October 31st, 1978
Who: John Mulciber and Matilda Rowle
What: Mental breakdowns and first kisses!
Where: Aland Avery's Halloween party
Merlin help him, he was going to kill her. In fact, if it wasn't for his current quasi-pleasant mood, he probably would have already strangled the woman. Yes, it was safe to say that Matilda Rowle would be dead before the end of the evening and that John Mulciber would be the prime suspect--unless, of course, she managed to enrage another guest to homicidal proportions and that was also not entirely improbable.
Bollocks. If it wasn't his own bloody rotten fault for allowing this to happen he might have gotten in a few snide remarks before they had even reached the front door of the Avery mansion. As it was, John only had the choice to stew in his own making, but by Gods he was not going to be cheery about it for a single second.
Refusing to cast a glance another to his fiancee until he had time to splash a drink onto his soured mood, John scowled as his hand reached up from beneath the many folds of the Renaissance-esque ruffled sleeve of his robes to pull the chain for the door chime.
"Oh, stop it," Matilda muttered with a grin at John's seemingly permanent scowl, pulling out her compact mirror to make sure that her hair was just right ("Perfect, darling!" it cooed). She wasn't one to truly care about her appearance, but this was a costume party, and if you half-assed your costume, well--that was more embarrassing than some silly ruffles.
John was being absolutely ridiculous, Matilda thought as they were escorted in. Though the thought of him being more embarrassed about having her on his arms than the stupid ruffles. Look, there were people dressed up as mermaids and goblins---they had definitely got the better end of the costume pool.
She would not let him spoil her mood, her good mood, because it came so rarely.
John muttered under his breath in response to Matilda's chiding as they were led inside. It didn't matter to him that the other guests looked ridiculous in comparison to his tame selection of costume. He was still dressed up and that had him edging on enraged. Ruffles. Fucking ruffles.
Bugger all. He needed a drink.
"Drinks," was all John grunted in Matilda's direction before he abruptly set off through the crowd in the direction of the wet bar. Alcohol was probably the only thing that could even mildly sate his mood at this point.
Fuck Johnathon Ramses Mulciber.
How old was this fucking man? He had seriously pouted the entire time, and then gone and left her for the bar without another word. Matilda glared angrily at his retreating back until she could no longer find him in the crowd, and then stood up and heading out of the ballroom. Fuck him, just up and leaving and---she knew he wasn't going to come back right away, she fucking knew it and he was going to leave her sitting there looking like an idiot, as if she wanted to be there---and---just fuck him!
Matilda angrily wiped at her nose because it was getting that stupid twitchy feeling when tears were near, but she was not going to cry over John Fucking Mulciber. No, she didn't even cry when she became engaged to the man, she wasn't going to cry because he left her alone at some party and fuck this stupid dress. Matilda stopped and pulled out her wand---John could walk around and look like an idiot all by himself---she banished the dress and was left with the two layers of undergarments, that looked like a bloody casual dress all in itself.
She found a mirror in the hall and began pulling down her hair, kicking off the ridiculously high and tight fitting heels as she did so.
Oh, he was absolutely a right fucking prat and John knew that all too well. He was certain his mother had even considered saying it to his face once or twice, but that was neither here nor there. Of course his current mood did absolutely nothing to help the matter, it just left him downright crabby.
However, for all nasty things you could say about John Mulciber there were times that foulest of persons could surprise you with a subtle turn of a leaf. For John, this would be one of those times. The fact that his fiancee wasn't there to witness it was certainly a loss on her part.
John's brow furrowed in annoyance when he returned, drinks in hand, to find that Matilda was missing from where he'd left her and furthermore, no where in sight. Oh, she thought she could simply abandon him to the dogs, did she? What a rotten bitch.
With a hardened scowl that sent the squat wizard who dared to step in his path skittering away, John set off through the Avery mansion on the hunt for his wayward date. Finding her off on her own and pouting (and whats more, she was out of costume) had his anger smacking ceiling.
"What the bloody hell is your problem?" John demanded as he approached her with a certain menace in his step. When he saw that her shoes were off and her was half-down, not to mention the mingling of emotions on her face, he stopped dead. "Oh, bugger--Is this a tantrum? If this is a tantrum, I'm leaving." He refused to deal with...with this at a party full of his parents' gossip mongering friends.
Matilda didn't stop in pulling the pins out of her hair when John arrived; thank God she was because her headache was already about to bust through her skull. She paid no attention to him until he muttered---had he really---Matilda swirled around and glared so hard at John that she was sure her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. She threw her handful of pins at him and let out a frustrated noise.
"It's not a fucking tantrum, Johnathan," because using his full name meant she was really mad. Matilda grabbed at her awful curls and pulled them, trying to get them from bouncing in her face while she ranted, "It's a fucking mental breakdown, it's it is NOT a FUCKING TANTRUM!"
Another annoyed scream and she turned away, back to the mirror so she could start wiping away the makeup, "I try to nice, I try to be pleasant, I am trying for the man I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life with even though I had no fucking say in the matter, because I've come to---and for you to---for you to go and cry and whine and pout and leave me because of some fucking---some fucking ruffles--"
She was not going to cry! She hated John, he shouldn't be allowed to make her cry, but her eyes were saying other wise and Matilda's mouth screwed up as she tried to stop the tears.
"You don't want to try---then---fine, I'm not going to either."
This was...ridiculous. John couldn't even think of a heavy enough word to describe the sight before him, but it was definitely (and literally) screaming "ridiculous". And had she seriously just flung hairpins at him?
"I went for drinks," he edged out, agitated yet completely bewildered at the state of her.
John was affronted that she had become so very accusatory and rash without any sort of viable cause. Maybe he was being childish and crabby in his disdain over the costumes, but he certainly hadn't left her. Bloody hell. He wasn't that disgusted with her, not disgusted at all, really. Or at least he hadn't been until she started having a fucking meltdown, in public no less.
"Would you calm down for one bloody second?" he hissed, expression stony as he took another step toward her. "I haven't gone anywhere."
With that his jaw set and he watched her carefully. It annoyed John that there was lingering worry in his thoughts. He didn't want to like her, feel for her--Merlin forbid this bloody barbaric arrangement of betrothal actually worked out. Then he really would be pissed (so he thought, anyway).
Releasing a beleaguered sigh, John abandoned the drinks in his hands to a nearby table before he turned back to Matilda with concern beginning to show in his face. "Look at yourself," he said in a lowered tone. "You're making a scene."
"There's---there's no one here, John!"
Matilda waved her arm about the empty corridor, trying her damndest to keep her tears in place. Okay, so maybe she had assumed the worst of him, but the fact that John going off for five minutes managed to freak her out like this? That was scary. She shouldn't care that he went off, she shouldn't have to worry about what he's doing, she shouldn't worry at all because she hated him and didn't give a damn about what he was doing.
Except she did. She didn't want to see that Lydia woman ever again because the thought of her made Matilda's blood boil. It wasn't even---it was jealousy, but it was more the fact that John would run to Lydia instead of her, she--she wanted to be his wife she didn't want to be some child that had to deal and Matilda felt her shoulders slump. It was useless.
"Forget it, just--" she said, turning away and finally her tears won out. She was such a goddamn baby. "There's never anyone here anyway."
John frowned. "There will be if you keep screeching like that," he pointedly told her. "You know how nosy these people can be and you know what will happen they see you like this." She would never hear the end of it, that was for certain. He tried not think about what her parents--or Merlin forbid, his mother--would have to say if they heard.
Though he moved closer to her John stopped short of actually putting a hand to Matilda, figuring he'd be less a hand for the attempt to console her. She was more upset than he could have possibly fathomed. Until now, he had summarized that frigid Matilda simply did not get upset. Clearly, he had been wrong.
What's more is that he was having trouble assessing what exactly had her this hysterical. It couldn't have been simply because he'd been huffy when he left for drinks. She was much too upset for it to be that simple. And was she...crying? What in the name of Salazaar was going on?
"Let's just leave," he finally suggested, his expression and tone now completely betraying his concern. "Neither of wants to be here and I know you don't want the snots out there to see you cry. I--"
John swallowed hard, having nearly choked on his words. "I don't want to see you cry," he continued quietly, "but I'm not going to tell you to stop or think less of you for it."
It had to be terribly sad that John's words were some of the nicest things she'd heard in a while. Matilda stiffened and let them sink in, but mostly because she couldn't stop crying. She didn't want John to see her, but she didn't feel humiliated (much) by it anymore. Even if he didn't get it (and she'd be surprised if anyone would ever 'get it') he was at least letting her be a nutter, and that was something. In a strange, assbackward way.
Matilda wiped at her eyes and finally turned back to John, knowing she looked quite pitiful. She really did want to leave, even if she had been excited for the party in the beginning. This is what happened when your fiance was just as nuts as you were (haaaa).
"Sorry," she mumbled, not able to catch his eye. Oh God, she shouldn't be blushing, but Matilda felt her face heat up as she chose her next words. "I--you--I don't want to be miserable, John. I---things...things need to work. I want them to work."
She did look a right mess, yes, but he wasn't about to tell her that. John was insufferably proud not stupid. He also had realized, smeared makeup or no, she was a beautiful woman. Even if her emotional stability was questionable. Then again, his sanity was questionable so it was a real toss up as to which was worse.
Releasing a long nasal sigh, John listened attentively without giving a single twitch or snicker of amusement. If he hadn't been so worried that she might collapse due to her own distress, he might have even noticed that she was starting to blush, but really, along with her appearance, it was low on the list of his concerns.
"As do I," he insisted, but with a sense of reality to this tone, "but not everything works simply because it needs to." He gave a slight lift of his shoulders as he continued, making a open palmed gesture with one hand. "In time, maybe we will make this work, but until then..." John paused there, halting the ramble that was sure to ensue. Instead he stepped forward to finally rest his hands on her shoulders and gave Matilda's face a searching look .
"I don't want you to be hurting and not tell me."
He'd never really touched her. As in--they'd had to have their arms looped, he'd taken her hand going up or down steps, formal, respectful touches. John had no reason to put his hands on her shoulders or even bother to try and help her; other than the fact that he wanted to. She wasn't ready to let herself believe that he was willing to make this work, to try. He had said that maybe--it---it wasn't that she'd fallen for him, but she was rather keen on the idea of it, now...fuck.
Matilda let out a breath and dropped her gaze. A small smirk played on her lips as she caught sight of the dreaded ruffles, and she gently tugged on the ones around his neck.
"They don't look horrid, you know," she mumbled, eyes finally catching his for the first night in her little tirade (definitely not scene). Her blush deepened against her will (but when did you ever blush willingly?) and her fingers played with the lace.
John glanced down to her hands at his neck and felt oddly compelled to smile. It was quite strange to be this close to Matilda. They had shared a bed for a month now, but neither had shown the other an inkling of affection in that entire time. Their mutual stubborn attitudes and pride had nixed any sort of real connection being made, or so John had thought.
Now that they were standing there together, inches from an actual embrace, he was beginning to understand that maybe, just maybe, there was something beneath all the mutual animosity. The fact that seeing her upset and hurting had caused even the slightest reaction on his part boggled his mind. But he was bloody bewildered by the growing urge pull Matilda into hug and reassure her that everything would work out for them. He was supposed to hate her, not want to console her. Bugger all.
With inward nasal sigh, John shifted forward and found himself resting his forehead to hers. Though initially the new bodily contact made him shut his eyes, he kept them open as he spoke to watch her face.
"And you're beautiful even when your hair and makeup are a mess," John told her quietly, his hands on her shoulders sliding forward to grip her elbows, "but neither of us is going to nix our pride and admit such things." Realizing then that he was about to kiss her, John slowly swallowed the stone that had risen to the back of his throat.
