charity burbage MIGHT be looking up again. (mugglemethis) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-12-22 15:57:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | caradoc dearborn, charity burbage |
RP Log: Doc Dearborn, Charity Burbage
Who: Doc Dearborn, Charity Burbage
When: Sunday morning
Where: Cardiff, of course
What: After falling asleep (again) on the couch, Doc begins to wonder how come they haven't moved forward. What starts off as a normal conversation turns upsetting.
Rating: PG
It was always tricky. Wits about him now, Doc loosened his arm from beneath Charity's, recalling how the night before had gone. The telly had been on, news programme's noise vaguely reaching his awareness, right about the same as the light of the set dimmed and brightened with each changing scene. Charity had fallen asleep some time earlier, her arm wrapped around his at they sat together. It hadn't felt worth the effort to hoist himself to his feet and... that was about as far as the thought had carried before he, too, had slipped into darkness. As it went, the telly was still chattering away, though the light of it wasn't much of a contrast from the daylight streaming in through the nearest window. Doc prised his arm away, careful not to wake her as he then held her up, slipping off the cushion and withdrawing himself as her support. The pillows tossed on the floor sometime in the night weren't much of a substitute, but -- he hooked a hand around the back of his neck, pulling a faint scowl at the pinch of pain as he tried to straighten up -- they'd have to do. He looked at her. Here they were in the same house again, and for all of it, the most together they were within the shared hours (which numbered more with somewhat synced work schedules) was the random happenstance that was falling asleep in the middle of the nightly news report. They'd gotten to a point... And then stopped moving. Doc dropped his hand, turned to the telly, and switched it off. The trouble with these new television sets wasn't that there seemed to be so much mindless entertainment on them; it was the godawful noises they made when they shut down. It was almost better to just turn the volume down if you didn't want to disturb someone. ...and it was the sound of the tube forcefully switching off that startled Charity into waking up. A hand immediately brushed across her face as she started forward, legs springing off the floor at the sudden noise. "What? Sorry! I fell asleep! What's going on?" Right. Forgot about that whole noisy part that came after the set was shut off, and if Doc didn't cringe as the thought occurred to him mere milliseconds too late, then he certainly closed his eyes and swore under his breath. So much for letting her sleep in. "Just morning," Doc replied. "And a good one to you now that we're both awake." He nodded toward the empty spot beside her. "'Nother night on the sofa. We should probably stop doing that one day." The heels of her hands rubbed her eyes as she tried to calm her beating heart, to take a breath, and realise that it was just morning. She gave her throat an experimental clearing, but the warmth from the fireplace and a night spent with her mouth hanging open (probably; these things happened when you fell asleep on the couch) made it scratchy and tight. Or maybe she was just coming down with something. Not fully awake enough, it slipped Charity's mind that there was double anything behind his statement. She simply assumed he was trying for a joke. Charity gave him a sleepy smile. "Morning. Merlin, I don't even remember falling asleep" Charity sat up straight, arching and trying to get any kinks out. Her fingers massaged a knot at her shoulder, rolling the muscle and bone to work out the tension. "But my shoulder is killing me." Doc raised his brows to her, giving a fair nod. Again, the pangs of soreness. "That's usually how it goes." He made an attempt to stretch his neck, but after a not-quite-relieving 'pop' that more or less made it worse, gave it up. The wall clock's hour hand set its position on the Roman numeral X with a prominent tick, and Doc found his attention automatically looking over. Ten in the morning. Sunday, as he considered that the previous day had been Saturday. It only meant one thing: heaps of time to talk, and not a whole lot reason to dodge the subject again because there wasn't work to be rushing off to, no sleep to be getting, nothing. "Probably my fault about your shoulder -- give me a sec to put on some water, and I'll see if I can't fix it, all right?" Charity braced her elbows on her knees, finding the opposite pressure was welcome and helping the stiffness in her back. It wasn't until she pulled her neck up that she realised how tight that was. Turning it to the left hurt far, far worse from that position. "I can make breakfast if you want," she said to his disappearing back. "Maybe some eggs, toast, beans. Something like that." Charity pushed off the couch to clear the table from the previous night's beer bottles, the suspected culprit of dozing off. He wasn't long in the kitchen -- wonders of magic, there -- and in the smallish living quarters, the walk back to where Charity wasn't long, either. Her hands being full with bottles stalled the words for just a few more seconds as he stepped in to help, but then there wasn't a point in waiting any longer. "Tell you what... hold off on breakfast for just a bit." The morning was fresh and bright, and with nothing preceding the day beyond sore muscles, the timing seemed fair enough. Doc relieved a small sigh. "We should talk." We should talk. The three most dreaded words in the English language. There was something about them that raised the hair on the back of necks and sent a cold shiver down spines. Having just strolled back from depositing the bottles in the trash, Charity dusted her hands off. "What's...up?" "Never been much for dodging around the point," Doc started again. He grabbed the nearest of the chairs circling a modestly-sized table at the other side of the room, turned it around, and perched his hands on its back as he took a seat. "Evading entirely, yes, but..." He searched for the kindest way to phrase it, but hell if these sorts of things ever came out sounding anything like kind. Even meant in an earnest way, buffered and cushioned, the edges were sharp. "Us. We stopped moving. Is it because where we are is comfortable, or --" He gave her a careful look, wondering if there might be an answer in her expression, and not daring to miss it. "Something else?" Colour Charity confused. Confused and a little defensive, though she didn't understand why she should feel defensive. The clothes she'd fallen asleep in felt more constricting after a night spent sleeping in them, itchy and ill-fitting despite being a size larger than she needed. "I... don't really know what you mean by stopped moving," she said honestly, moving to lean against the wall. Charity crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "I thought things were going good. Better than that, but... I guess they're not?" Her stance didn't go unnoticed. "Don't --" He stopped short, knowing better than to say something against her reacting. It was bottling things up that got them in a fix the first time around. A lesson was learned, Doc felt, and he wasn't going to start back on that track again. The idea was to make things better, or at least accept that they'd hit their peak, topped off on a given value of better. He could take that. It would just be easier to do so if he only knew that was the case, but he could settle -- if that's how things were now, then so they were. "They're going great for two friends," he explained. "And I never would complain about that, Charity, but is there where it stops?" She knew he had a point; they'd been married for six years. It stands to reason that a married couple who had, at one point, been trying for children would share the same bed. Every night, save the nights they fell asleep on the couch together (and there were a few), Charity disappeared into her bedroom. Alone. When he worked at the Hogs Head, opposite schedules covered any awkwardness there might have been, but now that he was back at the Ministry, working days... falling asleep together on the couch happened more often. Charity couldn't begin to ponder the reasons for that. But she also couldn't deny what he was trying to get at. "Ah, that. I don't... no, it's not where it stops." And really, it wasn't where it ended. This was supremely awkward, and she squirmed in her place a little. Her brow furrowed. "I'm just... I know we - just a few months ago - I don't know why it's stalled." But she did, didn't she? It was comfortable, not having to push herself (or him). It was easier to stay where they were than to change it, out of the fear that they might not be compatible (and not just sexually) any more. Doc nodded. It was a simple gesture as he considered his reply before letting the words be spoken. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought out the replies she would give him, and he had a strong feeling about why things had essentially froze where they were. Though Charity claimed she didn't know, he suspected she did, as well. It was the approach that was leaving him at a loss. "Hate to reuse a question, Char, but... you're sure this is something we both want?" To this point, she'd gone along with everything, but the more he waited for her to initiate the next step... well, the more waiting was done. And carried on. Waiting only for more waiting, really. There wasn't enough breath in the world once the question hit the air. Charity's expression fell at the same time her eyes did; she couldn't bring herself to look at him. He was upset that she hadn't tried to push him, to push forward. To stop sleeping in separate bedrooms, lying awake and wondering if Doc was doing the same. "Of course I want it. Why do you think I sit downstairs so long that I fall asleep there? I don't want to leave you," she said, feeling that spark of defensiveness blanket her. "I just don't want to push you. Don't you think I've already pushed you enough for one lifetime?" His eyes dropped to examine the grain of the chair's wood, not evasively in the slightest, but merely to have a blank something to look at while he picked apart her phrasing. Push. Wrong verb. It wasn't pulling, either. If they wanted to patch anything up, force shouldn't be needed. "I'm not asking to be pushed," he replied, voice consistently calm, just as it usually was. "All I'm asking is that you don't expect me to make all the first steps. If you need the time... I don't mind waiting, but pushing was not what I was after when I asked you about a second go." He shook his head, lifting it from the back of the chair. "Shouldn't have to come to that, is all." She didn't understand, then, what he was asking from her at this very moment. Was she supposed to cross the room and drag him back to her room, cave-man style? Was she supposed to get riled up just to show some emotion? "And all I'm saying is that I haven't the right to expect anything more than what you appear willing to give," Charity answered in a tight voice. This again. 'Haven't the right', 'it's too forward', and Doc had heard the whole of it in some manner, maybe not out loud, but it was there. He drew his eyes closed for a moment. "What do I appear willing to give, then?" Fingers rapped on the oak of the chair, mostly without rhythm. He was trying to forget the tone she'd answered with, but the words weren't much easier to handle in a plainly-spoken voice. "You can't say it's not forgiveness." "Why are you talking to me like I'm a child?" Charity was beginning to feel provoked, and she knew it was best to put a lid on whatever emotions were beginning to bubble to the surface. Clearly, this had more to do with her own personal demons than whatever words came from his lips, but it was like whatever she had to say died somewhere between her brain and her throat. "You have the high road on this. You always have. I'm the one who handed you the papers. Therefore, I'm the one who is constantly in the wrong here." "I'm not talking to you like you're a child, Charity," Doc returned, brows drawn down a mere fraction of an inch. There wasn't much of a blame-game if it was only one person soaking up the fault each and every time. It was truly starting to wear on him. Try to take a step... brick wall. Try to reach out... brick wall. "I thought we agreed on a fresh start. How's that going to happen if there's this big something hanging over our heads? Every time it's right back to you blaming yourself, and that isn't moving forward." He shrugged at her. "Those papers are from years ago. Look, I'd just like to try thinking about now for once. No strings attached. The present." "I don't know how to do that. How can you possibly forget about that?" There was nothing quite like the feeling of realising that you were stuck in the past, and it was ruining whatever future you might have. Forgiving herself meant letting it go. The ironic thing was that had Charity been on the outside, had she been on Doc's side of things, there would never have been a question of forgiveness. It simply wasn't in her to hold a grudge against anyone (Death Eaters, she figured, did not count). Except herself. Charity's jaw twitched once, twice, and then she spun around toward the kitchen's entrance way. If she couldn't get over this, there was no point in trying this. "I can't-" The kettle began shouting, and she'd never been more grateful for the interruption. A hand at her forehead, she trudged toward the stove. Doc dipped his head, looking sideways at the few pictures adorning the kitchen area while Charity turned to see after the kettle. They were mostly Margaret's picks, he assumed. They'd been hanging in the same places ever since the first time he met Charity's mother. Thinking back, he was sitting right here on that day, too. No one ever knew what the future had in store, but this definitely wasn't where he thought they'd all end up. He kept silent, waiting until she was prepared to look back over. There was a started sentence, and he really was interested in the rest of it. Charity wondered if this had been a mistake. She should have let Doc go a long time ago, to be free, and instead, she'd clung to him and made it all the harder for him to have some sort of normal life. She'd only ever wanted him to be happy, and now she was making him miserable. Or at the very least, driving him slowly insane. The water set aside, she turned to look at him once more. "I can't do this to you anymore. Not if I can't get over what I did. It's not fair. It's not right." "It happened." Doc hoisted himself off the chair, turning it back around and sliding it neatly beneath the table as the other three chairs were. "Can't change that, can't wish it away. So what's it going to take, Charity?" He gave her a quiet look. "I didn't give up this time. Why are you?" For a moment, Charity stared at him. This was much worse than she'd originally thought, and now that she was really paying attention to his posture, his word choices... This was a definitive point, and if she said the wrong thing... "Because I can't forgive myself for what I did! I was so nasty on purpose, and I don't deserve a second chance!" Charity exclaimed, one of her arms gesturing wildly. "I need you to tell me how wrong I was! I need you to yell at me for it! I just feel so guilty, and you being so - I don't know - nice to me isn't helping." The exhaled breath came out with more force than Doc intended it to, but with the turn the conversation -- if it was even that -- had taken, he was just shy of dropping whatever it was that Charity deemed nice about his approach. "All right, you were wrong about giving me an ultimatum back then," he smoothly retorted. "You were wrong about how not having kids would sink our marriage. I was wrong about letting it happen. And now? Now you're wrong that this is going to help anything 'cause --" Somewhere in the midst of things, Doc hadn't caught how his voice had gained volume. Maybe it was a build, gradual with each new finger pointed, but as he stopped, he knew that he was on the edge of yelling right as she apparently wanted him to. He closed his eyes, willing down a seldom-used temper. "'Cause I sure don't feel much better for having said it. It just means I'm wrong for giving in, and I'm..." A hand reached up, fingers massaging at his temples. It was to damn early for a headache. "I'm going out for a walk," he finished, grabbing for the half-full vial of Madam Kane's that was left by the sink the night before. Of course, he was right. The accusations didn't make her feel any better, so when he announced his intentions, Charity took a step to the left to let him around her. Her eyes fixed on the rug beneath the table, at a spot in the fabric that her mother had never been able to get out - but she couldn't bear to part with the rug either. Charity suddenly jerked her arms across her chest, covering her mouth with the heel of her hand. She was doing her best to ensure that she could never forgive herself, wasn't she? "No, Doc. Please, don't go," she burst out before she even knew what she was saying. She couldn't just let him leave, even if he said it was just for a walk. "It's just - I don't understand how you could... forgive me. Why would you even want to? I don't mean to be difficult or - or a burden, I truly don't." He paused at the door, hand on the knob, not much caring that the weather wasn't going to agree with his coat-less state. "Because the way I thought it would go was that we'd both accept our mistakes, make the apologies, and there'd be something worth going through all that for in the end." All he had to do was twist, push the door out, and for an hour or two, there'd be peace. It was only hold just for a little longer, though. He dropped his hand, pivoting about to have a last few words, at least. "Do you think I want to sit around and watch you beat yourself up? You know me better than that, Charity." For now the gnawing panic was manageable, though it hung heavily inside. The dread, however, wasn't going away. Charity wanted to crawl into bed, throw the covers over her head, and curl up in a ball. But there was nothing else to say, was there? Charity simply backed up, unwilling to keep making a scene out of this. If he wanted to go, he should, and she shouldn't try to stop him. ...which, of course, was the whole reason they were in this mess. Quiet. Right. That was still an answer. "I'll..." Doc flexed a hand, the other still holding tight to the vial. "I'll be back later," he told her, as his hand connected with the doorknob again, this time carrying through with a turn. The cool morning air rushed inside before the door itself swung back on its hinges, shutting the chill out. |