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Member No.: 940
Joined: 1-May 12
TIED YOUR LACE A THOUSAND TIMES TAGGED FOR BREE
She let out an exasperating moan as her arms splayed over the side of the sofa. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Bored. Restless. Dying for darkness to come. Itching to be doing something that she hadn’t already done. She color coordinated part of Edmund’s library (oh which shade of grey, black, or brown would you like sir?). Waste. Of. Time. She soon realized that after the twentieth book and then placed them all back on the shelf. Haphazardly. She could drink. But Francis is only a social drinker who thinks getting drunk is only fun when in the company of others. It would, however, annoy Edmund, but still. There would be tomorrow morning to do that. When she came home. So she decided she’s going to make a list of things to do. To Edmund. With Edmund? No, definitely to him.
Number one: Throw a party. A house party. At his house. She’ll invite the whole gang. His whole gang because Francis currently doesn’t have enough friends to encompass a ‘gang’. Those people of whom she does know aren’t exactly the sort of people that need to mingle together. Mental note: make more friends, and the thought of a party reenters her mind in a circular fashion. There would be no playing the piano. Francis found the skill both annoying, on Edmund’s part, and irritating, also on Edmund’s part, yet admirable on the part of the Yaxley family as a whole. Knowing Edmund, he might revert into a nervous state and his fingers would never leave those shiny keys. She once thought about gluing his keys together but that would eliminate her own playing, and with such suffering she currently has to tolerate, losing that outlet would not be one of her smarter ideas.
Edmund wouldn’t trust her to throw a party. Edmund wouldn’t let her throw a party. Edmund wouldn't know about the party until he walked in on it. If only he knew how skilled she was in the entertaining industry. A true-life calling.
By the time she closed her book, her legs were draped over the backside of the couch, her head nearly dangling off the cushion, in the reverse fashion of how one would normally sit on a sofa. If Edmund could see, he would have something to say about her lack of lady like behavior (with her skirt fanning out, exposing her thighs and other more than necessary elements, his concern is with good reason..), not treating his furniture with respect, go on about her lack of care for his things and why she can’t and doesn’t have nice ones. Uh hello Edmund, she doesn’t have nice things because she’s a criminal.
Francis tried not to use the ‘C’ word around Edmund because then he became ever so slightly more uptight than he already was. Same goes for most people, really. No one likes to hear how Francis Bones is evading the government brought up in casual conversation. Francis isn’t a criminal per say. She’s only wanted. Maybe. It isn’t even a positive thing.
It’s not like anyone really likes the French anyways.
Francis moved into a proper, right side up position. Rather eloquently if she did say so herself. Her legs swinging down to the ground, careful not to scuff Edmund’s furniture. Everything was so clean. Clean in the way that only saying the word so as to emphasize the “-EA-“ part of the word by widening the mouth in a rather Cheshire cat expression, making the speaker look uncomfortable, does it justice. Even the word sounded as immaculate as Edmund kept his apartment. The word didn’t do Edmund’s home justice. Instead, the apartment did the word justice, and Francis both admired it and found it infuriating.
Deep down, she appreciated Edmund for what he was doing, or really, for being patient with her. She wasn’t messy in every sense of the word (she had better days), but Francis was relaxed. She enjoyed the safe feeling that came with clothes strewn and clutter in odd places. A mismatched and disorganized bookshelf made her happy, and rent… well, rent was made for being late wasn’t it? He would find out soon enough. Realistically, and eventually, Francis would need more money than she was able to get hold of, or so she was thinking. Eventually, she would have to call up her parents and explain the whole situation: how she found herself back in England, “because she missed them so much,” (the truth, actually, just not all of it) and how she wound up sharing a decently luxurious apartment with a Yaxley. Oh, and not to worry, she was also working for another one, mostly illegally, and altogether living a better life on the run than she was when she was a law abiding citizen. So many times she had tried writing that letter and then thrown it away. Her parents are lovely, open-minded people, and usually more so with her, but she could hear her father’s tone now.
And on that note, she quickly flitted the thought away from her brain.
Edmund would be home any minute and the house wasn’t yet messy. She went to her room, brought out a blanket, threw it on the couch, letting it land wherever it wished, and then went to the kitchen, nodded hello to the man Edmund hired to cook him food (even for Francis, it was extreme, but such a shame she couldn’t take advantage of it), and borrowed the tea tray. She then clouded then entire coffee table, but she knew she was going to have to do better than that. She went to her room once more and brought out books, sweaters, shoes, papers and strewn them all over the living room.
Although Edmund’s job was to teach other children, he felt that he was doing the most important learning almost everyday. Edmund had never really questioned his upbringing; he knew that it had its flaws, but he’d always accepted those flaws knowing that he had turned out all right in the end. In fact he figured that all of his siblings had turned out all right despite the role models that they had grown up around. Even Adalynn had turned out all right in his eyes, despite a less than pleasant past.
But witnessing the similarities to his own upbringing that his pupils were now going through, Edmund could see the flaws and their consequences. If he hadn’t spent his entire life trying to please his father, perhaps he would be having more fun with his youth. Edmund did have fun of course, but his idea of fun was much different than the rest of his generation. At least this was what Francis was always telling him. He had always considered himself very normal, in fact, he’d always loved how entirely normal and predictable his life was. But he had never thought of it as boring. He never listened to Francis much as most of the things that came out of her mouth were just to mess with him as he’d realized, but some things stayed with him more than he’d ever give her the satisfaction of knowing. Edmund was always trying to improve himself -- a habit that had been ingrained in his head by his father, who had always treated Edmund as his pet project – and when someone such as Francis told him that he was boring and that he was missing out on important fundamentals of being young, he started to believe her. Despite her many flaws, Francis was rather intelligent, and although he never liked to give her the satisfaction of being right, mostly because it meant that he was wrong, Edmund couldn’t manage to get the idea out of his mind that she may be right. Perhaps it was okay that she was right, although it was certainly a blow to the pride to admit that one’s life was not nearly as perfect or lively as it should be.
And still, no matter how many nights he went to bed telling himself that the following day he’d let Francis show him what her version of fun was, he still woke up in the morning with the same routine in mind – he’d read the paper as he drank his coffee, head off to work, and then come home eager to eat a wonderfully prepared meal courtesy of his cook, and read a wonderful book that would give his day some meaning. It wouldn’t be until he was getting into bed that night that he would remember what his goal had been for the day, and make a mental note to do so the following day only to fall prey to his habits the following morning.
Perhaps he was just worried. What if he discovered that Francis really was right, and he suddenly changes his lifestyle to be more… sporadic? What if he decided that he no longer cared about going to work every morning in exchange for going out every night? What would happen to his stability, the normalcy that he had always craved? Edmund was terrified of the thought. He admitted that Francis had her charms, but he didn’t want to become another Francis. He daresay that his furniture could only handle one Francis Bones.
Edmund was just beginning to think that he might let Francis have her way this evening when he apparated into his apartment, taking in his surroundings with an exasperated sigh. He picked up a few things and allowed for his wand to fold them before placing them on the table for Francis to pick up. Edmund couldn’t afford a housekeeper, but it hadn’t been hard to convince his parents’ to come and visit every Sunday afternoon for a game or two of chess and to do a quick tidy. He didn’t want to say that he was using her weakness for wizard’s chess and an afternoon with him to his advantage, but he also wasn’t one to lie.
”I see you’ve kept yourself busy this afternoon” he said, sticking his head around the corner into Francis’ room before making his way into it. It was surprisingly tidy, however he noticed a few new things stuck to the walls. He hoped that they weren’t permanent or worse, stuck with tape. If there were marks on his wallpaper, he’d have some choice words to say to Francis. Or he’d try to say them. It was difficult for Edmund to get mad at anyone, let alone Francis. Having an argument would just make things awkward. The thought alone made him uncomfortable.
”Barry’s got the evening off” he told her, finding an appropriate place to sit. ”Something about his daughter going into labour or something.” He allowed his wand to pick up a few more things, placing them into a neat pile. He knew that the next time that he came in here it would be in just as bad as a disarray as it had been this time, but he always had some notion that if he did some cleaning for her, then she’d leave it as is. ”So I’m afraid we’re on our own.” he told her, frowning slightly at the idea of allowing her to pick what they ate. But he had no ideas and he didn’t like making others angry. ”You can uh.. you can pick what we do I suppose. It is your turn after all” he told her. It wouldn’t kill him to be nice even if she wouldn’t always return the favour.
Member No.: 940
Joined: 1-May 12
TIED YOUR LACE A THOUSAND TIMES TAGGED FOR BREE
She could hear him crawling around his home, probably humming to himself while he thought those little quaint thoughts of his about children and learning and teachng. Oh how she longed for Edmund to spruce things up outside of his own little box. It was beginning to give her a restless feeling. But even Francis, though daring to a certain degree (though more dangerous than anything), didn’t dare overstep her position as roommate. He had, after all, taken her in out of desperation (his, not hers though certainly her desperation outweighed his own), but his desperation had limits, she was sure. Edmund and all his patience was only human.
She could feel him creep closer, and she was ready to jump in excitement at the mere sight of another human. Socially cooped up was far worse than just being cooped up. But being cooped up with Edmund was the second to worse thing to being socially cooped up. Francis felt tragic for berating him twice in a span of two minutes, just for the moment, felt remorse. Though it was odd feeling, so she stopped.
She made herself look entertained. Enough. Crisscrossing her legs on her bed, what they called Indian style, connecting the voice of Edmund with the sight of his curly, sandy little head. The rest of his body followed suit and he meandered on in. She placed her hands in her lap like a precocious child as he, and rather awkwardly, tried to decide where he should sit. She would love for him to sit on the bed with her, if only to test him. Or to get lucky. But Edmund wasn’t quite like that (not those easy, seducible types), or so she figured. One can believe, though, that it was on her list somewhere. What “it” was, however, was left up to the experimentation.
With a smirk, a happy smirk, on her face, she watched him casually pick up the loose articles on her floor knowing full well it would be futile in moments time. She could hear him speaking, but watching him waste his energy seemed to be more fun than anything else. Francis nodded and “Mhmm-ed” so that he wouldn’t think she was ignoring him. Labor? Really? Didn’t Edmund pay him to be here? Not that it mattered. She really only ate human food for the conversation. If Barry was nice, he would bring home a pint of blood for her.
And what a lovely little pile Edmund had just made. Really, she should thank him. But instead, Francis herself rose from out of her comfortable position and with her wand, undid everything Edmund attempted to make right amidst answering his comments. ”On our own? You and I?” The same, casual smirk she was seen with so often played on her lips. She found it hard to find the energy imply anything overtly sexual this time (though he made it so easy) so she dropped the attempt of a tone. Edmund was too… lovely for her taste. And the thought of tasting Edmund made her want to giggle, which she unabashedly did before returning her attention back to her occupant. His last words were miracles. She literally froze her in footsteps, stopped walking, and looked at him when he said those magical words. ”Are you joking?” She said it with as much frankness as she did a lack of hope that he was saying anything honest. ”I didn’t know we were so… fair.” Was he actually willing to take a chance? Not that he was giving her much to work with… ”We could invite your friends!” she said with over excitement. But who were his friends? Albus and that one girl… the pretty Ravenclaw… The Princess is what Francis had effectively called her. What would they do? Play wizards chess together and make arts and crafts? Again, not quite her type. Edmund’s type, though. ”We could call on that one girl, the princess one, what’s her name… I don’t particularly like her, but you do, but then again, I don’t really know her nor pay attention to her. If we’re going to talk about doing something fun she might as well pay attention,” and then she shook her head, ”Next time, maybe. Whenever it’s my turn again.” A large part of her conversation was directed mainly at herself, but the benefit of having Edmund in the room was so that she didn’t have to repeat herself.
”By the way, did you see your bookshelf? It’s not finished.” Her pacing, which she had started before her previous rambling was Sherlockian in method. She was analyzing their atmosphere—whatever that meant. In all honesty, they had plenty of time to do anything now that she thought about it. But it all went back to whose friends would be invited. ”Let’s order Chinese, for starters,” she piped and then went back to her thoughts. Perhaps it would just be better for Edmund to come home to a party. He could go ladida with The Princess and Albus and then bring them all home and she could have her own fun with them after they’ve had their sort of fun. She was gong to lose that thought by the time it was time to tell Edmund, but it was ok. The next time Edmund decided he would be home late, it would click and come together. The less he knew, the better. ”Excuse me while I pretend to be you for a moment and become unbearably high maintenance, but we can’t go anywhere until the sun goes down.” Just so he knew.
Francis continued to pace her floor, searching for a creative answer. They were counting on her. ”Edmund I don’t know…..” she complained, dropping her arms for her waist, her eyes going droopy. ”You’ve sucked all my creative juices away.” First the playful, sexual tone and now this.... It was the sun, not him. More than likely. ”Where do you keep the alcohol? That’s always a good start.” Defaulting. Never a proud moment, but it would have to work. "You do have something, right? I'm quite thirsty," and then another fit of laughter.