flowers in the window. [tag; bérénice]

The mind boggles. The corner of Bérénice’s full lips tugged up into a soft smirk and she kept her warm brown eyes on Will’s face—and his smile—for a long moment before looking out of the window instead, watching the passersby being blown about in the street and the first specks of rain hit the glass in front of them.

She didn’t really want to know— but she also didn’t hold any ill feelings towards Will. They both knew who had been the villain in this story, and he was a gentleman enough not to be holding it over her (apparently). The French witch smiled back — the expression only faltered for a millisecond at the mention of Lydia, whoever she was, before Nice forced herself to smile more genuinely (in appearance, at least) and have a sip of her coffee. It was a little bitter (burnt), and she set the cup back on the saucer as she tried to work out how best to ask about Lydia without coming across as jealous (because she wasn’t), when Will had a question of his own.

“He’s good—” Nice replied distractedly, then paused. Her eyes went round as she gazed straight ahead. How did Will know about Harlan? She had never told him— There was that photo from the Gala, of course, and Will was certainly a newspaper man but— The woman on the footpath outside’s umbrella flipped inside out in a gust of wind and Bérénice swallowed gently. She rearranged her features back into something more composed, and brought her attention back to the Englishman beside her.

“He’s good,” she repeated, folding her hands together on her topmost thigh. “His team are doing well.” She couldn’t quite recall if they were currently in second or third place (third), and wasn’t sure what other information she ought to volunteer about the man she was seeing-but-not-officially-seeing, nevermind him being the same man she had cheated on this man with. A horrifying thought occurred to her, though the calmness with which she posed her question didn’t give her away: “Do you know him?”

He hated to admit it but the look of shock on Bérénice's  pretty face told him everything he needed to know. Will understood that when Honey had dropped the bombshell that it wasn't intentional but with the brunette's accidental admission, everything made sense. He wasn't angry (he was a bit) but he did feel vindicated. The guilt he'd experienced after turfing Bérénice out of his flat had diminished considerably in an instant. He'd struggled for months after the altercation but, with sudden clarity, he realised he hadn't thought of the Frenchwoman in quite some time.
 
At least she had the decency not to refute it. "Are they?" Will asked conversationally as he sipped at his coffee that had begun to cool down rapidly. "I'm a Magpies fan," he lied. He knew diddly-squat about Quidditch and personally, he couldn't see the rage.

He watched her closely as the penny began to drop. Will stayed silent.Bérénice wasn't quick enough to fix her face before her expression fell but he let out a short and quick laugh at her question. "Not personally, no," there was a pause. "Thank goodness." Harlan, to him at least, was a cad. A blackguard. A womaniser. An absolute tool. It didn't matter that the other man had slept with two of his girlfriends or not because the men would never be friends - they were too different. Will couldn't be more thankful.

"You're not the first girlfriend of mine to cheat on me with him." Will spoke and for once, he had no desire to take it back. It was rude and he knew but the urge to make her know that he knew was almost overwhelming. Rather than watch Bérénice’s reaction, he looked past her shoulder and into the street, just in time to see someone's umbrella blow inside out. He could sympathise. If that wasn't a metaphor for his life lately, he didn't know what was.

"Ex girlfriend," he corrected himself politely. He glanced back at her. "I know enough about him," he offered cryptically as he frowned. He didn't want to know any specifics. He also wasn't about to grass on Honey. He'd taken it badly but he was so thankful to the redhead because things could have been much worse.  Long story short,  Bérénice could do much better. And so could Will.

Nice sipped at her coffee again rather than answer what was surely a rhetorical are they? Will said he was a Magpies fan and she set her cup back on the saucer, as if in reply; she didn’t know where the Magpies were based, or if they were some sort of rival team — now that she was thinking about it, she was sure the main competition for the season was of an avian theme, but she wasn’t about to reveal to Will how little she knew on the subject. She had never known him to be interested in the sport either, so she wondered (admittedly a little narcissistically — but rightly so) if he had developed an interest quite recently.

He didn’t personally know Harlan and Bérénice relaxed, if only internally — her posture remained perfect, as always. The distinction had her curious, though, but not enough to ask. However, Will continued and she scowled, offended on Harlan’s (and her own) behalf. What did he mean by thank goodness (other than making his envy obvious)?

She didn’t need to ask, as Will volunteered this information freely a moment later. Nice blinked at him, taken aback by the blunt delivery. The French witch had never used the word cheat herself—it had only been a kiss, she had ended it (with Will) before it became anything more—and it was easier to focus on that than on the rest of that sentence: she wasn’t the first.

Nice was still sitting silent when he amended his previous label, affixing an unnecessary ex- before it. She was too busy trying to work out, firstly, did this mean Harlan did this often? And secondly, what were the chances that he and Will had both seen the same two (more?) women? They couldn’t be more different— on face value, she supposed (books, covers… sprang to mind). Beyond the obvious aesthetic differences, they were both intelligent men; learned and academic. Perhaps that said more about her and this other woman (women?), than it did about Will and Harlan.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Bérénice said finally, her voice rising just above an acceptable level for a conversation over coffee. “It wasn’t his fault,” she continued, aware that they had not delved into the details the last time they had seen one another—not that she had had the opportunity, even if she had wanted it—but she no longer felt the need to bubblewrap his feelings. “I kissed him.” She pushed her coffee away and got to her feet calmly and determinedly. “It was one kiss, and that was all,” she continued, picking up her coat ready to put it on. “And I told you—” broke up with you, she meant, “—before anything else happened.”

Will watchedBérénice, bemused. He hadn't been the most spontaneous or forthright man but watching the brunette sit stiffly made him wonder if he wasn't actually the problem. She said it wasn't fair and he blinked. "Is it not?" He offered mildly, his body language calm. It was sweet of her to fall on her own sword but he wasn't so sure her new boyfriend would repay the favour. Will had spent enough time trying to dissect the ifs and buts about their courtship - he wasn't sure if was Bérénice familiar with the phrase flogging a dead horse - but c'est la vie.

Perhaps he'd thrown a spanner in her plans. It wasn't intentional, of course, but if it caused Bellamy even the slightest inconvenience, so be it. He nodded gently at her insistence that the Quidditch star wasn't to blame but he was offended that she thought so little of his intelligence. "Of course," he said softly, his voice much quieter than hers at that moment. "I suppose he just stood there, completely impassive?" He offered her a smile. It wasn't sarcastic or teasing but something unreadable. Did he find the entire thing funny? Kind of, in a sick and twisted kind of way. "Don't worry," he was quick to tack on. "I absolutely blame you, too."

Bérénice's cup slid across the table and clanged into his. She was up and on her feet as she struggled with her coat and Will thought that was ironic. Or perhaps that was just her modus operandi, to be the first to leave. He shifted, his grip on his cup loose as he crossed his legs as though the ordeal wasn't causing him undue stress, the picture of ease but internally, the anger was mounting.

"That makes things okay, then," Will announced. He'd always suspected that Bérénice and Harlan were sleeping together but to have the facts laid out bare made his stomach twist. One kiss. That was all, apparently. "Did you want me to thank you for that or--?" He asked, eyebrows raising in question. Sex was cheating. Flirting as cheating. A kiss was cheating. That was all, she'd said, like that act of intimacy was excusable. She was mocking him for being so sensitive. Bérénice could dish it out but she couldn't take it.

Will was silent for a moment before he set his lips into a thin line. "How would you like it?" He asked Bérénice, his dark eyes focused on her face, even as she was halfway out of the door. "If the roles were reversed. If I'd kissed someone else," he pressed her. He wasn't sure she'd tell the truth or if she'd even be bothered but they were here now. Looking away from her and back to the windows as the wind swirled the snow around, he sighed frustratingly. "I suppose "cheating" doesn't mean the same in France than it does in England," he told her as he picked up his cup and drained it.

He certainly hadn’t stood there completely impassive, but that was besides the point (Bérénice had still been the ambusher, and Harlan the ambushee), and it took every ounce of self control not to tell William this — she knew how the image would sit and fester, like it had for her, once. She knew it was impossible to believe that it could be just a kiss, but it had been—

I absolutely blame you too. Nice’s face contorted. She deserved that—and more, she knew—but she was so unused to this sort of behaviour from Will that it shocked her. In this moment his demeanour seemed cold and calculated, but later, on reflection, she’d realise it was just spite and envy seeping out in a desperate attempt to make her feel as awful as it had made him feel to find out.

“No, I don’t want you to thank me,” the witch hissed, still doing her best not to make a scene in the small coffee shop — which was hard, given how quiet it was. At the very least the weather outside was doing something to distract the other patrons. “I am just telling you the truth,” she said haughtily as she unfolded her coat and slipped her arms into it, pulling the tie-wrap around her waist—

She paused, mid-tie, and her grip went slack. She exhaled, her eyes closing briefly. “I’d hate it,” she answered him honestly. “I’d hate you,” she continued, meeting his eyes. He looked away, out of the window; the cold light finding every line of his face. She was maybe thirty seconds of guilt-laden silence away from retaking her seat, trying to finish this conversation calmly—

Her fingers twitched, and she pulled the tie tight around her waist after a pause. If they weren’t surrounded by moldu, she might have drawn her wand on him. “It means exactly the same,” she told him harshly, and turned to leave before he could get a last word in. She opened the door and stepped out into the howling wind.


[ out ]

Will hoped that her new boyfriend knew how she was willing to fall on her own sword for him. It was vaillant, perhaps a little misplaced, but ultimately pointless. Bérénice said she was telling the truth and he had to force himself to bite his tongue because catty remarks were bubbling just beneath the surface. He didn't like this. He'd offended her and he knew he should be sorry. He really should be feeling something but as she slipped on her coat, he had no desire to try and stop her.

She finally looked at him and he smiled briefly, his expression halfway between amusement and despair. Bérénice finally got it. Will couldn't blame her too much. He knew what it was like to get completely caught up in someone else but he'd always managed to control himself.

"There you go, then," he nodded in agreement. Of course he didn't hate her. Right now, he didn't like her at all but it had never been hate. He thought he might have once before but it was just his pride and his bruised ego. Will could feel her eyes boring into him but he stared resolutely ahead, seemingly deeply interested in the mini blizzard as the snow came down in flurries, twisting around the shoppers as they hurried past the windows before he looked back at her.

It was a low blow and he'd admit that. There was no language barrier - adultery was clear in every language, a universal action. Bérénice was really leaving now and his legs jerked, wanting to get up and follow her but he forced himself to sit back down. A dozen sets of eyes were on him. A pair of young women were seated by the window, eyes wide as they whispered behind their hands. A middle aged man was focused on his paper, despite reading the same paragraph three times. One of the baristas was openly gawking.

He was up and on his feet, shrugging his coat on clumsily. In his anger-fuelled haste, his buttons were misaligned. He stepped out but couldn't see her in the crowd and he exhaled shortly, turning his collar up against the wind. He'd attempted to slam the door shut with force but the howling gale prevented it and he flushed pink in embarrassment before turning in the other direction and walking away briskly. A Merry Christmas indeed.


[done!]