Outfit

Bristol apparated onto the cobbled streets near Charlotte's grand and predictably bourgeois home. Looking up at the building, he couldn't help but grin; why was it all purebloods of high society insisted on living in those ridiculously ornate towers? It'd been years since he'd been anywhere near this particular abode, but Bristol could picture it already. White, lots of feathers, meticulously clean, a faint smell of perfume - it was most fitting. He couldn't deny that the woman was beautiful, and charming, and somewhat adorable, but they would never be friends. Charlotte had picked her camp, years before Anna had even been involved, and their mutual dislike in Hogwarts only cemented their opposition now. Taking a breath, Bristol rubbed both palms together, trotting inside and entering the lift.

Top floor - obviously. A rough, bony index finger pushed the appropriate button, and the golden contraption soon whirred into action. Both hands in packets, brown eyes watched the dial indicate each floor. Just how big was this god awful mansion anyway? Poppy had become accustomed to such fabulous surroundings: enchanted wall-carvings and an army of house elves didn't case a single eyelid to bat. She was fortunate, that was for sure. He smirked at the thought of Poppy adopting her mother's penchant for anything luxurious - as long as she didn't take on a mean streak and shoes that walked all over people, he didn't mind so much. Poppy was lovely just the way she was.

The lift approached Charlotte's nest. Sunglasses off, hands in pockets. Bristol strolled out, dazzled by pristine corridors and glimmering chandeliers outside the flat. It sure must have been strange growing up in such opulence. He remembered his parents' semi-detached in Loughton, comfortable but mostly modest. Normal - just the way he liked it. Approaching the door, he leant against the frame and let the enchanted doorknob recognise his concrete features. The small brass face stuck out it's tongue, greeted with Bristol's middle finger, and soon enough, the door swung open and he let himself inside.

"Poppy?" he called out. A few fleeting seconds of silence. "Pops, where are you?"

A screech came from further down the hall, and Bristol immediately let out a laugh. The tiny, excitable figure of his daughter scurried out a nearby door, face painted like a comical Hungarian Horntail and wearing what could only be described as a binbag made to resemble a Merman. She was certainly an odd one. "Daddy!" she cried, and Bristol grasped his daughter under both arms, hoisting her high into the air. His cheek was met with hundreds of tiny kisses, and the two laughed uncontrollably.

"I've missed you," he muttered, Poppy clapping her hands frantically. Bristol reached into his pocket. Producing a tiny, uncharmed snitch, he wiggled his finger and the golden ball began to levitate slowly before Poppy's eyes. "And she goes, she goes, she goes for the snitch!" he bellowed, his voice highly reminiscent of a Quidditch commentator. Poppy grinned, grabbing the ball and holding it high in victory. "Aaaaand she has the snitch, Collins-Ziesling has the snitch!"

Poppy giggled, her fingers tightened around her newfound prize. "I'm going to be a Seeker daddy, not like you, I'm going to be like Laney Irving, and ride my broom sooooo so so fast. It's best to be a Seeker y'know, mummy said there's more glory in being a seeker!" She described everything with a semi-understanding, and although Bristol was quite sure Poppy had no grasp of the concept of glory, she at least recognised that Seekers did indeed get the biggest applause.

"I bet your mother said that indeed," he said with a smirk - so typical of Anna to be filling their child with delusions of fame and stardom. "So, my little Horntail, where's the big bad dragon that's been looking after you all afternoon?" Poppy giggled. It seemed she could fully grasp her dad's jokes at least.

The lithe and pretty figure of Charlotte St. James soon appeared in the doorway, and Bristol gave a cool smirk. "Oh, here she is, Poppy."

Charlotte closed a tube of lipstick, straightened a few makeup brushes that had been the delight of a child’s fairytale scheming, and studied herself in the mirror for a moment before rising from a cushioned, blush-colored vanity seat with a smile. Poppy’s giggles resonated somewhere within the penthouse, crescendoing with a screech and a name that managed to make Charlotte’s smile falter. Daddy. Which, in Charlotte’s head, meant Bristol.

Little girls with painted faces, she could handle. They were like dolls, in human form. She was not ready for children herself, but she adored and spoiled her nephew, and often cooed over Sam’s and Quincy’s children (who were charming, like their father.) Poppy was a darling (hyperness in rooms of white aside), and Charlotte did not mind watching her from time to time. House elves handled most of the food and cleaning, and Charlotte got to be the fun adult.

Chiseled Quidditch stars with egos the size of Essex and the tongues to match... She could definitely handle. Except that Bristol Collins liked to be infuriating, too.

Making her way out of the washroom, through the bedroom, the living room, and a hall that led into foyer, Charlotte heard Bristol singing her praises before she spotted him. She slowed, emerging through the door with ease. She leaned into the wall, shoulder grazing the moulding of the door’s threshold, and crossed her arms. With a mild smile she echoed, “Here she is. Though she hardly agrees with that description.” Her eyes roamed the pair of them-- He was almost cute when being fatherly, and Charlotte could see the attraction he held for so many fans... if she squinted and forgot their mutual distaste for each other. Her smile lingered on the back of Poppy’s head a moment before her eyes locked on Bristol’s. “I’m not big or bad, am I, Poppy?” She asked the child. A dragon... well, she could flash her claws from time to time. He gaze remained steadily on Poppy’s father.

Unfolding her arms moving away from the wall, Charlotte gestured to the open door. “Won’t you come in for a moment?” Charlotte St. James was quite the hospitable woman. “I have tea, water... Papers Anna needs you to sign.” She was sure he knew this already, but even if she wasn’t or knew he didn’t, she would have said it with the same casualness. Perhaps Anna hadn’t told him. Charlotte wasn’t going to put up with his difficult state, either way. She waited for him to follow her.

"No, of course not, I love you Charlotte!" Poppy shrieked, beaming at the beautiful figure in the doorway with wide eyes and a frantic, crooked smile. Bristol couldn't help but laugh. His daughter, when excited, was much like a patient on St. Mungo's fizzled brain ward - all maniacal, cackles and effulgent words. Poppy's pre-occupation with loving everyone and everything was sweet, but Bristol couldn't help but worry about it; she was setting herself up for a fall one of these days, and the utmost trust and faith she had in every family member possible was an emotional fragility just waiting to be crushed. Bristol just had to ensure he would never fail little Poppy. For the first four years of her short life, everything had been just dandy, but she just had to toughen up a little before Hogwarts. (And she would be going to Hogwarts - no Salem transatlantic rubbish for any Collins child.)

Charlotte invited Bristol further into her lair, and he simply shook his head with a grin at the mention of 'Anna' and 'papers'. The two phrases seemed to be married to one another as of late. "You go play for a few minutes Poppy while I sort some things out, alright?" Planting a loud, rumbling raspberry on his daughter's cheek, she shrieked once more with delight and was put down. Within moments, Poppy was quickly scurrying into her makeshift playroom and berated a broomstick called 'Larry' for supposedly shaving a Veela's head to make a 'fabulous wig'. Bristol frowned and laughed simultaneously before following Charlotte.

"Since when have you been Anna's solicitor then, Charlotte?" he asked sarcastically, leaning against a nearby wall with both hands in his pockets. "Let's not pretend this isn't all a ploy to get me alone, I know your sort." Bristol gave his daughter's minder a wink - albeit in jest. The dislike between the two had preceded his failed marriage to Anna, but he couldn't help but tease. "You managed to get yourself a fella yet or is trapping single dads in your house a new tactic?"

He couldn't deny that she was incredibly beautiful - but in that pureblood, aristocratic sense. These girls were perfect (as seemed to be all the St. James' women) but maybe a little too perfect. They lived in their ivory towers with their ebony hair and ruby lips, laughing at all the mere mortals that would never rival them in looks or wealth. Bristol used to chase such girls with reckless abandon, but marrying one had warned him otherwise. "What papers you got then? She still trying to get the house in Washington?" Bristol wasn't sure if Anna discussed the divorce - but she probably did. This elitist coven were as thick as thieves and twice as dangerous. "And a cuppa would be perfect, love. Four sugars."

Charlotte’s smile was calm, warm. Toward Poppy, anyway. There was more of a victorious edge to the curve of her lips when she caught Bristol’s eye-- but the difference was so subtle, that it would have taken a hawk to see it. She was guilty of nothing-- it wasn’t her fault if his daughter found her lovable. And Charlotte, in turn, was exceptionally fond of Poppy, for which Bristol couldn’t blame her.

The smile reserved for the little girl redoubled as she was let down and dashed past both of them to continue her game of make believe. She was genuinely happy to see the girl take up her game as if the adults’ business was its own world entirely. (Merlin knew it was easier as a child, however often Charlotte liked to pretend tell the world that things were peachy, just perfect).

When Poppy was out of earshot (but her laughs and games still audible), Charlotte made herself comfortable, her back to a perfectly scrubbed kitchen counter, and appraised Bristol with the nonchalance of a cat. A new smile appeared at the question, this one with teeth. The glimmer of white behind slightly pursed lips made it clear that she was amused. “If I wanted to get you alone, I could do that without papers,” she promised. She looked him up and down in one swift flutter of lashes, a response to his wink. And then, to make clear: “I’m not anyone’s lawyer.” Seven years of school together, and he ought to know that Charlotte rarely if ever did anyone else’s bidding.

She seemed to sigh inaudibly, to loosen up a little, as if deciding-- or remembering-- that she was speaking to a child (she wasn’t), and harsh words were in vain (he could take them-- and make jokes out of them, if he pleased). “Anna’s a friend, Bristol, it’s a favor. Since you can’t seem to act like an adult, and it would be tragic for poor Poppy to have to reacquaint her friend Larry with a lawyer’s office--” Dreadful. Charlotte would have broken any number of paper weights and gotten into all sorts of drawers, had it been her.-- “This is the best option. Once in a while.” She couldn’t have him coming over here all the time, getting too friendly with her door knocker.

And as for that other pesky question... “Not all men find me terrifying. Felix and I-- Marren, you remember him from school, he was a Prefect a few years ahead of us-- we just bought a house. We’re moving in together when we get all of the furniture sorted.” Which would be in two centuries, approximately. “I just haven’t had time with all of the fall engagements.” And bickering. “He works for the Ministry. He’s an astronomer.” She couldn’t help adding it, gauging his reaction with her eyes, as if they were playing a game of some sort. If he had expected a different answer, a different sort of man (and a slightly-less-mature version of Charlotte residing deep within her hoped he had, just so that she could prove him wrong), well. Here was Charlotte St. James, ready to impress. She waved her wand, and dishes behind her began to shuffle, recently brewed tea pouring itself into two cups, a sugar spoon going about its task.

Reaching across the counter, she lifted the papers neatly and shoved them at his chest. The paper jabbed and folded against his impressive quidditch body and tidy garb. Not particularly knife-like, was it, paper? Still, Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not the keeper of your estates. Why don’t you open them and find out?” She raised her brows a little, her face the picture of polite, her tone less friendly. Charlotte waited for him to grab the small stack (or not so small, depending) before turning to the teacup that was hovering at her shoulder. She cupped it graciously and took a small sip, eyes still on Bristol while he took in the papers (and her eyes might have flickered over them, looking for the word Washington). His own cup with its heap of sugar was also floating idly (or perhaps impatiently, depending on how one viewed it) by his arm, considerably higher Charlotte’s own. “You know all of that sugar is a bad example for Poppy,” she said, pulling her cup away.

"If I wanted to get you alone, I could do that without papers."

The unwelcome visitor paused momentarily before nodding his head with a grin. "Yeah, you probably could. My standards are pretty low these days." It was a sly dig, and completely untrue; Charlotte was one of life's winners when it came to looks and although they shared a mutual dislike, Bristol had never ruled her out completely in the bedroom department. All that bubbling rage and tension - a man could only hope. The topic soon steered on to Charlotte's piece however, and Bristol listened intently.

"Oh, golden girl has found herself a golden boy, then," he tittered, arms folded and chest moving up and down with his quiet laughter. It was funny, hearing Charlotte list irrelevant facts about her new man as if Bristol was meant to be intimidated. Pah! He recognised the name Marren but couldn't draw a face from memory - probably a boring old penpusher that spent his Hogwarts years kissing arse and fastening top buttons. "Haven't had the time to move in together properly? It must be so time-consuming, all that bitching and dinner party malarky. Charlotte, you must be knackered." Bristol pulled a face of faux sympathy before giggling once more. He was unable to ever really let go of that schoolboy side that chuckled endlessly and mocked at every given opportunity.

"This guy sounds like a square," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging one shoulder as he was stabbed in the chest with the papers. Clutching them with both hands, Bristol sighed. "Seriously, Charlotte, the sooner you admit you want me the sooner you can stop pretending to hate me. Let's go, right now, I promise I'll keep your counters spotless 'un all." He gave the work top a pat, grinning from ear to ear and intentionally trying to wind her up. Taking the cup of tea, he took a long sip. Perfect. She might have been a dragon but Charlotte could make a good brew. Not that he'd ever inform her of such - any small victory was a victory for Team Anna.

"You know all of that sugar is a bad example for Poppy." Another dig, another attempt at point scoring. Bristol sighed. Their whole exchange wasn't too dissimilar from their confrontations in Hogwarts; except now they were adults, words were harsher and divorce was involved. "Neither is hanging out with a gold-digger than wants to bleed her ex-husband dry for every galleon possible, but do you hear me complaining?" He looked up from his cup of tea as if eyes wouldn't melt, wide-eyed and perpetually humoured. "Anyway, I was gonna ask if I could stay the night, new flat isn't ready yet and I've heard from all the lads that your bed is pretty comfy."

He just couldn't help but dish out the sly remarks. And Bristol loved it.

Charlotte offered searing, narrow eyes. If he wanted to imply she was anything but the highest of benchmarks... he had. After a moment, though, she relaxed her face, ran fingers through her hair. “What a shame for you I have no interest.”

“I’d like to see you host a dinner party start to finish without someone planning the whole thing for you.” And she didn’t mean a run-of-the-mill Sunday meal and beers at his place, but an actual party. Perhaps she should clarify... but she would let him figure it out (and then insult him when he didn’t). “It’s an art. A refined one.” Harder than you think. Those words were left unsaid, too. She blinked, waiting for him to react. “Of course, if you need help, you only have to ask...”

On the topic of Felix, however, it was harder to keep her face neutral. Boyfriends, like brothers or sisters, fell into the category of I-can-acknowledge-their-faults-but-you-can’t (not that Charlotte would ever do such a thing, in public, unless it was to Jason). “Square? Are you sixteen?” She was torn between smiling and raising a critical brow. Her expression was something of both, judgmental and amused at the same time. Felix was mightily creative and entertaining-- both in his clothes, and out of them. “You should try dating someone who works nights. It’s quite the experience.” She raised her brows, taking another sip so as not to get into too heavy a verbal match. (Not that Charlotte minded throwing insults in Bristol Collins’ direction; if it were a national sport, she’d come in first.)

If she were another woman, she might have choked on her tea the mention of testing her counter tops. As it were, she was Charlotte. “And if Poppy walks in, what’s the newest development on the scalped Veela?” She asked, keeping his gaze, sounding, for a moment, as if she was considering-- but the edge of tease to her breathy inquiry was enough to let him know that she wasn’t. She set her tea down carefully, brushed an arm past him-- snug between the counter and Bristol-- and pulled open a drawer, forcing him to move a bit. Lifting a quill out, she set it atop the papers in his grasp. “Sign,” she commanded with a sweet smile, standing straight again. Even when she wasn’t leaning over drawers, Charlotte was much shorter than he.

“Do you really think she needs your money, Bristol? Some might say she earned it for putting up with you. And anyone would say I’m very patient for doing the same...” Not that it was true, exactly. “Honestly, why didn’t you just get a prenup?” She asked, more soberly. She was honestly, sincerely curious. It made perfect sense to Charlotte, who knew better than to sign anything that didn’t work in her favor. Of course, she’d been accused of gold-digging once upon a time ago, too, and did not take lightly to the accusations. But after a while, one learned to live above them. She was certainly living above the gossip-mongering. It wasn’t sweet little Charlotte’s fault that her belated almost-husband had signed his entire will over to her before his Floo accident. She had been charitable toward her less-than-thankful almost-inlaws, too, returning to them most of their family property. What was she going to do with their dreary houses, anyway?

Her look was more critical, more offended when he brought up her bed. Her fingers twitched to react. “I’d slap you, but you’d like that too much. You can tell your imaginary lads to keep wishing.”

“More tea?” She added, eyes flicking to the living room, which overlooked the city. She looked back to Bristol.

Hearing Charlotte trying to justify the 'art' of dinner parties made Bristol laugh quietly, pressing his hand over his mouth like a child trying to stifle a giggle in church. The funny part was, Charlotte actually believed that her lifestyle was hard work. She gave no sympathy to the street cleaners of Diagon Alley, the kids that scrimped and saved for their Hogwarts uniform and the House Elves that took a beating every single evening. No, Charlotte had such a difficult time wining and dining her friends in such extravagant surroundings. It made Bristol amused and angry all at once. There was a reason she spent her time with people like Anna - and there was a reason they'd divorced.

Winding Charlotte up about her pansy boyfriend seemed a far more attractive prospect however. Though Charlotte kept composure at all times, Bristol was keen to really grind her gears. Seeing such a statuesque creature explode was comedy upon the next level. "He does sound boring though, Charlotte. Ministry job, night shifts, blah blah blah. At least you used to have a vaguely exciting choice in blokes, but now you don't even have that." Another insult, another smirk. She was beautiful and strangely charming when not being a complete harpie, but Charlotte didn't do herself any favours in Bristol's eyes; the drip of a fiance just made it even worse. Grabbing the quill from her, Bristol sighed and signed, realising it was just another excuse for another meeting with the solicitors. At least this time he wasn't giving the ex-wife any real assets. If she wanted the Washington house then Anna was more than welcome. He never cared much for the States.

Head bowed as Bristol scrawled his perfected, much-used signature, he looked up at her suggestion of a pre-nup. Mouth slightly apart, eyes amused, but ultimately shocked. "Because we're not all cynical hags like you?" She was unbelievable. As if such an agreement was commonplace, it wasn't all that romantic to establish the link between finance and love with a contract. Bristol preferred that carnal, aggressive sort of relationship - the sort in which he'd walk in, take a woman ferociously in his arms and march her upstairs for the duration of the evening. A pre-nup was hardly a boner inducer in a marriage.

Getting to his usual level, Bristol offered her the papers with a sigh. "Charlotte, I'm telling you, let's have a few drinks and we'll forget that you hate me. We'll forget the fact you've got a wet blouse for a fella, and we'll forget that I hate you as well." He inched forwards the papers with a wide smirk. "You drive a hard bargain, miss. Deal?"

She coolly ignored his laughter, though inwardly it irked her. (And this was probably apparent to Bristol, even if Charlotte didn’t show it on her face.)

Boring? Please. Charlotte might have said the same thing to someone when she was a teenager. Or maybe a year ago. She certainly would have said it to Felix while he was chasing her, fruitlessly. (Again, until recently). “Exciting? Like, what? A Quidditch player?” Uh oh. Poor, sensitive, little (big) Bristol. She hoped he was prepared. “I’ll forgive you for not understanding this, because you’re a blockhead and it’s impossible to get this through to you--” She looked past him, made sure Poppy wasn’t standing around, and leaned forward, biting her lip for a moment, staring at him with a perfect mixture of innocence and suggestion. She let it go, lush lips parted. “But you don’t get me excited.”

Or, rather, she wouldn’t let him.

The promise of a quill between them, she added, “And as far as I know, you’ve never been in a bedroom with him.”

She stood still and graceful as ever as he grabbed the quill. Her eyes were downcast, watching tentatively while he signed the paper. Even when he was signing an unpleasant legal form, he looked like a celebrity making a girl’s day. Too bad Charlotte wasn’t that girl.

Her eyes flickered up again, sharply, when he called her a hag. “I shouldn’t have let you into my house,” she said, voice settling somewhere between dry, unsurprised, and offended. Honestly, how could such a troll produce such a cute child? Fine, he was good-looking, and it showed in Poppy, but he was still a troll.

“It’s not about being a hag, it’s about being practical.” This, coming from Charlotte, was amazing. But if she had one thing on Bristol, she thought, it was practicality-- which, again, was saying something. “Do you really expect me to believe that Bristol Collins would last in a relationship? Grow old with a wife? Have you looked in the mirror?” Charlotte was angry, but there was a tinge of humor to her voice. “I know myself... and I know people like you.” And for a moment, she felt a sort of alliance. They were a cat and dog in terms of compatibility, but they were also alike in some ways. Relationships, for instance, though Charlotte had hardly showed the sweeter side of herself to this man.

Besides... if he wasn’t going to be the mature one, Charlotte would take a moment and claim the Responsibility Award dangling between them. “Maybe there were only two of you going into the relationship, but you aren’t the only two coming out of it, are you?” She gestured over his shoulder, to where Poppy was, off somewhere behind the wall playing with her invisible friends. “Tug of war between Mummy and Daddy is never fun, Bristol.” Not that Charlotte could claim civility or practicality in all (or most) of her relationships. Nor did she have children. It was easy to criticize a parent (ask Quincy). She had no plans for a prenup (but nor did she have any immediate wedding plans). But this was about Bristol. Who had just called her a hag. Telling him he should have sorted his finances before cohabiting and reproducing seemed justifiable. Wise words... Perhaps she should follow them.

She took back the papers, more gently than she handed them over, and set them on the counter between them. She looked up at him more seriously, less moodily, and then rolled her eyes, which trailed to the window, where the sun was setting. He had called her a hag, and he wanted a drink. She might have mentioned his cunning, or the self-assured galleons between his legs. “How do you charm women?” His mug, his stature, his name... for starters.

Charlotte was not giving in, but maybe throwing Bristol a pity party would get him out of her penthouse faster. He was too sober to be of any use to the world. “One drink, but only because I know how hard it is to deal with real estate.” She looked back at him; her neck was more exposed now that he was closer and she was forced to look up more sharply. She splayed a hand between them, hovering some half inch from his chest. “Just a drink,” she reiterated, “And we’ll pretend the rest is true. Except my boyfriend. He exists.” In summary, she was offering him a drink and not much else. Maybe a word of unsolicited advice which would undoubtedly result in more bickering, but maybe she would be softer this time. Any man would think Charlotte a charitable goddess after he had called her a hag (any man with a brain and eyes would usually think Charlotte a charitable goddess for existing.)

Taking his tea back, she placed both cups near the sink and brushed past him toward the wet bar in the corner of the living room nearest the kitchen. Winding him down was as much for Poppy’s sake as his-- or Charlotte’s. Charlotte could not imagine being a mother of a child that age at her age. Watching one for a few hours a day here and there was plenty for the time being. She went about making the drinks-- which she quite good at, in fact-- guessing with ease what Bristol Collins would enjoy. She knew his type well.

She ran the concoction through ice in a tumbler and poured it into two glasses, handing him his, bumping it gingerly in cheers, and taking a sip before trailing to the sofa. “To Anna.”

"Listen, Charlotte," Bristol frowned, still wearing his grin and pointing towards the willowy figure that bit every verb that emerged from his mouth. "You don't know me. You know my ex-wife and believe it or not, that is not an invitation to judge yours truly. I could be a hopeless romantic, filling the time with easy prey and leggy models, you'd have no idea. You're an acquaintance, that's all darlin'." She was half-right, perhaps, but Bristol didn't see sex as a completely emotionless thing. It was hard for people to fathom, but there were some women he truly cared for. Anna had been one, in the past, and a few other names. Bristol wasn't in the mood to recount them.

And as mention of his parent skills came into question, Bristol's smirk slowly disappeared, with his jovial pointing of the finger turning into something a little more aggressive. "Don't you dare tell me how to raise, Poppy," he murmured through gritted teeth. "I make a point not to include her in this mess, so until some sprog is unfortunate to crawl from your cursed lagoon, don't talk to me about raising child." The smirk reappeared. His own statement was a cause for a laugh, and Bristol realised that getting angry meant defeat. "I mean, it's depressing enough you're dating a square - don't be so stupid to raise a child with him. It'll be all Hufflepuff and no opinions." Insult, insult, insult. this was starting to get fun.

They headed through to the living room, and Bristol watched the movement of her lithe body glide around like a queen in a castle. She was no queen, but was definitely on the brink of aristocracy and her flat - well it was palatial. It'd be strange seeing her in surroundings that weren't so effulgent. He inched his hand around the glass, fingers grazing hers, and raised it to his lips. Taking one sip, Bristol raised an eyebrow.

"Actually, I've got some stuff to do..."

It was an intentional rebuff, and Bristol winked at her before walking into the spare room, throwing Poppy over his shoulder with ease and standing in the doorway. "Say bye bye to Auntie Ukrainian Ironbelly!" he enthusiastically encouraged the child to say, spinning around so the giggling Poppy could bid farewell.

"Byeeee Charlotte!"

Bristol turned his head, giving her a simple nod. "I'll be seeing you?"

Charlotte had apparently hit a nerve. Or two. She would remember to poke holes in Bristol’s love life more often. As for telling him how to parent...

She nearly flinched at his reaction. Lagoon?! Sprog. Forget flinching: Charlotte’s lips parted in scandalized outrage, or they might have gotten to that point, if he didn’t keep talking. Instead it was a sort of subtle outrage, a quiet I can’t believe you without the humor. How dare he? As if he had any idea. No part of Charlotte was a lagoon-- rather, her body was a temple, to put it in language Bristol might understand. And her children? Vague outlines of the future that they were, they would no doubt be genetically blessed. Her fingers tightened around her wand. The idea of this man evaluating her, parts of her he’d never known, was infuriating.

She did not think him an awful father (in fact, all things considered, he had done a good job with Poppy, who was far more delightful than Bristol himself), but as long as Anna he was using her as a sometimes babysitter-- and insulting her-- she was going to speak her mind. (Or lie about how much he got under her skin.)

“I don’t think so,” she said after a moment, calming down. Somehow his annoying smirk persuaded her to come onto an even-- if very precariously balanced-- playing field. “Its mother is far too opinionated for that to happen.” She glanced him over again, like she had when he’d arrived, but this time there was a lingering quality to her gaze, and she even managed to mirror his smile a little, though hers was closed-lipped, forcefully-bunched cheeks, ironic.

(Thinking of herself as a mother was enough to forgo the tea for drinks, for her own sake, nevermind Bristol Collins standing about her kitchen like an expensively-dressed, star-quality plague with nice hair.)

Her eyes did not roam toward their brushing fingers, but remained locked on his as she handed off the drink.

She’d barely taken a few steps, let the calm overtake her, properly, when he did the very last thing Charlotte expected. He was leaving. She looked over her shoulder, for a moment appearing as if she misunderstood.

Yes, she’d wanted him to leave. She had offered a drink hoping it might get him out the door more smoothly. But she’d only just poured it, and he’d only taken one sip, and she had given in to his insistence. Had made the effort, was invested. Charlotte stared back sourly over the top of her glass, eyes blazing because her cheeks refused proudly to do so. The wink was the cherry on top of winding her up.

“Good,” she said, a little too snappish, coming out of her reverie. She set her drink on a flat, broad coffee table and closed the space between them again. She extended her hand, taking back Bristol’s drink, the repeated brush of their fingers no longer subtle. She watched him retreat for a moment. “Don’t worry,” she added, still sounding a little sharp beneath the practical-- if not particularly amicable-- tone. “I’ll get those papers to Anna.”

And then they were at the door. She smiled at Poppy, whose little legs dangled excitedly over her father’s chest, rather than looking at Bristol again, at least for a moment. She held the (perfectly full) glass she had poured him, cupping it in both hands above her waist as he began to turn. “Bye, Poppy,” she answered, ignoring Bristol’s encouragement, her light smile becoming a genuine grin as the girl was spun to face her. Whatever her father was-- really, leaving her with two full drinks-- she was a sweet child.

Finally, she had no choice but to catch his eye. She caught the door, holding Bristol’s drink off to one side for the moment. “Hopefully not too soon. Too much of a good thing...” She raised the glass to her lips and shut the door.