WHO: Charlie Spinnet and Penelope Fawcett
WHAT: Charlie comes home from Istanbul to find Penny in a right state about some 'old news'
WHERE: Her flat
WHEN: Day after the players came back



He knocked a few times quickly, rocking on his heels. Charlie stared up at the strange pattern of spackle on the ceiling, the bouquet of Turkish-grown flowers he’d charmed to not wilt held tightly behind his back. It really amazed him that he had not seen Penny in precisely a month and he grew more anxious to see her by the second. His owls had gone unanswered, but there had been a problem with some other players not receiving mail at the hotel. Charlie assumed that the security had been a little too tight and things had gotten lost.

That reminded him that he had put up a magical journal entry after Ireland’s win in the shootout, which had gone unacknowledged by both Fawcetts. Not that he had expected Drystan to say something to him other than the gruff grunts when Charlie moved too close to him while passing by in the locker room, but Penny was always good to celebrate. Her job must be mad with animals, he supposed (or at least that was the excuse he’d made up for her), letting out a breath.

Charlie looked back at the door, frowning. He knocked again, softer this time. Maybe she wasn’t home?

Penelope hadn't quite been asleep when the knock sounded, nor had she quite been awake, either. She felt groggy and cold enough to contemplate letting whoever was at the door simply go away, and looked down at the dog resting his head on her chest for guidance. Pascal didn't do much else than lick under her chin, but it was well-known that he was a rather poor watchdog. With a sigh, Penelope nudged him aside, off the sofa, and wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself as she went to receive the caller. Standing on the tips of her numb toes to peer through at the visitor, she froze.

She must have unlatched the door, because the poor evening light and a broad silhouette began to filter in through her doorway, but she had no memory of doing so. She was entirely too occupied with fighting back a wave of nausea and frantically trying to recall what day it was. February, already? That couldn't be right. Her brother had said nothing about returning—Saoirse hadn't—

But Penelope could think no further, because Charles was standing on her front step, taking up more space than a man had a right to. She regained control of her hand when the door had cracked wide enough to fit her body, halting its progression. A part of her had hoped seeing him again would put all her fears to rest, that the dark feelings of sadness, anger, and a little shame would dissipate when a month without him had passed, but they didn't. She only felt more tired.

Loosening her grip on the blanket enough to tuck her hair behind one ear, Penelope swallowed and couldn't quite meet his gaze, opening the door a bit wider. "Hello," she finally said, after an interminable moment of silence.

“Hello?” he repeated, brow creasing in concern. Charlie’s hands dropped from behind his back, the flowers dipping low as his wrist went limp. She looked sick, or at least tired and Charlie winced. “Did I wake you?”

He straightened, feeling bad; had she been tired from work? Oy, he knew he should’ve owled, but he thought it would be nice to simply show up on her doorstep. The portkey had gotten in late last night and while he had been aching to see his girlfriend, exhaustion had most definitely taken over. He’d missed his floo stop twice before finally making it back to his flat. Charlie slept like a log through the night and now that his first full day back home was nearly over, his first venture out into the world was to Penny. He thought that had been appropriate, and had been looking forward to making up for a month’s worth of sexless nights, but now he felt bad for seemingly awakening her.

Charlie put his free hand up, attempting to feel feel for a temperature with the back of his hand, “Are you sick, love?”

She didn't stop his hand, though she should have. Instead, she closed her eyes a breathed a moment before taking a step back, inadvertently knocking the door wider.

"I don't think so," she replied honestly, voice quiet, unsure what to do. She didn't want him inside the flat, but she wasn't able to close the door in his face. She didn't want to talk to him on her doorstep in the chilly air. More, Penelope thought, she didn't want to talk to him, about this, at all.

It would be unfair and untrue to say her personal turmoil was all due to her conflicted feelings over Charles and the stack of Tattlers she had discovered. There was her own peculiar brand of survivor's guilt, particularly strong after a happier holiday season. Her growing unhappiness at having to admit that her lingering nightmares blossomed into something much worse when she was by herself than with Charles—or, she made herself believe, anyone at all—nearby when she slept. The inherent moodiness in being a Fawcett.

However, it was these conflicted feelings which pushed her to pretend she wasn't, in fact, hibernating. Only, Penelope had taken such pains to ensure her life outside hadn't been affected by her personal shortcomings yet again that she felt drained upon coming home to the flat. Spent, she passed what little time she spent there sleeping a disrupted, fitful sleep. But she resumed her policy of no newspaper, refrained from the WWN, and even her social calls had tapered off in the last week or so, as she spent her last reserves of time and energy on her work and her animals. "I was sleeping."

“Ah.”

This was certainly not what he had been expecting their grand reunion to be. Charlie shifted in his spot, hoping that when Penny woke up a little the evening could be salvaged. He had imagined loud shouts of excitement, picking up, spinning, dropping down into the couch and getting squashed into the cushions. Penny brought him that sort of joy without any effort, and now it felt like he was pushing through quicksand just to get through the front door of her flat. He could fix this.

He smiled brightly as he recalled the flowers in his hands. Charlie brought them up, taking a quick sniff of them himself before handing them over to Penelope.

“Tulips are native to Turkey, not Holland,” he quipped, quite proud of himself for having remembered not only that fact, but the name of the flower. “The vendor charmed these to stay fresh, I dunno how long that sort of magic works, but it made it through McLaggen thrashing in his sleep while we waited to take off and a really twisty portkey trip.”

Charlie put his free hand to his stomach, wincing as he remembered the ride. That had been part of the reason he’d slept most of the day, and he could most definitely go back to sleep. “I’ll have a lie in with you, I know three hours isn’t much of a time zone switch, but I’m feeling like I should be crawling into bed---again.”

Though only half listening to him, she reached for the flowers without thinking, stopping before grasping them. They were lovely, but she didn't want them. Her hand then hesitated for a moment before dropping.

The last place she wanted him was her bed.

It was rapidly becoming clear she had to say something. Penelope brushed her hand down her hip as if to erase its previous action, and looked over her shoulder into the dimly lit sitting room, at Pascal snoozing on the floor. Recalling the memory of Dianna waving an issue of the previous month's Tattler at her while making a number of stern comments only an affianced witch had the perspective to make was all too easy. As was, unfortunately, recalling that same evening when she pored over all the back issues of The Tattler, Witch Weekly, and even some from The Daily Prophet she could get her hands on with a growing, horrific sort of numbness. They were still stacked on her dining table because she didn't know what to do with them—couldn't bring herself to do anything with them but pretend they weren't there.

That was what pushed her. She could acknowledge it wasn't fair to expect Charles to intuit what she was feeling, or more importantly why, but she didn't want to tell him. She shouldn't have been the one telling him. But her desire for this conversation to end was stronger than her willingness for them to continue flittering in her doorway like fools.

"I've seen all the gossip magazines," Penelope said, looking back down at the bouquet in his hands.

His face fell. What could the Tattler have possibly written about him this time? Finn had booked group tours if they wanted to go sight-seeing for Merlin’s sake. Charlie’s only time about had been to the street fairs, and when Delilah had come with their older brother. Now, unless they thought Charlie was gay now and that Daniel was his studly older lover, he couldn’t imagine what they could have concocted this time.

“What did they say now?” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. Charlie had definitely been aware of some of the shenanigans going on in the hotel, especially involving the rowdy Italian bunch that somehow had a case of indecent exposure on every team floor. Joey and he had a brilliant time chasing the Italians around to bear witness to the ridiculousness that their seemingly constant drunken state was (when off the pitch...theoretically), and the only issue they’d come into was getting stuck in the stairwell between floors six and seven.

That had been a bit panic inducing, but they made the best of it.

Charlie frowned down at Penelope as she dropped her gaze. He’d never seen her upset over this sort of thing before, though he did know that she rarely paid such rags any mind, thankfully. “Penny, what did it say?”

"'Now'?" she echoed, finally looking up at him. "So you've known… all of the things they've said about you, about—us, and… me."

The part of her that had hoped all these ugly feelings inside of her would disappear upon seeing him also had the naivety to hope Charles would be clueless about such reportings. Penelope knew some people in the public eye chose to eschew all media—she flitted on the edges of it all, simply by proxy, and chose to do the same, although for wildly more personal reasons. She thought Charles might have felt the same, at least about the gossip … He'd certainly never mentioned anything to her.

Not so difficult to imagine why, now.

Angling her face away from him again, she tugged the blanket more tightly around herself. "And I do mean 'all.'"

He really had no idea what to say. The Tattler lied and made up ridiculous fabrications about anyone and everyone! Charlie panicked when there was some shred of truth to their stories, but there hadn’t been anything in ages! At least, nothing that he could recall at the moment. His eyes were nearly crossed in thought as he attempted to bring back the memories, but then he was struck with a sudden thought. Charlie dropped his gaze to Penny.

“Wait, do you believe them?”

That was startling. Penny didn’t actually think...the rubbish with Rose was a mess, yes! That was the last thing Charlie remembered. She couldn’t possibly believe that he’d rekindle a relationship while he was with her with the woman who had at that point had his best friend’s heart twisted up in her grip. Charlie frowned, unsure if he should be offended.

“What do you mean, all? I thought you didn’t care what those papers said.” Charlie shook his head, mind swirling, He let out a breath, “Can we talk about this inside?”

Wordlessly, she turned and walked inside, assuming he'd follow. Though she was a tidy creature, the dining table was cluttered for her, due in part to the small crate on one end that held what she sought.

Penelope didn't know what scraped her more raw, that her name had been in them at all, which was a quick, unpleasant twist in her already sickening gut, or how she was portrayed? That her brother was actually, apparently, right in some of his abuse of Charlie Spinnet. That the women…. the women were certainly prominent.

That he had never once mentioned any of it to her, though he'd evidently known about it.

She hadn't believed any of it at first, but … as she reached in the crate for one of the glossy covers, it was necessary to admit they could present compelling evidence. She might not have taken it seriously if it hadn't been pointed out to her by someone who cared for her and didn't also hate her boyfriend. She might not have taken even that seriously if it hadn't been alluded to that it wasn't an isolated incident.

Then, well… it wasn't hard for a girl with plenty of insecurities to wonder if the boyfriend who seemed so courteous about his girlfriend's need for privacy and space was actually courteous, so much as taking advantage of a convenience. To feel like a fool, comparing herself to the others—and they had been purportedly legion—that had come before, possibly even during, and would unquestionably come after. Penelope's previous experience with Drystan, and in general, had taught her stories exaggerated and twisted themselves up by the word, but every one of them had a grain of truth, no matter how it was then skewed.

Measuredly, she laid out the last issue, the most recent one, on top with the feature in question opened, and stood back. Beneath the warmth of her covers, she rubbed at her arm as she quietly said, "You can start, if you'd like."

This was the strangest sight he’d ever...Charlie looked down at the article and let out a frustrated sound. He hadn’t even seen this one. “That’s our surf instructor, telling me not to feel too bad because I was bloody horrible at it.”

Who in the bloody hell had collected all of these? Some deranged fan? A stalker trying to break the two of them up? And---all right, no, he could understand why Penelope was seemingly so...so calmly bothered by it all. He’d deal a whole lot better if she would start yelling at him, as that was he was used to, but right now it seemed like...what did she want him to say? Why would he have brought these things up? They were lies, and delusions; the Tattler wasn’t going to stop posting nasty things just because he shouted at them, or if his agent did something! The bloody rag made their money by breaking the rules and boundaries, it would have been pointless to bring up every time he was in it, or she was mentioned!

Right?

“And this one’s bullshit; I can’t stand Knightley because she cheated on Octavius,” he steamed, pulling the next magazine out, tossing it aside and going to the next. It was creepy, it was as if someone had been watching him, them, who on earth would have saved all of these when not an ounce of truth could be proven true? He rushed through them, scoffing and shaking his head at the ridiculous pictures that had been given descriptions that couldn’t be further from the truth. He felt about ready to knock the crate over when he pulled out one of the final papers.

He winced. The debacle that was their time apart had been well documented by the Tattler, and Charlie had been in a bad enough place to revel in the attention. The comments he’d made, his lack of concern over the public being aware of his indiscretions...it had been a dark, bad time for him. Charlie gritted his teeth, unable to keep his fists from crumpling up the paper. He knew this had to have been the worst one of them all.

“We weren’t together,” was all he managed to say, feeling guilt, anger, shame, revulsion---Charlie had spent the last year trying to be a better person and to fix all the things he had messed up, and someone had dared to throw this into Penelope’s face when she had absolutely nothing to do with any of it? When it was out of the hands of even the most secretive and elite of professionals and celebrities? Charlie managed to look at her, his expression hard; she need to believe him. “I made some bad decisions, but---never when we were together.”

Listening to him, she nodded once. "All right."

She believed him. Yes, the ones from before they had been together were the hardest. And it wasn't simply the fact that there had been so many other women, alleged or not, though she would be lying if she said the idea didn't make her want to curl up into a ball. But he was perfectly truthful in saying they weren't together; they would have been free to date or engage in any other activities with anyone they pleased. Certainly, she had even been the one to end their tentative relationship.

"I—" She opened her mouth to say something — perhaps to argue, perhaps to contest a point, however gently, before a nasty voice popped up in her head. What was she doing, judging him for making mistakes? For making poor decisions? Her. Penelope.

It was a wonder the hypocrisy of it all didn't have her laughing outright.

She'd kept her own secrets, hadn't she? Still did. Safeguarded the kidnapping like a it was a state secret. Glossed over all but the barest of bones of the two years after the deaths of her family where sanity had all but fled her. It was laughable that she tried to be upset or hurt by vague indiscretions reported by tabloids, that she expected the subject of often-hurtful stories to keep her apprised of something she couldn't bring herself to read. Did it really matter that her famous boyfriend had slept around after she ended a relationship with him? Was it of any consequence that, had she any inkling of what had been going on with Charles, she never would have dared gone to him that New Year's Eve, since she hadn't and therefore did? Wasn't it her own fault that she had yet to overcome a fear of public or crowded spaces, that she craved quiet and privacy in a relationship with a sociable celebrity, thereby allowing publications like The Tattler to purposefully misconstrue her and her relationship?

Her roiling stomach punched up at that moment, and she lay her hand forward on the back of a chair so she didn't sway. "I'm sorry," she began faintly, "I don't feel—feel very well after all."

Though her face was close to crumpling, her gaze fell to the table top, and the sick feeling doubled. "Will you—will you please take these away?" she asked, voice hitching at the end as she dared gesture vaguely at the table.

Stunned, he was stunned! This---this...he had come here to see his beautiful girlfriend after a month of being apart, after a not hearing from her for weeks and...had she been miserable with these Tattlers for that long? Charlie numbly began to pack the magazines away, back into the crate that someone who wasn’t bold enough to step forward and present them to Penelope earlier had created. He felt sick, he was nauseous with anger and confusion it all----it simply didn’t make sense to him. In his head was a war of his conscience, half of his mind defending himself by saying he’d done no wrong during their relationship and the other half feeling like a miserable sod for hiding away all the evidence. Not intentionally! Why would he have brought these to her attention? It didn’t make sense, and it made his head hurt and his heart ache.

When they were all finally packed away Charlie turned back to Penelope, wanting to take hold of her but she seemed so weak and frail that he was tentative with his actions. He ducked his head, attempting to catch her gaze.

“I love you, Penelope,” he said earnestly. Charlie clenched his fists to keep them from reaching out to her; he didn’t wish to pull her to him if she didn’t want to be near him which he could miserably understand, “and I’m sorry about these, but they don’t change the fact that this past year’s been the best of my life. Because of you--I’ve worked harder to be better because I love you, and...”

His words caught in his throat, choked up. Seeing her so visibly upset, because of him and these dirty lies, it hurt. It could destroy him if he didn’t do something to stop it. Charlie let out a shuddering breath. “I swear on my life, Penny, I’ve been faithful to you and I always will be.”

How had she had done it again, Penelope wondered vaguely. She had made another mess of things. Somehow, she managed to do that so neatly.

"Yes," she whispered, shutting her eyes. Of course he was. How could she have doubted such a thing, really? If anyone could be suspected of infidelity or whatever it was she was accusing him of, it was her, she realised with a small note of distress. She hadn't owled him. She'd tucked his package to her away before ignoring her post altogether. She hadn't asked him anything about the tournament. She hadn't so much as asked him how he was when he'd knocked on her door.

She looked up, meeting his hotly intent eyes, though her own were slightly glazed and unfocused. Charles seemed so upset, and she didn't know how to fix it, or take back what she'd said. She was so tired. When had she gotten home? It had to have been for hours, now, hadn't she been sleeping all that while? She shouldn't have been so tired.

"I'm sorry," Penelope repeated through her closing throat, apologising now instead of excusing herself. The sentiment was piteously insufficient, but she couldn't simply toss out that she loved him now. Not after such unkind insinuations.

"I don't know why I—" She trailed off, shook her head lightly as if that would clear her head from its slow spinning, pressing her other hand flat against her stomach beneath the blanket. "I'm sorry, I have to lie down."

He moved to her, not hesitating anymore about their proximity. Charlie held back his own emotions on the matter, deciding that his feelings right now where not important. Penny had, as it was now obvious by her paled expression and unsteady stance, was literally sick over this new revelation. Over the papers, over the apparent cover ups, over his history. It was a lot, it was more than a lot to hear in one big shot, and Charlie felt miserable for being at the center of the cause. She didn’t deserve to be hit with such madness; she was his lovely Penelope, the girl he tried very hard for. She made him put forth an effort in all aspects of his life and here he was, mucking it up because he was a fool.

Charlie loved her gentle nature. She was literally the nicest person he’d ever met! Upsetting her was like---killing a unicorn! It was...cruel and unheard of and---Charlie bit back his emotions and put his arm around her gently.

“Come on,” he murmured, forgetting about the flowers, or the magazines, or the idea that someone had been taking too much care in a relationship that was none of their business. That was all left behind; Penny needed to lie down, she needed to take a breath, and Charlie would help her with that. He led her to her bedroom, not bothering with the lights and nudging Pascal away with his foot as they made it to her bed. Charlie pulled back the covers to allow Penelope to slid under, and he finally took a moment to breathe for himself and sat on the edge of the bed. .

He’d hurt her. He hadn’t done anything in this moment, but the slow build that these unmentioned articles and stories had finally come crashing down on them. Charlie couldn’t figure out how he hadn’t seen how much they could potentially hurt his girlfriend, but the ache he felt now for not preparing her, for keeping something that apparently had magnitude from her...how good of a boyfriend, of a person was he, really? His knees pressed into his thighs, hands covering his face for a few seconds in thought.

“I’ll stay with you,” he said, looking towards her. Charlie had no idea if she wanted to be anywhere near him, but he had no desire to leave her alone. “If you need me, if you want me, I’ll stay.”

She let herself be led obediently, unable to even do anything else, too faint to worry about trying to keep herself upright.

She slipped under the covers, numb and biddable, feeling strange underneath them because she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in here. She'd taken to sleeping curled up on the sofa, she thought. But tucked up to her chin as she was, it was warm in the bed even though she shivered slightly.

As her mind began to slowly close from sheer exhaustion, everything had taken on a strange dreamlike quality. She couldn't be sure anything she remembered happening since waking from her nap had happened. Because it had been a nasty dream, if that's what it was, tears pricked her eyes, and a few escaped into the softness of her pillow.

Before her eyes shut, she could see the figure on the side of her bed, and because she wanted it to be Charlie, felt glad. Her throat felt too tightly squeezed to manage the words, but she managed to reach a hand forward until it brushed the side of his hip, partially in his lap.

Not even a full second ticked by before her teary eyes rolled back and she dropped like a stone into unconsciousness.