prompt 10: pieces

Word count: 511

There was a lingering graveness in her eyes now. He hated it. Hated how it made him hate himself even more. Because it was him who put it there. Not him the lycanthrope (that would have actually made it easier to bear, as morbid as it sounds), but him the man. The man he was so desperately trying to be for as long as he could remember.
She would smile more often now, of course. Laugh as easily as she used to, her eyes alight with that spunky twinkle they once (so long ago, it seemed) held at all times. One had to be rather attuned to her to notice certain subtleties that weren't there before. Such as how prominent her cheekbones were because she had lost far more weight over the course of the past year than it was healthy. Or how she'd sometimes look at him with something very much like reserve, as if weighing his words and, his chest so uncomfortably tight with remorse and heartache and guilt, he knew she was Tonks the Auror now, hard eyes and constant vigilance, and it would take a breath or two longer than usual for his Dora to emerge again, with one of those falsely bright smiles he imagined meant something along the lines of 'Sorry Remus, y'know how it is. Once bitten, twice shy.'
No pun intended, of course.
When she'd emerge from the bathroom with a scowl, he knew it was because it took her at least three (or four or five or ten) tries to morph her nose smaller or eyes clearer or hair more acceptable and that it still hadn't turned out exactly the way she wanted it to. He knew it was his fault when she'd hug him too tightly, arms wound in a vice grip, nails leaving marks on his forearms and neck and shoulder blades, as if she was in constant fear he'll simply vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough. And when she'd wake up with a start, groping in near desperation at his side of the bed and appearing as if she'd only managed a proper breath once she's seen him in the doorway, a scent of freshly made coffee drifting through the room, he'd startle himself with a thought that the werewolf may actually be a better person (or creature or being or whatever) than the man. And it rips and tears at his insides because one should cherish and protect those he loves, not destroy them (but does it count for something that he thought he was protecting her?).
Even so, she still seems to love him just the same, and it amazes him, just as it was amazing he had somehow gained her love in the first place. Underestimating her, just like he always did.
Though, some things, certain aspects of their relationship (little insignificant ones, really, such as trust and understanding and respect), are still broken beyond repair. Much like he himself is. He just never figured he'd be bringing someone else to pieces with him.

all I feel crawls across my skin
breaking through, slowly sinking in
and I can't find what you're looking for
nothing's left, nothing's left at all
nothing's left...
Newton Faulkner – Straight Towards the Sun

A/N - And that's all folks. Thanks for reading! And, of course, as always, I would love to hear your thoughts... :)

Hugs,

~ButterflyRogue