try again [fergie]

Merlin, he was an awful dog dad, forgetting that he couldn’t just take Bonnie with him, to Spain, for Christmas. What must Edith think? Judging by the look on her face, nothing great. But she’d just said yes to going out with him— or, going somewhere with him. With him. To the party -- at the Ministry, where all of his (their?) friends worked. Why had he thought that was a good idea for a first date? And she’d said yes before he’d—

But she was nodding. That was a good sign, right? Good enough to distract him. Edith said they’d be fine, and it took Fergie half a moment to realise who she meant--her parents--before he nodded along with her -- but would she be fine? “Sorry, I should’ve—” he pressed his lips together and stifled a hiccough (or a burp, he wasn’t entirely sure -- the beer he was drinking was quite hoppy). But, asked earlier was what he had been about to say, and he’d been too busy thinking about this instead to think about what came immediately after (Christmas).

Edith asked if he apparated with Bonnie and Fergie blinked. “No,” he answered quickly, then realised that might have come across a bit blunt. “I don’t really know how it’d go,” he offered. “Never had a pet growing up, and she’s only wee.” Less wee now, of course, than she had been a few months ago when he’d got her, but still a puppy. He knew some dogs got sick in cars, because one of his great-uncles (on his mum’s side) had told the same story about his border collie at every family gathering without fail.

Then Edith offered to take the train, and Fergie perked up. He hadn’t been on a train in years -- there had been one solo attempt, not long into moving to London, and he’d ended up in Bath instead of Brixton. He hadn’t wanted to try again, even if he knew how it all worked in theory (he had gone to a tube station on many a slow Sunday, just to observe); buy a ticket--or one of those new cards (why were they called oysters? There was no other reference to seafood on public transport)--and swipe it, go through the turnstile—

He was getting lost on a tangent. “Yeah. I could come with you, if you wanted.” He wanted. Partly because it was an opportunity to go on a train--with help--but mostly because it was a chance to spend more time with her before he went to Spain. His eyes widened slightly; “Not to— to your house. Just the station. Then I’ll come back.” He didn’t want to meet her parents (yet). “I can just apparate back,” he offered, though more likely he’d take the full ride home because why not make the most of it.

Fergie hadn’t apparated with her--with Edith or with Bonnie, but they were talking about the dog, here--and she nodded, nodded again. She had never had a pet growing up either, though she thought she had been close to getting one with Elias-- that had taken a different turn, and she didn’t want to think about that now. “So wee,” she said with a grin, vaguely wondering if that--parroting him every time he said wee--would ever get old. Not that she was skipping ahead to thinking about the future or anything, not after they had agreed to one date.

She suggested the train instead; borrowing her parents’ car would just be excessive (and require too much explanation). But the train seemed like a good suggestion, judging by Fergie’s face--not that she was staring, but she sort of was--and also judging by him offering to go with her. “Yeah?” she questioned him with a genuine smile, eyebrows up.

He’d go to the station with her, and she supposed it was TBD if that station was Liverpool or closer to Lunt, based on how well the date went (and how many unwarranted questions she wanted to answer). But the beer (or the whiskey) was starting to convince her it was going to be a good date, and she smiled again. “Yeah, okay.” It would be nice. “It’s a--” she hesitated before dropping her next word, but got over her hesitation quickly because he had already said as much-- “date.” She laughed once and took another drink. Would everything they did alone now qualify as a date? If yes, did that make this a date? She didn’t want to keep making comparisons to her last relationship but they had taken a while to establish what things were (and weren’t) and--

Edith was getting ahead of herself. She looked at her glass, then at Fergie’s, as close to empty as hers was. “Another round?” She waited a beat before she checked her watch; it was getting kind of late. “Or do you need to be getting home?” She had shown up late after her Ministry job debacle and he had to work his Ministry job in the morning (although the Friday before the holidays usually wasn’t a productive one, that was beside the point.)

Fergie completely missed Edith mimicking him (not for the first time), too busy worrying about everything else that was going on in this conversation. Too busy worrying that offering to sit on a train for however many hours with her was a bit too much, this early on— but she seemed alright with it. “Yeah,” he smiled back, bringing one hand up to scratch behind his ear.

She was still smiling, he was still smiling -- it was all doing wonders to make him worry a bit less about all of it. Then she said it was a date and laughed, and he grinned, even more reassured. “Yeah, s’pose it is.” Did that sort of make this a date? If they were going on one tomorrow, and if the train was -- if she wasn’t joking. Did it really matter?

Another round? Fergie glanced down at his almost-empty glass, to Edith’s, then to her face. Was she suggesting they end it here because it was easier than sitting here waiting for their date, tomorrow, or because— Bonnie, right.

“Erm,” he hesitated, knowing the answer but reluctant to just… end things here. “I probably should go check on the dug aye, but,” he met her eyes and hesitated again. “Did you— You could come with me, if you wanted?” He tried to work out what that expression was but he was overthinking every little twitch. “Can go over her bedtime,” he added with a weak smile, hoping that sounded genuine. “Be sure you want to look after her for the week, you know.”

Fergie needed to go check on the dug and the corner of Edith’s mouth twitched up as she grinned; that only lasted a second, however, as she soon realized that meant he was leaving. But they had two dates to look forward to and-- or, he could invite her along. That was certainly an option, wasn’t it? But did that mean he thought she was-- was he-- they couldn’t-- already? More like: why not? Edith’s jaw tensed as she swallowed, suddenly very aware that they were still making eye contact.

Thank Christ he shut her brain up, mentioning Bonnie again. They could go over her bedtime, as if Fergie tucked Bonnie in with a bath and a bedtime story-- Edith smiled smally at the mental image of it all, hoping Fergie wouldn’t question her expression. “I’m sure I do,” she said, somehow still paying attention to what he was saying. “But yeah.” She couldn’t pass up more time with him, pre-date, though she was still trying to figure out if it was more or less pressure this way.

Edith finished her pint and stood up, shifting her gaze up a few inches to meet Fergie’s eyes again. She afforded herself a mental Er-- as they stood there for a second, before she stepped toward the door. Once out on the street, she took a right--her and Elias had lived to the left and she and Fergie had picked this pub as an almost-halfway point to grab a pint and they hadn’t switched once Edith moved--and immediately shoved anymore thoughts about her ex out of her mind.

She might have overcompensated, walking close to Fergie; was it too close? Was there a too close if she were going home with him? Her eyes went wide as she stared down at the sidewalk, quickly searching for something (else) to talk about. Bonnie-- Bonnie was a good topic. “Is Sunday good for the train? There’s a match on in the afternoon, but after that?” She didn’t mention that it might cut into the start of Solstice celebrations, didn’t mention that she didn’t mind too terribly.

She was sure she did— Did what? Oh. Fergie grinned, his cheeks a little warmer for the beer and the stuffiness of the pub and— Edith, too, he realised with another flush. He nodded belatedly. “Right.” Good, this was good. They would go back to his and check on Bonnie and— He glanced at Edith and she was downing the rest of her pint (this was normal, but now he was overanalysing). He picked up his own glass and did the same before getting to his feet.

Their eyes met and he sort of just stared at her for a moment, not really believing it had been that easy, before Edith took the initiative and headed for the door. Fergie grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and followed after her; slipping into it once they were out in the cooler air of the street. He put his hands in his pockets, then wondered if he shouldn’t, should hold her hand instead—

Sunday. “Aye, Sunday’s fine,” he agreed readily, figuring if there was anything he’d forgotten about he’d reschedule that instead. “Are you going?” he asked, turning his head to look at her as they walked. He had been trying to read up on football—which way round was the Premiership and the Champion’s League, again?—but didn’t feel at all confident in trying to impress her with any of the knowledge he’d gleamed so far. “Who’s playing?”

They had picked the pub—the one they’d just left—because it was ‘halfway’ between where they’d both been living in London before, but it was definitely closer to Fergie’s place than Edith’s old one (that she’d shared with her boyfriend, who Fergie had met and hadn’t immediately disliked but—); and they were almost at his and he was trying to think through the logistics of getting her safely back to her place after… After whatever, he supposed. Neither of them were in a state to apparate anywhere, that much was obvious.

Fergie pulled his keys from his pocket and no sooner had he put them in the lock they could hear Bonnie on the other side of the door. He smiled and stepped back to let Edith go in first.

Sunday was fine, he said, and Edith smiled at her feet. When he asked about the match, though--if she were going--she glanced at him, found him looking right back at her. “No, just--” she shrugged, slipped her hands into her coat pockets-- “To the pub.” She grinned a little as she went back to looking at her feet, where she was going (because now that they had been walking for a couple minutes, she was really feeling those pints (and that shot of whiskey). “Manchester United,” she said quickly, because who else was there?

She should ask him to go to the pub, shouldn’t she? If it were a casual conversation with anyone else, that would be the next thing-- invite that person along because that was what you were supposed to do. And it was usually better than going--and drinking--alone. but they already had tomorrow night. And Sunday on the train. And--

Tonight? Whatever this was?-- It was checking on Bonnie, she remembered, so lost in thought until she could hear the puppy barking. (And the pub was way closer to Fergie’s flat than it had been to her own; she would have been mad about it if she wasn’t benefiting from it now.) She was going to learn about Bonnie’s nighttime routine, and Edith had been to the flat before so this wasn’t weird. (Elias had been with her the last time she was there, never mind had she ever been there alone).

Edith crouched down to pet the dog, to rub her belly once she had rolled over, as Fergie moved to grab Bonnie’s lead. She continued playing with the dog as Fergie knelt to clip the lead to Bonnie’s collar, and Edith flicked her gaze up to catch his eye-- they were close and Edith’s breath caught in her throat.

“I’m gonna use the loo,” she announced, standing up. “While you walk her.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger, then stepped toward the hallway. Once alone, she stared at herself in the mirror. She was reading far too into this, letting her mind get away from her, overthinking while not thinking at all-- if Fergie hadn’t asked her on a date, hadn’t admitted to liking her-- did he even say that? Or was she just assuming it, because of the date. Just friends didn’t go on dates, though, and she had agreed to it, so clearly she was--

It was just happening out of order. That was it. With Elias, they had kissed and then not talked for months. But she had snogged Noah a couple months ago and they still talked; fuck, she was moving in with him and Emma in January (unless she wasn’t moving to London now that she wouldn’t be working at the Ministry again, but that was something she could worry about tomorrow). She didn’t need to be thinking about other men anyway.

Edith flushed the toilet--unused--and splashed some water on her face. Maybe they weren’t just friends but they were still friends. And she was going to watch Bonnie so maybe she should learn how much she ate, and all of that. She stepped back into the hall and shrugged out of her coat, tossing it over the arm of the sofa just as Fergie and Bonnie returned from their walk. “What’s next, then?” she asked, motioning at the dog but looking at Fergie.

The pub, and Manchester United — of course. He’d meant who were they playing, but now didn’t seem like the time to quiz her on football.

Edith barely got in the door and Bonnie was already attacking her— then rolling over, demanding belly rubs. Fergie smiled to himself and reached over the top of them to grab Bonnie’s lead off the hook. He knelt down to clip it onto her collar— felt Edith’s eyes on him, to his left, and turned his head to look at her. They were close—like, kissing close—but before Fergie could convince himself to just do it, Edith had practically bolted upright.

She needed the loo. “Right,” Fergie nodded, standing up himself with a slight wobble that he managed to make it look like it had been Bonnie’s fault (or so he was telling himself). “I’ll just—” While you walk her, “— Aye.”

He closed the door behind himself with a snap and took a deep breath of the cool night air. The yank on the lead almost pulled him off the step and he had to grab the metal railing to steady himself.

Hadn’t the point been for Edith to be with him while he was running through Bonnie’s— but maybe the point was just coming back to his, after asking her out. He had, hadn’t he? Asked her out? Yes, they’d both said date. Ugh, he should have kissed her— in the pub, or just before, in his hallway— Why hadn’t he? Well, he hadn’t really had the chance, she’d made a quick exit. Or not, an actual exit— unless she was going to while he was gone.

Very romantically, as he was picking up after Bonnie he resolved to go inside and just… do it, if she was still there. Get it out of the way, sort of thing. Back inside the front ‘garden’ (all six-concreted-feet of it) of his ground floor flat, he deposited the bag in the communal wheelie bin and let himself back in the door, hoping Edith hadn’t taken advantage of being alone to try and apparate back to Lunt.

By Bonnie’s reaction alone he could tell that wasn’t the case. He unclipped her, hung up the lead and took his coat off. Edith was in the living room and had taken hers off too—

Fergie froze, determined not to say the first thing that popped into his head. “Um, dinner—” he said instead, which only served to excite the dog; she jumped up and lightly rested her paws on Fergie’s hip. Fergie was still looking (staring) at Edith. Bonnie dropped to the floor and sat nicely — politely. “It’s— through here,” he said finally, leading them both into the kitchen.

He took a scoop of biscuits out from a cupboard, forgetting to show Edith how much, and poured it into Bonnie’s bowl, telling her (the dog) it was “Okay,” to start eating. He returned the scoop and moved to the sink, rolling his sleeves up to wash his hands. He grabbed a tea towel to dry them off and turned back to face Edith. “That’s, erm, pretty much it,” he said, resting his backside on the counter behind him. “Same in the morning.” His right sleeve slipped down his forearm, so he pushed it back up. “Did you…” he trailed off, chewing on his lip.

Dinner was next, and Edith nodded. That should have been their cue to move, but only Bonnie seemed to take the hint; Edith and Fergie were still standing there, staring at each other. She wasn’t sure if she was breathing normally, wasn’t sure if Fergie could tell. But through here, he said, and Edith nodded again, waiting a beat before she followed him (and the dog) to the kitchen. She had been there before, of course, but that had been during a party, and now things were tidy and Edith felt far more invasive.

She almost thought twice about leaning back on the counter, but she relented-- what else was she going to do? She leaned back and stuck her hands in the pocket of her hoodie, her fingers finding the handle of her wand and twirling it absentmindedly as she watched Fergie move through the motions of feeding Bonnie (and nearly forgetting she was there to learn how to watch Bonnie). But that was it, apparently. “Okay,” she said, that word stuck in her head from Fergie using it a minute before. She’d have to do the same in the morning-- not tomorrow morning, of course; why did her brain skip straight to that? Edith blinked, glancing up from where she’d been looking at Fergie fidgeting with his sleeve. “Sound, yeah.” She swallowed and nodded, slowing her nod as he spoke again. “Did I…?”

Did she need to see it all again in the morning? Yes-- if only she could actually say that, but they had only agreed to one date (or two, maybe three since Bonnie would need to be returned to London in the end) and no way was she that forward. There were a few more seconds of silence--save for the sounds of the dog--and the eye contact was almost becoming too much--or too encouraging--and Edith thought she might ask to sit for a minute before she attempted apparating hom.

She opened her mouth to ask, but closed it again after half a second. She had literally gone home with him, and if it was genuinely to learn about Bonnie’s bedtime-- well if this was pretty much it, then surely that wasn’t too much to simply write down for her. “Er--” she didn’t want to hint toward her leaving. “Shall I meet you there tomorrow?” For their date, she meant. “Or I can meet you here, if you want.” Se had no idea why he would want that, or why she had said that, but it was out there now.

He didn’t know what he was asking, really — it could have been one of a number of things: a drink, to hang out for a bit, to stay? (All of the above?) Edith honed in on his half-finished (half-started, really) question, and Fergie was too busy overthinking it to actually answer her. He was just staring at her now, unsure how to proceed — but at the very least, she was staring back.

Edith broke the silence (minus Bonnie wolfing down her dinner, the bowl scraping along the tiled floor from her enthusiasm for food) first, and Fergie was too slow to hide the faint disappointment on his face — it sounded like she was planning to leave. It took him another long second to remember where they were meeting tomorrow. “No,” he said, then: “Here, I mean, yeah,” when they spoke at the same time. “We can meet here,” he clarified, just to be sure, sound more reassuring.

He pushed off from the counter without really realising to stand upright, and as a result he was already much closer to Edith thanks to the small scale of the kitchen. His eyes lingered on hers for a second, then drifted down to her lips— but she was still leaning on her counter and he didn’t want to be leery. “Edith, you—” He inhaled. “You probably shouldn’t apparate,” he suggested gently on an exhale, inwardly cringing at how cliché he was being but what other option did he have?

“You could stay,” he added softly, intentionally vague.

They could meet here tomorrow, and that solved the thing about the date she was least anxious about.

Fergie was a bit closer, not leaning on the counter, and Edith was honestly impressed at the restraint she was showing, keeping her eyes on his. He glanced down and— where was he looking? She felt her cheeks grow warm (again), and Fergie saying her name didn’t exactly help anything. But she raised her eyebrows to show she was listening.

She shouldn’t apparate, he said, and she nodded once. She usually shouldn’t be apparating. “No, I—“ was gonna take the train. She took her hands out of her pocket, pushing her sleeve up just enough to check her watch. Her train had left ten minutes ago, so that option was out. Or, she could apparate to a station outside London, catch it there—

Or she could stay. She nodded again, once. “I could stay.” She stood up straight, not knowing what else to do. She scratched the side of her nose, pushed her glasses up with her index finger. They were pretty close, but it would probably be weirder at this point to take a step back. There was a brightly lettered now what? flashing through her head. She didn’t think it was only wishful thinking that there were other reasons—besides drinking—that he was suggesting she stay.

And this didn’t seem like a ‘sleep on the sofa’ sort of situation. She wasn’t tired, anyway. (She was always tired but she wasn’t sleepy.) And she wasn’t really one to lunge— why was that, again? It was more of a second date type of thing, based on prior (limited) experience. But she had no idea what he was expecting either; they had only ever talked about one date he had been on, and that had been with Elias’s sister and apparently horrible, so— “What’re you thinking?” She asked it quietly—they were still close—and curiously—it was a strange confidence that encouraged her to ask, instead of continue standing there, wondering.

He was back to gazing at her mouth, thinking (again) about how he should just kiss her — but there was something holding him back, some invisible force.

I could stay. Fergie flicked his focus up to meet her eyes as she stood up, closer. As Edith scratched her nose and nudged her glasses up, his eyes darted briefly to her long fingers — then took in the faint freckles on her cheeks, usually hidden by her round glasses, more noticeable from this distance

He swallowed softly, his mouth dry. Why was this so difficult? He’d done it all in the wrong order. He should have just asked her to the party as mates, made his move then—tomorrow—not under the harsh yellowish light of his kitchen, with his dog sniffing around the tiles looking for any biscuits she’d missed, when there was so much more expectation of—

Fergie’s lips parted, if only to register that he had heard her. He wet them, breathing shallower, his blood pumping in his ears. He didn’t take his eyes off hers — except maybe for a second, to glance at her lips again. He matched Edith’s volume; “Can I kiss you?”

Fergie took a small step to close the gap between them, then dipped his head and closed his eyes — just barely hesitated, then pressed his lips to hers. His nose bumped against Edith’s glasses and he drew back enough to mumble a “Sorry.” His eyes—still half-closed—met hers, and he grinned awkwardly, before seeking out her mouth again. His right hand came up to cup her jaw gently, holding her face aloft to his, as his left rested lightly against a point between her waist and her hip — unsure which would be interpreted as being more forward.

Edith knew what she had been thinking, when she asked Fergie. She thought they should kiss, get it out of the way; it remained to be seen if that would make tomorrow more or less awkward, but there was only one way to find out for sure. Either way, it’d probably take the pressure off her. Them. And then-- they were on the same page. Fergie wanted to kiss her and Edith offered a quiet, “Yeah,” before she swallowed. They were already close but she took half a step closer, licking her lips--they weren’t too badly chapped--without really thinking about it.

It was a quick kiss--a nice kiss--and Fergie pulled back, knocking her glasses slightly askew. “S’okay,” she said with a little laugh, pushing her glasses up and back to sit on the top of her head.

Their second attempt was better, nicer but needier-- she held her eyes shut tight, trying to stop herself from analyzing how the kiss felt, rather than letting herself enjoy it. She relaxed into it, his hands; she reached for his upper arm--the one connected to the hand touching her side--applying gentle pressure, attempting to encourage him to do the same. (Was he flexing? God help her if he wasn’t.) Edith reached for the other side with her other hand, a bit more eager, but still not crossing the line to too eager, she thought.

Edith pulled back--just enough to see what was happening--when there was a loud clanging noise; Bonnie had flipped her bowl over and was sniffing around for more. Her gaze flicked back to Fergie, closing her mouth, breathing through her nose. Their noses were just barely not touching and she thought she could blame the proximity (and all the instances of actual physical contact still occurring) for what she said next. “Could we…?” She wanted him to read her mind, keep her from having to ask aloud if they could head back to his bedroom.

Fergie leaned into Edith’s touch, reciprocating the pressure he could feel on his arm, encouraging him — he probably wouldn’t be this eager, this soon, if he was sober, but he wasn’t, and this had been building up for months (for him, at least)—

Bonnie knocked her bowl over with a clang, and Fergie and Edith broke apart — barely. He swallowed, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, some sudden clarity that they were thinking the same thing — had been all along. He took Edith’s hand in his, linking their fingers. He led her down the short hallway to his room, pausing just outside to kiss her again, give her the opportunity to change her mind if she needed — she didn’t. Fergie used his leg to block Bonnie from following them in, and closed the door.

…

His alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but he rarely needed it anyway. He had already gotten up once, in the night, and nearly tripped over Bonnie, who had been laying in the dark right outside the door. She’d been thrilled to see him, and then he’d told her to stay outside and her ears had drooped as he shut himself back in the bedroom. Edith had stirred, and he’d joined her under the duvet again.

There was a strong temptation to call in sick, but then he could hardly show his face to the Christmas party later on. Edith would be coming, anyway, now, so it would just be a slow day, waiting. He turned his head to look at her. It was still dark—would be for another hour or so, this time of year—but he could just make her out in the gloom. He shifted onto his side to face her, and in doing so disturbed her — one eye opened, part-way, and she mumbled a sleepy What time is it? Fergie smiled and wet his lips. “Nearly six-thirty.”

“I, erm— have to get up and take Bonnie for a walk but, you can stay in bed for a bit if you want?”

Edith slept heavily after drinking—so, most nights—and she was slow to wake up, taking a few seconds after Fergie’s (probably unintentional) jostling to open her eyes. One eye, actually, and only halfway. She wasn’t a morning person. She licked her lips, bringing some moisture back to them. “What time is it?” She had small hopes for it being close to midnight, to affording herself several more hours of sleep. Six-thirty was less acceptable, but she could sleep for a little bit more. “‘Kay.” She closed her eye again, the corner of her mouth twitching up the tiniest bit.

Or, Fergie could need to go walk Bonnie. He offered her to stay in bed; it occurred to her then—and only then—where she was. She scrunched her eyes more tightly closed. Fergie’s bed, Fergie’s bedroom, because they— “Yeah.” She opened her eyes—both this time—and looked at him (looking far more awake than he had any business to), quickly weighing the pros and cons of going with him. Once she decided he would have to come back, though: “Gonna stay.” In his bed.

He was blurry and the room was dark but Edith watched him pull his clothes on with very little shame on her part. She had put some of her back on at some point, but her jeans were very obviously still on the floor. She closed her eyes again, hopefully before Fergie had seen her staring, and thought (and hoped) she might fall back asleep. She wrinkled her nose; it itched but she was perfectly cocooned in the duvet and she didn’t want to move. It was nice.

Until Fergie’s alarm went off. Edith’s eyes flew open as the radio blared out alright alright alright alright alright alright— her hand shot out from under the duvet and she launched herself at the clock’s snooze button. For fuck’s sake. Her eyes were wide as she flopped back onto her stomach, pulling the duvet up and over her head to block out the day. She was fully awake then, and her brain was catching up to current events. This was bound to loom over them now—how could it not? She was kind of surprised at herself, but also kind of… not. Fergie was very attractive, and she must have known that before last night. Maybe it was only relevant now.

She was going to make this weird, wasn’t she? She would just make it awkward going forward, when nothing was as good as last night. And that was really presumptuous of her, thinking they would do this again. But they had a date tonight, and again, she would probably drink too much to get home safely.

She heard Fergie come back, feed Bonnie, and come back to the bedroom; even with a few minutes warning, she didn’t know what to say to him. So she decided to say nothing, not moving for a few more seconds before deciding to just get over it. She didn’t realize she was startling when she pulled the duvet back, too focused on his new state of undress (blurry but discernible). Um. “What.. time do you leave for work?” All of her conversation was about the time, it seemed. She’d probably ask about the weather next.

Yeah, she said, and the corner of Fergie’s mouth twitched up the tiniest bit. He was probably being a bit creepy, laying there already staring at her when she opened her eyes — so he averted them. He nodded and hesitated for a second—was he supposed to kiss her? What if she’d been drunk last night (obviously, she had been drunk — so had he) and was regretting this now?—he got up and moved about his room in the dark, knowing where to find his dog walking clothes in the drawers. He slipped out of the door quietly, prepared for Bonnie to be waiting there again—she was—and hurried her down the hallway away from the bedroom. 

He turned their walk into a brisk jog (without bothering to warm up), eager to get back to Edith and have a few extra minutes before he had to go to work. She didn’t have to leave when he did, anyway — he trusted her to lock up. And not to snoop, like his sister would— don’t think about Honey right now.

He kept flip-flopping between thinking about last night and trying not to — to focus on where he was going. He did a shortened loop to get back to his street, and only felt a little bit guilty about short-changing Bonnie not once, but twice on as many trips out of the house — made worse by knowing he’d be leaving her with Edith when he went to Majorca. Not that Edith wouldn’t look after her, he knew she would — unless he’d messed everything up. Had he always been this unfit? Maybe it was the frosty air, making it harder to breathe.

Fergie let himself back in and took his trainers off, moved into the kitchen and fed Bonnie, then headed back to his room; his hand lingered on the doorhandle for a second as he tried to regulate his breathing (from his run). He opened it and the room was still dark, and— and Edith wasn’t there. He’d fucked it up.

Fergie opened the door wider and pulled his shirt over his head—ruminating on every detail he could remember—pushed his sweatpants down— He nearly fell over when the duvet moved. “Edith—” he said, unnecessarily, glad he hadn’t yet gotten down to nothing, as if she hadn’t seen it all last night (although, had she? The lights had been off). “I thought— Quarter to eight,” he swallowed. He cleared his throat. “But I’ve got to shower…” he trailed off, half-willing it to be an invitation but not bold enough to make it so. He chickened out and tacked on: "There's breakfast stuff in the cupboard."