bring her not flowers.
The History Boys.
Fiona. Lockwood. Timms. Scripps. Rudge. Crushed bouquets and naivety.
(I blame insomnia for this.)
hyacinths.
His courting of her consists entirely of an appraising glance, hand idling at his temple, and a casual, "MacDonagh's, half past nine tonight?"
Were he her own age or older, his ego would be trampled instantly by an icy glare - or a well-aimed stiletto heel - but there's something about him, that confidence not yet bordering on arrogance, that makes her reconsider.
"Isn't that a bit past your bedtime?"
Sort of.
She still ends up at MacDonagh's, half-bored and half-exhausted. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, sucking on a cigarette, he doesn't look like a student. And he certainly doesn't taste like one.
-
lilies.
He calls her Fifi.
It should make her angry, and sometimes it does, but it's rather difficult to remain cross with someone whose idea of romantic sentiment is hiring a bagpipe player to follow them around all evening whilst playing Beethoven's 'Piano Sonata No. 14.'
It's almost as if he wants them to be caught.
"This isn't working!"
She has to shout to be heard over the Allegretto movement.
His eyes widen. "Watch your tone! You're going to hurt Jacob's feelings, back there!"
"Not--" she repeats herself over a particularly loud legato bleat-- "not him! Us!"
"But Fifi, whatever could be the matter?"
Her fist tightens.
-
hellebores.
The cathedral is cold and uninviting, vanquished sin hanging almost as heavy in the air as the incense. Bringing her camel peacoat would have been more than a good idea - and not just because the pastor is eyeing her teased hair and mini with the reluctant distaste of someone considering a possible charity case.
And here's her good little almost-altar-boy, now.
"Sorry." His apologetic grin is addictive; sheepishness suits him well. "You weren't waiting long?"
"No, but I've never felt so old in my life. If you're lucky, they'll think I'm just your misguided mum."
"Still on for drinks?"
She smiles. "Anything but tea."
-
cacti.
He ducks into her office, shyly, during lunch.
"Can't find Nurse Wess in the infirmary."
Being one of the bigger boys at the school, it's perhaps ironic that he's one of the most quiet. She remembers the rugby players in her own class being much... louder, somehow. Rougher.
"I'm sorry. Did you try the staff lounge?"
His averted gaze is strong evidence for a 'no.'
"...I see. What's the problem?"
And-- oh, Christ, it's only a splinter, but the way he reacts when she pulls it out...
He flexes his thumb, testing it, lips curved up in gratitude. "Thanks, Miss P--"
She inhales. "Fiona."
Oh, what the hell.
Fiona. Lockwood. Timms. Scripps. Rudge. Crushed bouquets and naivety.
(I blame insomnia for this.)
hyacinths.
His courting of her consists entirely of an appraising glance, hand idling at his temple, and a casual, "MacDonagh's, half past nine tonight?"
Were he her own age or older, his ego would be trampled instantly by an icy glare - or a well-aimed stiletto heel - but there's something about him, that confidence not yet bordering on arrogance, that makes her reconsider.
"Isn't that a bit past your bedtime?"
Sort of.
She still ends up at MacDonagh's, half-bored and half-exhausted. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, sucking on a cigarette, he doesn't look like a student. And he certainly doesn't taste like one.
-
lilies.
He calls her Fifi.
It should make her angry, and sometimes it does, but it's rather difficult to remain cross with someone whose idea of romantic sentiment is hiring a bagpipe player to follow them around all evening whilst playing Beethoven's 'Piano Sonata No. 14.'
It's almost as if he wants them to be caught.
"This isn't working!"
She has to shout to be heard over the Allegretto movement.
His eyes widen. "Watch your tone! You're going to hurt Jacob's feelings, back there!"
"Not--" she repeats herself over a particularly loud legato bleat-- "not him! Us!"
"But Fifi, whatever could be the matter?"
Her fist tightens.
-
hellebores.
The cathedral is cold and uninviting, vanquished sin hanging almost as heavy in the air as the incense. Bringing her camel peacoat would have been more than a good idea - and not just because the pastor is eyeing her teased hair and mini with the reluctant distaste of someone considering a possible charity case.
And here's her good little almost-altar-boy, now.
"Sorry." His apologetic grin is addictive; sheepishness suits him well. "You weren't waiting long?"
"No, but I've never felt so old in my life. If you're lucky, they'll think I'm just your misguided mum."
"Still on for drinks?"
She smiles. "Anything but tea."
-
cacti.
He ducks into her office, shyly, during lunch.
"Can't find Nurse Wess in the infirmary."
Being one of the bigger boys at the school, it's perhaps ironic that he's one of the most quiet. She remembers the rugby players in her own class being much... louder, somehow. Rougher.
"I'm sorry. Did you try the staff lounge?"
His averted gaze is strong evidence for a 'no.'
"...I see. What's the problem?"
And-- oh, Christ, it's only a splinter, but the way he reacts when she pulls it out...
He flexes his thumb, testing it, lips curved up in gratitude. "Thanks, Miss P--"
She inhales. "Fiona."
Oh, what the hell.