who: edgar x ophelia @starlingisms
when: a few days following the now infamous botched break up turned proposal
It had been a few days -- four to be exact (not that he was keeping track) -- and the shock of the incident, as Edgar had come to think of it, had yet to wear off. It was almost as if he could replay it, moment by moment, in his mind’s eye. One second, he and Ophelia had been making the agreed upon rounds, chatting with guests they’d carefully determined beforehand, the first steps in their carefully laid out break up plan, and the next, eyes were fixed on him. It was almost as if he could hear the collective breath being held in the room as people wondered just what his answer would be. It should’ve been no. They should never have gotten into this situation in the first place. After all, there had been a plan in place. A good plan, he mentally added. One he’d put together and had expected to go off without a hitch. Instead, it was four days later and he was still receiving congratulatory messages about his engagement.
“So.” Edgar’s tone was light. Disarming. “Are we going to talk or should I send a carefully detailed memo that you’ll inevitably just ignore?”
It felt strange to be in the Villanueva family home on a day that wasn’t Thanksgiving or Christmas. The walls looked bare without the shimmer of tree lights or the yellow, orange and red decorations that were put up the day after Halloween. But still, it was nice to be back. After a week of settling in, her parents decided to throw a small get-together with everyone from her childhood. Her friends from high school were there with children of their own, her neighbours, extended family members and of course, The Mendoza Family; all of which were thankfully familiar with each other.
Needing a break from talk of her life in New York, her failed love life and her new position at the agency, Xyla snuck out towards the kitchen hoping to find another bottle of wine. She’d just stepped through the threshold when she spotted a mess of curls leaning against the island, his back turned towards her. “Looks like you had the same idea,” She said, a small smile pulling at the edges of her lips. “Mind if I hide away in here too? I won’t snitch if you don’t.” @edgarmendoza
Prompt: “What is it about me that makes you hate me so much? ” and/or “ Why can’t you look at me? ” (Edgar/Olivia)
“Nothing about this is what I imagined it would be,” Edgar heard himself say. He and Liv weren’t the kind of couple who fought. More often than not, they failed to see eye to eye, but butting heads wasn’t fighting. Semantics, some would claim, but Edgar knew what it was like to fight and the kinds of disagreements they had hardly counted. They didn’t have the explosive blow outs that some couples had, the kinds that ended in wounds inflicted by painful fists and even more painful words.
So, the fact that they were currently having something that could only be classified as more intense than their usual disagreements was enough to unsettle him. “I’m not saying I expected marriage to be easy.” The sentiment was punctuated by a scoff.
“What exactly were you expecting,” Olivia asked, as he knew she would. It would be too much to expect her to sit quietly while he worked through whatever it was that was floating through his mind, whatever it was that he couldn’t quite get his mouth to say as yet.
“I don’t know, Olivia.”
Edgar turned on his heel, hand running through his hair, tangling in the longer strands that now hung disheveled in his face. He’d come home, gut a twisting, rioting storm of anxiety. He’d buzzed as if he’d been electrocuted and as the hours had passed, the sensation had gotten worse. Now, barefooted, and dressed in nothing more than an old pair of sweats, Edgar could hardly get himself to settle for bed. He hadn’t been this twisted up since his teenage years when he’d fallen for a boy with eyes that sparkled when he smiled and a laugh that brought sunshine to the darkest room. Since then, Edgar had learned to compartmentalize, to meditate until the world made sense and feelings could be controlled. Not that any of that mattered, he thought, as he paced a path around their bedroom.
“Why can’t you look at me?”
At her question, Edgar threw a look over his shoulder, sarcastic, unamused, daring. She was asking questions that he wasn’t quite ready to answer, asking without asking for him to be vulnerable with her, and he wasn’t quite there. It made him testy. Enough so that he was almost sure that the look on his face was more challenge than acquiescence. You want vulnerable, it said. I’ll show you vulnerable.
“I just wasn’t expecting this.” Edgar waved his hands in front of him, gaze locked with Liv’s, as he launched into what he hoped was a coherent explanation. “You. In my stuff.”
“I’d hardly say I’m in your things, Edgar.” Liv’s voice remained soft and patient, as if she was talking to their daughter, and maybe that was the worse part of it all. He was coming apart at the seams and somehow, through it all, his wife remained the picture of calm. “Not physically,” he explained, almost spat out. “Metaphorically. Emotionally, even. Being married to you is like standing in the middle of an oil spill. It doesn’t matter how much I try, it touches everything. Contaminates everything. And there’s no way to get it out.”
“What is it about me that makes you hate me so much?”
The words caused Edgar to stop short mid explanation, if what he had been doing could even be classified as such. It was as if he’d taken a gutshot, quick, unexpected; it knocked the wind out of him and caused his gaze to snap down to hers. Edgar was sure that he’d never seen that look in his wife’s eyes -- that torn look. He’d seen it in his mother’s eyes countless times before, but never, in the time that they’d been married, had he seen it in Olivia’s, and certainly not in response to something he’d said.
“I don’t. What would make you think that I hate you?” His voice was incredulous. He was shocked that she’d even think such a thing.
“Most people would take offense to being compared to an oil spill that contaminates everything, Edgar.” There was a matter of fact edge to her voice punctuated by a slight shrug of her shoulders. He watched as Liv made her way over to the side of the bed where Amelie slept in her bassinet, blissfully unaware of all that was happening around her.
“That’s not what I meant.” Even to his own ears it sounded like a paltry excuse. “I didn’t mean to compare you to an oil spill. Or a contaminant, for that matter.”
Liv’s eyebrow was raised and Edgar could see the question in her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was careless with my words.” Careless wasn’t a word that usually described Edgar, but in that moment he knew that it applied. He’d been careless with his words, and by extension, his wife’s feelings. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as he took the few steps to the other side of the bed so that he was now positioned behind Olivia, close enough that she could touch him if she reached out, but far enough away that his energy wouldn’t disrupt her or Amelie.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he continued. “I just feel… off.” His voice was hushed, gaze resting on his daughter. From the moment he’d learned of her existence, she’d changed his world. She’d quickly become the most important thing to him. Amelie had given him purpose unlike anything else in his life, but being a husband and a father had unbalanced him. It had taken his neatly laid out life and upended it, and Edgar was still reeling in the aftermath.
“Try to get some sleep,” he finally said. Edgar took a single step forward so that his chest brushed against her back and dropped a kiss to the top of her head before turning towards the door. He’d order her flowers in the morning. She’d know what they meant. “I’ll be in my office.”
Aveline has been a precocious girl and she hated when her friends didn’t maintain her high standards and she knew they could. So it was a common sight to see her studying with them, which was less for her benefit and more for theirs, because she didn’t allow failure in any aspect of her life and that extended to those she considered friends. That was what brought her to the greenhouse today, helping a friend study, normally she’d have gone to the library but she wasn’t in the mood to hear any comments about her and her Gryffindor friend, he was still a pureblood afterall. Aveline would describe how her’s and Edgar’s friendship formed as a result of pure happenstance. He had been the first person she met on her train ride to Hogwards that she wasn’t related to and he didn’t tease her for her accent. An accent that had become undetectable over her years at Hogwarts due to the teasing in their first year, she sounded now like everyone else. Through the years they’d been put in project after project together and she was sketching in her notebook a flower when she heard his footsteps, sitting on a chair, she turned with a smile “You know you aren’t able to sneak up on me...What took you so long?” She asked with a laugh
It’s a beautiful morning, or at least, it would be-- if you were the sort of person that loved mornings. Amelia didn’t particularly care for them all that often, except for the fact that is was Saturday. Any part of the weekend was one that Amelia found she wanted to savor, and so she found herself up, donning casual clothes and trudging her way to the Great Hall, nothing on the agenda but good food and the book tucked into her back pocket. It was her assumption, as it normally was, that she would find a cohort along the way and formulate a plan to spend the day, or at least the morning. As long as it didn’t require any thought of classes, she was in.
It was wit joy that when she sauntered into the hall she saw Edgar already seated, his journey to the breakfast table ahead of hers by only minutes. “Riddle me this, Ed-- if I asked the house elves to make those pancakes that Mom makes-- you reckon they would?” She sits down, piling her plate with toast, beans, and more bacon that would probably be considered suitable. “I reckon they would, and I have a hankering as strong as anything right now.”
Event days started with the sun rise. There was always too much to do before the start time, even after the years of practice. If Marya were sensible she would approach her to-do list with the mindset of what could be taken off when she ultimately hit the manic crunch time, but she approached each time with an alarming amount of self-confidence.
That day had gone well so far. The finalized guest count had been sent off to the caterer, which she knew would have to be adjusted that morning after she read through the long-winded letters both explaining unexpected conflicts and asking for last minute invitations. The speech drafts had been reviewed and a message had been sent out to her connection at the Prophet. Then of course a representative from her favorite vineyard had to come to get final approval of the wine, which was difficult to do when she couldn’t tell why she wasn’t tasting them.
And she was still able to get herself ready by lunch time so she could head over to the venue.
But things had fallen apart just a bit in the afternoon and now she was trying to pull the last threads together before the first arrivals that were surely coming at any minute. Though her appearance remained as intact as ever, there was a harried look to her eyes.
It did lessen, though, at the sight of Edgar approaching, which she tried to pretend was due to his presence and not only the packages she needed currently weighing down his arms. “Oh, you are a welcome sight. It is good to see you out and about, off of the clock, even if your parents are putting you to work.”
Looking past the delivery, she noticed his outfit decidedly did not match up to the formal attire she had on. The disappointment pushed at her smile. “You are more than welcome to stay. Have a drink, have some fun.”
December 3; mid-morning
St. Mungo’s
@edgaralexander-bones
Spending her morning in the hospital had not been Helena’s original plan for the day; after their run, she’d been planning on spending a few hours putting up Christmas decorations with Edgar. It was the first Sunday in December and though it hadn’t yet frozen, the leaves were gone from the trees and bright lights had begun to pop up around both magical and muggle London. Instead of decorating, she was here, tapping her toe against air as her head lay on Edgar’s shoulder, both of them sitting on the exam table as they waited. The waiting was perhaps the worst part. St. Mungo’s wasn’t exactly busy, but even magical healing and tests took time – Helena had been told just that no less than three times in the past 15 minutes.
The morning started off innocently enough – a small breakfast with the promise of coffee and something more filling later. Then she’d laced up her running shoes for a quick run around their neighborhood in Soho. They’d just crossed into Mayfair near Hanover Square when Helena had stopped, her hand reaching for a bench to sit on, a lightheadedness filling her like never before. Edgar had just reached her before she’d sat down and lost consciousness for a few brief seconds. When she’d come back to, he’d insisted on St. Mungo’s, though Helena hadn’t fought him on it either. Which led to now, sitting on an exam table waiting for the healer to return with results from the blood tests she’d insisted on running.
“Maybe it’s still residual food poisoning from the sushi a couple weeks ago?” she murmured, rubbing circles on Edgar’s hand with her thumb.
