golden boy's in bad shape [fflur]

march 2003

Charlie curled up into a sitting position from where he’d been laying, fully clothed and ready to go, on his hotel room bed. That fucking townhouse had plenty of spare bedrooms but it was easier for both of them if they weren’t living on top of each other. Easier for Charlie, anyway. He hadn’t heard from Kate and didn’t want to muddy the waters by asking her anything that wasn’t expressly related to their separation -- divorce, he corrected his own narrative. He'd offered to stay in a hotel because they both knew from experience that if they were around one another they’d convince themselves it was worth it -- all the fighting and the hurt -- and Charlie would take advantage of Kate’s good nature again, and they’d only end up back here in a few more months.

She would be going home to California soon enough, anyway. Then he could return to the house they’d bought less than a year ago to move his things out and figure out where he was going next. They would sell it, obviously -- Charlie had always insisted the townhouse had been too big, and without Kate in it with him it would feel even more cavernous. They would sell it, and the villa in San Diego, and he would start again.

He’d grown attached to having a music room though -- not that he and the boys had had the opportunity to actually use it yet. Kate had only broken up with him -- told him she wanted a divorce -- a week ago, so he’d not quite gotten around to looking for a new place -- hence the hotel -- but he made a mental note to look for somewhere he could at least keep that promise.

Part of him -- a selfish, greedy part -- wanted to beg Kate to stay, to give him another (another) chance. The part of Charlie that he thought was being selfless told himself this would be better for Kate in the long run -- she could find someone who deserved her, someone that wasn’t going to keep making the same mistakes. He hadn’t fought it when she'd asked to end it, which had only served to hurt her more in the immediate term because it seemed like he was indifferent to the whole thing. He wasn’t, but he needed her to think worst of him -- if she didn't already.

He wouldn’t admit it but the whole thing hadn’t fully registered yet. Maybe it was because nobody else knew (yet), or because there was that small voice telling him he could win her back if he wanted to -- that he could change, if he really wanted to. But he didn’t want it enough and he knew that much. He wanted his freedom back, wanted to blame his shitty actions on his vices rather than accept any personal responsibility. Charlie sighed and felt his eyes drawn to the minibar-- No, he told himself, reasoning that he could indulge later, after seeing Fflur. He got to his feet and checked his pockets habitually before closing his eyes and apparating to Hogsmeade.

Charlie spotted Fflur the minute he walked through the door to The Three Broomsticks. He kept his eyes down, hoping not to draw attention to himself as he strode to her table by the window and slid into the seat across from her. “Hey,” he greeted her quietly, eyes falling to the teapot that was presently being set down between them; the same waitress who’d set him up on an impromptu breakfast date with his ex-girlfriend last month smiled at him and Charlie gestured at Fflur’s tea. “Same, cheers.”

His hair was uncharacteristically clean and free of product, and his bloodshot eyes had large bags beneath them. He was, at least, dressed in his trademark leather jacket and jeans. “How’s the puppy?” he asked, keen to talk about anything other than himself.


@Fflur Blevins

Fflur hadn’t been paying attention -- her book was more interesting than the other patrons of the Three Broomsticks, anyway -- and only noticed Charlie as he took a seat across from her. “Hey.” She grinned, not bothering to match his volume; she assumed he was hungover (as usual) and she didn’t find any sympathy to offer. She followed his gaze to her tea and she shrugged, not feeling the need to make any excuses for herself.

The little lunch dates were few and far between. There was usually too much to say and too little time to say it in but not much had happened since the last time she had seen him. Of course, the last time had been finding him passed out on her couch and they hadn’t had a chat, but she didn’t have too much else going on. Charlie did, though -- from what she had read, anyway, though she was deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The Prophet got plenty of things wrong about her, both back when she was a newsworthy topic and now when she was decidedly less so; surely the same star reporting could stretch to things said about him. She hoped it did, anyway.

“He’s fine,” she said with a wave of her hand, changing the subject quickly (even though she had a mountain of praises for the puppy) and getting right to the point: “Rough night?” Fflur raised an eyebrow and eyed him suspiciously. He hadn’t spent the night on her couch but that didn’t rule it out completely. He didn’t look like complete shit but he also wasn’t looking fresh as a daisy, maybe somewhere in the middle -- a daisy trampled by a shit-covered shoe, maybe -- and she wasn’t going to let him ask about the puppy and excuse himself from more important questions.

He smiled, weakly, at her initial response. He was about to launch into some joke about thinking of joining the pet owners club, but Fflur beat him to choosing the next topic of conversation. One thing about Sober Fflur was, it was a lot harder to get things past her than Drunk Fflur.

Charlie sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “That obvious?” he asked with a tired grin, glancing first at her and then around the pub— something he regretted doing when he spotted someone across the way reading the Prophet. Not the same edition as the one that had outed him, obviously, but he hadn’t read any papers since – partly owing to him staying in a muggle hotel (harder to find him for a ‘comment’ that way) and partly not really wanting to know what else was being said about him in his absence.

Charlie looked back at Fflur, staring straight ahead in a very indiscreet manner. He was hoping that she was still in the business of avoiding the papers – he assumed he would have heard from her sooner had that not been the case, so that was what he was holding onto. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure about Robin’s reading habits, so there was that.

The young waitress arrived with his tea and Charlie thanked her, as much for some interruption to their silence as for the fact she’d set it down without trying to scald him. He set about pouring his teapot – a little too early for the tea to have steeped properly, giving him a watery result. He added some milk, pushed the sugarbowl further away from himself – all in an uncharacteristic hush, save for the soft tinkling of his teaspoon.

He didn’t want to be the one to bring it up – didn’t want to bring it up at all, really. He hadn’t worked out who he was telling and in what order, for a start. Kate, he assumed, had told Fran already, possibly her parents – though the fact he hadn’t yet received a howler (or worse) from Tony Duenas suggested otherwise. Charlie thought he ought to tell his parents first, really, but he knew they would be the most disappointed in him. Sam and Liam would be near the top of the list, because not only were they his oldest friends, they were his bandmates and would be losing their manager, too.  He liked to think Fflur might be the easiest to tell, the most likely to understand.

He licked his teaspoon clean then set it down. “You erm, been reading the news lately? ”

Fflur shrugged, only half returning Charlie’s grin; it was obvious. She followed his gaze out at the pub -- it was as quiet as it ever was at noon -- but she was looking back at him (and was back to eyeing him suspiciously) before he had returned his attentions to her. He didn’t say anything, so neither did Fflur. She picked up her tea and took a couple sips, vaguely wondering if this was how their whole meal was going to go, her not wanting to pry -- his marriage was none of her business, or something -- and him having nothing interesting to say -- because he wasn’t up to anything, she hoped.

Maybe she should have talked about the dog more; she had plenty to say on that subject, anyway.

His tea arrived and he busied himself with that; Fflur did the same after she had drained her cup, though she finished first and was back to silently, awkwardly looking at Charlie. He set his spoon down, finally, and Fflur couldn’t keep herself from nodding before he had really finished his question. “I do know how to read, y’know.” She rolled her eyes, took another sip of her tea. She read the news every day -- sometimes twice if she was taking a meal at the school because it kept the conversations with other people to a minimum -- but she didn’t think he wanted to discuss the current state of affairs in the Baltic States or some shit like that.

“If you’re talking about your news, though--” Fflur shrugged, looked out the window. His news that she had read a couple weeks ago and had stayed more or less quiet -- though she still had opinions -- about since, the news that he was seen with women -- even if it was just the one -- who weren’t his wife. Benefit of the doubt, though. That, and Fflur didn’t want to be wrong; she thought Charlie was shaping up a bit, had changed his sleazebag ways since Paris. “It’s all shit, right?” She looked back to him, her eyebrows raised enough to make her seem hopeful.

"Shit, really?" he smirked weakly, his usual playfulness difficult to muster under his impending reveal. He was having second thoughts about telling Fflur here, now, but he'd sort of already opened that can of worms just by bringing up the newspapers, hadn't he? And if he didn't come out with it now, or lied, he'd only be making things worse. He should have waited. God, he was an idiot.

The way Fflur phrased her question, as though she wanted the papers to be wrong and for Charlie to tell her Yeah, it's all shit, hurt more than if she'd outright said she'd expected it of him. He pulled back, sitting up in his chair and smoothing his hands down his thighs -- stalling, trying to work out how to confess in the least dickish way possible. He quickly surmised that it wasn’t possible to avoid entirely.

He had averted his eyes, which probably said everything she needed to know, but he looked back at her -- at least wanting to face his fate like a man (well, sort of, part of him wanted to leg it out of here). “It’s not,” he held her gaze, crumbled under it slowly. “I--” He kept his voice low, all too aware of their fellow diners and the opportunity for them to listen in, should they recognise him. “I fucked up,” he said, leaning back forward and rubbing at his face with his hand, elbow on the edge of the table, screwing his eyes up momentarily in a brief frown. “I keep fucking up,” he clarified, dropping his hand back to his lap, under the table. His right leg bouncing anxiously.

“It’s over.” He glanced up at her again, awaiting his sentence.

Fflur looked at Charlie expectantly; she was expecting the worst but preparing for whatever would be worse than that. He shifted without denying anything first, which was less than ideal, then looked away, still not denying anything. She liked Kate; she had made (politely requested) Fflur wear a dress at her wedding, but that wasn’t enough to do anything to Fflur’s opinion of her. It was obvious how much Kate loved him and if Charlie really hadn’t changed even after getting married-- for fuck’s sake. He didn’t deserve her.

She had let her mind wander in the short amount of time Charlie chose not to answer her and it was hard to draw her thoughts back to a more reasonable place when he finally looked at her. It’s not, he said. Fflur blinked, nodded almost imperceptibly. He started again and she held his gaze, uneasy that he had something else to follow that up with. She stayed silent, blinking at his admission that he fucked up, that he kept fucking up.

“It’s over?” Fflur raised both eyebrows, waiting -- hoping -- that he’d gotten the date wrong and was pulling some April Fool’s joke early, but he was never able to hold a straight face for that long. “Fuck, Charlie.” Fflur glanced out the window, back to him, down to her tea. He was impulsive, but she didn’t think he was this impulsive to end his marriage -- she assumed that’s what he was talking about, rather than his ‘fucking up’ being over -- without any sort of thought or, failing that, something really fucked up.

It’s not like she was a romantic sort of person but she was certainly under the impression that when you knew, you knew. She thought Charlie knew, with Kate. Fflur and Charlie shared certain similarities, but the main one was that they were both, more or less, trainwrecks. He got a handle on his shit, though, so Fflur could, too. That had been a contributing factor for her being so sure that she had found her person with Robin, anyway. She’d moved in with him, officially now, despite her sister’s opinion of it all, despite the niggling feeling that she was always close to fucking it up.

She glanced back up, rubbing the side of her nose with her finger before her hands found a comfortable place around her teacup. “What’d you do?”

Fflur, unsurprisingly, did not look best impressed. He could hardly blame her -- she’d been the one person (other than Kate herself) who had supported him unwaveringly through everything. Sam, obviously, had been a great mate too but Fflur had never attempted to warn Kate off of him -- he wondered now if maybe she should have, and if he ought to give Sam some slack for having tried (he’d obviously been right to, much as Charlie was loathe to admit it).

Fflur hadn’t flown off the handle at him though, and for that Charlie was grateful at least. He was hoping this would be the extent of her reaction, rather than the calm before the storm. It sort of hurt more, like this; that classic I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed that always did hit harder than explosive anger ever seemed to. “Yeah,” he replied at a murmur, nodding once. It was over.

For once he wasn’t offended by the assumption that it was something he had done. He focused on Fflur’s hands, cradling her tea. “What I always do,” he said quietly. He began picking at his nails underneath the table as he lowered his gaze to his lap. “Cheated,” he clarified, knowing full well that he probably didn’t need to. “She--” He tried to meet Fflur’s eyes, managed it for about two seconds before he turned to look out the window.

“I’ve been,” he started, still not sure how to explain everything -- Fflur deserved that, an explanation -- or in which order to relay the many different parts of what had gone wrong. He decided to begin at the beginning, more or less; “For a while I’ve just been...” he trailed off. “Too much of a good thing,” he settled on, vaguely hinting at his recent resurgence in drinking and dabbling in other less legal substance abuse. “It’s not an excuse,” he added hastily, glancing back at her, knowing he’d used being inebriated plenty of times in the past as though it was a free pass for his behaviour. “I haven’t been good to her for weeks, months.” Years.

“She came home early and... ” again, there was no need to finish. He dropped his gaze, hanging his head slightly. “She’s leaving me,” he added, a little more conviction in his tone. Had already gone, in fact. “I have to let her.”

The yeah was almost worse than the original It’s over, as if he could have taken it back here at the Three Broomsticks and made it so elsewhere. But he agreed; she had heard him right; it was over, no caveats.

She asked the question -- what’d you do? -- without wanting to really know the answer, figuring she already did know. He did what he always did (and clarified what he meant as though she could have forgotten his track record over the years). He looked at her (finally) with a ‘she’ but looked away without adding anything else. Fflur raised her eyebrows almost expectantly, looking more like a disappointed teacher than she ever did at work.

There’d been too much of a good thing, apparently, for a while; she’d slap him if she thought he was only talking about his marriage being the good thing. Fflur and Charlie hadn’t exactly been spending a lot of time together -- a prearranged lunch once a month hardly counted -- but she’d found him (and an almost empty bottle) on her couch a few weeks ago and as she had already proven several minutes ago, she still knew how to read the newspaper.

“Sounds like an excuse.” Fflur met his gaze and narrowed her eyes the slightest bit. It had been an excuse for her, plenty of times; drunk, didn’t count. Fuck, it had been their excuse.

But Charlie hadn’t been good to Kate in months. Basic arithmetic told Fflur he and Kate had only been married for a few months -- not even seven, now -- so how long had he been good? She didn’t get a chance to ask, too caught up in what he said next. She came home early-- Fflur swallowed, looked out the window again, hoped he didn’t mean what she thought he did. Caught cheating sort of implied that he would have kept it going if Kate hadn’t found out and--

“You’re letting her?” Fflur looked back at him, her eyebrows raised. “That’s like-- Nobel Peace Prize, right there.” His wife was leaving him and he was letting her; that was so nice of him. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it back off her face before she leaned forward, arms folded on the table in front of her. “Who--” Fflur shook her head and sat back in her chair, deciding she didn’t want to know who it was he had thrown his marriage away for.

She had asked the same thing the last time that they’d had this conversation -- about him cheating on Kate last year, no less -- and he’d been drunk then, too, for the cheating and the admission of the cheating and-- “Hope you remember her name, at least.” She raised a hand and flagged down the waitress, not hesitating before ordering a vodka replacement for her tea. She didn’t want to drink it (she did) but she thought she might feel better if she could hold it, distract her hands, try to get her thoughts in order. It wasn’t her marriage and she wasn’t invested in it but-- the fuck, Charlie.

Fflur’s muted responses (comparative to previous reactions for previous transgressions) to Charlie’s admissions (each worse than the last) were making him feel heavier, guiltier – if that were possible. He had thought – in the aftermath of what he had done – he couldn’t sink any lower. And Fflur was only the first on what seemed now like a very long list of people he had to tell. It was one thing to break up with someone, quite another to have destroyed the relationship quite so spectacularly. Most of Charlie’s friends knew he was not a monogamist (and that should offend him more than it did), and he wasn’t stupid – he knew Liam hadn’t been the only person sceptical about how long this would all last.

The most embarrassing part of all of it was who he had done it to. It had been shitty of him to cheat on previous girlfriends, it was another level of wickedness to have tricked Kate into thinking he could be different – to have her give him everything – and then pull it from under her.

Charlie glared at the woman across from him, irrationally angry that she wasn’t sympathising with him at least a little bit. “I’m not trying to excuse anything,” he snapped, finding his voice finally. “I was high, it – she – didn’t mean anything, but that doesn’t make it alright, I know that.” And he did, know it. Did it make it worse that she didn't mean anything to him? Possibly. He had elected not to analyse it; that he had thrown away his marriage and the woman he loved over someone he’d met for the first time that night. That he’d let himself get so low he’d taken meaningless physicality over the affection of someone who loved him.

"Fuck–" off, he wanted to tell her, but he bit his tongue and looked out of the window instead petulantly, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. Fflur wasn’t wrong – he deserved to feel this way. He deserved this and worse. "If I'd fought for her she would have stayed," he said, his voice calmer – almost remorseful – and still gazing outside.

Who– Charlie didn’t turn to look at Fflur immediately, though managed a soft scowl out of the corner of his eye at her jibe. He kept his lips pressed together in a firm line; not answering her, which was answer enough. If he stretched, he could probably remember (Emma? Anna? Something like that), but that wasn’t really what Fflur was asking – she was asking if Emma/Anna/Whoever was worth it (she wasn’t, but Fflur also didn’t need to hear that – they both knew).

Fflur ordered herself a vodka and Charlie shook his head at the waitress, electing not to drink because if he did he wouldn’t stop, and he was too far from London and too close to Honeydukes to be letting himself wallow.

The younger woman left them and Charlie met Fflur’s gaze. "She can't stay," he said firmly, only the tiniest edge of doubt creeping into his statement, "I asked her to last time and look what happened."

Fflur rolled her eyes, refraining from nodding along with what he was saying. It didn’t mean anything. She wasn’t if that was supposed to reassure her or not— did that make it better or worse? At least if it had meant something then he would be throwing it all away for nothing— no, she didn’t need to try and make excuses for him, either.

Charlie looked out the window but Fflur didn’t look away from him. “Right,” she said with a soft snort, “You and your power over women.” She knew what he meant — that if Kate stayed it would be because she loved him and not because of any women-wooing ways that Charlie possessed — but she’d rather give Kate the credit here; she could leave because she wanted to.

The waitress left them and Fflur reluctantly caught Charlie’s eye. She stayed still save for blinking, not nodding along when he said Kate couldn’t stay. That much was obvious — was he trying to convince Fflur or himself now? — but Fflur couldn’t bring herself to agree.

She looked away. ran a hand through her hair again, buying herself a few seconds before met his gaze again, somewhat reluctantly. “I actually felt bad. Like I wasn’t giving you enough credit, thinking it was a rubbish idea at the start.” His getting engaged so soon after cheating on Kate the last (?) time, then getting married so soon after that; she didn’t elaborate; she figured he knew exactly what she was talking about. She didn’t particularly want to make this about her but it was hard to avoid. She had vouched for him more than once. People can change. What shit.

The waitress returned and Fflur pulled the small glass toward her, eyeing it for a second before raising her gaze to Charlie’s again, holding eye contact for a second before realizing the waitress was still hovering. She asked if they were ordering; Fflur said, “No,” at the same time as Charlie’s contradicting answer. “No,” she said again, this time to Charlie. “I—“ she didn’t want to admit that she had propped up a lot of her ideals or life plans on his new found ability to commit. She paused, dug her hand into her jacket pocket and retrieved her cigarettes, giving the pack a shake in front of her to finish her sentence for her.

She palmed her pack as she pushed her chair back and stood, offering the waitress half a smile before heading out the door.

Charlie shot Fflur another half-hearted glare; he knew he deserved it -- and worse -- but it didn’t make it taste any sweeter. He could be a cocky shit but he didn’t think he had some supernatural force on his side, luring women in, he just knew that Kate was the kind of person to give someone more chances than they deserved -- as she had already done time and time again for him.

It hurt to hear Fflur admit she had thought it was 'stupid' from the beginning. If that had been how she had really felt why hadn't she said so? (Would he have listened, anyway? He hadn’t paid Sam any mind.) "I know," he mumbled awkwardly, his arms folding defensively as he avoided her gaze. What did she want him to say? He knew he hadn't just let Kate down -- there was a list of people longer than he cared to admit who would be disappointed, or mad. Fflur appeared to be both right now.

He wasn't sure if it was good timing or bad when the waitress came back to the table. She asked if they wanted to order and Charlie said "Yeah," (if only because talking to the waitress was easier than talking to Fflur right now) in the same moment Fflur said No. He gawked at her, then she said it again and he abruptly wished that the waitress would now fuck off because he didn't need a witness to whatever was coming out of Fflur’s mouth next.

She saved him the embarrassment -- sort of -- and reached for her cigarettes. Fflur got to her feet and so did Charlie. As she left, he fished for his wallet and handed the waitress more than what they owed just to be able to follow after Fflur as quickly as he could.

He pushed through the door and saw she was already halfway across the street. He half-jogged half-strode to catch up with her, stretching one hand out to touch lightly on her upper arm. "Fflur, c’mon."

Fflur left the pub, only considering for a second that she should go back and take the vodka with her -- the only alcohol in the house lately had been the bottle of whiskey Charlie had shown up with last month and she had poured it down the drain before drawing on his drunkenly-passed-out face with a permanent marker -- but decided against it a second later because she was already handling this situation so well.

She fumbled with her cigarettes, tipping one out with a bit of difficulty. Her hands were a little shaky, anger or upset or something else entirely the underlying cause. She heard the door behind her open again as she traded box for lighter; she knew it was Charlie following after her without having to look.

She’d made it halfway across the street -- it wasn’t an entirely wide street, but -- before he caught up with her. His hand was on her arm; she shrugged it off before she turned to face him, bringing her gaze up the six inches or so to meet his eye. “Fuck off, Charlie.” She meant it, too; she didn’t want to see him anymore, much less talk to him, comfort him through the life change he’d brought upon himself, whatever this was..

Fflur couldn’t quite elaborate on what this was now, if it was the whole divorce or just the circumstances it came about or that Kate had deserved better all along or that she’d stupidly thought Charlie had figured out how to chill out and settle down-- Christ, she’d punched him before for far less than this.

She didn’t think more than half a second could have passed between her turning around and her bringing her fist, fingers closed around her lighter, up in a much more proper punch than the last time. Her aim with her dominant hand was spot on -- the target was a large one, but still -- as always and she threw her weight behind it. She wasn’t sure if noses were meant to crunch but-- she stepped back and cradled her hand close to her, letting her cigarette fall to the ground without much ceremony.

Her right hand was still closed into its fist; she had no idea if the lighter had helped or hindered her but either way it was taking some convincing to open her hand again. The noises Charlie was making went ignored for another second before she looked at him, making quick sense of what had happened. Blood on his shirt, hands on his nose, head tipped back as if that could help stem the bleeding.

She looked down at her hand again -- two bloody knuckles and blossoming bruises -- and relaxed her fist just enough to pull the lighter away with the other. She wasn’t too concerned, she didn’t think; far less so than Charlie was, anyway: What the fuck, Fflur. She turned on him again, though with neither fist raised this time. “Y’know you’re supposed to tilt forward to stop a nosebleed.” Broken (hopefully) nose, nosebleed, same difference.

Fflur shrugged violently out of his grasp and in the next minute her fist had connected with his face -- with a lot more force than he’d anticipated. Charlie heard a muffled crack, somewhere, and then his face felt like it was on fire. He doubled over and his hands flew up to his face, (belatedly) protecting his nose from further damage. The Yorkshireman took a few steps back.

His eyes remained closed, scrunched up tight, which seemed to only exacerbate the pain in the middle of his face. He was making a lot of noise, partly from trying to breathe with his usual air intake blocked, and partly from the intense, throbbing pain across his nose and cheekbones. He tipped his head back in an attempt to stem the flow of blood that was streaming down over his mouth and chin, onto his (formerly) plain white t-shirt.

“What the fuck, Fflur?” he half-shouted, face still upturned, his eyes watering to the point where tears were falling freely from the corners. She moved suddenly -- he thought -- and as he registered the movement in his peripheral vision he flinched away from her, taking another step back, one hand still on his nose and the other -- bloodied, a different sort of red-handed -- outstretched to ward her off.

“It won’t stop--” he mumbled, his voice thick from the pain and from his inability to breathe through his nose. He did as instructed, though, and brought his head forward, hunched over awkwardly and blinking through the tears. “Fuck,” he swore again, coughing and feeling a wave of nausea boil up in his gut. Charlie had probably deserved a broken nose many times in the past -- understood that he deserved one now, too -- but he had somehow breezed through life without actually receiving one until now.

He winced and inhaled sharply -- or tried to -- as he touched his nose gingerly, which resulted in him choking, spluttering, and letting out a small cry of pain, all in quick succession. “What the fuck do I do?” he asked, sounding like he had a vicious cold, more focused on his injury than on how mad he’d be at Fflur once the pain stopped.

“Probably won’t for a while,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to flex her hand again. It looked broken — his nose, but also maybe a couple of her fingers — and she didn’t feel that bad about it. He swore again and she considered apologizing but glanced at him again and changed her mind. “Breathe through your mouth,” she suggested unhelpfully, focus back on her hand. She probably should have paid more attention to the bleeding man in the middle of the street but she had other priorities.

She touched her knuckles with her other hand and winced; they were swollen now and definitely broken. It would have been easy to be mad at herself — she’d lost her cool and overreacted and should have just walked away — but as soon as Charlie spoke again she found herself mad only at him.

She shrugged off his question, not caring that he couldn’t see it. “What it is, is you just fuck right off.” She clenched her hand into a first again, which was somehow less painful than letting her fingers throb in the open air.

He made another noise and she blinked, long and slow. “Christ.” She pulled her wand from her pocket — lefthanded now, sorry Charlie — and pointed it at his nose before he could recoil too far away. She’d fixed a lot of noses in her day — not because she kept punching people but because she always seemed to work with people who liked to catch quaffles with their faces — and again, it was a big target so she didn’t have to put too much effort into it (which worked in his favor because she didn’t know if she’d have bothered otherwise).

She tilted Charlie’s face up, her right forearm under his chin, no explanation (but also no further threats so he should count himself lucky) offered or given. It was an easy fix and she stepped away as soon as she was done, looking at him just long enough to see it had stopped bleeding. “Fucking idiot,” she said, only sort of trying to keep it under her breath. “C’mon.” Fflur turned to head down the street toward her house, a silent offer to let him clean himself up somewhere that wasn’t visible to the whole of the village.

Breathe through your mouth, she said, and if Charlie wasn’t so preoccupied with actually doing that -- breathing (now through his mouth) -- he would have bit back at her (“no shit”).

If he could see properly, too, he might have tried glaring at her next comment. Tears were still blurring his vision, however, and blood was still streaming from his nose, though he thought maybe it wasn’t quite so much a gush as a trickle now -- it was hard to tell based on sensation alone. He’d at least figured out to not touch his face so his hands were just sort of hovering half a foot or so under it, as though he was expecting it to fall off. 

Charlie heard her mutter ”Christ,” and he blinked his eyes clear enough to see her aim her wand at him. He didn’t have time to flinch before her arm was tilting his head up, and he forced himself to remain still because he figured she was trying to help, not make things worse. He felt his nose click back into place and let out another sharp moan of pain -- then it disappeared almost immediately. He tentatively reached up to touch a fingertip to the bridge of his nose: nothing.

Charlie looked at Fflur, scowled softly, then moved to follow after her silently. On the way to her cottage he caught his reflection in one of the many shop windows that lined the high street, and even in the faint reflection offered by the glass his mouth and chin were almost impossible to see, strangely camouflaged by his own blood. Grim.

Feeling every bit the naughty schoolboy, Charlie followed Fflur into her home and lingered in the entryway awkwardly. Ernie came bounding up to Fflur excitedly, then spotted the guest and yipped his way around Charlie’s ankles. Charlie glanced at Fflur as though asking permission before crouching to pet the corgi—

He stopped, hand outstretched, drawing it back in and away from Fflur’s puppy when he realised his hands were still covered in blood. “Erm, can I use your bathroom?”