hemmingfambly | posted sunday idc

↧ saturday, holiday party

broderick's house is full of people, laughter, and wine... so, so much wine. and bracken loves it all. he's slicing a baguette beside broderick, who's armed with a corkscrew and a fresh bottle of some fancy magicked red, when two of the wizard's colleagues get into a debate about the best shape for potion vials. (fucking nerds.) they trade good-natured and childish barbs until one scoffs and calls the other a pwrs.

it means 'purse' and 'nutsack,' which makes it the best homonym bracken's learned so far. he snorts a laugh. broderick freezes mid-(cork)screw, jaw slack, dumbfounded. a brief squabble — bracken understood that? did he learn insults? ... he learned welsh? bracken gets all he ever wanted (a kiss, gratitude laced with lingering shock, that borders on inappropriate). when he only answers follow-up questions with a smarmy little grin, broderick shoves the wine at a bystander and drags bracken to a room, out of sight. they don't reappear until later.

↧ sunday, london

"i take it off when i'm inside. ma'am." bracken doffs his beaver felt hat for the the illustrious mrs. harriet parish — grant's momma, brook's nan, the woman who'd extended a special invitation to join her at sunday service. she called it an olive branch, her son called it a test. bracken called it a necessary evil and donned his sunday best to try his very best, everything ironed and clean and crisp, polished when necessary. he even has cufflinks! he'd been raised to raise hell across the mountain states and he can face the matriarch of the parish clan.

and yet.

(they down cocktails and oysters for two and a half hours after church and apparently bracken's attending a polo match next month.)

ok nobody let me wear the hat next time. anyways tell me what's good