**Author's Note: I need to address several things here, mostly because I don't have enough time to reply to each of my reviews, though I hope to regain that time soon. Firstly, I know several of you have asked about H/Hr interaction in this story. There hasn't been any because I feel this story is simply a supplement to the first (and eventually third) piece of the trilogy. All of the Hogwarts angle was more or less covered in Lessons. Secondly, this story does feel different than my D/G, and that's probably because this is meant to be more light and fluffy. R/LL are fun to write, and so… fluff with a few obstacles. Hopefully I've managed to keep them in character. It's not quite over yet, however, so keep readin' for a few more chapters of football player Rob/Ron and school-rag writin' Lucia/Luna. They're a darling couple. Now… go read!**
CHAPTER TEN- A Proper Goodbye
Only his eyes showed any sort of reaction when she slapped her hands on his desk, obscuring his current reading material, and he raised one bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow at her before he laid down his red pencil.
In truth, Alfred Lovejoy had nearly had a stroke when his ordinarily quiet-natured, peaceful daughter had stormed into his study and slammed those pretty little hands-so like her mother's-down on his desk. The action was also very like her mother, impulsive and brash and cheeky.
There were times, more often than not, when Alfred felt he'd stifled his daughter, made her more like herself and less like her mother, because he'd simply known no other way. No matter how much he'd loved her mother, he hadn't precisely understood her. So when his daughter, his lovely, motherless daughter, had started taking an interest in his paper and in his profession, he'd been relieved.
But now, as she beamed down at him with her hands blocking his way, he was relieved, as well.
Perhaps he hadn't stifled her, after all.
"Let's get dressed and go somewhere," she said, circling the desk to lay her chin on top of her father's head. "Save the cooking for a drearier night."
"Is it an occasion?" Alfred searched his memory, wondering if he'd possibly missed something-her birthday… his birthday… Christmas?
It didn't feel like Christmas.
An occasion? Lucia wondered. Was it an occasion? She felt like dancing, and that was an occasion. Someone had come before her writing, and that was an occasion.
Rob Wesley had agreed to take her to the masque after kissing her senseless, and that was absolutely an occasion.
Later, reality might set in, doubts and objectivity, but for now, she was giddy.
Rob had left her, his silence heavy, puzzled, befuddled, and somehow empowering, when she'd told him his article was finished. Part of her had hoped he would ask to read it, and part of her thrilled at how he was too addle-brained to ask.
She'd proofed the article after he'd gone, but didn't remember changing a thing.
Everything had seemed perfect.
Now, with her arms around her father and her heart light, she knew everything was perfect.
It could be fleeting, of course, but what good thing wasn't?
She'd hold onto it as best she could.
For now she had something brave and beautiful, and she didn't intend to squander it.
~~~
He remembered walking home-sort of-though he certainly didn't remember it very well. Rob had sort of… put one foot in front of the other, and thought of her lips opening under his, the way she tasted of cherries, the way she'd made a tiny little half-moaning, half-sighing noise as he really went for it, the way her hips had bumped against his before he'd stilled them with his hands.
Lucia Lovejoy, of all people.
He was having a hard time getting past it.
Though the night was cool, Rob was warm by the time he got to his house, tugging off the sweatshirt before he'd even shut the door behind him.
He'd always prided himself on not being like the chaps he played football with-the ones who, at the least provocation, would talk about what they'd done with whom, and be none too discreet about it. His teammates seemed obsessed with the fairer sex at times, and though Rob had never denied the appeal, he'd never quite seen how it was worth so much time, energy, and concentration.
He'd chosen datelessness for the last several years, and considered himself a better player for it, less distracted, less… sapped of energy.
But he was starting to wonder what he'd missed.
He grabbed the makings of a sandwich from the icebox, listening consideringly to the quietude of the house. His mum was off with her knitting group, no doubt, making something hideous for their use, and his father was probably poking around some market for old radios and the like. Gen was undoubtedly tutoring that horrifying Mallory git-he tried to rouse the anger but found he felt too damned good to do so-and so Rob had the house to himself, at least until his mum came home and insisted on fixing a supper, no matter how late.
Brushing the crumbs from his hands over the sink (with a sneaking glance over his shoulder to make sure his mum wasn't about to clout him over the head for not using a plate), Rob headed back toward the front door.
He wanted to be somewhere else-or more to the point-with someone else. There wasn't any particular reason he shouldn't be.
~~~
They ended up compromising-a specialty of theirs, used in the rare occasions they didn't see eye to eye-and got
Thai take-out to eat while they availed one another of their latest journalistic endeavors. It never mattered to Alfred
that his daughter wrote for her school paper-any writing was an accomplishment. When she'd been smaller, struggling
to make her writing read precisely like his, he'd tweaked her nose and told her he'd be proud even if she wrote
copy for biscuit tins.
But she'd done much better than that already, he noted as he reached for his glass of water once, twice, thrice before actually setting hand on it. Her article for the school paper was magnificent-if a bit biased.
He didn't know what to think of his daughter's infatuation; he only knew it had to be mighty clear and mighty strong to end up shining through in her writing.
But he'd always told her to write with her heart first and her head second, facts be damned.
It seemed she'd taken that advice to heart.
"It's flawless," he proclaimed, setting it on the desk, peering at it, then making one mark with his red pen. "Well, almost."
Lucia smiled and ducked her head, trying to focus on her father's editorial through eyes now wet with tears.
It didn't matter how many times he showed he was proud of her. Every time was a surprise.
She got up to take her dirty plate to the kitchen, pausing as she heard something clatter against the front door. Silence followed, then another sharp click and a rolling rattle, an exasperated, half-voiced curse.
She at least had the good sense to set her plate down before opening the door, narrowly missing the small stone that whizzed by her head and rolled to a stop just beside her father's study door.
"Sorry," Rob said abashedly, letting the rest of the rocks in his hand fall to the ground. As casual gestures went, it was poor, indeed.
As touching gestures went, Lucia had never had better. "Hello, Robert," she said, her frank guilelessness genuine rather than artful. "What are you doing?"
Dusk may have dimmed the blush, but it didn't make him feel any better. He'd come to her house hoping to turn the tables, at least a little, and do something to surprise her. After all, every time he talked to her, she seemed to yank the rug out from under him and turn him completely upside-down.
The least he could do was surprise her by bouncing back so quickly.
He'd walked up to her house with the grand idea of tossing pebbles at her window, a silly, schoolboy thing to do that he'd never admit to anyone else, but when he'd picked up a few of the small, round stones from beside her walk, he'd realized…
He didn't know which room was hers.
Throwing them at the door had seemed an okay idea, at least, but now it seemed a bit ludicrous.
He started to step toward the door, not exactly ready to start having loud, public proclamations right in the street in front of her house, and he stumbled over his feet, catching himself on the lamppost at the corner of the walk.
He expected her to giggle, to simper, to something, but instead she watched him coolly, her expression now a picture in vague concern. "Are you all right?"
She felt a little funny herself, she reasoned. Red-faced and short of breath and the like.
Perfectly natural signs of attraction, she told herself as she stepped down to meet him. Pheremonal reactions.
"I just… wanted to say goodbye a little better than I did… earlier… at the school," Rob said haltingly, wondering now why he'd come. She made him feel the fool, and though he was starting to be certain she didn't mean to, it wasn't a pleasant feeling.
"I thought you said goodbye just fine," Lucia said, smiling up at him. He was such a gentleman… when he put his mind to it. "You're welcome to come in and meet him. Or is that not social protocol?" She frowned and tapped her fingers against her side. "I'm rather bad at that."
"Ah…" Meet her father? Rob wasn't a coward by any means, but he wasn't likely to go cavorting right into the lion's den, either. "You know, I was mostly… in the neighborhood."
It sounded plausible.
But when she stared at him in such a way that Rob found he could attribute literally hundreds of female emotions to the expression, he figured he should probably elaborate.
He was sinking, and his best course of action was complete and absolute honesty.
"I like you," he said simply. "And could we make this as unconfusing as possible?"
"Unconfusing is not a word," she stated, her brows drawing together. "Though context and syntax do give me a good idea of what you mean."
He blew out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a cry for help.
"That's what I'm talking about. Confusing. I'm no good at this, so I just thought I'd tell you that up front. And I hope you're not goin' to get all girly on me, 'cause chances are, I'm going to muck it up sooner rather'n later, and if you get all girly on me, I'll not know how to deal with it."
It could hardly be beaten for sheer, untarnished truthfulness.
"I don't know how to be girly," Lucia stated. "But for what it's worth, I like you, too. If I didn't, I wouldn't have allowed you to kiss me. Though you really are a nice kisser."
She couldn't have hooked him any more effectively if she'd tried. There was something just a little addictive about hearing a woman contend in a nice, rational, factual, convinced voice that you were a nice kisser.
So he kissed her again just to prove her right and whispered "Good night" in her ear, more satisfied than he had a right to be when he walked back toward his home, knowing her eyes were on his back.
Now that felt like turning the tables and giving a proper goodbye.