road rage [fflur]

may 2003

Tucked under his arm, wrapped in red paper, was a suspiciously vinyl-shaped present. Charlie had thought long and hard over what to get Fflur for her birthday, given that his usual trick of getting her something twee wasn’t going to fly in current circumstances. He also didn’t want to get her booze, because having not heard from her in a month he didn’t know if she was currently on or off the wagon (and if she was off it, was it his place to encourage that?).

In the end, Charlie had found a first pressing of Bowie’s The Man Who Sold the World -- and had paid through his teeth for it, but he knew it wasn’t the monetary value that would (hopefully) win Fflur over. It was first and foremost a thoughtful gift. Of course, he had to hope she saw him long enough to receive it; she hadn’t replied to his last owl, asking if they were still on for their regular lunch ‘date’. He supposed he deserved a bit of cold shoulder treatment, but he didn’t want this silence stretching out as long as their last one had.

Charlie turned into the lane that led to Robin and Fflur’s house, glancing back over his shoulder to check whether there would be any witnesses -- there was a high chance that the minute Fflur opened the door and saw him she'd slam it right back in his face, or break his nose again -- and found himself approaching the front porch unwatched. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and knocked -- not stepping back as far as he usually would, just in case he had to jam his foot in the door to be heard out.


@Fflur Blevins

Fflur set the kettle on the hob and stood there watching it for a minute before moving to collect a cup and a teabag. She wasn’t awake awake quite yet; she’d stayed up late to finish a book and hadn’t needed to be anywhere so soon as to warrant getting up early. She couldn’t remember where Robin had said he was off to but a lazy morning with the dogs was just fine with her. (She’d only just bothered to pull on a pair of shorts because she had to take the dogs out.) She scratched behind Bert’s ears — they were easier to reach than Ernie’s — and he blinked up at her, not amused she was messing with his mid-morning nap.

She turned back to the counter and set her tea bag in the cup, moving to grab the milk when there was a knock at the door; Fflur hadn’t heard it but the dogs’ sudden barks — one much yippier than the other — and sudden interest in the door was indication enough. Bert gave up (and returned to the kitchen and his nap) before Ernie did and Fflur had to squeeze between him and the door before she could pull it open just enough to see out, one leg extended to keep the puppy from escaping. It took her a second to realize who she was looking at — Charlie.

She looked from his face to the wrapping tucked under his arm — it was her birthday tomorrow — then back up to his face. “Did the post stop running?” She had to look down — Ernie was earnestly trying to jump over her foot but his short legs weren’t helping him at all — and readjust her barricade but she looked back up after a second or two. She had been avoiding him, thought she had good reason to do so; if he was here for some sort of an explanation for her silent treatment, though, he’d be leaving without any answers.

She raised an eyebrow, intent on continuing not talking to him, offering an exasperated “Shit,” instead when the kettle started to sound. Fflur shut her eyes tight, her resolve thin. Opening them again, she narrowed her gaze. “Kettle’s on,” she said, stooping to pick up Ernie in favor of not chasing him down the lane when he darted past her and Charlie. She turned back to the kitchen with her puppy in arms, not bothering to open the door any wider for her guest.

He heard barking first — Bert’s deeper woofs peppered by Ernie the puppy’s more yappy yelping — then, after a moment, the door clicked open. Fflur didn’t slam it in his face, even after she appeared to wake up enough to recognise him, which was a promising start.

Charlie was distracted from replying immediately by the puppy scrambling to try and get past Fflur’s leg — a grin spread across his lips before he glanced back up to meet Fflur’s gaze, where his expression promptly fell slack again. “I—” He had almost joked about saving his pennies now that he’d gone through a divorce, before remembering that was the very reason Fflur had been mad at him. He assumed, anyway.

A whistling noise from within the cottage announced what Fflur confirmed a moment later — Kettle’s on, She picked up the puppy and Charlie stared after her. He waited half a beat before pushing the door further to let himself in, closing it behind him to prevent any chance for escape (for the dog, and for himself, he supposed).

He followed her into the kitchen, lingering awkwardly in the doorway, one hand in his pocket until Bert rose to greet him. Charlie crouched to give the retriever a good scratch — anything to give him an opportunity to avoid speaking for another minute. As he rose back to his full height he cleared his throat softly. “How’s things?” He said, his voice a little hoarse from not being used. “I erm— this is for you,” he chewed on his lip and kept his eyes down as he held the present out to her — the nearest thing he had to an olive branch.

Fflur shifted the puppy to her right arm, using her left to grab another cup, another tea bag -- one of the real lemon-y ones she regretted buying -- for Charlie after he followed her into the kitchen. She didn’t set Ernie down, not wanting to free up her good hand considering she hadn’t quite forgiven Charlie yet, as she fiddled with the kettle. She nudged one cup -- the lemony one -- in his general direction and wrapped her free hand around the other.

Fflur looked from Bert to Charlie, both of them avoiding her eye. “I haven’t decided yet.” It was too early to know how things were, really. She supposed she could have returned the favor and reciprocated the question but… it was too early for that, too.

She raised an eyebrow as she took the gift from him, wrestling with Ernie for a few seconds as she knelt down to let him go. Fflur straightened back up, looking from Charlie back to the gift, offering the smallest nod. It’d be a really short visit if she just insisted she wait until tomorrow to open it on her actual birthday but then she thought he might say it was some sort of an apology gift for breaking her fingers with his face so why not just open it now and that was already more conversation than she really wanted to get into so-- Fflur pulled at one corner of the wrapping, abandoning her tea for now.

He had a pretty good track record of jokey presents; he’d given her vinyl before -- dogs singing Jingle Bells -- so she was expecting something along those lines but as she got a little farther into unwrapping it her eyes went wide and she finished tearing the paper off much more carefully. She scanned the album’s cover, flipped it over and found the misspelled names that gave away that it was a first pressing (“Shit.”). Fflur had owned this in a previous life -- as a less than sober Fflur with pocket money -- and while she didn’t remember too much from that year she definitely remembered selling her copy for way less than it was worth just to get a bit of cash.

It took her a minute before she looked back up, meeting Charlie’s gaze. “I’m still…” mad, she wanted to say, but it was stupid. Charlie was stupid but-- “Thanks.” She turned the album over again and looked down at it. “I’m not apologizing for your nose,” she settled on, finally, glancing up at him.

She prodded a mug towards him and Charlie picked it up. He sipped at the contents carefully, rather than respond -- not that she’d asked him how he was, or anything. He wrinkled his nose at the slightly off taste -- Charlie wasn’t a tea snob but he definitely had his favourites, and this wasn’t it. Still, he hadn’t witnessed her put anything foreign in it so…

He took a step back, resting against the counter and watching her set the dog down so she could open her present. Charlie kept his drink near his mouth, mostly to hide any sort of expression that might make itself known without permission -- the last thing he needed was to be caught looking smug. Still, it was hard not to be pleased with himself as he watched the realisation dawn on her face. It was worth every penny it had cost him (and it had cost a fair few) if it meant that he was somewhere closer to being forgiven.

Fflur looked at him and Charlie pretended to have been looking at Ernie. “You’re welcome,” he said, as plainly as he could -- mostly managing to keep any trace of satisfaction out of his voice. He let a smile slip onto his lips when she turned her attention back to the vinyl.

He rolled his eyes. “Just don’t sell this one, alright?” He set his mug down on the counter but kept his fingers loosely wrapped around it. “I, um.” He wet his lips. “I wanted to apologise, actually,” he admitted, not meeting her gaze. “I know I fucked up. Not just...” Not just his marriage, but everything else that had even a vague connection to it all. “I’m sorry.”

Fflur grinned, despite herself. “I won’t.” She thought she meant it, too; she more or less had everything together these days and as long as people didn’t decide to collect on every five quid loan she’d taken out, she didn’t think she’d have a reason to sell it.

She held the record at her side, watching him with eyebrows raised expectantly because— there it was, the apology. She didn’t deserve one, not really, but she let it apply to everything — this year, last year, four years ago — to make herself feel like she did. He didn’t meet her eye but she kept looking at him anyway, curious, because they didn’t do this. It wasn’t her place to say she forgave him or any sappy shit like that, but she nodded and offered a, “Yeah.”

“It looks alright, anyway. Your nose.” It probably wasn’t the proper thing to say then, but it worked best for her. Apart from that, it was harder to find the right words. “Are you…” She trailed off, not sure where she was going with her question. She’d stopped reading the paper recently; it was nice to have a news break (plus she reckoned he was still divorced, anyway).

She glanced at his tea and at him, not drinking it. “You want something else?” Fflur motioned at the tea before moving her hand back to her own mug. “Definitely made it on purpose but,” she paused to motion vaguely with the record, something along the lines of I-can-give-you-decent-tea-but-only-because-of-this. “I’m gonna put this on.” She motioned with the record again as she took it and the tea to the next room.

“You better not,” he told her, eyebrow raised. Charlie wasn’t in a position to tell Fflur to do or not do anything, really, but he thought it at least sounded a little bit like he meant it in a ‘come ask me for help first’ sort of way.

His apology hung in the air between them uncomfortably -- they didn’t do this, but it felt necessary given the tumultuous nature of the last year (on his part, anyway). He kept still, superstitious that if he moved she’d have a reason to ignore it or change the subject or anything other than accept (or reject, he supposed) it. She did, though, accept it, finally, and he felt like he could breathe again at a normal volume without fear of reprimand. He didn’t smile, just nodded and reached for his tea again -- reached for it, but didn’t lift it because it wasn’t great and he didn’t think she was keeping track of how much he was(n’t) drinking.

Charlie flicked his eyes to meet hers. He’d take that as her attempt at an apology. He nodded again, halfway to a small smile— Wiped it off quickly when she spoke again -- but she didn’t finish whatever it was she was going to ask and he didn’t want to push her because it had sounded a lot like she was going to ask if he was okay and there was no answer he had that he felt would be acceptable (yes and he was a twat for getting over everything so quickly, no and he needed to stop wallowing because the whole thing was his own fault).

“What?” He asked quickly, then followed her gaze to his tea. “Oh, yeah this is…” He glanced at her hesitantly, but it sounded like she knew it already: “shit.” He smiled now. “Yeah, I’ll sort it,” he offered, spying the tin on the bench and her desire to get out of his immediate vicinity, or just to put her new (old) record on -- whatever the reason.

He tipped his mug out into the sink and started again with a fresh teabag, didn’t bother reheating the water and used what was left in the teapot, which only gave him three-quarters of a mug but he thought that would probably be plenty of time to sit awkwardly with her while they continued not-really talking.

He entered the living room just as the intro gave way to some heavier guitar and sat on the sofa, cradling his mug of tea in both of his hands. “I um, we’re doing a Bowie cover on the next record,” he volunteered for a topic of conversation, not wanting the silence to stretch too long.

Fflur set her tea down and held the record with both hands, turning it over one more time before sliding it out of its sleeve. She eyed it, letting it catch the light -- Jesus, it was in pristine condition -- before she set it down, carefully, to play. She stepped backwards to find the nearest chair, piling herself into it as the record player’s needle hit the first notes. This pressing sounded better than her last one, which was saying something because she’d had a nicer turntable back then, too.

She smiled, picked her tea back up, and had a sip, nodding her head along with the familiarity of it. Charlie was back -- quickly -- after maybe thirty seconds and she eyed him, having another sip of tea, assuming he had managed to sort himself out without any help.

“Are you?” Fflur raised both eyebrows, lowering her tea to her lap. She was about to ask if he was covering ‘Young Americans’ -- the joke was right there -- but she stopped before she could. She’d written to Kate soon after breaking Charlie’s nose and had never heard back from her and she still didn’t know if that meant that she was taking things so well that she didn’t need to hear from Charlie’s mates or… the opposite. Either way, she wasn’t about to joke about that. Fuck. “Something from Labyrinth?” That was a good enough joke.

She had pulled her feet up under her and she scratched idly at her ankle, just above her little Bowie tattoo; she glanced back over at Charlie. “When’s that due, then?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, lifting his mug to his lips to have a sip -- immediately tasting the difference between this and whatever it was she’d given him before. Charlie had never thought Fflur was the type to keep a special tin just for people she didn’t like, but maybe that was how sober people got their kicks. He’d have to remember to ask when he wasn’t so fresh into making things up to her.

He laughed then -- partly because that was funny but also maybe to try and ingratiate Fflur to him a little more. “Yeah, thought Magic Dance would do well on the wireless,” he grinned lopsidedly. He rubbed at his jaw with the hand not holding his tea. “Christ, haven’t seen that in fucking ages.” Not that that was any great tragedy.

Charlie settled back into the sofa, the initial feeling that he was about to be asked to leave at any moment starting to subside. “First of June,” he answered, having another sip of tea. He wet his lips. “Couple of tracks, four or five, with the Bowie one. Try and educate this lot what real music is,” he said, meaning the Bowie cover, not his own music (though, if he were allowed to be so bold, he’d include that too). In hindsight: “Might not’ve picked the best single for it, but...” he trailed off, shrugged softly. “Moonage Daydream,” he added, realising he hadn’t actually disclosed which song he’d convinced the boys to release.

“Was gonna do something from The Smiths but they vetoed it. Too depressing,” he did a quick one-handed air quote on the last. Again, hindsight told him they were probably right, what with everything that had happened in the last six months. Maybe he’d try again next release. 

Fflur grimaced at his suggestion. “Magic Dance might be insulting to this lot, come to think of it.” She grinned (almost) and sipped her tea as he realized how long it’d been since he’d watched the film. “I’d offer to watch it with you but I’m trying to stay sober.” She laughed, as if alcohol was the only thing that could convince her to watch it again. Well there was that, and she wasn’t sure about his current living situation and she wasn’t ready to go digging around in all of that.

She nodded at the first of June, having another sip of tea before she laughed, assuming he was talking about the Bowie song rather than his own music. She was about to ask if it was going to be a sad EP, considering, but it was probably best not to go there. Considering.

“No, I like that one.” It wasn’t an obvious choice. “Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah—“ she made a half-hearted attempt—this wasn’t karaoke time—at singing a line and had a laugh instead of continuing on.

Fflur nodded again; The Smiths would have been nice, but yeah. Too depressing, considering (again). “Plus, Morrisey never called himself a ‘rock n rollin’ bitch’ in a song—“ She grinned— “Really looking forward to hearing you do it.” She rested her mug on her knee, one hand still wrapped around it, glancing over him briefly. “You, er, keeping busy in the studio then?” That was probably close enough to asking if he was alright, anyway.

Charlie let out a soft giggle, the sound distorted slightly by his mouth still being halfway in his mug, poised to have another sip. “Yeah, might be.” When she mentioned trying to stay sober he thought about asking how that was all going, but would he be putting himself at risk of being asked about his drinking? Not to mention his other behaviours. Best to avoid it if possible.

He lowered his mug and smiled when she laughed -- progress -- and then grinned, holding one hand out defensively -- not that he thought Fflur was disagreeing with him; “Half of them still think Celestina Warbeck’s the only bloody singer out there, she’s got nothing on Shirley Bassey,” he smirked. “Or, like, the Weird Sisters are great, obviously, but,” he wrinkled his nose, “Oasis, Pulp, The Stones—” he avoided adding Queen to his list, for personal reasons, “—and then you’ve got Elvis and Sinatra. I mean, how can you go through life and not know who fucking Elvis is?” He could -- and would -- go on, but Fflur already knew all of this.

Charlie laughed then, when she had a go at singing. “Yeah, just a little more in tune,” he smirked, having another gulp of tea now that it was cooling to a more drinkable temperature.

He laughed again, realising he’d sung that line and was about to release it into the (wizarding) world. Couldn’t get any worse reception than crooning Santa Baby though, surely. “Well,” he smoothed one hand down his thigh to rest on his knee, tapping his fingers, “no pressure,” he smirked softly at her. Drunken karaoke was one thing, ‘professionally’ covering one of the best musicians -- one of their mutual favourites, they had the matching tattoos to prove it -- was quite another.

Charlie held Fflur’s gaze for a long second -- recognising the undertone of her question. He shrugged gently. “Yeah,” he nodded, without smiling, as he thought about how busy he’d been keeping. “Wanted to get something out but we haven’t got like, a whole album, so...” he trailed off, had another sip of tea. “EP it is,” he smiled, a little forced. “Between that and moving it’s, yeah, been busy.”

“How’re you and Rob?” Charlie hadn’t spent any length of time one-on-one with Robin in quite some time -- in fact, hadn’t spent much time with him at all in recent memory, which prompted a bubble of guilt to pop up in his chest. He made a mental note to try and do something about that once his own life was in a bit more order. “He got much on? What’re you two doing for the summer this year?”

Fflur agreed with him, obviously; they’d had this conversation how many times? She had that extra layer on top of the muggle/magic disconnect, living in Paris which, in hindsight, wasn’t as removed as Hogsmeade was. “Stevie Nicks,” she countered, as usual, to Elvis, because, as usual, he hadn’t mentioned any women after Shirley Bassey (the one in Pulp didn’t count). They’d have to leave it at that or they’d be there all night.

She rolled her eyes as she cleared her throat. “Hopefully more than just a little.” She had another sip of tea. She had no illusions about her singing ability, but she could sympathize with feeling the pressure of it all, in a way. She offered a little smile before having another sip.

He was keeping busy; that was good. Fflur was happy about that but stopped short of saying anything to suggest it. She might have been worried about him a little--she may not have ever been divorced but she’d had experience with only having herself to blame for a life-altering event--but she wasn’t his mother. It was kind of her fault they hadn’t talked for months. Mostly. She felt bad that she felt bad at all for punching him because she knew that if she was given a redo, she’d still choose to break his nose.

“You moved?” It seemed obvious now that he’d said it. She couldn’t picture Charlie keeping the townhouse to himself, if he’d even been given that option. “Where to?” She tried to redirect from the obvious ‘yes I got divorced’ answer that was probably forthcoming.

But he asked about Robin and she nodded. “We’re good.” They were settled, domestic, and while she may have never pictured it for herself (especially with Robin) she didn’t want to have it a different way now. “Dunno. Know we’re not moving to New York, at least.” She shrugged one shoulder and had another swallow of tea. “I probably need to find a job. Not for money--” before he thought he might need to help with that-- “Something to do.” Something that wasn’t laying around and drinking.

She had another sip of tea, finishing off her cup. “Speaking of,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to the clock on the wall. “I’ve got class after lunch.” And if she wanted to eat lunch at the school, she probably needed to get moving now.

His eyebrows rose, surprised she didn't know this before he remembered just how long they hadn’t been speaking. “Yeah,” he answered, bracing himself to have to add the follow-up explanation before she saved him the trouble.

“Not far from where we were,” he said, then grimaced when he realised he’d said ‘we’. Then almost grimaced again when he realised it probably seemed a bit weird that he hadn’t moved to the other side of the city -- as far as possible from all of those memories -- but he’d liked Maida Vale for a reason. (He very briefly considered joking that he’d thought about running away to Paris, but he wasn’t sure if that was still a bit too on the nose -- and he was trying to keep his unbroken.)

“By the tube station,” he added, “like, right next to it pretty much.” He had another sip of tea. “You’ll have to come over,” he offered, mostly a genuine invitation but also a little bit to just keep talking.

Fflur said she and Robin were good, to which Charlie just nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t care -- Fflur deserved happiness, as did Rob, the poor sod. He couldn’t quite pinpoint if Fflur wasn't elaborating out of care for his own situation or if she was just being Fflur.

“Better not be,” he threatened her with a smirk -- but he was sort of serious, too. He'd missed Fflur -- obviously, or he wouldn't have gone to such lengths to try and get her back on-side -- and he wasn’t sure how well he'd function if they lived on opposite shores of the Atlantic ocean; there was only so much Sam could do on his own. She mentioned needing a job and Charlie immediately opened his mouth to say he could help-- “Well, you can always carry me luggage," he grinned, "can pay you in cups of tea."

He followed her glance to the clock over her shoulder. “Er, right.” Charlie got to his feet and had another large gulp of tea. “We should…" lunch, "next time you’re free.” If he’d been man enough to owl ahead today they might’ve been able to pop to the Three Broomsticks but, on second thought, it was probably better they were keeping this visit short and sweet. He set his mug down -- almost finished -- and turned around to give Bert a scratch behind the ear before moving towards the front door.

He grabbed the handle, paused and looked back at Fflur, "Let us know when you're free."


[ out ]

“Right, next time I’m in town.” She’d visit--seemed obvious now that they were on speaking terms again--but Christ, she hated London.

He didn’t ask her to elaborate about her and Robin and she was grateful; it still felt like if she talked about how well things were going too much (to anyone) she might ruin it. Not living in New York was easier to talk about. “Yeah, don’t worry.” She moved right on to rolling her eyes at the job offer, not bothering to tell him that she’d rather be drinking than working for him.

“We should,” she agreed, getting to her feet after a second. “Er--” she almost moved in for a hug--habit--but it almost felt like too much; the last contact they’d had had been her fist and his nose. They’d have to ease back into that. “Thanks,” she said instead, tilting her head toward the turntable. “Can listen to the whole thing the next time.”

She nodded, still standing next to her armchair. “Will do.”

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