morgan macdougal eats your kind for breakfast. (bangupjob) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-03-16 01:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | amelia bones, michael dawlish, morgan macdougal |
RP Log: Morgan MacDougal, Michael Dawlish, Amelia Bones
Who: Morgan MacDougal, Michael Dawlish, Amelia Bones
When: Last THURSDAY
Where: Bones Estate
What: Two exes run into each other, and then someone else gets caught in the cross fire.
Rating: R for language, of course.
In movies there were always convenient potted plants available for quick disposal of one's drink -- reality, Michael was finding, was proving, once again, to be quite different. While alcohol had not been a bad idea overall, he was finding that he lacked the palette that night for champagne, and moreover felt ludicrous holding the flute glass it came in. The bubbles had irritated him for no rational reason, and had only contributed to his general unease and discomfort from finding himself some place so fun and lively, so crowded. So happy. It was good of the Bones' to invite him. This, at least, he could recognize on some intellectual level. It was nice of them to invite Sarah and Douglas, to invite so many of the people they did, and there was certainly a case to be made for a little bit of brightness amidst all the dark. Otherwise though, on a gut level, he felt somehow offended by every smile he saw, every peal of laughter he overheard -- possibly because he was so far removed from entertaining such things himself. The dress robes hadn't helped. He tugged at the collar of them now, feeling the graze of stubble against his knuckles as he pulled the fabric that much farther away from his neck. It was too warm. The champagne was too bubbly. With a view to both getting outside and setting the drink down on the nearest available surface, he abruptly turned in the direction away from the bulk of the guests -- while at the same time sparing them one last look -- and knocked into someone, hard enough to spill the drink he was holding. It splashed against his front. "Shit!" "Jesus fucking Chri-" Morgan MacDougal froze on the spot. The party was lively and happening, but Morgan felt awkward and uncomfortable in her dress, and so she's gone outside for a spot of air. Now, it turned out, she was going to have to head to the toilets - if she could find them - to clean up her dress. And her chest. Even worse was who she'd run into. She'd been trying to avoid him all evening. "Watch where you're going, Dawlish." There was a delay as his brain attempted to stitch together two very disparate concepts -- Morgan MacDougal and a dress. Especially a red dress, and especially a red dress that, thanks to his natural lack of grace, he'd managed to decorate with champagne. In any other circumstance, with any other woman, he'd be half tempted to point out what a flattering look it was (and then brace himself against the slap sure to follow), but in this instance that was definitely not an option. "... sorry," he answered gruffly. A single glance was cast at her eyes, before his dropped to the fabric of his dress robes as he brushed at them. "Believe it or not, that wasn't on purpose." "Yeah. Not really the point, is it?" A hand cut across her (on display) chest as she brushed at the fabric there. Of all the people to literally run into, Michael was the least wanted. Morgan's gaze shot across the dance floor, scanning for Nick or Gawain, either of whom would probably cast an arched eyebrow at the scene - for very different reasons, she imagined. As the champagne dried, it was beginning to leave her fingers sticky. "The one fucking time I dress up..." Technically he could have done the chivalrous thing and brandished his wand with whatever combination of swishing and flicking was required for cleaning alcohol off women's chests, but he was under the impression that any attempt he might make to help her out would be interpreted as some sort of slight. Rather than make mention of the times he had seen her dressed up (for it had occurred during their time together, and had been just as surreal then as now) Michael reached out to set his glass down on a nearby window sill and decided to commiserate instead. "Send me the bill," he joked flatly. Then: "Didn't expect to see you here." Morgan glanced at him flatly. She had more of a right to be there than he did. After all, she was sent out with most of these people on a daily basis. Life and death situations tended to lock people together. Stretching her fingers out - she could flee to the loo later - to stave the stickiness away in the meantime, Morgan let out a huffy breath. "Yeah, well, I thought you didn't like parties to begin with. Too many people, and you hate people." She wasn't wrong, but he arched an eyebrow all the same. What, was she implying that this was her idea of a good time? He knew for a fact that it wasn't, unless something had happened in the intervening years -- like severe head trauma -- to make her suddenly on board with fancy dress parties and dancing about ballroom style like a twat. Chalking it up to the notion that her new boyfriend appeared, to Michael, to be some sort of eternal ponce-of-the-night, and he supposed anything was possible. "I'm here for Sarah," he admitted, using that moment to cast a glance about for his sister. "I didn't realise it was going to be a Who's Who of... y'know." "This would pretty much be the place to hit if they knew about everyone here. Aurors... Order." Morgan made sure to look around, to make sure no one of the Aurorly persuasion was standing close enough to overhear before she'd made her point. The conversation was growing increasingly uncomfortable, though. She had no desire to stand here and chit-chat with her ex-boyfriend, the fucktard with absolutely no bedside manner when it came to dealing with women whatsoever. And seeing that damned brace on his leg only made matters worse. "I need to go," Morgan blurted out suddenly. She made a faint gesture with her stinky fingers and toward her dress. "Later." He resented the way his eyebrows furrowed at the word (especially that one -- he somehow doubted 'later' would ever come to pass), and more than that, the way he was, in some way, disappointed by her hasty departure. True, he had nothing to say to her, and true, given another minute in her company he'd probably be the one excusing himself, or remembering why he'd avoided her so long, or calling her a name that would get him decapitated by a couple of protective vampires, but at the same time -- she was one of the only people here he knew. Or rather, who knew him. And people who could be included in that number were, in general, dwindling. "Likewise," he replied with a nod to his own damp front, and stepped back awkwardly in order to let her by. As if he had somewhere to be himself (read: anywhere else), Michael began to stalk in the direction of the door. Morgan disappeared as quickly as her monstrous heels would let her, clacking the whole way down the corridor to search for a bathroom. Amelia Bones, leaving one of the rooms, could be seen directing the brunette toward a room down the hall and to the left before she slunk her way into the ballroom at her normal, but slow pace. She made small chit-chat as she crossed the room, never stopping to truly talk at any length. With a glass of champagne, Amelia backed out of the way of the dancing guests. It was by chance that she happened to see Michael Dawlish leaving the room. It took her body a few seconds to catch up with the decision she'd made to go and speak to him. At first glance, he didn't really register Amelia's approach. His mind, having decided to spare him any further embarrassment, was guarded against recognising the people in the room as anything other than colourful blurs as he made his way towards the exit. The only ones of any great concern to him in that moment were Sarah and Douglas (and of course Lizzie) and even then they of all people would surely understand his desire to flee the scene and, hopefully, forgive his doing so. After all, he'd showed up, he'd dressed up, he'd done his part. But some lingering sense of propriety stopped him short when it became clear that Amelia wasn't just meandering through the room, but rather was en route to intercept him in particular. Michael had the good manners to at least hold his sigh in check, even as his mind was rapidly cycling through excuses to expedite his leaving. "Amelia," he nodded. His eyes, quite naturally, dropped to her dress, and it was with a pointed motion of his head to the side -- as if he'd just glimpsed something of interest on the dance floor -- that he dragged his gaze away again. Amelia, still smarting somewhat over the last time they'd seen each other, inclined her head in a polite, but somewhat guarded, manner. It would be rude not to make her way to all the guests, and she counted Michael among her friends so that was doubly so. Amelia turned to set her glass of champagne down on a nearby table before returning to him, folding her hands in front of her. "Are you leaving so soon?" Without meaning to, he found himself looking back in the direction that Morgan had left in. There was nothing to see there. Michael brought his focus back around to Amelia within the next few seconds and once again nodded. "Yeah," even though he hardly counted his departure as so soon. He raised one hand to rub at his mouth, once more stopping a sigh before it had even begun, and thoughtfully held it there as he struggled to drum up something nice he could say. ... within a moment however, he decided there was no use. He gestured absently to the party at large. "This isn't my sort of thing. It's all very nice, very... civilised, it's just," suffocating, "... not for me." "I completely understand. I'm at a loss myself, this being the first non-society party, though everyone certainly looks the part. It's the first party I have not had to watch for double-talk," she said. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realised she was trying to stall him, hoping she'd say the right thing to get him to stay - even if just a bit longer. The whole party was just so happy, but Amelia couldn't help feeling the sting that she'd never be invited to all those society parties and wedding. She figured the Vance-Warrington wedding to be the very last of those invitations. "It's refreshing, but I still feel a little like a fish out of water." That made his brow furrow, and caused Michael -- who had been feeling nothing but awkward all evening, and not just awkward but incredibly self conscious -- to turn a little more to face her. All the better to fix Amelia with a sceptical look, as if her comment had been interpreted as some sort of challenge, or, irrationally, an effort to outdo him. "It's your house," he pointed out flatly. Clearly, in his eyes, this robbed her of any right to complain about feeling out of place. "And make no mistake, you society Purebloods don't have the monopoly on double talk. These people are just as capable of it too." The three words - you society Purebloods - ruffled up her spine, and Amelia visibly recoiled. Eyebrows down-turned momentarily. Glancing out of the corner of her eye toward the dance floor, though not really seeing it, she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Admittedly, Amelia didn't quite understand what she'd said that had offended him so. "I'm sorry, what?" If her voice sounded dumb-founded, it was because she was. And while he hadn't expected that exact response, it was still -- on some level that he didn't particularly want to acknowledge -- a satisfying one. As was so often the case when he felt threatened, whether overtly or by powers he only convinced himself were there, Michael managed to find some vindication in ensuring at least one other person was as ill at ease as he was. Ideally that person would have been Morgan, given that her sudden appearance had been the one to throw him so off-kilter, but Amelia -- being so kind, so generally obliging, and so bewilderingly patient with him thus far in their acquaintance -- was a decent target too. "Nothing. Nice party," Michael finished, already turning, steeling himself for the strides necessary to make it out the door. Except Amelia tried her best to hurry in front of him. She had a few things to say, and after this latest opus, she decided she didn't care if she caused a scene in her own home. Her jaw tightened as she slipped in front of him. "I don't know what your problem is, Mr Dawlish, but you're not getting the last word this time." Her hands moved to her hips as she jerked her head up higher. "Sarah obviously got all the nice genes in your family, and what were you left with? All of the prick genes? If I've offended you with my very existence, I'm sorry, but you could at least do me the courtesy of just ignoring me instead of going out of your way to make me feel like the dirt under your heel." Some aspect of him remained mindful of the room behind them, and while he bristled the very second her tone grew sharp, Michael still had the wherewithal to drop his tone and lean forward to -- quite literally -- speak down to her. "What, am I the first person in the history of the fucking world to do so? What a bloody hardship it must be for you, Amelia, being rich, beautiful, and Pureblooded -- you're right, I should go out of my way to make sure you're doing alright." He took a deep breath, leaned back, set his jaw, and continued. "If it takes a party to make your family and friends feel normal for one night, then that's grand. Then good. For me, it makes me want to fucking vomit, so you'll excuse me before I ruin that shine on your floor." Stunned, Amelia couldn't think of one single thing to say in return that might even do the slightest bit of damage to his obviously broken psyche. Eventually, her mouth snapped shut and her jaw twinged. Whatever his problem was, she decided that right then and there, she couldn't give a fuck. She'd tried to reach out - for whatever reason she'd even tried in the first place - and he'd thrown every effort back at her, rubbed it in her face. Cognizant of her place in all of this and screwing up every ounce of public face she could, Amelia took one single step to the left, allowing him to leave. "I hope your piss and vinegar helps you sleep at night." But the expression on his face was not one that belonged to a man who had slept well at night for a long, long while, and it was darkened further by a deep frown as Michael dropped his gaze, inelegantly manoeuvred around her, and stalked silently towards the exit. |