try again [fergie]

18 december 2003

They were meant to be celebrating. The consultancy had actually panned out—despite everything—and all that had been left to do was to sign the paperwork. They had plans to meet after for a drink but she wasn’t really in a celebratory mood. But it was Fergie.

And it was still a Ministry job, one she’d turned down at the last minute.

Her paperwork meeting had gone over so she was already running a bit late, which she only made worse by deciding to take the bus to the pub instead of apparating; she needed a few extra minutes to sort of wrap her mind around what she needed to tell him about all of it, how to explain her way out of it.

She took a breath before she pulled the door open, the familiar sounds of a pub rushing out to meet her as she unbuttoned her coat. It took her less than a second to find Fergie and she offered him a little wave before turning to the bar and ordering herself a pint; after another second she ordered a second one—a bitter—for Fergie by way of an apology. She made her way over with a pint in each hand, deciding to cut him off before he said anything or before she’d even set the glasses on the table. “I— turned it down.” She handed him a pint. “The job.” As if she needed to clarify.

@Fergie Flume

Fergie glanced up to see Edith enter the pub and held a hand up to draw her attention to him. When she moved to the bar he quickly deposited an empty glass on the next table over for collection (he’d bought them each a drink, but she’d taken longer than he’d expected and so, naturally, he’d started on hers while he waited).

The Scotsman smiled up at her as she approached the table, a beer in each hand. “How—” He took the pint from her, mouth still open slightly as she cut over him. He frowned. “What?” He was confused--and honestly, a little mad--if she hadn’t taken the job after all the work he’d put in to get it over the line in the first place -- it wasn’t like the Ministry went for this sort of thing all the time and especially not in the Muggle Liaison Office; he’d had to pull in at least three favours to even be heard out by Euphemia Fawley, and now Edith had turned it down?

He considered, extremely briefly, that she was having him on, but it became apparent rather quickly that she was not. Edith sat and Fergie stared openly at her, finally lowering the drink she’d bought him to the table. “Edith…” he trailed off, the disappointment clear in his tone. “Why? I thought you wanted to—” work with me he almost said, but that wasn’t right. “We talked about it,” he said instead.

Edith took a seat and had a large sip of her beer, purposefully avoiding Fergie’s eye. She didn’t immediately respond—what didn’t sound like he hadn’t heard her—which gave him enough opportunity to sound not mad, just disappointed. Christ, it’d have been easier to explain if he was mad (or easier to leave without explaining because he was mad). She frowned; “I know, it’s just—“ she stopped and shook her head, sliding her fingers behind her glasses to rub her eye. Stalling.

But she needed to explain; he deserved that much after what effort it had taken to even get them to consider her. Edith drummed her fingers on the tabletop, finally bringing her gaze up to his. “I went in with every intention to take it, really.” Really. “But then they asked me to sign something saying I wouldn’t write anything about them. The Ministry.” She shook her head, unable to look away now that she’d made eye contact. “Couldn’t write anything.” Never mind that it just wasn’t right, but what would even be left for her to write about?

“They said I could write positive shite but fuck, everything would have to go through them.” She would need to sign something else saying some Ministry bloke got to read everything before she sent it anywhere because signing that first thing didn’t make her honest, apparently.

She had been talking fast and she glanced away as she offered an apology. “Sorry, like, but—“ Edith caught his eye again. “I’ve got the book to think about, too.” She hadn’t told him about that, yet, but now seemed as good a time as any to drop a couple big pieces of news. Her mouth had gone dry from talking and she used that as her excuse to drain a third of her pint.

Fergie was sat forward in his seat, waiting for an explanation. Edith was avoiding his gaze until she met it. He didn’t exactly try not to look disappointed -- but she had gone in with the intention, and he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, so then he tried a little bit; he kept quiet, letting her continue.

His eyebrows rose in unison, then furrowed, then rose again (she was talking very fast and he was regretting having a couple of beers at home before coming now). That hadn’t been the deal. None of them had said anything to him about her articles, about gagging her. “Edith, I—” He stopped before he’d really started--what book?--but decided it was more important that she knew he hadn’t anything to do with that part of the job offer before he came back to it.

His hand was still wrapped around the cold pint she’d bought him. He drew his hand back to his side of the table and gripped the edge of it. “I didn’t know Edith, I promise.” He pressed his lips together in a line. “If they’d told me I would have warned you,” he said, then frowned into the middle-distance as he thought about it a bit more, “Actually, I would have told them tae get fucked.”

He brought his eyes back to Edith’s. “I wouldnae ask you to sign something like that,” he told her quietly, and meant it. He knew how important writing was to Edith -- or, writing about injustices at least. He spun his glass slowly on the tabletop, then chanced another glance at her. This was supposed to be a celebratory drink(s), but they both looked like they’d just been told someone had died.

Fergie sighed and rubbed at his neck. “Well, s’pose you won’t be wanting to come to the Christmas party then,” he offered her a wry smile. He’d been planning to ask her, tonight, after a few more drinks, now that she’d technically be a Ministry employee so it wasn’t weird of him to ask her.

Edith, I-- She needed a couple more swallows of her before she could focus on the conversation again, explain herself any further.

But God, she hadn’t considered that Fergie had anything to do with it all; that hadn’t even crossed her mind until he mentioned it. Did he feel bad now? Shit. She hadn’t been trying to make him feel bad; this was her complaining and explaining all in one breath. He said he would have warned her if he knew and she believed him, for whatever reason (probably the same reason she hadn’t considered it in the first place). He wasn’t making eye contact but she didn’t really want to because Christ, this was awkward.

Get fucked, though, that was a different sentiment. Edith raised her eyebrows appreciatively, close to smiling until he looked at her and it turned to nervous laughter. He wouldn’t have asked her to sign all of that, and she shrugged. “Right, well, you didn’t ask me.” He wasn’t drinking but she wasn’t following his lead; she didn’t know how else to fill an awkward silence.

Fergie brought up the Christmas party then, and Edith’s eyebrows went up again. “What, like the Department one?” That would make the most sense. But he wasn’t— He didn’t mean it like— They’d seen each other at last year’s part because Kenny had thought it would be a laugh (and she was meeting Elias after he was done with work but she didn’t want to think about that now). It might have still been a laugh this yeah but after today… (and he wasn’t like, asking her to go). “S’pose not.” She had another drink.

“Hope I’m not complicating things.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “For you.” She was talking about the job, not the party, but it took her a second to clarify: “With the job. I know it was your idea.” Surely there was someone who would be a good fit, someone who didn’t also have a personal vendetta against the ministry (because she’d come to realize just now that it was definitely personal with her).

“I—” he opened his mouth to continue defending himself, but Edith was accepting his version of events. Fergie nodded, instead, withdrawing to his side of the table from where he’d been leaning forward in some weird defensive pose that was obviously a little more aggressive than defensive.

“Aye,” he answered her. Then, as he gazed across the small table at the brunette, he thought to feel self-conscious about what he’d been planning. He had been strategic about it -- asking only after she was a Ministry employee again so that if she was horrified by the idea of.. well, of him asking her, he could play it off as something other than what it was. Edith was pretty, and smart, and they’d spent however many hours drinking beer together over the last few months—year, almost, he realised belatedly—but he’d never (successfully) made that leap from friends to—

He didn’t get a chance to ask—properly, because he wouldn’t be jeopardising a working relationship now if she wasn’t coming to the Ministry—before Edith said s’pose not and spooked him out of it. Fergie’s cheeks flushed and he nodded, staring intently at his drink for a long moment. He had a sip (more of a gulp) of his beer and tried to work out whatever his Plan B had been.

“Hm?” He glanced up, a full few seconds after he’d made the noise. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t sober and alert, either. It took another couple, and her prompts, to work out what she meant. “Oh, no.” He shook his head, as if it was preposterous that she could complicate anything. “It’ll be fine,” he said, not looking at her, tapping his fingers against the side of his (rapidly-depleting) glass. “Probably for the best,” he muttered, still thinking about his failed plan to ask her out, rather than the job.

It’ll be fine, he said. Edith wanted to believe him, but he wasn’t exactly trying to be convincing. Probably for the best. She didn’t know what to do with that; was he relieved they weren’t going to be working together? And here she thought he’d be upset she had turned it down.

It wasn’t for the best, anyway. He had convinced her it was the right thing, the good thing to do, and she had let herself be convinced. She needed to be an active part of the reform she was writing about. Without the active participation, actively trying to do something (even if it was just revamping Ministry procedures for liaising with muggles and muggleborns), it was all just words. And now she felt like she couldn’t do one without the other; it had been obvious to her that she couldn’t give up writing--or let someone else have say over what she wrote--for the more active role, but it was just now dawning on her that writing wouldn’t be the same now, either.

Christ.

“You want another?” Edith pointed at what was left of his drink, though she was already getting up because she wanted another. She finished off her pint after standing up straight and turned back toward the bar after giving Fergie a nod. She ordered two more of the same and after half a second of hesitation, she ordered a double shot of whiskey, too. She didn’t bring the whiskey back to the table, finishing it off at the bar because this would be a less weird conversation if she were properly drunk, right?

She returned with their pints, had a sip of hers before she sighed, trying to figure out how to fill the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “Too bad about the party.” It was, really. They were fun; the punch was always good; Beardy was always in good spirits; Liz always seemed so annoyed. She was almost sad she would miss out on Boswell’s singing. “You can ditch and come drink with me anyway,” she suggested, looking at Fergie as she did. That’s what they would be doing at the party anyway, drinking.

What was he supposed to do now? He was sure he’d get an earful about it tomorrow, at work -- and now that he probably wasn’t going to ask Edith to the Christmas party where they’d both be subjected to whatever fallout there was going to be from this, he wasn’t sure he would want to go to it on his own. Then again, maybe it’d all be fine and he was just going down a spiral of worst case—

Edith was getting to her feet and Fergie looked at her--about to say she didn’t have to leave just because it hadn’t worked out--but— did he want another? “Aye, yeah,” he said, mirroring her and finishing what little was still in his glass. After he had, and after Edith had left him to go to the bar, he wished he hadn’t finished it because now he had nothing to distract himself with, and he realised he probably should have been the one to go up and get a round because this was now her second in a row.

“Sorry—” he began apologising in the same moment she spoke. Fergie blinked, unsure if now was his opportunity to have another go, but— He laughed, mostly out of nerves. After a moment of not saying anything--drinking again--he realised he should; “I might,” he said, licking his lips, then bit down softly on his bottom lip as he tried to weigh the pros and cons— “Or you could still come,” he offered, keeping his eyes on her.

She mirrored him as he drank, not answering her. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to ditch the party, right? She wouldn’t have missed it if it weren’t for the whole… ‘throw away all the good things you’re finally figuring out so you can kind of do other good things, just with no integrity’ thing the Ministry had thrown at her only an hour ago. Fergie laughed, which wasn’t exactly reassuring, so Edith had another drink. The whiskey she’d knocked back was already catching up to her, and it took her an extra second to realize he was saying something again. Might. Better than an outright rejection, anyway. She probably needed to take a break from drinking exclusively in London, anyway; Lunt had a perfectly good pub and it didn’t cost an arm and a leg and she didn’t have to apparate home on a wish and a prayer that she wasn’t really that drunk.

Or, she could still go to the party. It was Edith’s turn to laugh nervously. “Could, yeah.” She nodded, meeting Fergie’s eye, hoping he would say more to let her know if he was asking her or asking her, because now that she had considered it a few minutes ago, it was hard not to consider it now. But he didn’t say anything immediately, so she filled the silence herself: “Would be weird, right?” She meant that like it would be weird after the job rejection today, and it took her a beat to realize how it might have sounded if he had in fact been asking her, which… she still wasn’t sure he was. Christ.

“I don’t mean weird with you,” she clarified; she did want to spend time with him, had just asked him for a drink, had just implied that he was asking her but Jesus, what if he wasn’t? He was just being friendly and making a point: she had gone last year, even after quitting. “Not with you,” she clarified again. “That is not what you meant.” She laughed again and had another drink, looking anywhere else but at Fergie.

Edith laughed at his suggestion and Fergie lowered his gaze awkwardly--he supposed he hadn’t exactly asked, he’d presented her with a hypothetical--then brought his attention back up to meet hers. They were kind of staring at each other, and Fergie wished he'd had the forethought to move his seat a little closer while she'd been at the bar, make this easier than trying to be heard over the hum of the pub -- he wasn’t going to just lunge at her (he wasn’t that drunk), but he could have, like, gone for a tentative hand hold or something. He wished, too, that he had the confidence that some of his friends had -- he would have just told her by now—

Would be weird, right? Fergie stared at Edith for a long second before he sat back a little in his chair. He swallowed and nodded, not quite managing a smile the way she had -- it would be weird, she was right, but—

He met her eye again. Edith said it again -- stressing the with this time instead of the you (him). She told him that wasn’t what he meant and laughed -- again. He still hadn't said anything, had definitely had too many beers in anticipation of this and— Was she laughing because it (them) was laughable or because she was as nervous as he was and—

If he didn’t just tell her now he'd probably never work up the courage to. And if she wasn’t interested that was fine, he’d been friends with girls he’d liked before, this would just be like that. They wouldn’t be working together now either, so surely that was another reason to— And he’d regret not asking, especially if someone else swooped in like—

“What if I did?” he asked abruptly, and Edith's expression prompted him to clarify; “Want you to go with me." He waited another beat before doubling down: "With me."

He wasn’t saying anything and Edith didn’t bother looking at him to try to gauge how uncomfortable he was. She had made this weird by saying that would be weird-- she had another drink and continued avoiding any eye contact, which was working well for her so far. Her eyes felt heavy all of the sudden--the blinking, specifically--and she remembered the (double) shot of whiskey she’d had a few minutes ago. It was still a good choice, even with the hindsight.

What if he did? Edith blinked again and looked back at him, brow slightly furrowed as she took a second to catch up-- what if he did what? He couldn’t be talking about-- he was-- she tightened her grip on her glass, somehow still making eye contact with him. Surely he meant it as friends because they were already friends and the drinks would be free and-- nope. With him. The same emphasis she’d made a moment ago, when she had been making a point about him not asking her like that.

Edith realized her mouth was open after a second of not saying anything; she thought that maybe she was making sure he had really said that, or that she had heard him right, or that he wasn’t about to change his mind and take it back. Could she ask him to repeat himself so she could be really sure? Probably not. It felt like a long time passed before she said anything, but she pretty quickly decided to just go for it: “I’d go with you.” She didn’t overly emphasize the with this time, but it was definitely the focal point of her sentence.

Christ, what if he was kidding? He wasn’t, of course; that wasn’t Fergie. Or was it? She felt like she barely knew him, even if she knew that wasn’t true. (It said a lot about her self-confidence, but she wasn’t about to figure that out now.) “Like a--? date, Fergie said, and Edith swallowed, tilting her chin down in the smallest of nods. “Date, yeah.” Her grip was still tight on her glass, but she didn’t notice. She replayed the last ten seconds in her head and nodded again, more sure this time. “Yeah,” she said again, one side of her mouth pulling up in a small smile.

Fergie kept his eyes on Edith, anxiously awaiting some sort of response -- she was just staring back at him, her lips parted (was this the moment he should lean in? But what if she didn’t want him to? And they were too far away for him to reach her on his own without her coming to the party—). 

Edith answered him (finally) and his lungs felt like they’d been deprived of air, and were now suddenly awash with it -- a different sort of strangling feeling to the kind from a moment before. If he had thought hearing her reciprocate his feelings— Was she, though? She didn’t sound very enthusiastic. Had she understood what he’d meant? Merlin, he should have just said it outright from the start, saved them both labouring over it like this. “Date,” he swallowed, finishing the thought for her and making his position, at least, abundantly clear.

His expression shifted into one of concern at her reaction -- maybe he ought to give her the out, if she was only saying yes to— Fergie returned Edith’s smile hesitantly. “Yeah?” he half-asked, taking his first full, freeing breath as the invisible weight on his chest lifted. He chewed on his bottom lip and glanced at her fingers, wrapped around her glass, then flicked his attention back up to meet her hazel eyes, more brown in the light of the pub. He offered her another small smile. “I—” He lowered his gaze to the table, at an indiscernible point between them, then laughed and let his shoulders relax. “I was worried you wouldn’t…” he trailed off, biting on his lip again.

This was the point where he would normally kiss the girl he’d just asked out (who’d said yes), but they were in the middle of a pub full of people, with a small table between them, and he’d never made the transition from friends to… boyfriend and girlfriend, he realised— Or, maybe he was getting ahead of himself. They hadn’t even gone on a date yet -- if the DMAC Christmas Party really counted -- it wasn’t like a proper one-on-one sort of date, but hadn’t they done plenty of hanging out just the two of them in the last year? Fergie rolled his lips and smiled smally at Edith again, figuring he better keep some semblance of a conversation going to avoid falling into an awkward silence. “I— Are your parents doing the solstice thing again this year? For Christmas?”

Yeah? “Yeah,” she confirmed again, smiling a little bit more as her gaze slid over Fergie’s face. They were going on a date--to the DMAC Christmas party, but like, together--and it took Edith a second for her brain to catch up, feel how quickly her heart was beating, realize she was paying a little too much attention to him chewing on his lip. (The pub was not the place.) She brought her gaze up and caught his eye, allowing herself another smile; she could worry later if it was too soon or whatever.

I-- Fergie started, and stopped, and Edith’s breath caught in her throat; that was quick, him changing his mind-- except he wasn’t. He had been worried she would have said no and Edith laughed, relieved. But also, had he seen himself? Even if she hadn’t actually been interested… but she was, so-- she was getting sidetracked, but at least she had enough social awareness to not say any of these things aloud. And somewhat related to all of that, did he bite his lip often? She hadn’t noticed it until now, but she also probably hadn’t stared at his lips so intently before.

Christ, she needed to say something. Or: Edith shrugged, her smile closer to a grin.

But now what? She didn’t want to talk about the job again, not after that. She loosened her grip on her glass, glancing at her beer for a second before taking another drink, giving herself another chance to think of something else to talk about. It was like her mind had gone blank, forgetting everything they would have talked about normally, if not for the date. Maybe they should discuss logistics; were they meeting there, or--? Fergie figured out something conversational before she could overthink it too much more (and he smiled, which also helped). “Yeah.” Solstice was every year, and it wasn’t for Christmas, but she cut herself off before she could get too pedantic. “Monday morning,” she continued, rolling her eyes, because it was Monday morning at seven fucking a.m. “Starts Sunday night, though,” she added with a small laugh-- her parents would sleep it off until Christmas, probably.

“When are you going to Spain?” She assumed he was because he always did. She had another drink and restarted overthinking. Were they going to have one date and then not see each other until whenever he got back from his holiday? It could be a good thing, if the date was terrible--she still remembered all the feedback from her ill thought out Maja and Fergie setup--but he had asked her and she had a good feeling about it, somehow. At least, it wasn’t a bad feeling. “Are you taking Bonnie?” The puppy was clearly easier to ask about.

Fergie had a sip of his pint (had lost count what number he was up to now) and nodded, then smirked softly -- that Monday morning didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic. “Do you go all night?” he asked, then quickly had another (longer) sip because he was overthinking everything he was saying now and didn’t that sound—

“Hm?” His eyebrows rose and he lowered his glass, licking his lips free of foam. “Erm,” he glanced upwards as he tried to get his days in order; “Tuesday. I got Christmas Eve off.” He tried to remember if he had told Edith he was going to Spain or if she had just (correctly) assumed he was going because that was what he did every year.

Fergie opened his mouth, then paused, frowning. “I… actually hadn’t thought about that,” he admitted with a look of mild surprise on his features. How had he not thought about Bonnie? He’d never had to be responsible for something before -- except his sister, who could take a port key with him. He couldn’t cancel Majorca, but he also didn’t feel right leaving Bonnie in a kennel for over a week -- she was only seven months old, and it wouldn’t be very Christmassy to leave her alone (or, alone with a bunch of other dogs) -- and what were the chances of all the kennels being booked up at this short notice?

His attention drifted back to Edith and he chewed on his lip again. “Would you—” Fergie was fairly sure she would, Edith loved Bonnie, but Edith had a Christmas--solstice--of her own to enjoy. “Do you think your parents would be alright if you could… look after her maybe?” he asked apologetically. “I— Or I can probably work something out, if not, it’s no bother, I just—” he grimaced, “— didn’t think about it.”

Fergie was leaving Tuesday so tomorrow night would kind of be… It. There’d be no do overs until after the new year. But it also took some of the pressure off, sort of; if it was a horrible date--date!--she wouldn’t be seeing him until after the new year. She was too busy overthinking it all, trying to figure out which was really the better outcome here, that she didn’t remember to actually say anything about him leaving Tuesday, getting Christmas Eve off. She offered a belated, “That’ll be nice,” hoping he would credit the pint for her spacing out.

The dog--and asking about her--was something easy to talk about, something that Edith couldn’t overthink because she was already doing far too much of that. But he hadn’t thought about bringing Bonnie, and Edith’s eyebrows shot up. She grimaced a little, then had another drink because she wasn’t trying to like, make him feel bad about it or anything. She had been curious what international travel looked like for a dog that didn’t include getting on an airplane.

Would you-- her eyebrows went up again (though they hadn’t really lowered since the last time, either) and she nodded, realizing a second later she should probably have waited for him to finish the question. She had another swallow of her drink and tried to relax her face, not-so-vaguely wondering if he could see the flush of her cheeks. He finished his question and Edith nodded, just barely missing spilling her drink down her chin in her eagerness to agree. “They’ll be fine.” They wouldn’t, probably, but what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them-- could she feasibly hide a dog for a week? No, but it was funnier to pretend (to herself, at least) that she would try.

“No, really,” she said as he started backtracking and making excuses for himself. She hadn’t considered it before, watching Bonnie, but now she was sure it was the thing to do. It was enough to make her forget she was worried about the date going poorly (and in the event it was a horrible date she would still want to watch the dog, even if that would be awkward for all parties involved-- but on second thought, maybe she wouldn’t want to, so no pressure, or anything).

She was quickly thinking about the logistics of traveling from London to Lunt and back again. “Do you apparate with her or…?” She’d never thought about it, had never really needed to. “I can take the train,” she offered, because that would be the most reasonable thing. She had been taking the train a lot lately, rather than risk apparating home; that, and it was a nice opportunity for a two hour nap. She would probably need to take the train after this, she realized with a glance at her half empty pint.