Oh Flynn, you sorry old soul. Went and ruffed up the best relationship of your life, you did. Ain't that sad? Especially since that best "relationship" was a sham marriage to a beautiful upper class woman that lasted about three-and-a-half weeks, at most. (About 25 days, but who is counting?)
That Irishman was so low that he had stooped to drinking, a lesser gentleman's sport that he had never quite been attracted to--until he woke up and found himself utterly, painfully, alone. His spirits were lifted, somewhat, a few days later after he received word back from his sister that she accepted his dinner invitation. Granted, it was a one lined note, which he almost did not believe was in response to his three-paragraph letter. Not to mention that he had poured his heart and soul into that letter, but no big deal. He was used to it. Reminded him of the time he poured his heart and soul into two debutantes from the same family, and they each kicked him while he was down--
Urf. He needed another drink.
Quite the inexperienced drinker, Flynn was not much for the hard liquor, and stuck to sipping dutifully at a pint of ale instead. It had been ice cold when he received it, but even with the cooling charm on the glass the swill was beginning to turn luke-warm. The taste of it sifted his stomach in the most repulsive manner, but he drank the ale anyway, feeling angst enough to continue the slow torture of room-temperature beer.
Obviously, Flynn was not himself. He was not usually a walking pity-party, even when things turned their sourest. His parents both died within a span of a year and a half, and his still managed to get back on his feet, start a prosperous business which he adored, and pay for his little sister's schooling. Brushing off the dust was one of those things Flynn was quite adept at. Hell, even after Juliet's sister, Prudence, publicly humiliated him at Hogwarts he managed to keep his spirits up.
But Juliet. Juliet was different. She knocked him down.
He did not want to get up anymore.
At the least, he had his sister--no matter how viciously she resented him--and he comforted himself with the knowledge that he would now be able to throw the full force of his weight behind her and her future. Perhaps it was better this way. Maybe it just wasn't in the cards for him to settle down and start a life of his own. He had always been more than happy to dedicate his time to Molly's happiness; nothing had changed.
But there was always a little something left, even after he had given everything he could to Molly. He had given that little extra something to Juliet during her short stay, and now that little extra something was--unfortunately for Flynn--dedicating itself to worrying about her welfare. Where was she staying? How was she paying for food? Surely she could not have returned home. Her family had disowned her. What if she was scared, alone, frightened on some street corner, peddling for a meal--?
No, no. Flynn knew that she was craftier than that. He had to give his wife--or, rather, ex-wife--some credit. She was a resourceful little thing, but that didn't keep him from worrying.
And it was for that reason that Flynn sat at the Three Broomsticks' bar, attempting to drown his sorrows for the first time in liquor. It wasn't working.
He slammed his cup down on the bar and barked rather viciously at the tender to get him a shot of something stronger. It wasn't a very characteristic move, but the Irishman wasn't feeling himself--which may have been why he shot daggers at the man who dared to take up the bar stool next to him, until--
"Oh! Mister Wakefield. I didn't see you there." Crap.
Cage had his own reasons to be at the Three Broomsticks. He didn't normally frequent this pub, but in lieu of the recent events, the last thing Cage wanted to do was run into Silas again. Silas, his father. The events ran rampant in his head and combined with those events of he and Miranda's relationship, Cage could find little to persuade him away from the drink today.
Cage wandered into the pub and nodded at a few familiar faces, and then he saw the figure of Flynn Donovan, his one time business partner. Cage laid a hand on Flynn's shoulder and took the tool next to him, sliding into the place comfortably. "Evening Donovan," Cage spoke motioning for an ale from the bartender.
Cage settled into the seat and narrowed his eyes slightly at Flynn, a curious look about his face. In the time that Cage had known Flynn and his habits, never had he taken Flynn as a drunk. But he was well on his way or already there now, and Cage wondered what could have caused the Irishman to live down to his roots. "Donovan, what brings you to this corner of hell?" he asked in a relaxed tone, taking a stiff drink of his stout.
Flynn shot a sidelong glance at his former business partner (and idol--not that Flynn would admit to that, ahem) and sipped grumpily at his glass of ale. He looked as though he would much rather be at home, curled up in bed, nursing a box of chocolates rather than a pint of liquor--which, of course, he would be. His bed, however, smelled like Juliet. As did everything else in his goddamned house and his goddamned life. Hell, he couldn't even look at the goddamned curtains she goddamned put up on his goddamned window.
à goddamn.
"Yes," he very nearly blubbed into his ale, not bothering to turn and face Cage. You know. Like polite human beings usually do. Yeah, he wasn't having any of that eye contact crap. Flynn was fermenting in his grumpiness, and he was more than happy to do that without Cage if it meant he wouldn't have to hear any shit from Cage about his decision to boot Maryse to the forefront of his business. "M'wife left me, Cage."
"At least you have a wife who'd run away," Cage mumbled as he nursed his drink. He was more than irritable about the Miranda situation if he were to be perfectly honest. If they loves each other, than was more than a normal reason to get married. And Cage wanted her, wanted her in his home, existing in the same place as him all of the time. It never occurred to him to be afraid of her, mostly because he didn't feel there anything to be frightened of. Nothing but losing her.
Cage looked into his drink and sighed, casting a glance to Flynn. "But I thought that you two were just arranging it for the money. Did she take the money with her?" Cage questioned. "Or did you start to care about her?"
Cage could see the anguish on Flynn's face, but he didn't understand it. If Flynn knew where hiswife went, why wasn't he there now, carrying her back to Hogesmeade. Flynn had always been a man made for marriage and love, but he needed a shove when it came to backbone. Especially with women.
Normally, Flynn's coddling instincts would have kicked in halfway through Cage's bitter first sentence, and he would have been all over that shit with a shoulder to cry on and a box of chocolates.
Buuut our favorite little Irish boy over here was busy wallowing in his own despair--for once. It seemed as though Cage was going to have to wait his turn.
Turning a suspicious eye on Cage, his brow quirked, and the bookkeep tossed the other man's words around his head for a moment, before inquiring warily, "How do you know of our arrangement?" He didn't suppose the Farthingdales went and blabbed about town; Juliet, truth be told, was already a shame to their family. The gossip mongers they surrounded themselves with did not need another scandal to slander the Farthingdale name, and her family would have been more than happy,h e presumed, to disown her as quietly as they could.
But apparently not everyone was so conservative as to keep their mouths shut.
Still, Cage did not seem accusatory, or even bitter over the terms of his estrangement with Whizzhard Books. This realization coaxed Flynn to continue, "I...I did grow quite fond of her. That was my mistake." A sigh, and he added something along the lines of ain't it always? under his breath.
"She left me the money, that...silly girl. I would rather she have taken it." Another sip of his grog, and the Irishman flinched at the taste, his gentle warble wavering with his next words. "I can't imagine where she is. With no money, no family to return to..." The thought made him shiver, and he downed another gulp of his drink before pushing the repulsive beverage away from him on the bar.
"I'm losing my mind, Mr. Wakefield."
Cage sighed and looked at Flynn, who was apparently distraught and bothered about the gossip. "Everyone knows that the marriage took place my friend," he said softly. "I used to work a little with the late Mr. Farthingdale on business matters. Juliet had an extensive dowry to be given to her future spouse, plus accounts of her own. It doesn't take a scientis to put two and two together."
Cage of course didn't mean that in a cruel way, and he had no idea what Jules had been thinking, marrying below her. If for love, then so be it, but Flynn had never seemed to be in love with her. Well, up until now. But Cage could see a familiar desperation about him that Cage was feeling even then. IF the pair weren't in love already, then they were well on their way to it.
"Why is it your mistake to grow fond of your wife?" Cage questioned, raising his brow. Flynn had attractive features in a man, and any woman would be lucky to have the soft-hearted Irishman as a husband. Jules had obviously seen something in the man. But what had driven her to leave? "It is in my extensive experience as an observer of marriage that being fond of one's wife makes it a much easier prospect."
The worry in the man's tone betrayed a fondness that Cage felt very familiar. He could barely imagine Miranda in harm's way, and it drove him mad thinking of harm coming to her without him to protect her. "Jules is a smart woman. She's not foolish like that flighty sister of hers. She is most likely in a very safe place, trying to keep herself safe from you, mate." Cage ordered up another stout. It would be a long night.
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