Doc is expressively challenged. (docisarock) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-02-10 18:01:00 |
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Michael Dawlish didn't regularly venture into pubs. Not that he minded them, per se, he just wasn't one hundred percent on board with the social aspects -- nay, obligation -- they so often represented. Certainly there was the sort of establishment where men sat about in the dark, lonely and silent, watching football on the wall mounted televisions and drinking their woes away, but for every one of those there was the pub where groups of friends or workmates gathered, where drunken patrons were chatted up by other drunken patrons, and where, Merlin forbid, spontaneous singing of ballads was known to break out. However, since there were no strangers he wanted to speak to, and definitely no ballads he wanted to sing, Michael had selected the former sort of drinking hole for that evening's meeting. He wanted someplace that suited his mood, someplace dark and grim, someplace where he wouldn't be distracted. There had been a reason he'd asked Doc Dearborn out that night, and he wanted to keep his focus when he spoke to the man. ... more or less. He was, after all, midway through his pint. "'Spose there's not much use in beating around the bush..." Michael began, his expression weary, yet guarded, as he glanced at the man across from him. Doc had accepted a pint, but it remained untouched, more or less acting for display purposes. The morose setting hardly bothered him; in fact, the noise, which was a loosely-fused arrangement of silverware on plates, glasses clinking, quiet conversation, and an indiscernible hum, was appropriate. It was enough to mask their words, but not so much that it was overwhelming. Michael's voice drew Doc's line of sight up from the texture of the mug holding his drink. He knew what was coming. Maybe he couldn't see the details of the approaching conversation, but the topic was a given. "No," Doc agreed, voice (as ever) monotonous. "I'll answer what I can." And despite the fact that Michael had waited to speak to Doc, long enough so that he might not feel like taking a swing at the man on sight, those words inspired a definite spike of anger. It was obvious simply by looking at him -- his jaw tensed, his mouth thinned to a pale line -- just as it was evident that, after a few minutes even breathing, he managed to flush the tension from his system. "Alright," he replied, doing his best to be diplomatic. "... what was Fenwick doing in that building while the two of you were outside it?" Maybe whatever temper had been rising would've been easier to contend with, Doc wearily thought. There didn't have to be a response for a fist to the jaw, and it certainly didn't put him in a difficult place about what could and couldn't be said. Doc's eyes narrowed; the question was only the first, and, yet, it was possibly the one he couldn't answer at all. Vigilante work in its broadest sense would have been the choice of reply, but Michael wouldn't accept generalities. Michael already knew the generalities, and repetition wasn't going to merit anything but furthered scrutiny if Doc could have judge the other man at all. Smartly, Doc didn't even try them. "There was something inside that we needed to secure. I can't answer what or why." Again, the staring. Then the gradual subduing of his temper. Then the speaking. Whether the pub had been subconsciously selected or not, the fact that they were in public meant that Michael couldn't outright starting yelling -- or at least delayed that eventuality. He swallowed, drew a breath, and nodded. "Right." He took a pull of lager. "You and Benjy are vigilantes. And Charity too somehow. Yet you can't let me know what you, such a crack team of fucking experts, were up to. Why not?" Finally, Doc opted for a drink, himself. It was beginning to seem like a good idea if this was going to be the pattern of conversation. Response, glare, pause, question, repeat. Whatever murky atmosphere was lingering in the air was not being helped by either man. "It isn't personal, Michael." It was likely not even a modicum's worth of assurance. He gave Michael a silent, inscrutable look. "We all knew what we were getting into. I can't speak freely about what we do -- I would if I could. There was something inside that house that belonged to the other side. It needed to be destroyed." "... yeah, along with Fenwick." With a fine layer of anger coating his insides (and, to be honest, his outsides as well) it was much easier to bear the repeated mentioning of their lost friend. It had been over a week, and yet still the concept of Benjy being gone, literally ripped from their lives, hadn't yet managed to sink in. He was still waiting for the moment when it would. Michael summoned up a deep breath, exhaling through flared nostrils. "Why can't you?" His voice had dropped in pitch, its sudden low tone conveying just how seriously he felt, just how much he wanted to know. "Fucking Christ, where do you go from here anyway? What's it even matter? You're a man down. Who goes into the next house? You? Charity?" Along with Fenwick. Doc knew it was true, but Benjy was the only one suited to dismantle wards. It was an agreement between the three of them. If either himself or Charity stood beside Benjy in that house, they would have died, too. Any way the scenario played out, it was still things burning down in a brilliant explosion. Of course they wouldn't simply walk away. It was always going to be this once ending. "You're civilian. It's not slighting you. What we do stays between the number of us that do it. The more you know..." Doc felt the sentenced about finished itself. He drained some of his pint. "We go to where Benjy left off, and then we keep going past that until this war ends." This was too much. His exasperation bled through to his features which, ere now, had been doing an admirably job going toe-to-toe with Doc's deadpan expression. Eyebrows lifting, Michael leaned forward a degree. "Civilian?" He let the word linger in the air, on the off chance that his drinking partner might find it as unbelievable as he himself did. "... up until recently you've largely been a bloody bartender. And Charity makes her money -- what, telling Muggles that their kids are a little different? The fuck do you get off acting like you've this noble calling, you and whoever else you've got along with you?" There was a moment's hesitation before his next words before he launched into them, as if realising as they were coming out of his mouth that this was perhaps the crux of the issue he was having with his friends' lately discovered vigilantism. "Got to be something, given neither of you ever fucking asked me." "Stop." At this rate, the whole gathering was going to, in one sweeping motion, look over at the pair of them for the commotion. Doc was prepared for the anger, at least, but that didn't permit things to be cut into the hearing of all around. Obliviation for him had never come to being using for personal necessity, and Doc was not planning on it ever reaching that point. "Now, think. And not about yourself." The usual bland mix of tone and expression had been cracked, and Doc was fixing Michael with something not entirely unlike anger. He allowed a moment, just to be certain that no one else in the pub was giving them any attention. "Charity only recently joined, and that's my fault. I have to deal with that, now. You leave her out of this, Michael." Doc paused. Everything else stripped away, he knew what was being driven at. He willed himself back to the usual stoicism as best he could. "What would you have me do?" The stern word from Doc seemed to do the trick. Michael reigned himself in, glancing sideways as if once again remembering that they ran the risk of being overhead. And while there was certainly something to be said about a good, stiff drink being a sure method of relaxation, Michael opted to begin ignoring his pint. His arms crossed on the table between them. "You lost a curse breaker," he informed flatly. "I'm offering you a new one." Well. Great. It wasn't as if Michael didn't have a valid point, but there was much more to consider in his case. John Dawlish and Benjy Fenwick were both pieces taken away from the circle of family and friends that he and Michael were a part of. But, rationality prevailed with Caradoc: it wasn't his choice in the end, and he couldn't tell anyone else that they were banned from even the thought of joining up a vigilantes. He wasn't going to. "It would have to go through a vote," Doc returned. "If that's what you want, I can vouch for you." He paused for a moment, eyes only just narrowed. "You've thought about this." It was a question, although it hardly sounded it. Some confirmation was what Doc needed to hear -- that Michael knew what he was asking for. He was grateful, in a way, that the other man wasn't trying to reason him out of it. That Michael had prepared himself for, primed to cite the fact that he had almost died earlier that year, that there was no guarantee he wouldn't still die whether he volunteered or not. And while he himself harboured similar doubts and fears over his family, there was, at the same time, an inability to to escape what he felt he had to do. And he had to do this -- or at the very least try. "Yes," he nodded grimly, not breaking his friend's gaze. It was a little daunting, the idea of a vote, when up until so recently he'd thought he'd only be helping out Doc and Charity (or, best case scenario, just Doc). Then, as if to address both the concerns he felt as well as the ones Caradoc might be entertaining on his behalf, he set his jaw and nodded again, the movement shallow. "I know." Doc kept his own sight held on Michael. Despite the earlier outbursts -- understandable as they were -- the man giving his answer sounded and looked decided and aware of every unspoken condition. It almost made this easier; the less that needed to be said, the less warnings that needed to be offered, and, in the end, the profession of a cursebreaker was one of acceptance of risks. To even start in on that would just be insulting, Doc knew. There was a nod, and Doc allowed a few brief seconds of silence to pass. He shuffled around his thoughts, trying to push back the beginning of his missive to Dumbledore as it would need to be written tonight. There would be time alone later to mull over words and phrasing. "It's just procedure. The vote, I mean. I can tell you the rest when it's official, somewhere more secure." Doc hooked his mug, giving the liquid within a look. In the dim lighting, it reflected his image back, although it only vague registered with him. "Not trying to give you the run-around. It shouldn't take long at all -- we do need a cursebreaker. We do need more help." Strangely enough, what Michael felt was relief. Dread and general apprehension wouldn't have been anything new -- he'd been enduring those for months now, years, whether it be from that deep, black pit he'd been in after his accident, from his grief and irredeemable regret after John's death, from the lack of knowing who it would be to die next, and the certainty that it was bound to be someone. At least now there was a chance he would no longer have to suffer this increasing panic passively. There was hope that could actually help, and at the same time not feel so helpless himself. So he accepted Caradoc's words with a grave look and a thinning of his lips as he nodded. It would have been perverse to thank him, even though Michael felt an upkick of gratitude in his chest all the same. Instead he settled for a low, "I understand". Because even if he didn't know the particulars, he did know what needing help felt like. His hand curled around his own mug, and after a moment, he raised it to Caradoc before taking a sip. |