drawing board. [tag; fergie]

you don't rest your head with mine no more
I've got to take my plot back to the drawing board

"Can I have just one more, please?"

She batted her eyelashes at the barman who simply sighed in response. It was an absolute pig of a day; damp, dull and cloudy. A frigid wind would spice things up a bit but the threat of snow was still lingering above London like a bad smell. Poesy's eyes looked around the bar as a gnawing in her stomach made itself known. Everyone seemed to be having a nice time but she was unable to ignore the occasional pitying look that was sent her way.

Poesy could understand if she'd been stood up by a date but she'd practically been jilted by her family. Close to her were a couple of cards, the envelopes of which were now sticking to the water rings the base of her wine glass had made on the bar. Her sister hadn't even bothered to send her one, Constance hadn't even bothered to sign her name on her parents' card; they'd done it for her.

She turned twenty seven today and she sat, propping up the bar, wondering if the barman was flirting or just pitying her. She felt like it was the latter. Poesy was three glasses of white wine down as she scratched her nose and heaved a heavy laden sigh. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she was too old for birthday parties.

It hadn't started out terribly. Her parents, grandparents, sister and a small handful of people had turned up. Most of which hadn't even stayed for one drink. No one sang happy birthday to her. She'd been given a birthday muffin, not a cake and no one had a lighter to light the candle someone had shoved into the icing.

Everyone had left an hour ago but Poesy was still drinking. Her grandfather was still frail, so her nanna wanted him home pretty soon, fine. Her sister was a nightmare so having Constance gone was also fine. There was some bullshit excuse from her mother that Poesy drowned out - something about the boiler being on the blink? - fine, fine, fine, A pale forefinger poked at the dregs in her wine glass, one of her heels falling to the floor with a dull thud as she crossed her legs to adjust her skirt. She thought she looked nice, urban and cool but her mother had simply said really, darling, ladies don't wear leather.

"Please?" The petite blonde asked the barman with a cheeky smile. She was not drunk but she was definitely tipsy. "Look, I'll level with you," she began, placing her hands on the bar and adjusting herself. "It's my birthday, see?" With that, she pointed at the glittery coned party hat that was on her head at a jaunty angle. "No one turned up. My own family had ditched me. The people who are biologically programmed to love me and even they can't stand me." It wasn't as bad as it sounded. Poesy had always been aware that she was not the favourite child.

"I just don't want to go home yet," she added softly, sheepishly. "Just another glass. Please?" The final plea seemed to have done the trick and the barman, with some trepidation, poured her another glass of wine - a large one. See? Who said chivalry was dead?

Poesy clapped her hands together before she pulled the glass towards her, blowing on a party streamer that now sounded like a rather weak fart as opposed to a joyful trumpet. "Thank you, you're an angel," she gushed, her soft Welsh accent sounding a little more pronounced now that she was drinking. She didn't know how she was going to get home or if she was going to get home. London wasn't so bad, right? Surely someone would take pity on her.

Okay, so, the start of her birthday hadn't been great. Poesy did have a few days off after this. A small part of her was hoping she might get surprised with a holiday or some money or maybe even a new dress. The best she got was her auntie putting some "happy 30th birthday!" confetti inside her card. It was both insulting and hilariously funny.



@Fergie Flume

He refused to ask Honey’s opinion on it -- or anyone’s, rather, but the last time he’d mentioned Poesy to his sister she’d just rolled her eyes (and then again, for good measure). They hadn’t spoken -- excluding that brief reunion for her shop opening -- in years. And when they had, well, that had gone great, hadn’t it? But he couldn’t help himself. His politeness overrode every logical reason not to go. She’d invited him, so, at the very last minute, his inability to be rude won out.

When he arrived Fergie could see Poesy and her familiar blonde hair at the bar, back to him, a sparkly party hat atop her head. He knew he was running late but -- he checked his watch, to be sure -- he wasn’t that late. Merlin, had anyone turned up? He considered his options, briefly, before coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t not say ‘hello’ now that he was here, even if she hadn’t spotted him, because he couldn’t go home with a clear conscience after seeing her sat alone. He paused. Had she invited anyone else? No, of course she had.

Fergie approached warily, like she was a big cat or something. ”Poesy?” he greeted her with a sheepish smile. “Partied so hard everyone’s already gone?” he joked, then regretted it. Stupid. So, so stupid. He held back from hugging her, their last interaction replaying over in his head and the awkward, stilted conversation they’d had. He’d been back to her cafe since, but somehow timed it perfectly to be served by other members of staff rather than Poesy herself. The one time she’d been milling about he’d elected for a takeaway.

He made eye contact with the bartender and nodded, “Pale Ale, please, mate.” He remained standing and turned back to Poesy, slipping out of his jacket and draping it over the stool beside him. “Sorry I was late, I-- something came up at work,” he lied, his cheeks growing hot immediately. That was better than the truth though, wasn’t it? Even if she could tell he was being dishonest. His drink was set down between them and Fergie picked it up, glancing at her (rather large) glass of wine. He raised his beer at her; “Happy Birthday,” he offered quietly, wishing he’d thought to bring something -- but what? Flowers, or indeed any gift, would probably have been too much.

Poesy drank her wine, missing the occasional glances shot her way as she drew patterns on the sticky bar. It must look pretty terrible, spending her birthday evening by herself. This time last year, Alexandre had taken her to a party barge on the Seine. It was a nice idea but it wasn't really her thing. The beer was warm, the music too loud, there were too many people (all his friends, not hers) and she'd ended up being sick over the side because she forgot she suffered from seasickness. But she hadn't been alone.

As her name was called, she turned around, a smile on her face that drooped slightly when she saw who it was. "Fergie," she answered in some surprise. She hadn't invited him. She was going to invite him, she had the card ready and everything but she'd chickened out. He'd misunderstood her last time and she'd made the situation worse, leaving them in that same horrible limbo they'd been in before it clicked; her mother had sent him in the invite.

Poesy blinked, her brain foggy from the wine before she gave a short laugh. "Don't worry," she assured him, realising she'd been openly staring at him so she focused on the condensation dripping down her wine glass instead. "You haven't missed out on much. Hello." Fergie Flume was inherently good. He was the very definition of a nice bloke. He was kind, warm, gentle, thoughtful, sweet, funny, he gave great hugs - so what on Earth was he doing here with her? She hoped he hadn't cancelled a date for this trainwreck of an evening.

She'd never wanted him to see her like this, wine-soaked and feeling sorry for herself. He didn't deserve that. Poesy drank her wine and felt it slosh in her stomach. Fergie probably felt like he was duty-bound because he'd been invited, similar to the cafe opening. He couldn't possibly want to be here, especially since he'd run away last time like someone had set his trousers on fire.

She turned her head to catch his blush and she offered him a smile, a genuine one, if not a little sad. "It's okay," she added softly, feeling her own cheeks flame. Poesy read between the lines a lot more easily than she had before. "You didn't want to come, I completely understand." The potioneer torpedoed through his carefully thought out excuse as she nodded. She was big girl, she could take it. Fergie really didn't have to lie to her. Not now.

When wished a happy birthday, Poesy smiled again. "Thanks," she added brightly as she clinked her glass against his to complete his cheers but clumsily spilt wine on the bar. "Oh, sugar," the petite blonde gasped as she put her wine down, looking for napkins but not finding any. Without skipping a beat, she untucked her top from the waistband of her skirt and dabbed at the spilt wine with the hem, mourning the loss of her alcohol.

Poesy stopped suddenly as she looked at Fergie standing there, saving her from spending a crappy birthday alone. Her heart swelled with misplaced affection for him and she couldn't stop it from spilling over. "Shit," she swore suddenly, her bright eyes wide as she pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Fergie, why are you so good?" She asked, sounding exasperated as she fought the urge to shake him. Her head was hurting. "Honestly," she gasped, her eyes wide as she gazed at him. "Like you're a genuinely lovely human being. A top guy. An A plus dude, so why are you wasting your time with me?" She implored him, close to tears. 

The way she was staring at him was unnerving him slightly -- should he not have come? Was the invite just her being polite? Shit. Fergie drank deeply, eyes closing in a soft frown to avoid meeting her gaze or seeing her gawping at him in his peripheral vision. When he lowered his glass he busied himself with looking anywhere but at the pretty blonde beside him, much as he wanted to look at her. The coffee shop hadn’t been enough, after ten years of not seeing her -- and maybe that was part of the reason he’d come tonight, but he’d been expecting to be able to blend into a crowd, not be the sole co-conspirator.

“No-- I did,” he said automatically when Poesy accused him of not wanting to come, not technically lying. “I just… didn’t know if I should,” he explained, a little more honestly, his light eyes locked on hers now. He didn’t get a chance to elaborate further (he’d been taking his time trying to work out what else there was to say, so hardly like she’d cut him off); Poesy practically slammed her glass into his, wine sloshing over the rim -- he was honestly surprised she hadn’t smashed the thing. “It’s alright,” he said gently, about to pull his wand out to clean up the mess when Poesy chose to sacrifice her top as a makeshift cloth. He couldn’t help the grimace that flashed over his features.

She seemed to realise her mistake (or so he thought) when she met his gaze again. He tried not to look judgy or put off, but it was hard to find anyone attractive when they were this much of a mess. A hot mess, if he was using the term correctly, but still a mess. He pressed his lips together in a firm line, wondering if he could politely suggest she ought to go home, get into bed and sleep off the drink -- but even if he could, what right did he have to do so? Maybe this was normal for her now -- he didn’t know her anymore. He knew Poesy the schoolgirl, not Poesy the adult, and much as he’d like to think people couldn’t change that much, he knew that they could. 

“What?” Fergie gaped at her, his cheeks flushing hot for the second time in only a few minutes. “I’m not--” he started, but in her drunkenness she ploughed on. Merlin, he was uncomfortable. Just as he was stuck on teenage Poesy, it felt like maybe she still pictured him as he was -- and he didn’t think he’d changed so much, but he certainly wasn’t the same boy he’d been a decade ago.  “Poesy, I’m not-- I just came to celebrate your birthday with you,” he said quietly, not sure how else to respond to… all of that.

His brow furrowed again, part in concern and part in confusion; “What makes you think I’m wasting my time?”

Suddenly, her axis shifted.

I just didn't know if I should. Fergie's words seemed to sober her up quickly as she frowned. The noise from the bar was comfortable, the laughter and the clinking of glassware but she felt anything other than jolly. "Why?" She asked him quickly before he brain caught up; he shouldn't because they had history.

The same went for her. Poesy technically could pop by and visit him at the Ministry but why? She had no reason to. They weren't friends, they weren't...anything. Since she'd come back to London, they were stuck in a permanently looping circle of awkwardness. Folding her lips together in a thin line, she shook her head quickly. He needn't explain and she felt the same way. Poesy got it, she totally did, she just didn't think it was worth addressing. After all, that was ten years in the past.

She caught his look and her heart cracked all over again. Swallowing, she reached out to rub her sternum. She could just say it was heartburn from all the wine but that pain wasn't physical. Fergie was disappointed, disgusted, bored, embarrassed or all three. What was she doing? Drinking alone wasn't her - it had never been her. Making up her mind, she pushed her wine glass away from her by the stem. He'd just come to celebrate her birthday with her. Simple as that. No ulterior motives. God, she was so stupid.

She smiled at him quickly. "That's really nice, thank you," she added delicately as she reached out to remove her party hat and place it between them on the bar. "I'm not crying or anything," Poesy said quickly as she blinked back her tears and scratched her nose.

Looking at Fergie was too much she decided and instead, she chose to focus on the optics hanging behind the bar, anxiously threading her fingers through one another. This was too much. It was too heavy. Why was she doing this? It wasn't going to achieve anything. She'd made him feel uncomfortable and it was too late to take it back.

"Look at me," Poesy told him as she plucked at her wine-drenched shirt and laughed hollowly, as though that was the sole reason Fergie shouldn't have bothered. "I missed you," she said suddenly, frowning as she stared straight ahead. "God, I missed you so much," she whispered, blinking rapidly as her accent because decidedly more Welsh the more truthful she became. She thought about writing but because she'd been the one doing the dumping, she didn't think she had the right to. Breaking up had been the right thing to do and she still stood by it but she hadn't forgotten it. It had been amicable - or so she thought. She hadn't given him a chance to say no.

"I'm sad when I look at you," Poesy admitted, her finger tracing a drop of condensation that dripped down her wine glass. "Because I don't know you anymore." She scratched her head absently. "And I don't know how to act. I mean, obviously not like this," she joked, referring to the car crash of a "party". "I don't know if you still support Portree and I don't know if you ever figured out how to wire a plug correctly," she ploughed on, recalling how much he liked Muggle things. How much he used to like Muggle things. "Maybe you like sprouts now," Poesy added lightly with a smile as she chanced a look at him.

Looking at him made her sad, but in an oddly comforting way. Nostalgia mixed with a couple of what ifs. It wasn't a new feeling but it was comfortable and she revisited it often. They'd both moved on and she didn't think for one second that she was irreplaceable. She continued to rub her breastbone, now out of habit as she cycled through her thoughts. Poesy wouldn't be surprised if this was the last time she saw him, especially since he said he'd stop by her coffee shop and she hadn't seen him yet.

"And I'm sorry," she finally announced. "I'm sorry for all this --" she paused, gesturing to her drunken appearance. "I'm sorry for not keeping in touch. I'm sorry that I don't know how to talk to you. I'm sorry for just turning up after ten years. I'm sorry if I broke your heart." Poesy was sorry for everything. "Could I have a water, please?" She asked the barman who was only too happy to oblige was he passed her a glass and she drank from it cautiously before poking at an ice cube with her finger. No one found their soulmate at sixteen. It didn't seem appropriate to tell him that anyone she'd dated since didn't quite measure up to him.

"I appreciate it, though," she turned to look at Fergie properly. "Thanks for coming. I was going to be the worst birthday ever but now it's only top five," she joked with a brittle smile. "You must think I'm mad as a box of frogs," Poesy commented, recalling both times since he'd seen her since Hogwarts. She was healthy, successful and she was mostly happy. If he left now, he left knowing the truth and she couldn't do much more. She was determined to have him see her as a normal, upstanding member of society.  It was suddenly imperative that Fergie knew she was still the same girl that he'd fancied once upon a time.

Why? Fergie balked. He opened his mouth and a quiet, strangled sort of noise came out as he tried to find the words to explain. “I-- it’s just, we don’t...” He stumbled over himself, struggling to justify exactly why he’d felt that he shouldn’t come. The truth was, he didn’t really have a reason other than wanting to avoid more awkwardness like what he’d experienced in her coffee shop -- he was still reeling from embarrassment over not paying for his americano. “Nevermind, I don’t know why I...” he trailed off at a mumble.

He watched her push the wine glass away and felt relief spread from his chest. His eyes flicked up to meet hers and he smiled smally at her-- but the expression was shortlived at her next comment. Merlin, this was horrific. Maybe next time he would listen to his sister and stay at home.

Like a well-trained dog, Fergie turned his head towards Poesy the moment she asked him to do so. He realised belatedly that she was referring more widely to her overall (wine-soaked) appearance, rather than giving him any sort of instruction. He opened his mouth to try and say it wasn’t that bad, it would probably wash out -- but she beat him to speaking and he wished she hadn’t. The Scotsman inhaled sharply, choked on air, picked up his beer quickly to clear his throat and to give himself time to think about what she’d just said -- but he’d need to skull the whole pint if he wanted long enough to do that, and maybe a second glass beyond that.

Fergie stayed quiet long enough that Poesy continued, and he decided that maybe it was better to let her get… all of whatever this was out before he responded. He didn't want to make her feel worse, if he could help it.

“I don’t like sprouts now,” he said quietly, figuring that was a safe place to start. He coughed lightly and had another swallow of ale as she ordered herself a water. “And you don’t need to apologise,” he picked at his nails nervously. “Not for turning up, anyway. I don’t own London,” he teased gently. He thought over the last thing she’d said: I’m sorry if I broke your heart. Had she? If she had, it had been long enough that it didn’t hurt anymore. They had been teenagers and everything had felt like the end of the world at that age. He had had enough relationships and near-misses now to dull the edge of the heartbreaks he'd experienced.

"I think," he started cautiously, "that you've had a shitty birthday and a little too much vino," he smirked. "Thought you would have built up a tolerance in Italy," he joked, hoping she would register his light tone for what it was.

He didn't want to talk about missing each other or the things they could have done differently. Not when she was like this, anyway. He could settle for reacquainting themselves, though; she needed something to focus on until she was capable of getting home. "I still support Portree," he began, "and I can wire a plug now," he admitted, a little boastfully for show. A lazy smile spread across his lips. "Tell me about Italy," he suggested.

Fergie faltered and Poesy realised what mistake she'd made. They didn't have unfinished business because she'd tied everything up with a neat little bow. The reason he was uncomfortable was simply because he was uncomfortable. She wanted to be his friend but being friends with an ex - was it ever a good idea?

"It's okay," she said gently. She reached out and curled her warm fingers around one of his wrists and squeezed, a soft, brief and comforting action before she withdrew her hand completely and gave him space. Poesy always did this. She over analysed, looking for faults when there weren't any, poisoning her relationships, instilling doubts that weren't there, desperately needing validation; she was toxic.

As Fergie choked on his pint, she offered him a sympathetic smile as she slid her wine glass across the bar towards him. "Sorry," she whispered. She felt a lot better now that was all off her chest, even if it was at his expense. She'd been carrying that around for a decade but she was drunk and not thinking straight. A sober Poesy would rather die than inconvenience anyone around her. Like word vomit, it just came up, she couldn't stop it. It was suddenly imperative that Fergie knew.

She gave a short laugh when he confessed to still hating sprouts. It made her feel warm inside for a flicker of time before she extinguished the flame. London was a safe subject. "I don't think I'm ever going to get my head around the place," she admitted as she began to peel apart a beer mat. "London suits you though," she added with a warm and genuine smile. Realising she was borderline gazing at him, she focused instead on the barman. Poesy wanted to say a lot of things to him but her tongue felt heavy. "I just --" she heaved a sigh. "I don't know anyone here and I have a tendency to hold onto things too tightly when I'm scared."

Fergie spoke the truth and Poesy nodded with wide eyes. "Totally," she gushed, feeling buoyed. If she didn't do anything stupid, they might have a pleasant conversation before he finished his pint and left. He mentioned Italy and her heart swelled. He really was trying so hard to drag her out of her drunken stupor. "I think I was on stronger stuff back then," she joked as she sipped her water. "Have you ever tried grappa? It could knock out a horse." Poesy winced as she remembered.

He could wire a plug. "You can?" The petite blonde said suddenly, her pretty face lighting up. "That's lush," she said softly, slipping back into her Welsh accent the more comfortable she became in his presence. Poesy liked that some things about Fergie were constant. He was a grown up now - he had arm hair and everything - but he was familiar and that was all she needed right now.

"Amazing?" She smiled back at him, failing to think of a word that encompassed the country. "I really loved it. I definitely think I made the right decision to go." There was a beat of silence before she hauled herself out of her misery. "I needed to leave," she admitted as she twisted a lock of pale blonde hair around her finger distractedly. "My family, they -- " she folded her lips together. Fergie knew all about her family. She smiled quickly and scratched the back of her neck. "I wanted to learn and I couldn't do that here," was all she managed to say about that.

"There's just so much art, history, culture, food," Poesy gushed, opening up and looking more like herself than the past couple of times she'd seen him. "It's mad because you're literally walking amongst history. The same steps that artists, writers, emperors have walked. The pace is much slower. It's like living in a postcard." Pausing, she gave a wistful sigh that made her shoulders sag as she smiled in contentment. "Food, drink, friends and family. Italians have the right idea."

Her pale blue eyes were bright as she regaled Fergie, too drunk to see that he was just talking her down off a metaphorical ledge. She smiled at him again, distracted. "You should go one day," she nodded as she sipped her water, a wave of nausea causing her to frown as the wine sloshed in her stomach. "You get annual leave, don't you? You should go. I think you'll like it." With small Medieval villages and winding streets, it was sort of impossible not to see him in sunglasses with a map. Unbeknownst to Fergie, she heaved a dreamy sigh. "I much prefer Italy to Paris. I spent three years there and I don't know why," she wrinkled her nose in mild confusion in the path of her personal shortcomings. "It's not at all romantic. Don't buy into that fallacy," she warned him.

“Does it?” he laughed gently, his eyes casting out at the bar around them. “Part of me wants to move back to Scotland -- properly, I mean -- but, I dunno.” He shrugged. “Plenty of time to do that if I want to,” he said, fiddling with a beermat. It was what most witches and wizards did when it came to settling down, wasn’t it? But for some reason they concentrated themselves around the capital until that point.

Fergie chewed on his lip, then nudged her elbow softly with his along the bar. “Well, you know me,” he smiled. “It’ll just take a little while to reconnect with everyone, you know?” He didn’t know if she’d kept in touch with anyone else from their year. Maisie, maybe? But it was always going to be hard start again somewhere, even if it was somewhere that should have felt more like home.

He gave her another smile -- a little more wry, this time -- when she admitted her bad night resulting in a bit of overindulgence; it wasn’t like he hadn’t been there himself, who hadn’t? “Really?” He raised an impressed eyebrow. “You on the strong stuff,” he grinned teasingly, “I’ll have to watch out,” he said. “No, I haven’t, doesn’t sound like I’d still be upright afterwards if I did,“ he joked. “Better stick to beer.”

Fergie sipped at his pint, then grinned. “Yeah.” Not that he had ever needed the skill, but it hadn’t stopped him tinkering. Just like he didn’t need to know how to drive, or how it felt to go on an aeroplane -- didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience it one day. It was all just so interesting to him.

Poesy lit up as she began talking about Italy -- bar the mention of her family, which Fergie tried to pretend she hadn’t brought up -- and he felt like she was right: she had made the right decision. The Scotsman listened attentively, doing his best to picture sunny Italian streets despite never having been. “It sounds amazing,” he agreed when she paused.

“Er,” he grinned, “yeah, maybe one day.” Holidays weren’t really his thing -- weren’t really a Flume thing, he had come to realise -- but if he ever did take one he’d surely want to go somewhere like, cold. But he did love food, so, maybe he could put Italy on the list. “I’ll have to go on a diet before I go so I can eat my way back up to normal weight,” he grinned. “You learn any fancy cooking skills while you were there?” he asked casually.

“Oh,” Fergie blinked. “Really?” He’d only ever heard good things about Paris. He could feel something shift between them, could tell there was a reason Paris was a sore spot, and he wanted to ask why (he sort of already had), but he knew he shouldn't. He was trying to cheer her up, not drag her back down. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly on his stool, glancing at her and meeting her gaze. "Well, you're back where you belong now, right?"

Poesy just smiled as he accidentally changed her mind. Fergie did suit London but might just be because he was young and when she'd seen him again, he was wearing a smart suit. The problem was that London was very flat and he had the look of a man who liked lush greenery and the mountains. As he looked away, she did the same but in the opposite direction. He had plenty of time if he wanted to, he'd said. She sipped her water and nodded. "Of course," she heard herself agree, despite harbouring the fear that the capital might drain the life out of him like it had so many other people. "For now, you're happy where you are."

She was still smiling when Fergie bumped her elbow and she was forced to look at him. "Making friends is a lot harder now than when I was six," Poesy joked as she watched a drop of condensation roll down her glass. There was no excuse, though. She wasn't an island and she couldn't survive just by herself. It wasn't so much reconnecting but more like starting over and she couldn't decide which one was worse. "I'll meet lots of new people at work," she replied with a nod of her head, more to placate herself than anyone - she could totally do this.

"Beer before liquor, never been sicker," Poesy agreed with Fergie as she nodded to him. She was drunk but she liked his smile. That seemed really important to note. "Oh, don't," the petite blonde lamented with a laugh as he poked fun at her. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she'd get him a bottle to try but that seemed like she was overstepping the mark - and he said he preferred beer.

Her smile was soft as she watched the patrons at the bar as a pang of homesickness hit her. Not for Wales but for Italy. "One day," Poesy agreed warmly. This country hadn't been "home" for years and she wasn't sure if she believed the whole home isn't a place, it's a state of mind thing.

In mild horror, Poesy opened her mouth to tell Fergie he didn't need to lose weight at all before she shut it quickly. The events of their first meeting came screaming back to her. She'd commented on his new physique kindly but she'd unintentionally embarrassed herself (and even worse, him) and now, the tips of her ears turned pink. "Good idea," she managed to reply as she realised he was only kidding. "I did, actually," Poesy added hastily as she adjusted herself in her seat, her knees pointing towards his.

"I've been overcooking pasta my whole life, apparently," she went on. "The poor ladies in the village nearly had kittens when they saw what I was doing." She grinned wistfully as she poked an ice cube in her glass with a straw. "I now know that the only reliable way to see if spaghetti is cooked correctly is to throw it at a wall." She glanced at Fergie with a grin. "If it sticks, it's done. I'm not even kidding," she giggled as she ruffled her hair. "I make a mean spaghetti alla puttanesca. You can have the recipe, if you like."

"Sorry," Poesy added with a sympathetic smile. A lot of people were in love with the idea of Paris and hearing anything that ruined the ideal was hard to swallow. She hoped she hadn't burst his bubble, too. "Not my style," she added vaguely but figuring that Fergie used to know enough about her to realise she was more comfortable in a pair of wellies than stilettos. Absently, she rubbed her ring finger before forcing herself to relax. "Lots of great museums though," she conceded as if that was the only good thing about the City of Lights she could come up with. She was so fucking boring. Fergie was easy to talk to and she was inches away from revealing just why the French city had her so messed up but they were almost comfortable with one another again. Why ruin it?

Poesy felt Fergie's eyes on her and she forced herself to meet his gaze. He'd said something rather profound and she swallowed quickly. It was a handful of seconds before she managed to form a response. "Yeah," the potioneer agreed very gently, a smile curving up the line of her lips. A warm and fuzzy sensation that felt like butterflies washed over her as she straightened up, as though his very words were lifting her. "Yeah," she agreed once more, now suddenly realising that London might not be so terrible if he was living in it; she belonged here. What a novel though.

Poesy looked down and focused on her hands wrapped around her cold glass. "Thank you," she said suddenly as she pierced the silence. "For turning my crappy birthday into a passable one." She turned her head towards him and outstretched her hand, very briefly squeezing his forearm before giving him a respectful distance. "I'll make it up to you," she blabbered. "I promise."

Fergie laughed softly, a wistful sort of look on his features. “Merlin, I love pasta. I’d come back the size of an erumpent if I was let loose in Rome.” He wasn’t so sure about pizza, but he did like the stonebaked ones a lot more than the kind the muggles kept in the freezer and he felt like the Italians probably did a good job of it.

“Did you?” he smiled, then took another sip of his beer. He grimaced, then, in sympathy. “Oh no,” he laughed, covering his mouth because he felt bad for laughing at her misfortune -- but it was funny, for some reason. “Sorry.” He pressed his lips together in a line, a weak defence against the smile that burst through a moment later. “Sure. I have no idea what that is, but you had me at spaghetti,” he grinned.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I just-- most girls love it, you know?” He paused with his pint glass in front of his lips, “Not that-- you’re all the same or anything,” he backtracked quickly, “I just mean, it’s meant to be romantic and everything--” Fergie had been growing increasingly pink in the face as he spoke. He drank quickly now if only to give himself a reason to shut up.

He smiled gently. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?” He nudged her elbow. He wasn't sure they were friends but they weren't mere acquaintances. “You don’t need to make anything up to me," he waved her off, not rudely. Cheering someone up on their birthday was hardly something to hold over one's head.

Fergie's eyes were drawn to the dregs of his beer and he finished it. He turned back to face Poesy. “Should we er, get you home?”

"Oh I doubt that very much," Poesy said kindly as she sketched a small smile.  "You'll be far too busy wandering around museums for that." Fergie was funny and he was trying so hard to cheer her up and she felt guilty for not trying harder to reciprocate. The wine was making her buzzy,
her skin tingly because she didn't think it was him that was making her feel that way. If they ever got past whatever awkward roadblock was in the middle of them, she could talk about Rome for hours.

Fergie laughed and she couldn't help but laugh, too. "Oh don't be," she shook her head as she finished off her glass of water, not noticing when the ice cubes bumped off the tip of her nose. "The entire thing was completely bonkers," she replied but not unkindly. It was a you had to be there sort of thing but she brightened up again when Fergie seemed to accept the recipe. Once the room stopped spinning, she'd mail it.

Poesy still smiled as he faltered and she gave a snort of laughter to let him know she wasn't offended. "It's okay," she added lightly as she scanned the bottles of liquor behind the bar. Either she'd accidentally been drinking them or the wine here was a higher percentage than it used to be. "It is romantic," she agreed with him. "If you're with the right person," she conceded before she realised what she'd done. "Sorry," she added quickly as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't listen to me," she told Fergie genuinely. "I'm drunk and sad and homesick," she admitted and by now, she was even annoying herself.

The elbow nudge made her smile, a little smaller this time but smiling all the same. A wave of guilt washed over her. She'd dragged poor Fergie into this whirlwind of a month and she'd pulled him through it at breakneck speed. Poesy had been acting very strangely which made this whole interaction even stranger. The thought made everything inside of her start to spiral and she needed to stop - now.

"Yes," Poesy answered almost instantly to Fergie's suggestion that she get herself home because she wanted to leave this entire evening behind. "Please." With that, she hopped off her stool and clumsily shrugged on her jacket, her arms flailing as she struggled to get into it, letting out a grunt of frustration before offering him a beaming smile as she managed it, pink cheeks and hair wild.

The door was open and she stepped outside and instantly wished she hadn't. As soon as the fresh air hit her, Poesy reeled backwards but she managed to keep herself up right. "I'm fine," she said quickly, giving Fergie a lopsided thumbs up.

"I think I'm that way," she added as she pointed vaguely to the left. She hugged her jacket around her, close to her slender body with her head down because keeping an eye on her feet was a sure sign that she wouldn't trip over them. Her steps were slow and uneven as the evening began to draw in. Very quickly after arriving in the capital, Poesy decided that she didn't really like being out in the dark in this town just yet.

"Ah here we go," she announced as she fished for her keys, managing to jab them into the front door instead of the brass lock, narrowly missing it. She wrinkled her nose in distaste before she finally gave up and held them out for Fergie to do the honours. "Help," she asked with a tired laugh, absently wondering how she was meant to climb the stairs if she couldn't even unlock her door. Failing that, she could always just sleep on them.

With the right person. Why did it sound like she hadn’t been? For the sake of not upsetting her again, Fergie chose not to ask about it -- that, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Thankfully, Poesy wasn’t dwelling on it -- not outwardly, at least. He slid his empty glass towards the barman and got to his feet, turning in time to see her fight her way into her jacket. He smiled lopsidedly and followed after her, a quick glance back over his shoulder to flash the man behind the bar an apologetic look -- Fergie got the feeling the other man had been babysitting for quite some time before he’d gotten there to take over.

Outside, Poesy looked like she was about to keel over and Fergie’s hand flew up behind her back instinctively, hovering just off from touching her. He grinned nervously back at her gesture.

“You think?” he repeated, eyebrow raising curiously. Merlin, he hoped she knew where she lived or he’d feel obligated to let her stay with him. The blonde started off in her chosen direction and Fergie followed; she was surprisingly quiet now, compared to back in the pub, and he attributed that to the amount of focus required to put one foot in front of the other.

The walk was slow, and (on Fergie’s part) awkwardly silent. They finally made it to where she was staying (he hoped) and she withdrew her keys. Fergie lingered a step or two back, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around the street and finding it empty save for them. He heard metal scratching, but after a minute Poesy turned to face him, hand outstretched. The Scotsman glanced down. “Oh,” he jolted into action, drawing his hands out of his pockets and taking the keys from her. “Sure.” He squeezed past her on the stoop and got it in first go, turning the lock and praying to Merlin that this was in fact the right house.

The door opened and Fergie stood aside to let Poesy in. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “goodnight, then,” he smiled smally, darting forward to quickly brush her cheek with his in a messy attempt at a goodbye. Hands back in his pockets, he dropped down the front step and backed up the footpath, making sure she went inside and closed the door before he checked the street again for anyone else, then disappeared with a pop!


END