Al Gumboil is a bad big brother. (countervail) wrote in an_ill_wind, @ 2009-05-15 23:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | - 1980/05 may, alastor gumboil, rita skeeter |
Who: Rita Skeeter and Alastor Gumboil
When: 15 May, 1980; evening.
Where: The Leaky, and then Rita's flat.
What: Old friends bump into each other. Almost literally.
Rating: PG-13, for colourful inner-monologue xD
Status: Completed log!
It was just another night at the Leaky. Doc behind the bar was keeping her glass full and she kept finding things to toast, using both the attention and the alcohol to distract herself from the past week or so. She let some other man at the bar buy her drink, and though she mussed his hair in thanks, she stepped away, drink in hand, without another thought to him and began wandering through the pub. There was no one really interesting at the bar, besides Caradoc but he was working, so she couldn't have his undivided attention, so she decided to do a sweep of the room and see if anyone interesting had come in. She was, of course, about three drinks past walking gracefully though, and giggled as she bumped her hip into a table and quickly felt a big hand steadying her by groping her thigh. She just laughed and playfully swatted the man away before tottering back to her feet and overcompensating a little, ending up sloshing some of her drink onto another nearby table as she all but fell into a chair. Her glass somehow remained over three-quarters full throughout the whole scenario, a fact which--once it sunk in--had her pleased with herself and licking liquor off of her fingers. She blinked a little, smiling charmingly out of reflex as she realized she was now sitting at a table that certainly hadn't been expecting her, and said through her fingers, "God, I'm so sorry." Her eyes focussed after a moment and she blinked in surprise. Was that... could it be... Really? No way! "Al? Al Gumboil? Well I'll be," she said brightly, propping her chin up on her still damp palm, sucking her pinky into her mouth as she regarded him. "Long time, baby." Oh, Merlin it was Friday and Al couldn't have been much happier. Well. That wasn't true, he could probably be a lot happier, come to think of it. But he was content at least, at having the weekend to wind down. It was rare that there was a week where he actually got to have the entire weekend to himself. Usually, he worked on Saturdays and half of Sunday was spent catching up on paperwork and having lunch with the family. That was just the way it worked. You got in with the Ministry and it swallowed your whole fucking life. But this weekend, he was free. He'd stayed at his desk the extra hour it took to finish his paperwork, and for the first time in what felt like years, he was actually caught up with everything. Granted, he was sure that would all change on Monday and there was still half a chance he could be called in tomorrow. But, for now, he was working under the assumption that the damn Squad could work without him for a day and he was celebrating with a drink. It felt like he was drinking quite a lot this week, after the congratulatory birthday piss fest he'd had with Dung Fletcher earlier this week. Al wasn't much of a drinker by nature. And now that he'd been here for a little while, he thought maybe it'd have been better just to go home. It was loud and packed here - which he should have expected, honestly. And he was just thinking about leaving when a rather familiar giggle reached his ears. Al turned his head just in time to get a splash of beer all over one arm and when he looked up again, he was face to face with... well he wasn't really sure who, actually. She was terribly familiar. It wasn't until he heard her voice, addressing him so comfortably, that comprehension flooded his brain. Rita Skeeter. A very drunk Rita Skeeter, actually. "Cor blimey, Rita, no fucking kidding, long time!" He flashed a smile. Al had always talked fast, and what should have been several expressions and sentences, just mushed together in one quick line of speech. But that was just Al. "Celebrating the end of the week, yeah?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward her glass. He was still working on his first one. And he'd been planning on leaving before finishing a second. "Mm, yes, celebrating," Rita said, rolling her eyes dramatically, pulling a tube of lipstick seemingly out of nowhere and applying a fresh layer of bright red, only managing to do a decent job in her current state due to much practice, both applying lipstick and functioning while drunk. And, for that matter, applying lipstick while drunk. "You're looking... you look great, Al. My little alabaster man." She laughed as she used a stupid old nickname she used to tease him with way back when, back in school, ten years ago, back when they'd been close enough to call each other by nicknames, back when they'd been close enough to do all sorts of things. She cocked her head at him then and tried to remember why they'd stopped... being close. Well, that had been her fault, she supposed, but now, drunk and ten years later, she suddenly felt nostalgic. She leaned forward a little and waggled her eyebrows at him. "Did you miss me, Al?" Al smirked, leaning back in his chair a bit. Hand idly massaging the back of his neck, slightly shy smile, hand running up to mess with his hair. All very habitual. All very Al really. He wasn't all that used to compliments. Not in a oh no, poor me sort of way, but more to the fact that whenever he saw women, it was usually in the office or out in the field, and if it was out in the field, he wasn't looking for a date, and let's be honest, dating in the office was pretty complicated too. He didn't actually get to go out much. So, compliments were rare and he'd been such a terribly awkward teenager. All beside the point, really. "Yeah yeah, cheers, Rita, you're looking..." drunk. "...Good, too," he finished, idly reaching for his glass. Al was a fidgetter. It was hard for him to sit still. And the way she was looking at him didn't much help. Nerves were balled up in his stomach and it was a little unconscious for him to scoot back another half inch in his chair. Merlin, he could smell the alcohol coming off of her. "I, uh..." Another subconscious tug at the back of his hair, making it stick up a bit. "A bit, I suppose. It's been for fucking ever though, hasn't it? Guess I haven't thought about you in a while is all. Except when I manage to actually pick up the Prophet. Almost didn't believe it was you at first." "Didn't believe it was me what? Writing? I've been in the first three pages twice in the last few days," she said, and though she knew she should be excited, it just made her insiders squirm a little to think about, especially considering she was now a bloody field reporter, at least until their regular got back in a few weeks from burying and mourning his entire family, and hey, at least she didn't have any family left to bury. Except the Crockfords. Rita shivered a little at the thought and took a swig of beer, which turned out to be more like a chug. She put her glass down then, swiped beer off the corners of her mouth with her thumb, and then forced a grin at him. "I guess I'm celebrating that. The advancement of my career. Hurrah to me. My father would be proud." "Well, you know, last bloody decade," he clarified quickly. "I mean at first first, like years ago." He shut himself up with a quick drink of the scotch and soda he was slowly nursing. It was just fucking surreal running into her. And here. And drunk. And why now? Fuck, he really should have just gone home. This was quickly just turning embarrassing. Al quirked a brow as he watched her chug her beer. Merlin, how had she turned into this? It sounded so fucking... insulting and negative in his head. But this wasn't the girl he'd dated all those years ago. This wasn't even the girl he'd known in his seventh year. Al couldn't help the frown that pulled at the corners of his lips, the slightest furrow of the brow. His fingers found his hair again before he picked up his glass, now just turning it between his fingers. Would he? was what he rather wanted to ask. He hadn't really known Rita's dad. Just remembered how quickly she'd dumped him after he'd died, really, to be perfectly bloody honest. But he couldn't really imagine any dad being all that proud of their daughter running around a bar completely piss drunk and letting herself be groped. "Think you should probably be done celebrating for the night then," he said quietly. It was imposing and he knew it and part of him just wanted to leave and let it go because honestly, why should he give a real fuck about what Rita Skeeter did with her Friday nights? But he put his glass down and looked at her more seriously. Hell, maybe it was just the hitwizard in him wanting to stop a potential date rape. "Come on. I'll walk you home, Rita." "Oh, you'll walk me home, will you?" she said, laughing. She'd been planning on crawling into Doc's bed to sleep again, unless she found someone to go home with, but apparently her plans had just been changed for her. Somehow Rita managed to breeze right past the part where he told her to stop celebrating, and she even managed to misinterpret the serious way he was looking at her into something else. She leaned back in her chair a little and grinned at him, oblivious to the way he was thinking. She would have been offended, of course, if she knew. She would even have been defensive. Who was he to show up after, as he said, the last bloody decade and judge the way she lived her life? But Rita hadn't caught it, and so she had no reason to get angry, no reason to cause a scene. Instead, she just put a hand in her unruly hair and bit her lip and said, "Actually, I don't take men home. But you can take me to your place, if you'd like." Al blinked, confused. And then promptly realised how what he'd said had been misconstrued and Merlin's left nipple, he really should just leave. But then that would leave her here. And now he just felt responsible. So. "Umm," he filled the silence, and then laughed a little nervously, unsure of how to respond. "Um, no, I mean, um, I'll..I'll take you home and then turn around and then I'll go home and hopefully you won't wake up with too much of a hangover even though it probably doesn't really matter as tomorrow's Saturday." It occurred to him, somewhere in that mess of speech, that he probably could just take her home, give her the bed for the night and sleep on the couch. It would ensure that she didn't die sometime during the night and that he could put together a proper hangover cure for her in the morning. And if it came down to that, he would. Spike her damn tea with sleeping potion if he had to. He'd somehow, in these last few minutes, managed to make himself responsible for her. And he supposed that meant he'd do what he had to to make sure she didn't horribly regret tonight. Or something. Fucked if he knew she wouldn't regret it anyway. Rita blinked. She wasn't used to men saying no to her. Not because she was irresistible. There were, in fact, many men who could resist her, she knew. But she was decent looking, she thought, and she tended to surround herself on weekends with people who didn't much care about her personality, so to speak, except for the semi-regular appearance of Doris or Caradoc. When she met men and was in the mood for either letting them seduce her or seducing them herself, 'no' didn't ever factor into it. She wasn't sure if she should feel embarrassed (which she was too drunk for anyway) or just laugh, which she did ungracefully and perhaps even snorted a little. "Oh, come on. Are you fucking kidding me? Look, I'm fine to get home on my own anyway. You don't need to babysit me, Al," she said, picking up her drink again and getting to her feet, hanging on to the table with a white-knuckled grip as the world tilted a bit around her. Strangely, the undeniable proof that her mental state was obviously altered seemed to clarify things a little for her, and she leaned one hip back against the table, setting her drink down heavily and looking at him sheepishly. "Well, maybe I won't get home on my own, but I'm sure someone will escort me to a bed of some sort. Tonight is not a night for sleeping alone anyway." Apparently, I do, he thought, barely keeping from rolling his own eyes. He wasn't kidding and he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Not for this. Not when he could see some creepy old bloke eyeing her out of his peripheral vision. No. As long as Al had any fucking peep in the matter, Rita Skeeter was going to bed with nothing but a fucking bucket for a companion. "Right. I'm escorting you to your bed," he insisted, standing up and dropping a handful of sickles onto the table. It was pushy, he knew. But he didn't care. He shot a half-disgusted look at the man -- honestly, he had to be twice her age -- and put himself between Rita and whoever he was. Al still had his damn Ministry badge on him. His hand itched for his wand and he was almost ready to just fucking side-along her to... well, to anywhere but here really. "You don't even know where I live, Al," Rita pointed out, but she wasn't moving away from him. She was interested, she supposed. Curious as to why exactly he gave a shit what she did. Maybe she was even a little flattered he apparently wanted to take care of her, even if she was still adamant that she didn't need taking care of. Drink now ignored, she slid towards him, putting a hand on his side for balance, curling her fist into his shirt. She decided to break her own rule for once--Al had always been her exception anyway, it seemed--and let him come back to her place, if only because he seemed so stoic and bossy and it was actually kind of nice for a change. She leaned in clumsily and, lips brushing red lipstick against his earlobe as she stumbled a little closer than she meant to in order to whisper her address in his ear. He was both familiar and strange to her. He used to be someone she cared about, back when she was sixteen. For a while, she'd had some silly notion that she loved him, but then her father had been killed, and everything had changed. She'd seen Al a few times since then, of course, but only in passing and only in public. The wizarding world wasn't infinite, after all. This was the first real interaction she'd had with him since school, and he had changed a lot. She supposed she had too. Al felt a certain amount of relief as she conceded. Sort of. He wasn't sure he much liked her touching him, but he held his ground, all stubborn Gryffindor now. That much hadn't really changed. Rita all but fell on him and he moved quickly to catch her, mostly by the shoulders. Nothing remotely inappropriate or suggestive. He just wanted to get her home. Fucked if he knew how he'd managed to finish his night like this. He quickly memorised her address and then gently took her hand to lead her out of the bar, eyes scanning for anything remotely suspicious. He could feel the weight of a few disgruntled drunks, all clearly put out that their eye candy was being dragged away. But if any of them made a move, Al would fucking make sure he was the last person they crossed tonight. This whole damn scene had put him in a bit of a mood and Al had never really had the best temper. He pulled her outside, keeping a careful eye on her lest she lose her balance. He'd be right there to catch her if she did. "All right, apparating, so relax a second," he instructed, looking almost soft again once they were out of the bar. Al waited until she had, and then both of them disappeared with a low pop! Al's glares at the bar patrons went unnoticed by Rita, who was waving flirtily good bye to the room at large, and calling out a loud, "GOODNIGHT, DOC!" across the room. She was sure he was used to her leaving with men here and there and everywhere, so he probably wouldn't think anything of it. The cool air felt nice on Rita's face, warm as she was with alcohol. She hung onto Al as he dragged her by side-along to her flat, squeezing her eyes shut and then groaning as she opened them again. They were outside of her building. Behind it, to be exact, and that meant he intended to walk from there up to her flat. She was wearing heels and had practically pickled her liver that night. She'd done it before, and she'd even done it with more liquor in her than she had consumed that night, since this was hardly the most inebriated she'd ever been. She did not in any way feel like walking up all those flights of stairs at that moment, however. "Fuck. It's about seventeen hundred stairs to my apartment," she complained as she let go of him and headed out of the alley, one hand on the bright green wall of her building for balance. She looked over at Al and made a face. Al sighed, glancing up the side of the building. He wasn't exactly sure what prompted the question, except he really just wanted to get her to her own door. "Seventeen hundred, eh?" he asked idly. "Bet it's just more like... dunno, sixty or something." He glanced at her, not much liking the face she was giving him. And then sighed. Al didn't really believe in karma, but he had better be getting some serious good Samaritan points right now. "All right, come here, I'll carry you," he half grumbled. "Don't throw up on me and don't make me fall or else we're both going to end up hurt." Rita grinned brightly at him and then stepped close, wrapping her arms around his neck in a gleeful hug. She hadn't expected him to offer to carry her. She'd thought perhaps he'd side-along her upstairs into her living room or something, but this was so much better. "You are a wonderful man, Al," she said dreamily, words slurring together slightly. "I can't believe after all this time I can still make eyes at you and you'll do things for me. I'm glad that didn't wear off." She let him go finally and pushed her wild, curly hair out of her face, standing before him instead of pressed up against him. There was a bit of a wicked slant to her mouth as she asked, "How do you want me, Al?" Al was rather caught off guard by the hug, drunken as it was. He sort of awkwardly, rested his hands on her back for a moment before pulling away a little. It was fucking stupid, considering Al was normally a rather good hugger despite being unreasonably skinny. But that was all entirely beside the point. He could argue that it had less to do with her and more to do that he could be a complete fucking pushover from time to time. But he didn't. Instead, he habitually ran his hand through his hair again, making a low groan in his throat at her question, this time bringing both hands up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he looked up at her again, he sighed and took few steps toward her. "Put... put your arms around my neck," he instructed softly. "Don't let go." And with that, he swept her into his arms, highly aware of her skirt. Fucking hell. She was light enough though, and he shouldered the door open and started up the stairs. One at a time. Al thought he was in pretty good shape, despite all the greasy, bad stuff he ate. But by the time he got to the second floor, he felt slightly winded and he almost frowned at the next set of stairs. "What floor are you on again?" he asked quietly. "The top floor," Rita answered loftily, grinning at him and hanging on tight. All of her emotions were somehow both blown out of proportion and muted by the alcohol simultaneously, and it was a strange feeling. He was being so good to her; drunk as she was, she still realized that. It wasn't really something she was used to. Sure, Doris and Doc were nice to her, and it wasn't like any of the other temporary people in her life were mean to her, but this was somehow different. "Don't worry, there are only three. You're almost there," she assured, him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. The giddy phase of her inebriation had passed and now she was just feeling dizzy. She tightened her grip around him and closed his eyes, pressing her face into his neck a little, nose by his collar bone. He was so warm, and he smelled good too. She idly hoped he'd stay. She'd meant it at the bar when she'd said tonight was not a night for sleeping alone. Rita had had one hell of a week, and with all the assignments she'd been getting lately, and all of the new aspects of her job she didn't know how to handle, she'd been up late working each night, typing away about horrific things, things that she really didn't want to look at that closely, things they wanted her to dissect and judge and point fingers at. Things that could get her into trouble if she got involved in, just like they'd gotten her father into trouble. She shivered a little against him and opened her eyes again. God, she'd seen some disgusting things. At least the last few days the more gruesome aspects of the clean up had been finished and she hadn't been subjected to anything like her first glimpse at Tower Bridge again. Not that it mattered. She couldn't get what she'd seen out of her head even though it had been over a week. She wasn't sure she'd be able to even if months passed. The second flight of stairs seemed to sap his energy far more readily, and his arms were begging him to drop her when he got to the landing. They were going to be damn fucking sore in the morning, he could already tell. It wasn't something he was very used to any more. Not since training really. Which was a long time ago now, it seemed. And anyway, there was something familiar and comfortable about holding her and having her rest her head on his shoulder and hell, he really shouldn't have been thinking about any of that. It was so long ago. So much had changed. He had changed. And quite obviously, so had she. He couldn't afford to be nostalgic about it. She'd ended it and that had been that. Ten years ago. Of course, he couldn't really say he would do this for anyone. He wouldn't. But, well. It was the right thing to do. For her, anyway. He made it to her door and carefully put her down, keeping an attentive eye on her lest she try to fall or even really sway. "All right?" he asked, concern clear on his face as he watched her. His arms felt too light and his biceps hurt and he was slightly out of breath. But it was all right. There were worse things in the world, anyway. When he set her down, it took her a moment to get balanced, and she reached behind her to latch one hand onto the door handle, a tactic she had much experience using to stay upright. She looked at him then, her expression more serious than it had been all night, just staring for a moment. She'd never considered starting things back up again with him, not since they'd fallen out of touch after school. She hadn't really thought about him, and she certainly hadn't been pining after him for ten years or anything of that nature, but... she remembered being really happy with him, before her whole life changed. It was obvious he was a good guy, though, and she knew she wasn't the sort of girl you took home to meet the parents. She was the sort of girl that was just for fun, and she was used to that. It had been a long few moments just looking into his face, but she finally forced a smile again. "Yeah, all right," she answered softly, twisting the handle and opening the door behind her, surprisingly not falling into the room. She stepped into her cluttered entryway and leaned against one wall to pull her shoes off, dropping them anywhere without much attention to it. Her blazer followed then, and she threw it on top of a pile of books on her coffee table before she flopped down onto her bed, sitting and looking over at Al. "You're coming in, aren't you?" she asked, putting on what she thought was her most becoming expression, but there was still that lingering seriousness to her eyes, an underlying pleading not to leave just yet. Al felt slightly uncomfortable under her gaze, and yes, there was that hand again. From the back of the neck, massaging briefly, and then into the hair, mussing slightly before dropping again, shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His eyes followed her, all the way to her bed. But he stayed right where he was: just a few inches outside the door. Outside. As if he couldn't cross the threshhold. Al sighed at her question, looking at the space between his trainers for a moment, and then shaking his head. "No," he answer quietly, scratching absently behind his ear. "No, I'm going." Rita inhaled deeply as he said no. This time it was more than just shock at being turned down. This time she actually didn't want him to leave. She leaned forward so she could see him better from her bed, and then slid right out of the bed and onto the floor, lower lip edging outward in a pout, eyes widening. He'd mussed his hair a hundred times already that night, and he'd probably muss it a hundred more, but that one, that time as he'd thought about her request, it had made her want to muss his his hair for him. "Please. I... Just come in for a bit, Al," she said, feeling like if he left, whatever calm she'd felt on the stairs with her head against his shoulder, before she'd remembered the bad things--if he left, that calm would leave with him. Her cheeks flushed as she stammered, alcohol stringing all her words together, "Even if... we don't have to have sex or anything. Just stay. Please?" In the morning, once she sobered up, she'd be humiliated she'd uttered those words. Rita had said a lot of dirty things in her adult life, but somehow asking him to stay, telling him they didn't have to sleep together, that felt more humiliating to her. It was out of her comfort zone. Since when did she just want to spend time with a man she'd brought home from the bar? Of course, Al wasn't just a man she'd brought home from the bar. He was Al. He was... what? They weren't friends, they certainly weren't anything else. Hell, she'd hardly seen him in ten years, but this felt like an opportunity. "Umm, I..." Hand. Hair. Back into pocket. He didn't know if he could tell her no again when she was on the floor and looking at him like that and she'd said please and Merlin she was so bloody drunk. Chances were, she probably wouldn't even remember this and honestly, Al wasn't sure he wanted her to. He reminded himself that he didn't have to stay or anything. She'd said it herself, they didn't have to have sex - and if she pushed, he'd leave, he already knew. Alastor Gumboil didn't go after drunk girls, not even when they threw themselves at him. It was just so bloody undignified on about fifty different levels. But that was beside the point. He didn't have to stay. He had plenty of fucking self-control, nothing was going to happen. And what would she do if he left? Logic told him, well... probably nothing. But that look was so familiar. So... Rita. And it was fucking stupid, he knew. They'd hardly seen each other's face in a whole bloody decade and somehow, he'd ended up... here. At her doorstep and with her practically begging him not to leave. It was like a surrealists dream. Al didn't know what to do. In the end, he was such a fucking pushover sometimes, and that's what he was telling himself as he stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind him. He was careful not to trip over shoes or carpet. "Just until you fall asleep, Rita," he said quietly. "I...um, I can't be here when you wake up. But I'll make sure you get to sleep." He pulled her back up from the floor, onto the bed. "Let me get you a glass of water." She smiled dopily at him as he stepped inside, and when he scooped her up off the floor and set her back onto the bed, she felt her breath catch in her chest. She didn't know why she felt so emotional. Rita had always been a happy drunk, but the last week or so of her life had completely thrown her for a loop. Hell, if she was honest, the last six months was when everything had really started changing for her, when she had overheard that stupid prophecy and had been trying to forget it ever since. "Thanks," she said quietly, looking at him through the hair that had fallen back into her face, and she was grateful that it obscured her eyes slightly. She was feeling, for some reason completely beyond her grasp, a little wet around the eyes. "Glasses are in the kitchen, but be careful in there. It's kind of... cluttered." She flopped back then so she wouldn't have to look at him, and closed her eyes as she began to fiddle with her belt. Her party clothes weren't exactly comfortable to sleep in. She got her belt undone and pulled it off, dropping it off the side of the bed, and then began pulling off her jewellery. Necklace, bangles, rings, and she dropped them all into the basket she had specifically for jewellery at the side of her bed. Then she began sliding her thigh high socks down her legs, without sitting up of course, and without a thought to her modesty as she lifted her legs in the air to reach her stockings. Without all that, the skirt and shirt weren't altogether uncomfortable, and it was far too much work to bother with the little tiny buttons on the back of the skirt at the moment. So, she just moved to lay properly on the bed, long, bare legs splayed out over the covers, curling the pillow under her face and finding him again with her eyes. He looked out of place in her apartment. She had never brought anyone back here. This was her space and hers alone. It wasn't big enough to host parties, which suited her fine. It was her own little colourful, perfect place where she could do whatever she wanted, and really, Doris was the only one she'd ever had up. Except now he was there. "Do you like my flat?" she mumbled at him curiously. Al nodded and pulled his wand out, idly thinking lumos as he made his way into her kitchen. With her warning in mind, he was extra careful of wear he stepped. He was used to this sort of walking anyway. Couldn't disturb a crime scene. This was a far cry from a crime scene, but he'd managed to adopt the same sort of mind set. At least about her kitchen. He glanced idly at her just in time to get a rather clear view of her arse and Al quickly looked away, thankful that it was dark so she couldn't see how much he'd flushed. He kept his attention fixated on filling the glass, which didn't actually take very long considering it was just water. Fuck. In any case, most of the excess blood seemed to have left his face by the time he turned back to her. He was, as was almost usual, taken off guard by the question and he quickly glanced around as he handed the glass of water to her. "I think it's nearly the same size as mine. Mine might be a bit bigger actually, I've got an extra bedroom for when my brother's a bit too sloshed to floo or apparate," he rambled for a moment. "Mine's more messy though. I'm hardly ever home and when I am, I don't want to clean. You probably have a nicer view as well..." He glanced toward a window. "I'm staring at trees and the backs of buildings most of the time.... isn't... it isn't very interesting or anything." "Mm, I do have a pretty good view," she said seriously as she could muster, but she was watching him and not paying any attention to the window he was looking at, the one that overlooked the river. She considered him for a moment, considered the whole night. Within, what, five minutes of talking to her he'd decided she'd had enough to drink and needed an escort home, then he'd carried her up the stairs and now he was standing there, holding a bloody glass of water for her like she was an invalid or something, maybe someone with something catching since he clearly didn't want to get too close to her, even though she clearly wanted him to. What the hell was she doing? This wasn't her. This wasn't what she did. She was independent and strong. She took care of herself and she didn't need anyone else. She was fine on her own. She had been for years and suddenly, what, suddenly she wasn't anymore? That was bollocks. She shouldn't have brought him back her. She shouldn't have broken her own rules for him. It was just messing with her head. She closed her eyes as the room spun a bit around her and then said softly, "God, you must think I'm fucking pathetic." Al quirked a brow and shrugged. "I think you're drunk," he said simply, for once being relatively concise about this. He considered her briefly and then nudged her gently with the glass. "Drink the water, Rita," he said softly, but insistently. He was here until she slept, that's what he'd committed to. And it was weird and stupid and probably not that smart, but Al had never claimed to be the fucking brains of any operation. He just did what he thought was right, and if that meant he was carrying Rita up three flights of stairs, then that's what he was doing. And that's what he'd done. It all seemed very simple in his head, just one thing after the other. Wasn't that how most things usually happened. Rita sat up a little, propping herself up on one arm and taking the glass dutifully. She drank some, watching him over the rim as she did. Once she'd finished a few mouthfuls, she lowered the glass and said defensively, "I just had a bad day. Week. Month. Life. Whatever. I'm fine, you know. I'm a field reporter now." That was something she was supposed to be excited about, that was an accomplishment, something to be proud of. It made her a little nervous, it exposed her to things she didn't know if she wanted to be involved in, sure, but it was her career. It was a step in the right direction. It was why she was so out of sorts lately, she thought. It was easier to blame than anything else, anyway. Al nodded a little vaguely. "Yeah. You were celebrating," he reminded her gently. Right. Celebrating. Al knew all too well about those bad sights. He'd seen a lot of them in his years working at the Ministry. It eventually got a little numb and he wasn't really sure it was a good thing. No one should see that sort of thing enough to have to become numb to it, or at least that was his opinion. But they were at war. And fighting an idea was a fuck of a lot harder than fighting another country or something. Ideas spread like wildfire and were impossible to extinguish. He hesitated a moment and then sank down on the edge of her bed. "Come on, lay down." Again, quiet but insistent, just that edge of firm. He didn't know if he wanted to know what the real problem was. It'd been ten years. He shouldn't care. One step at a time, he reminded himself. Right now, getting her to sleep was the only thing that really mattered. After that, who knew. She took another sip of the water, then set it down on the floor, laying back as instructed. She was too drunk to argue and the firmness in his voice wasn't rude. It was almost like he cared about her, and Rita had a brief flashback to sixth year in Hogwarts, one balmy day in May before her father had died, before she'd unceremoniously told Al to bugger off. They'd just been laying out on the grass, holding hands and looking up at the clouds and they'd been talking about something, the future maybe, she didn't remember. She just remembered how simple it had been. There were no exams that year, and she had nothing to worry about. He'd been playing with her hair with his free hand, and she could remember just the way it felt, or at least she thought she could in that drunken moment. She closed her eyes then and reached out, curling her fingers around his wrist delicately. "You're a good guy, aren't you Al. You always were," she murmured, putting her free hand over her face, pressing lightly on her eyes in an effort to still the spins she got when she closed them. "I used to be better, I think. But we all grow up." Al leaned back a little, allowing her to at least have his hand. There was of course something entirely too familiar about this. He wasn't thinking about any moment in particular. Just all of it. He'd been happy with her. And he didn't like what she'd said about growing up. Because he'd grown up and he'd changed, but he was still Al. He barely recognised this woman who had once been his girl. It was like an elusive snitch. Glimpses here and there, a flash of gold, a quick flutter of wings in your peripheral vision. But never close enough to catch... or even be sure your eyes weren't just playing tricks on you. "You become who you pretend to be," he said quietly. He didn't remember where he'd heard that from. Maybe his dad. He didn't know. But it rang true. Especially now. "You just have to be careful of who you're acting like." "You sound like my father," she said, and it was clear she was starting to get sleepy. She never would've made such a comparison awake and coherent, drunk or not. Anyone who knew her at all would know what a compliment those words were, though. She'd spent her whole childhood being best friends with her dad. She had idolized him. She had wanted to be him. She had loved him fiercely and would have hexed anyone who said anything against him (which had happened once or twice in school when some of the pureblood Slytherins had thought his articles about equality were something to make fun of). That Al reminded her in any capacity of her father wasn't the insult, or the admonition, that many would intend it to be. She wasn't calling him old fashioned, she was complimenting him. "I didn't realize h'much I missed you," she said, the words running together, slurring of course because of the liquor but also because sleep was creeping ever closer under Al's calming presence. "Or I did, I guess, in school, but not in years." It was a good thing Al wouldn't be there in the morning. Rita would be humiliated at her slip up, at her ridiculous confessions and her uncharacteristic weakness. If she remembered anything in the morning, she would be very glad indeed not to have to face Al. The compliment left Al rather confused. He knew, of course, to some degree how close Rita had been with her father and of course had experienced the effect his death had had one her first hand. He didn't really know whether to take it as a compliment or not, no matter what her intention. And then she only went on and Al was sure it was just the booze talking. The realisation (or assumption, rather) brought a certain amount of relief. He didn't want to dwell on the implications if she was sober and saying this. It was just all too damn confusing right now. She did seem to be falling asleep though, and Al reminded himself just to focus on one thing at a time. He could dwell and brood on this when he got home, but right now his attention had to be on her going to sleep. Hell, she might still not remember any of this and he'd never have to think about this again. Of course none of that helped him with what he ought to say now and Al wondered if she found the ensuing silence as uncomfortable as he did. Probably not, he decided. So instead of actually saying anything, he just idly threaded his fingers through hers. A vague sort of affection, perhaps for a girl that wasn't even really there any more. In all reality, it probably didn't take all that long before Al realised that Rita had indeed, fallen asleep, but it felt like hours of just sitting, letting the dark swallow the room to Al. Eventually though, he noted the evenness in her breathing and he carefully pulled away and stood up from the bed. It was a complete afterthought to conjure a bucket and sit it on the floor by her head. Just in case. And with that, Al padded silently back to the door and slid out of her flat. He suddenly felt as if he had quite a lot to think about. |