Toulouse By Morning

Oliver probably should have been more upset about the layover for his flight, but he was surprisingly upbeat. With New Years coming up, it figured that something would go wrong when he was forced to take a last minute flight into France. His family would understand, of course, but Olly was never one to sit around or wait for too very long. He was immediately grateful that he had been born with the presence of mind to have something on hand to do at all times.

Well, 'last minute' was a bit more dramatic than what his flight was. His was New Year's Eve, and with no one but family to spend time with, Oliver couldn't quite complain – at least he wouldn't be forced to go about kissing his cousins' cheeks or something. No, he was fine with whatever delays had come up – weather or otherwise (he'd been far too uninterested to check what the problem was). After ambling around the airport for a time, Ollie had finally landed himself back where he started: the seating area down the hall from his boarding gate. With the foam on top of the exceedingly tall drink in his hand, one might think he was drinking something with alcohol in it. The twenty-year-old, however, had never found a liking for beer, so the idea wasn't pleasing in the slightest. Sure, he would drink it conversationally, but never just out of boredom. So it was with an Apple Cider that the Hufflepuff Graduate had been making his way about the building.

He settled himself in front of a long table in an arm chair among several others of its kind (As well as a couple couches interspersed in the rotunda that made up gate C16). Oliver nearly wanted to curl up and set an alarm on his cell so he could take a nap – he certainly had enough time to do so. The cold drink in his hand had enough sugar to get him by, though. After all, he had a phone call to make.

He dug into his carry-on and pulled out a phone and a deck of cards. Selecting his mum's number from his 'Favorites' list, Ollie opened the pack of cards and let them slide out into his hand as he settled the cell on his shoulder where he could hold it up to his ear as he shuffled the deck. Jokers set aside, he set about choosing the game he would play as the phone connected and started dialing. By the third ring, he was shuffling for the fifth time, with the speed and skill of someone who could make a living off of dealing cards at a casino or the like. Oliver, of course, was no such thing. No, he was content with his career and wasn't likely to give it up for a job in robbing people too foolish or drunk to properly handle their money (or their drink, for that matter).

“Maman,” he greeted, leaning to his side to keep the phone against his cheek. He dealt four cards for himself, face up. It had become a habit of his to toy with playing cards, even on his own, to relax or to pass time. After nearly twelve or thirteen years of playing new games and gathering new decks of cards, Oliver found himself using his most favourite – and arguably the most worn – set. He placed down another four cards – one atop each of the previously placed ones, and began a game of his recent obsession: Suits.

His mother, though glad to hear from him, was clearly concerned when he dialed her number while his flight should have been taking off. “Non, je ne – Maman, écoutes.” Oliver sighed, attempting to talk over both his mum and the prattle of ten or so French and British accents all talking amongst themselves in the background. “No, mum. The flight, it's been delayed or something.”

Olly would be the first to tell you that his family was all kinds of strange. His mum was partly French and partly British, so while her accent was heavily French, her maiden name was Clark (which also explained her rather English-sounding first name, Deborah). But she had been closer to her mum's side of the family, ensuring that Oliver would grow up learning the French language his mother loved so well.

It was most curious, Ollie had been told, that while his French accent was remarkably proper, his British accent was nearly as clipped and posh as his father's. Growing up among people who spoke a combination of three or four different languages at a time made picking up both new accents and new languages simple for Oliver. Undoubtedly, anyone within hearing range would send him the strange look he always received when he switched back and forth. Anyone who got to know him, though, would find that he was actually rather in love with the slang of languages just as much as he adored using more complicated or obscure words in his writing. Sometimes he would have an entire conversation in phrases made primarily of slang, but then would switch to going on like he was writing one of his novels. He often forgot the fact that many of those he conversed with wouldn't care to hear his latest opening sentence idea.

“I know, mum. I'm sorry. I'll just be late.” Three of spades is less than the ten of spades. That one goes to the side. Ace of hearts is higher than the other hearts, so all the smaller ones can go as well. “...yes, I can try and sleep on the plane. … Well, I wouldn't very well be able to call you while I was sleeping, now would I? Otherwise I would be doing so now.” He laughed, “Yes, well I'll find time. But you know me – I can keep awake for ages. How else do you think I actually managed to finish any of those essays in school?... I did pretty well, all things considered. Especially for a 'Puff who couldn't quite focus in classes sometimes.”

Oliver, ever one to try and make others feel good, tended to make jokes about himself rather than the people around him. But his mum laughed regardless, making him smile warmly – even if it was only directed at the cards in his hand rather than at her. It looked like he was going to win his game, too.

“Oui, mais je ne sais pas quand.” He replied to the question of if he would get another flight. He couldn't say when he would land, but hopefully he oculd find out and call or text before the plane boarded. “D'accord. Je sais. Oui. Et toi. À demain.” Hanging up his phone, Oliver swiped his hand over the low table before him to pick up his cards before taking a drink from his glass.

Well, he hoped he would land tomorrow anyway, Oliver noted as he recalled his closing promise of “see you tomorrow.” He was pretty thrilled that he could avoid the countless questions (often repetitive of course) from his large and rowdy family for a day or so. But then, what was a holiday without someone to share it with? Better a large and crazy family than being alone. Olly didn't think he could complain about them and mean it; they were pretty wonderful if he did say so himself.


(OOC: I said New Years, but I could change it if it doesn't make sense for Maisie)

A sudden fragrance permeated the air, ripening it with a renewed sweetness that set the taste buds abuzz with a new flavour. Cocoa wafted beneath the nose Maisie Morrison’s nose and the young woman’s gaze darted up from the pages of the book laid open in her lap. Her lips alighted into a lopsided smile as her gaze took sight of the fatigued coffee barista lolloped before her, offering a cardboard cup from the small cart beside him with an exaggerated bow. Maisie laughed and took the cup gratefully, bringing it to the chill of the skin of her neck, watching as, after too allowing a small smile to grace his lips, he pressed on, doling out coffee and hot chocolate to those stranded by an unforeseen tragedy. The kindness was certainly indicative of a long wait.

“Happy New Year, ma’am!”

Setting the cup down, Maisie took her phone out of her pocket and peered at the screen idly before typing off a reply to the other person on the end. It was nonsensical, she realised, but it past a moment or two. It was not lost on the blonde that she would have been better off tucked up at home or sitting in Maxxie’s house with him and Jack watching stupid films before going off out somewhere to watch the fireworks. Instead she had doomed herself to an airport on New Year’s Eve without any chance of getting to France in time to see their fireworks, let alone her own.

It was in Hufflepuffian nature to be alright with eventualities such as these but there was an underlying irritation within her that she couldn’t quite excuse from her system. There was nothing more that she wanted than to traipse about in the crisp chill of the French countryside and spend a few days basking in the golden sunshine that persisted despite the season. A coffee in a café, a brioche or something equally scrumptious. That was all she desired. What had she done to make the Gods spite her so?

Rising to her feet, Maisie picked up her cup again and went in search of a fire door. One had been propped open and took her out onto a balcony where other people had gathered with the same intention. Faint silver swirls of smoke snaked up above the heads and another dot of orange joined the fray as Maisie lit up. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes a little before removing the cigarette from betwixt her lips.

Eventually, like many things, the cold grew trying and after rubbing her hands together, Maisie headed inside behind the throng of people, returning to the starkly yellow light of the boarding room. Most people were beginning to give up the ghost, relenting to slumber with their bags drawn up to lay on. Blankets had been given out and some of the children were rushing around, having made fast friends, pretending to be super heroes while their parents, brought together by their endearingly precocious young, chatted amicably over their cocoa.

Another fact wasn’t entirely lost on Maisie: this was very much a family flight.

A sudden buzzing in her pocket drew her attention briefly from the children and Maisie glanced down at the caller ID, frowning when she realised it was yet another call from her step-mother who had delighted in stealing a married man from his wife. But of course, he had a new wife now and Maisie’s real mother was beginning to date again, albeit shyly. They were just another statistic. Louisa, give her her due, had implored with Maisie not to judge Naomi too harshly, reminding her only daughter that she was an adult and had to be civil. Maisie had retorted she didn’t have to be anything.

The call was ignored.

Like someone else we all know well, Maisie wasn’t very good at being stationary. That said, her counterpart liked to lay about, basking in laziness. There was a reason Maisie was an Auror and waiting around for a plane wasn’t it. She needed movement and instant gratification in it. If she wanted to be somewhere she’d go. It was the beauty of apparition, of course. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the plane had gobbled her bags then she would’ve been long gone.

With a sigh, Maisie cast her eyes around the boarding lounge, catching sight of a man playing cards. Much to her immediate delight she realised that he wasn’t all that older than herself. Thankfully, there was something a little bit Gryffindor-ish in her and she lolloped over to sit down opposite him, setting her cup down on the table just out of reach of the cards lest it spilt.

“How about twenty-one?” She inquired, as though she was fairly good at card games.

Miserable fact: she was awful.

Oliver was surprised, though not disappointed, to find that someone had come to sit beside him. Aside from maybe Ariel, Ollie could generally say that he was quite kind and friendly. So when the blonde spoke, he turned to offer her a smile. Anyone who knew cards – or wanted to know about them – would easily get on with him. It was a simple enough ice breaker for someone like Oliver who so often seemed to need one. The moment he thought he had snagged a girl, she'd end up having other plans, and it seemed to entertain Ari to no end. In the past, Ollie had secretly wondered if his best mate had anything to do with the girls rushing off – the men were close and often wary of new people. It was all meant well, of course, as best friends often were known to be protective.

“Absolutely.” He replied, already splitting the deck in half to start shuffling. Olly glanced at her sideways as he tapped the cards on the table to line them up before starting them through the process of shuffling again. “We'll hang the bets, though, hm? I figure you'd probably prefer to be on the plane, anyways. No point in adding the potential of losing money to the mix.”

He nodded in the direction of the doors that should have led them to their plane several minutes ago as he set the cards down on the table.  Although he was generally fairly optimistic (as all true Hufflepuffs seemed to be), there was no point in assuming this woman was. Otherwise he would have likely started on about how he wasn't at all upset about the airplane missing its take-off time.

“Ready?” he asked, even as he dealt them two cards each, eyeing the cards she'd been given before looking at his own.

As per the rules of twenty-one, she would get to choose first if she wanted to Hit or Stand, so as he awaited her reply, Oliver let himself observe her subtly. She was somehow familiar, though if he had ever met her, it would have had to be ages ago. He wasn't too excellent at remembering names or faces, as his thoughts were typically consumed by his work or those he saw every day. Something about her struck him as interesting. He had to actively keep his brow from furrowing in concentration and interest. She surely wouldn't appreciate him sending her such strange looks.

Aside from the general feeling of being unable to place her, Ollie noticed the obvious: She was quite pretty, though Oliver wondered if she knew it. Some girls didn't, he'd learned, having either dropped the assumption due to negative interactions with men or never had it in their head to begin with. Deciding it was best to just keep quiet for a bit – slightly unusual for him considering how excited he was to understand the people and the world around him – he reached for his glass to take a drink in the silence between his dealing and her request.

Here was a scenario that Maisie Morrison had never imagined herself sitting in the midst of. She’d been on the receiving end of more than a few delays in her time but she’d never imagined them on New Year’s Eve when the world should’ve been celebrating a new start. It almost seemed ironic because, in truth, nothing changed but the time on the wristwatch dial. Old habits died incredibly hard and, it seemed, so did the ability that the planes had to be incredibly timely in their delays. She took solace, regardless, in the fact that she wasn’t alone in her flightless limbo.

“You’re flying home?” She inquired interestedly, having overheard the way the man before her had so eloquently spoken French. Maisie was not so readily willing to admit that her language prowess extended, in French, to a crude version of: ‘how much is your local wine?’ She did know the basics otherwise but when it came to full blown sentences, beyond saying the name of her imaginary dog and perhaps on the odd occasion being able to say what colour it was, querying after wine was about as good as it got.

Maisie laughed a little despite herself, shaking her head at his words. He was right there. To make matters worse would be to trade money – and Maisie knew she’d lose everything she had hoped to spend that evening on, well, the local wine. She had a feeling that the man before her was an expert card player – if the way he shuffled was anything to go by. She could half imagine him in a tuxedo playing poker in Monte Carlo or at Casino Royale. There was something very James Bond about that.

“I won’t consider myself in trouble until I start weeping blood,” she quoted with an impish grin, peeking idly at her cards. She smudged her lips together thoughtfully before eying the deck. “Twist.”

Of course, the card to come was a dangerous one and, as ever, Maisie went bust. She flipped over the cards with a laugh, flopping down a respectable but no less frustrating twenty-three which she should have known better than to chance with. The eight had undone her luck, as it always did.

“Thank you for not asking for a bet. I think I would have put money on my loss rather than rashly put any stake in my win.” Maisie shook her head and picked up her hot chocolate, taking a sip before settling it in her lap.

“My name is Maisie. Maisie Morrison of Hobbiton, the Shire.”

Oliver glanced up at her question, not quite realizing that she might not be heading home as well. “Yeah,” he began lightly. “Well, more or less. I’ve got family there, and basically grew up there. But I live in England, along the coast. Best place to keep a sailboat, y’know?”

Ah. There he went, saying more than he needed. Sometimes his friendly, Hufflepuff sensibilities just took over and he gave away more of himself than he intended. Then again, as a writer he nearly felt obligated to do as much. One was always told to write what one knows. That said, it was often amazing – even to Ollie – how easily he slipped back into the slang terms he’d grown up with.

He gave her the requested card, chuckling quietly as she went over, knowing that most people would agree with her. Especially for a game like twenty-one. “Of course,” he replied, tone almost cheeky. “I would never steal from a lady!” Though not always true, his statement certainly applied to her. For any of Ariel’s friends or people he knew in school, the same rules would not actually be suggested. No, indeed, Miss Maisie Morrison was not to be treated poorly.

He nearly lifted a brow at her introduction, but instead gave her his most charming smile. “Oliver Connolly, at your service. But most people just call me Ollie.” He shrugged off the nickname, knowing he couldn’t care less if she chose to use it. Attempt a subtle once over, Oliver gathered up the cards and leaned back in his chair to shuffle them once more.

“Let me see… You’re probably headed to see family, too, right? Spending the holidays somewhere else for a change of pace? Or perhaps you, too, have family all over.”

He rather enjoyed trying to figure people out, regardless of if he should have done so aloud. But they were already talking, there was little else to do, and she had already lost to him at cards. He had nearly suggested a different game before noting that if she continually lost to him, she might not continue to (at least appear to) take a liking to him. Oliver, ever interested in catching a woman’s attention, was not going to let the opportunity slip by. You never know when you might meet the right person, he reminded himself.

What with the Marriage Law in the UK and everything else the Ministry was throwing at people, Oliver wasn’t taking kindly to the idea of being married to a stranger. Perhaps it would work out.

He rather doubted it.

Sure, he was friendly and wanted to get on everyone’s good side, but that didn’t mean that he was ready to dive into a relationship with someone he had potentially never met or would have nothing in common with. His trip to France wasn’t an unusual one, but it was definitely a welcome one. It meant he could avoid all of the panic regarding the new laws.

Ollie found himself hoping, though, that this girl wasn’t stuck in the thick of the law yet. And that she actually was going to see family, like he was. If not, why would she have chosen to spend the holiday alone? It wasn’t exactly Christmas, and thus less devastating of a holiday to miss, but Ollie had never really spent holidays away from family or at the very least friends.

“Or,” he substituted belatedly, “maybe you’ve got a party of friends awaiting your arrival. I do hope you’ve called to let them know!”

What if she was going to be stuck alone on New Year’s Day? Clearly they wouldn’t be getting out of the airport before then. Maybe, if he was feeling particularly crazy, he would just suggest she came along to see his folks. If only to ensure that she wouldn’t be lonely. Only reason. But then, that involved the potential danger of having to explain to her that he came from a family of magical folk, and hoping she didn’t think him entirely batty.