she's all laid up in bed with a broken heart;
while i'm all alone drinking jack in my local bar
-for the first time; the script
The words that have cut him like knives are still ringing in Teddy Lupin's ears as he hunches over the scratched and scarred bar of the Leaky Cauldron, his hand clutched tightly around a half-empty glass of firewhiskey. His lips are dry and chapped; his clothes rumpled and stained; his hair messy and greasy, a mousy shade of brown. He stares blankly at the bartender with bloodshot hazel eyes, reliving the previous night in his mind on a sick, endless loop.
There's screaming, quite a bit of it. Something glass shatters, and a baby's cry erupts from a room near the front of the house. His little Veela angel is screaming at him to pack his things, to get out of her house before he hurts the children. As if he'd hurt his world, the very bane of his existence (except he's already done it, you see, he's taken her heart and torn it to pieces).
And somehow, in the foggy mist of the horrific scene, he'd ended up in the dingy little bar, so drunk he can't even remember his own name, but that's okay, because he doesn't think he wants to.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, sleeping with his face smashed into the wood of the bar on and off, but eventually Dominique shows up, looking as if she's about to head off to a business meeting or something of the sort. For a fraction of a second, he thinks that she isn't there for him, because Dominique and her gaggle of Gryffindor queens often pop up at the randomest places to pick up dashing young wizards with no sense of self-respect, willing to follow a partially Veela girl into the deepest pits of Hell if it'll get him laid for just the night. But it's him, the hung over Metamorphmagus werewolf man she's approaching, her thin strawberry blonde eyebrow cocked at a menacing angle.
"She misses you, Ted," she says harshly, the words cutting into his ears like knives, revealing something he doesn't want to hear, her slender hand perched delicately on his shoulder. It's nothing like the furious screaming match he'd expected from the twenty-year-old Veela girl, but he takes it nonetheless.
"What if I don't miss her?" he snaps back, his calloused knuckles curling into a fist, his dirty nails creating new dents into the dark wood of the bar. He's feeding Dominique a lie in spite of himself; just because Teddy Lupin could nevernevernever admit that he's in the wrong. He's stubborn, and he's brash, and he's reckless, but he never regrets (until now).
"Teddy," she says, her voice softer, barely audible. She's using that Veela charm on him, and he knows it, damn it, but he can't resist. The warmth of her little fingers is dropping from his shoulder as she adds on, "Talk to her." And then, with a flash of strawberry blonde curls and midnight blue eyes and black leather, the little Veela spitfire is gone, leaving him with guilt residing in the pit of his stomach, slowly eating at him until he's gone, too, the empty glass tumbling to the dirty floor, creating a shower of shards over the smooth bricks.
-:-
"Torie?" he whispers into the dark house, stepping over the broken shards of the mirror her mother had given them as a wedding present several years previously. The kids were nowhere to be found, most likely safely curled up in warm beds at Bill and Fleur's, or perhaps Harry and Ginny's. Just as long as they're safe, he doesn't really care, to be honest.
It doesn't look as if Victoire's made any notion to clean up the mess he's made, preferring to curl up somewhere and cry, it seems. He can hear her soft, delicate sobs from somewhere deep within the flat, bouncing off of the pastel walls, echoing and filling their cozy little home with sorrow.
Slowly, he opens their scratched bedroom door, peering cautiously into the tenebrous room, his lower lip bit in anticipation. Something silvery blonde moves on the bed, burrowing deeper beneath the covers, hiding from him.
"Torie," he repeats, stepping closer on the creaking wooden floors, dodging scattered pillows and little feathers. He slips his wand out of his pocket, tracing his calloused thumb over the familiar wood, waving it in a quick charm, watching in fascination as the feathers float harmlessly back into the jagged tear in the floral pillow and the tear reseals itself as if it had never been there to begin with.
He slowly approaches the bed, praying that she'll hear him out. Her blonde head slowly emerges from beneath the pastel pink blanket, dark mascara streaks dried on her pale skin, but Merlin, she still managed to be beautiful.
"Torie," he says for the third time, sliding beneath the blankets, curling himself around her familiar form, breathing in her cognizant scent of almonds and vanilla and honey, burying his face in her hair and pressing his lips to the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, his hazel eyes fluttering closed.
"I know, Teddy. I am, too." Her voice was like bells, but the words hesitantly flowing from her mouth were sweeter than sugar itself.
And in that moment, all tangled up in sugar and ice and almonds and vanilla and honey, he knew things would be alright—eventually.