RP: Whisky for a Broken Heart
Date: November 10, 2004
Character(s): Cedric Diggory, Kingsley Shacklebolt
Location: His tent, then Socks
Status: Public
Summary: Cedric gets news. Only some of it is good. A few shots of Laphroaig might take the edge off what isn't.
Completion: Complete
Two important things happened to Cedric on Friday. The first came when his new mobile rang on his bedside table, waking him up at 9 in the morning.
"Mr. Diggory?" said the voice when Cedric answered.
"Yes, this is Cedric Diggory."
"This is Benjamin Stoats of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. I'm calling about your job application."
Cedric sat up, suddenly fully awake. "Yes?"
Fifteen minutes later, he had a job interview for Monday morning, and a big grin on his face. A preliminary interview was a long way from a job, but he'd not expected to get that much.
The second important thing came in the form of a letter by owl. He was sitting in his favorite chair in his tent, flipping through books on electrical wiring while the rain drizzled down outside. A thoroughly nasty, grey day -- definitely not one on which he wanted to play about near power poles and transformers. But he was beginning to get a notion of what he'd need in order to lay electrical lines out to his property.
Something thumped against the tent flap and Cedric glanced up, then rose to see if he had a visitor (unlikely as that was). Pulling his wand, just in case, he lifted the flap and glanced out, only to find his father's barn owl, looking quite bedraggled, perched on the ground. He lifted her up. "Hullo, you. Come in and let me get you a treat."
He carried her into the kitchen to open the tin of owl treats and offered her a couple, which she ate eagerly even as she lifted the leg with the note. He removed it. He'd often wondered how owls managed to make it across the Atlantic -- especially such small ones -- but they must have had some magic of their own that helped them do so.
She wasn't interested in the perch he kept in the tent for her, preferring to be let back outside -- probably intending to hunt in his barn before heading back to Toronto. Cedric needed to visit Professor Grubbly-Plank to secure a new owl for himself at some point. Apparently there were loads of orphaned ones in need of homes. He should have picked up one before.
Sitting back down in the chair, he opened the letters. There were two, one from his father, and the other ...
The other was from Gwen; he recognized her handwriting:
Cedric:
Your father brought your letter by two days ago. I had to think about my answer.
I was angry, and hurt, when I said that if you left, you couldn't come back. It was juvenile. But I think maybe it was the right decision anyway. Part of you will always be over there and since you left, I've realized that I want a husband whose heart isn't torn that way. Sometimes things don't work out even if you want them to. Circumstance.
Right now, I can't write more. It's been almost a year, but it's still too fresh. That's why I didn't answer the last letter. All the anger balls up inside my belly and I just can't write and wish you well, even if part of me wants to. The other part doesn't wish you well. I'm still angry at you even while I understand why you left -- why you had to.
But no, I don't want you to come back. There's too much water under the bridge. Maybe we'll be able to talk again in a year or two -- but not right now.
Gwen
When he was finished, he sat with the letter in his lap a while and just stared across at the tent wall, twisting the silver bracelet she'd given him. Then he balled up the letter and threw it hard; it bounced off the canvas wall and rolled to a stop against the bentwood rocker nobody ever sat in.
The letter wasn't unexpected. Having her ask him to come home would have been far more unexpected. They'd been falling apart for months before he'd actually left, although they'd been falling apart because he'd needed to leave. And she couldn't leave. Taking Gwen to England would have been like abducting Pocahontas. She'd have wasted away over here, separated from her people and her purpose. And as much as he loved Toronto, as much as he still thought "Canada" when he said "home," it was a fading habit. The roots of his soul descended into THIS earth -- this foggy, rainy, grey place called England. He belonged here just as much as she belonged there.
But God, it hurt. Even a year later, it hurt.
He should probably thank her for keeping him from dashing back there. She'd always been the sensible one, he the demonstrative, quixotic idealist. But the happy endings of those romantic comedies didn't always work out. And neither would Cedric and Gwen, regardless of how much they loved each other. Love wasn't always enough, and it did not conquer all. That was the plain, ugly, unromantic truth.
Getting up, he headed into the kitchen, but the only thing he had to drink harder than milk from Susan's cow was a single bottle of beer. He'd finished up his brandy the other night and didn't keep lots of alcohol around any more -- not like he had when he'd first come back over here. He'd drank a little too much then, drank to forget.
He could apparate into Exeter and find a spirit shop, but a last shred of common sense stopped him. It was probably better at the moment if he didn't have it readily available in his kitchen. If he were going to go and get drunk, he ought to do it in public where propriety might keep him from winding up too pissed to walk straight.
But there was no way in hell he was riding his bike into town in the current weather. Grabbing his cloak, he spelled it against water and slung it over his flannel shirt and pullover. He knew he must look like a jigsaw puzzle of worlds with his cowboy boots and Indian jewelry, his Muggle jeans and his Wizarding cloak, but mixed up reflected how he felt, and he just didn't give a damn.
With a quick twist, he apparated straight out of his sitting room to the apparation point in Stoatshead nearest Socks. He'd seen Romilda go into the 5 Alarm the night before and had been lucky to escape without running into her. He definitely wasn't in the mood tonight, so Socks it was.
Ducking inside, he was greeted by a perky house-elf, and asked for a back corner along with a double shot of Laphroaig.
------------
(A small point of clarification in the exchange below. When Cedric calls Kingsley a "black white man" this is a major insult, yes -- but not about Kingsley's blackness. "White man" is the insult. Cedric is, in that moment, thinking like an Amerindian. I thought I might clarify that for anyone reading who's not familiar with native attitudes and misunderstood what he's insulting. (g))
Character(s): Cedric Diggory, Kingsley Shacklebolt
Location: His tent, then Socks
Status: Public
Summary: Cedric gets news. Only some of it is good. A few shots of Laphroaig might take the edge off what isn't.
Completion: Complete
Two important things happened to Cedric on Friday. The first came when his new mobile rang on his bedside table, waking him up at 9 in the morning.
"Mr. Diggory?" said the voice when Cedric answered.
"Yes, this is Cedric Diggory."
"This is Benjamin Stoats of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. I'm calling about your job application."
Cedric sat up, suddenly fully awake. "Yes?"
Fifteen minutes later, he had a job interview for Monday morning, and a big grin on his face. A preliminary interview was a long way from a job, but he'd not expected to get that much.
The second important thing came in the form of a letter by owl. He was sitting in his favorite chair in his tent, flipping through books on electrical wiring while the rain drizzled down outside. A thoroughly nasty, grey day -- definitely not one on which he wanted to play about near power poles and transformers. But he was beginning to get a notion of what he'd need in order to lay electrical lines out to his property.
Something thumped against the tent flap and Cedric glanced up, then rose to see if he had a visitor (unlikely as that was). Pulling his wand, just in case, he lifted the flap and glanced out, only to find his father's barn owl, looking quite bedraggled, perched on the ground. He lifted her up. "Hullo, you. Come in and let me get you a treat."
He carried her into the kitchen to open the tin of owl treats and offered her a couple, which she ate eagerly even as she lifted the leg with the note. He removed it. He'd often wondered how owls managed to make it across the Atlantic -- especially such small ones -- but they must have had some magic of their own that helped them do so.
She wasn't interested in the perch he kept in the tent for her, preferring to be let back outside -- probably intending to hunt in his barn before heading back to Toronto. Cedric needed to visit Professor Grubbly-Plank to secure a new owl for himself at some point. Apparently there were loads of orphaned ones in need of homes. He should have picked up one before.
Sitting back down in the chair, he opened the letters. There were two, one from his father, and the other ...
The other was from Gwen; he recognized her handwriting:
Cedric:
Your father brought your letter by two days ago. I had to think about my answer.
I was angry, and hurt, when I said that if you left, you couldn't come back. It was juvenile. But I think maybe it was the right decision anyway. Part of you will always be over there and since you left, I've realized that I want a husband whose heart isn't torn that way. Sometimes things don't work out even if you want them to. Circumstance.
Right now, I can't write more. It's been almost a year, but it's still too fresh. That's why I didn't answer the last letter. All the anger balls up inside my belly and I just can't write and wish you well, even if part of me wants to. The other part doesn't wish you well. I'm still angry at you even while I understand why you left -- why you had to.
But no, I don't want you to come back. There's too much water under the bridge. Maybe we'll be able to talk again in a year or two -- but not right now.
Gwen
When he was finished, he sat with the letter in his lap a while and just stared across at the tent wall, twisting the silver bracelet she'd given him. Then he balled up the letter and threw it hard; it bounced off the canvas wall and rolled to a stop against the bentwood rocker nobody ever sat in.
The letter wasn't unexpected. Having her ask him to come home would have been far more unexpected. They'd been falling apart for months before he'd actually left, although they'd been falling apart because he'd needed to leave. And she couldn't leave. Taking Gwen to England would have been like abducting Pocahontas. She'd have wasted away over here, separated from her people and her purpose. And as much as he loved Toronto, as much as he still thought "Canada" when he said "home," it was a fading habit. The roots of his soul descended into THIS earth -- this foggy, rainy, grey place called England. He belonged here just as much as she belonged there.
But God, it hurt. Even a year later, it hurt.
He should probably thank her for keeping him from dashing back there. She'd always been the sensible one, he the demonstrative, quixotic idealist. But the happy endings of those romantic comedies didn't always work out. And neither would Cedric and Gwen, regardless of how much they loved each other. Love wasn't always enough, and it did not conquer all. That was the plain, ugly, unromantic truth.
Getting up, he headed into the kitchen, but the only thing he had to drink harder than milk from Susan's cow was a single bottle of beer. He'd finished up his brandy the other night and didn't keep lots of alcohol around any more -- not like he had when he'd first come back over here. He'd drank a little too much then, drank to forget.
He could apparate into Exeter and find a spirit shop, but a last shred of common sense stopped him. It was probably better at the moment if he didn't have it readily available in his kitchen. If he were going to go and get drunk, he ought to do it in public where propriety might keep him from winding up too pissed to walk straight.
But there was no way in hell he was riding his bike into town in the current weather. Grabbing his cloak, he spelled it against water and slung it over his flannel shirt and pullover. He knew he must look like a jigsaw puzzle of worlds with his cowboy boots and Indian jewelry, his Muggle jeans and his Wizarding cloak, but mixed up reflected how he felt, and he just didn't give a damn.
With a quick twist, he apparated straight out of his sitting room to the apparation point in Stoatshead nearest Socks. He'd seen Romilda go into the 5 Alarm the night before and had been lucky to escape without running into her. He definitely wasn't in the mood tonight, so Socks it was.
Ducking inside, he was greeted by a perky house-elf, and asked for a back corner along with a double shot of Laphroaig.
------------
(A small point of clarification in the exchange below. When Cedric calls Kingsley a "black white man" this is a major insult, yes -- but not about Kingsley's blackness. "White man" is the insult. Cedric is, in that moment, thinking like an Amerindian. I thought I might clarify that for anyone reading who's not familiar with native attitudes and misunderstood what he's insulting. (g))