[highlands] more of the same thing [fergie]

27 march 2004 // scottish highlands

Honey’s wellies squished as she walked through the mud, half a step behind her brother. Bonnie was a few steps behind her, and she was the whole reason they had come outside in the first place. Of course there were plenty of other reasons to momentarily ditch the party, but Bonnie was the excuse they had made. It was their dad’s seventy-fifth birthday, and Honey had made him a cake--a regular, three-tier cake with absolutely zero magical touches--but so had their granny. Honey had been in a mood as soon as she saw it; the mood only got worse as the cousins took pieces of Granny’s cake, and not Honey’s.

“No one’s eating it,” she said again, for probably the fourth time. “Cannae believe it.” Her parents had half--half!--a slice each, but they were like, contractually obligated to because they were her parents. And it was Ambrosius’s birthday--or it was a few days ago, but it was his party--so he had to have cake. Honey didn’t want to complain or be frustrated or-- this would never have happened if their family knew anything about her job. Her shop.

Honey sighed dramatically as she stooped to pick up a stick, turning to wave it in front of Bonnie’s face before she threw it up ahead. Bonnie promptly ignored it, too focused on all the new smells she was discovering, the pungent odors of the sheep farm. Fergie and Honey were walking towards the bonfire--it had survived the drizzle that had driven everyone inside--and Honey held her mug out for Fergie. “Warm this up for me?”

She traded for his mug, freeing up a hand for him. He knew she didn’t have her wand--her mother confiscated it whenever they visited her family--and that the mugs were doing nothing to keep their warm Ribena… warm. Especially after she had added the Hendrick’s.

“What’s your hen up to tonight?” She asked, raising her eyebrows as she took a sip of Fergie’s cooling drink. He didn’t think he had mentioned his new status to their parents yet--or she would have never heard the end of it from them--so now was as safe as ever to ask.

@Fergie Flume

Honey was complaining about nobody eating her cake (again). Fergie had been nicer about it the first two times, before he’d had more gin (Honey’s idea). “Told you, should have done carrot,” he said unhelpfully, and had a swig of his (luke)warm Ribena.

His sister ducked out of his vision and Fergie turned, then flinched — for a moment thinking she was about to throw the stick at him in retaliation (wouldn’t have been the first time) before he remembered the dog. Fergie glanced backwards at Bonnie, who was daintily trying to move through the muddy field on only the grassy bits — their Uncle Ferguson had already called her a ‘city dog’ for being wary of the sheep, so Merlin only knew what he’d make of this. At least she was pausing to sniff things every now and then (“Like a real dog”).

Fergie glanced from Honey’s outheld mug, to her face, back towards the house where everyone was inside in the dry. He pressed his lips together in a line and took the drink from her, handing over his. “Can’t believe Mum’s still not let you have your wand,” he said, drawing his out from his jeans. Shielding the act with his back turned away from the house, he magically warmed the contents of her mug; steam immediately began rising off the surface of the dark purple liquid. “Actually,” he said, “I can.” Honey was hardly inclined to be discreet about anything, ever, so he didn’t think heating up her Ribena would have gone unnoticed by their muggle relations either.

“Erm, dunno,” he said, sneaking a glance at Honey out of the corner of his eye and then wishing he hadn’t when he saw her face. “I didnae want to scare her off,” he explained quickly, before he was accused of keeping his girlfriend a secret, or (worse, in Honey’s eyes he was sure) keeping his family a secret. “Just, everyone all at once.” Fergie gestured for Honey to take her mug back, then repeated the process of heating his own mug.

He stashed his wand away and pulled his woollen jumper back down, then had a sip — immediately enjoying the gin and Ribena more now that it was properly warm. He put his free hand back in his pocket and they trudged on towards the bonfire, the heat of it cutting through the drizzle as they got close. His cheeks flushed, but not just from the fire — he had been avoiding talking to Honey about Edith as much as possible, but it had been three months now (not that he was counting) so it felt safe to do so. “She’s not big into parties, I don’t think.”

Honey shrugged; she could believe her mum wouldn’t let her have her wand; either Fergie didn’t remember (he had been seven, maybe) or he honestly had no idea why she had hexed one of their cousins, ages ago. Regardless, it had put an end to them calling him ‘Fat Fergie’. (It might have also started ‘Potato Ferg’ but that was an improvement, at least.) She shifted quickly to rolling her eyes when he said he could believe it. “Aye, if anyone can drag out a punishment twenty years, it’s Mum.” She wasn’t about to agree that it was probably for the best. She loved to show off and it would be especially tempting now to give herself some sort of credit-- no one was eating the cake she made.

It was much easier and much more preferable to talk about Fergie though (and as an added bonus, it had the potential to make him uncomfortable). She laughed as he mentioned scaring his hen off. She thought she could understand that, though she had never put herself in that position. Only one of her serious boyfriends had even met her parents (aside from any school-day interactions at the shop, she assumed) and the thought of then introducing him to the family at large had never crossed her mind. That said, she couldn’t exactly picture any of her exes on a sheep farm. She traded mugs again as she nodded, had a sip of her own. “They’re a lot.” The Flumes were a lot, never mind the rest of them.

She held onto her Ribena (and gin) with both hands, keeping them warm as they resumed walking toward the fire. He said Edith--Honey remembered her name, now, after meeting her--didn’t like parties and she raised her eyebrows, skeptical. “She’s not?” Honey couldn’t imagine not not liking parties-- she knew people who didn’t, had dated people who didn’t, so maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched that Fergie had found someone like that.

But at least she liked to drink, or did enough when Honey had met the lovebirds for drinks last month. Still, Fergie didn’t seem like he was about to admit he hadn’t told their parents about her, so Honey prompted him (after another larger sip of her drink): “Gonnae no tell them about her?”

“Aye.” They were a lot.

Fergie had a drink and pulled a face as it burned a little too hot down his throat, still half-expecting the same tepid temperature from before, despite having cast the charm himself — blame being distracted. He coughed lightly with his mouth closed (his free hand was in his pocket). “No, not really.” Now that he was telling Honey this, he was wondering if he was right — did she dislike parties or just that one they had both dipped out of? He’d been too focused on other things at the DMAC Christmas party to notice if she was enjoying it (she’d seemed happy enough, and he didn’t want to think so highly of himself to assume that was because of him). “Or maybe just, people. I dunno.” He was focusing rather intently on the flames of the bonfire. “Or new people, maybe.” Maybe he just didn’t know.

He had another drink of his Ribena and looked at Honey, licking his lips. He looked back at the fire. “I’ll tell them later,” he promised. “Mum and Dad,” he clarified; he had no intention of announcing he had a girlfriend to their extended family — he’d need to discuss that with Edith first, and that seemed like a more serious conversation than they were ready for just yet. At least she was a muggleborn, so she’d know how to act normal — when (if) the time came.

“I told you,” he pointed out, hoping that reminding Honey of this act of brotherly trust would keep her from blurting it out later in the night. Had had them meet, even — which was more courtesy than Honey tended to show him. Then again, it wasn’t like Fergie always had to meet them, when she slept with his pals. He glanced at his sister out of the corner of his eye, wondering if that hunch he had about her and Lysander was true, but— surely not. He was into competitive gobstones, for Merlin’s sake — far cry from an international quidditch player or (grimace) rockstar. He supposed Will was a bit more normal, but he was still a good looking bloke with a fancy job.

“You not found yourself a new boyfriend yet? You know that’s the first thing Mum’ll ask once I tell her.”

Fergie was trying to explain Edith, and Honey sipped her Ribena. “Hmm,” she said into the mug before she had another sip, starting to worry he was dating a weirdo. (At least she seemed better than Vicky, so far.)

“Aye, right.” Honey rolled her eyes, not really believing he was going to tell them. She imagined he would eventually, of course, but she had waited so long to tell them about Harlan that their breakup had seemed very quick, quicker than it was (though it was still her longest relationship). All that to say, she wasn’t about to give him advice on his timeline for telling them.

He had told her, though. Honey nodded. “Aye, true.” But would he have told her if Honey hadn’t paid Fergie a surprise visit, only to be turned away at the door because he was entertaining a guest? He might have; he was terrible at keeping secrets. Except Honey’s secrets, apparently; if their mum and dad knew things Fergie knew about her-- Honey didn’t want to think about it.

Honey laughed into her gin. “No.” It was muffled by her mug, but it was clear enough that she didn’t have a new boyfriend. (She didn’t tack on the yet, like Fergie did.) She was reminded of her conversation last week with Charlie--about him not being her boyfriend, then (and the now had been implied)--but she wasn’t about to disclose that secret. “I know,” she said instead, agreeing that Mum would ask.

“Maybe she’ll stop asking once she has grandkids.” Honey raised her eyebrows, holding them up for a second--getting Fergie’s attention--before waggling them briefly. “Hope Edith knows what she’ll be dealing with, with her.”

Fergie shot Honey a sidelong glance but bit his tongue; he really was planning on telling them (soon), but he had wanted to do it in person rather than via owl or over the telephone — and after this, so that Edith wouldn’t have felt obligated to come to a big family thing so soon.

His tactic had seemingly worked to distract Honey, for now. Nevermind that he hadn’t exactly intended to tell her quite in the manner he had—for his own sake and Edith’s, more so than Honey’s—but he supposed that it had been a good way to politely request she stop using his flat as her own personal floo station in London.

Fergie rolled his eyes softly and muttered “Surprise, surprise,” into his own mug. He knew he ought not to be so hard on her, given how her last relationship had gone — he was still holding back from making the point that trying to date someone you’d previously been having an affair with probably wasn’t the best place to start, but again, he was trying to be nice. She had tried, which was more than she’d done previously — and judging by her reaction to the way it had ended, Fergie had a suspicion that she had meant to make a real go of it, too; he hadn’t given up hope that she’d find someone worth trying for again one day (hopefully soon, so she could get off his case).

Fergie brought his ribena up and had a sip— choked lightly on it when she said grandkids. He scowled at her—not for bringing up children (he wasn’t opposed), but because him choking had clearly been her fault—and wiped at his mouth with his free hand. “I’ll make sure to let her know,” he said, meaning to warn Edith about his mum (and dad and sister).

“You could help, you know,” he pointed out, “you’re older.” He refrained from stating the obvious—clocks were ticking—in favour of giving her a curious look; they’d never explicitly talked about it, after all — just a lot of assumptions being made, and things were a little less obvious now.

He sighed and turned his attention back to the bonfire, then down to Bonnie, who had sat down between them (closer to Honey). “Least they’ve got a furry grandchild for now.” And that would be all for the foreseeable, unless one of them had an accident — Edith was only… how old was she? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Merlin, when was her birthday?

Honey began to roll her eyes at Fergie’s first surprise, changed course to a scowl as he said it a second time. He wasn’t wrong—it was no great surprise—but did he have to say it in the most annoying way possible?

She didn’t think she was wrong, suggesting grandchildren might distract their mother, and it wasn’t not satisfying to see Fergie react like that— she thought it was equal parts annoyance and embarrassment, and she didn’t mind either. Honey shrugged when Fergie didn’t try to argue with her.

Not that what he said next was any better, mind. He suggested she have the kid, and Honey laughed before having another drink. “Oh, aye,” she said as she lowered her mug just enough. She was older, yes, but— “I’ll have a baby so she’ll stop asking when Am having a boyfriend.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, slow enough to be sure Fergie didn’t miss it. “Think that might backfire,” she said plainly, her mind going in a worse direction; statistically speaking, the most likely candidate for father of her child was Charlie, and that was enough to kill the joking mood. Never mind she was taking every precaution (usually). She spared Fergie the details.

He mentioned the dug and Honey followed his gaze down to Bonnie. “How long will that hold her off?” She asked, actually curious, as she bent at the knee to give her a little pat on the head. Bonnie was cute but Mum was used to the large family—the noise from the house was only proving Honey’s point—and how many grandkids did their aunts have already? It was enough that Honey had lost count, anyway.

“She was thirty-two when she had me.” She had yet to mention that to her mum when the subject came up—Honey didn’t have a death wish—but she wasn’t sure if she could go on without using it as an excuse at some point. “It’s not fair.” Mum being on Honey’s case, she meant. But it begged the question of when it might happen, and she offered an answer without actually being asked. “Maybe by her seventy-fifth.” That still gave her another twelve years. “Good present.”

Fergie’s eyes widened slightly as he swallowed his mouthful. He had meant get a boyfriend, not have a bastard. “I— that’s no what I meant,” he said quickly once he’d finished swallowing — Merlin knew who he’d end up with as an inlaw if that happened.

Fergie went back to trying to work out if he knew when Edith’s birthday was, as a distraction from thinking about someone like Charlie or Lysander becoming his brother-in-law; he didn’t think they’d discussed birthdays yet, other than this birthday, of which the discussion had been pretty minimal for Edith’s sake.

He watched Honey stoop to give Bonnie a pat. “I dinnae ken,” he said, a little defensively. “I wouldnae put it past her bringing it up at the first meet,” he said, having a larger gulp of his ribena and gin. He hoped his mother would have more tact than that, but her it was just a wee joke excuse was well practiced by now, and while it may be just a joke he didn’t want to scare Edith off. He had to forcibly stop himself from allowing himself to go down that track in his mind — kids, but first came—

Thirty-two. Fergie looked at Honey in mild disbelief. Was she forgetting she was almost thirty-one? “Aye..” He kept his eyes on her, one eyebrow raised. She was definitely forgetting she was almost thirty-one, if she was trying to use their Mum’s age as an excuse — that meant she had just over a year to settle down. Of all the impossible things— His brow furrowed as he tried to work out when their mother would be seventy-five, and how old they would be then: forty-three and forty. Merlin.

His eyebrows were getting a workout; they rose again (in unison this time) when Honey said a grandchild would be a good present — he wasn’t about to get into that. But it sounded like she wasn’t against wanting kids, therefore wanting a family. He wondered if she had seen that sort of future with Harlan before he’d broken her trust. “Well, aye, neither of them—” their parents, “—were spring chickens,” Fergie said, in what he hoped was a reassuring way — but not too obviously, in case she got spooked or whatever.

“Think Dad might’ve had a heart attack if you’d told him you were pregnant for his birthday.”

Honey ignored the way Fergie was looking at her, focusing instead on how he was agreeing with her. Their parents weren’t spring chickens--Ambrosius Flume had been in his mid-forties when Honey was born--and she nodded before she agreed with him. “Nope,” she said, popping the p for emphasis.

She was mid-sip when Fergie went on, basically telling her it was a good thing she wasn’t pregnant now. She agreed with him, but the way he said it--it sounded accusatory, almost--made Honey narrow her eyes at him. She had literally just been thinking about it--the most likely culprit--and Honey’s expression softened as she rested a hand on her stomach. “Dinnae ken he’d like a wee Banshee bairn?” It was a hard thing to say with a straight face; Honey turned toward the fire and brought her Ribena (and gin) up to hide her smirk (and emphasize that she was definitely not pregnant).

“Fuck,” Honey lowered her mug with a grim laugh, glancing past the fire to the house. “Dae not tell Dad I even joked about it.” Dad or anyone really, and especially not Charlie; she didn’t want to jinx anything. “Cannae get his hopes up,” she added, meaning their dad, not Charlie. She drank again.

It took her a second for Honey to realize Fergie hadn’t laughed, or said anything, and she turned to look at him again. That wasn’t the typical judgey face, more disgusted than usual. “What?” She had an idea what, but he was going to have to say it.

Nope, Honey said, and Fergie felt mildly reassured that she didn’t sound depressed about it (maybe a little irritated, if anything).

Fergie had another drink of his ribena-and-gin. His eyes sought hers out of the corner before he lowered his cup, swallowing a larger gulp than he’d intended — and as a result coughing with his lips closed. He continued to stare at his sister, at her non-existent belly; a wee Banshee bairn, she had said. He wasn’t naive enough to hope that had just been her picking Charlie on purpose to wind him up, though it had certainly had that effect regardless—

Honey drank, reminding him that she wasn’t actually pregnant but Merlin. She was still shagging him, wasn’t she? Or he, her — whatever. He wasn’t sure who he was madder at (Charlie, probably — Honey was his sister). She was laughing, joking as if it was all just that: a wee joke. Fergie didn’t miss the point about their Dad being excited by having Banshee genes in the family—

What?

“There’s a difference between liking his music and being alright with him shagging your daughter,” Fergie answered with a scowl. Just in case the accusation wasn’t clear enough, even though he didn’t really want to know, but it was better to know than find out from someone else— He  threw the dregs of his ribena at the fire. “You’re still seeing him, aren’t you?”

Well, she had been right about Fergie’s combined judgy/disgusted face, but that wasn’t as much of a relief as she thought it might have been. She felt better making him say it out loud, though. Honey rolled her eyes--he was right but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him--before she met his gaze again. “Aye, keep your shirt on.” She rolled her eyes again as she tipped her head back to finish her drink, not sacrificing the dregs to the fire.

There was no chance in asking Ferg to accio a bottle of Hendrick’s; she really needed to work on her wandless magic.

She should have expected his next question, but her eyebrows still went up when he asked it. It was one of those questions he must have known the answer to, but was still expecting her to answer it. Had she ever told him she wasn’t seeing him? (Had she ever said she was seeing him, rather than sleeping with him?) Of course she hadn’t said anything to Fergie about anything; she hadn’t told him about that fight about the quidditch match and had lied about the phone call and done literally everything except talk to him about Charlie because Fergie had already punched him once--

“We’re friends,” she said, as if that would help things. But friends made it sound a little more like she was seeing him which was a bit too close to dating and-- “Wee bairn’s gonnae no happen.” Without getting into detail, she brought things back around to the fact that she was sleeping with Charlie, because that was easier to talk about. Either way, she really wished she had more to drink.

It was almost laughable, the way her eyebrows went up as if she was surprised. Fergie’s brow was furrowed into a disapproving scowl, already anticipating her answer—

“Friends?” He repeated, the scepticism obvious in his tone. He was sure that Honey’s definition of ‘friends’ was rather different to his own; he didn’t make a habit of snogging—or shagging—his friends (except Edith, but that was different because he wouldn’t call Edith his friend now, after. Even before they’d officially bestowed the titles of boyfriend and girlfriend upon one another, in that little interim period, it would have felt like an insult to her to just call her his friend.

Not a problem that Honey and Charlie had, obviously.

Besides all of that, Charlie was his friend. What on earth did Honey even see in him (as a friend or otherwise)? And should he be worried that Honey saw him as a friend? It was just a step away from— No, neither of them were that stupid.

He let out a small scoffing sort of noise when she said she wasn’t about to have a baby with Charlie. Thank Merlin.

In the immediate quiet he felt a little guilty about treating her like this—like she was a numpty—but more than anything he was annoyed. At her, at Charlie— Bonnie grunted and let out a huff of air, as though she were disapproving of them both for bringing the mood down at their Dad’s (her Papa’s) birthday party (at least they’d had the decency to go off on their own to have a wee barmy). Fergie looked down at her but she was closer to Honey, and he didn’t want to shuffle closer to pet his own dog. He went back to staring at the bonfire and sighed, exasperated. “Just— Don’t want him shagging around on you like...” he trailed off, not wanting to say Harlan’s name and really bring the mood down.