Edgar Bones

                                                                    BONES

Amelia felt Edgar’s hand squeeze hers. A soft smile formed on her lips. Knowing that Edgar was there for her made Amelia feel at ease. What did she do to deserve an amazing older brother like him? “Thanks, Edgar,” she told him softly. At this point, Amelia didn’t know what to do.

Edgar smiled back at her, big and warm. “Any time, Ames.” He squeezed her hand again. “Why don’t you let me take you out this weekend? We can get ice cream or something, yeah?” That had always worked to cheer her up when she was younger. Maybe it still would.

   “I see, well you may live to regret that.” Greta tried to offer him a smile, the bright mile wide one she otherwise seemed to offer up to people with ease. Yet it was a little more forced than it should be. A little bit diminished. Which, in turn, unsettled the blonde further. Greta hated that it worked, that Evan Rosier got in her head and she’d been so on-edge the day that passed. Every minute that she fretted over it, was another one that felt like that sick slick grinning son of a bitch had the upper hand. 

Worse yet was sharing it, was making others concerned; seeing them frown at her in worry. Watching them fret. If she could just pretend it hadn’t happened, she possibly would’ve but the evidence was too hard to ignore this time round. They weren’t in Hogwarts, she couldn’t blame a Flying lesson or tripping down a staircase the way she had in her youth. Somehow it’d been different with Malfoy. Sure, he looked down on her with the equivalency of the house-elves she’d befriended but Greta hadn’t got the bone chilling ‘he might just up and decide to kill me’ feeling back then that Evan had impressed upon her the other night. A chill ran up her spine even then, sitting in her favorite tea shop with the dependable Edgar Bones sitting across from her. 

“I usually just apparate home.” Greta’s voice cracked, quiet and raspy in her throat. “I’ve never really had any trouble in the pub itself, too many regulars know me there, and I normally apparate straight home to Tilden.” Why hadn’t she just gone home? 

Greta could picture it, the refreshing crisp evening air enveloping her as her mind had whirled with not-here-or-there memories of her life at home in Dorset. It had been a busy shift, she’d been exhausted and a bit raw emotionally; a little fresh air couldn’t hurt. Except, that was where she’d been wrong. “It was just so nice out. The sky was clear, the air was crisp; I could see the stars glittering down.” Surely it was an innocent enough act. Looking up at the stars, sitting for just a moment on a bench nearby. Just a moment too long, in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Words caught in Greta’s throat as she’d tried to figure out where to go from there. Her deep brown eyes unable to settle on Edgar’s face, her gaze dropped to her hands which folded anxiously into themselves on the table. “Evan Rosier was out, doing his rounds as it so happens.” Making Greta practically a sitting duck. “T-there wasn’t anyone else around,” no witnesses. Just her, a little distracted and ripe for the picking. Slowly, Greta managed to bring her gaze up to find Edgar’s across from her. Silently asking how much she was going to have to say. The details always hurt the most.  

His heart thumped in his chest like a wild rabbit, and he felt almost as helpless. Her distress built with each softly-spoken syllable. It was jarring to see, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, everything moving in molasses slow motion. Any second now she would smile and laugh and tell him it was all some elaborate prank. But the genuine fear in her eyes told him the truth; the haunted look in them was too real to be pretend.

Edgar didn’t often lose control of himself, and he took in a slow breath as he reminded himself not to do so now. Sure, he felt things passionately, but he was always good at holding onto that last thread of control, of riding the edge of emotion without being overwhelmed by it. Even out in the field, on dangerous missions, he was completely in charge of his emotions and responses. He would be hyper-alert, but grounded in the certainty of his skills and training, confidence centering him with calmness.

But right now, hearing her trembling words, he felt as close to out-of-control as he had ever been. Rosier. His blood turned icy cold and then flushed hot, flooding him with the urge to jump up, to do something, to get his hands around Rosier’s throat and squeeze until his eyes bugged out and he apologized for hurting something so precious and kind, until he begged for the mercy he had denied her. Edgar would deny him it, too.

His hand clenched into a fist on the table and he swallowed, willing himself not to shout or bang it down on the lacy tablecloth between them. That would only scare her further. Instead, he forced himself to open his palm flat again, pressing it down against the lace until it scratched at his skin. “What do you need?” he managed to get out, wishing that bastard could be here to hear the barely-contained anger in his voice. It would terrify him. “What do you need me to do?”

                                                                    BONES

Amelia sighed. Everybody kept telling her this, but being a barmaid was her only hope. It was something to keep her off her feet. “I would, Ed, no matter how many times I wanted to leave, but this job is the only thing keeping me sane. I mean, paying off the apartment I live in currently by myself has been hard, but it’s worth it in the end. Plus, I-I don’t want to end up living on the street. This job is my only hope,” she said, her voice shaking quite a bit.

Edgar sighed, and just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Ames, you wouldn’t end up on the street. I would never let that happen to you, and you know you’re always welcome at my place.” He gave her a kinder smile, and reached across the bar to squeeze her hand. “You have options, okay? It’s just up to you if you want to take them.”

“So they say but I am not totally sure.” She said tilting her head slightly “I have met people that could lie even while drunk…so either they weren’t so drunk or they were really committed to the lies.” She smirked a little “Veritaserum isn’t that hard to do, and you know people tend to just get distracted easily and you can just pour it casually into their drink.” She had never done it but hey…it was easy enough if she ever…wanted. “Ah I am sure I can teach you.” She laughed “Who says I haven’t done things they wouldn’t approve… or are you suggesting anything?”

Edgar shrugged. “I guess I don’t spend very much time around liars.” He kept his tone light, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach the hardness in his eyes. He didn’t have much patience for people who used words to manipulate others. Or any kind of manipulation, really. “I hope you’re not telling me you’d intentionally dose other people without their consent.” At her question, he laughed. “Would it be too much of a cliche to suggest myself? Because I’m definitely not something your parents would approve of.”

    “Fine, fine–” Greta lightheartedly dismissed. “Yes, of course. Though normally in a sit down setting one does not order enough scones to fill a basket at home.” The distraction of thinking about scone-ordering etiquette was enough to pass the final steps to the door of the little hideaway tea shop. Mostly quiet in and of itself, other than another table or two. Greta had politely bowed her head in thanks as Edgar held the door. Perhaps if she’d been in better spirits, the blonde would have made a bigger deal of of it– offered him a melodramatic curtsey and a ‘when did you become such a gentleman?’. Not today. 

The atmosphere of the cozy little shop never failed to ease some of her tensions, even today. Vases of elaborate flower arrangements sat on old-lace skirted tablecloths. Greta felt her Grandmother would very much approve of the shop’s decor. ‘Thank you,’ she’d offered gingerly to the hostess who’d seated them. Paying no attention to the amused little smile the middle-aged woman seemed to be wearing. ‘We don’t need a read of the menu, thank you. A plate set of White Peony tea will do. And, he’ll have a blueberry scone. Could you ask Miss Ginger to set aside a fresh wrap of them actually? I’ll pick them up before we go. Just kindly assure her they’re not all for me.’ Chuckling, she’d turned her attention back to Edgar as their hostess turned on her heel away from them. “Oh– i’m so sorry, I come here so often I forgot to ask… do you like a stronger tea? I can have her bring you something else. I know white tea isn’t everyone’s pick of the lot.” 

Talk of tea couldn’t serve as a buffer forever, she’d given him enough reason to be assured something was wrong; he wasn’t likely going to let her just keep skating over it. Or, perhaps, Edgar would have but Greta didn’t necessarily feel like risking upsetting the young man further by keeping him in the dark. Inhaling deeply she’d braced herself. Dropping into the change of subject with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants. “I work night shifts. As a barmaid, that’s rather unavoidable. I need the money, turning up a nose at shifts just isn’t very plausible–” Though that wasn’t essentially the problem Greta was clearly trying to set-up her explanation. As she spoke, her nerves began to knot sickeningly in her stomach. 

Edgar nodded, and decided not to tell her about all the times that he had indeed ordered food just to take it home. Getting take-home was usually easier than trying to cook for himself, and definitely safer. The tea shop was cute and quaint and exactly the sort of respite from the rest of the world that they both seemed so desperately in need of. He didn’t bother to hide how he impressed he was at the confident way she ordered and set aside some scones for him. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed to be in charge of every situation, or even wanted to, and he was more than happy to surrender that to someone more capable.

“No, no, that’s perfect,” he reassured her. “I’m in your hands.” Under normal circumstances (was that even a thing anymore?), he might have teased her a bit, probably thrown in something about her being the mistress of tea and him an uncouth peasant. But today didn’t feel normal, not even by their new broken-world definition of it. There was a tension in the lines of her shoulders that he kept wanting to reach out and ease. And maybe that was a problem of his, always wanting to fix things, but then what was so wrong with making things better? He couldn’t save everyone, but bloody hell was there a comfort in trying.

He expected to have to work harder for whatever story she was carrying, maybe sneak up on it sideways so she’d let her guard down. But she surprised him, as she so often did, and he was all careful listening and warm eyes as she started down the path. He leaned forward, his hand flexing where it rested on the small table that separated them. Do not reach out and take her hand. He took a breath instead, and gave her a soft smile. “Right, of course. I hear it from Amelia all the time. Seems like the worst shifts are the easiest ones to get.” His chest tightened as he wondered where all this was going, his mind already racing through worst-case-scenarios. Just tell me you’re okay. Tell me they didn’t touch you, he wanted to blurt out. The shadow of bruises hidden beneath makeup told him otherwise.

                                                                   BONES

Her eyes red now, she looked up at her brother, wiping away the excess tears that had stained her cheeks. “Edgar… I-I wasn’t expecting you to come here so soon. I’m sorry to have to see me like this. I really am. Everything is not okay. I feel like what I do here is not appreciated enough. Work is a pain in the ass sometimes, and I hate feeling like this,” she explained to her brother in a soft, hushed voice.

Edgar ached to reach across the bar and pull her into his arms, but he settled for taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “You know you can always be honest with me about how you’re feeling, Ames. And everyone hates their job sometimes.” As much as he loved being an auror, not every day was magical. Especially not paperwork days. “But if you’re really that unhappy here, maybe you should try looking for another job?” he said gently.

“ You would make a load of money, so much money you could buy a whole chip factory.” She grinned. “ I would happily be your own customer, I’ll buy some every day.” She said. “ I’m glad I’m not sad too. I like being happy. Are you happy, Eddie?” She asked worriedly. She froze as he spoke looking around until she spotted her dress. “ Okay we have to be very quiet or it will disappear again.” She whispered back. “ What if my dress is a wizard?” She asked.

“But would I have to be in charge of the factory? That sounds like too much work,” he teased. Her question sucked the breath out of him, and he swallowed as he struggled for words. Was he happy? What did that really look like anymore? “Sure, Hes. I’m happy,” he replied. And it was true enough. In this moment, with her sweetly giggling by his side, he was happy. “Okay, we’ll be very quiet,” he whispered, holding her hand as he moved towards it on exaggerated tiptoes. Anything to get another laugh out of her, to keep her smiling. “If it’s a wizard, then it’s a very clever dress, and we definitely need to capture it.”

Demanding Remus’ shirt back was entirely unnecessary and he did it just to be petty. It wasn’t an important item of clothing, it held no special memories or anything like that. It was quite literally just a shirt. Part of him wanted to return it to Mary, but that was equally caddy and unimportant. Although, it would spur the second round of a conversation they had already had, so he would give it back to her. Probably tell her goodbye with it if he wasn’t too weak in the moment - which he most likely would be. Knowing her and knowing himself, there were many possible outcomes that would all lead to the one thing that inevitably would happen - the same thing that put him here, sitting next to Edgar in a silent jealous rage. Remus wasn’t completely new to jealousy, but the sort that came from this deep, confusing, brand new place was baffling to him. “No, I’m- we’re not…” Remus gave an exasperated laugh and reached up to rub the tension knot from the back of his neck. “I’m not seeing Mary.”

The most important thing to remember here was Mary, and not the shirt. Edgar loved her in a way he had never found the words to express, and he would fight anyone who didn’t love her half as fiercely. She was his best friend, his confidante, and someone more deserving of happiness than almost anyone he knew. Unfortunately, she seemed to have more of a knack for stumbling into unhappiness. Remus’ response disquieted him, and Edgar turned a glassy-but-scrutinizing gaze on him. Of course, Mary had the right to a one-night stand; he did the same himself often enough. But she deserved more, and everyone who spent even an hour with her should want more, should be honored to be ‘seeing her’, and who did Remus think he was to just use her and toss her away like that? “What exactly are your intentions with Mary?” The words tumbled out of Edgar’s mouth before he could think better of them, sharp and clipped.

Through pursed lips, Grayson let out a low puff of air. He felt hot around the collar, his palms were sweaty and his leg was twitching. His eyes locked with Edgar’s for a moment, the alcohol blurring his vision and thoughts slightly. His judgement was clouded by the drink and yet he still found himself uttering a soft reply to Edgar’s question. “Yours,” he stated, slipping off the bar stool. 

Edgar felt warmth pulse through him all the way to his fingertips when Grayson looked at him. His hands flexed instinctively, itching to reach out and grab him, pull him close. Later. There would be plenty of time for that later, for Edgar’s fingers to take him apart slowly, oh so slowly. Edgar stood up, and pressed a hand to the small of Grayson’s back to guide him towards the door. “Do you trust me to apparate us?” he murmured.

     “That explains why you are friends with me then,” she’d meant for it to sound joking but her tone drifted–distracted. Even standing side-by-side with Edgar she was carrying herself with a caution she didn’t normally exhibit. Though, it did help, his sturdy frame at her side; whereas before Greta had just set her sights on the known location of her beloved hideaway tea shop and tried to mad dash towards it like the finish line of a race. Now, she was paced much more normally. 

“You don’t?” She’d asked, her attention actually snapping from the pedestrians in passing to his face. Scoffing at him. “I cannot believe this is new information for you. You are completely missing out. There’s a scone for just about any time of day, frankly.” Leave it to Greta to be distracted at the mention of baked goods. “Blueberry specifically? Well, there’s two. One place does them with a lemon glaze. Before you ask, yes, it makes a difference. It depends on the intended scone consumer, I s’pose. It’s a little more crisp. Whereas, the plain blueberry ones at the little stall over on Nox are a fairly rich-sweet scone.”

“Tackiness, horrible sense of humor, way too much smiling... Yeah, that pretty much sums up my friendship needs,” he teased, but the smile on his face couldn’t quite erase the worried lines at the corners of his eyes. She was off her game, and Greta was never off her game, at least not that Edgar had ever seen. Thank god his Operation: Scone Distraction worked, as her frame lost a hint of its tenseness as she fell into her usual babbling. He fell into his usual soft smile as he listened.

“I have no idea about half of what you just said,” he admitted with a laugh. “But it all sounds delicious, and I’ll work on rectifying my scone deficiencies immediately, ma’am.” He gave her a somber nod, and then laughed again. “Does the place we’re going have scones? Because maybe I can just get some there, even if it’s not as high quality as your queenly self.” He let her lead the way, but as they approached the door, he stepped in front of her to open it. As they stepped inside, he asked the hostess if they could be seated in a quiet, private corner. She gave them a knowing smile and led them towards the back, but Edgar hardly noticed it. His thoughts were on Greta, and where her smile had gone, and what he needed to do to get it back.

Work, out of all places, was the last place that Amelia wanted to be at. Emotionally, mentally, and physically, she’s been drained. She tries her best to do what her boss tells her to do. Deep down, Amelia feels that she’s not good enough. “I’m never going to be good for this job, am I?” she asked herself.

Edgar approached Amelia at the bar, stopping by after another long day at work. He was ready with a joke, but something in his sister’s face made him pause. “What’s going on, Ames? Everything okay?”

“ I know, but missed you and your smell.”She said burning her face in his shoulder. “ It’s my favorite smell in the world. I call it Eddie scent. You should bottle it up and sell it.” She giggled again, trying to focus on walking and not falling down. “ I just wanted to have a good time. I’m tired of being sad all the time.” She said with a pout. “ Now, I’m happy and don’t know why I was sad, in the first place.” She said.

“I missed you, too, Hes.” He let himself say it, knowing she wouldn’t remember later. He let himself nuzzle into the top of her head for a moment, too, just breathing in her scent. “You think I’d make a lot of money that way? Selling Eddie scent?” he teased. “Somehow, I think I’d only have one customer. And I’m glad you’re not sad. You deserve to be happy, Hestia.” He spotted a some brightly colored fabric draped over a bush, and breathed a small sigh of relief. “Don’t look now, but I think we’ve found the disappearing dress. We’ll need to sneak up on it so it doesn’t run away again,” he mock whispered.

“Well… I wasn’t supposed to be hearing those things.” She admitted “Sometimes you get to hear things you wish you didn’t once people have a little alcohol in them” She laughed and nodded “Oh is great, even back then…You should try doing it, sometimes just leaving like that is best than getting in an argument.” Honestly she did it less and less as she grew older. “You think so huh.. and are that you have some ideas on how i should do that?”

He laughed, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. Alcohol is the best truth serum.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m so bad at walking away when I really should. But you do make it sound appealing, although I’m not sure I could pull off your haughty walk,” he teased. “You should do something adventurous. Something your parents wouldn’t approve of you doing,” he said simply.

Grayson felt a sting at the other male’s touch. It shot up his arm, burning through his veins until it came to settle deep within the pit of his stomach. He had never had this type of reaction towards a male before. Why? Why now? Was the lack of connection and activity over the few months taking its toll on Grayson? “Something that isn’t for public display…” he muttered in replied, tongue flicking over his lips.

Edgar’s equal opportunity mindset had served him well over the years, making sure his bed was never empty, even if his heart was. He did care about the people he slept with, even if it was just for that one night, but he didn’t let the feelings linger. It was easier to just kiss goodbye in the morning and let it be a happy memory, then let it develop into something that could break hearts. And Grayson definitely looked like he could break a heart or two. Edgar kept tracing slow designs against the soft skin of his inner wrist, eyes dark as he looked up. “Maybe we should go somewhere more private, then.” He pressed his thumb down directly over Grayson’s pulse point. “Mine, or yours?”

   “You were heading somewhere as well,” Greta gingerly reminded him. “I was genuinely off for tea. Not exactly a very pressing matter,” though she did suppose it was at least quiet compared to where they currently stood. Part of its charm had usually been just that, the stillness it possessed as the world outside carried about its usual business. 

Trying to brush Edgar off had admittedly crossed Greta’s mind if only for a fraction of a second. Hesitating, her gaze lingered on the offered arm that otherwise might have pulled an amused chuckle from her lips. The gesture making all the times she’d tauntingly called him Sir seem appropriate. “–however, I will not object if you do not have anywhere pressing to be yourself.” Obligingly, Greta had tucked her own arm into the crook of his. Stepping forward whilst falling into place at his side. Oddly it seemed she could breathe a little easier then, even as her deep brown gaze cautiously skirted out across the bustling cobblestone street. “Now, you are not allowed to be judgmental.” She’d schooled her tone, trying to re-introduce some lighter conversation if only until they were off the street. “It’s a wee bit tacky. The shopkeep is very kind, usually. Not so much open to suggestions regarding improving any of the menu items– I have tried, it did not end well.” 

He shrugged. “Not important.” It might have been a little too honest to tell her nothing was as important as her, so he didn’t say that. He just patted her hand when she slipped it through his arm, grateful that she was holding onto him. He got a little dizzy in her presence sometimes.

She wasn’t her usual bubbly self and that worried him. She hadn’t made fun of him at all, and that worried him even more. What choice did he have but to follow her, and hope that with a bit more privacy, she would reveal a bit more of what was going on? He smiled at her colorful description of their destination. “You say that like I don’t love tacky. I’m drawn to tacky. Me and tacky are best friends,” he replied with a grin, a little more genuine this time. Maybe he was reading too much into things, but it almost seemed like she was watching the people around them more closely than usual. He held her a little closer to his side, a reminder that it was the two of them against the horde, or whatever it was that had her so tense. Too tense. She needed a distraction. “Hey, do you know about this breakfast scone thing? And if so, where can I find some good blueberry ones so my kitchen will no longer be classified as sub-par?”

“Even the boys?” She asked, turning as the kettle gave out a shrill noise. Mary pulled her wand from the waistband of her shorts and with a wave the coffee went to work. Hopping off the counter, she moved to retrieve two mugs from the cabinets and when she placed them under the floating kettle, they filled themselves. When she turned, her smile was genuine, an easy spring in her step as she moved behind where he worked. She wound an arm around his waist, settling his cup where he could reach, then leaned on the counter beside him as he worked. 

“Those may be Dorcas’ strawberries,” she admitted, her mouth turning downward in thought, and the face stuck as his words continued. Blowing the steam off the top of her coffee, she watched him, ignoring his lighthearted wink in favor of a skeptical narrowing of her eyes. “Do you want a girl? Besides Hestia, I mean. I can’t very well set you up with someone new if you just plan on running back to your ex for the millionth time.” Mary knew it was a low-blow, but it was the truth, truth she felt Edgar needed to face. And? Considering she needed a distraction, maybe pulling him from the grips of the past wasn’t such a bad idea. 

Her snort at his comment was over the top, and as she glanced in her rubbish bin, noting more Chinese symbols than anything else, the noise morphed into a laugh. “I will… manage, Eddie. Besides, if we keep holing ourselves up in here pretending we don’t deserve love, then guess where we’ll end up? In two rockers on this bloody front porch when we are 80 and arguing about if we want cinnamon or regular oatmeal for dinner.” She moved into his side, arms wrapping around his waist and she sighed. Mary didn’t think that sounded too bad, considering other alternatives, but he deserved better.  “And I really hate oatmeal.”

“Even the boys,” he said solemnly. Part of him wished their play-pretend of imagined futures could be real, or maybe he just wished that they lived in a world where they had the option to be real. Their current reality wasn’t one where he could imagine being married, letting alone bringing a child into this chaos. He didn’t even want to bring a puppy into it.

He settled into her touch easily, like wrapping himself up with a favorite blanket. She was always soothing to him; even when his heart was aching, she knew how to stitch it back up enough for him to limp on. He laughed at the realization that they might be using Dorcas’ strawberries, but he had already started washing them, so he might as well plunge ahead. “I’ll buy her more. Twice as many,” he promised.

And just like she knew how to piece him back together, she also knew exactly where to land a punch. He sighed, waving his wand at the waffle iron to take out the finished one and get another started. Maybe he needed to hear those words. Maybe they hurt so much because he needed to hear them. “I’m-- fine.” It was a lie. And he was never good at lying to her. “Okay, maybe I’m not as happy or as fulfilled as I could be, but there’s kind of a war on, you know? I’m a little busy. And I’m-- getting over Hestia. I am. I’m over her.” That one was almost the truth. He wrapped his arms around her in turn, hooking his chin over her shoulder. “And we do deserve love instead of crappy oatmeal. I just... haven’t figured out how to find it yet.” He swallowed. “Maybe I’m too scared to try anymore.” There. That was the real truth.