working on my backwards walk [fergie]

DMAaC | 20 december 2002

Liz had put her foot down, apparently -- no more 30-day parties -- so Edith had shown up at 3:30 that Friday afternoon, a rip-roaring thirty minutes after the party had started. (If Liz had thought having the party last thing on many peoples’ last day of the year in the office, she had been sorely mistaken. If anything, more people were showing up as they finished their own days in different departments.) Edith had quickly caught up with everything, though; she had found (and consumed) the punch; Boswell was sinking drunken carols about his wassail while standing atop his desk; she had delivered a prank newspaper to Percy’s office (charmed to first stick to his hands and then to turn to her best attempt at an inappropriate sort of magazine, just in case he wanted to ask for assistance with the sticking charm); she had lost @Kendrick Silverman as he went to attend to a different prank; she had started drinking at lunch.

She gave a small wave to Beardy before hiding her face behind her drink, narrowly avoiding Pam’s glare the next second. Edith turned -- maybe she should have extended that post-quitting cooling off period a little bit longer -- and smashed and sloshed directly into @Fergie Flume . “Fuck, sorry.” She laughed before she apologized, ditching her now mostly empty glass on the nearest surface. “Sorry,” she repeated, wand out, mess cleaned up. She snatched up one of those little cocktail napkins (out of habit) and handed it to him anyway. “S’good punch.” She was sorry to waste it.

“Also hi,” Edith added belatedly, awkwardly rubbing her upper arm with her opposite hand, fidgety now that she was holding neither wand nor punch. “Been a minute.” She had quit, rather unceremoniously, almost a year ago, disregarding any fond (or not) farewells to her colleagues. And Fergie had been one of the good ones, too, not quite as exasperated to have to deal with muggles as some of the others could get. “How’s it been?”

She had quit, been unemployed, written anonymously for The Prophet, written publicly for The Prophet, quit again, been unemployed again, and was now working for The Quibbler. Sort of. She didn’t want to have to catch him up on all of that, anyway. She had interviewed his mum, anyway, so hopefully they could avoid all talk of her current line of work. “You need a drink? I’ve gone and lost mine.” Least she could do, get him a cup of free punch.

Majorca at Christmas was usually something Fergie looked forward to, but this year he was a little more anxious than eager. There was a certain amount of glee at the prospect of Honey being properly told off by their mother – and him being there to witness it – but he knew he would get dragged into it at some point and he really, really, had had enough drama to last him the foreseeable future. So, right now, distracting himself from the impending trip seemed much more preferable.

He excused himself from chatting to his co-worker to grab another glass of punch. He usually didn’t partake (much) at work functions, but it was Christmas – and living with his sister was driving him to drink. Fergie turned, not looking where he was going because he was still laughing at Lysander challenging him to another round of muggle pinball on the confiscated machine they kept in the office, and barged directly into—

“Edith?” he blinked, physically and mentally jolted. Belatedly, he looked down at his shirt, which had born the brunt of her cup’s contents. “Oh, don’t w—” she’d already whipped her wand out and pointed it at him. He’d almost flinched (habit, also thanks to Honey), but the booze already in his system was slowing his response times somewhat. “Cheers,” he grinned, a little goofily thanks to the alcohol content of the punch. “It is good,” he agreed, wondering now if Liz had been responsible for that or if someone else had had a hand in ‘improving’ the ratio of the ingredients. @Kendrick Silverman liked fruity drinks, he recalled being informed through office gossip.

“Hi,” he repeated, smiling. His smile faded. “Erm, aye, it has.” Did Edith know who knew what she’d been up to since she’d quit? That sounded creepy, he didn’t know that much – just that she’d left (without saying goodbye), then appeared a few months later writing for The Daily Prophet. Had interviewed his mum, even. Was that weird? Only if he allowed it to be, he supposed. Fergie wasn’t sure what Edith was doing now, other than turning up to their department Christmas party. “Good, you know, same old,” he shrugged, “You?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” Yeah, good, sure -- had he lost his use of the English language? “I think I saw someone walking ‘round with a bottle of gin – not sure where that came from.” He wasn’t sure where half the people here had come from either, he realised as he looked around the room. He looked sharply back at Edith. “How’d you get in?” he asked, sounding more accusatory than he’d intended. “Sorry, I’m not narking, just… thought you wouldn’t be back, you know?” So much for not bringing that up.

“Good,” she repeated. “Same old.” Again, she hoped she didn’t need to explain everything she had been up to. It was hard enough being around obliviators again without launching into some sort of drunken rant about why she quit and why they should quit, too -- she wanted to laze around and enjoy the punch. Was that too much to ask? Probably, especially if she was just going to go round spilling it on everyone.

She nodded, grinned a little, when he accepted her offer and presented an even better option. They were going to find that bottle of gin, she had decided, not asking for any sort of agreement with her plan. They hadn’t taken a step in any direction, though, before his next question. “Climbed through a window,” she stated with another nod, ignoring that she had been properly invited to the party.

Her eyebrows went up and she laughed. “Yeah, no-- didn’t think I would be either.” She had been doubtful they would have let her in through the visitor entrance in the first place, never mind join the actual party. Her move to a less-than-trustworthy news outlet had probably worked in her favor there; write for The Quibbler, don’t get taken as a serious threat, still get paid. Win, win, win.

“Haven’t seen Percy yet, ‘course,” she added, now moving towards her right, eyes peeled for that bottle of gin. “Kenny invited me, though.” The one former coworker she kept in touch with, really. “Hard to pass up free booze,” she finished with a grin, spotting a familiar blue glass bottle sitting all alone on a desk near the edge of the room. “Like so,” she pointed out the gin, walking quickly over to it, snatching it (and two paper cups) up, and heading back toward the crowd so they weren’t quite so obvious about any potential theft.

Edith handed the stacked cups to Fergie, freeing up her hands to unscrew the cap from the gin and pour a maybe-slightly-heavy-handed shot for each of them. She shifted the bottle under her arm and took one of the cups, looking down at the liquid for a couple seconds before knocking it back. “So, er-- how’s your mum?” It wasn’t her finest moment nor her finest question, but she had already asked after Fergie and wasn’t coming up with anything else to ask. She needed more gin, most likely.

“A window,” he grinned. Sounded likely. He wondered briefly if he should be concerned at the lack of security, then he thought about it a little more (the punch was making him slow) and decided that it was more likely that Ken or one of the others from her team had snuck her in. If he didn’t ask, he didn’t know, couldn’t tell -- so he didn’t ask.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, for once not worrying if that sounded like too much. It was good to see her. They’d worked together enough that he considered her a friend -- if more the type of friend you bumped into rather than made plans to go and see. In recent months, with the way the world was going, he was beginning to worry a little more about his muggleborn acquaintances. He didn’t think they’d be back in the territory they were in during the war, but it was hard not to consider it a distant possibility based on the papers lately.

Fergie laughed, walking beside her. “Not really his scene, is it?” He was pretty sure Percy would have scheduled meetings at the same time as the party just to be able to avoid it all. The Scotsman nodded, “Aye, not sure who managed to get this all past him to be honest,” he mused. Percy didn’t seem the time to condone a Christmas party, but maybe he’d finally relented in the hope if there was an ‘official’ party, there wouldn’t be month-long unofficial ones to suffer through. 

When he’d mentioned it, Fergie hadn’t been suggesting they acquire the gin for themselves -- but he wasn’t going to argue when the owner just left it laying around. He put his hands in his pockets as Edith scooped it up and led them back into the crowd. He fumbled slightly getting his hands back out quickly to take the cups from her as she held them out, glancing around to see if they’d been spotted -- not so far. He looked back to see how much she’d poured and his eyebrows shot up. Merlin. He cleared his throat. “Er, good yeah. They retired -- her and Dad -- a wee while ago now, so they live in Spain.” He took a sip of the gin and winced at the strength of it compared to the fruity punch he’d been enjoying. “Going there for Christmas, actually.” 

“You doing anything?” he asked, before realising belatedly he had no idea what her family situation was. He assumed -- mostly because he hasn’t heard otherwise -- that her family were all intact post-war, but now he was second guessing himself.

“Yeah, can’t believe we once thought that having the party at work would have convinced him to attend.” She shrugged, grinned a bit. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.” Really, she didn’t want to run into him, had been on high alert for any shock of red hair that was moving about to give herself ample time to flee any possible (and strained) conversations with her former boss. (She thought he pitied her a little -- the Commission and the quitting and her lack of work ethic, most of all -- and it didn’t sit well with her, not that she would admit it anyway.) “I think it’s more of a ‘ask for forgiveness, not permission’ kind of thing, but I dunno.” She hadn’t been part of the planning committee this year, officially or unofficially, just there to benefit from the free food and drink. She should probably seek out that food soon, considering how much drink she had already found.

Edith nodded along, hiding in her drink any uncomfortable regret she had for asking after his mum. “Spain? Nice.” She knew that, but she wasn’t about to remind him of that with something along the lines of ‘I know a lot of really personal details about your mum already and even published a lot of them but yeah that’s great, she’s living in Spain’ because she had no tact. “That’ll be better than London, then.” She nodded, making herself take a little break from the straight gin she probably shouldn’t be having -- she still needed to make it past the party to surprise Elias at work, or some equally terrible idea.

“Oh sure, yeah, going to Lunt.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, pointing in the general direction of north, she thought. “Tomorrow, actually. Mum and Dad are hosting the solstice celebration this year,” she added with a shrug. It was something their theater troupe did, and calling it a celebration was probably being generous. It was more of a ‘let’s light a bonfire and see who can drink the most and if we’re lucky Larry will keep his clothes on’ sort of situation; quite the riot. “Will probably come back after Christmas-- I think my limit is a few days up there.” That was universal to anyone having family time, she figured.

She took another sip -- gulp -- of gin and shrugged again, looking around for a couple seconds. She didn’t want to ask about work, though that seemed like the last thing to ask about because she was plainly terrible at being interesting at parties; rather than give herself any time to think on it or come up with something better: “How’s work going? Things were looking a bit peaky there for a while.” Might as well bring up the sad state of the British Wizarding World while she was at it.

“Not complaining either,” he admitted, a little louder than he might’ve had he not already had a few drinks this afternoon. He’d told himself ‘just one’ but he didn’t have to Floo back to Hogsmeade tonight. He could stay in his (empty) flat in Paddington for one night. He really ought to cancel the lease on that place, put his things in storage. He had to talk to Honey first, though. Ask for forgiveness… Fergie laughed. “Works for some people,” he commented, thinking about his sister; she certainly adhered to that as a life motto. Maybe he should take a leaf out of that book.

He nodded. “Should be, yeah.” He shifted his weight, rolling up on the balls of his feet then back to his heels. He wished he had something more interesting to talk about but babysitting his older sister left him with even less to talk about than he’d had before -- and that hadn’t been much.

“Oh, nice,” he replied quickly, then blinked. “Solstice?” he asked, unable to help himself. If he knew more about hippies he might ask if they were, but he didn’t, so he didn’t. Fergie let out another chuckle. “Yeah, I think all family holidays need a limit. Something’s not right if you can spend more than two weeks wi’ them and not want to pull your hair out,” he grinned.

Another lull; he took a drink of his gin -- bigger than he’d intended -- and came up coughing lightly. “Good-- well, I think… yeah, seems like it’s-- I don’t know,” he fumbled. He pressed his lips together in a line and internally scolded himself for his inability to string a sentence together. He breathed in and tried again: “I think things are less peaky now. Maybe.” He smiled weakly, looking around at the rest of the party, trying to work out how many people in here he actually knew -- who had been here last time.

He glanced back at Edith, trying and failing to hide the fleeting look of pity-mingled concern that flashed across his face. “Shacklebolt’ll sort it, I’m sure,” he said reassuringly, as much for himself as for Edith. “He’s heading to New York next month apparently, the Americans’ll tell Nystrom tae get fucked,” he smirked, more confidently than he felt.

“Solstice,” Edith confirmed, halfway between a laugh and a grimace. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, I guess.” It was bound to be a good time, no matter what path Larry decided to go down with his clothes. Mostly, she liked going to Lunt -- though she was going solo -- and not having to worry about life down in London for a few days. It was easy to ignore the old school stuff she still had stored away in her room; maybe this time she’d get around to boxing it all up. Then again, probably not. Fergie didn’t need to know -- or be bored by -- any of that, though, so Edith took another gulp of gin and kept herself from elaborating.

She nearly choked on her sip-- “Two weeks?” She coughed, cleared her throat. “That’s excessive, a bit.” Grinning, Edith shrugged. Her parents had their own friends, their own lives, and Edith didn’t want to get in the middle of it all; they weren’t exactly invested in what she was up to. But that was another thing she wouldn’t bore Fergie with, not without at least two more bottles of gin.

Much better to talk about how swell the wizarding world was, of course. Elias didn’t really talk about work at home -- she assumed he was actively trying not to upset her which she supposed she ought to be grateful for -- but she had inserted herself into all the goings on with her stupid career choices. “Yeah.” She pressed her lips together, matching Fergie’s expression. “You think?” It didn’t feel like things were getting better; it felt too much like last time. She narrowed her gaze a little, trying to decide if Fergie was the type of person to just say it was getting better when it wasn’t; he didn’t know her well enough to try and protect her feelings, right?

But she saw the look on his face and she nodded. It was a familiar expression, one she had been actively working against with her writing, her ‘we need support, not pity’ stance; she must not be a very effective writer. Edith finished her glass and held it limply at her side, before thinking better of it and handing it to Fergie, so she could pour herself some more, topping Fergie’s glass off while she was at it. “Oh sure,” she nodded, though she didn’t think she was as confident in the Minister as he was. She took her glass back and downed it all, which she had only decided to do half a second prior; it probably wasn’t the best decision. “Thank god for the Americans.” She raised her (empty) glass to a little toast, picturing American wizards that looked more like cowboys than their British counterparts.

She repeated the motions of refilling her glass again, downing it one more time before placing both it and the bottle on the nearest surface. She had brought the subject up so this was completely her fault, but she didn’t know how to rescue the conversation. “I think I just saw Percy--” she pointed behind Fergie toward a place her former boss certainly wasn’t “--so I’m just gonna…” she looked back at Fergie and nodded, like this was a completely normal way to leave a party. “Let’s get a pint sometime.” She nodded one more time before slipping into the crowd, toward the general direction of the lifts, wanting nothing but Elias decidedly not talking about the general state of things.

Fergie put one hand up defensively; “No judgement.” He was serious. His family weren’t into anything particularly weird (he didn’t think), but he knew his family had a certain dynamic that wasn’t so easily explained. Weren’t the older siblings supposed to be the responsible ones?

“Well,” he grinned back, shrugging, “I was trying to sound patient,” he admitted. “Maybe a week and two days, tops.” It was certainly a good thing that he wasn’t working at the shop with Honey as well as living with her. Did it say something that he was in less of a hurry to return home on time after work the longer he stayed in the family flat? He was pulling longer shifts, but was blaming that on the non-existent ‘Christmas rush’; his department’s busy period was over summer and everyone knew it. Everyone except Honey – or maybe she did and she was just as happy with the arrangement.

“I hope so,” he said, more honestly. “But, yeah, I do think so.” Edith didn’t seem so convinced. Didn’t seem much of anything other than keen to get drunk, in fact. Fergie’s eyebrows rose in unison as she downed another glass. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman – other than his sister – put so much booze away so quickly. He opened his mouth to say something – not about her drinking – but Edith cut him off. “Oh,” the Scotsman turned, looking into the crowd for Percy and moving subconsciously to shield Edith from him, wherever he was. “Oh, okay,” he wasn’t quick enough to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Right, yeah, just—” she was already being swallowed by the crowd, “— owl me,” he finished quietly.

Fergie was presently distracted by Big Vivvy heading his way, her eyes drawn to the bottle of (much emptier) gin he was now standing next to alone. Shit. He flashed her an over-the-top, sheepish, smile before slinking off in the opposite direction, heading for @Kendrick Silverman.


END