Prologue: What Mrs. Eckleman Saw at 2AM (Homage to the Tiny Towel)
Title: Prologue: What Mrs. Eckleman Saw at 2AM
Story: Mrs. Eckleman Sees Too Much: Homage to the Tiny Towel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: One night of spontaneous passion turns into a night Cho can never (but really wishes she could) forget.
Prologue: What Mrs. Eckleman Saw at 2AM
Vibrant red, metallic orange and piercing blue.
Those were the colors of the fire that had licked at our bedroom ceiling not twenty minutes ago. And besides the color of the flames, the only other thing I can remember is thinking, Oh dear, Mrs. Eckleman is not going to like it if her carpet is singed.
My significant other - and I don’t even know how significant he is at the moment; considering his lack of intelligence in our current situation - would tell me that I have a complex, always worrying about what other people think. He will, quite frequently, say to me, “We could lose everything in a fire and you’d be worried about Mrs. Eckleman’s carpet!” So, I blame him for my thoughts while I watched the flames continue to reach higher and higher, even while I was throwing my best spells, and a couple of glasses of water, at them.
Truth be told, the whole incident was his fault. So for me to think about anything other than wanting to murder him in his sleep is quite shocking. I specifically told him it was a bad idea. Any time he decides we need to try something different or new or “exciting” (insert giant eye roll here) in the bedroom, disaster is bound to strike. I know this! He knows this! I know that he knows that I know this! But, did he listen when I said, “Love, that sounds like a bad idea”? Does he ever? He is a man, isn’t he? Any breathing, living woman should know the answer to that one.
No! No, he never listens. And I am sick to death of it.
I pull the borrowed robe tighter around my body, feeling quite naked despite the warm, terrycloth fabric snuggling my body. Of course, naked is what I am underneath this luxurious robe, but I fear no amount of clothing will ever feel like enough again.
I shake my head. Mrs. Eckleman must have put a comfort charm on her robe. I wonder if it had always been that way. Or did she place it right before offering me the robe off her own elderly back to cover my exposed body? Did she feel sorry for me, knowing what kind of man I’m getting ready to marry? Or was she just a genuinely nice person?
I’m leaning towards the former. She’s lived above us for nearly a year. She knows the kind of man he is.
However, she really is a genuinely nice person. Mrs. Eckleman is always bringing us coffee cakes on Sunday mornings (early, of course, because she seems to have a radar letting her know the days we like to have an extra lie in), this dish she calls ‘slop’ on Wednesdays (that quite literally looks like something you’d feed to some swine, but tastes heavenly the minute it touches your tongue), and a vase of flowers (almost always roses because she - unlike my fiancé - knows they’re my favorite) from the rooftop garden every Friday. Whenever she’d stop by, I’d end up sucked into a conversation with her that would last much longer than necessary, but was delightful none the less.
At first, when she started coming by, I would sit and chat with her because I felt sorry for her. She was alone, after all. But, the more time I spent getting to know her, the more I truly liked talking to her. She was like the grandmother I’d never gotten to know. She once told me that her only son had moved to America to attend university, met a beautiful woman there and never returned. She also happened to mention that they were not interested in having children, so she feared she’d never get a chance to spoil any grandchildren. I had offered instantaneously for us to be her surrogate grandchildren and Mrs. Eckleman had been overjoyed; said she’d always liked us.
Now…
Poor, sweet, Mrs. Eckleman. She’s going to be scarred for life, I just know it. Her eyes had been as big as saucers when she had come running down the stairs from her own flat, robe billowing out at the sides as she desperately tried to close it around her night dress, the fire alarm blaring through the building, only to see the two of us standing just outside our door, naked as the day we were born, being ushered quickly from our flat as smoke poured out the door.
Well, naked, covered in cherry juice, and his - ahem - area covered by a very small washcloth. Bloody idiot had grabbed something to cover himself even if it was a mere scrap of material (and I know that flirtatious, single woman from 4D with the legs and the hair and the eyelashes had been staring at him the entire way down the stairs; she’s so obsessed with him and he just eggs her on with sexy hair, smooth smiles, gorgeous body and barely covered private areas! Grr!), but did he think to get something for me?
I cross my arms over my chest. No, he had definitely not thought of me. Instead, when I complained that the neighbors were staring at me and he needed to configure a robe for me as soon as possible, he had said, “I left my wand upstairs, love. Why don’t you go ask that lovely man from downstairs if you can borrow his jacket?” He’d flashed that pearly white grin and cocked his head to the side like he does when he’s trying to charm me (and every other hot-blooded female in the entire world!), gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, and gestured towards the fire chief that he wanted a word, before turning away from me.
Believe me, if looks (and gritted teeth, skyrocketing blood pressures, barely recognizable mumbled words of death, and small hand gestures) could kill, the man would not have escaped death for the second time in his life.
Mrs. Eckleman, however, had come to my rescue (and his) in the nick of time, though you could see she was traumatized. I think our entire building is quite traumatized by what happened. It’s bad enough to be woken up at two o’clock in the morning to a blasting fire alarm. But when you walk outside and your eyes are assaulted by the nakedness of your neighbors and finding out that they are the reason you’re outside in the middle of the night…
Well, let’s just say we won’t be invited to many building barbeques anytime soon.
“Cho, love?” I turn to see him standing beside me, his body now covered by a large, gaudy and gray (ha! Take that 4D! Can’t look now, can you?) blanket given to him by the fire department. “They said we can go back in now. We should be able to fix the damage tonight, as long as our wands aren’t damaged.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s fine, Cedric. However, don’t think, for one second, you’re sleeping in our room tonight. The couch has your name written all over it.”
I stalk off before he can reply.
Story: Mrs. Eckleman Sees Too Much: Homage to the Tiny Towel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: One night of spontaneous passion turns into a night Cho can never (but really wishes she could) forget.
Prologue: What Mrs. Eckleman Saw at 2AM
Vibrant red, metallic orange and piercing blue.
Those were the colors of the fire that had licked at our bedroom ceiling not twenty minutes ago. And besides the color of the flames, the only other thing I can remember is thinking, Oh dear, Mrs. Eckleman is not going to like it if her carpet is singed.
My significant other - and I don’t even know how significant he is at the moment; considering his lack of intelligence in our current situation - would tell me that I have a complex, always worrying about what other people think. He will, quite frequently, say to me, “We could lose everything in a fire and you’d be worried about Mrs. Eckleman’s carpet!” So, I blame him for my thoughts while I watched the flames continue to reach higher and higher, even while I was throwing my best spells, and a couple of glasses of water, at them.
Truth be told, the whole incident was his fault. So for me to think about anything other than wanting to murder him in his sleep is quite shocking. I specifically told him it was a bad idea. Any time he decides we need to try something different or new or “exciting” (insert giant eye roll here) in the bedroom, disaster is bound to strike. I know this! He knows this! I know that he knows that I know this! But, did he listen when I said, “Love, that sounds like a bad idea”? Does he ever? He is a man, isn’t he? Any breathing, living woman should know the answer to that one.
No! No, he never listens. And I am sick to death of it.
I pull the borrowed robe tighter around my body, feeling quite naked despite the warm, terrycloth fabric snuggling my body. Of course, naked is what I am underneath this luxurious robe, but I fear no amount of clothing will ever feel like enough again.
I shake my head. Mrs. Eckleman must have put a comfort charm on her robe. I wonder if it had always been that way. Or did she place it right before offering me the robe off her own elderly back to cover my exposed body? Did she feel sorry for me, knowing what kind of man I’m getting ready to marry? Or was she just a genuinely nice person?
I’m leaning towards the former. She’s lived above us for nearly a year. She knows the kind of man he is.
However, she really is a genuinely nice person. Mrs. Eckleman is always bringing us coffee cakes on Sunday mornings (early, of course, because she seems to have a radar letting her know the days we like to have an extra lie in), this dish she calls ‘slop’ on Wednesdays (that quite literally looks like something you’d feed to some swine, but tastes heavenly the minute it touches your tongue), and a vase of flowers (almost always roses because she - unlike my fiancé - knows they’re my favorite) from the rooftop garden every Friday. Whenever she’d stop by, I’d end up sucked into a conversation with her that would last much longer than necessary, but was delightful none the less.
At first, when she started coming by, I would sit and chat with her because I felt sorry for her. She was alone, after all. But, the more time I spent getting to know her, the more I truly liked talking to her. She was like the grandmother I’d never gotten to know. She once told me that her only son had moved to America to attend university, met a beautiful woman there and never returned. She also happened to mention that they were not interested in having children, so she feared she’d never get a chance to spoil any grandchildren. I had offered instantaneously for us to be her surrogate grandchildren and Mrs. Eckleman had been overjoyed; said she’d always liked us.
Now…
Poor, sweet, Mrs. Eckleman. She’s going to be scarred for life, I just know it. Her eyes had been as big as saucers when she had come running down the stairs from her own flat, robe billowing out at the sides as she desperately tried to close it around her night dress, the fire alarm blaring through the building, only to see the two of us standing just outside our door, naked as the day we were born, being ushered quickly from our flat as smoke poured out the door.
Well, naked, covered in cherry juice, and his - ahem - area covered by a very small washcloth. Bloody idiot had grabbed something to cover himself even if it was a mere scrap of material (and I know that flirtatious, single woman from 4D with the legs and the hair and the eyelashes had been staring at him the entire way down the stairs; she’s so obsessed with him and he just eggs her on with sexy hair, smooth smiles, gorgeous body and barely covered private areas! Grr!), but did he think to get something for me?
I cross my arms over my chest. No, he had definitely not thought of me. Instead, when I complained that the neighbors were staring at me and he needed to configure a robe for me as soon as possible, he had said, “I left my wand upstairs, love. Why don’t you go ask that lovely man from downstairs if you can borrow his jacket?” He’d flashed that pearly white grin and cocked his head to the side like he does when he’s trying to charm me (and every other hot-blooded female in the entire world!), gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, and gestured towards the fire chief that he wanted a word, before turning away from me.
Believe me, if looks (and gritted teeth, skyrocketing blood pressures, barely recognizable mumbled words of death, and small hand gestures) could kill, the man would not have escaped death for the second time in his life.
Mrs. Eckleman, however, had come to my rescue (and his) in the nick of time, though you could see she was traumatized. I think our entire building is quite traumatized by what happened. It’s bad enough to be woken up at two o’clock in the morning to a blasting fire alarm. But when you walk outside and your eyes are assaulted by the nakedness of your neighbors and finding out that they are the reason you’re outside in the middle of the night…
Well, let’s just say we won’t be invited to many building barbeques anytime soon.
“Cho, love?” I turn to see him standing beside me, his body now covered by a large, gaudy and gray (ha! Take that 4D! Can’t look now, can you?) blanket given to him by the fire department. “They said we can go back in now. We should be able to fix the damage tonight, as long as our wands aren’t damaged.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s fine, Cedric. However, don’t think, for one second, you’re sleeping in our room tonight. The couch has your name written all over it.”
I stalk off before he can reply.