Who Caradoc Dearborn and Bee Wagtail What Caradoc need some sexual healing. When [BACKDATED TO] Late Tuesday Night Where Caradoc's flat Rating This thread was brought to you by the letters 'F' and 'U'.
Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?
It could have gone worse. Sure, if also could have gone better, but that wasn't how Caradoc Dearborn liked to think about things. He was still alive, he was still breathing, and Rabastan Lestrange was now back where he belonged. Caradoc knew that this was all a set up because he was more than aware of who it was behind the desk in the Minister's office, but that didn't matter to him. The thrill of the chase had felt real enough, and so had bringing in that Death Eater son of a bitch.
There were injuries, there were always injuries, that was just part of the job. It was someone else's job to take care of that.
It really hadn't been his intention to bleed all over Bee Wagtail's journal, but after he kept it together to drop Lestrange off into custody, he'd been ready to just collapse. He'd struggled to Floo home and--well, at least the blood had been an effective way of getting his point across. He was also pretty amused that she'd known immediately it was him. But he had a bit of a morbid sense of humour like that.
As he waited for her, he thought about the roses he'd sent her earlier. He thought it was sweet that she made a point of thanking whomever sent them, but he'd never admit to it being him. He was a tired old man who got his kicks from facing off with Death Eaters. He was no damn good for a bright, pretty girl with her whole life ahead of her. He knew that, even if he sometimes entertained the idea. It was just a happy kind of thought.
Caradoc's flat, like him, was old and tired. It needed to be updated badly. The furniture and colour schemes were all reminiscent of the orange and browns of the 1970s, the shag carpets were faded, and the paint on the wall looked like it could tell you a million horrible stories if it could talk. Even Caradoc's cat, a permanent fixture in the armchair at the living room's corner, looked like he'd been there since at least 1976.