try again [fergie]

Edith, he said, and she smiled, pushing herself up, pulling her legs up under her to sit cross-legged, still ensconced in the duvet. She had been awake long enough for her eyes to adjust reasonably well to the dark, well enough to know he was still standing there, not pulling his sweatpants back up. Was she staring? (She was.) Did he know she couldn’t actually make out any details without her glasses? It would be weird to mention it now, draw attention to how she was definitely staring.

But whatever she could or couldn’t see, he didn’t have to leave for another hour— no, she wasn’t bold in the morning. Or while sober. They had further plans already, in about ten hours. She didn’t need to focus on the one hour. Until he mentioned having a shower, trailing off like he was expecting her to do something with that information, but again: morning, sober.

Breakfast she could work with, though. “Right.” She leaned forward and reached for her glasses on the bedside table, pulling the duvet back over her shoulders as she sat back and slipped her glasses on. She smirked—barely, trying to be subtle—because he was still.. there. Like that. “Did you, er—“ she kept her gaze up, meeting his eye— “Want some food?”

“I can make toast.” She made the offer assuming he had bread and— “If you have a toaster.”

Edith sat up and Fergie straightened up, his ankles still trapped by his sweatpants. Was she staring? He couldn't quite make her features out in the gloom, but his cheeks flushed at the thought anyway; his hands were hanging limply by his sides, despite the overwhelming desire to cover himself, but there was no way to do that without making it obvious. She shifted to get her glasses and he realised that maybe she hadn't been able to see him that well, after all that, but could now — or better, at least. Did he—

Food, right. He nodded. "Yeah," he bit his lip softly, then grinned; "I've a toaster, aye," he said quietly. He let his gaze fall and decided to step out of his joggers properly—couldn't very well pull them back up, what sort of message would that send?—and then he was wondering what the message of undressing gave, too and—

Damn right, it's better than yours. I can teach you, but I have to charge—

Fergie lunged at the radio alarm clock and snoozed it, then turned it off properly. "Sorry," he mumbled, blushing over something he had no control of. "I'll— shower," he said, and turned and walked out of the room swiftly.

Should he have offered Edith a shower? Or to use the loo before he went in? She seemed content to stay in bed, to be honest — and wouldn’t he be, too, if he had the option?

He showered quickly, conscious of the fact that Edith was in his house while he did so. By the time he came out of the bathroom Edith wasn’t in the bedroom anymore—he hadn’t had the forethought to take clean underwear and clothes in with him, so was thankful for the solitude—and then came through to the kitchen, where she was sat nibbling on some toast. He fastened the button on his shirt sleeve, fumbling over it. “Find everything?”

Well she was definitely staring now. Her gaze slipped over him, taking advantage of not being looked at for a second. Had she suggested toast? Toast could wait. She opened her mouth to say something—something along the lines of come back to bed but probably a bit more awkward— Fuck.

Edith’s eyes went wide as the alarm blared again. (How heavily did Fergie sleep that this was how he needed to be woken up?) But she smiled, more at Fergie’s apology than anything else. “It’s okay.” But he was going to shower. “Okay.” Whatever boldness she had been feeling a second before the alarm went off was gone. She waited until he was definitely gone—and she watched him leave—until getting out of bed, scooping the rest of her clothes off the floor. He had seen her last night but, as is wont to happen in the presence of someone unnecessarily attractive, she was feeling self-conscious. She pulled on her jeans, socks, and hoodie, checking her pockets to make sure everything was present and accounted for.

Shoes in hand, she walked back to the kitchen, smiling when she saw Bonnie and offering a soft, “Hiya.” She set her shoes down and started pulling cupboards open to find bread; the toaster was already out, right next to the kettle, which Edith flipped on before continuing her search. Bread—whole grain, which made sense based on the other contents of his cupboards—found, she placed two slices in the toaster, moved to the fridge to find the butter. There was also jam, and Edith paused; she had no idea how he took his toast and she sure as hell wasn’t about to pop in and ask him now. She removed the butter and the jam, found everything for tea, and used what time was left before the toast popped to attempt to smooth down her hair, hopefully look slightly presentable.

She started in on her toast (butter, no jam) before she heard the shower turn off, placed two more slices of bread in when she did. She was sitting again when Fergie came into the kitchen, looking nice, smelling nice. “Yup.” She had found everything. The kettle clicked off and she stood to tend to that, but she got sidrtracked as Fergie moved to do up his other button. “Here—“ she took a step forward as she brushed the crumbs off her hands— “Let me.” It was habit, really; she would have done the same with Elias, which she realized at the most inopportune moment.

Edith wasn’t clever enough to take time with the button. but she was awkward enough to linger in his personal space once she was done. “Is this what you’re wearing tonight?”

Yup. Fergie pressed his lips together in an awkward smile and nodded. He tried to think what else he could say; it had been a while since he had—and he hadn’t had work the next morning then, nor wanted so much not to have to go—and this was different, anyway: it was Edith.

She got to her feet as the kettle came to the boil and— Fergie stopped fumbling distractedly with his other cuff and held his arm out for her (still bent at the elbow, to keep close to one another). His eyes searched Edith’s face. He should kiss her. Now was the right time, dispel all this quiet tension— She finished and looked up to catch him staring and Fergie gave her another small smile. She didn’t move out of his space.

He glanced down at his crisp white shirt and grey suit trousers (wool, in the winter). “Er, no— I was gonna come home and change.” Something a little more casual, but then he realised that he’d probably just be putting on another version of what he was wearing now. Still: “Meet you here,” he added as a reminder — and maybe to check that this was still alright. Did he need to offer for her to stay over (again), so she didn’t have to train home? It seemed like it went without saying, now. He’d leaned in, subconsciously, his eyelids drooping—

The toast popped up and he could hear Bonnie scratching around on the tiles, reminding him that she was ready and willing to accept the crusts if he didn’t want them, but— Toast could wait. He dipped his head to press his lips to Edith’s, kissing her softly.

Edith met Fergie’s eye for half a second, dropping her gaze when it got to be a little much. She looked straight ahead, but that just meant she was staring right at his lips— and that was a little much, too.

She glanced down when he did, though she was immediately conscious of where (what) she was staring (at) and she looked back up quickly, her cheeks warm, nodding a little to show she was still listening. He was going to come home and change, which didn’t really help her figure out what she ought to wear. It was different, this time; she didn’t work at the Ministry (officially, again, as of yesterday) but this was different from last year, when she also didn’t work at the Ministry.

But Fergie would meet her here, and Edith smiled. “Yeah,” she said, a bit distracted, still thinking about what she was going to wear (but still aware enough to have those it’s a date sirens going off in her head). She knew for a fact, at least, that she would be washing her hair. Brushing it, too. She had already considered not going home after the party--for a repeat of last night, she would be slow to admit--but it felt different thinking that while standing so close to Fergie. It was easier to stress over before, when he had been out of the flat; now, it was a nice thought.

The toast popped and Edith was nearly jolted out of it; nearly because Fergie hadn’t reacted, save for getting a little closer. Hadn’t he? He had. She closed her eyes as their lips met, and she returned the kiss without a second thought. Her mind was blank, save for thoughts of Fergie, and kissing him, and their date later that night and-- so, maybe not so blank. One thing led to another and she frowned, just barely--still kissing him--as it occurred to her that she should probably get him a better Christmas present than the bottle of beer--a specialty cask brew, but still--she had already bought him.

She could figure that out later; there were better things to focus on now: as she wrapped her arms around his waist, she decided she would bring a toothbrush for after the party (and tomorrow morning).

Edith pulled back after another minute (or two), smiling again, her arms still holding him closely to her. “Right, I--” she exhaled, almost laughing, because it was kind of absurd he would want to keep kissing her-- “Will meet you here later, then.” She took another couple of breaths, trying to convince herself to ask if he could be a little late for work, but she chickened out at the last minute. “I should probably get home before my parents wake up.” She had been a little too distracted to call them last night, tell them she hadn’t fallen into a ditch.

She hadn’t flinched away, but then he hadn’t really expected her to — or maybe he would have before last night, but not now; something had changed overnight — or perhaps it was changing this morning, right now, with this kiss. Gone was the gentle—if, at times, borderline awkward—friendship, to be replaced with the level of closeness that allowed Edith to help him with his shirt cuffs, and to wrap her arms around him as they kissed in his kitchen.

Fergie realised, as he rested one hand on the side of Edith’s slender neck, that that awkwardness—before—had likely been the result of an underlying tension, at least on his part; he wasn’t about to assume Edith had felt this way for as long as he potentially had — he wasn’t even entirely sure when he’d gone from seeing Edith as someone from work to this. He’d always thought she was pretty, but she had had a boyfriend when they’d first started hanging out — and what did that mean, if she’d broken up with him? In hindsight, that was probably when Fergie had started looking at her differently, without exactly meaning to.

The possibility of calling in sick occurred to him again—or at least starting late—but Edith pulled back and it was as though his head cleared and sense returned (would be a bit keen, wouldn’t it?). She smiled up at him and Fergie couldn’t help but smile back — the expression stretching into a grin as she exhaled. He chewed on his bottom lip softly and let the hand on her neck slip down to her upper arm, not in any hurry to fully break apart from their loose embrace.

But she would meet him here later; “Yeah,” he replied, rather unnecessarily. Neither of them were moving, and Fergie breathed in— paused, at the end of his inhalation, to listen to Edith, then exhaled with a nod and a light laugh. He had forgotten for a moment that she lived with her parents. “Right, aye.” He hesitated for a second, then let the hand on her arm drop, reluctantly. He opened his mouth to say something — he wasn’t sure what, and for some reason thanks popped into his head but thank Merlin he managed not to let that slip out. He cleared his throat softly. “I’ll see you tonight, then,” he half-asked, even though she’d just said she would. 

Fergie took half a step back and out of the way to let Edith pass, then followed her down the short hallway to the entryway to see her out (with Bonnie hot on their heels). “I should be home about five,” he told Edith as he watched her hand fall upon the door knob, because they hadn’t gotten that far in the plan and— well, the party didn’t start officially until seven, but that didn’t mean she had to wait until then to pop around. “I’ll need to let Bonnie out,. change...” he trailed off and brought his eyes up to meet hers, holding the contact for a second too long; “Just come over whenever you want,” he murmured.


[ out ]

Edith needed to go home, Fergie needed to go to work, but neither of them were moving to do so. Her hands were at either side of his waist, her thumbs slowly sliding over the fabric of his shirt. She let them fall to her sides only after Fergie had moved his; it was odd to feel like something was missing now, even though they were still standing so close. It was going to be a long day, waiting for tonight.

And she would see him tonight. “Yeah,” she said, one side of her mouth curling up into a lopsided smile. She’d go home, maybe go back to sleep for a while, figure out what to wear for their date— she didn’t want to tell her parents about it (because they’d embarrass her with their questions) and she definitely wouldn’t be telling them about last night. She needed to mention Bonnie though, and the job— the job. She had forgotten all about the job until now, distracted by a few other things. Eh; one thing at a time.

She stepped around Fergie, grabbing her shoes and stepping out into the hall. She pulled her shoes on with one hand, her other hand bracing herself against the wall, taking a second to maneuver into them without untying the laces. Her coat was right where she’d left it, and Edith shrugged it on before heading for the door, unsure what she would say because right, bye like usual didn’t seem to fit.

But Fergie saved her the trouble, telling her he’d be home around five. “Alright.” There’d be Bonnie and changing and there was plenty of eye contact and— nope, she was leaving. But she would be back whenever she wanted, apparently, and she smiled again. “Alright.” (Not much better than right, bye but she had no other ideas.) Her hand was on the door handle and she let herself out after another second, glancing around for anyone before she met Fergie’s eye one more time; with another little smile, she disappeared with a small pop.

[[ end ]]