She saw him first after the funeral, and it jarred her. She thought he was Fred. Of course, Angelina knew the differences between the two: their freckles were different, and George smiled with wide eyes while Fred narrowed his. But no one was smiling now, and for a second she was confused. For a second she thought she had Fred back—and just as quickly she realized that wasn't possible, and it was only George.
Angelina was upset, but then again, so was everyone else. George was beyond upset, he simply wasn't there. It was as if a part of his self was gone—because it was. Even the continual tears of poor Molly didn't compare to the grating effect of looking at George. He was making everyone uncomfortable, if he had cried at least people would have understood. His silence was unnerving everyone, and as a result he was standing in alone in a corner, ignoring (or being ignored—Angelina couldn't tell) the rest of the mourners.
Her heart ached, and she gravitated towards George almost unconsciously.
"Hello." He said formally, looking straight past her. Angelina didn't even think he recognized her.
"George?" She replied, touching his arm lightly. He jumped back—clearly no one had touched him in a while. Hardly surprising, considering he looked like the walking dead.
"Oh, sorry Angelina," he said, scanning her quickly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the wall, "I didn't notice it was you".
"S'okay". She shrugged. He would not meet her eye, and after a minute the silence was becoming awkward. Not for George, because he went back into himself, but for Angelina it was horrifying. They used to be friends, teammates, and now—no w he wouldn't even look at her.
"It was a beautiful service." She said flatly, for lack of anything else to say.
"Was it?" George snapped, his eyes filled with annoyance. "Good to know that something beautiful came out of my brother dying. Thanks so much Angie."
Now it was her turn to be angry. She grabbed onto his forearm, and whispered harshly into his ear:
"Don't you dare imply that this situation is anything but appalling for everyone in this room. Don't you dare imply that I'm not screaming on the inside just like you are. Don't you dare George. Don't you dare. Fred is gone, you acting with meanness isn't making it any easier."
She seemed to reach him, on some level at least. He dropped his anger, going back to the state of nothingness he was in before. It injured her to see him like this, and she fought back tears. She put her hand in his and took up a place beside him against the wall.
"I'm sorry Angelina," he whispered softly after a couple of minutes, "its just been a walking nightmare. I keep waiting to wake up, but I cant. I just cant."
She squeezed his hand tightly, letting him know that she was here for him. She wanted to communicate to him that he wasn't the only one who felt this way. That everyone was wondering how life would continue, how life could continue after the losses suffered.
"It's alright George. Its alright." She cooed, stepping closer to him, letting him know he can lean on her, emotionally and physically.
He looked at her, his eyes leaking a single pair of tears.
"Is it alright?" His voice was hopeless.
The next time she saw him was almost a month later. Angelina had thought of him often, the funeral being etched in her memory. She had stayed with him for the remainder, moving him closer to the rest of his family, allowing him to at least acknowledge some of the mourners.
She had thought he could handle it—he couldn't. The second he saw Katie Bell, Lee Jordan and Oliver Wood walk towards him, he lost it. He squeezed her hand, hard, and looked at her with panic stricken eyes. She could see that he was about to cry.
Thinking as fast as she could Angelina pulled George off to the side while at the same time flashing an apologetic gesture towards Katie, Lee and Oliver. They seemed to understand, and moved on to comfort the rest of the Weasley family.
He made it all the way to the parking lot before he started crying. She sat with him on the curb, holding onto him as he cried, wishing there was something she could do, knowing there wasn't anything to be done. Tears started to leak out of her own eyes. She didn't know how long they sat together, but by the time Ginny found them everyone had cleared out. George had calmed down considerably, and Angelina could trust leaving him in the care of his sister.
"Thanks for looking out for him, please don't be a stranger." Ginny whispered into her ear as she hugged Angelina goodbye. "You're the first person he's spoken too since—since—since it happened."
Angelina smiled and hugged Ginny again.
"He'll be alright." Angelina said.
"I hope so." Replied Ginny doubtfully.
After she hugged Ginny, Angelina went and embraced George. She held him tightly, and he held her in kind. After about a minute, he kissed her on the forehead, said 'thank you' in a whisper and walked off with his little sister.
The next day she'd gotten an owl at her flat:
I won't ever be able to thank you enough. I know you miss him too.
But after the owl there wasn't any other communication from him. She'd been over to Weasley Wizard Wheezes a couple of times, but had only run into Percy. She'd let him know how she was, asked about his family, and told him to give them all her best.
She saw him again on Diagon Alley. Angelina had been trying to find a job. She'd left the job she had had after school on account of the war and was eager to fill her days with something other than contemplating how sad she was. Everyday was a struggle, and she hadn't lost any relatives. She couldn't even imagine how the Weasleys, Denis Creevey or Andromeda Tonks were coping.
She saw him leaving Flourish and Blotts, his hands full of ink and parchment.
"George?" she ventured, trying to catch his attention. His eyes were downcast and he seemed intently focused on the ground in front of him.
"Oh, hey Angie. How have you been?" He looked better than at the funeral, but this wasn't exactly a compliment. He was gaunt, shaggy and unmistakably sad.
"I'm alright, looking for a job actually. You? Um, how's the family?" She didn't want to push him, the last thing she wanted to do was to upset him.
"Oh, um," he stammered, "I haven't really talked to them since…the f—funeral. But I think they are okay. Mum sends food to my flat twice a week."
It pained her that he wasn't talking to his family, especially now when they needed him more than ever. She couldn't even imagine poor Molly, dealing with the death of one son and the mental breakdown of another.
"Oh—um, well—at least you're okay. You still living above the store?" she asked innocently, wanting to change to a less painful subject.
The second she asked the question she knew it had been the wrong one. George balled his fist, and his face went tense, as if he was in excruciating pain.
"No," he eked out, "I—I can't live there. I moved, or, I'm staying somewhere else for now. Just around the corner from Madame Milkins. Its just—Its just too hard to be where…where he…"
"Oh, Georgie, I'm sorry. I'm being such a git about this. Of course you wouldn't want—I mean—it would be awful for you to have too—I'm just glad you are alright."
"Yeah," he looked at her, a faint ghost of a smile on his face. It wasn't a smile exactly, but it wasn't the painful grimace he'd been wearing for a month, "you are being a git about this."
She punched him playfully. It wasn't like it was before, back when everything was alright, when Fred was alive. But, it was much better than the fiasco at the funeral.
She was supposed to see about a job in a few more places today. But the thought of leaving George here on the road and not seeing him for another month was unbearable. They had been too close in school, you couldn't just erase that bond. So Angelina stopped worrying about 'suppose to' and instead she said,
"Want to go for a drink George?"
"Um, sure. Why not?" He was surprised, but pleasantly so. He'd always liked Angelina, and it made him happy to think some part of the good old days. Besides, if he went back to his flat he would just cry, like he always did, and this seemed like a better alternative. All he'd done the last month was ignore his families visits and owls and cry. This was the first time he'd left the house in ten days, he could only imagine how he looked.
They went to the Leaky Cauldron. They bought each other fire-whisky, but they didn't speak. It wasn't an awkward silence, but it wasn't exactly a comfortable silence either.
"What is all the parchment and ink for?" She asked to break up the silence.
Once again, she had asked the exact wrong question. She seemed to have a knack for making this situation as horrible for George as possible. His jaw tightened again and he looked at the floor.
"Its alright George, you don't have to tell me," she backpedaled immediately, "really, it's not a big deal at all—"
"I write him letters." George interrupted her, raising his hand to stop her from apologizing. "I—I write letters to Fred. Mostly—mostly I yell at him, tell him how angry I am at him. I tell him—" he heaved, Angelina could see his eyes were filling with tears, "—I tell him I'll never forgive him for dying. I tell him I hate him for not being here, for leaving me here to deal with his absence."
He was shaking, trying so hard not to cry in public. However, his trying not to cry was attracting far more attention than if he had actually been crying.
After taking a second to mentally berate herself for doing this to him again, she slapped down the sickles for their drinks on the bar, grabbed his hand and dragged George back onto the road. It occurred to her that they had left George's supplies behind, but it was too late now. She'd replace them. Before he could refuse her, she apparated them both to just outside Madame Milkins.
George, realizing what had happened (and still heaving), looked up and recognized where they were. He made to break off from her and head back to his flat, but Angelina wouldn't have it.
"Where is your flat?" she asked, squeezing his hand tightly. She could see that he was gearing up to say she could just go and leave him. "And don't even think it, you are in no condition to be alone right now. The least I can do is keep you company, I owe you that since I apparently am just heinous with social conversation." She smiled, and he pointed down the alley towards his flat.
Off they walked, and the closer they got, the more Angelina grew concerned about where George was living. They were getting further and further from Diagon Alley, and it wasn't exactly seedy, but it wasn't exactly the Minister of Magic's Mansion either.
But nothing prepared her for what his flat looked like on the inside. It was essentially a disaster zone, there was a kitchen, a sofa, and a variety of clothes and trash on the floor and that's all.
Angelina was appalled. She pointed towards the sofa with a 'lie down' gesture, and George obeyed. Within fifteen minutes he was asleep, and Angelina took to cleaning. There were letters to Fred scattered everywhere. Most of the pages were tear stained. She tried not to read, but the few sentences she absorbed on accident made little sense to her and came across as sad and nothing else. She placed the letters in a pile on the kitchen counter and kept cleaning. She folded all his clothes, took out the trash, scrubbed and folded and made his flat look at least remotely presentable. Once she had finished cleaning, she set too cooking, which woke him up.
"You don't have to do that. You didn't have to clean either." George yawned, looking highly embarrassed.
"Oh stop it. Don't be ridiculous. Its not awful to let someone do something nice for you once in a while. Come here and eat something."
They ate, and talked a little bit. Mostly they just sat there, comforted by each other's presence. After they ate, they did the dishes together, and then sat on the sofa, George's feet on Angelina's lap.
"You know," Angelina began, not even knowing when the idea popped into her head but realizing it was a good one, "my flat is pretty big, I have a spare bedroom and everything."
"Yeah? So? Gloating are we?" George half smiled, for a moment looking less withdrawn than usual.
"No, no. I mean, well, this place isn't exactly glorious, and I know I'd love some company, especially after—after everything…" She smiled at him.
"What are you asking?" He looked distrustful, as if she were making fun of him.
"Will you move in with me? Be my roommate?" She wanted him to agree, although she didn't know if he would. She just couldn't bare the thought of him being in this terrible flat alone for days on end with no company and no one to look after him.
"I don't know if that's a good idea. I'm…sort of a mess right now." He was embarrassed again, looking away from her and gesturing to his sad apartment.
"Well, I'd rather you be with someone and a mess than alone and a mess. Besides, this way I can be at ease, knowing that you aren't starving to death here because you forgot to feed yourself." She was beaming down at him, enamored with her own solution to get George back on track.
"Hey, stop teasing." He punched her playfully in the shoulder. George was afraid she didn't realize how unwell he really was. How he spent almost all of his day crying or shaking or writing angry letters to Fred. But, he really didn't want to be alone anymore either. He'd always been ½ of a whole, and now he was just…nothing. At leas this way he'd be something.
He moved in with her the next week.
George was right, Angelina had no idea how bad he really was.
For the most part, he tried to keep it together around Angelina, and for the most part he succeeded. But sometimes Angelina would come home from work (she got a lower level job at the Ministry) and see that he had been crying, or he would be shut up in his room and not emerge until the next day. When George was upset Angelina just tried to stay out of his way, make sure he didn't need anything, and let him be alone to grieve. She grieved too, of course.
Some days she would have to go someplace quiet where she could cry on her own, missing Fred and wishing he was still alive. But then she'd snap out of it, because of course Fred was dead, quite dead, and it was George that needed her now. She needed to grieve, but she didn't need to grieve in his presence.
He had his good days, but they were few and far in between. But on the good days he would smile, help her cook or clean, even try to make a joke or too. But it was clear that his old personality was no longer present. Whether it was gone for good or not Angelina didn't know, and she tried really hard not to think about it. She felt like, for good or ill, she was working towards something, and that something was getting George to resemble some element of his former self. It might be futile, but it was better than lamenting or crying over the war and over Fred.
As much as she thought she was prepared, sometimes it still upset her how awful George still was. On his bad days she'd be worse, secretly having her insides ripping apart at watching him so heartbroken. He'd lock himself in his room, inconsolable, and she'd have to leave the flat. Sometimes she'd go visit Katie Bell or drop by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, others days she'd take a walk, other days she'd just cry until she felt better.
Both she and George were struggling, but she'd like to think they were struggling together.
Angelina was wandering around the flat one morning, about a month after George had moved in, over two months since Fred had died. George was steadily getting better, or so it appeared to Angelina. He started helping out at the shop again two days a week, he was speaking to his mother at least once a week (Angelina made sure of it) and Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny had even come by the flat a couple of times. He'd stopped writing angry letters to Fred, he'd stop staring into space and he'd put on some weight. He was by no means his former self, but he was better—she'd even convinced him to let her cut his hair.
But all of this came crashing down when Angelina heard George start sobbing from his room. He still cried—they both did—but it hadn't been a daily occurrence anymore, and as she neared his door she realized George was sobbing and dry heaving rather than merely crying.
"Georgie?" she knocked, opening the door slightly and peeking inside. George was lying on his bed, in the fetal position, in only his boxers, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. Some of the boxes they'd collected from the Weasley's last week had been kicked over onto the floor and their contents were spread everywhere. As Angelina headed towards the bed she quickly glanced at the contents of the boxes.
She knew instantly why he was upset—the things were Freds. Not Georges. They had taken the wrong boxes by mistake. Sprawled all over the room were the remnants of Fred's life: photos, school books and parchment, clothes, knick knacks and childhood toys. No wonder he was upset.
"George, I—I—" she reached for him, but did not know what to do. He was shaking and sobbing still, curled up in a ball. He glanced at her and shoved the paper into her hand.
As she read it, tears began rolling down Angelina's face.
Sorry I was such a git today. I was way out of line. You were right—sometimes my head is severely imbedded in my arse. Anyways, sorry twin.
"What—what was it about? The fight you had?" Angelina asked, as she sat on the bed, her nearness having some calming effect on George.
"I—I don't remember. A girl? Maybe. I—" sob, "I have no idea." Sob. "I just—I just feel like I'm coping with it, like I'm" sob "getting better, and then I see something trivial that reminds me he's gone and I just—I just—". Angelina placed the paper on the floor and laid down on the bed to face George, putting her hands around his face.
"George," she spoke softly, tears still leaking out of her eyes, "listen to me. You can't keep doing this to yourself, you just cant. He's gone George, he's gone. And no matter how upset you get—he's not coming back. Don't you see? You're killing yourself doing this. I miss him too, and I miss him everyday. And I know its not the same, I know that. But don't make the mistake of thinking you are the only one that misses him, because you aren't."
She was stroking his face, and that in combination with her words had calmed George down considerably. He wasn't shaking or crying anymore, and he seemed to be simply withdrawn. They lay together for ages, Angelina wasn't sure how long exactly, but for once the silence between them was completely relaxed and comfortable.
That is until he kissed her.
It was a simple, quick kiss. George just put his hands on Angelina's face, mirroring her hands on his face, and put his lips to hers. It happened so quickly, Angelina half assumed she dreamed it.
She smiled at him, a confused expression on her face.
"Why did you do that?" Angelina asked, not unkindly. She was simply confused. She'd thought about her and George together, but she thought it was merely fancy on her part. The whims of a girlhood past, erased by the war.
"Well, I've been wanting to do that since Fred took you to the Yule Ball. But, specifically, just then, I kissed you because I love you and you look beautiful." George was smiling, his first genuine true smile in a long time.
"George," she looked right at him, "I think—I think that you're just upset, and you don't really mean—"
"Angelina, I mean it." He kissed her again, a kiss that lingered a little longer this time. "I've loved you hopelessly for years." His hands were covering her hands, and he was rubbing circles on her hands with his thumbs.
"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked. She wasn't sure if he wanted her to say she loved him back. She knew she wasn't quite ready for that one.
He laughed at that. It was weird and wonderful to hear him laugh. She realized that she hadn't heard him laugh since before the final battle, before the war started. It was like a wave of happiness washed over her—she hadn't realized how sad she'd been. She'd just been hiding it from George and herself.
"Well, because I was an idiot teenager, for one. Secondly, once we left school in such fine style everything got so crazy so quickly. The store, the war, and then—well then everything went to shit didn't it? I guess I just ran out of time." He snuggled closer to her, and kissed her forehead.
"But when you helped me out at the funeral, got me out of that terrible place I was staying, fed me, cleaned my house, got my shit together, made me talk to my family. All that stuff you just did for me—well I guess I just fell more in love you than ever." He shrugged, and wrapped his arms around her.
"George," she began, "I just want to make sure you are okay. I don't want to start something until we're both ready. I just—you are still really upset and…"
"I know, I know." He squeezed her. "Sometimes I just wake up at night and think everything is still okay, that Fred is still alive. I don't suppose I'll ever be over it completely."
"I know Georgie, I know. I just think we should hold off on anything until we've both stopped having bi-weekly meltdowns." She smiled at him, turned around, snuggling herself into him so that they were comfortably spooning. She felt sleepy, too many emotions in too short of a time frame.
"No promises. I'm trying, I really am. But sometimes—sometimes its just overwhelming. Sometimes I just miss him so much I cant breathe. But I promise you that I wont stop trying. I can promise you that for sure." He kissed her hair, making sure he was snugly wrapped around her.
"Deal." Whispered Angelina, already starting to fall asleep.
They snuggled as close as two spoons until Angelina had to get up to go to work. She couldn't remove the smile that seemed to be plastered onto her face for the remainder of the day.
It was the lightest she'd felt since Fred died.
Things began to change between them.
George put on more weight, looking somewhat like his former self. He went to the shop more, saw his family more, continued on his path of recovering himself.
And Angelina was more in love with George than ever before. They hadn't done anything physical yet, save sleeping in the same bed together, but she was falling for him all the same. There also hadn't been any declarations of love, by either George or Angelina, since the day she had caught him crying.
Angelina didn't want to push her luck with George, and this is why she hadn't told him how she felt. She didn't want to upset the fragile balance of healing he'd established for himself. She was so very proud of him, and she'd hate for him to regress back in any way.
But they were cohabiting nicely together, and despite the hints by Mrs. Weasley and ribbing by George's brothers, they were still just very close friends who cared dearly for one another.
But things were certainly looking up.
Angelina came home from work one Thursday, about a month after they day she'd found him crying. She could hardly believe it had been over three months since Fred had died.
But what she really couldn't believe was the candlelit dinner George had prepared for her when she walked in the door.
"Wow!" She exclaimed, gaping at George, who was cooking in the kitchen with one of his mothers old aprons on. "Look at you! Molly would be so proud!" She laughed.
George looked at her with pride and a touch of embarrassment. "Yeah, well, don't get too excited. I stopped by the house today and had tea with Mum. Told her I wanted to cook you dinner, "he smiled wide, "she nearly jumped out of her chair with excitement and provided me with several completely git proof recipes that 'I couldn't bungle if I tried my hardest'."
Angelina beamed at him, and went up to hug him, letting his arms wrap around her and hold her firmly and snugly. She kissed him on the cheek, letting her gratitude for his gesture be known.
Dinner was wonderful. Simple, but cooked with love. Angelina thought vaguely that when people put love in their food—you could taste it.
After dinner they lounged about the flat, watching some muggle T.V. and drinking wine. They were curled up on the sofa together when George suddenly looked down at Angelina, pushed the hair out of her face, and kissed her—long and lingering.
"You look beautiful today," he said softly, kissing her again, "it was a miracle I could keep my hands of you when you walked through the door."
He'd never said anything like this before to her—they'd never ventured into this territory. It occurred to her, that perhaps he'd been tiptoeing around her as she had been him. Maybe he was afraid he would upset her healing process.
"Mmmm," she smiled at him, kissing him again and turning them so that she was on top of him, "well, I could say the same about you."
"Oh really? Couldn't resist my charms could you? I only knew it was a matter of time really…" There was genuine mirth in his voice, and his attitude was quickly spreading to her. She swatted at him playfully, leaning in again for another kiss.
And that's when things got heated.
Angelina moaned softly when George started running his arms up and down her sides. It was like sparks were physically flying between them. It occurred to Angelina that she hadn't done anything like this in a long time—and unless George was very good at hiding things—neither had he.
"George," she stopped his wandering hands, holding onto his wrists, "what are we doing?" She needed his words right now—before she let him have free reign with his hands.
"Well—I was planning on shagging on the couch. But if you'd like to transition to the bedroom that would be completely okay too." He kissed her again, rolling them so that he was on top of her, pressing his body into hers.
Angelina suddenly felt that the room had increased at least a dozen degrees. His body on top of her, not smothering but just there, was overwhelming . And she hadn't seen George this confident since before the war—he was truly recovering and it filled her with joy, among other (stronger) emotions.
She was moving under his hands, reacting to his caresses as if her body was simply commanded to do so. She knew where this was leading—and she wanted it to lead there—but she didn't want to do this improperly, so once again she stayed Georges hands.
"You're killing me here." George rasped, gripping her hips firmly. She went to speak but he was planting kisses slowly up her neck so she had to take a moment to collect herself and push him back from her just slightly.
"Oh don't worry George, we're doing this," he laughed at that but she put her hand over his mouth, "but—I'd like to move to either your bed or mine, because the sofa really isn't—"
Without a word George hopped off of her, and she almost groaned at the loss of him. But before she got too disheartened he grabbed her off the couch, and led her to his bedroom.
It was glorious.
The second they touched that bed he was all over her like an animal, and she relished any second of it. Months of tiptoeing around one another, afraid to cause the slightest upset in emotion—all of that came crashing down.
He practically ripped off her work blouse, so eager was he to see her as nature intended. His eagerness excited her, made her want him (if it was possible) even more.
Her skirt was a little more tricky (far too many buttons) so she disentangled herself from George for moment to divest herself of it while he took off his trousers and jumper.
Oh my. Thought Angelina, raking in his body. He was still a little thin, but he'd retained much of his former Quidditch glory.
She's so bloody beautiful. Thought George. Angelina was all curves, her beautiful black skin in direct contrast to his paleness. George didn't think he'd ever been so pleasantly overwhelmed in his life.
I have to touch her. So he did, kissing and touching her with as much ferocity as before, straining against his underpants and itching to remove what remained of her clothing.
Before long he'd succeeded, and Angelina lay sprawled out before him in nothing but her smile. He was crouched on his knees, and he looked at her with an almost feral gaze, beleaguered with lust.
"George?" She asked, smiling back up at him, the lust corresponding in her eyes.
"Yes? Everything alright?" His breathing was ragged, his words uneven.
"Take off your underpants." She didn't think she could stand it much longer, she needed him to be with her, in her, completely. She was pining for him, and he could sense it—his want for her equally matched.
Almost as if it were occurring in slow motion (although it couldn't have taken more than half a minute), George removed the his underpants, settled on top of Angelina, and slipped one of his (long) fingers inside her.
She arched towards him, hips leaving the ground, sensation spreading like an undulation wave throughout her body. His rhythm was torturing, she was squirming beneath his touch as he rubbed his other hand all over her body, lighting it on metaphorical fire.
He kissed her, his tongue prying its way into her mouth, his hand never ceasing its sinful motions. She was building (quickly) and he could sense it.
"Just let go." He whispered, licking the outside of her ear as he did so. He sped up his motions and she lost it—she pushed her hips down onto his hand and rode out waves of bliss.
He continued his motions until she'd stopped contracting, then deftly removed his hand and licked his fingers, making sure she could see him.
"Gross." Angelina crinkled her nose up at him, wriggling on the bed.
"Says you," he retorted, spooning Angelina, letting her feel the extent of his desire for her, "you know what comes next don't you?" He turned her face towards him and raised his eyebrows repeatedly in a comical way.
She giggled at him, scared a little (it had been awhile) but excited at the same time.
"Oh, I think I have some idea." She rolled them around so she was now on top, sitting on Georges lap, the object in question now in her hands. She war rolling with the situation, doing what her body felt he wanted.
She was touching him, lightly, in an exploratory way. Now that he was finally before her like this, she didn't want to rush things. Savoring—that's how she was going to handle this.
"Wait—" *gasp* Angelina wasn't stopping her motions, "before you um—finish that thought. I need to—" *gasp* "ask you something."
Angelina stopped moving, looking down at him ponderingly. She had a feeling she knew what the question was, but if he asked her what she thought he was going to ask her, she'd be right put off her mood.
She'd never done anything with Fred. They'd been practically children then, full of fancy and mischief. They'd snogged a couple of times, and were never really 'together' like that. He'd been one of her nearest and dearest friends—just like George—and then the war came and he died. That was all there was too it.
But so help him if George asked her if she'd ever slept with Fred she would storm out of this room right now. It wasn't right—some things aren't shared—and this sensitive information (however harmless) was one of those things.
"What George? What do you want to ask me at this juncture?" She was a little pert, but he chalked it up as simple impatience. However, he wouldn't go any further unless he was sure.
"You love me right? This isn't just—I don't know—a one time thing? You're my girl, aren't you?" He needed to know—if she didn't feel about him the way he felt about her, he couldn't bear to continue. It would simply hurt his heart too much and his heart couldn't take any more hurt.
Angelina had to blink back tears—she felt her heart swell with love for this boy—this man—who'd lost so much yet managed to pull his life back together in the face of insurmountable despair.
George was concerned, this was not the reaction he anticipated. They were naked, in a (more than) compromising position, and all he wanted was for her to say she loved him and for them to make love more or less continuously for the rest of their lives.
And she seemed to be trying not to cry. This was not going at all well.
"Angelina?" George put his hands on both sides of her face, looking into her eyes. "Are you alright? I'm—I'm sorry I upset you, I just needed to know—"
"Of course." She said to the floor, looking away, trying to compose herself.
"Of course what?" asked George, more confused than ever.
She turned to him, beaming, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
"Of course I'm your girl." She kissed him, hard. "I love you so much."
"I love you too."
The time for talk had ended. George didn't think he'd ever been this happy—pre war or post war—and everything from then on seemed to be at the same time in slow motion and blazingly fast.
Angelina began plating furious kisses all over George's face, kissing his eyes, his forehead, his lips, anywhere she could touch. She took his penis in her hand again and began to stroke it lightly, in her exploratory nature of before.
But George was no longer in the mood for exploration and games. He began to stroke and tease her again, making sure that she was ready for him. She moaned and sighed, loving his touch, craving it, wondering how she'd even lived this long without it.
The teasing didn't last long, they had both become impatient with the games they were playing. With one quick motion Angelina lifted herself slightly, positioning George exactly in the right spot. With one sure thrust he was buried inside her, and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding while she groaned. It was borderline uncomfortable—but her readiness corrected all thoughts of discomfort after a few moments. Besides, when George began to move inside of her she had difficulty finding anything wrong with anything in the universe.
His movements were sure but uneven—but Angelina hardly cared. She was abound with sensations, as if she had always been meant to feel this way and never realized it until this very moment.
And George—he was awash with emotion and sensation as well. Everything just felt so good. Being inside Angelina was like coming home after a lifetime of being away, and he deliriously vowed to himself that he wouldn't fuck this up. He would do right by her.
"Oh, oh, oh!" Angelina gasped, rocking her hips down onto George as he thrusted up. Their movements were escalating, faster (and faster) and faster…
"Angelina, I—I'm—" George couldn't hold on much longer, her body around him, the smell of her perfume and her hair, the smell of their sex, it was too much. He hadn't had sex in over a year and he hadn't had sex this amazing…well ever. It was consuming.
"I'm almost—almost—oh! OH!" Angelina cried, but softly, as if shocked by her body's powerful reactions. She spasmed, tightening around George, feeling him ejaculate inside her, recognizing that he said something but no longer capable of auditory function. It occurred to her in a panic that they hadn't used any contraception—but then she remembered that she was on the potion and silently thanked her mom for insisting she be on it always.
They collapsed onto the bed, George still soft inside her, Angelina straddled around him with her head on his chest. She was utterly contented, and semi-dozing off, snugly attached to the object of her affections.
Eventually she moved to lay beside him and he slipped out of her. She forgot what an odd sensation that was, and she wriggled her nose at the feeling. He laughed, kindly, and settled beside her, both of them lying down and facing one another.
"Wow." She said, at a loss for any further speech. George laughed again, a deep-belly contented laugh. Angelina relished in it—it was the laugh of the old George, a George she felt had died with Fred. Until now. He was resurrected before her—and it made her a million different things but mainly she was just happy.
"Wow yourself. If I'd had known you looked that good naked I'd have tried this years ago. It was Angelina's turn to laugh: she giggled and swatted him playfully, taking the opportunity to settle herself closer to him.
"Its going to be alright now isn't it?" Angelina asked.
"Yes. I think it is." George answered, yawning.
Angelina smiled. They lay beside one another until George drifted off to sleep. Angelina studied him meticulously.
She decided it was indeed going to be alright.