InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "famous last words"

DAWLISH! (concussed) wrote in the_8th_floor,
@ 2012-03-21 16:42:00

Entry tags:

john dawlish, rosalind bungs

Who: John Dawlish and Rosalind Bungs
What: firewhiskey + an upset woman who wants but does not have babies
When: Tuesday night
Where: Rosalind's flat
Warnings: As previously mentioned, alcohol + emotions. Proceed with caution.

When his daughter sent him the latest Witch Weekly - by owl and not in person, since she wasn't entirely sure it was something he deserved blame for - John's first thought was that there were two possible outcomes. Either Rosalind would laugh off the article as something that was so completely false it wasn't worth worrying over, or it would lead to a moment of clarity that meant he'd never hear from her again. Even though he knew that children were a sore subject with her, she still caught him off guard by taking a third option. He liked that she could surprise him, but the reason why she had was worrying. Briefly, before he'd had a chance to organise his thoughts enough to respond, he'd seen her emotional response about a fiancé who'd passed away. Just as quickly as it was there, it was gone again, so he filed the information away and pretended he never saw it but it still changed everything. Now, as he had before, he saw two possible options. Either she'd want to forget or she'd want to remember. If he handled things the right way, both options looked promising - but obviously, Rosalind had a way of surprising him.

It probably would have been more polite to Apparate somewhere in the city and then knock on her door but John wasn't familiar enough with London to risk it, not with so many muggles around. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to find her flat if he'd started from The Leaky Cauldron and besides, she'd invited him anyway, so he threw caution to the wind and a little Floo powder into the fireplace and headed on over. As soon as he arrived, he pulled out his wand and immediately performed a spell to clean off any soot that might have clung to him on his trip. It was only after he'd finished with that that John raised his head to look for Rosalind.

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fairosalind
2012-03-22 05:01 pm UTC (link)

Perhaps if she hadn't been waiting for it - the faint sound of someone stepping out through a floo connection - Rosalind wouldn't have heard it. Or maybe she would have, she liked to think that her skill with duelling, and her time with OSTENDO had equipped her with certain basic reflexes. That John had agreed to come, was nice, the reason why she had let her guard down less so. She had bitterly regretted her emotional reply to Witch Weekly just a few hours after it was written, she preferred to keep her thoughts and emotions about Pat's death hidden, but at the same time it had felt like something of a relief. Those that had read it would know but she wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing anymore.
Tonight she felt strangely unsure of most everything actually.

Smoothing her hands down her unusually casual jeans and tucking the t-shirt back into them, Rosalind stepped through the hallway into the living room where the fireplace was located. She was barefoot, and for a moment the chequered floor was cold until she stood still long enough to warm it up with her body-heat. Running a hand nervously through her hair, she managed to tousle it even worse than before, as she finally stepped forward.
"I'm so glad you agreed to come over," she said politely, but actually meaning it. She had other friends - other boy toys, as John and Witch Weekly both had pointed out - but there was something about his presence that was singularly calming. Maybe it was age, maybe it was the calm of having survived most anything, or maybe it was just something uniqely him.

Moving even closer she stood slightly on her tippy-toes to give him a brief kiss on the cheek, before moving away. Since she had no table next to the sofa, she had simply taken the heaviest couple of books she could find in the room (a latin dictionary, two old editions of Hogwarts a History and a book of wizarding law) and piled them into a precarious, towering little table. A mostly full bottle of fire whisky and two tumblers rested on it - she was a firm believer that ladies ought to bring their own booze as well, even though she had asked him to do so as well.

"Welcome to my humble abode - choc full of muggle interior design and books, as befits a Ravenclaw."
It seemed stark and empty, compared to the cosiness that was home, and she made a face, before gesturing at the white sofa. For a moment she couldn't decide if she'd rather sit next to him, or on the chaise lounge opposite the sofa.
Her need for...whatever was it that she needed tonight, she couldn't honestly tell, made her move towards the sofa as well, waiting until he settled down.

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concussed
2012-03-23 09:55 am UTC (link)

When he spotted Rosalind, John greeted her with a warm smile that grew even warmer when she kissed his cheek. His hand found its way to her back on its own accord and rested there momentarily while he bowed his head so Rosalind could reach his cheek more easily. "I'm glad you invited me," he said sincerely. John felt like he and Rosalind still needed excuses to see one another so even though the circumstances clearly weren't the best, he was still grateful for them all the same. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend a Tuesday evening with." That might not be strictly true (although he thought children should count as the unspoken exception to statements like that) but it was close enough that John hoped it would sound honest and flattering rather than like a cheap come-on.

John looked around at the muggle interior design and books as Rosalind pointed them out, nodding appreciatively. "You have a lovely home," he told her. It was somewhat spare and he had absolutely no idea what to think about a floor that looked like a chess board, but John hadn't been well and truly single at any point in his adult life and for all he knew, maybe sophisticated single people needed loads of room to play very large chess. It was as good a guess as any, and the little black horse statue peeking around the corner wasn't doing anything to dissuade him from the theory. Neither that nor the unfamiliar muggle touches detracted from the fact that it was simple and elegant and very much her. He liked her, so he liked her flat. Simple and elegant reasoning to match the décor. There was a mirthful gleam in his eye when he added, "I especially like the table." Even if she didn't usually need a table in the living room, she could have easily floated one in or transfigured another object into something suitable, but instead she chose to build a table out of a stack of books. It was utterly charming, a word he found himself thinking frequently when she was around.

Being careful not to topple her makeshift table, John sat his bottle of firewhiskey down before taking a seat himself. Maybe most people would have saved the liquor until after the pleasantries but if the bottle of firewhiskey that was open and eagerly awaiting his arrival was any indication, Rosalind wasn't terribly interested in doing things the way most people would do them. Not tonight, at least. "So," he began, patting the seat next to him before picking up her open bottle of firewhiskey and starting to pour, "should I ask how you are or are we several drinks away from that being a safe question?"

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fairosalind
2012-03-23 02:33 pm UTC (link)

"Oh," Rosalind glanced at the pile of books crowned with glassware and smirked. "Personally I think most of those look more fetching right now, than laying around - I haven't had any proper use for that book of wizarding law in ages." Curling up in the other corner of the sofa but drawing her bare feet up so that her toes almost touched his thigh, Rosalind took the glass John handed her, her fingers brushing his briefly. For a moment she stared thoughtfully into her glass, before realising that she had invited him over with the expressed intent of getting drunk anyway. Earlier she had had a brief discussion with herself whether it was a bad idea to even attempt such a thing, considering all the emotions and terrorist actions she might end up confessing to (the two being equally horrifying to think of voicing) and then ignored the propriety of it all.

"I'm..." She began, speaking a little too early before she had organized her thoughts and then falling silent. Drawing the strong, pungent smell of whisky into her lungs, she considered the Witch Weekly article that had set all of this off. What had hurt hadn't been the actual phrasing (although "most fertile years" was a combination of words that would now ignite her anger in about five seconds), but the idea the short snippet had tried to convey. What did they know about her private life or her innermost thoughts? Would they have written the same bloody thing had they known how the last few months together with her fiancé had been filled with...well, shagging and pregnancy tests in that order.

Probably, they clearly had no scruples.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts a moment, she realised she did not have an answer for John, and said so.
"I have no idea really. Should I attempt to hold it all inside, I think it'd spill out at the first opportunity anyway. So - for the sake of my pride and reputation as an ice queen, let's pretend everything is normal for a moment."
Taking a sip of the whisky, feeling it burn all the way down her throat and settling into her stomach, the words started piling up in the back of her throat even as she thought she had nothing more to add.
"I guess it was all a lucky shot, some reporter at Witch Weekly actually hitting where it hurts...you've never seem to care much when they aim at you, John?"

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concussed
2012-03-24 10:00 am UTC (link)

Rosalind was obviously having difficulty saying what she wanted to say, so John gave her what he hoped was a reassuring pat on one of the legs ending so close to his own. His hand lingered on her jeans for a long second while his thumb caressed her bare ankle. When he withdrew his hand, he reached for his glass and drank nearly half its contents before he finally spoke. "We can pretend anything you'd like but you don't have to pretend with me if you don't want to. You Ravenclaws have your books, as you said," he explained, gesturing around at the table, "and we Hufflepuffs have our sharing circles and our cry-alongs. And then we write down all the details as poetry in our feelings journals so we have something to read aloud to the group to get the next cry-along going." He tried to suppress a grin so he wouldn't ruin the tone of feigned seriousness he was aiming for, but he failed. He couldn't help but be amused at this strange tendency she brought out in him to joke about himself as though he were docile and harmless. "I promise not to write a poem about this, though," he mock-reassured her. "It would be a violation of trust and we'd have to spend the next six sharing circles reciting limericks about betrayal."

John gave serious thought to Rosalind's question about Witch Weekly before answering. "I've been through two wars, four divorces and over thirty years as an Auror. There's nothing any magazine can do or say to me that even begins to compare to the damage real professionals can cause. Maybe by this point it takes more than just luck to hurt me," he said, but that sounded a little too much like telling her it was her fault for being too sensitive so he added, "or maybe they just haven't been lucky enough yet." It was always possible they could come up with something vicious enough to cut but he didn't have any emotional connection to Witch Weekly and it was love turning to hate that really hurt.

Now that he was actually thinking about Witch Weekly and himself, however, a third option occurred to him. "Could be they're just not trying to get to me, though. Pretty hard to get offended by 'your majesty,' yeah?" The implication that he'd be a bloodthirsty despot who sucked the souls out of people, Rosalind included, for minor offences wasn't exactly flattering but it wasn't the worst thing that had ever been said about him either. "I'll be the tyrant King, you be the ice Queen, and we'll just sit here and imagine them all being beheaded until we're too drunk to care."

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fairosalind
2012-03-28 04:31 pm UTC (link)

The glass was cool in her hand and Johns hand warm on her leg. It was the sort of casual contact that made her stomach tingle in anticipation at...whatever they had between them. Pushing her feet closer to his lap and her leg more firmly into his hand, she reclined a little more on the sofa. It wasn't that comfortable, perhaps she had bought it more for looks than comfort she couldn't remember, but it was just the right size for two people who didn't really try to avoid sitting near each other.
Taking another sip of her whisky, Rosalind decided to try that deceptive warmth he exuded and actually tell him. Letting slip parts of it couldn't be that bad could it? So much of it had hurt like hell for so long that at times she wasn't even sure if she was holding it all in from habit or necessity - maybe if she tried to share parts of it, she would discover that it didn't hurt as bad any more.
"I don't really want to pretend", she admitted softly, only gracing his jokes with a soft smile. "It is just hard to be open about this, however much I'd wish it. I...I was engaged once, three years ago. It went quickly - by muggle standards I reckon, I've noticed these things tend to happen at a higher speed in the wizarding community. We began trying for kids - how ridiculous it sounds when put like that, as if its something that takes practice and timing. It didn't happen...its heartbreaking how it seems so easy for some and is so difficult for others..and then he died. A year and a half ago. No babies. No fiancée..."

Swallowing painfully, her mouth felt incredibly dry and she wet it with a large mouthful of whisky. It didn't burn like she wanted it to, not at all enough to dull the pain and sense of loss, and she took another, emptying her glass in record speed. It didn't feel better to have said it, but perhaps it felt slightly better to know that someone knew. He couldn't understand the depth of her loss, it was not possible, but at least he knew that she had lost, that her life wasn't the proper façade that she generally protected herself with.
Sitting up slightly to reach for the bottle to fill up her glass again, the books wobbled and she quickly reached out s foot to steady them, betraying reflexes that were excellent even after a glass of spirits. Pouring s more than generous amount of liquid into the glass, Rosalind leaned back and then decisively put her naked feet in Johns lap. The subtle flirting that had been exciting a moment ago just felt wearying now, and for the moment she had lost the urge to be subtle. Momentarily she wondered if he would find that strange, her discussing one lost love while obviously coming on to him, and then she shrugged it away. Perhaps he would, but that wasn't her problem because she was well aware of the difference between them - the difference between every other man and Pat. She loved him and missed him, but she had needs and a busy mind that needed distraction. John Dawlish was a great one, with a mind as sharp as her own and a very attractive intelligence and sense of humour. She had been through the same thing with lots of men in the last year, and while it had at times caused trouble, it was never on her end. She had decided to approach these things like a man, taking what she needed and then leaving, no cuddling afterwards.
If John was different to her in any way (the obvious notion that she seldom talked to her easy connections in the way she was currently with him wholly escaped her) she did nor realise or acknowledge it.

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fairosalind
2012-03-28 04:32 pm UTC (link)

"Its...it wasn't something I thought I'd grieve, never getting pregnant, I thought we had time, lots of it even. And then he died and the opportunity slipped away. That bloody gossip rag couldn't have found better ammunition against me had they dissected my life's story." It had been a great frustration at the time, how it could be so hard to succeed, and the doubts about her body. Her doctor had ensured her that she was not infertile, that none of them were but that these things sometimes took time. She had been so at odds with herself when Patrick died, hating her own body's inability to perform as she wished, needing his calm humour to ground her and his soft caresses to assure herself that she wasn't failing at anything. Ever the Ravenclaw, approaching conception as something she would get graded on.
With a deep sigh, Rosalind closed her eyes for a moment, trying to control her emotions and the way they were surely showing on her face. She felt more naked like this than without clothes, as she generally avoided to show emotion but had no trouble showing her naked body. The realisation hit her then, that John knew, that he had kids, that he had to know these things she did not, but longed for with such desperation. The question bubbled out, eagerly, unchecked.
"What did it feel like to hold your kids the first time", she asked, an eager expression on her face. If she could have, she would have asked how it felt to be pregnant, how it felt to have a new life growing inside of you, longing for it and loving it.

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