Work Text:
His head hurt. That was his first thought.
His head hurt, and he had no memory of when or why he’d fallen asleep. The surface below him was hard—a wooden floor? He could tell by the redness of his inner eyelids that it was light out, but he didn’t want to get up on account of the throbbing ache at his temple.
Just as he was thinking of rolling over and dealing with wherever he was later, a hand touched his face, warm calloused fingers brushing his cheek. He opened his eyes, startled.
There was a woman above him. Her long, ginger hair shone with the evening light, turning it a burning sort of gold in a halo around her concerned face. The light fell across her face as well, illuminating the smooth plane of it and the blue of her eyes.
All of this considered, he felt he could not be blamed for croaking out, “Are you an angel?”
The woman blinked at him, smiling at him with an amused sort of worry. “No, I’m Ron.”
Her voice was low and beautiful.
More importantly, “Your parents named you Ron?”
“My dad named me Rhiannon,” she corrected, her smile widening. “Everyone calls me Ron, though.”
He frowned. “That’s a bit of a ridiculous nickname for Rhiannon.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me that before,” Ron said. She was still touching his face.
“Have I?”
He did not remember that. He didn’t remember a lot at the moment, which was sort of concerning. Panic might’ve overtaken him at the thought if not for the fact that the woman seemed only mildly concerned with all of his questions.
The room, at least, was familiar. Crowded bookshelves, a heavy wooden desk with a number of strange objects on it, moving portraits on the walls. The tall window let in the light, and the shelf with notebooks beneath it.
He could see a payphone on the desk, and knew somehow that it had led him to this state.
“You tell me a lot of things,” Ron said, breaking his train of thought. “I’m your fiancee—we have a lot of time to talk.”
She pulled the hand touching his face back to show him that there was a slim gold ring on her finger. He raised his hands up from his sides and found a matching one on his own hand.
He looked back up at Ron. The light was still shining on her, casting her in a golden glow. She was tall and well-built, freckles scattered around her skin. Her face was long and soft and ruddy, smile wide, eyes vivid. She was, bluntly, quite attractive.
So, with the stunned frankness only an amnesiac could possess: “Damn. How’d I manage that?”
“You snogged me in the middle of an active battlefield,” she deadpanned.
He considered this. "I don't believe you."
"Not my fault you're barmy. D'you wanna get off the floor?"
He rather did.