(mary) francine goldstein (francen) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-11-06 14:10:00 |
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Begonia Scuttlepot was a 54-year old woman who had died from choking on a pretzel on her way to a Quidditch game. Technically, according to her chart, she hadn't died the first time, because someone had Heimliched her in time, but when she took another bite, she wasn't so lucky. Death by pretzel was really one of the worst fates Francine had encountered in her line of work. She turned the page and scribbled her rating in the corner. It deserved at least a 7. She had just turned to the next page to mark off her checklist when the door opened, startling her enough to resort to defensive maneuver #15, which incidentally was to grab the nearest scalpel and brandish it as a weapon. She didn't lower it even when she realized who it was. "Oh," Francine said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "There was a sign." It very specifically forbade Robin Burke from entering and the intern she'd posted at the door had promised to stop him if he tried to come in. Clearly, he didn't value his job. Robin quirked an eyebrow at Francine and looked back over his shoulder, his expression mostly mild, slight surprise as if he’d somehow missed the sign. He hadn’t. It had been impossible to miss: large and darkly coloured, as if the words had all been practically hammered into the paper. KEEP OUT, ROBINET BURKE. MORGUE UNDESIRABLE #1. The man who’d been standing near the sign had looked nervous when he’d approached and managed to get nearly all the way through his spiel (obviously ripped nearly entirely off something Francine had said) before Robin had liberated the sign from the wall and told him to get going. He hadn’t, admittedly, been exactly nice about it but that was neither here nor there. “I don’t recall noticing one that much,” he said, shrugging. “It mustn’t have been that memorable.” There was a lopsided smirk on his face as he looked back at Francine, briefly glancing at the scalpel in her hand. He walked closer, but kept out of stabbing range. “What are you gonna do with that thing?” She held the scalpel out slightly farther, nearly taunting him to get closer. It didn't stop him but if he thought that she didn't know how to use it, he'd be SORELY mistaken. "What do people normally do with scalpels?" “Is it in the name?” Robin asked, his smirk still firmly in place. “Are you looking to scalp me?” "If you don't behave, maybe," she said, hopefully intimidatingly. "I'm not afraid to take drastic action." Francine had heard this once in one of her shows. She definitely delivered it perfectly. Robin kept a straight face for a full four seconds which he personally believed was a credit to his own temperament. A snort left him and he ducked his head, chin pulling into his chest as he tried to smother his smile. “Oh, MF,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m definitely not scared of you. You can put the scalpel down.” "Well, you should be," Francine argued, but her arm was getting tired and if she did put her scalpel down (she did), it was only because she wanted a rest. Her reflexes were better than his anyways. "I told you I was banning you from the morgue. Please respect my desires." “You can’t ban me from the morgue,” Robin said, with the confidence of someone who was well used to being in places that he shouldn’t be. He walked over to lean against one of the long tables in the middle of the morgue, hip resting against it. “I know Old Jimmy and New Jimmy and Young Carl and Madam Rosemary. They love me. These are my people.” He looked down at the woman in between them. “You could just make this easier and tell me anything interesting that’s happened in here.” "Old Jimmy and New Jimmy and Young Carl and Madam Rosemary are in the cemetery now, so you can go visit them there," she said, although she knew for a fact that Young Carl was still here. She refused to correct herself, though, instead choosing to leap into action when she saw Robin's attention shift, pulling him away from poor Begonia's pretzel-dead body. "Stop crowding my workspace. She's suffered enough this weekend. You can't get your DEATH EATER germs on her body." “Hey,” Robin said, too sharp, pulling his arm out of Francine’s grip. “No touching.” He gave Francine a truly offended look, stepping away and looking down at the body. “I don’t have Death Eater germs. Is it a Friday?” "I'm sorry, I didn't know germs went away just because you say they should," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes in a very practiced, spectacular fashion. It was always best to emphasize. “I told you it was only on Fridays,” Robin said, with an irritated shake of his head. It was ridiculous for someone to think he was a Death Eater anyway. Where was the money in that? "Germs don't work that way." She crossed her arms and placed herself in between Begonia's dead body and Robin. "It's just lucky that she didn't die from a Death Eater attack. Then she'd have so many germs on her." “What?” Robin’s brow furrowed, face morphing into a mask of confusion. “What are you — Francine, Death Eaters don’t just have specific germs they spew out like spores and attach to others. They’re just normal people germs.” She shook her head vehemently. "No, they definitely have specific germs. You can't murder someone and not be different on the germ level." “That doesn’t make any sense,” Robin said. “They’d have rounded up all the Death Eaters in the interim, right? And they didn’t. Because that’s not true.” "You don't know about their germs until they get caught and tested. That's why it's so hard to find out who they are." There had to be an explanation for it. "Look, just trust me. I've done a lot of research into this." “I highly doubt that,” Robin said and shook his head. He looked over her shoulder at the body of the woman. “I won’t get my germs on her, even though they’re not even Death Eater ones.” Francine peered over her shoulder at Begonia. "You'd have to wear gloves," she decided. "And you still have to stay a respectable distance. She's dead." Robin nodded and went over to the glove dispenser, pulling a pair out with practised ease. He put them on. He was very respectful of health and safety, sometimes, occasionally. “You know,” he said, as he snapped them on, “I’m not a Death Eater, right?” "Nice try, Burke. I know for a fact that you admitted it yesterday. I can show you if you like, but you can't have forgotten already." She would've thought that no one could ever forget admitting something of that magnitude, but Robin had always been extra weird. Robin sighed as he turned around, fixing the bottom of his gloves. He took up a position beside the body, but far enough away that he wasn’t going to actually be in any danger of touching her. “It was a joke,” he said and then rolled his eyes. “The question was absurd.” It took a second for his words to sink in and the process of understanding it reflected on her face, as she frowned, looked confused, and then indignant. "It wasn't an absurd question. I need to be careful these days! And it's really weird that you'd joke about it. I don't think I believe you!" Robin flicked his gaze over to Francine, watching the changing expressions before he tried to look at the file in her hands. It was much more important. “Why wouldn’t I joke about it?” he asked and it was quite clear it was a very serious question. “I thought it was funny — don’t be so gullible.” Francine pulled the file away from Robin's greedy grasp and clutched it close to her chest. "You can't see this," she reminded him, because he seemed to always ignore this fact. "And because it's not a funny joke? There are Death Eaters EVERYWHERE," her voice pitched higher before she lowered it, "and I need to find out who they are and where they're hiding." Robin made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t be able to see the file if she was stubborn about it. Maybe he should soften his manner, he thought, and he smiled slightly at her. Slightly, because it fell away as she talked, her voice climbing up the octaves. “It was hilarious,” he said, as if it was obvious. “But I’m not a Death Eater in hiding. I’m a Burke. We’re not really good at hiding.” Robin viewed this, again, as an accepted fact: Burkes had their name emblazoned over a shopfront, huge and foreboding. They weren’t the type to hide behind masks. “Anyway, who’s going to just tell you if you ask them?” "Um, you did," she pointed out, in a tone that clearly indicated how dumb of a question she thought it was. "It catches people off guard. No one expects someone to just ask a question like that. Once you disarm them like that, who knows what they'll say?" It made PERFECT sense. It was a true blessing to Francine that Robin was so incredibly impatient that he didn’t try to cut her off while she spoke, even though she deserved it. “I’m pretty sure Death Eaters won’t react to someone writing ‘ are you a Death Eater’ with ‘yeah, mate, want me to show you how to kill a dude.’” Robin shook his head. “I know it’s really hard but you gotta be more subtle. Or not try at all, even.” For a moment, Francine thought about his suggestion and then dismissed it almost as quickly. It was obvious that Robin was unaware of the benefits of the surprise attack. Maybe he needed some of her WRITINGS on the subject. But although his contribution was worthless, two heads were better than one. "You know…" she posed, peering at him like a vulture would look at its prey, "If you know so much about Death Eaters, you should help me find them!" Insider access was crucial to important plans. Robin was suddenly more aware of the chill in the morgue, the regulatory temperature spells which meant it was always just a touch too cool. He lifted his shoulders against it, rolling them as he tilted his head backwards towards the ceiling. It made him look like he was heaving a full bodied sigh. “No thank you,” he said. “I’m going to Greece soon for work. I’m very busy.” He tugged at his hat, pulling it over the tips of his ears as he considered the fact that Francine wasn’t going to stop asking people if they were Death Eaters and expecting answers. “You can run your research by me. I’m much better at it.” "No, you're not," she said automatically, barely registering what he had even said before she objected to it. It caught up eventually, and she was glad her instincts were right. "But I'm allowing you a seat at the table. I don't offer it to just anyone." Francine looked at him expectantly. “Yeah, I’m bloody chuffed,” Robin said, rolling his eyes. “How did she die? Tell me already.” |