John V. Dawlish (thelowestplace) wrote in changedrpg, @ 2011-11-30 23:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !date: 1997 - november, john dawlish, sturgis podmore |
Who: John Dawlish & Sturgis Podmore
What: Reunion?
Where: London, Regent St.
When: Tonight
Warnings/Rating: TBA
Given the exponential increase in paperwork that had descended on him since the new background check requirement had gone into effect, John had been leaving the office even later than he was accustomed to do. He had some hope that it would all let up at the end of the week, but for now he just counted himself lucky when he made it out to the street before ten o'clock. He should have gone straight home, but since the Christmas lights had gone up on the long, crowded street that stretched away from the Ministry's concealed entrance up into town he found himself tempted to make the walk a little more slowly, to bypass the more direct transportation options in favor of doing a little window shopping. It was very nearly December, after all, and time was running out.
There were some people on his list he knew he'd never find anything for, or at least nothing that was really right. He doubted he'd ever find the perfect gift for the man who had literally everything, for instance, although he had a few vague ideas percolating in the back of his mind; and his sister was always impossible, try as he might to find something generically nice she could add to her household. The only ones he ever had any luck with were his nephews, who, at four and six years old, were still young enough to be impressed by the mere fact that their uncle was an Auror, and old enough to like the sort of toys he remembered having as a boy. It was a sweet spot that wouldn't last long, and he was determined to take advantage of it. He enjoyed giving them things more than he'd ever enjoyed it with anyone else, anyway, and so there was no reason not to spend an hour or so of his time trying to think of something that wouldn't fall flat.
He had his face very nearly pressed up against a window with a display full of what looked like self-operating rifles (which ... no, those probably weren't going to fit the bill) when he saw a familiar figure pass in the glassy reflections. He straightened, turned, caught sight of the retreating figure he was almost certain he knew, and followed.
"Sturgis?"
Maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all; they had got on well enough, once, but things had a way of complicating themselves over the years, particularly when there was a prison term involved. Still, for him those complications were only ever abstract, and easily left behind. No reason to hold off.