crazy crazy, easy tiger [aimee]

Steenie Allen's alarm clock came in the form of a howler.

The initial shock of the heavy paper dropping on his head mixed with the fluttering of some random owl's wings was enough to wake the nineteen year old up, but the mistake of opening the letter up really woke him up. Steenie almost jumped right out of bed, he was so shocked by the loud screams erupting from the confines of the red paper. Stan had done it, his stupid manager Stan that'd he'd mistakenly hired one day when he was feeling a bit lost with what to do. Now that it was early in the morning and he'd actually had somewhere to be that wasn't his own bed, he was regretting hiring the bloke.

Steenie sat in bed for a whole thirty minutes, staring blankly at the ceiling before he'd actually decided to get up and jump in the shower. He honestly wouldn't have bothered if he didn't have to be somewhere professional, some studio or something down in a different part of London that would fit him for a nice suit he could wear to some event that was somehow related to his job. Steaphan couldn't really say he wanted to go and not be lying - the former Hufflepuff wasn't really keen on old ladies watching him strip and feeling him up while they took his measurements. It wasn't something he'd experienced many times before, just twice, or three times at the most. The old ladies would always give him a cheeky smile, like he was into it as much as they were, and he'd never, not once, knew how to respond. But if he'd bowed out of this one, Steenie knew he wouldn't just get a howler, but most likely a fist to the gut as well.

The cuts on Steaphan's face burned the moment water hit them, and he'd almost regretted not getting something to get them to heal up faster. He'd taken the fastest shower of his life then, washing his hair and body at the speed of light before he'd jumped out and started drying himself off. His clothes were on even faster, an unintentional match of light jeans and a dark shirt, paired with his signature boots and jacket combo.

Steenie had a cigarette in his hand before he'd stepped into his fireplace with a bit of Floo powder, shouting the name of the building next to the one his appointment was at. It was so early, Steenie didn't even think the dumb clothes place was open yet, and he wasn't taking the chances of flooing into the building when it was supposed to be locked. Stan told him it would be open for sure, and it definitely was - the older ladies behind the counter greeted him with warm welcomes and almost made him feel bad for not buying anything. The blonde ducked out of the building, apologizing until they couldn't hear him anymore, before he lit his cigarette and stood outside of the other building.

It didn't take long for someone familiar to catch the eye of Steenie Allen - one blonde, leggy Frenchwoman called Aimee Rousseau was making her way towards him. What an uncanny coincidence. "You?" He asked, a smile making it's way onto his face, blue eyes lighting up when she got closer. "Don't tell me it's you," He was, of course, referring to the one who would be doing the fittings, although his wording fell rather ambiguous. "Forgive me for my surprise, but, well... you know," Steenie shrugged, the smile only growing into something more cheeky as he recalled the events of the night of the Victory Ball. "I was just expecting an old lady, is all."

Before the sun had risen, Aimee was up, tidying the new store, ensuring all of her latest designs were on display, and preparing some light snacks - all for the sake of impressing this new client. From what she understood after the last minute conversation with his manager last night, he was an up and coming Quidditch player who was in dire need of a consultant to fix his horrid fashion sense. And though it wasn’t exactly the kind of stint she was hoping for, she knew she couldn’t pass it up. Aimee was perfectly aware that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Having a celebrity don her designs would give them the exposure she desperately desired to launch her into the limelight of the fashion world. She needed, more than anything else, to impress this client.

Unfortunately, he did not seem to care about impressing her nearly as much. Not surprisingly and much to her apprehension and annoyance, the hot shot was late, and the delay in his appearance made her fear that, already, he’d decided against using her. Still, wasn’t he supposed to be a professional? She could handle rejection, and would rather be told personally that she wasn’t what he was looking for - or at least be given a chance before he made his decision.

Mentors had warned her about fickle, difficult celebrities, but Aimee was sure she could handle it. She just had to remember to keep her temper in check. If he did indeed show, she’d offer a polite smile and begin to take his measurements. If he never came, she’d send a professional letter of gratitude for at least being considered. In both scenarios, she’d be censoring herself tremendously, which she hated, but it had to be done. She was still at the bottom of the food chain. She couldn’t afford to show her true colours just yet. He was testing her, though. Really testing her.

The player’s manager, Stan or something, kept throwing glances in her direction, offering short apologies for the client’s lateness. After a while of smiling and uttering fake, cheery “it’s okay”s, Aimee simply began to wave a dismissive hand, trying not to look as bothered as possible despite her growing annoyance. Who even was this client, anyway? She’d been given a name, and though it sounded extremely familiar, she couldn’t really picture a face. It was true she was not an avid Quidditch fan or follower, but she could at least match the names and faces of all the top athletes - the ones who could afford not to show up to a meeting. If this client thought he was important enough to be nearly an hour late to his appointment, as far as she was concerned, he was incorrect.

She was just about to suggest rescheduling when the sound of bells stopped her. Finally, he had arrived and seemed to be in no hurry to get here. Aimee inhaled, the exhaled deeply, before crossing her arms and heading outside to greet the man, red heels clacking on the pavement with every step she took. A good look at him managed to stop her in her tracks before she could say anything, and upon recognising her, he was the one to break the silence.

Steaphan Allen. Wow. Wow. Now she knew why the name had rung so many bells. She’d been trying to match it to a Quidditch player, but her recognisation of Steenie was not Quidditch related at all. Blue eyes continued to just stare for a moment, as she registered what exactly was happening.

She hadn’t really expected to bump into him again, and definitely not under these circumstances. She was still a little angry, and took a few more steps forward, ready to give him a swift tap on the side of his head, but his smile was enough to make her cease fire, and instead she greeted him with a smile of her own. He was still going to get it eventually, especially now that she knew she did not have to censor herself. Steenie already knew how crass she could be.

“Well I guess we're in the same boat, then,” she answered, crossing her arms again. “I was expecting some idiotic, self-righteous muscle head, especially after he decided to show up so late.” She took special care to emphasise the last word, showing that she was far from impressed. “I’ll forgive you this once. Only because you’re cute.” She patted the side of his face much like one would with a child, then proceeded to turn on her heels to reenter the store, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she did so. Just before entering, she faced him again. “Are you coming? Or do you need another hour to properly compose yourself, Mr. Allen?”

In the same boat? Steenie liked the sound of that.

Even though Aimee looked mad at him when she'd approached him, he didn't mind, not at all. Girls were always cute when they're angry, that was like a proven fact, really. He, nor any other straight guy, he assumed, could really explain why girls looked so nice when they were mad. The scrunched up nose, maybe, or the 'I don't need you' attitude. That always drew Steenie in, he had to admit.

"I'm late?" Steenie asked. "Well, shit," His eyes widened and his eyebrows raised in surprise, letting the hand that held his cigarette fall to his side. "I can honestly say I thought I was early. Fuckin' Stan sent me a Howler." He paused, looking down at the ground before his eyes met Aimee's once more. "Actually, now that I think about it, that might have been because I was late, that definitely makes sense. Did he send it when you were here? What did it say," Steenie's mouth didn't stop running, no matter how much he knew they should have. "I didn't listen to it." He added, even though that much was probably obvious in the many questions he'd been asking.

His lips turned up at her next comment, a bright smile filling his face as he cast his eyes down to toss his fag to the ground and stomp it out. "Maybe next time, we just won't make it so early in the morning, yeah?" He looked up at the French woman again. "Then I can sleep in, and you can sleep in, or do whatever French people do when they wake up in the morning. It's a win-win, yeah?"

"If you actually don't mind, I'll take another two hours to catch up on the sleep I lost waking up early to get here." Steenie joked, stepping towards Aimee and the door of her little shop. He held open the door for her, only letting it shut after he'd stepped in and started looking around. "Is this all for me?" He asked, nodding towards the little foods that sat out. "I like it. Do you maybe have whiskey, as well? I missed my morning cup on my way here." Again - he was joking. Although Steenie did like drinking, a lot, he had his limits. Steenie had yet to drink any kind of alcohol before noon, and even the odd beer before five was just that - odd. He always felt weird, drinking while the sun was still up and not yet threatening to set.

"So, I've done this before, but I was just wondering - what's the actual protocol?" He asked, letting his hands fall into his pockets. "At the last fittings they made me strip down to my knickers, but I was half assuming that was just because of my chiseled features."