Chuck Hansen (lemiserable) wrote in cm_logs, @ 2010-02-09 14:59:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | [char] caradoc dearborn, [char] edgar bones |
rp log: edgar & caradoc
who. edgar & caradoc
where. caradoc's flat
when. on the tenth anniversary of caradoc's wife's death.
what. a little indulgent fatalism, firstly, and also some movement.
rating. pg-13 definitely
status. complete
****************************************
As the strains of Billie Holliday filled the homely flat, her husky voice scratched out amongst the hisses on the old record player, Caradoc slowly spun the glass of scotch (its fellow bottle near enough) in his hand. As the amber liquid sloshed against the edges, his breathing fell to a shallow pull. The activity among the Order felt stale, the incidents in the government growing stronger (and more obscure) by the day. The University wanted him teaching again; all he wanted to do was drink.
A framed photograph -- Muggle -- sitting on one of the thousand bookshelves caught his eye. He'd seen it countless times; he remembered the circumstances in which it was taken; the smell of her perfume suffused throughout the rainsoaked air; the warmth of her palm tucked into the bend of his elbow.
Ten years today.
Altogether swiftly abandoning the glass, he took hold of the bottle and set his throat alight with a greedy pull.
-- only to be robbed of another drop as a masculine hand cut the air, appearing from a point above and behind Caradoc's shoulder as Edgar, leaning over the back of his chair, stole the bottle from him in one fell swoop of movement. "That's quite enough," was modulated with just enough of the lofty notes of primacy that was known by him to exasperate the other man.
Better exasperation than the quiet sort of despair that, on this day, always fell upon the already perpetual mass of old sorrow that was embodied by Caradoc Dearborn. Edgar's was a grief for a friend lost long ago in tragic circumstances; what pricked beneath his skin and constricted like a band around his chest now was worry for this man and his raw, fervent sorrow for his long-lost wife and child.
He finished his sentence as he stepped around, giving the bottle a considering glance before his eyes traveled across the room. "-- the rest is for the guest," he said, even as he thought, Always on this day. Caradoc the sad bastard. Caradoc the sad bastard who had not been able to fill the void left by his other half.
A flinch crossed his face as he took a sip. "What is this shite?"
"I'm going to take you right off the fucking wards," was the initial threat (the one that he liked spouting, the one he never came through on) as Caradoc sat back and with spite in his curled lip, knocked back the glass of whiskey and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "It's Johnny Walker. Or Jameson. Fuck if I care, old sport-- " and that was for his Oxford English -- "it's whiskey."
"It's an outrage." But Edgar held the bottle out nonetheless, twitching its neck in an indication that Caradoc should offer him the cup so that it could be refilled by him. The double combination of threat and insult went ignored; he'd received less pleasant words from him, and this, here, right now, was certainly worse than a half-arsed attempt at verbal abuse. "Drink your glass of piss, then. I, my friend--" he dropped into a nearby chair and set the bottle on a side table, freeing his hands so that he could tackle the buttons of his coat; "will be right here."
After a beat, Caradoc stood and took two unsteady steps toward Edgar, the glass in his outstretched fist. He knew Edgar feared for him on this day -- he often feared for himself, as he allowed himself to unmask all the grief that was hidden beneath a fragile veneer of joviality the rest of the year -- and he loved him for it. But as he allowed himself to slump on the sofa beside which his friend stood, he shrugged.
"Make yourself at home."
The gesture of removing his coat plainly indicated that he would, but once the garment was neatly draped over the back of the sofa, he took the bottle up again and, after another grimacing pull, refilled Caradoc's glass, holding it steady in his own hand as the amber liquid splashed down.
He pushed it back into the other man's grip before leaning back, arms coming to fold across his chest. "Bottoms up, Red. Is this how she would've wanted you to spend this day every year?"
"Probably," he said, giving another shrug that sloshed the amber liquid upon his trousers before he could throw it all down his throat. He smiled. "She was always in love with a tragedy. Then she became one. And I led her right up to the brink of it -- " the bow in his lips suddenly fell; he pressed a knuckle firmly to his eye, as if warding off an unseen, unknowable vision of which they spoke. "Bad whiskey is a small punishment for all but murdering one's wife."
This isn't a tragedy, this is fucking pathetic. -- but if Caradoc was determined to spend this day every where in a fog of drunken, self-loathing misery, who was he to put a stop to it? All Edgar could do was make sure he didn't imbibe one bottle too many and end up choking on his own vomit.
That last remark, however, was not to be borne in silence. "So help me Merlin, you say that again, and I'll smash your teeth in."
"Then you're pounding me for telling the truth, old sport," he said, finally leaning forward to ease the glass on the table before he sat back. With eyes covered and head resting against the back of the sofa, he pressed the tips of his fingers firmly against his closed lids to watch the colour blossom behind them. "She wouldn't have died if she was pregnant and I, inevitably, did the deed. It's logic. You can't deny it."
"Irish logic, maybe." A brief lean forward allowed Edgar to nudge the glass further away from Caradoc's reach. "Most absurd thing I've ever heard. I can and do deny it. You might as well blame your mother for, since she put you on this earth." He spoke with no real energy behind his words; this, year in and year out, was the norm for Caradoc, and the most Edgar knew he could do was remind him he was there if the other man needed a shoulder -- not to cry on, but to batter with his fist. He half hoped to goad him on to such a state, because anything was better than listening to a spate of self-loathing and unceasing guilt.
"My mother's more of a man than I'll ever be," he said, finally dropping his hand from his eye to rest on his thigh. "Do you know I can't even remember the funeral? I can't remember. Like a sick, cowardly fuck." He shrugged. And then, because it was Edgar's behaviour that he was always admiring, always modelling himself after, Edgar who always did the right thing in the right way -- "Tell me, Edgar. How else should I spend this day? How would you?"
Trapping his immediate response behind his teeth -- I wouldn't be spending it at all. -- Edgar quickly shook his head, buying himself a few extra seconds as he reached up to loosen his tie. He had no other answer to give -- certainly nothing that would help Caradoc -- because the ready supply of commiserative words he used every day when delivering bad news were not worthy of Caradoc. Death was an ugly thing. There was no painless way of honoring the beloved dead, there were only empty gestures of dying flowers left on graves, the fetor of decay, the ache of a void that she should have been there to fill...
He reached for the bottle. "In someone else's cunt, I suppose."
"I did that for a while."
He rose on wavering knees, taking a few steps back toward the half-open bedroom door. "After I wanted to die. Maybe I should have. I know I wanted to. But Mum, you." His hand hit the wall, sliding along its white length. "I considered doing it today. You have Camilla. You wouldn't be alone."
After a beat, Edgar was on his feet and after him, keeping a staggered pace behind Caradoc as he shuffled his way to the bedroom. That this suicidal desire lurked in his heart did not surprise him in the least -- for Caradoc had always been the one who lived too hard, loved too much -- but a constant selfishness, born of love, of his own left Edgar with a belief that he would never go through with it. And so his response to Caradoc's confession was an indulgent, "All right, Irish," his hand finding the other's elbow so as to better steer him.
"There's something I wanted to give you anyway. I'm not taking you back here to have my way with you -- just so you know -- " he slurred, grinning crookedly when Edgar's hand met his elbow. "Glad you got me, old sport. You are one." And he entered the bedroom finally, lowering himself onto the rumpled side of the bed he slept on (the other a near pristine smoothness) to search the bedside table.
A brow was raised at that -- a present? -- even as he released his grip on his arm. "I know," he simply said, dryly accepting this as a matter of fact as his gaze traveled toward the untouched side of the bed before, as if the sight of it stung him, flicking his attention back to Caradoc. "What is it, then?"
Idly placing a pistol next to him on the mattress as he dug through the odds and ends on the tabletop, he frowned for a moment -- "It's damn cold. There's a sweater in the closet. There's two if you want 'em" -- before returning to his searching upon the table.
In a protracted moment, as the weapon was set down in plain sight, Edgar felt the blood drain from his face as Caradoc's previous words -- I considered doing it today -- came back to him, acquiring an immediacy that they hadn't before possessed.
"Caradoc." He extended his hand. "Give me the gun."
The treasure he had been hunting for, however, was enclosed in his fist as he turned to Edgar with a furrowed brow. His overloaded (and sodden) mind had moved on and the gleaming silver pistol was looked at with confusion before he returned his gaze to his friend -- "Oh. No, that won't be necessary. That was earlier. Now, Auror, I've got something for you. Hold your hand out for it."
"Merlin's c--" A growled huff cut him off as he, ignoring the majority of Caradoc's words save for that was earlier, stepped forward and gathered the piece in his hand. It had been Caradoc himself, years ago, who taught him what horrors this clumsy metallic contraption was capable of, and he checked it now -- loaded, of course. A narrow-eyed glare, masking the fear in his expression, was directed at the other man as he let the bullets fall into the palm of his other hand. "What in God's name are you playing at, man?"
His hand fell, clenched into a fist. "Ten goddamn years living with this. Ten goddamn years no better than a ghost. Why they hell wouldn't I -- ?" was begun, before he sat back down, cupping his fist with the other hand. "I was looking through some of the shit I dragged back with me the other night. There's an amulet. Mayan. It is supposed to reveal the truth in people's intentions. Dunno if it works. You keep it with you. I can teach you the Quechua. Hell, but I figured you could use it more than anybody."
Having reached out and rested his palm against the nape of Caradoc's neck, steadying him as he sank back down onto the mattress, Edgar now delivered a soft, if firm, pat, resisting the urge to demand what, if he was so damned determined, had stopped him. "Quechua. Right. Maybe it will help me figure out what to do about you--" was only half a reprimand, tone modulated by fondness. The pistol was set on a chest of drawers as he stepped toward the aforementioned closet, intent on a sweater -- for Caradoc, not himself -- and, on pulling open a door, finding more than that.
He inhaled sharply. "Cam told me she cleared away Marion's things."
"You'll be calling on some pretty angry, bloodthirsty gods and goddesses ... " But when Edgar's voice again sounded out, it was as if a dart cleared away all of the comforting cloudiness in his head. His lips came together in a firm, bloodless line as he stood. "I told her to leave those."
A low sound of frustration rumbled through his chest and he pulled his hand away from the sleeve he had brushed with the tips of his fingers. He imagined he could feel the must gather on his skin. "Am I going to find her corpse in there too?"
"If you don't like it, get out, " he finally said, standing as he turned to paw his hand against Edgar and force himself backward. "And it's fucking nasty of you, too. Why don't you just step the fuck back, Edgar. It's my business what I keep in there."
But Edgar, sober and steadier on his feet, stood his ground and proved to be unmovable against the pressure behind Caradoc's shove. "Ten years." His brow flattened. "Ten years I've been waiting for you to rejoin the living. This is sick, this is--" A short breath. "Why do I bother? Why do you put yourself through this? Why are you still even here?"
"I ask myself that question, goddamn it, every morning." He took several steps backward, free hand spread wide to gesture to the room around them. "Why'd you think I stayed away for so long? You can forget. But then, here? I get called back for Albus. For the Order. Of course I come but -- It's here every damn morning and I can't do anything about it. What should I do?"
"Here you don't let yourself forget," was Edgar's flat assessment as he carefully shut the closet door again, waiting until it had clicked shut before turning around. His hands came down to rest on either side of his waist, one thumb even hooking briefly around the leather of his belt before, with a burst of sudden motion, he stepped forward to lay the weight of his palm on Caradoc's shoulder. "You don't have to stay. Go, lose yourself in the belly of some damp jungle if you must, but for God's sake don't stay if you're going to put yourself -- and me -- through this. And if you can't stand being selfish like that (and I won't hold it against you if you can), work for Albus from abroad."
"Yes I do," he said, twisting one fist in the sheet as he bore the weight of Edgar's palm. His head bowed. "I have to stay and finish what we've started. I won't leave you. But I'm sorry, Edgar. I never asked for you to see what you have seen. I don't know how to live without her. But I haven't forgotten how to fight."
"I thought that's what you'd say." A slow sigh escaped Edgar, and he tightened his fingers around his friend's shoulder before giving a short nod. "Right. What I've seen cannot be unseen, but what can be done is you staying with me." For however long. Another squeeze of his fingers; then he pulled his hand away and moved around him. "I don't want to hear any protests. Cam won't mind. Pack some clothes."
... and there were no protests. Quietly -- and far more sober than when he began -- he bent to pull a bag from beneath the bed, and rose to lay it down. "Edgar," was soft, "I don't know what I ever did to deserve you." He turned, then, to pull a handful of clothes from a chest of drawers. "Thank you."