robinet burke. (robinet) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-28 18:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | robinet burke, rolf scamander |
WHO: Rolf Scamander & Robinet Burke
WHAT: Robin visits Rolf and they talk about ants and brooms
WHERE: Rolf's flat, Knockturn
WHEN: Sunday 28th January, early afternoon
Rolf left the safehouse in the early morning with instructions to rest and take it easy, although the concept of taking it easy was foreign to him. Still, he sprawled across his bed and didn’t wake up until well into the afternoon, long past the time when he would normally be up and about. Sunlight crept into the room and warmed his sore skin, and while the bites on his legs ached with each subtle shift, at least his shoulder was whole again. He was still shaking off the last dregs of sleep when he heard the knock on the front door. He pulled his sheets back, half-ready to get out of bed, but thought better of it at the last second. He was tired and he didn’t want to disturb the kitten curled up beside his legs. He used his wand to unlock the door, then flopped back onto his pillows with a sigh. He didn’t know who it was, but he mentally searched for the right words to say to whoever it could be. I’m sorry to Robin, I’m sorry to Francine— He glanced up at the figure in the doorway of his bedroom. “Robinet,” he said softly, wincing as he struggled to sit up. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come.” “Said I would,” Robin said, more a mumble than actual words, as he folded his arms across his chest. He inched only slightly into the room, then took a step back, leaning against the doorframe and looking intently at Rolf. It was easier to look at him than say he’d had to come, because being at home was suffocating and Robin’s skin had felt like it was on fire every time someone else’s sadness pressed into him. “You look like crap.” “I feel like crap,” Rolf admitted with a little frown. He regarded Robin carefully for a moment, noting the tightness of his jaw and the paleness of his skin. It took some effort, but he managed to slide up and over, his back resting against the headboard. The kitten, aggravated at losing its spot, jumped down from the bed and padded toward Robin, mewling quietly. “Do you want to sit?” Rolf asked, patting the empty space next to him. Robin stooped, hand out towards the kitten, waiting until she was closer before he gently ran his fingers over the soft fur between her ears, down underneath her chin. “Hey,” he greeted, in a softer voice, stroking the kitten absentmindedly. He looked up at Rolf and the space he was making for him, thinking for a moment. “So what did that warthog thing do to you really then?” The silence that followed was heavy, loaded. “It wasn’t a Tebo. I lied.” Rolf’s gaze flickered away from Robin, and he pretended to be interested in tracing patterns on his sheets. “It was a Death Eater.” Robin felt a strange absence in his chest where he wanted surprise to be. He stared at the side of Rolf’s face, the top of his head, as he looked away from him. Moments later, there was a twist in Robin’s gut but he didn’t know if it was surprise. Death Eater which meant yesterday, which meant he was there when Richenza — died. Robin closed his eyes. Took a breath. “Right,” he muttered, stroking the kitten again. “It was a Death Eater because you fight Death Eaters now.” His gaze turned assessing and then: “How hurt? Did you go to Mungo’s? What did they say?” “I didn’t go to Mungo’s but I did see a Healer. I should be fine in a couple days.” Rolf gave Robinet a weak smile out of habit, but it was gone a beat later. There was a slow exhale as he glanced down at the space on his bed, his fingers digging into the sheets as he turned the complexities of the situation over in his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down? You don’t have to stand there.” His eyes were bright and full of worry. “You can drag in a chair from the other room if you think the bed will be a tight fit.” “It’s not that,” Robin said, almost dismissively. He lifted a hand to his mouth, chewing for a second on the side of his thumbnail as he considered and then discarded saying anything. A quick few steps and he was sitting beside Rolf, toeing off his shoes before he drew his feet up onto the bed, knees up. “Don’t do anything weird like pat my arm or whatever, because I’ll kill you.” He was quiet for a moment, letting himself rest, back against Rolf’s headboard. He didn’t look round at him when he said, “Why didn’t you go to Mungo’s then?” “I just couldn’t,” Rolf replied, practically sighing the words. He quashed the urge to reach out and touch Robin’s face, his arms. Robin didn’t want to be touched, but their sudden proximity made Rolf’s throat ache. He looked down at his hands — there was a throbbing bite mark just above his left wrist. He needed something to look at that wasn’t Robin, so he stared at it. “I’m sorry about Richenza,” he finally said, gently knocking his shoulder against Robin’s. He hoped that little gesture was okay. Robin sighed, a long, slow exhale that made the air leave his body. He could feel his spine curving towards the headboard, body sagging slightly. He let his shoulder press against Rolf’s. “Yeah, it’s,” Robin started and then stopped abruptly. He didn’t know what it was. It was too loud, too much, a tangled press of emotions: hurt and anger and grief and beneath all of them a winding fear. Richenza had been there his whole life. Eyes smarting, Robin shrugged, his shoulders lifting then settling against Rolf’s again. His voice was more hollow when he spoke. “I guess I hope it was quick and stuff. I’m sorry about it too.” Rolf decided to risk being killed by putting an arm around Robinet’s shoulders, straining somewhat at the effort. “If I hear anything about what happened through, you know, I’ll tell you,” he promised. He meant it to come out level, but there was a quaver in his voice. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of Richenza — charming, engaging Richenza — not being a part of their lives anymore. His chest felt hollow and cold at the thought, like an abandoned hearth. “But I don’t think it was the Order.” Robin tensed involuntarily, every muscle coiled like a spring under Rolf’s arm. He didn’t move, though, despite the initial impulse, a flame-bright instinct to not let anyone touch him. He felt too much like an exposed nerve. He just stayed there, telling his muscles to relax. “It wasn’t the Death Eaters,” Robin said, flatly. “So it’s got to have been.” “No, I don’t think so,” Rolf insisted, shaking his head. “The Order doesn’t kill anyone, especially not innocent civilians. I think the Death Eaters accidentally did it and are looking to blame the Order.” “They wouldn’t have,” Robin said, bringing his thumb back to his mouth. He bit at the side of it and looked at the top of his knees. “They wouldn’t. I’d make sure not to sell a single thing to one of them again. I’d light them all on fire.” His voice was rough, getting rougher the more he talked. Robin bit down on his nail again. “Maybe the Order had an accident.” “Maybe.” But the uncertainty in his voice made it clear Rolf didn’t believe it was the Order. He had not been a member of the organization for long, but he knew the Order would be mindful of civilians. Under normal circumstances, Rolf would have seized on the opportunity to tell Robin he should never sell anything to a Death Eater. He couldn’t do that now. It seemed minor in the grand scheme of things. “The truth will come out eventually,” he continued after a weighted pause. “It always does.” “Sure,” Robin said, scepticism apparent. “The world loves the truth.” He didn’t want it to come out, not all of it. He didn’t want to have to deal with people talking about Richenza as if she was lesser because of some stupid semi-secret organisation with a boner for masks. Robin thumped his head backwards onto the headboard, hard enough that he winced, and then turned his head slightly to look at Rolf. “You’re an awful liar so I know you do anyway.” “I’m an awful liar?” Rolf repeated, eyes widening in genuine surprise. “I thought I was quite good at it.” There was a silence during which Robin just stared at Rolf, eyebrows furrowed. Then, when he spoke, it was in an affected voice, an imitation of Rolf’s which skewed a little too husky and too proper. “Oh yes, chum, I broke my shoulder so now I’m dictaquilling despite the fact that, as a destined to be famed magizoologist, I’m intimately acquainted with how to mend simple breaks. Do believe me, old sport.” And then Robin laughed. Robin’s laugh was rewarding in its own way, and Rolf fought back a smile as he ducked his head. “All right, maybe it wasn’t a good lie. But I couldn’t think of a reason for me to be at the Quidditch match when everyone knows I don’t really care about Quidditch, old sport.” “You were there to beat a Death Eater down,” Robin said and then he bit his tongue. “Which is your new hobby. You can’t ever say I have weird hobbies again.” “It’s not a weird hobby. It’s a helpful hobby, I hope. We’re going to put an end to this.” The words were painstakingly earnest, and it was clear Rolf believed everything he said. “We’re going to put an end to this,” Robin said, looking straight at Rolf. “We’re.” Rolf blinked. “Oh, well. You know what I mean.” Robin sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, sure.” He settled back, looking around the room and then back at Rolf, at his wrist. His hand shot out to grab it and turn it over, up so the bite was facing the ceiling. “You’ve got a bite there. I’m not blind, I noticed it. What happened?” “Oh, well. It’s nothing, it’s just,” Rolf stammered, slowly turning pink. He pulled his wrist away from Robin and held his hand to his chest, his embarrassment obvious. “I was swarmed by oversized bullet ants. It’s not that bad.” Robin frowned, leaning slightly forward, making sure to catch Rolf’s eye. He looked particularly intent. He was trying hard not to look concerned. “I read Bellatrix Lestrange’s entry, you know. I know you were with — well around — oh for Merlin’s sake.” He looked away, unable to get himself to say what he wanted. He wanted to tell Rolf whatever it was he thought he was doing it was too dangerous. Being involved with anything or anyone was too dangerous. You could go to a Quidditch match to help whatever stupid agenda it was and die. “I’m never forgiving you if you fall off a broom and die,” Robin heard himself say, jagged edges in his voice, a surly combativeness to the words. At least he didn’t sound sad, he thought. At least there was that. “Is that what—” But the question died abruptly in Rolf’s throat. He wanted to know more about what had happened to Richenza, but he didn’t want to pry, either. He glanced down at his wrist, wincing at the sight of the discolored skin, before his hand shot out to grab Robin’s. “I’m going to be fine, I promise. I still have to become the world’s greatest magizoologist, so I can’t die just yet. It’s not like anyone else has a chance of finding a crumple-horned snorkack.” “You’re getting so cocky,” Robin said, after a moment. “Your head’s growing by the second.” He looked at Rolf’s hand around his and his face twisted into something painful, an expression he would have hated if he could see it. Instead, he just felt it, the way his mouth thinned and his face pulled tighter into itself, his heart beating in his chest. Nearly everyone he cared about thought they could help out causes, which was stupid and selfish and Robin was half-sure they’d all die of it. He tried to breathe normally and squeezed Rolf’s hand. “You probably won’t be fine but it’s whatever.” He said it lightly and then moved his hand back just slightly. “I know it’s not whatever, Robinet,” Rolf replied, his tone gentle but a touch reproachful, too. “You don’t have to pretend you’re too cool for emotions with me.” “I’m not pretending I’m too cool,” Robin said, scrunching his nose up. The words crawled up his throat, a lighter tone to them, and without thinking about it he added, “I am too cool.” “Of course you are,” Rolf said, solemn until he reached up to tug Robinet’s hat down over his eyes. “You’re the coolest person I know.” “Ugh,” Robin said, reaching to swat at Rolf’s hand. A small smile had curled the corners of his mouth upwards and he pulled the hat first off his eyes and then, a second later, off his head. He threw it onto the ground beside his discarded shoes. “I don’t trust you not to do that again. Hats are cool. I’m definitely cool.” “You’re cool the way jazz music is cool,” Rolf replied, smiling as he settled back against the headboard. “Hats are only cool if you can pull them off. I can’t, but you can.” Something like disgust but less hard twisted across Robin’s face. “I can’t believe you’re comparing me to jazz. Keep your mouth shut,” he said, slouching slightly. He thought about asking Rolf more questions, because there were a million things he wanted to know. A mountain of answers he wanted. Looking at the tops of his knees, Robinet tried to think about whether it was fair to ask him: what he was doing, if he couldn’t just stop, if he knew about Richenza, what he would do if he knew. His head was too crowded. He let out a breath and then he moved closer to Rolf, their shoulders pressing together, head tilted towards him. “I’m glad you’re okay or whatever,” he said, softly, and then resolutely pretended he hadn’t said anything by lapsing into silence for the next few minutes. |