TWO SLOW DANCERS, remus lupin

Elizabeth, 1982

Maybe it was her savior complex.

It was early spring. She could practically smell the pollen in the air when she stepped outside of her bleak, grey, shared home. The sun became a beacon of new beginnings, of promised hope that she made it through Halloween. She made it through November and December and January and February; she made it through the cold. The sun reminded her of her great feats, of how she would make it out alive somehow. She would make it out alive with him.

She awoke with a start. She knew it was going to be a new day, she could feel it from each hair in her head, down to her feet, through the tips of her fingers, and it shone through her eyes.

She may have been covered in scars she did nothing to earn, but it wouldn't change the surge of love and hope that flew through her veins.

She stood in the mirror, grinning a soft quirk as she braided her hair, the way she knew he liked it. He used to tell her that the intricate, loose lattice framed her face, and would beg her to teach him. He used to run his fingers through her hair for hours.

He used to. Before.

She didn't know what she was expecting when she walked down the corridor. But step by step, it was like the color was restoring piece by piece. The dark brown picture frame, the red lipstick she wore in their wedding photos, the evergreen accents, the gold around her finger. It was bubbling, simmering inside when she finally got to the end of the hall, looking into the kitchen.

Her eyes rested on his lime green socks that peeked from behind their kitchen island. Apparently Remus didn't get the fresh start memo, as he was still drowned in a pool of whiskey.

Even as the tears pricked the back of her eyes at the sight, Elizabeth smeared her smile he told her he loved on her face.

She approached his snoring figure, wrapping her cream cardigan over her waist as she kneeled against the cool, tile floor. She closed her eyes as she rested a hand on his sporadically rising chest, gliding her fingers over every inch of the scarred skin. She took his jaw into a soft hand, rubbing her thumb over his stubble that was gradually going to grow into a full blown, ungroomed beard. As she rubbed small circles across his left cheekbone, she could've sobbed out of happiness when his eyelids peeled open.

She smiled. It was a rare smile; it was the kind of smile that only resembled the utmost capacity of joy, but this smile was threefold. As she gazed into the deep pools of hazel, she knew she would do anything he wanted her to.

"Hi, love." She whispered. The first two words she had spoken to him since Halloween.

Remus didn't respond. He kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, like he was looking through her. In his fist was clutched still that stainless steel flask from James, completely empty.

He brushed her hand off of his face before standing.

He gradually began to trudge toward the alcohol cabinet, the clinking of expensive wine bottles the two were supposed to share ringing throughout the tensely silent kitchen. She quickly got from her knees, her eyebrows furrowing in perplexity as she stood behind him. Her back leaned against the island's countertop.

"Remus?" She asked the drunken man, resting her hand on his broad shoulder. His skin was more than heated; possibly from the level of alcohol flowing through his bloodstream along his white and red blood platelets.

He flinched at the action, his right hand quickly slamming the cupboard door with a bang. The sudden explosion of emotion made Elizabeth's shoulders jump in fear, her wide eyes stuck on Remus' heaving figure. His left hand was limp, hanging by his hip, still holding that damned flask.

She took a deep breath in, before letting it go. Like Dr. Logan taught.

"Darling," she began softly, resting her hand on his bicep. "Can I have the drink, please?"

At her request, Remus slowly turned his head. His waterline was brimmed with tears, begging to fall down his cheeks.

He didn't respond.

She placed her hand over his knuckles, using the other to attempt to softly remove the metal from his hand.

In a swift movement, Remus' right hand wrapped around Elizabeth's wrist, his stone grip pressing bruises into her skin.

As hot as his skin was before, his hand was freezing. Her breathing picked up as she looked into those same pools of hazel that were now something different. They were an angry, a furious brown, blazing with rage as he squeezed his fingers tighter, tighter, tighter.

"Touch this flask again," He whispered harshly, a tear running down his cheek as his eyes flickered between hers. "And you're fucking dead to me."

The first words he had said to her since Halloween.