She watches his face for any sign that she’s taken it too far, become one of them. She’s not interested in his romantic past as a source of gossip; she just likes to know him. She gives a sad understanding sort of look. “Children will make and break a relationship, I think.” Oddly, the birth of her daughter was a stone thrown into the pond of her life that caused no ripples. They likely would have married anyway, a baby just hurried it along. The death of her daughter, however, was the glue that would forever hold James Murrey and Cecelia Holmes together. Grief has an odd way of bringing people closer, even ex-husbands and wives. 

She takes another sip and then offers him back to the bottle, which is getting dangerously close to being empty. They might have to risk a dash inside to collect another bottle and risk being pulled into a conversation or a dance. With her now empty hand, she reaches out to rest it on his shirt collar, clasping the back of his neck ever so gently and stroking his hair with her thumb. An intimate but practised movement; she had done this before. She had sat on this step, with this boy and this champagne bottle all before. It was like coming home, a song that reminded you of summertime, the smell of your mother’s perfume. “I’ll be your femme fatale any day of the week, darling. Just say the word.” She grinned again and then let her hand drop, rubbing his back for a fraction of a second before setting about pulling a small weed out from between the stone cracks. “How’s the family? As tempestuous as ever? I saw another one of your restaurants open up in Paris last week, congratulations.” 

It’s such a gentle touch,  given with the sort of nonchalance that comes with familiarity like theirs,  but he finds himself turning into it.  Like a birch tree bent to the sun,  he seeks that brief warmth with a little too much zeal,  admittedly.  Celia’s fingers fleetingly rest ‘neath the marring of his jaw before she retracts.  It’s easy-going,  even with his apparent surprise - isn’t anything particularly new,  just something his heightened nerves momentarily reach for. 

“I remember.” She pulls up her knees, wrapping one of her arms around her legs. It’s still nice out but dress too nice for a jacket, she’s starting to feel the chill. Not enough to tempt her back inside. She feels as if a spell has settled over them, a peaceful contemplative mood that she is eager not to end. “I was heartbroken. Uncerimously put the pin through her name when I put it up.” She jabs at the air with concentration, reenacting the savage attack. She settles back into her lazy mood with a giggle and reaches to take the bottle back from him. 

“You know, I’ve heard about a dozen stories as to what actually happened between the two of you. One included a movie-style plotline of espionage and trickery.” She looks over at him as she tips the bottle back into her mouth, eyebrows raised. She’s asking but not asking for him to fill in the blanks; doesn’t want to pry but wants to know. The editors giggles again and champagne runs down her chin. She catches it with the back of her hand and grins. “Best seat in the house; cold stone steps, stolen champagne. Oh, I’m never giving this one up.” 

She makes him laugh,  some little reticent thing hanging in his chest.  The details of his nigh-marriage have never been released.  Gossiped about,  much so,  though he’s only half aware as to the extent of said gossip.  For Louisa’s sake more than anything.  Oliver at the time wasn’t one to bother for headlines and articles and their mysterious sources. 

She gives a wet laugh that might be mistaken for a sob but when she speaks, her voice is steady. “Ah, love. When did it die?” She hands over her bottle and looks back out towards the garden, sky reflected in tiny bulbs and hedgerows. She wonders who planned the event; mother or daughter? Cee knows the type; society mothers. Pushy is a kind word to describe them. Her own mother was a saint but it’s hard to imagine what she would have been like with adult children. Violet Holmes would never age past thirty-seven. Maybe that’s what had brought on Celia’s sense of impending doom. In September she would be the age her mother was when she died. It’s hard to imagine her life past that point, even unconsciously.

“You came close to all this, didn’t you?” Her tone suggests she’s just remembered, pulling her eyes away from the lights and back to his face. The thought occurs to her again; she’s always liked that face. Maybe they would have made it half-way down the aisle if it wasn’t for bad timing, or good timing as the case may be. Maybe Cecelia’s second-husband took the fall of Oliver and married her at her craziest. Still, they would have had very cute kids. 

“  Only close,  ”   He affirms,  something tight coiling in his throat.  Regret is serpentine,  he’s learned;  can’t manage it,  can’t stop it.  It worms its way through your body on its own.  By that notion,  Oliver is practically a viper’s pit on legs.   “  Two weeks,  I think.  ”   He says it like it’s a trick to recall,  but it sits like a spark right before his eyes.  Just like everything else these days.  He scratches the zipper-line of his jaw,  habit formed;  doesn’t know if it’s nerves or the drink.  He cants her head to her,  takes a swig.  Champagne’s not too bad,  he notes.   “  ------ You were invited.  ”

dog ?  dog ?   DOG !!    all coherent thoughts are out the window , congrats !  pretty sure the dog will knock him over , that’s alright though , it’ll be the best kind of death .  unsteady legs do their best to preposition & keep his balance.  nearly fails twice , doesn’t matter, he’s in love .   who’s oliver lucas anyway ?   one hand gently finds its way under the beast’s head ,   gently scratches chest with childlike wonder in his eyes . 

          ❛  oh , that’s nice .     guess it’ll be alright if i keep this beauty all to myself then !  ❜

“  Not quite,  ”    Thabo does a sharp lap about Alex’s legs,  every step a reticent thump against the ground,  offers a low,  friendly rumble from the centre of his chest,  ere he turns back whence he came.  His vigil is at Oliver’s side,  apparently a position he’s tapered to.  The return of one Alex Case has put Oliver at something akin to disadvantage;  the mind slows,  and his periphery blurs.  Everything ahead of him is just a little too sharp,  but a butt to the thigh from the mastiff anchors him somewhat.

Celia had attended so many society weddings and christenings in the last six months, they were all becoming one blur of white tulle and champagne hangovers. Christenings were always slightly more depressing than weddings because at least that still seemed vaguely achievable. Someone would want to marry her someday! Actually, that wasn’t the problem; it was the staying married that had yet alluded her. The fact that her next wedding out her fourth (even if she hadn’t technically married the third guy, there was still a wedding, she had still worn white) was the final straw that drove her outside with a bottle of champagne. The party continues on inside, but the sound was somewhat muffled by the thick walls of the old house. Cee sat the bottom of the garden stairs, watching the fairy lights twinkle throughout the bushes when Oliver made her jump. She looks up, blowing her cigarette smoke away from him. “Fuck no. If I’m left alone any longer, I’ll do something drastic. Like… hook up with a groomsman or something.” She offers a bright little grin and pats the stone next to her.

“Did her dad really say the couple had been together for seven years? Only I am sure that the groom and I got together at a party like… maybe two years ago. And like a year before that too.” Now not only did she feel sad and lonely, she felt really slutty too! What a night! 

Gets a little too claustrophobic he finds,  all that jubilation.  A little right around the throat.  Oliver doesn’t do weddings;  the celebrations,  drunken in-laws,  speeches.  If you were to ask him he’d say that he didn’t even do his own.  And he didn’t - another lost cause,  time wasted,  the story brandished about in a flurry of pages when the wind blew past the newspaper stand.  Oliver doesn’t do weddings.  Which is why he’s found himself outside.  It’s a pretty picture,  can’t deny it.  The rich tend to thrive on their hedge-mazes that aren’t actually hedge-mazes as opposed to filling their garden space with something useful,  but the lights are a distraction,  supposed to resemble stars,  probably.  They do,  he supposes.  The image is finished off best,  however,  by one Cecelia Holmes,  a rather morose statue sat silhouetted against those faux stars.  Pretty picture.  Oliver offers a fleeting laugh,  sits himself alongside,  and pulls a pack of Malboro from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.   “  Happy to be of service,  as always.  ”

                         ❛  i’m way too short to even threaten to ruffle your hair out of affection ,   unless you’d be opposed to bending down a bit ?  ❜     just a joke , he knows without a doubt it’s not on this realm of possibilities .     ❛  or maybe you’d give your bro a hug ?  ❜

Perhaps as to be expected,  Oliver barely moves.  Where his arms are folded across his chest his fingers fidget,  and instead of keeping their eye-contact,  he glances down.  A mastiff sat alongside hears a whistle,  and swiftly moves forth.  Paws larger than Alex’s own hands fly up and rest themselves on the lads forearm.  It’s as close as he’ll get to what he’s after,  and the pique of Oliver’s brow declares as much. 

     ‘ I’m not above walking out of here if this speech keeps going on like this. ’ It’s not a threat, she’d rather stay and get a needed break from an office that has a growing stack of sometimes credible sightings. ‘ I thought things like this was supposed to be fun. ’

For Cecelia, her work calendar has always been slightly more exciting that her social calendar. She, somehow, became the face of the Holmes family, although, with Sherlock’s inability to make small talk and Mycroft’s near self-imposed isolation, it’s understandable. This means every charity gala, auction or dinner invite is passed into her, usually with a generous cheque signed by her father attached. It was important, he reminded her, to keep up appearances. How could she complain? It was a chance to dress up, to play-act and most people there were friends anyway! However, these people were not her friends. 

In the corner of the ballroom, she discreetly rechecked her invite for a third time, confirming once last time that the charity was definitely what she thought it was. While most people here were only doing it to keep up the pretence of being good kind people, it wouldn’t do to actually forget what they were raising money for. She glanced up to check she wasn’t being watched but, as a group moved in front of her, a face caught her eye. To say he was an old friend might have been pushing the limits of that word but years of moving in the same circles had insured a certain sense of comradery. They had also, Cee knew, landed on the same page of the Daily Mail or The Sun way back when; usually for drinking too much and looking like a bit of an idiot while trying to hail down a taxi cab outside a Soho bar at 3am. 

“You don’t call, you don’t write,” she begins, offering out the champagne glass she had snagged from a passing waiter. “I heard a rumour you were back from the dead.” 

This is familiar,  but only to a certain degree these days.  Oliver’s struggled to slot himself back into what is essentially a well-oiled machine,  but it seems blue is a bastard to rid the blood of.  Perfumed as the air is,  he takes a long inhale of it.  Gold trim and low lights hide him well enough,  he thinks,  once the small talk and the gasps are far from him.  Too many people have touched him,  run their fingers along the zipperline of his jaw,  gawked at the surgeon’s mastery.  A precise art indeed,  they say.  You should have seen the fucking pteranodon,  he thinks.

But he is,  in his own way,  a master of the sly charm.  Jests that which hold no weight,  no matter how gaudy the laughter in the wake of such.  Fits in like an old part,  the fractals of him all buttoned up,  donned with a bow.  Oliver wants a cigarette.