John V. Dawlish (thelowestplace) wrote in changedrpg, @ 2011-11-27 22:00:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !date: 1997 - november, john dawlish, rolf scamander |
Who: John Dawlish & Rolf Scamander
What: Political discussions are always so awkward, aren't they?
Where: John & Rolf's flat
When: Tonight
Warnings/Rating: Politics!/TBA
John had once preferred the weeks that saw him staggering home in the middle of the night, straight in from the office - he'd always liked his days as full as he could make them, and work had been the only thing available, back then, aside from sliding in and out of pubs until the wee hours. These days, though, when he finally came through the door around midnight he felt as though he'd missed something. Finding an empty, darkened sitting room was no longer a promise of a nightcap and eventual sleep; it was a disappointment. He was holding out hope that this would all be over on Friday, when he'd promised to deliver on the last of these damned background checks, but of course he knew that there was always something else around the corner. It worried him a little, moreso now with all of this ... unpleasantness permeating public opinion.
Some things hadn't changed, though, and confronted with a lonely room John poured himself a couple fingers of gin, grabbed the evening paper he'd grabbed on his way home from work, and settled himself in his chair. It was only after skimming through the sports section and laying it aside in disgust (Wimbourne dropping like a stone, as usual) that his eye was drawn to a book lying on the side table. The author's name was jolting enough that he picked it up - of course he knew that Rolf had an interest in Grindelwald, having lived with him for months, having been to his home in Germany that hardly lacked for relevant historical memorabilia. John's knowledge of the subject was limited to what he'd learned in school and the cultural references that had inevitably infused the world he lived in, and so it was with some trepidation that he even opened a book the man had written, and which he discovered, to his surprise, was in English; and his unease wasn't exactly soothed by the fact that nothing he read seemed particularly outlandish. He found he'd blown through about twenty pages before he put it down again, and he felt ... strange, above all else, when he came up for air. It was the sort of thing he should have been able to object to, to pick apart point by point with all the easy answers that had been presented in his history classes that had touched on that great war. But somehow he never found a foothold; he read and read, looking for the chink in the armor where he could insert the reliable old answers he'd always carried around in his head, but it never presented itself. He didn't have the tools he'd thought he had, and he was in no way equipped to fashion them on his own. It was disorienting.
Even more unsettling, though, was the parchment tucked inside - which was clearly addressed to Mr. Scamander, and which John glanced through regardless, albeit with a pang of guilt. It immediately set his nerves on edge - it would be less of a hassle than having to convince a muggle that we don't actually mean them any harm and it would make sense to control the leaders of each nation, after a fashion weren't phrases calculated to put anyone at ease, never mind someone quite so wrapped up in law enforcement - and he set it down wishing he hadn't pried. It was probably nothing. Rolf was an author, a naturalist. That was all. People wrote all sorts of idle things they didn't mean.
He finished his drink slowly, then went up to his bedroom to change. He'd hoped that by the time he was through with all of that the sense of disquiet would have left him, but it hadn't - and so he padded back down to Rolf's bedroom, easing the door open and sitting carefully at the edge of the bed.
John leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on his temple, resting his hand on his shoulder. "Hey." It was late, and he really shouldn't have woken him, but ... he had an excuse, at least, in that Rolf had told him it was all right. He could pretend he'd meant well.