(mary) francine goldstein (francen) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-12-24 18:09:00 |
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Francine needed revenge and unfortunately, she had to admit that there was only person that was the best at revenge, and since Carl was visiting his parents this week, she had to find the next person on her list. "I need your... assistance," she said, stomping up to the desk in the shop in lieu of a proper greeting. The word felt wrong aimed at Robin, but it was what she needed. It didn't stop her from grimacing as she said it, though. He should know that she disliked what she had to do. Robin had been lounging behind the counter, the latest in a string of periodicals about the evolving art of collecting cursed artefacts in front of him. There was a multiple page interview with Declan O’Donaghy, one of Robin’s favourite collectors, and he’d been reading it in between serving customers. He barely looked up when the bell rang: the people who frequented the shop did not always want to be acknowledged until they absolutely had to be. Also, he was too busy and they could wait for his attention. The familiar voice surprised him, though. He finished his sentence and looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly at Francine before a smile spread across his face, smug and crooked. “Of course you do,” he said, brightly, straightening up from his lounge against the counter. “How could you not? I’m one of the very best.” He looked down at his article, thinking about marking his place. “What do you need?” “Please,” Francine said immediately, with a hand held up to stop him, “Don’t think this means that. Carl’s just away.” “I already know it means that,” Robin said, grinning. “You’re only in denial. Anything Carl can do, I can do almost as good.” There was a long pause between Robin's words and her next words, as she grappled with whether or not she could punch him and still get his help. On the one hand, it would be immensely satisfying, if an overreaction. He PROBABLY wouldn't be that offended. On the other hand, he probably wouldn't help her. And even worse, he might think it was HOT. Francine shuddered at the thought and decided not to. "Anyways," she said loudly. "I'm looking for revenge." “Oh really?” Robin said, his eyes instantly lighting up with interest. He leaned across the counter, sliding onto his elbows. In the back corner, where someone had been browsing, there was a loud snap and then a yelp. Robin mostly ignored it; he’d known that Fintan was going to try and touch things he shouldn’t be. He’d expected it. Instead, his interest was on Francine. “Revenge for what? Tell me everything. Don’t embellish too much.” "I don't embellish. I imbue my stories with creative details." But that was neither here nor there (although she was right). "You know about my unfortunate troubles lately. I need a plan to sniff out the HACKER," Francine spit out the word as if it was poison (the crime of hacking into her blog was poison to her), "and I need something to make Willy shut up forever." She thought about it some more. "Also Montague. The Death Eater." “We don’t sell anything to route out hackers,” Robin said. He gestured around at the shop, with its shelves filled with strange things, the gauzy curtain over one corner obscuring some of the more terrible items from view. “It’s mostly a bit older than that.” Robin straightened up, walking around from behind the counter and starting towards one corner of the shop. He didn’t look over his shoulder to check if Francine was following him. He figured she would be. He stopped by a mirror, which he shoved aside and which instantly hissed and snapped. “I’ll shock you badly again if you shove me one more time,” the mirror threatened, in a high-pitched, aristocratic voice. “Stop getting in the way then,” Robin snapped back at it and then he turned to look at Francine, indicating a ring in a box on the shelf. It was covered and hexed. “This is cursed so the wearer literally can’t talk when they’re wearing it and there’s something cool in its makeup that means it’s very hard to remove. Once it’s on you, it’s on for a damn long time.” “I wish the people in here would wear it,” the mirror said, in a overdramatic whisper. Francine was following him and it was only the knowledge that she would be badly cursed if she touched anything that stopped her from touching anything. The things inside Borgin and Burkes had always interested her because they were both terrible and useful, and she justified the former with the latter. If she wanted to beat the Death Eaters, she needed something useful. The ring looked especially useful. "Does it affect their ability to write?" She asked, raising her voice so that she didn't have to listen to the mirror. On any other day, she would've joined in, but today, she was on a mission and she didn't have time for distractions. “No, I don’t think so,” Robin said, tilting his head at the ring. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking it a question. The ring remained completely mute. “Do you wanna put it on and we can try it out?” On second thought, she should've let the mirror continue to insult him. "That would defeat the purpose," Francine said through a controlled voice. "Why can't you try it on?" “I’m very busy and important and people need to hear me,” Robin said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not as big of a deal if you can’t communicate. It might even save a few headaches. Go on. Try it.” He reached for the ring, displaying a cautiousness as he lifted it from the shelf. "No," Francine insisted, and as a display of her refusal, she crossed her arms tightly across her chest so that he couldn't pull one over on her and force her to wear it. "I'm also very busy and important and people have a way bigger need to hear me." “How are you going to see if it works with writing then?” Robin asked. “Who’s your volunteer? It’s definitely not me.” “I can’t wear rings anymore,” the mirror said. “Not since I was human and my fourth husband cut my hand off. He —” “Shut it, Adele.” The mirror harumphed. "Adele," Francine cut in, turning to the mirror. "Tell Robin that as the proprietor of this establishment, he has a duty to try on his products to ensure they work properly." "That's too many words," the mirror replied, sounding almost bored. “You heard her,” Robin said, smugly. He reached out and patted the back of the mirror, which didn’t move away from him, but only likely because she was incapable. It really was one of Robin’s favourite strange prickly magical personality items. He hummed as he looked around the shop. Fintan was trying to poke at a book which would defend itself if necessary. Robin’s eyes gleamed. “Go flirt with him,” he said, pushing Francine lightly. “Do it. Trust me.” "I'm not doing that!" Fintan, from the looks of it, was sooner to be eaten by the book than to be the lucky recipient of Francine's wonderful charms. "Just tell him to come over here yourself." “No, because there’s no way he’s going to do it for me after the last time,” Robin said. He gave her a significant look. “Go use your eyes, MF.” "What did you do to him last time?" She asked warily, looking between Robin and Fintan slowly. "I'm not using my eyes without the complete story." Robin scowled briefly, looking at the back of Fintan’s head. His hair had grown back over the bald spot pretty quickly. He was glad the potions had worked. “He helped me test out some spells from this book and it didn’t go that well,” he said. “One of them we put on a dresser and it grew arms and tried to strangle him but then just pulled a lot of hair out. I thought it would have been fine, but he took it awfully personally.” Robin shrugged. “I didn’t know what it was gonna do.” It could've been worse, she decided. At least he had recovered. "I don't want to go seduce him. What if he's my Death Eater admirer?" “Fintan is definitely not,” Robin said, with a laugh. “He’s not capable of it. I don’t think he could even curse me when I’m ready, willing and my body is ready.” Robin was still holding the ring. “I can’t believe you’re trying to make me seduce him. I’ve done it so many times. He’s caught on by now. Stop ruining the plan.” "Your problem is that you don't know how to seduce anyone. I guess I have to show you how it's done," Francine said, as if it was suddenly her idea. She held up a finger to Robin, a sort of watch and learn and walked over to Fintan, who was attempting to stick his head in a rather large skull. She tapped him on the shoulder and he startled, bumping his head against the skull, which, almost immediately, caused two horns to sprout from his head. Francine took one look at him and shook her head, turning on her heel. "He's an ineffectual target," she proclaimed. "I can't work with that." “You are useless. He’s perfect,” Robin said, laughing, looking over her shoulder at Fintan who was mournfully feeling the horns on his head. His eyes were alight with amusement and he moved past Francine, grabbing onto Fintan’s elbow. “I can help you,” he said and Fintan started immediately spewing his thanks. He looked like he was about to cry at the idea of having some horns on his head. Really, he was very dramatic. Robin held up a finger. “It comes at a price, though. Francine, pass the ring.” Francine approached the pair with an apologetic look on her face. "This is just for science," she stressed, with a bright smile on her face. She found that having a smile on her face always minimized the receiving of bad news. "You're doing me a FAVOUR!" Fintan's brows furrowed in confusion, then increasing horror as she came closer. She tried a different approach. "Robinet will pay you two galleons if you help us." “Please,” Fintan said. “I only wanted to look and —” “You always said you were interested in helping out, Fintan,” Robin said, with a smile that was meant to look a little reassuring and mostly looked slightly manic to most other people. “This is a chance! I just want to check if the ring makes someone not able to write, either. It’s all about forms of communication. You love communicating.” “Robin, I don’t think this is a good idea!!” Fintan said, one hand on his horns and one pulled in tightly to his chest. Robin gave him a onceover. “It’s not a bad one, though. I’ll pay you four galleons. Double the price.” There was a spark of interest and then a loud interjection from their left. “What in Merlin’s name is happening here?” Emory Burke asked, an eyebrow raised. He was shorter than Robin, by an inch, and broader, but the inquiring tilt to his head and the way his eyes sparked with both interest and a sense of irritation was almost exactly mirrored in his son. He looked displeased, already, without the answer to the question. "It's called science, Mr. Burke," Francine offered, ignoring his clear irritation in the same way she ignored Robin. "Fintan just volunteered to help us with something!" “I did not!” Fintan squeaked up and Emory took a breath. It wasn’t a sigh: it was just a clear inhale. Robin’s nose instinctively wrinkled. “Is that true, Fintan?” Emory asked. “Yeah, Fintan, is it,” Robin piped up. It was meant with a stern “Robinet”, but Robin ignored it. “It’s,” Fintan stuttered, fell silent and then grasped his horns. He looked at Emory. “Can you get rid of my horns?” Emory looked pinched. “What kind of science are you interrogating in my shop?” "The science," Francine's voice pitched higher, as it often did when she launched into her flourishes, "Of REVENGE." He would understand that. His entire shop was devoted to dark objects made for revenge. That was all she needed to say. “That’s not very scientific,” Emory said, an eyebrow lifting as he looked down at Francine. Robin pressed his lips together, smoothed out a smile and looked at his dad. “We want to see if this ring means you can’t communicate through written as well as verbal means,” he said, indicating the ring that Francine was holding. “She’s looking to get back at people. I’m sure she’d pay us very handsomely for it, but we weren’t sure. Fintan was helping us out. Weren’t you, Fin, man?” Robin fixed Fintan with a look. Fintan stared back at him, one hand reaching up to the tip of his horns. He paled. “I was, Mr Burke.” “I think,” Emory said, slowly, “perhaps you should leave now.” Francine shot Robin a look at the mention of paying him anything, but luckily, it went unnoticed. Everyone's eyes — and Francine's eventually too — were on Fintan, whose relief was made plain when Mr. Burke offered him an escape. He practically bolted out the door. Great, she fumed, now they were out a test subject. "I need to be sure the ring works as I want it to," she said, frowning. "My plans require it." Emory Burke blinked at her and then inhaled again. “Did I not say that you should leave now?” He cut his gaze between the two of them, Francine and Robin, and shifted slightly, drawing his shoulders up. Robin laughed and reached out, pulling at Francine’s sleeve. “He’s kicking you out, Francine,” he said, calmly, as if they weren’t both being kicked out. “Come. To the loads of people you can use as test subjects. They’re called the public.” The door opened for them, as if hurrying them out onto the street. Robin knew it was his dad; he pressed his mouth closed so his mouth didn’t quirk upwards. “I can’t believe he kicked us out,” she gasped, once they were outside. She turned around to let Mr. Burke know what she thought of that, only to find that his back was already turned to them. Letting his back know that she was watching him was way less cool, but she had to do SOMETHING. “He needs a way higher appreciation for the sciences.” Robin grinned slightly and then said, “We were preying on Fintan but he always deserves it.” He turned, as if looking out for him down the road, but he couldn’t see the other guy at all. Fintan had obviously ran for his life, even before getting his horns fixed. Screwing his nose up, Robin said, “I don’t still have the ring, by the way.” Francine let out a full body sigh before punctuating each word with a light slap to Robin's arm. "How am I supposed to get my revenge NOW?" “You’ll find another way,” Robin said, reaching out to catch Francine’s arm. He let her arm drop and took a step back, dodging out into the street. There were a number of shoppers milling through, clutching Christmas bags, hats and scarves on. Some of them had clearly been indulging in Knockturn’s finest mulled wine. One of the groups of shoppers nearly barelled into him. Robin swerved around them. “Are you so easily quelled? Francine, I’m disappointed.” His clear challenge stopped her in her tracks, causing a few passersby to shout some unfortunate expletives at her. "Excuse me?" She asked, hands on her hips. "I'm not easily ANYTHING." “So you’re hard, then?” Robin waggled his eyebrows. Francine internally counted to three before responding. There were too many things she wanted to say to that — many of which were just expressions of offense — but she decided not to take the bait. “Of character, YES.” She stomped ahead a few steps and then returned. “Can I curse them so their penises are always hard?” “You can try,” Robin said, sounding sceptical, “but I think there’s a potion for that. And then they go to casualty over it.” “All I’m asking is for something to go my way,” she complained, her voice taking on a whining edge. “Isn’t that what the spirit of Christmas is about?” “You can start giving them potions if you want,” Robin said. “It can be their Christmas gifts. Permanent erection.” Musing upon the idea, she found herself getting more enthusiastic about it. It always happened when she realized she could use some of her more natural skills to make a plan work. "I'll have to dress up as an eggnog seller. I have the perfect disguise to look like one." “Do they also help give people long running hardons?” Robin asked, after a beat. His brow was furrowed in confusion. She rolled her eyes for an extended period of time (to best display how silly she thought his question was). “No, you dummy, I’m going to spike the eggnog with the potion and offer it to them.” Her subsequent facial expression screamed duh. “Is that your revenge plan? Or your December good deed? Because I gotta say, it leaves a bit to be desired.” “I don’t see you thinking of a better plan than this,” Francine scoffed, before clarifying, “not that you could. It’s already amazing.” “A constant erection is only okay if you’ve someone to indulge it with,” Robin said, as if he was delivering some wise philosophical screed. “I don’t think that it necessarily means its amazing. Imagine all the poor single buggers out there, with a raging hard on.” "That's the point. They have to remember how lonely they are and they can never get rid of it!" Francine waited for the appropriate applause. Robin did not applaud her. In fact, he just looked at her for a moment, trying not to let his mouth quirk upwards, trying to stop himself from laughing. Finally, the start of a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Okay. You can make the loners remember they’re lonely, if you can figure out all the logistics. I’m not being the angel on your shoulder.” The lack of applause didn't bother her (she'd been used to a lack of recognition for far too long for it to get to her now — and she'd be proven right eventually, anyways that was always the best part)) but she mentally added an applause track. There. "That would be so out of character for you," she said, with only the slightest hint of disbelief at the thought. Robin grinned. “I could get some wings, though, for real. Look, there’s some in that shop.” He pointed towards Knockturn’s Christmas shop, its bright display facing out into the street. It was mostly wholesome, filled with Santas, wings, displays of mistletoe and holly. “I’m getting some.” He instantly set off, expecting Francine to follow. She was good at that. To counter the impression that she was following, Francine hurried her steps, fast enough so that she was outpacing him as they neared the shop. She was a leader, thank you very much. "If you're going to be an angel, I want to be something too. Don't say elf." “Why wouldn’t you be an elf?” Robin frowned down at her and then grinned, wicked sharp. “You’re short and you’ve pointy ears. From all your eavesdropping.” Her hands flew to her ears to shield them from Robin's gaze. "They're normal," she argued, "and I'm not comfortable with your observation of them. Look at someone else's ears, thanks!" “Stop trying to make me an ear fetishist,” Robin said, wrinkling his nose. He pushed open the door and entered into the shop, heading straight for the angel wings. He knew where they were, so he found them easily and plucked them up. After a minutes consideration in front of the display, he picked up antlers and said, “For your horny plan. They’re kind of horns.” "I'm not going to wear antlers with my eggnog disguise. It'd completely ruin the illusion." Even an amateur should've known that. Quickly scanning the display, she picked up a figurine of the three wise men. "You should get this to remind you of what you're not." “I am not three men,” Robin said. “I’m very glad you noticed. I’ve lost weight actually.” He struck a pose. “You may comment on it.” "Wise. You're not WISE." She dumped the figurine back onto the shelf and scowled. "Never mind. And I have no comment on your body." “It’s because I’m so lithe and handsome,” Robin said, as he affixed the wings to his back with determination. The spell he cast on them helped. As they took up place, they wiggled with delight. He grinned at his reflection in the window and then to Francine. “I will comment on it. And I am wise — like I know that you’re good for these.” He barely gave Francine any time before he grabbed a Santa beard and sent it at her with a spell that attached itself to the first part of her body it found. Unfortunately for Francine, the Santa beard stuck itself onto her chest. At first, she only rolled her eyes at the childish move, but when she tried to pull it off, assuming it would come off easily, it was unforgivably stuck. She tried again and gasped loudly. "Get this off me," she demanded, looking quite stupid with a Santa beard dangling from her chest. Robin’s laughter was far too loud, drawing the attention of nearly everyone nearby as he laughed louder and louder. “You’ve got a boob beard,” he gasped in between his laughter, bending over at the waist. “Beard boob!” Francine never dealt with people laughing at her well. It explained why she lunged towards Robin, hands out to try to physically shut him up. “You’re making a SCENE,” she said, unaware that she was practically shouting. “I’m making a scene because you’ve got a BOOB BEARD,” he said, practically squealing with laughter. It reverberated around the shop and Robin laughed more as the boob beard swung with every movement Francine made. He was practically choking even before Francine’s hands gripped him, her fingers grabbing onto him just as the shop assistant said, “Excuse me, what are you doing?” Her next move (to clap her hands over his mouth) was thwarted by the assistant's arrival. Francine didn't bother moving away before she informed him of the truth. "He's sabotaging my image," she said in a sweeping voice. "Ma'am," the assistant began, eliciting an offended gasp from Francine. "We don't condone violence in Don't Knock It It's Kristmas." His eyes judgmentally wandered over the two of them — Francine attempting to strangle Robin definitely didn't help her defense much. "It's Knockturn," she said incredulously. "I'm trying to defend my HONOR!" "Ma'am." Francine gasped again. "I'll have to ask you two to leave." “Oh my god,” Robin hissed. “You’re a ma’am. Am I a sir? Call me sir.” The assistant did not seem amused. “Please vacate the premises immediately.” “This is crap,” Robin announced. “I demand to speak to your manager. I’ve been coming here for five minutes!” "Sir," he said, his restrained nature unbroken. Robin tipped his hand and waved his hand, as if he was royalty. "The manager is away today and I'm the acting manager. Because you're being a nuisance —" "It was HIS fault," Francine shouted, poking a finger against Robin's chest to emphasize her point. Undeterred by the interruption, the assistant continued. "Please leave before we have to escort you out." “Oh, they’re going to escort us,” Robin said to Francine, feigning shock and horror. “Goodness, what shall we do? I’ve never been threatened to be escorted out before.” He turned to the assistant. “Are you looking forward to disciplining us?” Only a facial twitch betrayed any indication that the assistant was annoyed with them, but aside from that, he looked as serene as ever. "If that's what is required." "I refuse to be escorted out," Francine interjected, standing her ground with two feet planted firmly on the ground. "I've done NOTHING wrong here!" The assistant sighed and raised his wand. A second later, an invisible force was pushing both Robin and Francine towards the door. Francine scrambled for something to hold onto, her hand grabbing multiple items — a mini Christmas tree, a reindeer display, and a collection of ornaments — to try to stop their movement. "This is UNJUST! We have every right to be here!!" “WHERE’S THE REAL MANAGER???” Robin screamed, through laughter as he tried to grab onto shelves, pulling them down as hepast. “We don’t deal with fakes! We hate fakes! Real diamonds!! Real managers!!” “Will you SHUT UP?” Francine finally yelled, giving up on her mission with a wreath in her hand. “Let me HANDLE this!” The force pushing them out had sped up after both of their outbursts (though she blamed Robin entirely, obviously) and it made them helpless to stop it. Once it deposited them outside, the assistant waved to them. “Happy Christmas!” Francine’s response was quite dignified. “I’m JEWISH!” Robin collapsed in a heap of limbs on the path, his hat askew, his face alight. His whole face was red and there were tears in his eyes as he looked up at Francine. “You tell ‘em, MF. You go in there and beat them right up.” “I’m not going to give them a reason to kick me out,” she said, stomping over and sitting down next to Robin. “This is all your fault.” “How is it my fault?” Robin asked, turning to look at Francine. “I just encouraged them and tried to make it worse at every turn. It’s all in good fun.” “Please get a new definition of fun.” She WASN’T sulking, but she wished she had a better story for getting kicked out than THAT. “And take those wings off,” she added, poking at one. “Take your boob beard off and I will.” “You stuck it on!” “I know,” Robin said, a smirk spreading across his face. “And, you know what? I think it’ll probably stay there for at least a few hours. It’s that beautiful. Shake it, Francine.” And he started to shimmy. Francine let out a miserable groan, pulling once more at the beard to no avail. “I hope a reindeer runs you over sometime,” she said, almost cheerily. “I’ll cling to you and use you as a shield,” Robin declared. His wings twitched. “That means it’s an angelic idea that they’re proud of.” He clapped Francine’s shoulder. “Sorry, man.” Resisting the urge to twist the wings into an unshapely mess, Francine stood up and looked down at Robin. “I’m going HOME,” she declared. “PLEASE don’t bother me for another thirteen hours!” “Okay,” Robin said, pushing himself up. “But text me you got home, weirdo, and then never again.” “I’ll do no such thing,” Francine said, brushing off her beard in a way that hopefully made it seem like it was totally cool and fine that she had a weird Santa beard attached to her boobs. “GoodBYE!” But she couldn’t resist, and before she left, she bent down and twisted one wing so it folded over. Then, she ran back home. |