’s?”

She tenses. “Yeah, and Teddy’s.”

He gives her a job—the same station as when she was twenty, only now it’s not her same wild pink chair, it’s a standard black vinyl. Dean says he’ll buy her another pink one and she says she doesn’t plan on being here long enough to warrant a new chair. The look he saddles her with says he doesn’t believe her, but he’s smart enough not to voice that opinion.

Al’s her first customer and he smiles broadly when he lies back against her chair. “This brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

She smiles. “This certainly does.” She pinches his nipple and smoothes a hand against the purple stencil she’s got on his skin before the buzz of the machine vibrates in her hand.

“How old was I when you took my skin’s virginity?”

“Fourteen, I believe.” His smile is bright and she returns it with one of her own. “Now don’t scream or I’ll make it hurt more.”

Teddy knows every slight he’s ever made, he remembers every hurtful word he’s spoken—an atonement for his sins Gran’s always said, a form of self-punishment Harry always claims. But as he grows older Teddy realises these vivid memories are a way for him to agonise over things he should have said instead.

Like when Victoire asks him to be her date to the ball, last minute. Her ex just left her for some other bird and she wants to make him jealous—Teddy is “fit, if a bit awkward” and he’ll do perfectly. He was hoping to take Dominique—she’s not mentioned a date but he says yes because she tells him Dominique’s already got someone she’s going with.

Only that’s not true he finds out, but now he’s already promised Victoire.

“It’s all right, I’m sure someone will turn up,” Dominique shrugs her shoulders as if she isn’t upset, but he can see it in the tightness around her blue eyes and he wants to tell Victoire to shove off. In fact he plans on it, but come morning Dominique is flirting with her date and Teddy has to mentally hang his head in defeat.

He allows Victoire to kiss him for show—after he’s seen Dominique sucking face with that twit she calls Marcus or Malcolm or something stupid like that. He sighs into the kiss and Victoire swallows his whispered, “Nikita.”

Teddy comes in one day around noon and hands her a brown sack that smells divine.

“What’s this,” she wonders as she takes it and sets the crumpled paper on the ground next to her station after tossing her gloves in the bin.

“Lunch,” Teddy replies as he settles into her chair. “Louis says you look malnourished.”

“I’m two sizes larger than the last time he saw me,” she grumbles, “I hardly need fattening.”

“Perhaps if you’d smile,” Teddy suggests. “Smiling tends to bring out the colour in your cheeks and you don’t look nearly as horrid.”

She scowls. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to compliment or irritate me, but if you are trying for the latter—it’s working.” Teddy grins and Dominique hates when her own grin forms on her lips. He’s still as infectious as ever.

“See, much better—when you smile you are instantly loads more fun.”

Toby decides to eat dinner at Teddy’s pub one night, after Teddy asks him to, and begs Dominique to join them. Finally Dominique relents—it’s been ages since she’s had a night out and she figures it might as well be with her snot of a son and his idiot of a father.

A band is on and she thinks they’re quite a bit better than the bands Teddy used to have on back in the day. More talent, less loud for the sake of sounding better. She says as much and he cracks a smile at her from across the table. She ignores the tremble in her stomach and looks over her menu.

“You’ve finally got some booths in here,” she comments after she speaks her order to her menu.

“That’s more of your brother’s doing than mine—he’s a horrible wanker.”

Dominique laughs. “You say this as if I don’t know—I did grow up with him.” She lifts her lager and takes a pull before she sets the glass down and raises an eyebrow at Teddy, “Why did you hire him? Last I recall you didn’t much like him.”

Teddy looks like he doesn’t want to say, but he settles for truthful. “Victoire asked me to do him a favour—he’s burned a lot of bridges and he’s practically family.”

She pretends it doesn’t bother her when the food arrives and she smiles brightly at Toby when he starts digging in with little grace. He’s having the cod and chips and Dominique is glad to see he’s enjoying it—she couldn’t get him to eat fish to save her life when they were in New York. A quick glance at Teddy’s dish shows her why their son is so open to trying new things—he’s trying to be like his father. She’s not sure she likes that idea.

He didn’t plan on it happening like this—in a graveyard, in the cold, with hardly any finesse. He’s always believed Dominique is worth more than a cheap shag, but that’s what he’s given her, isn’t it—a cheap shag over his gran’s grave and fuck if that doesn’t make him feel guilty.

She’s sleeping in his bed, in this little flat he’s leased for the year, and her hair is on his pillow—bright and soft and oh so lovely. Teddy reaches out a hand to touch it and sighs with contentment. No matter how she came here, Teddy knows this is where she belongs.

Dominique’s eyes flutter open when he whispers, “Nikita” and she presses against him when he leans over her to kiss her. She’s lissom and eager as she moves to return his affections.

Soon her hand is against him—his cock hardening in her palm as he gasps into their kiss.

“Fuck me, Teddy,” there is desperation in her eyes even as her voice is confident and steady. He knows, somewhere, what she wants—what she needs but the raw ache in his heart makes him put up his defences as he pulls her into his lap. He’s not strong enough to face the possibility of eventually disappointing her with his clumsy attempt to love—the physical will surely be easier.

“All night,” he whispers in a voice full of husk and need.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she pants against his ear as she rides him—her long fingers gripping his neck and hair. His hands are against her arse, holding her close and tight telling her to take him deeper.

“Keep going, Nikita,” he groans. “So beautiful—so tight.”

Teddy moves one of his hands up her spine, loving the knots with a whisper of his fingertips as his hand moves to settle against her slim neck—fingers tangling in her hair.

She might have said it—he’s not sure if it was an imagining or if it was real. Whichever the case may be all Teddy knows is that when she says ‘I love you,’ he comes.

It wasn’t as if they both planned this—this is the way things have always been. Since that fateful moment over a grave and she’s almost sure this is the way things will always be between she and Teddy.

Toby’s off to school and now there is only them and when they know the solitude of each other’s company all they can do is fuck to avoid the words they want to say.

Teddy’s hand is tangled in her long hair and he pulls her face up towards him, kissing awkwardly and almost painfully at her mouth as he fucks her from behind—with deep hard thrusts.

She sucks at his tongue, trying to take it deeper into her mouth as her fanny greedily grips at his cock—begging him deeper and he complies. Gripping her tit with his free hand as he fucks her, blindly seeking his pleasure as she begs him to sate her own.
Hours later, when his sofa is sufficiently sticky and reeks of sex, they flop boneless against the tweed. Panting she stares at the ceiling and trying to calm his breathing he stares at the profile of her face. It is the pleasant afterglow—when she first left she missed these moments the most.

“God damn,” she whispers.

All he says is, “Yeah.”

“Did you miss my sex, Teds? Ruined you for all women, haven’t I?” She’s teasing and light with her tone, knowing that he’ll give her his usual dismissive reply. She believes she needs him to not be changed—Dominique hasn’t got it in her to hope.

“You ruined me the moment I saw you smile,” he says—and she’s taken by surprise.

Stupidity, Teddy knows the berk well. And he regrets his friendship with the dolt the minute Dominique freezes up before him. He shouldn’t have said those things. He knows, better than anyone, that she is loveable, kissable, keepable. But of course he’d have to go and throw up walls—shutting her out more, making her feel unworthy. All in deflection.

Usually she smiles, laughs off his temperamental tendencies, and ignores the words. This time is different, he can tell—she’s spoken, “Of course not, Ted. Who could love you?” She’s looking away and she’s not arguing, not like she does when it’s about Bill. He can feel the block of ice that settles in his gut at the realisation he may have finally broken what they’ve got.

When she doesn’t come round for a few days he goes to look for her. Hoping, praying, needing for her to be in her flat. She’s not, and he’s struck with fear when he notices how bare her home looks.

In her wardrobe is a pair of boots with his name written in crayon, like in Toy Story, on the sole. He touches the T and clutches the worn brown leather boots to his chest.

“This way I will always be yours,” she’d said once, not long after their first fuck. “Everywhere I go I’ll always have these boots.” He’d been terribly glib and nonchalant at the time, but inside he’d been soaring and now, as he looks at these boots he tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

It’s not long before Toby discovers them. They aren’t exactly subtle—it’s always been right here, right now with their couplings. They’ve never had a need to hide.

So he falls through the Floo, one afternoon—coming home from school—and finds them sprawled in the floor of Teddy’s living room. Dominique’s nude, riding him reverse cowgirl, and Teddy’s swearing loudly. A litany of “Fuck, god, yes—you’re a filthy fucking whore and I love you for it.” Dominique loves it when he speaks to her that way—it makes the simple act of sex seem filthy and downright wicked. And sex isn’t fun when it’s not filthy.

Then it all stops, with the cold and sudden realisation that their son is standing at the mouth of the hearth staring at his parents with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

“Wha-,” he starts and begins to shuffle into the direction of the room he keeps at Teddy’s, “What the fuck is this?”

Dominique is scrambling for her top and Teddy is swearing loudly, but not in a pleased sort of way as he too starts looking about for his articles of clothing. This is worse than the many times Al caught them and the few times Uncle Harry had the misfortune of turning up at the wrong moment. So much worse.

They stare at each other sheepishly and try not to voice their worries when Toby’s door slams shut down the corridor.

She lights a fag and Teddy steals it off of her as soon as she’s taken a deep drag. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing.”

“God,” she replies, “I know—I told him this was never going to happen.”

Teddy chuckles in response, “Never say never, my dearest.”

She frowns. “Seriously, Ted, I don’t want him to think we’re going to be a family. It’s a bit late to try and sail that ship now.”

He’s looking at the smoke coiling up from his cigarette while his long fingers stroke at the heavily inked skin on his chest. It’s still mostly bare of hair—Teddy’s lucky he’s not near as furry as the men in her family, most of them balding with more hair on their backs than on their heads. The tattoos aren’t as vibrant as she remembers, but they are still quite fetching. The beating wings of the owl on his shoulder seemed to call her home when she clutched at Teddy’s back, a little under an hour ago. His gentleness surprised her when he had her laid over the edge of the sofa, on his knees, thrusting into her shallow and slow.

“Guess fantastic shags can’t be the foundation of a happily ever after, yeah?” He’s snuffing out the cigarette in an ashtray on the side table and her short spell of staring at Teddy’s skin is broken by his words.

“Yeah,” she whispers. Standing and brushing down her jeans, she tries not to think of how sticky the insides of her thighs feel. She feels dirty and stupid for wanting him.

He’s had a few girlfriends. Really, he’s tried. He knew after the first year that Dominique wasn’t coming back, not now—not ever and so he’s grown listless while waiting.

There is one bird, Cheryl—she seems nice, and in love with him. For a time he thinks this will work. His pub’s growing in popularity. The food’s not bad, the bar and live music keep his customers entertained long after they’ve eaten. It’s working—life without Dominique.

But everything crumbles, with one letter, as he knew it would. It’s from Victoire. About Louis, he’s not been able to keep a job. He’s got an attitude, thinks he’s always right, and is pissed he’s never been given the title of head chef—even after always breaking his bollocks to prove himself.

Teddy wants to turn away the request, he doesn’t have to play charitable man just because he’s been asked, but then one line catches his eye and he’s mentally consented before he’s had time to write up an “okay”. Do it for Dominique, please, Teddy. And how is he supposed to resist a request such as this? He can’t and everyone knows it, everyone but the one person who should know.

Cheryl and Louis don’t get on and she’s in his ear, telling him he’s a bastard for keeping Louis on, demanding to know what he “owes” Louis. He tells her nothing and she tells him to get rid of him and he stiffly tells her he can’t and that he won’t.

She’s backing him into a corner mentally and she’s talking about their “plans”. He should have stopped her long ago when she decided to start making blueprints for his life—she’s lovely, he thought he could love her, but now she’s asking him to make a decision. And he’s never been good with decisions, he’s always left them up to the people around him.

“It’s him or me, Ted—I can’t do this. I won’t be here if you keep him on, he hates me.”

“Lou hates everyone,” he says with a half-hearted shrug.

“Choose, Ted,” she’s staring at him with angry green eyes and her mouth is pinched.

He’s silent and she sucks in a hurt breath. Teddy stares at his scuffed trainers and shoves his hands in his pockets while she storms off. A strained exhale leaves him and he wonders if perhaps he’s just made another large mistake.

Regrets are things he doesn’t need more of.

Toby’s got one of his long legs pulled up, his chin resting on his knee as he looks at his open scroll blankly. Dominique hovers in the entrance of his room, biting the inside of her cheek wondering how to start this conversation.

He spares her the awkward beginning and says, “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you’ve got La Petite Mort tattooed on your snatch.”

Dominique wears a thin grin when he faces her with his usual crooked smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Toby,” she starts and he shakes his head, silencing her.

“I know, Mum—it’s never going to happen again.” There is a distinctly scornful tone lying in his words.

“Really, Toby—I mean it.”

His eyes are angry and red when he faces her, “Like you weren’t going to date ever again—after all of your crap boyfriends, is it that sort of never again because if so, save your breath for someone who might believe you.”

She’s ready to deny it, but the challenge in his glare stops the denial in her throat. “You’re right—why should you believe me?” She’s hurt him plenty, in the past, with that one simple lie—it’s obvious to her now and she feels like shit.

“Sides,” Toby murmurs after a long, tense silence “What’s so bad about getting on with Dad?”

“Toby-,” he cuts her off before she can give him the usual story she’s given him since he was in nappies. The one about how they didn’t quite love each other enough and beyond being physical they had nothing.

“You’re both not quite so miserable when in each other’s presence. A blind person could see that.” Then he adds, “And at least Teddy wouldn’t try to run me off so he could have kids with you—make you a proper wife and shit.”

She frowns. “I’m assuming Daniel was telling you he and I are going to make a nice family without you?” Stupid buggering fuck buddy that guy, she thinks as she watches Toby. He shrugs but she can tell he is bothered by the thought of some bloke making her not love him, of some bloke pushing him out, and there is no way that will ever be true.

Dominique moves over to his chair and tells him to budge up. He does so without complaint and she pats her lap, Toby looks at her doubtfully and she pulls him until he is sitting heavily on her denim covered thighs. “I love you—and no wanker is ever going to make me shove you out. I don’t care if he’s got the cock of a god—you are my son.”

“Ew, Mum—I don’t want to know about Daniel’s cock.” He wrinkles his nose.

She snorts. “Promise it wasn’t all that wonderful.”

He hugs her and rests his cheek against her thin shoulder while she breathes in his smell—it’s a comfort to know while he grew up some things haven’t changed. “Then why’d you stay with him?”

Dominique combs her tattoo covered fingers through his hair, rocking him as best she can despite the fact the chair is solid and Toby is too heavy for her to manoeuvre him properly. Then she lays a soft, barely there kiss against his cheek and says, “Sometimes people get lonely.” She steadily avoids adding that all of her “boyfriends” where a way to fill that gaping void Teddy’d left in her—and by pretending she could make it with them she wouldn’t break down and go back to the place she wanted. The place where she and Teddy would fuck, not speak, and royally fuck up as they bumbled through life. She hadn’t wanted that for Toby. But she got lonely—she was human, after all.

“You had me,” he whispers, like he often did when he was small and another of her shite boyfriends was packing up and taking off. It was always worse when Toby liked them and even now she regrets making him suffer through every bad decision. There were so many things she’d do different if she had the chance.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” she whispers.

Now that he’s older he can understand what she’s implying. “They have dildos for a reason, Mum.”

She laughs, but there is hardly any mirth in the cracking sound.

“So,” he ventures, “I’m supposed to suffer through more shit boyfriends and possibly through Dad’s shit girlfriends and watch you both fuck up your lives?”

“You want me to get with your dad?”

He shrugs, “I may look grown—but still, every kid wants to see their parents happy and together.” Dominique begins to cry, she knows the truth of that statement well enough. Most of her childhood all she had wanted was for her mother and father to kiss and smile the way Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny did—she didn’t like them being broken, and she’s sorry she’s made Toby suffer the same pain.

The moment the boy walks into the pub Teddy’s gaze is drawn to him. He’s an innocent, all wide blue eyes and pale hair, with anxious glances about the place and hopeful grins anytime he notices someone is looking his way. This kid is waiting to be recognised. Teddy’s just not sure why yet, but he’s determined to find out.

He sees her in him from that first moment—it’s as obvious as the pieces of himself he finds.

Teddy’s Floo is open, always has been, and she finds relief in the fact some things never change. His door is ajar, lights spills into the darkened hall from the glow of a candle on his bedside table. Boldly she pushes into his bedroom. His irises are a the colour of changing leaves and they speak of memories being remembered as they shift to the brittle brown of leaves in winter before shifting slowly to the colour of new life—pale green that speaks of beginnings and hope.

“I keep thinking-,” he says then stops and she waits, leaning against the doorjamb her hands behind her back griping the cold wood. “I keep wishing,” he amends. “I keep wishing that if I could go back, if I could change one stupid mistake—just one...”

Dominique wants to look away, because she’s afraid of what that stupid mistake is—she wonders if he’s implying Toby is that mistake. But how could he, Teddy loves the boy—it’s obvious when he wears that fond expression. She cannot stop looking at his changing eye colour—the green is deeper now than Uncle Harry’s and Al’s. Dominique can feel her heart beating in her throat while she waits.

“I’d tell you I love you,” he says with a chuckle, but it is more sad than happy.

“Is that all,” she wonders with her own broken laugh.

“No,” he murmurs. “I’d ask you to marry me—properly, on a knee, in a tie, at some posh restaurant we both hate.”

She grins, and a real sound of happiness escapes her throat, “If you propose in an awfully stiff restaurant does that mean when we get home I can make you get on your knees and lead you by your tie?”

His crooked smile appears the one she’d love to eat. “Of course, why do you think I’d purposefully annoy you like that? It’s purely selfish. And maybe then,” his smile slips, “I’d get to be a proper dad, good and loving and the less severe one of us two.”

“It’s never too late to start,” she says, trying to hope—to believe in Teddy once again.

He is on her then, pinning her to the wall, with warm fingers pushing beneath the hem of her shirt. And somehow it’s better than she can recall, it’s not urgent yet it is still laced with their usual desperation.

“I love you,” he says—over and over, making up for all the times he couldn’t bring himself to say it—rocking into her with sure, measured thrusts.

“I love you, Ted.” She replies between each wet kiss. While arching against him, wanting him as deep as he can be—her hands are in his vibrant hair and she pulls him closer to whisper sweet truths against his lips.

Tomorrow she’ll tell Toby and Teddy they’ve got to get a bigger flat and new furniture. Teddy’s had that tweed sofa forever and she’s pretty certain it was his gran’s from before the war. She’ll also need to tell Dean to order her that pink chair she’s been avoiding—it’s time to replant her roots.

End

Comments

[drcjsnider.livejournal.com]

OMG... THIS is amazing. Really wonderful stuff it took me until almost the end of the first section to figure out Toby was Teddy and Dominique's. I thought your secondary characters were just amazing... especially Louis, Al, Scorpius, and Harry. I really liked the flashback scenes... but the here and now was the most awesome. Great details really made the story come alive, Dom as a tattoo artist, Teddy running a rock n roll pub, Al as a former drummer... just great, great stuff! Definitely my favorite story of the fest so far.

[crazyparakiss.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! I am glad you enjoyed it! :D