RP: All These Places Had Their Moments
Date 7 March 1998
Character(s): Roger Davies
Location: His workshop
Status: Private
Summary: Roger gets ready to go home.
Completion: Quite literally, Complete. *cries*
It had been a long day. Days tended to be long when you were looking forward to the weekend.
Roger lifted an arm in a parting wave to his foreman, who was leaving for the night, and went back to sanding the seat of the rocking chair he was crafting. He would finish it in cherry, he knew, already fully able to see it in his mind, and in the upstairs bedroom of his customer. It'd sit across from the crib he'd finished yesterday, the first crib he'd ever been commissioned to build. He was proud of it.
He straightened and took a step back, standing in the middle of his workshop. His. It was cluttered with supplies, half-formed pieces, sawdust and cans of varnish, but even so the space had settled into a functionality that worked for him. It smelled of cedar, perpetually, no matter what wood he was working with on any given day. The ceiling was high, the space airy, and he could see dust particles filtered through the sunlight from the windows. He'd seen this place come together in ways he'd never have been able to imagine a year and a half ago, had struggled to get it off the ground and had the indescribable pride of seeing it flourish now.
In a weird way, he thought he could see himself in this place, the stages it had come through were similar to the ones he had. Hard to believe, looking around at this quietly prosperous thing that he had made, that it hadn't been too long ago when he'd been struggling to get off the ground himself.
He would never forget that darkest time in his life, he knew, and he no longer wanted to. That in itself was progress, he thought. No more running from his past, no more trying to forget. Instead, he took it as a part of him, one of the things that had shaped the man he was. It was almost scary that he could honestly say that even if it were possible, he wouldn't change a thing. Maybe it was easy to say that because it was impossible, more like an acceptance of fact than bravery, but deep down he knew that he was happy to be here now despite all that it had taken.
Stretching a little, he looked up at the clock. It was time to go home, to Hermione. The best thing in his life, this new life that he had. He could think about her, even now, and feel a grin spreading over his face so wide it was impossible to control. She was here too, in his workshop that was really theirs because of all the steps they'd taken here. He could have had no bigger inspiration. He remembered bringing her here for the first time, remembered kissing her in the loft, a few days before she'd come by his little cottage by the river to let him know that it would be him. That she wanted to give them a try. It had been a kiss full of promise and possibility, even if he hadn't been aware at the time that he had already fallen for her. His heart had been at her feet well before that day.
He was going to marry her.
God, what a trip. When he'd got to town, getting married would probably have been the one thing on his list of things that would never happen. Now, he and Hermione were engaged. The future lay ahead of them no longer his and hers, but theirs. And there wasn't any fear in it. Roger could think about it and only be more excited than he'd ever been about anything. Ever.
This weekend, they were going to get on Lucy and drive out of this town, head toward wherever the day took them and know that the home they'd made here in Stoatshead would be waiting for them when they got back next week. It had been too long since they'd got away, and Roger had plans. Well, loosely formed plans, but ones he knew she'd like. Ones that would change everything.
That was for later, though, he thought, wiping his hands on a towel and checking the wards on the shop. It was enough, for now, just to get home to her.
Character(s): Roger Davies
Location: His workshop
Status: Private
Summary: Roger gets ready to go home.
Completion: Quite literally, Complete. *cries*
It had been a long day. Days tended to be long when you were looking forward to the weekend.
Roger lifted an arm in a parting wave to his foreman, who was leaving for the night, and went back to sanding the seat of the rocking chair he was crafting. He would finish it in cherry, he knew, already fully able to see it in his mind, and in the upstairs bedroom of his customer. It'd sit across from the crib he'd finished yesterday, the first crib he'd ever been commissioned to build. He was proud of it.
He straightened and took a step back, standing in the middle of his workshop. His. It was cluttered with supplies, half-formed pieces, sawdust and cans of varnish, but even so the space had settled into a functionality that worked for him. It smelled of cedar, perpetually, no matter what wood he was working with on any given day. The ceiling was high, the space airy, and he could see dust particles filtered through the sunlight from the windows. He'd seen this place come together in ways he'd never have been able to imagine a year and a half ago, had struggled to get it off the ground and had the indescribable pride of seeing it flourish now.
In a weird way, he thought he could see himself in this place, the stages it had come through were similar to the ones he had. Hard to believe, looking around at this quietly prosperous thing that he had made, that it hadn't been too long ago when he'd been struggling to get off the ground himself.
He would never forget that darkest time in his life, he knew, and he no longer wanted to. That in itself was progress, he thought. No more running from his past, no more trying to forget. Instead, he took it as a part of him, one of the things that had shaped the man he was. It was almost scary that he could honestly say that even if it were possible, he wouldn't change a thing. Maybe it was easy to say that because it was impossible, more like an acceptance of fact than bravery, but deep down he knew that he was happy to be here now despite all that it had taken.
Stretching a little, he looked up at the clock. It was time to go home, to Hermione. The best thing in his life, this new life that he had. He could think about her, even now, and feel a grin spreading over his face so wide it was impossible to control. She was here too, in his workshop that was really theirs because of all the steps they'd taken here. He could have had no bigger inspiration. He remembered bringing her here for the first time, remembered kissing her in the loft, a few days before she'd come by his little cottage by the river to let him know that it would be him. That she wanted to give them a try. It had been a kiss full of promise and possibility, even if he hadn't been aware at the time that he had already fallen for her. His heart had been at her feet well before that day.
He was going to marry her.
God, what a trip. When he'd got to town, getting married would probably have been the one thing on his list of things that would never happen. Now, he and Hermione were engaged. The future lay ahead of them no longer his and hers, but theirs. And there wasn't any fear in it. Roger could think about it and only be more excited than he'd ever been about anything. Ever.
This weekend, they were going to get on Lucy and drive out of this town, head toward wherever the day took them and know that the home they'd made here in Stoatshead would be waiting for them when they got back next week. It had been too long since they'd got away, and Roger had plans. Well, loosely formed plans, but ones he knew she'd like. Ones that would change everything.
That was for later, though, he thought, wiping his hands on a towel and checking the wards on the shop. It was enough, for now, just to get home to her.