Outfit.

Bristol waved goodbye to the boys, vision blurry, voice slurry. It had been a typical Saturday night; following a Tutshill victory, they'd drank beer, spirits and anything else with a percentage that came their way whilst commending themselves and each other. All somebody needed to do was beat their chest and it could've quite easily transformed into a caveman alpha male frenzy. And Bristol adored it. There was nothing better in his book, and losing plenty of brain cells was well-deserved after slogging his guts out on the pitch. Who cared if a photographer blatantly took his picture as he stumbled out onto the pavement? Who cared if he was setting himself up as tabloid cannon fodder? Muriel would, of course, but Bristol wasn't in the right frame of mind to even contemplate the deadly world of PR.

Crossing the road with both hands in his pockets, Bristol was ready to apparate back to Essex. Priss had Poppy for the evening, which allowed him the luxury of enjoying a rare cigarette before bed. Picturing that haven of cotton goodness almost made Bristol gush with affection before he managed to snap out of it; since when had he become such an old man? Getting excited over... bed? Raising a kid was tiring, true, but he should be enjoying beds in a far different manner. Fatherhood was perhaps diluting the old Bristol Collins, but he'd fight that fate with every last breath.

He gazed up at the skyline of palatial West London flats. It was worlds apart from the 'nouveau riché' ambiance of Loughton, and made Bristol feel thoroughly uncomfortable. Who'd want to live in a world of pure snobbery? Paying thousands of galleons for a tiny flat? Narrowing his eyes as he scanned the old money abodes of a generation far different to Bristol's humble beginnings, he stopped for a moment. Was that... oh, of course. Now he knew where he was.

Charlotte's street. One of the most exclusive wizarding pockets in muggle London: man, she was so predictable.

The drunkard continue to walk slowly, kicking a ball of old newspaper off the curb as he pondered the beautifully evil Charlotte St. James. In Slytherin, they'd shared a certain rivalry, but a healthy one - then she had to go off and befriend the ex-wife. Why did all high class, high maintenance wenches stick together? Anna was American - a Salem graduate: so why would she ever meet Charlotte, let alone become best buds during those horrid dinners. He always imagined those horrid dinners, Anna's coven gleefully sipping champagne, cackling about how much they've rinsed their husbands for. It was a believable sight. It was a shame Charlotte chose to entertain such company - after all, he genuinely found her quite amusing. And, well, she was one of Slytherin's in-house sirens, the sort of girl that everybody pined for. Even Bristol.

Despite that, it was almost as if she wanted him to despise her. In addition to her poor choice of friends, gossip spread like wildfire in those social circles, and Bristol caught wind of her burgeoning 'romance' with Apollinaire Olivier. Even thinking about that name made the Quidditch pro angry. Apollinaire was a bully. The sort that was born with every luxury a child could have, and keenly flouted them in the face of the less fortunate. Son of the French Minister, part of a golden pureblood dynasty - and a certain arrogance that seemed to be standard issue with those trolls. Bristol wasn't unpopular during school (far from it indeed), but the pecking order was a system older than the portrait of the Fat Lady herself. Apollinaire was untouchable. Worshipped, almost. Bristol's mates never thought much to the tosser, but that didn't stop him receiving plenty of anti-halfblood comments followed by hysterical, blood-curdling, Slytherin laughter. He didn't feel inferior too often, but when he did, the scars ran deep.
 
Why was Charlotte even dating such a monster? And more importantly, why was her gloriously polished balcony window... smashed?

Bristol paused, looking up in confusion and ignoring the thirst that came with several hours of hard drinking. It looked like somebody had broken in from the balcony: obviously a wizard. It was impossible for a muggle to even see the building. Slowly trying to analyse the damage, a muffled crash came from the towering heights of her apartment, and Bristol immediately sprinted into the building. They were still inside!

Blood pumping into every vein, he jabbed the elevator button hard. Six floors up. Take the stairs! Bristol climbed each floor, chest heaving and muscles already groaning from a gruelling game. Face reddened, his eyes occasionally glanced at which floor he'd reached. Second. Third. Fourth. Hitting every step gracefully should've been second nature to the seasoned player, but intoxication had greatly affected reaction time and it took Bristol's pure concentration to keep upright. The crashes grew louder. He heard a shout. Fifth. Sixth. Seven.

Bristol swallowed hard, keen to push through the exhaustion. Eighth. Ninth. A few more steps, hand sliding on the rail to maintain balance - just a few... more... steps. Tenth.

He pounded through the doors and was met with Charlotte's familiar front door, the magically enchanted door-knocker ripped from its home. It was ajar, and Bristol ran through to follow the shouts. He headed straight for the balcony to see a hunched figure immediately fall from the window. "Oi you robbin' bastard!" Bristol roared, chasing the thief onto the balcony, wand aimed high. The black-clad burglar fell from the balcony, effectively evading the torrents of jinxes Bristol rained down at him. This guy was a professional. "I'm gonna rip your head off!"

But it was useless. The thief had apparated, and Bristol presumed he'd taken a whole host of precious antiques and valuable trinkets. Charlotte's flat was full of them. As the wind blew his usually immaculate hair, Bristol felt dizzy, annoyed, exhausted. Man, this was just ridiculous - how would he explain this to Charlotte?

Ready to notify the Ministry, a still-drunk Bristol clambered back inside and froze as he heard the crunch of glass underfoot. But the sound didn't erupt from his own soles. A shaken figure emerged from a bedroom, the lock of a door clicking into place.

"Charlotte?" he called out, reaching a hand into the darkness for her to grab. "Shit Charlotte, are you alright?"

It was hours after a late dinner with Apollinaire and a few of his friends, as Charlotte contemplated sleep (without the French import, who had to stay out and drink in the name of politics), that the hallow echo of rebounding charms made her frown. The smash of glass made her reach for her wand. A banshee screech of an alarm sounded an eye’s blink later, but it was promptly silenced-- which could only be done with magic. Someone was inside.

Charlotte clambered from bed, rushed to the door, and pressed an ear to it for the briefest moment before flinging it open. There she paused abruptly, suspended in the threshold between the bedroom and living room, as she stared at a wizard swathed in black; his face was masked, but it was easy enough to tell he was a man, young and agile enough to move about her expansive living area at an alarming rate, experienced enough to have broken through every security measure the top floor penthouse had in place. Only the door knocker in the front hall still hammered and hissed in protest at having been bypassed all together. The intruder looked from Charlotte, to the door, and back to Charlotte before dismissing her entirely, taking two strides in the direction of the foyer, and casting a quick succession of unlocking and dismantling charms. The knocker was torn from its place, silenced as surely as the banshee alarm, and Accio’ed into the intruder’s shroud of black, which contained a haul of who-knew-what. One brief glance around the living room would suggest mirrors, candlesticks, marbled boxes, inherited silver, and picture frames. The intruder returned to stand before her, pointing his wand threateningly at Charlotte, who was torn between backing away and rushing forward. She brandished her wand and a look of outrage mingled with fear. “Get out!” She shouted. “My alarms are connected to--” Law enforcement. The wizard sent a jet of red in her direction. It sparked, electric and dangerous. Charlotte dodged it, cast a Shield Charm, and leaned into the wall beside the door. It hit a mirror and rebounded; glass shattered, adding to the floor, which was already covered in shards from the balcony window. “Get out!” She screamed again, sending a Stupefying charm in the wizard’s direction before backing into the room, slamming the door, and casting another series of hurried safety charms. Her hand trembled, her voice threatened to catch in her throat as she murmured the words. She could hear more smashes, more destruction, clanking, and clattering at the seasoned burglar made sure he had, indeed, disabled the rest of the alarm charms, and carried on rifling through her cabinets and closets and wardrobes and trunks. The distinct clank of goblets belonging to her grandmother sounded from the direction of the dining room. Most of Charlotte’s jewelry was locked in her room with her; she did not know whether it was a relief or something that made her a target. There were, however, plenty of things to haul from the guest bedroom and study.

Shaking by the door, trying to calm herself enough to compose a Patronus message to the Ministry, Charlotte froze quite suddenly when she heard a voice. It was not-- she was not imagining it. “Bristol.” She murmured it confusedly to herself. She was not quite shocked enough to confuse Bristol with the intruder; never mind that the stranger had not been the right height, had not the right stature or way of moving. (That much was certainly etched in her head, already a nightmare and she would hardly sleep for days to come.) The angry, carrying voice of the famous Chaser and his unmistakable accent preceded the crunch of glass and resonated loudly with threats. Charlotte pressed her ear to the door again; hexes were undoubtedly being exchanged. Her breath was weighing, held in her chest, and there was a prickle of worry for Bristol even as she was glad to hear his voice.

A few shouts and verbalized hexes later, the paths of which flew into view of her bedroom window, things quieted considerably. Charlotte peaked toward her window before chancing to unlock the door. Heart pounding, she stepped into the living room. Her eyes felt dizzy and static as they readjusted to the dark and locked on the figure by the smashed balcony window. Tepid, uncertain steps were nevertheless betrayed by the crunch of glass beneath her feet-- which, luckily, were slipper clad.

She could see him perfectly in the dark now, with the light of the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window. The other one, the burglar, was gone. She had never been happier to lay eyes on Bristol Collins. She reached for his outstretched hand, grabbed it with desperate, anchoring gratitude to steady herself, and pulled into him with surprising force, compelling him toward her, rushing straight past cordial social distances to collide with his chest. She breathed out whatever she’d been holding in, and clung to him. Her fingers curved rounds his, forcing his arm down, twined with her own. She closed her eyes tightly. “I’m fine,” she heard herself say. She never thought she’d be relieved to see him, to speak to him without the ironic, vocal eye-roll, the honeyish poison that was usually specially-tailored for him. It was simple relief this time. She did not question why he was standing in the middle of her dark, glass-strewn living room, smelling of alcohol and cologne, looking thoroughly disheveled, maybe a little drunk (maybe a little more). Her face pressed to his shirt, she breathed him deeply. He was someone familiar who was not about to hex her doors off its hinges, or hex Charlotte into the next room. Her wand hand at his waist relaxed a little as her opposite hand clenched his.

Her heart and head calmed, some several, lengthy moments later. She pulled back as she regained control of her breath, pressed her lips together softly, swallowed. First she withdrew her wand hand, which fell gently, reflexively to her side. Then, more slowly, hesitantly, with a hint of dawning awkwardness (a feeling Charlotte rarely felt), she let go of his hand. Her lips parted again with questions and disbelief. She blinked in the direction of the broken window, looked back to him, locked eyes with only a little weariness. “Why-- What are you doing here?” He smelled of alcohol and cologne, a rich combination was usually appealing and suspicious at once, but he was solid, steadying. She shook her head after a moment, eyes fluttering with fatigue and disbelief and never mind. “Thank you,” she said, forcing the words. Only, she didn’t have to force them, not really. She meant them. More than she had in a very long time, perhaps.

She lifted her wand hand, as if to do something about the wreck of her living room, and dropped it again, somewhat defeated. “Are you alright?” Her gaze redoubled its attention on his face, which darkly attractive as it had always been, even if he looked (understandably) a little disheveled. She thought, finally, to light her wand. As the glow of lumos swept over his face, she felt a new pounding in her heart. “Do you want anything?” She asked quietly.  “Before I owl the Ministry?” She added, feeling her voice go soft with remembrance. There was that, not just this: a whole host of people swarming her living room, looking for clues, asking questions. She did not want them there, felt her feet turn heavy at the thought. “Not firewhiskey,” she added. Charlotte couldn’t help the edge of assertion, of bossiness that crept in momentarily, even if he had potentially saved her life. He hardly looked as if needed firewhiskey. But... “Will you stay?” The words simply came out. She did not want to be alone, and she did not want to entertain law enforcement or recount the story to her brothers, her friends, Apollinaire. Apollinaire. Suddenly his face was infuriating, the idea of him sitting in some smoky mens lounge, laughing with his friends at some stupid story of his own telling while Charlotte stood here in the dark in a ransacked home.

Bristol grabbed Charlotte's hand as he steadied her over the debris site that was once her living room. It seemed the thug had made quite some progress in that time, and he cursed himself for not arriving sooner. "He, he just jumped..." he tried to explain, pointing at the broken balcony window - but something ceased his words. Taken aback by the willowy arms of Charlotte St. James, he tensed for a moment before easing into a hug. His behaviour from there was unaffected by awkwardness, and Bristol was drunk (and concerned) enough to forget their feelings towards one another for that short time. He was her sole shoulder to cry on, and even if it wasn't the most welcomed, Bristol figured she needed it.

One arm wrapped around her waist, the other guiding a soft hand to slowly rub her back in comfort. "He's gone, you're alright," he whispered. Bristol felt his lips move to her shoulder as he readied himself to softly peck her bare skin - but refrained last minute. It was inappropriate - he was just drunk. It'd been a long time since Bristol had ever really comforted a girl and there was something incredibly intimate about it, as if they were a long-term couple consoling one another after an argument, or a loss, or some terribly bad news. Unless a spectator knew, they'd think Bristol was the genuine supportive fiance to a frightened, tearful woman.

He lightly caught a few strands of her hair between his thumb and index finger, moving to hold the back of her neck. It'd been a close call and Bristol was immediately filled with the shadowy predictions of 'what if?' Nobody else was here. What if he was still in that bar? Would the thief have left well alone or caused even more destruction - something far darker. It wasn't worth thinking about. "I've got you," he murmured, his heavy breath close to her ear and solid arms reluctant to let go. Bristol would never admit it, but having Charlotte in an embrace was a relief to him also, a relief that she too was okay.

She pulled back, and Bristol steadied his uneasy gaze, eyelids heavy. His hands sunk into his pockets as he appreciated the sight of a shook-up St. James: it was something few laid their eyes on. She asked what he was doing there at such an hour: an understandable question, considering. For a few moments he didn't reply, simply gazed at her before a hiccup stirred his senses once more. "I was just down in the pub," he replied, gesturing towards the street several floors below. "With the boys, and I saw your window smashed. And then heard more smashes, so I ran up." His words were simple and hurried, adrenaline still rushing through his sleepy veins. It had been quite a sight seeing an expert burglar plummet from a penthouse, all the while dodging jinxes. This guy was a pro - he had to be. "He got away Charlotte, sorry, he got away before I could hex seven shades o' shit into him." Ever eloquent, as always.

He broke off and wandered a few metres, as if surveying the damage. "I'm fine, honestly," Bristol assured her, more concerned with the Charlotte's own well-being and that of her home. "No, it's all good, I'll give a statement to the Ministry then I'll be -"

"Will you stay?"

Bristol looked up, interrupted and unable to speak for a moment. She needed someone, anyone, there, and it just so happened to be him. "Of course." He was short, but sincere, sobering up a little with the seriousness of the entire situation. "Firewhiskey would be a good option - for you," he insisted with a grin that was a conscious attempt to diffuse the entire scenario. It was best not to panic her, to act like it wasn't all that serious otherwise she'd turn from babysitter to the babysat (which wasn't necessarily an entire offensive prospect). "We'll owl the Ministry and tidy up in the morning, probably better to not tamper with evidence? Or at least, I think it's something like that..." Bristol slurred and scratched his head, looking around the room for something to do.

The temperature was freezing, and it was only as he stood alone that Bristol really noticed. November wind wasn't known for it's tropical embrace, and he audibly shivered before grabbing a nearby silk wall hanging the burglar had presumably ripped down. Wrapping it over Charlotte's shoulders, he immediately found himself rubbing both her upper arms over the luxurious material. "It's... really chilly, you'll catch a cold." He smiled at her; it was caring, not cocky and Bristol seemed every inch the overly helpful, optimistic that teased Charlotte in the Slytherin common room and howled at the back of Potions. Turning his attention to the smashed window, he picked up another piece of ripped material, attempting to drape it over the gaping glass wound without even thinking to use magic. "Probably best to keep the draft out..." he muttered, tripping over his own feet before quickly finding his footing. "That... should help."

Charlotte didn’t particularly care-- at the moment-- that the cretin had jumped, only that he was gone. As Bristol’s voice trailed off in explanation, she merely hugged him.

What it meant, that he was the one here to chase off danger and hold her afterward flickered through her mind as she calmed down, though it was not something she wanted to think about. He was warm, firmly there. Even the material of his shirt (he had always dressed well, she had to admit... at least to herself) was of comfort. It was in a much better state than many of the things in Charlotte’s living room, presently.

"I've got you,"

The words were what she needed to hear, but they caused a stir, a momentary something knowing they came from him. She was glad for it-- glad he had been there.

Of all the pubs in London, Bristol had been at the right one. It was both lucky and ironic, and perhaps not something either of them should question. At least now. (Surely, come sunrise, Charlotte would wonder whether to go thank the man had continued to pour drinks and keep Bristol Collins there until the right moment ask why Bristol Collins.)

"He got away Charlotte, sorry, he got away before I could hex seven shades o' shit into him."

Charlotte couldn’t help it-- the tug of a smile, momentarily closed eyes at the colorful promise. It was a ridiculous time to smile, which nearly made her want to laugh. Maniacally. Especially when she looked around her home. A tiny spark of rage, of revenge, of outrage-- toward the burglar and the building and the Security Charms Specialists who had reinforced Charlotte’s own  spells-- flittered across her eyes. She shook it off, invisibly, and looked up at him again. “It’s fine, Bristol. It’s not like I’ve employed you to make sure criminals don’t climb in through my windows.”

Just...

She needed him to stay. But the words had come out fast, and once she said them... once she had time to think, to watch his face as he registered the words, she was reminded of their relationship. And still, Bristol seemed like the only company she could fathom having right now. She did not want to explain anything to anyone, couldn’t at the moment. Ministry officials, worried neighbors, her newest boyfriend-- the people for whom Charlotte could wear a very pretty smile, to whom she could say the right things with unblinking social grace-- she did not want to see any of them.

She brought down her wand gingerly, its glow spilling lower. She relaxed a bit as he agreed.

Prepared to throw him a look regarding the firewhiskey, to challenge his cheek as she usually would, she instead took a particularly leisurely breath-- and there may have been the tiniest shake of her head. He looked pleased.

Charlotte swept her wand around the room again and nodded. “In the morning. I don’t even want to look at this right now...” Let alone answer questions about it. He was right, though-- and it was convenient. It was best to leave things as they were. (However continually dismaying and vaguely enraging a sight it was.)

She didn’t flench as he brought the silk around her. But it was strange to see Bristol like this. Comforting, but strange. Charlotte had the simultaneous urge to taunt him, tease him, rile him up, make things into the way they always were, and to push the limits of this newfound niceness, to pretend, for the moment, the (very present) past didn’t exist. She hugged the material slowly to her chest, fists clenched, and studied his face. It held the same attraction it always had, but the sincerity in his smile made it ever more appealing. She could see what Anna saw (or had seen) in him, what would possess any woman to go after him. But there was something else, too, a kind of charm about him that was not usually granted to Charlotte St. James.

As he stepped away, Charlotte found herself moving toward him-- and then catching herself. She raised her wand, summoned the firewhiskey and two glasses from the bar, and set them upon a bit of the coffee table that wasn’t dotted with debris. Then moved toward the window. He he stumbled and regained his balance, Charlotte came up behind him, placing a hand to his back. She lifted the other to where he was finishing with the drape, and helped him fasten it in place. Her hand brushed over his. It was unintentional (or perhaps not), the nature of what they were doing. “Come drink with me.” She turned to look at him, standing on the tips of her toes as they secured the hanging. Her fingers slid gently over the back of his palm, this time anything but unaware, pausing. She stared at him for a long moment before retracting her hand, falling back softly onto her feet.

The drape was hung up, and the room immediately darkened. Moonlight no longer clarified Bristol's understanding of the lovely Charlotte St. James and her even lovelier face. No, he had to half-imagine, taking a deep breath as he tried to remember those round bright eyes and red lips. He paused once more - why was her countenance so haunting? She summoned the drinks over and Bristol loosely held the glass and took a long, generous gulp. The liquid give a reassuring burn, and his stomach showed no signs of struggle in digesting the volatile, sense-numbing firewhiskey. Instead, he looked up to see her willowy hand linger on his. What was this?

Turning to face her, he failed to utter a single word as their eyes locked together. It was all very bizarre. Not even fifteen minutes ago, he'd been drinking with the boys, little thought given to Anna and her coven. And now, he was stood in Charlotte's living room in a situation that was rather comprising. Was she merely just frightened? Was this something else? Didn't they hate one another, after all?

"Charlotte..." he murmured and broke her gaze, finishing off the firewhiskey and immediately wincing. The burn was far less comforting this time round. Sliding the empty glass onto a nearby cabinet, his eyes locked on hers once more. Things were far from clear. A stray hand found it's way to Charlotte's cheek, stroking it momentarily before lightly clasping a lock of mahogany hair. "I want to stay."

Charmer Bristol managed to mingle its way into the Caring Bristol. He still didn't smirk, nor joke, nor wink. Bristol instead gazed at her, seeing a whole new side to Charlotte that she undoubtedly saw in him. Without prior warning, he swiftly snaked his arms around her waist, his lips pressing to hers with a subdued ferocity. Her perfume filled his nostrils, and his own restraints had broken. He was kissing her, his own mouth moving to her neck and sampling every inch of soft skin.

"Charlotte..." he murmured, tensing, waiting for a reaction as his lips continued to move.

Charlotte pressed her own glass to her lips, taking one small sip while she stared over its edge at Bristol-- the relief and strange comfort of his presence, his usually-teasing countenance, his jawline, his trim but muscled arms, the buttons on his dress shirt. All of these things were reassuring. Her heart had calmed to its usual pace, the chill on the back of her neck had subsided. Whether it was thanks to the makeshift blanket or the knowledge that any returning thieves would have to go through a 6’4 professional chaser, the St. James woman did not know. Being Charlotte, of course, she did not mention this.

As he finished his drink, Charlotte decided to drain her own. Echoing him, she set her own glass aside-- somewhere in the mess of her living room-- and didn’t flinch at his hand. It was another welcome comfort on this unexpected night, with the broken glass of her balcony window and the cold air seeping in through the silk hangings. Though she had told him he needed no more alcohol, she had readily provided it, invited him to drink with her, and was glad for its pretty burn.

Looking up at Bristol, she thought again, fleetingly, of Apollinaire, whose brand of charm was quite different from the Collins man (an quality which, again, suddenly aggravated and disillusioned her). Charlotte didn’t quite know why she dated men like Olivier... except she absolutely did know. And she did it over and over, despite the ever-impending nasty breakup. It didn’t matter if he was an old money type or a rockstar, Charlotte’s couplings were always rocky, always had a similar something. Her last meaningful (or only meaningful) relationship had ended in something of a mess, too, and if Charlotte let herself dwell, she would realize she’d done it half on purpose. Rebounding with a more superficial date was more her element, she felt more in control. But here, now, the only thing to do was to go against all logic; she pushed Apollinaire from her mind. And Anna, who flashed through it momentarily, vanished just as quickly. Bristol was here, Anna was not.

And while Charlotte admired his ex-wife, that unmistakably commanding presence that made for an ideal (or dangerous) close friend, Bristol was somehow warm where Anna was chilly. He masked it well with turns of cheekiness and vulgarity, vicious humor, and genuine amusement, but it was there-- or here.  It was maddening that he would routinely hide it from her, work so hard to make sure she never saw it. Or maybe he was just gifted. Or maybe it was a trick of the light (now dim, shadowy), a rare moment. There was still plenty of negative energy to reserve for Bristol Collins, but that was part of the attraction, too. Dislike could fuel lust and tension as well as anything else, but right now it was genuine, sweet and heady.

It was only when his lips were on hers that her heart jumped slightly, that she processed that he wanted to stay as much as she wanted him to stay-- that he wasn’t doing it just because he was supposed to. If those thoughts would change in the morning, if her perspective would shift, if they would regret it, scramble to hide it, blame it on the alcohol, Charlotte did not stop. Her name on his lips stung in a good way, and she kissed back, sliding the hand she’d placed on his over his shoulder, settling it there on the back of his neck. When his lips weren’t murmuring, they were on her skin. Charlotte closed her eyes softly, tilting her head to give him access.

Her other fingers moved to his mouth, brushing over them gently, almost tickling, willing him not to say anything that would bring them back to reality (though she quite liked the sound of her name). She cupped his jaw, brought his face back to hers, and then slid her hand down, hooking fingers into his belt, dragging him away from the window as she stepped backward, navigating blindly around bits of glass. She got as far as a narrow, decorative table along the opposite wall, and pressed into it even as she pulled Bristol closer to her.

She didn't stop. She kissed him back. She was... going with this.

A drunken Bristol began to sober up; his nerves were alerted, her touch became clearer. As a heavy heart pounded in his chest like a sledgehammer on ice, the Quidditch player was dragged to the opposite wall, his kiss intensifying as he grabbed her face. She was extraordinary. Such sheer brilliance made images of Anna shatter into nothingness - all loyalties had flown out of the window. Kissing her neck, his hands moved downwards, quick to remove any garments that stood in his way of carnal satisfaction. If he thought too much about what he was doing, Bristol would freak out; only days ago, Charlotte was an adversary. She was part of the coven that plotted and pleaded in the hopes of bringing down the Tutshill chaser, and now? Well, he was in a very compromising position. It compromised Charlotte's standing with Anna and the others, it compromised Bristol's standing as a good, sensible parent, and it compromised them both in terms of the Daily Prophet - the biggest enemy of the lot.

Charlotte, after all, was spoken for. Apollinaire Olivier, son of a former French Minister, all-round golden boy and all-round douchebag. It made Bristol quite happy to know that the Slytherin bully was having his girl roughed up by a dirty halfblood, but as his lips gently grazed the soft flesh of her neck, Bristol was being consumed by more sexual thoughts.

Soon enough, his hands worked in adept ways after years of wooing wonderful witches and he regardless of his drunken haze, Bristol was certainly trying with Charlotte. He had something to prove after all - that he was better than Anna's words. Better in every sense. Bristol continued to kiss her, the debris of the burglary being a distant memory.

The silk hanging fell without complaint onto the table behind her. A negligee was quickly discarded. Wearing considerably less than her rather-bare-to-begin-with ensemble, Charlotte pressed against Bristol’s body heat. She stood on the tips of her toes to reach him better, and, sliding out of her slip-on bedroom shoes, propped herself on the table, her legs making room enough to keep him trapped there. She pulled him closer still, breathing audibly at the chill, the heat, his pretty, roaming touch. Quiet stirred again when she returned the kiss, keeping her mouth busy against his, keeping her breath hot in her lungs.

She began to unbutton his shirt, one button at a time despite the apparent need of here and now. She paused after the first, kissed his jaw, pulled back a fraction, bit her lip. She caught his eyes and immediately blinked her gaze down, pressing into another kiss, deftly forcing another button. When his shirt was off, she ran fingers over the tautness of his torso, that beguiling form that other men, for all of their vanity, could not hope to achieve without a career like Bristol’s. She came upon a scar on his abdomen, and her fingers slowed. Now it was one soft index finger tracing, wondering between the acts.

She did not ask him about it, but kissed him again and began to unbuckle the oh-so-convenient belt. With that task accomplished, she moved her arms back up to his neck.

Bristol's stomach heaved up and down, kisses growing swifter, hearts beating faster. Feeling her adept hands discard his shirt, the drunken man was relieved to lose it - a welcome warning sign of things to come. They were going to do this and things were going to happen. Questions could be asked in the morning. There was no need to think about Apollinaire and Anna now they'd come this far, after all, one had to break a few eggs to make an omelette, right? The St. James women had been in and out of his life quite rapidly the past couple of months, and having his wicked way with Charlotte seemed to be the pinnacle of these mildly flirtatious exchanges. Charlotte - of all the women, it'd have to be her.

Adversarial confrontation only seemed to fuel Bristol's longing further, and the heat between them was growing unbearable. Her hands soon unbuckled his belt, and he seemed to lunge forward almost, wanting to claim his prize more than ever. His rough hands seemed to dissolve on her crystal, tempting skin, and thighs were pushed open as he lost himself in a sea of hazily unpredictable delight. "Charlotte..."


He awoke. Face down, stomach aching, head hurting even more. Morning sunlight flooded through large bay windows - windows that didn't belong to Bristol. What time was it? 7am? 8am? The quiet hum of muggle traffic outside was also strangely foreign, and looking around, it was certainly not his bedroom. His lower half was modestly covered by a thin white sheet, and turning to face the other side of the bed, Bristol opened his mouth momentarily. It all came flooding back to him: Charlotte slept soundly next to him.

Turning onto his back, Bristol gulped, hands resting behind his head. You idiot. He'd come to help, to sincerely help a woman, and in his drunken state and her moment of vulnerability, they'd slept together. This was his ex-wife's friends. One of his ex-wife's best friends - and she was spoken for it seemed. Sitting up in bed, Bristol sighed. How was he going to deal with this?

His hands ruffled his messy hair in thought before finally making a decision. Bristol smirked.

"Charlotte..." he mumbled, looking down at the beautiful witch. A small part of him was rather glad he'd been the mistake - that the annoying, smarmy, cocky Bristol Collins had been her mistake. I always knew she fancied me, man. "Charlotte, wake up."

The hum of traffic rarely made her stir. Charlotte knew the sound-- it was a comfort. But it was slightly louder than usual, coming not simply from the closed, muffling windows that poured light into her bedroom, but from beyond the closed bedroom door. Charlotte did not open her eyes, but half asleep, recalled the unease in her heart that had preceded a pleasanter end to the evening.

"Charlotte..."

“Mmm,” was her drowsy response. Charlotte was not a late riser, necessarily, but she was known to luxuriate in bed-- could afford to do so. A shot of whiskey the previous night had certainly helped avoid setting an alarm. She was not alone, however, and wore neither a sleeping a mask nor the nightgown she’d donned the evening before. She scrunched her eyelids further shut out the voice, prepared to put a pillow over her ears and eyes-- or shove one at his mouth. His presence, at least, stilled the discomfort tinged with fear that fluttered in the corner of her mind’s eyes, a masked thing come to steal. If only he would shut up, she could sleep soundly knowing that it was daylight and he would fend off any intruders.

"Charlotte, wake up."

He wasn’t taking the hint.

This time it was all of her face to pout.

“Apoll--”

But the voice wasn’t right. Charlotte finally peered through thick lashes. The first thing she saw was a naked torso; even the skin tone was wrong. Her eyes opened further, flew up toward his face.

Oh, no.

In her effort to sit up, she felt dizzy. The blood rushed to her head, attempting to catch up with her movements. She pulled at a sheet, bringing it around her naked chest. She swiped hair from around her face and stared at him. “Did--” Well, of course they did. She pressed a hand to her head, wincing. “My living room,” was what said.

Pulling her hand away, letting it drop, she faced him, the previous shake of her head seeming to mirror itself invisibly, like an echo through the room. He was naked as anyone could be, her pretty sheets covering only the most vital of organs-- and Charlotte had just tugged them away from him, too. “Why do you look so pleased? Do you know what this means? Do you know what Anna will do to us-- to me?” She began to rant with one hand, the other holding the sheet only half-consciously. “I have a boyfriend!” That minor detail. “Merlin, Bristol, I watch your child.” She brought both hands to her eyes this time-- forging the sheet completely. It was easier than looking at him, his dark, handsome face, that arrogant smirk, his body against her sheets. “You,” she said, dropping her hands again. She pointed at him, as if it were all his fault he had been there to save her, that he’d been so helpful and so warm and so... Charlotte had admittedly not planned to sleep as well as she had, but Bristol had certainly tired her out. If he was more impressive than Apollinaire in certain departments (hint: he was), she would never say so.

“Get up,” she said, finally, in lieu of some insult. She couldn’t think of one. There was no way they could call the aurors now. If they filed a report and it somehow came out that Bristol had spent the night-- in Charlotte’s bed, after spending part of it not sleeping... on Charlotte’s table, against Charlotte’s wall, and in other oft-taken-for-granted places... Apollinaire had too many friends in the Ministry, and everyone had too many friends at the papers. She climbed from bed, forgetting the sheet entirely. Her eyes found the clock and she looked back to him with more urgency, bossiness in her gaze. She walked around to the other side of the bed, to the window, and peaked beyond the half-open drapes. “Anna is supposed to drop off Poppy in two hours. You’re supposed to pick her up here at noon.” She turned away from the window and looked for his clothes, but they’d left most of them in another room. She moved back to the bed and tugged at the sheet again, forcing it from the betraying tangle of blankets and Bristol Collins. She shoved it at him, holding it there between her palm and his chest. “We have to clean.” Bossy as her gaze was, Charlotte couldn’t help almost having to look away. He was too attractive, too fresh in her memory, too distracting and vexing and maddening.

Charlotte stole the sheets, hiding what little modesty she had left - it was a real blow. Their tryst the previous evening had been in the dark, drunk, and Bristol had few memories of what a St. James body really looked like. Such a shame he wasn't allowed a reminder in the morning. "Yeah," he murmured, unafraid of exposing himself. "I'm not Apollinaire, thank Merlin." The smirk hardened a little; the thought of even sleeping in the same place as that troll made his blood boil. Olivier was a bully - nothing more, nothing less.

He watched her fret, shaking his head slowly as he landed both feet on the floor. The harsh sunlight illuminated every single scar and bruise on Bristol's back, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. This was the last thing he needed, some jumped-up nervy bird that'd freaked out over a bad choice of bedroom partner? He'd heard it all before. "Look Charlotte, we had sex. Anna won't find out, your moron boyfriend won't find out. We're adults, adults have sex." He spoke so matter-of-factly that it almost seemed uncharacteristic for the usually flippant man. Turning his head to gaze at her, he shrugged, grinning once more. "It's no big deal, seriously."

Bristol got to his feet. Naked, bold as brass, strutting like his former sixteen year old self after he'd just done 'the deed' for the very first time; he never shed that schoolboy behaviour. Simply walking past her, the trashed apartment was a sorry reminder of the events that transpired. It was a mess. Once again, the smile fell from Bristol's face as he surveyed the damage, walking down the hallway and picking up various garments on the way. The stripped clothing and the pure carnage looked like they'd had a very, very passionate evening - even Bristol was a little disappointed that it wasn't solely triggered by lust and attraction. The burgular had seen to ruining the environment for them. Sliding on boxer shorts, socks, jeans and a shirt as he navigated the flat, he hopped and jumped between shards of broken glass and jagged debris.

"I'll be gone in five minutes, and I'll get Priss to pick up Poppy," he called from the  living room, eyes still stuck to the wreckage of Charlotte's poor home. He gazed at smashed photo frames, snapped cabinet legs and singed luxury rugs, finally settling on a certain table. It was there they started, there that things went so incredibly wrong (yet so incredibly right). Finally managing to break his poignant stare, Bristol grinned at the vague flashbacks... It'd been pretty good.

Tying his shoelaces, Bristol walked back towards the bedroom, settling in the doorframe. "Tell them they placed a sleeping charm on you, you woke up, and the place was like this. That way, you get round Ministry reports and keep everybody sweet - alright?" The whole plan rolled off the tongue like he'd done this so many times before. Well, he had minus the burglary and damsel in distress. It was usually much easier and much less problematic.

He found his hand settling on her hip, then understood his bold move. It had been almost instinctual, and Bristol's face recoiled when he realised just what was going on. Soon enough, his lips were on hers, a hand stroking a cheek, pulling away moments after. "I had a good time."

Bristol smiled, not arrogantly, or suggestively - but honest. An honest smile. Turning to head to the front door, he was ready to leave - it seemed he'd already done enough damage for one day.

"Yeah. I'm not Apollinaire, thank Merlin."

Charlotte gave him a smoldering look-- and not the exciting kind.

No big deal. Of course he would say that. Years of antagonizing one another, and they had ended up in bed together (with the most unfortunate timing). Bristol thought it was no big deal.

Charlotte could do casual. She had done it before; very rarely were her relationships longer than several months, though they rarely lacked for passion, either. Apollinaire was not the very first man with whom she had tested the limits of trust. But Bristol Collins was the ex-husband of a good friend, the father of a child of whom Charlotte was quite fond, and someone who was already on ill terms with Apollinaire Olivier. She could not decide, in this situation, whether it was worse that she was Anna’s close friend, or that Apollinaire and Bristol needn’t another reason for hostility. Obviously Charlotte felt she was the more cornered of the two. Bristol was taking the whole thing very well.

She watched him parade around her room without a thread to his name, and quickly moved after him toward the doorway, without much more clothing herself, watching him trail through the ruin of her living room. She was pained by the sight, especially now that daylight was flowing in through the hangings Bristol had put in front of the windows the night before. She turned back into the bedroom and stepped through the doors of her sizable closet. She pulled a dress from the nearest hanger, shrugged into it, and returned to the doorway just as he did, fussing with her zipper, wand ready to start uprighting furniture and dusting away bits of glass.

The plan that slid off his tongue sounded fool proof, and somehow practiced. Charlotte let go of her zipper and stared up at him, unsure whether gratitude or annoyance was in order. She opened her mouth and closed it again, looking stormy, huffy. “That’s very easy for you to say, isn’t it? It isn’t your living room that looks like the next Wizarding War.” He wasn’t dating an Olivier, either. No: Bristol was only an internationally famous professional Chaser whose rumored affairs drenched up the front pages of every major paper, the centerfolds of every tabloid, and whose tryst with a politician’s socialite girlfriend would be the crowning jewel of a gossip holiday. The immediate impulse to clean, conceal, sack her security company and have new charms installed was nevertheless dying down. His plan made sense, which relieved and annoyed her. She would Floo message the Ministry, let them inspect, file a report, and bring in extra elves to clear away the debris. Anna and Poppy wouldn’t arrive until the place was nearly spotless again, and when Bristol’s sister arrived to pick up his daughter, it would seem as if none of it had happened at all. Except Charlotte would know.

If it were harder to sleep, harder to return to her social life with Apollinaire, harder than usual to smile and lie, to forget Bristol’s hands, his cologne mingled with alcohol, and the easy sleep that came with him in bed next to her, despite cracked windows and masked strangers roaming the neighborhood, these prospects were left unsaid. It was only logical that he should go, and they should pretend he was never here. Not reporting the burglary left Charlotte exposed in a different way.

“You were never here,” she said, after a moment-- agreeing, echoing, instructing. It was both resolute and a concession (and Charlotte St. James hardly ever conceded). She was a little disappointed that she had to say it, and annoyed with herself for being disappointed. But it had been a strange night and it was now a dizzy morning. An expert dresser, she had not yet zipped her dress all the way (let alone seen to anything else; she usually took her time with these things). It was partly open at her hip, where Bristol’s rough, warm hand now sat. She didn’t protest the kiss, instead fell into it, kissed back. When he pulled back, her eyes fluttered open again, adjusted to their mutual sobriety and the daylight. The taste of him was fresh on her lips again. Charlotte resorted to looking moody, but her eyes conveyed the same sincerity his smile did, their brightness neither chilly nor angry. She grabbed his wrist as he turned. “If you tell anyone, any of your mates, I’ll hex you into next season.” The wand at her side promised as much. Her fingers pressed into his skin. She leaned up and quickly pressed her mouth to the corner of his one more time, faster, not lingering, sealing her threat with a kiss, with a certain power, and to tell him that she, too, had had a good time. “No one,” she murmured against his mouth before falling back, letting his wrist go, allowing him to carry on with his day as if the previous night had not happened.

"Promise." Bristol kissed her once more, keen to savor the taste of lips that he would never grace again. It was all far too complicated. Charlotte had been the prettiest of all Poppy's babysitters, and the prettiest of all Anna's friends - and that was the problem. The Ziesling family were harsh, brutal even, and the retribution showered upon Charlotte would be great. Bristol would remain unscathed on that side of things, but his illicit lover wouldn't be so fortunate. If Apollinaire was to find out, however, he'd be in serious trouble. Probably best to keep it quiet. Bristol was used to bruises and scrapes on the Quidditch pitch, but a serious beating from French idiots would be a little too far.

As she let his wrist go, Bristol turned and sauntered out of the apartment. He felt somewhat guilty for not staying and helping tidy up, but if things were to remain secret, he had to get out of there. Quick.

He closed the battered front door. The enchanted knocker had been silenced through sheer force, and Bristol was a little sad not to hear the same spew of insults for those who 'weren't welcome'. Falling out onto the street, he still wasn't welcome. Regret followed him - had it been a mistake?