Everything Is Eclipsed by the Shape of Destiny

Even in her drunken stupor, she remembered his voice. There was no forgetting it. Better said, there could be no forgetting, not after all the memories that they had shared during their years as teenagers. It was those very memories that rushed to her as she stood there, struggling to remain afoot amongst the flowers in the garden. The memories bombarded her, forcing her to relive every moment that had been lived at his side and as the memories dwindled into nothingness, her mind implored her to remove herself from his path. To save herself from what would surely ensue.

“Emma.” He called to her, his voice still possessing the allure it had when they were younger.

Apparate, run off and apparate, was what her mind ordered her to do, but there was no completing that order. Her body refused to cooperate. And all she could do was watch in mute horror as he approached; his silvery blonde hair flowing in the gentle moonlight, his lips curling into the familiar smile that had always sent her flying into his arms, and his piercing blue eyes gazing into her own.

He was a devastatingly handsome man that captured the attention of any woman near enough to look upon his chiseled face. He had captured Emerson’s but she forced herself to peel her attention away from him and redirected it to the ginger whose face announced his confusion.

In his eyes, Emerson found refuge from the unrelenting emotions that assaulted her being and, wanting to be closer, she hobbled towards him, each step sending a sharp pain shooting throughout her body, but it was endured and when she reached him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying herself with him.

“Take me home.” She told Bill, completely ignoring the Frenchman that stood mere feet behind her. “I can’t apparate on my own so take me home, please.”

“That’s not a good idea. It’d be better if you stayed the night.”

“Take me home.” Emerson repeated, her body swaying with the cool breeze.

“Marie –” he placed his hand on her hips, steadying her body.

“Quit being such a prick and take me home!”

“Perhaps she should spend ze night.” Marceau spoke in his accent; it was infinitely lighter than that of his younger sister, but still thick when compared to how the others present spoke. “I can leave ze room, zere is no problem zere.”

“I'm not staying the night.” Emerson spoke, not bothering to face Marceau.

“And why not?” questioned Marceau. “You are drunk.”

It was clear that Marceau was trying to get her to speak to him. He wanted to have a conversation, even if she was drunk, but Emerson dared not direct any more words to him. Their last conversation had been a shouting match in which both parties had stormed away from with tears streaming down their faces. She didn’t want a repeat of that.

“Bill,” she grabbed him by the shirt, its fabric brushing against her calloused palm. “If you don’t take me home, I’ll take myself.”

An annoyed sigh left his lips. “Fleur,” he looked to his wife. “I think it’s best if I take Marie home, knowing her, she’ll throw a bloody fit if we try to take her in and she might . . . well, you know.”

Fleur knew he was referring to the fact that Emerson could phase into her jaguar form if they upset her and so she agreed that it was for the best that Bill deliver Emerson to her current home. With his wife’s approval, he did just that. He secured his arm around Emerson’s waist and held her closely as he apparated them to The Lupin household.

“Damn it Marie.” Bill cursed as he helped her into bed. “You’re a proper disaster, you know.”

“More like charming calamity.”

“Which means the exact same thing as disaster.” He was unimpressed by her humor. “You think this is funny. That going around drinking is normal, it’s not. For Merlin’s sake! You’re twenty five. At that age there should be more reason in that head of yours.”

“And what were you doing at twenty five?” she shot back. “I believe you were getting shit faced with me, so don’t act all like you were leading some virtuous life, you hypocrite.” Emerson sat on the edge of the bed, her arms resting on the side for support. “Just because you’re twenty seven that doesn’t mean that you have a right to tell everyone else how to act. Damn prat.”

Bill knelt in front of her. “I don’t mean to be a prat, just worry about you, is all.”

“Already told you not to,” she flinched when her stomach rumbled and disturbed the wound that was still in the healing process. “Give me that bin over there, quickly!”

He grabbed a small trash bin that was placed beside the desk, handing it to her as quickly as he could. Once in her possession, she tilted her head downwards, burying it inside as she proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach into it. The tequila spewed out with a fury, drenching the crumpled parchment that had made its home there for the last few days.

The last time that Emerson threw up as a result of drinking, had been when she was seventeen years old and had stupidly drank a mixture of liquor that Everett poured into a bowl from their parents collection. That had been a long night in which she had honestly thought she was going to pass out from throwing up. And as she sat there, with her face buried in the bin, the same thought came to her.

Bill watched in silence from his place beside her, rubbing her back reassuringly as his nose wrinkled in protest of the putrid stench emanating from the bin. The stench was absolutely revolting, smelling strongly of tequila mixed with overpowering spices and stomach acids, lots and lots of stomach acid.

If a drop of it were to land on him, he would throw up alongside Emerson. Thankfully, the repulsive substance didn’t splatter on him, it splattered across the oversized sweater that Everett had leant Emerson shortly before she’d left his apartment and when the substances landed on the sweater, the fabric absorbed it, retaining it as its own. The liquid that was not retained proceeded to travel down her shirt, marking an unsightly path across the light grey fabric.

The bin that covered her face was lowered, her arms finding support from her thighs as she held the bin between her legs, keeping it from touching the ground out of fear of contaminating the floor and having to clean it up. Her head was lowered, all that Bill could see from his seat was the unruly hair at the back of her head, and although no words were muttered by her, there were several groans.

“Are you alright?” he asked after a brief silence.

“You can leave, you know, I don’t expect you to be here all night.” She wiped away the vomit from her raspberry colored lips.

Bill took the bin from her hold. “Not leaving, not when you’re such a mess.”

“I’ll be alright,” she reassured. “This isn’t the worst I’ve ever been. Don’t you remember that time I . . . oh alright. This is the worst I’ve been since I phased, but I’ll be alright, just have, to get some rest, is all, now give me that bin. The only person that needs to touch that crap is me.”

“Stay there, I’ll take it out.”

“Do you even know where the trash bins are?”

“Of course.” He didn’t, not really. “Out back, aren’t they?”

“Along the right side of the house,” she rubbed her bloodshot eyes, grimacing as she did so. “But you shouldn’t take it out. I’ll do it in the morning. Just go back to Fleur and apologize for me.”

“Apologize for what?”

“Making an ass of myself,” she replied as she started peeling off the stained garment she wore. “Really am sorry for going to your house, honestly thought it was this place.”

Bill held the bin loosely in his hands. “What I don’t get, is why you weren’t home. What were you doing out drinking alone? That’s not like you.”

“Oh, you know, I was looking for a shag.” She joked.

The thought of Emerson dating did not sit well with Bill, not well at all.

After their shagging came to an end, he deemed her an asexual creature that would never again shag. He didn’t want anyone else going near her. Why? He wasn’t exactly sure why. That is to say, he knew why, but he forced those thoughts to the darkest corners of his mind and lied to himself by saying that the only reason he didn’t want anyone dating her, was because men are pigs.

“Did you find that shag?” he inquired, trying his best to sound uninterested.

Emerson finished removing her shirt and tossed it onto the floor where a few other soiled garments were waiting to be washed. She was left in her bra and tight hemp rap that kept the pad which covered the thick cream, in place.

“Found someone decent, took him to a room, was halfway naked before I realized I wasn’t nearly drunk enough so I told him to wait, went to get drunk and then forgot about him.”

“Are you –” he stopped mid sentence when he saw the cloth wrapped around her midsection. “What happened there? Thought you healed! I saw you healed! Did it . . . did it come back later? The magic stop working?”

“No, that healed, that’s old news.”

“Then what’s that?”

“Got splinched, not to bad though, Everett fixed me right up.”

It was then that Bill lost it. “You’re not a, snot nosed teen anymore! You can’t just shag whoever you feel like and drunkenly apparate, you’re better than that, and you should, you should really know better! What if you’d gotten splinched so bad that you were left in halves and no one could find you? What if you bled to death?”

“It’s too late to start arguing.” Emerson kicked off her shoes and socks so she could climb into bed. “Just gonna go to bed, have a dream or two and then wake up tomorrow like none of this ever happened.

“Can’t do that!” he protested.

She slipped into the bed, lifting the covers so she could slide underneath them.

“Night,” she proclaimed defiantly, her back to him.

It was useless to try reason with her. Bill knew that. So he did the only thing he could do, he emptied the bin in the trash container along the right side of the house and then cleaned it with a bit of magic before returning to the room. The bin was placed in the exact spot it had been before, next to the desk and beside the pile of books that were neatly stacked against the wall.

He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should go home or stay.

His wife was waiting for him, as was his brother in law. They would surely want to be filled in on what happened with Emerson, only natural that they would. And to add to that, Fleur had promised that they’d have a go that night, something that they hadn’t done in over a week. That was reason enough for him to get going. He had urges that needed to be satisfied, but he couldn’t leave Emerson.

One look at her sleeping face reminded him of all the mornings he’d woken at her side, all the mornings in which he lay in bed, staring at her as she muttered softly to herself. He’d missed waking up next to her and although there was a chance he would get hell for it, he was going to spend the night.

A quick note was jotted down and he crept into the living room where Tonks’ owl dwelled and after coaxing the old barn owl with a bit of cheese, it flew out the window to deliver the note to Shell Cottage.

Bill then returned to the bedroom, slipping off his pants and jacket along with his shoes before sliding into bed beside Emerson. He crawled in slowly, holding the covers up with his right hand and once he slipped in, he nestled into her, making it so that no space existed between them. Deeply, he inhaled, taking in smell of her hair which – even after a night of heavy drinking – smelt strongly of French roast coffee.

That was Emerson’s signature scent.

And oh, how he loved it.

He loved it so much that he buried his face into her hair, not giving a damn if it wasn’t appropriate for a married man to do so and he wrapped his arm around her midsection, holding her tightly. How he missed her. How he missed being able to just sleep beside her, he didn’t need to shag her, didn’t need any of that, all he needed was her warmth, that soothing warmth that he so ardently longed for.

“I miss you.” his voice quivered as he spoke. “I bloody well, miss you.” he believed her asleep, so he let the words he’d been holding in for the last few months, out. “Things haven’t been the same since I got married, you were right, about everything. I don’t know Fleur, not really, everyday I'm discovering something new about her, most of the times things that just bother the hell out of me and I don’t know what to do.” He took in a breath. “I feel like I'm holding onto a marriage that should’ve never been made. It’s stupid, I know it is, but I'm not supposed to be with her. We rushed into things. I rushed into things because I wanted to . . .” he couldn’t say it, his mind fought to keep that thought away but his heart, oh his heart, demanded that it be acknowledged. “ . . . I wanted to kill my feelings for you.”

That was something he’d never admitted to himself, at least not sober.

“I’ve loved you for years, ever since that night you broke my nose.” That had been the night when his strong like for her turned into love. “I remember being pissed that you’d broken my nose but when I saw your eyes, I swear I felt my heart break. I’d never seen someone so worried about me, so concerned and I remember being at the hospital with you and thinking that if I lived to be a hundred, I’d want you at my side at the hospital. Stranger thought. I know. But I remember it from time to time, I like us old, but . . . I suppose that won’t happen.” He blinked away the unwelcomed tears that invaded his stormy blue eyes. “You’re not one for relationships, made that perfectly clear ages ago, but I stupidly thought you’d fall for me, should’ve known better than that, but I wanted you so bad that I thought you’d eventually love me if I was there long enough . . . after waiting for so long, I saw Fleur and thought, what the hell, I’ll give it a go.”

The wind howled outside the house, knocking a branch against the window that momentarily made Bill grow silent. He was afraid that Emerson would wake and catch him mid confession. He was certain that no good would come from such a thing, she would be put off, their friendship would suffer, at least that’s what he thought.

And with that thought, he lay besides her, breathing slower than before and lying motionless at her side so he could see if she stirred from her sleep, but she didn’t, that is to say, he did not see her move.

“She made me forget, when I was with her, I didn’t think of you. Thought that meant I was happy with her, so I asked her to marry me, thinking that I’d be able to end what I had with you, but I didn’t . . . at the wedding, I wanted it to be you that I was marrying and on the wedding night I nearly moaned your name. Can you imagine how fucked that would’ve been? If I’d have done it, Fleur would’ve had good reason to kill me, a damn good reason.” He raised his hand and trailed his index finger across the side of her face, relishing in the feel of her. “I know you’re just my mate, but I don’t want you shagging others. It’s not right, to sleep with them, you ought to be sleeping with me, waking up in our bed, not some strangers, but I guess that won’t be happening. I'm married with a wife that deserves to be loved and it’s not like you’re ever gonna love me like that, wish you would, but I know better. I'm just Bill to you. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

He thought she was sleeping.

He was wrong.

Throughout his entire confession, she had been awake; eyes closed, body motionless, but awake nonetheless. She had every word, felt every caress and was suffering like never before. He had thought her indifferent. He had taken her struggle to remain nonchalant as a sign that she could never love him and he wanted to turn to face him, to tell him that her heart was his, it had always been his, but she didn’t dare.

All she could do was lay motionless in his arms.