Outfit

Laney was semi-prepared for the cold, an open jacket over a not-too-weather-proof cropped, oversized, midriff-skimming Chudley Cannons t-shirt beneath it-- a bit of support for George when she wasn’t busy promising to beat him on the field. A hat, but no scarf. She was used to it, the bite of December, after nineteen winters. This was her twentieth. Quidditch helped one get used to the weather, too. After a practice, it felt hot, clammy even. Only the air in her lungs was sharp with cold, then. Otherwise, it was flushed cheeks, tingling feet, arms begging to be let out of their gear. Today, she had no practice.  She was off, after a weekend match in Wimbourne. Warmth and laziness beckoned.

The key fit into the lock as it always had; Laney turned it effortlessly. She balled her fist, tapping the door with a light, melodic, and slightly menacing announcement even as she stepped across the threshold. The living room was empty, the tella-vision rectangle like the one in the cinema (but smaller, somehow more suspicious) a mere reflective surface. She pulled off her hat and leaned into the door, closing it as she continued to take in the room. She poked her head into the kitchen. No Frank. Laney tossed her hat and bag on the couch and turned in the direction of the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, she could see that from several steps away. She began to shrug out of her jacket and smiled to herself with the triumphant deviousness of Laney Irving paying someone a surprise visit.

And a surprise, it was.

The flash of cute, printed dogs didn’t deter her from the overall package. A very guilty (or he would be, in a moment) Frank Pratt. Laney’s smile disappeared. “Enjoying yourself?”

Frank had been back in London for a couple of days. He had been gone for a few days in Norway, researching on his latest book hunt. An owl here and there had been enough to touch base with Laney, who was busy herself. They had hung out prior to him leaving, and after the full moon.

So if he was a little preoccupied with thoughts that had less to do with work, bills (as he’d been dutifully paying all morning), and cleaning, was Frank really to blame? All it took was a tentative date night owl, a couple of photos of Laney lying around, and a search for a magazine he knew he had. Somewhere...

It wasn’t even lunch time yet. He had plenty of time to hang around in his pajamas until he needed to get ready.

If he was into the magazine, and how comfortable his bed was, how his hand wasn’t as much fun as Laney could be... Well. He was the only one around.

He didn’t hear her unlock the door, knock, or walk through the apartment. Frank would be in trouble if someone decided to rob him.

The sound of footsteps so close, however, made him jump, and then her voice caused his hand to come up rather quickly and the magazine to clench up closed in the other fist.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Uh.” That’s right, she had a spare key... Frank couldn’t even imagine if Akiva had walked in. He shouldn’t have to worry about someone walking in in his own apartment! At the moment, however, his mind was sadly blank. Shuffling some things around, Frank frowned and winced as he sat up on the edge of the bed, pushing the magazine under a pillow.

“I... wasn’t expecting you yet.”

“I... wasn’t expecting you yet.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious.” Her sharp gaze darted from his face, to his retracted, might-as-well-have-red hand. If she did not notice the magazine, it wasn’t because Laney’s Seeker stare wasn’t working properly... she was simply too busy refocusing on Frank’s face, drilling the guilty into him.

“Is that what you do in your time off? You couldn’t have waited a bit?” It wasn’t as if Laney had never... even after they’d started dating regularly, she might have, once or twice... but she didn’t hold herself to the same standard to which she held Frank. It wasn’t even a full moon tonight. She could almost feel the tattoo on her shoulder searing that message plain and clear across her skin. “Maybe you wanted to try something new.” She gestured now, to his hand, a nod of her finely etched face. “Who was she?” She asked, now barging in on the details of Frank’s daydreams, even if they were supposed to stay in his head. If he spoke, he’d be in trouble, and if he didn’t, he’d be in trouble. Laney laid those choices out carefully for him as she leaned in the door frame, arms folded, eyes roaming over his pajamas, his bed, the window, back to his face. He didn’t look any different than the usual, inviting Frank-in-his-pajamas. But Laney felt a shadow of self-consciousness crawling over her spine now, annoying, irritating, itching in that subtle way it had after the initial months of chasing Frank Pratt and being met with a perfect gentleman still. (Until, of course, he’d been released from jail.)

A small frown etched its way across his face. Laney had to know he wouldn’t have been doing... well, it wouldn’t have been so... Yes, it was obvious. Why did she seem so upset about it? Frank went from looking at her face to glancing over her to down at the bed. Was he supposed to act guilty?

Did she not understand men?

“Is that what you do in your time off? You couldn’t have waited a bit?”

“Am I supposed to ask you what’s appropriate or not for my time off?” Frank made a face and continued to frown. He understood he was embarrassed that she’d walked in, but... it wasn’t as if that would have stopped him later. “I could have, but later is tonight, and... I’d be up for you later.” And now, since he hadn’t finished. Perhaps this was not the time to mention it, though.

And since when was Laney Irving the innocent nun when it came to sexual acts? This was definitely an odd turn of events. All the smoldering looks had caused things to go back to normal, and he stood up, hands slipping into his pockets. A short laugh escaped him, but not in the most humorous ways. “This is not anything new, Laney.” And it wasn’t something he particularly yearned for.

“Who was she?”

“I’m sorry?” A hand came out of his pocket and he ran it through his hair. A grunt escaped him before he frowned deeper. “There’s... You’re asking a personal question.” After a moment, though, he grit his teeth and pulled out the magazine, tossing it towards the end of the bed.

“Everyone is a bit different; for me, I don’t have a set woman, Laney, or a preconceived face. It’s more of... parts, for a guy. And I was looking-” He licked his lips. “I was looking at photos of you first, anyway.” Shaking his head, disbelieving that this was coming up, Frank once again sat on the edge of his bed.

Am I supposed to ask you what’s appropriate or not for my time off?”

No. He wasn’t. In theory, Laney Irving didn’t care what anyone did in their time off… but, right now, she sort of did. The chase was over; she had won. And now… it was a different thing. More than just trying to get him out of his leather jacket. Words like trust prickled at her heels. She stared at him. Up for her later… which happened to be now, since Laney had wanted to surprise him. So much for that.

“This is not anything new, Laney.”

Was he patronizing her, really? Laney’s eyes darkened, her lips parted. “I thought you spent your spare time knitting.” Her tone indicated that she was not impressed with the lesson. Nor was she a jealous girlfriend. She knew what men did on a daily basis. Even Frank, who seemed gentler (in some ways), more genuine than many. She hadn’t thought about him doing it, but… it was obvious. She also had hands and her own sex drive. (The latter of which wouldn’t be receiving any attention in the next few minutes, apparently.) Her face said what he should know: she wasn’t stupid. It was just that when she took the time out of her day (sleeping in after a weekend match), she expected the direwolf with whom she was frequently shacking up to appreciate the effort. Instead of having his cake without her.

And now he was treating her like she was a child. What might have been funny in retrospect was quickly becoming something else. Laney could have laughed and helped him out, he was only getting off, after all, but… now she wanted to know the answer. Still, if there was something humorous about this… A personal question. She smiled, shook her head. Laney’s appraisal was obvious. Were his desires that personal when she was here, helping him along? She’d been pretty forthcoming about hers.

Maybe not. Maybe she could say a few things to surprise him.

Her eyes moved to the magazine, back to Frank's face with mild surprise that he was coming clean, offering it to her, and to the magazine again. She reached out for it, immediately put off by the static quality of the centerfold. She wasn't moving. And she certainly wasn't--

A blonde. Right. Those seemed to be particularly menacing bludgers in Laney's life lately. She tilted it, testing the woman, who remained arched in the same pose, mouth sultry, everything on display. She looked up at Frank again, her face a little softer. “This is what gets you off?” The question might have included a smirk if she weren't so... annoyed. Did muggle men collectively pine for a woman who had been Petrificus Totalused? And Frank wasn't even a muggle! This was one of the downsides of being involved with a muggleborn. The prejudices of Laney's Slytherin pureblood rearing were energizing her now. "If I had known that, I would have let you finish." She gestured to him, his bed, the event in general. It wasn't as if Laney was shocked to know what men did in their spare time. She knew. She had been around enough of them, of varying degrees of shameless, and had two brothers, too. She was cornering him now, though, stung that they hadn't seen each other in a week and this was what he was after, some printed fantasy far from Laney. Upset that he hadn’t wanted to tell her about his silly little muggle fantasy, pissed that he thought she was overreacting to his self-indulgence. If he had asked her to put on a wig and handcuff herself to the bed, she would have been down for the game. There was something unpleasant in catching him that might have been amusing if he had confessed it, had to work up the courage to ask, had involved her. There was, of course, the slight possibility that the unfolding argument was about more than that. It was rare that Laney took up the role of morality auror in this particular relationship.

"Well now I know what to get you for Christmas," she murmured, craving a cigarette. She extended the magazine back to him and leaned into a dresser. Her eyes caught one such a photo, one of her, moving in the way pictures were supposed to, and another of them together.

“I thought you spent your spare time knitting.”

His nostrils flared in slight indignation. Whereas he could, technically, patronize her, all she had as an excuse to do it back was that she was a stubborn child. Frank took a slow breath and frowned at her. “Maybe I do that too.” It wasn’t quite Christmas, after all. Maybe Laney was going to get a sweater, knitted by Frank. How personal and thoughtful.

Though she might not consider herself a jealous woman, Frank would have quickly pointed out how offended she was that he was ‘getting off’ to a magazine. She expected everything to be just right for her, as if she didn’t have to work at things herself. Spoiled. That was the word for it.

That Laney actually picked up the magazine made Frank’s eyebrows sink down a little. Her assessment of it was almost as bad as his mother finding it. Or Akiva! The horrifying thought nagged at him as he shifted slightly. She didn’t have to be so analytical about it.

“This is what gets you off?”

How did she end up making him feel worse than he all ready did? Eyes glanced away, looking to the window for a brief moment before coming right back to her face. “It’s just-”

“If I had known that, I would have let you finish.”

Lips clamped tight together as his jaw tightened. “Merlin’s beard, Laney! I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.” How did she not understand it? It wasn’t as if he was diving in to her brain, picking at her fantasies and setting them on fire. Frank didn’t understand this level of jealousy. It wasn’t as if the centerfold was going to reach out and help him!

Her last dig made his eyes narrow dangerously. He grabbed the magazine, papers fluttering as he snatched it back. It was tossed aside as he stood up, rounding the end of the bed to stand in front of her. “What’s that, Laney? You going to dye your hair blonde? Arch yourself over the couch and spread your legs? Or are you actually going to a muggle bookstore and find me the next edition?”

The idea was laughable, if he’d felt like laughing. “It’s nothing! I’m not asking you what gets your jollies in a bunch. I don’t ask if you do a little five finger discount on your own time. And even if you do, and you told me, I wouldn’t get upset!”

Hands were out and moving, mimicking an explosion over his head. That’s how he felt this was going. In all actuality, he’d probably want to watch. Or help. Or-well, not argue about it. He turned and grabbed the magazine, clumped into his fist as he shook it towards her. “Is this really bothering you?” His temper had been practically nonexistent before he’d been turned into a direwolf.

Plus, all the accusations and angry-girlfriend-gestures didn’t help. "Because, honestly, if it does-" Hands grasped it, ripping the magazine in half. "There." And he grabbed what he could and ripped it again. He tried to do it again, but it was too much paper at this point-it wouldn't rip, try as he might to tear it. Frank finally let out an irritated growl and dropped it on the dresser.

He would. She knew was being sarcastic right back, but... now that she thought about it, she bet Frank would agree to knit with his mum and sisters if they asked. He was that sort of person. It was, maybe, deep down, despite herself, part of why she liked him. It was also part of why he was infuriating her now, though this had nothing to do with knitting, and surely Frank’s sweetness and generosity had nothing to do with his leaving her out in the cold. Or maybe those qualities had made it slightly more surprising to walk in on that. If he were someone else, not the sort of man who would help his mum knit, not the sort of man who would be embarrassed to hand over the magazine to his demanding girlfriend, maybe she wouldn’t care. But Frank cared about things, and people, and her. And Laney… Laney was Laney.

He seemed to be struggling, for a moment, to explain himself. But then she saw it, the anger that overtook him. Seeing Frank angry, genuinely angry, caught Laney Irving off guard in a way that she couldn’t explain. (And that was a task and a half, catching her off guard.)

Something in her wanted to continue the argument, a defense mechanism, a need to win. She squinted her eyes, her fingertips grazed the handle of her wand after he grabbed the magazine. The words were like little fires, dancing at her feet, daring her. Something hot or cold ran through her palm, wanting, needing to react. She stood her ground. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m good for and then I’ll give you your answer,” she said darkly. With my wand is what she didn’t say— and didn’t need to say. Somehow his asking it, what she would do, putting it in those words, made it seem like an ill gesture; did he think her cheap? Dirty? Easy? And the muggle option was the high road? He knew she wouldn’t go into a muggle bookstore, not alone, not to buy holiday gifts. He must have also thought about how she might agree to do the former. Did it worry him? Make him angry? Both?

She stared, reflecting his anger with coldness, coolness, disenchanted and disengaged, as if there were a steel wall around her lissom frame and she couldn’t feel his words.

To watch him rip the thing to bits as if he wanted to hex it was a little shocking, thrilling in a weird way, and made even Laney wonder if she hadn’t prodded him too much, if they hadn’t taken it too far. Her eyes flickered to what was left of the magazine as he dropped it on the dresser. Laney had never seen his temper. Not like this. She had tried, in all of her vainglorious teenage wisdom, to provoke him time and time again— mostly little things, new ways to tease him, to rile him, and had usually been met with the same gentle, scruffy Frank. She was the angry one, the one most likely light a magazine on fire (though she had to hand it to him, turning it into confetti was new; it was almost cute that he couldn’t get it to rip any further than that). Annoyances were normal; couples bickered. Or all of the couplings Laney had been a part of, anyway. If the direwolf thing meant an extra sort of energy, a gruffness that Frank hadn’t had before he decided to routine her affection, it had been let out in other ways. Now she hadn’t exactly been trying, but when she realized he was upset that she was angry… Well, if Frank didn’t want a girlfriend who got upset that he wanted the same old vanilla fingers he’d had his whole life instead of the exciting young woman standing in his bedroom, that was his problem.

He was quite done now, with the magazine. So was Laney.

"You’re right…” She stared at him, waited a moment. “You shouldn’t have to explain,” she said matter-of-factly. “You haven’t asked. Well, I’ll tell you now. How about that? I do. All the time. You want to know who I think about? As long as you’re not getting upset…” She paused a moment, glanced down at the bits of magazine on the floor, back up at Frank’s face. She shrugged. “Maybe one of my teammates.” It wasn’t true. “An ex. Have I introduced you?” She asked, as if she couldn’t remember. “There’s this guy I used to know… not anymore, but…” She grinned somewhat wolfishly, despite the fact she wasn’t the wolf in the in room. “Him, maybe?” She posed it as a question again, waited for his reaction.

Frank hoped he would never be so stupid as to actually respond to such a question. The look on his face said as much; he wasn’t born yesterday, no matter how innocent he might come off. What did he think she was good for? Up until this argument, he could have thought of a lot of different responses. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure he’d been right about them.

She certainly wasn’t winning any supportive girlfriend roles, in the bedroom or out. He would have easily played the opposite role; hell, he would have probably gotten under the sheets with her. This, however, had jumped from ground to sky high without a broom to hold on to.

Judging by the look on her face, this wasn’t ending happily. The attitude illustrated was enough to warn him that maybe, right now, was not the time to have this argument. Perhaps it was a time to apologize (if he wanted a more entertaining outcome). The problem was, Frank didn’t see that he needed to apologize. He felt justified in everything that had happened thus far.

A tiny bit of him might have felt a little guilty for his actions, but only long enough to get his anger stoked again, as if they were coals simmering, waiting for a poker to stir them up.

Perhaps it was even the guilt that forced his anger out, more visible than he’d expected. More enraged than he wanted. Teeth grit together as Frank watched her face, eyes waiting for a moment of understanding, a glint of relenting. He felt like he was on the hunt (though he hadn’t done that in so many months-perhaps it was another reason he was on edge).

Being kept locked up at least once a month had its downsides, chief among them his lack of freedom. Frank cherished his time away from the cell by stretching out, so to speak, in what freedoms he did have. This was supposed to be one of them!

It wasn’t so black and white as Laney seemed to think. There was more than options A and B. At the same time... he knew, deep down, that she had that irritating quality to always want to be right.

Now it was his turn to stumble mentally. When she agreed with him, it caught him off guard. His frown started to lift to an almost confused look; luckily (maybe), thoughtful looked similar to confusion for Frank.

“Well, I’ll tell you now. How about that?”

“I-” He didn’t know about that. She seemed way too calm all of a sudden. He stood up straighter, hands resting heavily on his hips as she kept going. All the time made him grimace very slightly, glancing away from her gaze as he contemplated it. All the time wasn’t the best vote of confidence for Frank. He might have done it every now and then (like every other day or more), but... that was expected. Laney doing it All the time made him rethink what the argument was really about.

“-You want to know who I think about?”

Frank started to shake his head, delayed as he processed all the information coming at him. “No-” But she kept going. And this time, he couldn’t keep the confused hurt from slipping over his features, not at first. After a moment Frank was able to deadpan his horrified expression. A teammate? An ex!? A hand lifted from his hip as he rubbed at his forehead.

Way too much information was an understatement. Her question forced a reaction from him. Though his mouth sneered, he gave off the impression of a wounded animal. His eyes were too telling sometimes. The thumping of his heart against his chest wall flushed his cheeks, and Frank took a rocked step back from her.

Finally his hand pulled away from his forehead and he looked at her. A frown came over him. “So go have him.” He may have enjoyed Laney’s company for months now, in more ways than one, and didn’t want her to go. But he wasn’t about to fight the fantasies in her head to take spot number one. It shouldn’t be a competition, or so he thought.

The need to make him feel how she did was instinctive. It was a sticky thing, hard to get out of once one set one’s foot in the game. Temperance was not the same as stealth or slyness. Laney had upped the stakes, had said more than was required to illicit a response, but undoing it wasn’t an option. Apologizing, admitting that she had lied, admitting that she was hurt, just a little, that she didn’t want to hurt him, not a lot, that what he had done wasn’t a big deal, wasn’t what caused her to lash out— those weren’t things Laney did. She was brazen, but not the sort that would have landed her in Godric Gryffindor’s tower. That was a different kind of bravery.

Her defenses were up, and something more. It wasn’t just a wall, but a wall meant to hurt. She was prickly, it was a head-rush, the words coming out of her mouth. She was lying, mostly. She hadn’t done anything in ages with any of her teammates besides train hard and drink healthily. A proper ex probably implied a proper, steady relationship— of which Laney had not had many (perhaps not any, excepting the one she was trampling over now). The last time she had tried anything with one of one of her old friends, it hadn’t ended well. There was no daydreaming about that moment, only buzzing annoyance, and perhaps a drop of the same sort of self-consciousness walking in on Frank had inspired.

She had hurt him. She could see it. It was what she had wanted. Now it made her skin hot, but not in the visible way that Frank’s was. His blushing cheeks were a giveaway— as if she needed one-- and she felt bad that she had hurt him. “I’ll definitely go,” she agreed (with that bit if nothing else). She gathered her jacket, moved swiftly out of the room, fished up her hat from the couch without slowing, and slid the spare keys across the kitchen counter before she reached the front door. It opened for her, a wave of her wand, and closed harshly behind her. Laney welcomed the cold in the stairwell. She paused there only a moment, looked out in front of her, didn’t pull on her jacket. Then she was gone from Frank’s door, silent on the stairs. She took one step from the building’s front, turned moodily with the sharpness required for the magic, Disapparated.

In the moments of silence, Frank looked at Laney, wishing he could glance away. Her stare was infectious, and her words were fire as they lit him down to his gut and back. Fingers flexed before curling into a fist, knuckles lightly popping as her words slipped out.

“I’ll definitely go.”

Teeth clenched tight as he tried not to move, watching with as disinterested a look as he could muster. If his arms hadn’t been tense at his side and his body hadn’t been lightly shaking, he might have pulled it off. Regardless, Frank didn’t step from his spot, nor did he do anything other than follow her retreat with his eyes.

The slammed front door was the sign that it was ok to let his feelings go. A throaty yell escaped him as his fist came down hard on the dresser, knocking things around in the jolt. He flung the remains of the magazine off of it, stomping around and beating his fist down on whatever he could reach.

After a few moments of reckless abandon, he stood tall and took a few deep breaths. Laney was just a child. Was he really going to let her temper tantrum get him down? Answering the rhetorical question softly, he moved his wand in slow circles, cleaning up the paper mess he’d made before heading out to the living room. As he trashed the ruined magazine, his eyes flittered over the counter.

He quickly came back to the extra set of keys resting against the coffee maker. His anger renewed, Frank locked the door before heading back to the bathroom. Perhaps it was time to go to the local pub and have a few pints.