EB fidgeted nervously with the handle of his coffee cup and leafed through his incident report. He had selective vision for the damn things--he always seemed to miss one field or another. If only they didn't make the bloody forms tamper-proof.

Of course that wasn't what he was really worried about. Constance had been avoiding him. He'd begun to think of her as Constance again, which was no good at all. Eric told him to take a hint. But he'd taken hints from her before, and they were all conflicting sorts of hints. Maybe he'd done something wrong and she was waiting for him to apologize. Anyway, why wouldn't she do the decent thing and just tell him it was over, if it were over? Maybe she was only busy, things had gone mad recently. Or maybe she really thought Garrow was guilty and was angry at him for sticking to his contrary opinion.

He just couldn't believe it. The setup had been too neat--altogether too neat. It wasn't just because he was a Gryff. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ballantine, but one never knew, things could be so--he just couldn't believe someone like Garrow or his supposed accomplice (who'd gotten off lightly, how strange, no, it wasn't political at all) would create a spell like that. It sounded made-up to him. In any case one never knew. The notes they'd found on Baines--one just never knew.

Oh well. He might be, might just be, feeling a little jilted. After all this, after he'd worked so hard on the case trying to prove the opposite--to be proven publicly, resoundingly wrong had dented his ego.

He fidgeted again and took a sip of coffee, which had turned scalding while it sat. Accidental magic. He tended to do that, sometimes, unconsciously. He opened his mouth and aired out his tongue, clumsily, then folded the completed (or approximately so) papers into an envelope, which flapped off to Records. EB stood up and tucked his hands deep into his pockets, then stepped out of his cubicle and meandered. Casual, casual...

"Hey, Constance."

He drifted to a halt beside her desk and carefully avoided her eyes. "So what's been... up? I mean--" He sounded too pressuring, petulent, but couldn't stop himself.

"Ach, fecking shite and bollocks! Can I never have a moment o' peace?!" Constance snapped as a tiny replica of a fly began buzzing around her ear. She had ordered a small fleet of them from Patrick Everard in her misbegotten attempt to get information from him during a trip to Dervish & Banges, and decided that she might as well make use of them. She'd spent hours trying to think of ways to employ the services of tiny magical flies, when it had finally hit her.

Using a rather clever little charm that she had been very proud of, Constance had stationed a fly at each desk in the office and spelled them to inform her when paperwork was filed incorrectly or incompletely. It had worked pretty well so far; not only was everyone in the office afraid to do shoddy work, she had only lost a few flies. They remained cleverly hidden until the alarm was to be sounded, in which case they would fly to her and buzz incessantly until she had confronted their worker. She had numbered all the desks and emblazoned each number on a corresponding fly, so she always knew exactly who wasn't pulling their weight. And, no one had figured it out yet.

Constance had been dozing, so it was unlucky that it was this particular fly. Most of them would wait until she had a moment, knowing that she would avenge the wrongdoing in due time. This fly, however, belonged to a desk that Constance never approached, and it had given the tiny golden creature a rather belligerent attitude. When she jumped up to glare at it and saw the number on its back, she sat back down. It was E.B.'s fly.

The fly buzzed twice more around her head and flew off, as was usual. It had fought more in the beginning, but it had come to understand that there was nothing it could do to get Constance to reprimand E.B. It wasn't because of some softness of feeling on her part, though--not anymore. These days, it was quite the opposite. Con was avoiding E.B. because he was her boyfriend, and she was no longer sure she wanted it to be that way. Sure, Con knew there were better ways to break up with someone...but she was no good at them. She was very good at not talking to people, and had very successfully avoided confrontation even at work, where their desks were a mere fifteen feet apart. Today would be another success.

"Hey, Constance."

Or not. Was the Apocalypse at hand?

"So what's been... up? I mean--"

"Oh, nothing," Constance said unconvincingly, looking up and gazing over his shoulder. I just went cliff-diving and kissed a Muggle...underwater. "It's been mad busy, I mean...well, ye know. With Garrow and...all." No, stop! Garrow is a bad subject! For some stupid reason, E.B. had blinded himself to the slime that oozed from Garrow's every orifice and pore. Constance released the breath she'd been holding. Here was a chance to actually physically break up with someone, to do the honorable thing and say it to his face--but they were at work! With people they knew! Feckin' ugly son of MacDuffy. Why are these things so damn difficult?

"It has been awhile, E.B., it has been...a long time," she said, looking up and trying to smile. "We should--ye know...get together. And...ye know...never see each other again socially."

Con was just able to stop herself from covering her mouth. Well. That's done.

EB stared down at her, mouth dropped open in incredulity. For a moment he had no idea what she'd just said. Had she just implied she'd like to have sex again? Had she... what?

He replayed, imagining the ripping, squealing sound of a Muggle music-playing thing:

"We should--ye know...get together."

So far, so good, that sounded promising. What did 'get together' mean? A repeat of their first date would be... she did seem to like angry sex.

"And...ye know...never see each other again socially."

Less promising. And she was looking at him in that cold, closed-off way. Her lips were crooked into a wavering, sickly attempt at a smile. He scuffed one foot and glanced aside, shrugging. His hands resettled in his pockets; the least diplomatic thing to do would be to touch her, Merlin forbid.

She's crazy, don't listen to her, don't bother. He shook his head and tried, painfully, not to look at the way her hair clung in staticky wisps to her neck. It was a bad, bad time to flash back to one of their--it had to be only twice, hadn't it? That was pathetic. Pathetic. He needed to find a proper girl. He was horrified at himself for thinking that way, Con was great, she just needed help, maybe if he talked to her... Will said he'd try to talk to her about whatever it was, he'd... but EB wasn't Will; he didn't have his patience and he had baser impulses around women. Obviously.

"What exactly are you trying to say, Con?" Ultimately it was anger that came out. He felt used. "Because this isn't the time to jerk me around--again--" His voice had gone up in pitch and volume. "I've been nothing but nice to you, so please, just cut the--"

"Because this isn't the time to jerk me around--again--"

The smile--or grimace, she wasn't sure--dropped. He sounded angry. Why was he angry? Why was he angry? Good bleedin' Brigadoon, all he'd ever done was complain about how she never talked about herself, and never let him in, and never paid for dinner (but then, had he? She seemed to remember bolting to someone's flat on both occasions rather quickly, and had no recollection that either of them left money). But wait. She didn't have any recollection of those conversations, either. At least, not any with E.B.'s voice in them; it was all her.

Then she remembered. She had imagined all those conversations. She'd acted them out in her mind, the things she was going to say and never could, even in her imagination. And then Imagination-E.B. yelled at her, and said all those horrible things, and she couldn't give any kind of retort because they were all true, every last wretched syllable he spoke against her--in her mind, of course.

"I've been nothing but nice to you, so please, just cut the--"

"Cut the what?" Constance snapped, cutting him off. "It's all my fault, then?" Yes, it is. "Well. That's just bleedin' wonderful, isn't it? Makes things really easy fer ye, I imagine. Well fine! Just go on believin' that load o' shite if it makes ye feel better. I'm miserable already! Why not add another dimension to my self-image, aye? As if I'm not worthless enough already!"

The office was silent around them as Constance stood up. Her eyes were burning with hot tears, and she didn't think she could prevent them from falling. She couldn't tell if they were talking about their doomed relationship or her entire life anymore.

"I'm sorry, E.B.!" Constance said, a lilt of hysteria creeping into her voice. "I'm sorry fer the...fleeting moments of discontent I've caused ye! Well, there's an easy solution, yeah? Just follow my advice, and we can put this all behind us; just forget about it completely, and never bug each other again about...improperly completed paperwork or opening up about private family issues, alright?!"

Exhale.

"Of course it's all your fault!"

EB took a step back, so he didn't feel so menacing--he felt bad enough already. But she couldn't, she could not, keep on pushing the guilt onto him for this, this... whatever it was. He felt bad. He really did. But feeling bad for someone had never helped anything, it. Well. Sometimes it helped, but only if they let you, and didn't turn every interaction into a suction: good to dysfunction, good to bloody mad.

"Don't make this my fault." He threw up his hands, then raked them, furiously, through his hair, which was left standing on end. Then he opened his fingers, scattering his argument and his concerns and his anger to the winds. An memo flapped by unconcerned and he swatted it away.

"I know you're miserable, but making me miserable too won't do anything about it. I still want you to be happy, Con, but I can't do it for you. I can't--I mean, if you have to--" He looked down, one hand on the scruff of his neck, and then up at her, brow wrinkled. She looked so angry, so remote, so lost.

"... Fine."

He let his hands drop and took a step back. His thoughts were moving too quickly to be of any use to anyone, he was bound to say something he'd regret. He was aware, suddenly, of the curious stares around the office, and waved a hand irritably at everyone. EB wasn't the type to cause drama. Damn her, she was mad, she was not at all worth it, she was... but he just wanted to help her. But there was nothing he could do. Mad.

"Fine, I'll just--Merlin. You're like a different person. I don't know what happened, Con, did something...."

Never have been able to let things go, have you, EB?

"I know you're miserable, but making me miserable too won't do anything about it."

Stop.

I know.

Constance saw a brief, fleeting vision of what would perhaps have been the healthier course: she saw herself openly weeping, honestly and without restraint, and apologizing sincerely for all the crap she'd put E.B. through. She saw herself accepting all his offers to help, or at least to listen, and she saw herself opening up to him and venting her frustrations about everything. She would tell him how hopelessly alone she felt, and how she couldn't rectify it because she'd never learned how to connect with anyone but very young children thanks to her father's abandonment and subsequent return, which was almost more damaging than his leaving in the first place.

The scowl fell from her face, replaced by a look of utter hopelessness. It was all well and good to imagine that happening, but could she actually do it? She didn't think she could. All her intimacy issues aside, if she did open up to someone it couldn't possibly be E.B. Dear, sweet E.B.--it couldn't be him. She'd already damaged their relationship, their fragile friendship, and if she talked to him about all of her issues, the concern of how it affected their ill-judged romance would be hanging over the entire conversation. It would completely defeat the purpose.

"Fine, I'll just--Merlin. You're like a different person. I don't know what happened, Con, did something...."

There it was. Again he was offering to help her, offering to listen. Something told her he was expecting her to scream at him again, but she just didn't have the energy. What to do, then? Cry, as in her vision? No. She didn't have the strength for that either. In that moment, she desperately wished that the world would end, would stop. She didn't have the ability to confront reality.

Emotion left her face, replaced by a cold impassivity. She took a deep breath and as she let it out she experienced a deadening. She became empty. She didn't have the ability to confront the world...so she wouldn't. For good or ill, it didn't matter. The world could do what it would. Constance Fallon would not react.

"I don't know, E.B.," she said, quiet and flat. "I just...can't be like this anymore. I don't know what to be instead." She turned to him. "I'm sorry for everything."

She stepped past him and walked out of the office.