outfit

Ellie leaned into the counter-top, aiming her fork at the lukewarm container as if it were a pitch, and the utensil were a broom propelling toward the ground. She took a forkful of the potato she’d lifted her parents’ kitchen (along with several other dishes stashed in the fridge after a week’s worth of holiday parties). “You should really consider an elf, Ian,” she mentioned, motioning to nothing in particular as she pulled the fork away from her mouth. She’d swallowed the bite of heaven before opening her lips again, imparting the wisdom of the Perpetually Babied Youngest Child.

“Not that I think you can’t cook,” she added, giving it a moment’s reflection before diving at the potatoes again. “Those toasties you made were brilliant.”

Abandoning the several dishes which she’d been feasting over in random intervals over the last half an hour, she gave her hair a run through and floated to the living room, plopping down on the couch beside her bag. She’d not really anticipated staying the night, but barely an hour had passed and already the tides were changing. Dinner had been too much fun to pass up dessert...

“But an elf,” she mused in a loud murmur as she dug through the contents of her bag, “Is a bachelor’s best friend.”

Pulling out her camera, she quickly flashed it at him, the purple smoke coughing upward like a volcano’s first choke before the molten lava began its diabolical takeover. “I wonder if anyone’s convinced you’re still a bachelor.”

She grinned and set down the camera on the coffee table. Trading it for a tabloid rag she’d picked up between her parents’ house and Ian’s flat, she stood up again and traversed the few short steps to his side of the couch. Leaning into the arm of the comfy, unassuming slate gray furniture, she flicked open the cover (upon which the side of his hoodied-face was visible, and the not-so-anonymous back of Ellie’s own head). “Doubt it...”

The plan was working.

Not only on the public, but on Ellie, too. She didn’t mention this, however, but simply leaned closer to her quidditch star companion, feigning innocence and amusement in the article’s speculation. Ha. The article. She was barely browsing its lead sentences, what with Ian’s backside gracing the centerfold.

outfit

It was true that Ian Cuddyer was a bachelor and tended to enjoy time spent alone in his bachelor pad. But he was starting to like the idea of having a female around on a more regular basis. And by regular he didn't mean the regularity with which his mother or aunt tended to visit to check up on him.

The Quidditch star was fully capable of caring for himself and the flat. When every other aspect of his life was high profile and publicized and filled with people, Ian simply wanted to return to his place where simplicity reigned supreme.

That often included his food options. As an athlete, he ate a lot. But as a bachelor, his menu had become routine. So Ellie's arrival with food that did not fit into his usual routine, it was a welcome change.

He could only grin at her gentle urging to get a house elf. He glanced around his home and tried to imagine the presence of a little elf running around, tidying up after him and making sure everything was spotless. And cooking. It seemed more like a page out of a children's book and not something that could actually be his life.

Ian held up his hands in surrender. "Yes, I admit I could use some help in my cooking skills. They are not very refined. Usually I only have myself to cook for." He gave her a goofy grin when she complimented his toasties. "My best dish. Maybe I'll have to invest some time into learning some new ones so as to further impress you..."

Ian lazily followed her into the living area, delving his hands into his pockets as he slipped to the floor. He lounged up against the couch and stretched his legs out. If he tilted his head just so, he had a perfect view of his current companion.

Despite his shyness regarding publicity, he didn't look away or move to shield himself when she pulled out her camera and started snapping away. He did scrunch up his face some in a bunch of cheesy expressions. Slowly, his silliness faded when she posed the question about his bachelorhood. He watched as she picked up one of the tabloids that he so often loathed.

They had become slightly more bearable lately with Ellie's help. Feigning innocence of his own, he responded, "I don't know what you are talking about, Miss St. James." He shifted towards her and tried to peer awkwardly at the pages. "Enlighten me. What are they saying?"

“It’s never too old to learn how to wear an apron,” Ellie encouraged. Giving a wink and thumb’s up. True to word: she had not yet learned to master a spatula, but had every intention of doing so. In the future. In the far, far future. The first order up? Moving out of her parents’ house and into her own place. But that meant saving galleons, and booking enough work to keep them.

“One day, when you’re old and have a leg, you can retire and start your own franchise... like that bloke from the Portuguese National Team who cashed in on his own line of footwear. You can write a cookbook for champs...”

Ellie smiled. Her eyes might have been hidden behind lens and unruly fringe, but her mouth was there, aglow with appreciation for the young man’s silly side. She felt privileged to see this side of Ian, the side he was often too modest to show the public. It was the best part of shy people, really: cracking their shells and discovering what was hidden inside.

Pulling out her wand with her free hand, she gave it a wave in his direction. Like an indoor wind, the spell attempted to rustle his hair and clothing, and Eleanor snapped another several pictures in a row before setting down the lens and murmuring “Finite.”

Hands busying themselves with the gossipy goodness of twenty-first century prioritization, Eleanor leaned closer to him still. “Oh, you know. That girls had better sharpen their wands and pitchforks, that your management had better steady themselves as their star Keeper becomes increasingly distracted by his arm candy, and that your mother’s been planning our tropical wedding for weeks.”

"Me? Wear an apron??" Ian brought the palms of his hands against his chest for emphasis with his words. "I think you have me confused with someone who is domesticated." With a grin and a shake of the head, Ian told her, "And I assure you that I am not..."

With a low chuckle, Ian considered what his life would be like when he was done with playing quidditch. He imagined that he might follow in the footsteps of others in his family, staying involved in the game in whatever way possible. But her talk of starting his own franchise was intriguing indeed. "Hmm....that's not a good idea," he mused. He closed his eyes and allowed all the visions to dance across his lids. "But you know, if I'm going to learn to cook for this cookbook, it might be a good publicity stunt to get my pretend girlfriend to do it right along with me."

He peeked at her from one open eye before he saw what she was doing with her wand. He never questioned what she had in mind to create photography genius. If it was anyone else, he might balk at all the little antics, but not with Ellie. She just had that way of making him feel comfortable with a medium that had always been so hostile towards him in the past.

Ian finally opened both his eyes and turned so that he was looking at her more directly. This also placed his face inches from hers. The magazine was forgotten as he turned to studying the contours of her visage intently--her lashes that framed perfectly shaped orbs, her skin that looked so soft that he yearned graze his fingertips over her jawline, or her full lips and how it made him wonder why he had never kissed them.

Wedding.

That one word snapped him out of his thinking. He dragged a hand through his shaggy hair before flashing her a devilish smile. Then, before he could second guess the ludacris suggestion he was about to make, he blurted out, "So when do you wanna do it?" He paused before answering the inevitable question to be asked. "Pretend to get married. We could totally play it off like we got engaged...throw the media off and all. Send them on a goose chase for information. All sorts of stuff like that." His brows shot up. "It would be crazy insanity but so much fun..."

“Shame... I was thinking you’d look quite lush in an apron. Just an apron, mind.” She grinned wickedly, contemplating it with eyes none-too-innocent. “I mean, no skivvies? That’s not too domesticated, really, is it?” She wondered if he would manage to argue his way of this corner. “Come on, Ian! Live a little.”

She considered the proposition, if it could be called that, and slowly shook her head. “Uh-uh. Do you think today’s witch wants to see another woman in the kitchen? How about I be your official taste-tester?” It was the least she could do. “But you can do all of the work. Girls love a guy who’ll cook for them. You’ll make millions...”

The more they talked about this media generated fairytale, the more Ellie had trouble remembering it was just that: a fabrication. What girl in her right mind wouldn’t be a little confused, though? Or have dreams she wasn’t supposed to have... But one couldn’t exactly control one’s dreams. Eleanor St. James had never taken well to Dreamless Sleep Potions. They tasted awful.

As she gazed down at the page, eyes perusing prize photojournalistic plots, she did not notice Ian’s own gaze shift to her profile. The paparazzi existed to woo the public, and it was working. (Even if Ellie didn’t quite count as a member of the general public on this occasion).

Her eyes flicked to his hair, the Keeper’s million-galleon hand moving through the melted-caramel curls. It was better than the charm she’d just cast for their private photo session. He was such a natural at that move-- the boyish sweep of one’s locks, which could either be magnetic or disastrous. Ian had mastered it, and he probably didn’t even realize it.

She blinked in surprise, bewilderment taking hold before he could get the rest of his words out. Ah, the pretend wedding. Of course. It was only right that they move on to the next phase of their... plan? Lie? Manipulation of mankind?

“Well...” She took her time, first looking down at her lap, and then back toward his cool mop, and finally down to his face. “We could go the Christmas or New Years route, even if that’s a little cliché. It would be amazing, wouldn’t it? But I think if we’re going to get married, you should at least ask me on a first date first.” Her eyebrows rose demurely, as if her intentions were completely pure. And yet there was a hint of unseemliness, of just ask me already, you. “I mean, a real one,” she added for clarification, smiling and leaning forward just a fraction to graze his hair with her fingertips, as if pretending to fix the chaos he’d supposedly reigned on it with his own warm hands. It was impossible for it to look bad, of course, even in smart disarray. It had won him many a stalker.

With a smirk, Ian suggested, "Perhaps the photographer for the Quidditch Illustrated spread would be amenable to that idea." Ian's eyes glinted with amusement. "And I'm sure all of the fans would love seeing me in nothing but an apron. Then you'd need to thrash your way through to get to the head of an autograph line, missy." Catching her ploy at being feigning innocence, he decided to test her insistence that he live a little. Doing some feigning of his own, except with nonchalance, Ian asked, "You're not terribly jealous, are you? All this posing for others....cooking for others....it's not going to bother you, right?"

Truth was, Ian silently hoped that she was the jealous type. He would revel in the thought that she didn't want other women ogling his near naked body or being as close to him as she was now.

His hair now swept away from his face and his now being so close to  hers, he watched her face for a reaction to what he had said. He didn't know why he was surprised by what she came back with as their little plan so far had all about pulling the wool over everyone's eyes and essentially flying by the seat of their pants. It was safe to say neither was aware of how deeply their feelings ran for each other, something that could hardly be seen as a joke.

"First date," he murmured, turning the idea over in his thoughts. He debated the validity of it and at the core, it wasn't a bad suggestion at all, especially if they were going to continue playing this out. "A real one, huh?" He continued thinking long and hard about the appropriate place that he could take her for the date. Immediately, he ruled out the typical dinner and movies route because they would never be able to have a moment's peace. The media would be flashing bulbs left and right, rendering them both blind.

But after a few moments of silence, his eyes lit up as if he'd gotten the best idea in the world. He knew exactly where to take her on their first official date...and it would be a place where no one would care that he was a famous quidditch player or that he and Ellie were canoodling. In fact, Ian was pretty darned sure that where they would be going, Ian Cuddyer would be the least famous or legendary person within the span of an entire continent.

Grinning, he nodded. "Sure. No problem." Then, quickly leaned towards her and planted a kiss on her adorable little nose. Pulling back, his expression became smug, as if he knew a secret that she did not.

Eleanor nodded, until her brain processed the bit about waiting in line. What? A line? Eleanor St. James? She might have been a Slytherin like most of her lot, but she was no patient Hufflepuff. With the loyalty of a lion and the territorial mindset to match, the young woman quickly switched from a downward tick of her chin to a shake of her messy-fringed honey locks. “Uh-uh,” she informed in a throaty voice. “I’m behind the VIP rope or you can find another muse with  a mind full of suggestive apron patterns.”

Swishing her lips to the, she averted her eyes, letting them roam the ceiling as her arms folded into one another, pretzel style. “Not jealous... protective.” She murmured the word softly, as if it were a delicate distinction, but her eyes shifted back to Ian, eager for a reaction.

Was it Ellie’s sudden rush of envy toward the masses of girls who would be waiting outside of the studio on the day of the shoot, or was Ian’s apartment stiflingly warm?

She couldn’t help the prickle of pleasure on the back of her neck as he mused over their first official date. And agreed to it. The adorable, albeit somewhat chaste kiss made her heart jump like a good quaffle save by her favorite team (currently Ian’s). A grin spread on her face, a tiny, babyish gap gracing her pearly whites, and topped off with dimples that seemed to suit the rather puppyish kiss the young man had offered her pert St. James nose. “It’s a date,” she confirmed, feeling that for once, a cliche was exactly what she needed to express her excitement.