RP Log: Caradoc and Meaghan
Who: Caradoc and Meaghan Where: Their house in Ireland What: They discuss some of the issues of the day and then Caradoc goes to meet Marlene at the safe house. When: 14 January, prior to 6 PM. Rating: PG
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Meaghan had been sidelined with a headache all day, though whether it was due to a spike in hormones or the Article from the morning's Prophet was anyone's guess. She couldn't believe that something like this could happen in her country. This was the kind of stuff that was supposed to happen in Poland or Nicaragua, not England. This kind of stuff wasn't supposed to happen in a developed country. People weren't supposed to be able to get away with writing bullshit propaganda articles and lies and have others believe it. This was first-class Orwell stuff. It's too bad he wasn't still alive because he'd have great material for his next novel.
She had just left Kirley with his tutor and made herself a nest of pillows, curling against the squishiest one as she flicked her wand and lowered the blinds, blocking out the bright winter sunlight that only worsened the horrible pressure behind her eyes. Sighing, she buried her face in the green cotton of the pillow, trying to sort through the horrible muddle of her thoughts.
Between making sure the Order was for the most part (and to his best attempt) safe and their home in Ireland was nigh unplottable, Caradoc had been intensely focused and nigh sleepless. Dark circles brushed at the hollows beneath his eyes. Walking back into their house from some time spent making sure his mother had what she needed, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair.
Hearing Kirley busy with his tutor, he slowly unwound his long woolen scarf and let his gaze scan the book-shelf as he began to make his way back toward the bedroom where - it seemed to him - Meaghan had been spending a great deal of her time. Plucking a slim, red-leather volume, he slid into their shadowy room and fit himself in between she and the pillows. His hand slid over the small of her back as his lips brushed her belly's gentle swell.
He could read the poem in his mind, but why read when you could recite it almost verbatim? His voice was little more than an exhaled breath as he spoke to their child, and Meaghan too.
"When love with one another so Interanimates two souls, That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls.
We then, who are this new soul, know, Of what we are composed, and made, For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls, whom no change can invade."
She moved to make room for him, preferring to cradle her body to his rather than the unfeeling pillow. Her hand brushed his hair as he kissed her stomach, knowing that he liked to fancy she was already showing, despite the fact that the doctor had said it would be a few months, since she was so physically fit. The familiar words of her favorite poet drifted up to her and she managed to smile, though it was wan and still bittersweet. "My love." She murmered, the words familiar on her tongue. She was so overwhelmed there was little she could do but cradle her head on his chest and close her eyes, listening to the rhythm of his breathing.
Lifting his eyes, he smiled at her and let his lips brush against her chin.
"Hello."
"Hello." She replied, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder, seeking his warmth. From the other room she could hear Kirley reading his French grammar outloud, mangling the words in his brogue the same way she had when she was his age. "Can we unsubscribe from the Prophet?"
"I thought you might want to line the trash bin with it, though," he replied, the hint of a smile in his voice as he tightened his grip around her. "But I think that would be a very nice gesture. Those arsehats."
"Then again, maybe they're just misunderstood," she said, her tone acidic, referencing the earlier discussion on her journal entry. This really was becoming too much for her to bear. It was all so illogical.
"Some of them," he said, "still believe that the world's a friendly place. I don't care if Smith is the Queen of England's lapdog, journalists get pressured in these situations because people want to control the dissemination of information." Pause. "Professor-speak."
She pushed her hand through her hair. "Or, professor, it's an occam's razor situation and the simplest answer is that he wrote those things because he wanted to."
" ... so what do we say to ourselves? The Prophet is compromised and can't be trusted. We've got the Radio. We can supply an alternate source of information."
She looked up at him, feeling around behind her for the edge of the blanket to pull over their bodies. "How do you have the will to keep fighting?"
Taking the edge of the blanket from her to wrap around their shoulders, he rose to his elbow and took a breath in consideration of her question. "Maybe it sounds trite, but, well, love. I want our child to live in a world that can be just as Muggle as it is Wizarding. I don't want her to be looked down on because she's not a Malfoy or a Lestrange. I want her to have every available opportunity." He paused. "And I want my friends and my family - the people I love - to just stop dying."
She made sure he was tucked under the blanket as well, sliding her chilly hands underneathe his shirt for warmth. "Yeah, but we can have that in Venezuela. I hear Venezuela's lovely this time of year."
"Oh," he said, half in jesting shock to her cool hands and half in recognition, as if he could remember Venezuela's warm and humid breeze from their arid Irish home. "I could tell you about Venezuela."
"Could you take me to Venezuela?" She asked, only half kidding. She scratched her nails lightly against the flesh of his stomach, inordinately comforted just being near to him.
Arching cat-like, he smirked and laced his reply with random kisses that fell softly over her face, neck and shoulders. "I could take you to the summit of La AsunciĆ³n. We could hike in the mountains around Caracas."
"And then stay there forever?" She asked, turning her face toward his mouth, welcoming his touch. It was easy to get distracted by him when he was this close but she was trying to keep her head straight.
Stopping, he paused square above her and took her chin in his hands.
"Meaghan. I'll take you wherever you want. Just say the word."
"What good is you taking me anywhere I want if you can't stay with me there?"
"I'll come back. I keep telling you - and I keep my promises, don't I? - I'll come back."
"Not good enough." She said, wrapping herself around him to hold him hostage against her. She couldn't sleep unless he was there. She was scared of how much she needed him around her.
Careful not to sag or let all of his weight fall against her, he shook his head slowly and pushed one raven lock from her forehead with a sad sort of smile. There was nothing to be said. And he had to leave, soon, to take care of Marlene. He would not upset her with further talk; silence was, sometimes, their greatest friend. It was enough to be there, right then, with his arms around her.
She looked up at him, giving him a wistful smile. He was so idealistic, despite everything that had happened to him. It was touching--and frustrating. "I wish you were more biddable. I would make you do whatever I wanted."
He snorted. "I most generally do."
"Not on the important stuff!"
Gently extracting himself from her grasp, he had another kiss for the bridge of her nose and he stood to look at her for a moment.
"I love you," he said, "very much." But there were some things he could not do. Like run from a fight when he had made the fight his, or leave his comrades with the battle half done. He didn't think less of Meaghan for wanting to protect what was hers (he wanted the same thing, after all) but he knew he could never leave while the Order was still fighting and dying.
One last lingering gaze he gave her and then turned to walk out of the room to locate his coat and meet Marlene.