Charlotte Dearborn has an answer to everything (brokenvows) wrote in throwingstones, @ 2010-06-05 00:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! complete, charlotte dearborn, malcolm dearborn |
Who: Malcolm and Charlotte Dearborn
When: Friday 4th June, evening
Where: Their house
Rating: PGish. For them, it's surprisingly tame
Status: Completed log
Malcolm's days were notoriously routine most of the time. He woke up, showered, dressed, had a cup of coffee, woke Geoffrey up (and Merlin, he was getting big these days), got him dressed, into the kitchen for breakfast, ate breakfast, took Geoffrey to day care, went to work, got done with work, picked Geoffrey up, went home, let him play while he organised the rest of his work, made dinner, ate dinner, either fought with Charlotte or went about things as though they were mostly fine, maybe typed up an article, gave Geoffrey his bath, put him to bed, finished whatever work he had to do, had a drink and went to bed. There was, of course, the occasional variation. For example, he'd spent the occasional evening with his brother, or... all right, no, that was about all the variation there was these days. But Malcolm didn't mind. That was his life and for the most part, he was content with it. He had a career and a family. And he'd never cared for the flashy, exciting lifestyle. Honestly, in the middle of a war, the last thing Malcolm wanted was exciting. He was currently in the middle of his routine, Geoffrey on the floor, clicking his Legos together while Malcolm sat on the sofa, leaning over the coffee table as he pulled out the notes his dictaquill had made from his interview this afternoon, sifting through what was important and what he could dismiss. It wasn't especially late or anything, wasn't quite six o'clock. He vaguely expected Charlotte to be home soon, pondered over what was in the cupboards for dinner. Lunch seemed like it'd been days ago and he was definitely getting hungry. Well. After he finished with this. Charlotte's day hadn't been spectacular, to say the least. She was that little bit closer to crushing Frank Longbottom's balls in a vice and she'd worn the wrong heels to work, which somehow she'd decided was also Frank's fault. So, as she unlocked the front door and let herself in, there was no breezy greeting for her son and husband (although, what was new there?). Kicking her tight shoes off and leaving them sprawled in front of the door, she walked silently through to the kitchen and poured herself a generous glass of wine. She leaned against the counter, slowly savouring the sharp sweetness against the back of her throat. Glancing at the level of wine left in the bottle, she topped up her glass and made a note to vist the offies before Alice arrived; after the day they'd both had, there really was nothing else to do but stay up all night, getting drunk until it didn't matter any more. Idly, she wondered if they'd be in a fit enough state to owl Frank something hexed. Carrying her drink through to the living room, she leaned against the wall adjacent to Malcolm, offering Geoffrey a brief smile and an, "Evening babe." Taking a sip of wine, she glanced briefly at her husband, sizing up the sofa he was sitting on like it was the first time she'd seen it. "Comfy?" Malcolm glanced up as the door opened, offered the briefest of smiles - one that fell from his face as Charlotte made for the kitchen. Right, well. He turned his attention back to his papers, only throwing a quick glance at Geoffrey to make sure he was all right before he started reading again. He heard the liquid pouring into the glass, recognised it as a sign of stress, and mentally prepared himself for any argument that may come. He just hoped he could pull her away from the living room so that Geoffrey wouldn't hear. It was Geoffrey's voice who pulled him from his work, the ever-chipper Hi Mummy! followed by his usual big, I'm-almost-three-and-haven't-a-care-in-t It took him a moment to realise Charlotte's question was directed at him, and he glanced up at her. "All right," he agreed vaguely. It didn't occur to him that it was a weird question. It just seemed like a passing thing and he treated it as such. "Anything in particular you want for dinner?" he asked, gathering up the parchment and putting it back in it's folder. He could finish this up later. Pondering the issue, she took another sip and rubbed her aching foot against her calf. She knew her best friend survived on a diet of late night takeaways and was more than happy to accommodate her tastes, especially as she needed some TLC. "Alice is coming round later, we'll probably order something," she explained, shrugging lightly. "Cook whatever the hell you want." Wandering forward to sit down on the carpet next to Geoffrey, she leant back against the wall, crossed her legs at the ankles and began absently toying with a spare red brick. "She's staying the night, so you're sleeping in here tonight," she informed completely matter-of-factly, like it wasn't that big an issue. And with their son around and in earshot, she rather hoped it would stay that way; although Charlotte was more than capable of standing her ground in an argument with Malcolm, she was attempting to keeping this civil, if only to spare her the headache. After all, it was just the sofa for one night, possibly two, potentially seven; it really wasn't a hardship. Malcolm busied himself with his papers, shuffling them into an organised enough pile and putting the mostly-together folder in his bag to take it upstairs later. He didn't bat much of eyelash at the idea of Alice staying over. It didn't really bother, not even on principle really. Less people to cook for and it mostly meant that he'd have some actual quality time with Geoffrey without feeling like he had to entertain Charlotte as well. He was honestly fine with it right up until the part where he was staying in here tonight. He pause his movement, mid-zip on his bag, and threw a glance towards his wife, surprise and vague annoyance flickering over his features. Again, in truth, Malcolm had little issue with the idea of sleeping on the sofa. It wouldn't be the first time certainly, and he'd had plenty of experience with making it a comfortable piece of furniture to sleep on, so it only hurt his back a little when he finally woke up. Malcolm wasn't an overly proud person. He wasn't stubborn and he wasn't confrontational. But the way she sitting, idly toying with the bricks so very close to Geoffrey made him bristle. She was using him as a shield, dragging him into the middle of it so that he wouldn't fight. When in all honesty, Mal wouldn't have put up much of a fight to begin with. He finished pulling the zip and sat back in the cushion, a rare scowl pulling at his features. He kept his voice low, keeping any temper he might have in check, for the sake of his son. "I don't care if she stays the night, but it'd be nice if you asked if I was okay with sleeping on the couch rather than telling me what to do in my own house." Her smile tightening as Geoffrey began clamouring for the brick she was playing with, his outstretched hands so demanding that she reluctantly handed it over. Didn't he have enough bricks without needing the only one she had been taking her stress out on? There were plenty more scattered around on the floor that he could have chosen. Being the adult, Charlotte really should have just selected another one for herself, but instead decided to get annoyed over the trivial matter - and, of course, take it out on Malcolm rather than her son. There were limits, after all. Looking sharply up, she immediately scowled at what he'd just said, and then raised her eyebrows incredulously. "Your house?" she echoed, her voice sharp. "What am I, the lodger?" "More my house than the Alice's," Malcolm grumbled indignantly, eyes flicking from Charlotte to Geoffrey to watch the little boy reach for the brick in his mother's hand, and then back to said mother. "I just don't see why you have bloody demand like I'm some sort of pet rather than your husband." Hostility and bitterness creeping into Malcolm's tone? Yes, probably. But perfectly justified. He lived here. He paid the bills too, probably spent more time in the house than his wife. Constantly being treated as some sort of guest who'd long worn out their welcome was tiring and degrading. Which admittedly, Malcolm wasn't terribly bothered with on most days. When it wasn't so directly in front of someone else. Picking up on his tone, she met her husband's eye and held it, her stony stare stretching out the silence. So many arguments could be avoided if she wasn't so damned quick to pick up on an irritable tone and blow things out of proportion. But as it was, she saw Malcolm's grumblings as an invitation to prove how stubborn she was and how she always won in an argument. "Maybe if you grew a set," she challenged, "I'd actually be able to respect you." Malcolm immediately rolled his eyes. It was always the same. He was pretty sure it was the consequence of being married to someone who spent her days around a lot of testosterone fuelled men who threw their weight around, took down the bad guys, et cetera fucking et cetara. It was tiring, and Malcolm had long given up on arguing when it came down to this. He took care of his family as best as could, was good at his job even if it didn't require him to chase down Death Eaters on a bi-daily basis. But no. It always came down to his lack of bollocks and Malcolm had just about had enough of it. He sighed, rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, polished his glasses irritably against the hem of his shirt and then shoved him back onto his face. "Right. Fine. Whatever, Charlotte," he snapped as he pushed himself off the cushion. "Fucking enjoy yourself tonight." He walked around the table and scooped Geoffrey off the floor. Boys only dinner. Maybe they'd just go out for pizza. Feeling slightly hollow, Charlotte threw her lego brick aside and glared down at the carpet, her sudden anger still burning away inside of her. She hated when Malcolm did this, cutting her argument short before she'd had a chance to rip into him and get all of her frustration out. He was so selfish. Lifting her chin and glaring up at him as he took their son away, she stood up to quickly even out the height difference. "I fucking will," she answered irritably, stalking through to the kitchen and deciding that the drunker and louder she and Alice could be tonight, the better. |