beat myself to the punchline [fergie]

london | 14 feb 03

Lost in La Mancha. It was supposed to be about Terry Gilliam and his failed attempt at a Don Quixote movie. Maybe she had run out of other options, or had been hoping for some sort of Spanish Inquisition flair considering it was Terry Gilliam and set in Spain; either way, she wasn’t hurrying on her way back from the toilet, only about an hour into the film. Plus, she had finished her pick and mix so what was the rush?

There was another movie letting out and she didn’t want to be part of a crowd, no more than she already was in a semi-crowded theater. She decided to head back to her film; Edith bumped someone’s elbow and she offered a quick, “Sorry,” turning back in time for someone to bump her elbow; all she had to offer this time was a glare, though that softened after he had apologized and she had realized who she was looking at.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” She narrowed her gaze, but her grin meant something more along the lines of ‘I can’t count how many times I skived off to see a movie’. Technically, she was doing that now -- she should be writing or doing something (anything) productive but the apartment was already clean so that really only left working -- but she didn’t have a ‘day job’, not really. That was what she told herself to make herself feel better, anyway.

Either way, she went to the movies -- the matinees, especially -- to avoid people who knew her. She didn’t think @Fergie Flume was the type to be skipping work, but then again, what did she know? She had seen him once in the past year, and it hadn’t been her most graceful encounter, no one to blame but herself. Hopefully he had kept drinking their stolen bottle of gin and forgotten all about it. She shifted, rubbing her left arm with her other hand. “What’d you see, then?” She peered around him, but the mass of people had more or less cleared out from any one theater exit so it wasn’t as obvious as she was hoping it would be.

Fergie dumped his empty box of popcorn and followed the flow of people out of the theatre into the hall, keeping his head down to try and avoid anyone looking at him too closely, and felt a nudge on his arm from someone going in the opposite direction. “Sorry--” he mumbled, pausing to look at the young woman he’d bumped into. “Edith,” he announced, rather unnecessarily. “Gotta to stop meeting like this,” he smiled lopsidedly, before it sort of fell away awkwardly. He put his hands in his pockets.

He grinned back, raising his shoulders in a telltale guilty expression. “I-- this-- I am working,” he said defiantly, scratching at the back of his neck. “Research.” He shrugged, not caring if she believed him or not (he was sure she didn’t -- he didn’t). The Scotsman frowned softly back at her, pretty sure she still had a day job too, but not sure enough to accuse her of anything. “You working too, then?”

“Erm.” He looked around at the dissipating crowd of people around them -- predominantly women -- then back to Edith. Well, shit. He handed her his ticket stub, rather than have to say it out loud: HOW TO LOS-- it showed before the character limit had been exceeded. He presumed Edith had seen the list of films that were on in the foyer and he didn’t need to elaborate. “Was movie of the week, apparently.” He had tried to sound nonchalant about it, as if the cheaper price had been the deciding factor, but honestly it had just been the only film on today that had appealed to him. “You?”

“I’m not stalking you,” she said, not convincingly, but she nodded like that ought to make up for it.

She looked around; she didn’t think they were at the Ministry, or that he was working, but if he insisted-- “Research, right.” He worked with muggles, so it could actually be work-related learning, but she wasn’t one to make things easy for anyone. She had worked with muggles too -- had been one for a while, actually -- and had claimed movies as research plenty of times, but whatever. “Oh, no. Not even a little bit.” She was freelancing, technically, even though The Quibbler was the only outlet that picked up her writing; last time she checked, they weren’t in the market for film reviews. (She’d be great at film reviews, she decided.) But she didn’t bother to elaborate; ‘freelance’ was just a fancy way of saying she didn’t really have a job; ‘writing for The Quibbler’ was about the same.

Looking from the crowd, to Fergie’s face, to his ticket, and back to his face, Edith nodded once, grinning. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days was a work of cinematic greatness, but there was no way in hell she was about to admit to having seen it, and there was definitely no way she’d admit to having seen it the day it came out. She could get away with that sort of thing when she went to the movies by herself, which was more often than not. “That’s just--” she looked back at the exiting crowd-- “Not what I’d imagine you seeing.” Not that she could imagine him seeing anything, but that was beside the point.

“Lost in La Mancha,” she answered with a nod toward the theater she had been heading back to. “It’s kind of… not great. Was thinking about leaving.” Edith motioned to the door instead. “Fancy a pint?” It was Friday afternoon and he had already worked through his lunch break (research) so it didn’t seem like too much of an ask; she might have cut their last conversation a little short. “Catch up properly, like.”

“I didn’t--” he started, about to apologise for making her think he thought that she would do such a thing before he fell into the (incorrect) assumption that she was teasing him. “Me either," he grinned nervously.

“Yup,” he said, the ‘p’ popping a little in the awkward silence. He felt guilty getting caught out like this, but his office was dead today and Liz was in a meeting for four hours so he had to find something to do. He made a mental note to pick a cinema further from the office in future, if he ever worked up the courage to skip out again.

The way Edith was grinning at him was not making Fergie feel any better about his film selection. “No, I suppose--” he stopped, frowned -- more at himself than at her. What sort of movie did he look like? “What would you imagine me seeing?” He asked, not unkindly; he didn't want to get too grateful that she hadn't pictured him picking a 'chick flick' (as the muggles called them) in the event that the alternative was even more detrimental to his self-confidence.

Lost in La Mancha. Fergie blinked. “What’s it about?“ He hadn’t heard anything about it, hadn’t seen any advertisements other than the poster in the foyer-- but it didn’t sound like he was missing out if she was looking for an excuse to leave. “Um, yeah,” he answered, hesitantly at first, before coming back with a more confident “Yeah, sure.” He could pretend to work some other time, he wasn’t fooling Edith at any rate.

“There’s a pub ‘round the corner, unless you had somewhere else in mind?” He began walking towards the exit -- taking a wild guess that they wouldn’t be getting their pint in the theatre -- putting his hands in his pockets, then pulling one back out as he reached the door first and opened it for her. He followed her out into the street, all in silence.

They weren’t talking and the whole point of this ‘pint’ was to catch up. Fergie wasn’t a poor conversationalist, but he wasn’t a great one either -- especially with former-colleagues who’d interviewed his mother. He wasn’t really sure how familiar he was allowed to be. “How was--” he started, in the same moment she went to say something, and he smiled awkwardly. “How was your Christmas-- er, solstice?” He offered her a small smirk.

“Er—” She hadn’t pictured him at the movies at all; she hesitated for a second, going back and forth between coming up with a genre that would suit him or telling him the truth. She had nothing to lose, she supposed. “Dunno. Not many people we worked with—” who he still worked with “--would come here.” She shrugged. “Research or not.” They could only work the muggle angle to a certain extent, or something.

Edith shrugged again. “A movie about making a movie.” She looked toward the entrance to the theater one more time before deciding that yes, she definitely did not want to go back in. “Thought it’d be funny.” She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and shrugged one more time. “I was wrong,” she conceded with the hint of a grin. Fergie agreed to the drink, sort of, and Edith nodded; good enough. After a second he agreed again — she smiled; relief maybe — and followed him to the exit. “‘Closest pub’ is my favorite kind.” She felt more at home at places with sticky bars and barstools that had seen better days, but anything would do.

He opened the door for her — she was grateful she didn’t have to expose her hands to the cold to open it herself — and she smiled straight ahead, not very good at the eye contact thing. Edith didn’t mind the silence, and she didn’t push to fill it, but after a minute of quiet walking it felt like maybe she should. “Do you—” see a lot of movies, she was going to ask, but it was a stupid question and she didn’t mind that he spoke over her. She laughed, shrugged. “It was good. They were good.” She talked with her hands even though they were both still in the pockets of her jacket.

“Solstice is really just a uh, excuse to drink for them.” Her parents, she meant, but she supposed it was an excuse for her to drink now, too. “Had a pretty normal Christmas,” she continued, still looking ahead. She had gone to Lunt, Elias had gone to Germany; her mum had gifted her socks. “It snowed,” she finished with a shrug as they neared the pub. She beat him to the door this time, and she held it open for him before following him to the bar. It wasn’t the dingiest of pubs, but it would do just fine.

They ordered their drinks and settled onto their stools. “How was Spain?” He had said he was going to do Christmas there and she realized a second late that it was probably weird to remember — or admit to remembering, rather — the details. “No snow, I imagine,” she added quickly, hoping he hadn’t had time to notice.

Fergie tilted his head a little to one side, looking skywards as he thought about her response; he couldn’t say he, personally, knew more than a handful of wizards who had seen one movie, let alone would make a trip to the cinema to see one. He smiled, remembering how much Honey hated films. “Yeah, suppose you’re right.”

“Uh-huh.” His brow furrowed as he looked at her, a little uncertain; he wasn’t sure if Edith was being funny but he couldn’t see how a movie about making a movie might be. Interesting, probably, but not funny. Fergie knew about cameras (non-magical ones) and that there were obviously the kind that did produce moving pictures – arguably better than the magical kind, that just caught one moment in time – but he would like to know how they did it without the potions available to witches and wizards. Not to mention all the special effects – he’d never actually sat and watched a Star Wars film but he knew all about them thanks to Charlie. He grinned. “Well, at least you knew when to give in.”

He let out a quiet laugh – more of a breathy chuckle – at her remark. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, before he could stop himself. Thankfully he could probably get away with blaming his rosy cheeks on the cooler weather outside, rather than the fact he’d just sounded like he was trying to make a move on her.

Also thankfully, Edith was continuing the conversation. Solstice was good, they were good: “Good.” Fergie’s lips twisted into a smile as he watched her gesticulate from within her pockets – though he made sure to glance away before she noticed him looking. “Oh, really?” He asked, feeling a bit stupid. “Right.” He hadn’t met either of her parents so he didn’t really know what to expect, but he supposed he could picture them a bit less hippie-ish now.

He’d been about to volunteer that he missed snow on Christmas, but Edith opened the door for him – he hesitated momentarily before slipping into the pub before her, some internal conflict over chivalry versus feminism – then he lost his train of thought as they ordered their beers. Then she beat him to picking the conversation back up again, surprising him with remembering his holiday plans. “Aye, no snow,” he smirked. Now was his chance; “I miss it though,” he admitted, sitting beside her. “It’s not like, blistering out there in December but still…” he drifted off somewhat, staring into space, “Toasty.”

He cleared his throat, took a long drink from his beer. “Anyway,” he licked his lips free of the froth, “you got today off or are you skiving as well?”

“Always easy to quit something when something better comes along.” Edith nodded, adding a clarification on the better something: “Drinks, I mean.” She stared at him for a second -- awkward, as usual -- before turning to head toward those drinks.

She nodded again; everything was good. She looked down in time to avoid a puddle on the sidewalk, glanced over at him as she straightened her path out again. “Really.” Christmas had been normal enough; for them, anyway. “Mum set a new record.” She didn’t bother to explain what she was talking about, so much as telling him how her mum had managed to uphold their Christmas traditions. “She managed to get on nine paper hats before she fell out of her chair.” Tilly always bought a few family-sized boxes of crackers for the three of them; Edith decided to leave out the drinking and complaining (because the questions weren’t tailored to their very specific areas of knowledge) when no one knew the answer to the included trivia.

Edith stopped overloading him with unnecessary information about her family long enough for her to order her beer and get Fergie to talk about himself instead. If he thought it was weird that she knew, remembered, or asked about his holiday, he didn’t let on. Instead he confirmed that she was right about the lack of snow. “I bet,” she agreed; it didn’t snow every year but she’d had an above-average track record for it. A warm Christmas didn’t really make sense.

“Can’t you stay in Scotland?” The obvious answer was ‘who would want to?’ but she was giving him the benefit of the doubt (considering he was Scottish and all). Beside that one year she’d been in France for Christmas, she’d spent every Christmas in Lunt (in the cold). She couldn’t really imagine being anywhere other than home home (or warm). He probably lived in London like nearly everyone else she knew -- despite their ability to be literally anywhere else in a matter of seconds -- but it was a fair question, she thought.

The barman dropped off their beers and Edith tucked right in, taking a few swallows before setting the glass down on the bar, one hand on either side to hold it squarely in place. “Er--” she twisted slightly to get a better look at him. “I freelance now.” For The Quibbler only, so-- “Technically.” She was pretty sure they had covered this at the office party a couple months ago, but maybe she had been much more successful in avoiding the topic then. “The Prophet job didn’t work out,” she said with a shrug, doing her best to deflect any sort of bitterness in her voice.

“‘No deadlines’ isn’t the best motivator to keep normal working hours.” She shrugged again and took another drink. “Mostly I just like going to the movies.” Going alone was nice because she was at least out of the house and creating the appearance that she was ‘doing something’. Going with anyone else was nice, too, because she didn’t have to put effort into conversation, but that wasn’t as often an occurrence. “How’s, er--” She didn’t want to ask about work, avoided the topic of the Ministry as best as she could. “Your quidditch team?” She shrugged with a slight grimace at her conversational skills before hiding it in another drink of her beer.

Fergie blinked, wondered for a brief, palm-sweat-inducing moment how to respond to being referred to as a better offer-- Edith saved them both the trouble. Drinks, right. Though, if he was allowed to be so bold, he was part of drinks so he’d attribute his now-slightly-moister than they had been hands to that.

“Nine?” he repeated with a warm smile, picturing a woman like Edith (but not Edith) in the scenario. “Was any gin involved?” he asked with a teasing smirk, hinting back to the bottle they had acquired at the Christmas party and how he could easily imagine Edith going for a record of her own.

“Well, I could,” theoretically, “but I think my parents like hosting and I’m not sure if they see home -- Honeydukes, I mean -- as too much temptation to work through. It’s kind of like a forced holiday for my sister.” Merlin knew she wouldn’t take one of her own accord. He supposed it wasn’t like he took any vacations of his own -- there was a reason he had had so many leave days available to take time off and help her out following that article. Perhaps it was a Flume family trait that he hadn’t really noticed before.

“It’s nice, too, for me,” he added, in case it sounded like he was coerced against his will or that he was ungrateful for the annual trip to Spain. “Get away for a week or so. Work on my tan,” he joked. He was more likely to burn and freckle than to achieve anything close to a golden glow. “And I’m only in Hogsmeade for another couple of weeks, hopefully. Gonna move back here now that-- things are sorted,” he ended lamely, stilted.

“Oh, right." He raised a suspicious eyebrow at her after a moment; "Technically?" It was a question, but his tone wasn't pressing. He vaguely remembered her saying something about changing jobs, he thought, from the Christmas party, but maybe he was imagining it or maybe someone had said something at the Ministry. Better to act like it was new news. "Well,” he cleared his throat, “Prophet isn’t exactly…” he trailed off; Fergie had a poor opinion of the paper nowadays. He had thought it was on the up when they'd hired someone like Edith. Well, Edith herself. “Shame, obviously, you were probably the only person worth reading--” He stopped and inhaled sharply, drank from his beer awkwardly.

He laughed. “Yeah it’s quiet for us at the moment. Summer’s the busy period.” If he had a stack of cases on his desk he would have felt a little bit worse about ditching, but as it was, he was having to find ways to look busy and leaving the office for a couple of hours once a week seemed to be working.

Fergie sipped at his drink again, then glanced at her -- wherever she had been going with that, it hadn't been where she'd ended up. His lips twisted in amusement. “Portree? Near enough to the top of the league, might make it to the finals if we’re lucky.” He hoped they would be. They had a few tough games coming up, and now that Honey was dating a Quidditch player he felt a little divided in his loyalty, but he would always support Portree first. “Who do you-- do you support anyone?”

“Gin punch,” Edith clarified, like it made all the difference in the world that there had been a very small amount of fruit mixed in. Despite its simplicity and obvious ingredients, it was a heavily guarded family recipe, according to her mother. “Class it up a bit, like.”

He could stay in Scotland, but he more or less (much less) said that he didn’t want to, just like she had predicted. There were real reasons for it of course -- she wouldn’t want to work ever if she could help it, let alone over the holidays -- and she could understand trying to make parents happy. She thought that was one (of many) reasons she always wound up heading north for Christmas.

Edith raised an eyebrow. “How hard did you work on that tan?” She grinned; he was as pale as she was -- not that that was a bad thing but-- She was distracted by Fergie saying he was moving to London right after she had assumed he already lived here (while also assuming he simultaneously lived in Scotland) and decided after a second that she wasn’t drunk enough to ask him why he was moving, or why he had been in Hogsmeade, or anything to follow up on that thought at all.

“Technically,” she confirmed. “I think for it to count as ‘freelance’ it’d have to be more than one magazine publishing me.” She shrugged and drained a good portion of her beer, having just a little bit more when he said it was a shame, obviously. Edith set her glass down and looked at him, deflecting the floppy feeling in her stomach -- the one she associated with anyone mentioning her articles in even the most indirect way -- with what she considered humor. “Only probably.” 

She kept looking at him over the rim of her glass as she took another swallow. “You know The Quibbler?” She shrugged again. “They aren’t exactly…” she trailed off to match his assessment of The Prophet. They were a bit off the map, if she was being honest, but they published her so she figured she ought to be a little bit appreciative. She wasn’t receiving quite the volume of unhappy letters as she had been before, at least, though she supposed that would change whenever the book was done. Edith grimaced to herself as she followed her own thoughts, finishing her beer and signaling for another round for the both of them, even though she was a bit ahead of her mate.

“Summer, right.” She offered him an ambivalent smile. “Time to indoctrinate some muggleborns.” It took her a second to remember who she was talking to, that Fergie might not be as up-to-date on her opinions about the current state of things as some other people might have been. She still didn’t have that refill so she tried to reverse to something less critical. “Is the bloke with the weird hair and the big nose still working there?” That had been her designated Ministry Official at eleven, and she was still very much under the impression that he was the worst

“Right,” Edith said again. “Portree. Heard of them.” She nodded, first to Fergie and then to her newly arrived pint. She took a swallow through the foam and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I-- nope.” She shrugged. “Couldn’t get into it. Gryffindor weren’t good my first year and then I didn’t much care by the next.” She shrugged again. “What about football?

Gin punch. Fergie grinned.

“The full week," he answered honestly, with another grin and a faint flush of his cheeks. “In my defence, it’s Spain but it’s still winter,” he said in an attempt to make his efforts seem less paltry.

He sipped at his beer as he listened. “Better than not being published at all,” he offered, meaning it. He didn’t know if he’d offended Edith, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. “Well,” he began, focusing on a beermat instead of her face, “you were. I read your articles,” he admitted, unsure why he should feel awkward about his confession -- but he did. He drank a little more deeply.

The Quibbler? “Yeah,” he nodded, about to pull a face or maybe even chuckle before he realised Edith wasn’t saying at least I didn’t write for them -- she was saying that was where she was ‘freelancing’.  “Oh, brilliant,” he recovered quickly. “What sort of… what’re you writing for them?” he asked, curious now if Edith had become a conspiracy theorist upon leaving the Ministry. He wasn’t about to offer to get a subscription -- yet, anyway.

Fergie drank again, then almost choked on his beer. “I-- It’s not like that,” he said, a little offended -- then, on second thought, more offended. “Would you rather we just… sent them a letter and that be it?” he asked, realising belatedly that Edith was one of them. “It’s different to how it was before,” he added, quieter, running his fingers up and down in the condensation on his glass. He didn’t know who Edith was trying to describe, assumed it was someone from before his time -- and honestly, some of the Liaisons from before the war had been pretty useless, one bloke had thought it was normal to turn up in a nightgown.

He tried to focus on the topic of quidditch but found himself a little distracted. ”Try supporting Hufflepuff,” he offered with a wry smile. “I was on the team, well, reserve for a year and then main team the last two.” He scratched at his jaw and had another sip of beer, well on his way to finishing his pint.

“Football?” he repeated. “Er, I don’t know much about it -- teams and that. I know it’s like, quidditch for muggles. Bigger, probably,” he admitted. “Is that what you’re into?”

He wasn’t looking at her, which was perfectly fine with her; talking about her articles hadn’t gotten any easier in the year since she had started writing them. “Thanks,” she said quietly, taking a long swallow as he did the same. He’d said read, past tense, which should have been more comforting than it was. She was free to avoid the subject of The Quibbler, at least, but— it was journalist’s integrity or some shit that told her to plow on.

She laughed; the magazine wasn’t brilliant, but she wasn’t about to admit it out loud. “It’s the same stuff,” she said, meaning she was still writing what she was at the paper, interviews, stories, general muggleborn or muggleborn-adjacent issues, but saying all of that was a mouthful (and nothing short of pretentious, she thought). In reality, it was probably a bit more now that she didn’t have quite the same restraints. She wasn’t going to mention that, either.

“Right,” she said, effectively ruining the mood  She tightened her grip on her glass, studying her hand much more intently than was really warranted. She stood by what she said — at no point were they ever really presented with a choice or told how fucking hard it would all be, trying to be both magic and muggle — but Fergie’s reaction wasn’t what she had expected. She’d had her fair share of Ministry workers ‘gently’ explain why her opinions weren’t valid but she didn’t think he was one of those; she hadn’t even got to the worst of her opinions — that obliviation was an egregious abuse of power if not assault — and thought she might abandon the conversation then and there, but then he backtracked, too.

Edith nodded, wanting to believe him. She hoped it was different from before, though it’d take a lot more than that to make her happy. “Sure it is,” she said, finishing her beer and pointing them toward quidditch to get her mind off how she had potentially pushed their conversation off a cliff.

It worked well enough, she thought. “Were you really?” She’d tried to picture it, short of actually remembering it, but she couldn’t get past the mental image of Fergie in those yellow robes; that house really hadn’t lucked out when it came to colors. Gryffindor though— that shade of scarlet clashed wonderfully with United’s red and Edith had loved it. But still, football was better. “Aren’t you a muggle liason?” She asked me with a grin, hoping his mind wouldn’t flash back to a couple minutes ago when she had more or less told him how horrible his job was. “Just mean it’d be good to know more than just ‘big quidditch for muggles’,” she finished, taking another swig of her beer.

“Yeah, though. It’s easy to catch most of the matches when I’m out ‘working’.” Edith complimented her words with air quotes. “We’ve had better seasons, though.” She shrugged, figured she shouldn’t get into that now, here. “God, we must not have talked much before if this is news, me liking football.” She laughed, shifted on her stool so she could grab her beer with her other hand, give her right a rest so it could warm back up.

“Really?” That was a relief, he supposed, that she hadn’t gone from writing about serious issues (with serious consequences, it seemed) to covering myths and legends. “I’ll buy a copy next time I see it then,” he said with a small smile. “If you’ve got an article in it, I mean.” He didn’t think he could commit to buying an edition full of nonsense. “Are they doing more of that sort of--” stuff made it sound unimportant, didn’t it? “-- you know, news news, opinion pieces again?”

Edith didn’t seem convinced, and Fergie sort of didn’t want to leave it there hanging between them awkwardly, but what choice did he have? His light eyes fell on Edith’s empty glass and he signalled the barman for another round. “It is,” he repeated quietly, not usually the type to need to have the last word but unable to help himself in this instance. Fergie loved his job -- thought he did it well -- and it was an uncomfortable realisation to have that perhaps the thing they were missing most in his office were actual muggleborns. He almost wanted to point out that if the way the Ministry went about things was so wrong, perhaps she ought to work in the team she could affect the most positive change.

But quidditch was an easier topic. “Yeah,” he smiled lazily. “Wasn’t ever gonna be good enough to play professionally...” he shrugged, trailing off. Two fresh pints were set between them and Fergie finished his first, catching up to his companion.

He thought they had literally just covered this, but Edith was poking fun now, rather than just poking holes. “I-- yes,” he agreed with a grin of his own, caught out. “I’ve just-- I’ve watched it on the televisions, in pubs, but I don’t understand the rules other than ‘kick it in the goal’. No idea what ‘offside’ is but people get bloody angry about it, don’t they?” He sipped at his fresh beer.

The Scotsman smirked softly at working. “You go to any?” he asked. “Matches, that is. Who’s your team?” Fergie could probably name a handful with any certainty, but the good thing about football teams was that they were by and large just the name of a town or city, occasionally with a ‘united’ tacked on the end. And then there was the team his cousin Craig supported: Inverness Caledonian Thistle, which sounded more like a plant species.

“Don’t feel obligated. Dunno if one article is worth the whole thing.” She stopped short of offering to send him articles piecemeal; that’d be like assuming that he actually wanted to read what she wrote and wasn’t just being polite about it, saying what he was supposed to say, which seemed like the most likely case. “Oh,” she grinned into her glass as she took another drink. “Not really.” Not news news. “Mostly the crazy shit, so I slot in nicely.” Mad rantings from an ex-Ministry witch who thought she was special, wasn’t that what one of her letters had called it?

They left the topic of the Ministry goings-on behind, thankfully, though quidditch wasn’t exactly easier to talk about. They pivoted to football after another minute. She laughed as Fergie explained what he knew about the sport. “Rightfully so,” she said with a grin, not doing well at hiding the fact she was one of those bloody angry people. “It’s when--” she paused, waved a hand in front of her. “Better if you figure it out yourself,” she decided, having another swallow of beer.

“Just one.” She held up her hand, index finger out to emphasize how many matches she’d seen live. “Expensive as shit.” It’d been a birthday present and United had lost but it had been one of the greatest days. “Manchester United,” she said after a few seconds, remembering the rest of his question. “Since the eighties.” She hadn’t jumped on the bandwagon and she wanted to be clear, more to any eavesdroppers than to Fergie, who knew fuck all about football.

“I’ve tried explaining it to Elias but he’s kind of hopeless.” She shrugged, taking inventory of the bottles behind the bar. “Likes quidditch enough but I can’t really get into it, myself.” It made no sense, she wanted to say, but considering he was in a department dealing with muggleborns, he’d already heard all the reasons why.

Fergie grinned back at Edith. “Well, it’s good to fit in somewhere,” he laughed lightly, moving their empty glasses to one side. Even if it was at The Quibbler. He paused and glanced at her. “I would, though,” he said quietly, “like to read what you write.” He meant it, too. He had read her Prophet articles -- unknowingly, at first, until she’d put her name on the byline -- and appreciated the insight he’d gained from them.

He grinned again when Edith fought the corner of the passionate football fan. He knew plenty of witches were into Quidditch -- his sister one of them -- but it was a unisex sport. He’d only ever seen men playing football professionally, and the majority of the crowds he’d seen (on tv) had been mostly men, too. “So, never,” he smiled; maybe he could add it to his list of muggle things to learn, but he still had to catch up on the list of films Charlie had given him before he progressed to intricate sporting laws.

“Only one?” he asked, surprised. He made a mental note to find out just how expensive tickets to football games were -- Quidditch wasn’t exactly cheap, but he’d never not been able to afford to go to a game (not including World Cup games, of course, they were a little more on the pricey side). His brow furrowed a little in confusion when she stated her allegiance -- was fairly certain her accent was closer to Liverpool than Manchester -- but didn’t question it; there were witches and wizards who supported teams that weren’t their local. She seemed to read his mind, however, and answered him anyway. “I know that one,” he offered finally, looking rather pleased with himself. “They’re one of the more popular teams, aren’t they?” he ventured, glad he actually recognised the team she supported.

“Oh, right.” Fergie sipped at his beer, almost forgotten. “I take it he won’t be getting you tickets for Valentine’s Day then?” he joked.

Elias definitely didn’t read The Quibbler though he said he would if she wanted him to, but again: she didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to read anything for her sake. It didn’t sound like Fergie was joking about it, but Edith raised her eyebrows as if to invite the punchline; it didn’t come so she nodded after another second. “I’ve got two pages next month.” She left it at that, swallowed more beer.

“Never,” she agreed with a cheeky grin. At least he got that much.

She nodded. “Just the one.” She nodded again before adding in detail he hadn’t asked for. “Just before fifth year started. I got prefect, so--” she didn’t think she needed to mention that even her parents got that being prefect wasn’t nothing-- “My dad let me drive to Manchester and everything.” She smiled as she looked at her glass, turning it slowly on the bar in its puddle of condensation. “They are,” she confirmed, stopping just short of pointing out that they were popular because they were good. not wanting to jinx anything; they were ranked second in the league now, after all.

“Ha, yeah doubt that.” Edith rolled her eyes before looking at Fergie again. He’d watch football with her in a pub but the idea of dropping him into a stadium full of fans exactly like her… She took another sip of her drink before pulling it away from her lips, slowly. “Wait--”  she’d seen a lot of couples at the movies (and a woman down the bar was wearing an obnoxious set of heart earrings so maybe it should have been more obvious)-- “Is that today?” She didn’t wait for a response, stretching her arm to free her watch from her sleeve and giving it a look. The little 14 was enough, but the time meant she hadn’t only forgotten about it; she was also late.

“Fuck’s sake--” Edith grimaced and sized up her beer and after deciding there were only a few swallows left, she finished it off. “I completely forgot.” That much must have been obvious but she didn’t add that in addition to forgetting about her dinner plans, she hadn’t bought Elias anything or found a card or-- he’d be getting her something (not football tickets) and insist he didn’t need anything, but--

“Fuck,” she said again, sliding off her stool and fishing out enough change for her drinks, laying it on the bar as she looked to Fergie one more time. “I promise not to rush out next time,” she added with a part-grimace-part-grin, glossing over her assumption they’d have drinks again before finishing her awkward exit out the pub door.

[[ out ]]