morgan macdougal eats your kind for breakfast. (bangupjob) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-11-06 21:09:00 |
|
|||
When all was said and done with Caoimhe and the horcrux notes, Morgan MacDougal plopped her arse down in a corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron. Death Eater blitz, You-Know-Who debut, werewolf assault - because calling any of those a soiree was right out - all that they needed were a few incidences involving a hag (and a gingerbread house - that would give it a nice touch) and a vampire demanding to suck your blood. That would put the fucking cherry on the week. And it was only Tuesday. The first shot was downed at the bar. Tom wasn't even bloody impressed any more, and that was half the fun for Morgan. She paid for the whole bottle of firewhiskey - if Gawain didn't want it, she certainly did - and snorted to herself that it was still morning for her. Brilliant way to start off her weekend, not that she thought about it. And for Gawain, it was an absolutely terrible time to begin growing a beard. The last thing his already haggard expression needed was a liberal layer of stubble, and while he'd kept it for now (mostly because he couldn't be arsed to shave) he knew that he would have to be rid of it before the service for John the next day. One couldn't say a few words over a friend's grave looking like one was homeless, after all. However, it made him blend in with the regulars at the Leaky Cauldron well enough, even though he, unlike most of them, wore a suit and tie as per usual. There was still a quality to him that even the most dapper of suits couldn't completely disguise though -- he looked undone, a trifle more rumpled than usual, perhaps a touch less put together. Happily he was only here to see Morgan, and Gawain, by this point, didn't make an active effort to impress the woman anymore. "Another glass," came a deep voice from behind her as the Auror reached the woman by the bar. He was signalling the bartender, but soon swept his gaze around to Morgan as he helped himself to a seat beside her. He summoned up a a grim smile. "You look well." "Fuck me, you look like shite," Morgan answered, ever tactfully. She gaped at the Auror with a mixture of horror and bewilderment, at least half of it fabricated simply to get a reaction. In one practiced move, she snatched the glass from his hand, flipped and caught it with the other hand. More than the usual liquid poured into it, Morgan pushed it across the table to him. "Drink up. Looks like you could use it." Rather than relay a thank you for the warm welcome, Gawain settled for giving Morgan a flat look as she gave her impressions of his appearance. It was more or less the reception he'd predicted, but it also at least vaguely reassured him that his decision not to see Nora tonight was a good one (though he supposed he hadn't looked much better the night of the Masquerade). When the glass came and the drink was poured, he was all too happy to tend to it immediately -- downing the shot briskly and not even seeming to suffer that badly for it. Gawain narrowed his eyes, glancing into the glass, then at the bottle, before setting the former down again. "Never let them say you're not honest, Morgan." "'They' know better than that," Morgan chirped up after kicking back another shot. So that was how he wanted it. Shots. He was trying to kill the pain; no one put away shots without so much as a wince after if they weren't after some sort of numbness. She poured another round before settling back in her seat to mock-scrutinize him. Tapping her finger to her chin, she said, "You've got more than John Dawlish on your mind, Robards. Thinking about your own mortality too much, huh?" "No more than usual," which was only partly a lie. The prospect of his own death had run as an undercurrent in his life for some time now, a certainty more than a possibility. Still, being confronted with it -- such as when a friend and colleague died -- was as much a cause for grief as it was for annoyance, and both were feelings Gawain resented. The latest shot was dragged towards him across the table and contemplated. "I'm thinking about retiring," he began in a moment, lifting his eyes towards her and giving a close lipped smile. His eyebrows perked as he lifted his drink. Morgan nearly snorted into her glass - almost directly into the amber liquid inside the cup even - at that. Pulling the woefully full drink away from her face, her eyebrows shot upward in amusement. "Oh, that's fucking hilarious," she announced, louder than necessary (but then again, that was Morgan for you). "I've been meaning to tell my boss to shove this job so I can go move to the Isle of Man and start a dandelion farm with my boyfriend Antonio. Do you want to come along with me?" This time he merely took a sip -- then seemed to think about it, pause, and down the rest of his glass with a swift tilt of his head. When he set the glass back on the table and very nearly shoved it away, his expression taut a moment, before he began to root around in the inside of his jacket pocket. A pack of cigarettes was produced inside of a second or two. "No offense, but if I'm going to live my life out in obscurity I'm not going to do it with any farmers named Antonio." A cigarette was tucked between his lips, lit with his wand. Gawain murmured around it, lifting his eyebrows as he glanced back towards her. "Have you really contemplated quitting?" For the briefest of moments, Morgan simply watched him. He was on a fucking tear, and it was going to be such a blast getting it out of him. At least until he ended up stumbling drunk and sobbing into a 1am beer. "No, and neither have you, you fucking tosser." Morgan shot a look at Tom behind the bar, then held up two fingers. She was a regular, and despite the number of visitors the Leaky Cauldron received every day, he always managed to remember his regulars orders. Two lagers were set down in front of them not thirty seconds later. "Slow the fuck down. I will let you sleep in your own vomit, for the record." "I haven't thrown up in a decade," and as if to express his thanks for her concern (such as it was), Gawain offered her a cigarette from the pack. His wand was set down on the table; smoke was exhaled neatly to the side. While his throat still prickled from the rush of whiskey that had just swept through it, he didn't hesitate to reach forward and pull the pint in front of him. It wasn't lifted, just turned, then tapped absently. "I suppose I haven't," he finally replied. Motion seemed to return to him with the words, and, casting a look over in her direction, his drink was picked up and held as his elbow rested on the table. "A demotion might be nice though. Fortunately." Cigarette plucked and a gulp from her pint, Morgan leaned her neck back against the high-backed chair to took a look (or a Look, as it might be) in his direction. On the one hand, she wasn't buying this demotion business, not when the Gawain Robards she knew was All About the Job. On the other hand, she thought, narrowing her eyes to study him, that might just be the mid-life crisis he'd been talking about. Then again, on a third hand - one which would have made her a genetic freak, of course - Morgan wondered if it had anything to do with the obnoxious twit he'd confessed to seeing. "Are you starting to feel old because of Dawlish's death? Or is it your twenty-year old that's got you all wilted and depressed? Or some fucking combination of? I haven't seen you drink like this... well, since... Huh, I actually can't remember the last time I've seen you drink like this." "Really? After we first met I was in the gutter 'til sun up," Gawain answered airily, punctuating the words with a neat flicking of ash. The effects of the first two drinks were noticeable now, ushering in a comfortably disconnected feeling that allowed him to relax. Even the noise from the rest of the pub seemed to dim. He took a pull from his lager before setting it down. "The problem isn't with feeling old, but thank you for assuming that." His mouth twitched in a smile, a glimpse of actual humour. "To be honest, it's with feeling young." "I was actually trying not to think about you after we first met, Gawain - we really need to find you a damn nickname - so please... I'd like to keep my dinner down." Morgan held up her hand dramatically, one eyebrow darting upward in faux disgust. But this last was particularly juicy, and in stereotypical fashion, Morgan leaned forward, propping her elbow on the table and tucking her balled up fist beneath her chin. "You've been waiting to use that line. Go on, spill it." Another sip was taken from his pint before it was set down, once more traded for the cigarette as he attempted to get comfortable in his chair. While Morgan could certainly be rough around the edges -- and while it may be a stretch to refer to it as charm -- there was something to her demeanour, her personality, which Gawain always found him responding positively to. It might have something to do with the fact that Gawain had always had an easier time making female friends than male (and sometimes she was a good fusion of both). "I'm nearly forty," he prefaced conversationally. "I'm unmarried, I have no children, I live in a one-bedroom flat. Parents are dead, have no siblings -- no fault of mine there, granted, but you understand my meaning" Another drag was taken from the cigarette. He sighed an exhale of smoke, though his voice remained ginger. "Professionally, well. My squad has a dismal survival rate. Death's more sure than a promotion at this point. ... my point is I still feel as if there's time to make up lost ground. I feel like I did at twenty-five, but the reality is this, this that I'm living right now... well, it's a gift, isn't it?" Gawain reminded her of Nick at that moment. Another hand joined the already balled-up fist beneath her jaw, and she looked less smart-arse than concerned. Gawain was actually starting to worry her now, to hear him talk like this. Oh, sure, he sounded pleasant enough, but there was something off in the manner in which he was speaking. And what he was speaking about. It wasn't the usual load of bollocks you heard from men in mid-life crises. At least, not spun in such a way that made it seem almost romantic to accept his life and all roads that led from here. Namely, that there wasn't really going to be a road that led from here. "All right, Nietzsche. I better not see Auror Kills Self in the Prophet tomorrow," Morgan told him sternly, the closest she'd get to an emotional conversation. "It would really ruin my day." His cigarette was brushed thoughtfully with his thumb as he leaned back, brow lightly furrowing. "Do you honestly think that would be my headline? Not that I'm not flattered you think my suicide would warrant one, just ideally I'd prefer something a bit more colourful..." Gawain's mouth again pulled to the side, one again exhibiting that same grim, almost apologetic, lopsided smile. He reached forward again to collect his pint. "I'm not killing myself," he assured in a low tone, half embarrassed that she would even draw such a conclusion. Maybe he should slow down with the drinking (which he didn't, he took another sip of lager the instant he thought it), it was making him wax terribly dramatic. "But fact of the matter is I've entered the shit or get off the pot portion of my life, and it came up on me much faster than anticipated. You mentioned Nora, and... well. I still haven't yet decided just how guilty yet to feel on the subject." "Gawain, mate, I do believe that you'd just manage to answer the question on why middle aged men go for younger models. The constant need to feel young," she said, finally popping the cigarette between her lips and lighting up. She needed a bit of kick after that. After taking a long drag, she leaned back and just savoured it. "I'm still trying to figure out why the fuck you'd feel guilty at all on the subject." Of that little twat. Morgan knew better than to say anything out loud. Happily he had a pint to mask it, or Gawain's slow dropping of his smile would be shade too obvious. Latest drink taken (and latest stab of guilt felt) he replaced the glass on the table before managing to reply. The last thing he wanted was to come off like some desperate middle aged man, and he definitely didn't want to give the impression by dating Nora that there was something lacking in women his own age. True, the women he had seen in the past generally did tend to skew younger, but never before had he entered into something like this. The Auror took a deep inhale of air, exhaling heavily though his nose. "Because," he started, reluctant to share his reasons (but knowing he was about to anyway). "There is something intrinsically unfair in a man my age, in my line of work, starting a relationship with a woman so many years his junior." And don't get me started on your vampire. "For starters it's immensely selfish, and it's... it's just different. The appeal's obvious on my end, but I haven't a clue what she hopes to get out of this." "Gawain, all relationships are inherently selfish," Morgan answered, her eyebrows twisting in amusement. She flicked her cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray; it wasn't as if anyone else was paying attention to their ashtrays either. "We get into them because they make us feel good - emotionally or physically." Morgan was loathed to admit it, but she couldn't see any reason why Alderton would be interested in a man twice her age, except that perhaps she ended up liking him after all. Quidditch players definitely got paid more than Aurors, she was famous, and no amount of heroism would get her the level of fame she got as a Chaser for a professional team. Come to think of it, she could likely have her pick of blokes for both of those same reasons as well. "Can't say I get the appeal of her specifically, Gawain, but maybe her interest is you? I mean, you're not rich or famous, so I doubt she's a gold-digger or a fame-whore." There was another option, but Morgan opted to keep that to herself: daddy issues. "Thank you, that's... wildly unhelpful," he replied lightly, raising his own eyebrows as he once more lifted his gaze to her. Maybe her interest was him -- certainly stranger things had happened, after all -- but it wasn't a concept he accepted easily, or even fully understood. After all, eventually Nora would discover the various hurdles to be overcome if she were to continue seeing him, and then she'd likely come to her senses and, quite reasonably, decide to stick to boys her own age instead. It would be easier for her. ... but there was a part of Gawain that told him that wouldn't be the case. It was the same part of him that resolutely believed that, whatever madness had gripped him and caused him to so impulsively kiss Nora that day on her doorstep, it wasn't fleeting. Besides, if he could die any day now, what could it hurt to have some happiness in the meantime? "She said she enjoyed herself at your family dinner," he added, twisting his mouth to the side in a grin. "Oh, did she? Gus was in rare form that night with his stories, and even Gwennie got in on the fun. She actually dug up all these old photographs to show her. 'Twas hilarious. Think Madog was ready to kill the lot of us," Morgan said, neglecting to say that she'd been the one to supply him with more alcohol under the table. "I tried to be as nice as I could, for the record, but some things couldn't be helped." Like the snide, back-handed grandpa comments. The fact that she'd kept a dish of Werther's in the sitting room they'd used before dinner was ready. There were a whole slew of tiny little things she did to make the girl as uncomfortable as she could. Shame the rest of the family had to go and ruin it. Still, Gawain didn't need to know all of that. "Can I ask you a question?" He wasn't entirely sure why he was grinning -- this had been a dinner where the girl he was dating (seeing? shagging?) met the family of her publicity stunt of a boyfriend. Her strapping, tall, broad shouldered and handsome publicity stunt of a boyfriend, no less. Nevertheless it was somehow funny to imagine Nora in a nest of MacDougals, and there was some pride to be felt at the fact that she'd come out of it all right (no matter what Morgan had undoubtedly put her through). The cigarette was left to rest in the corner of his mouth as Gawain stretched, linking his fingers behind his head. He lifted his chin, silently prompting her to go ahead and ask whatever she had to ask. Most of this question was born of Morgan's only insecurities when it came to her four-hundred years her senior... boyfriend? How the hell you could call a vampire who was 4 centuries old a boyfriend, she'd never know. "...is it because she's so young that you're interested?" His eyebrows flattened. ... then relaxed as he glanced away in thought. Gawain's gut reaction was to take offense. Was that really how he came across, as a man so easily lured by a pretty young smile? Did he look that foolish? And Morgan of all people doing the asking, which somehow made it all the worse. Experience had told him one thing however, and that was that vehement denials and instant defensiveness tended to make one look guilty -- and if he had felt even a kneejerk reaction in that vein in response to her question, then perhaps there was some truth to it. Hands parting, Gawain removed his cigarette after a final drag and leaned forward to snuff it out in the ashtray. "No," he replied at last, collecting his pint as he leaned back again. Much like Morgan had earlier picked up on the own insecurities in his tone, he too could glean a similar sound in hers. Gawain shot her a sympathetic glance. "But maybe. There's the possibility that I'm not even conscious of my own motivations -- but like you say, that's any relationship. I'd like to think I'm not inherently attracted to... what, inexperience? But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice to be around someone who still..." He glanced upwards, searching for the words. A slight note of laughter preceded them. "Hopes for things. Which, frankly, may be less a product of her youth than my occupation in comparison to hers, so who knows." "To be fair," Morgan pointed out with a shrug, "your career wasn't always so depressing. Wasn't until You-Know-Who started his reign of bloody terror did things get really depressing around the office." Blimey, that put Alderton at what? Twelve when that happened? That girl had no idea what life was like before all of this. How the hell could anyone have hope when this was all they knew? Morgan took the opportunity to turn the subject lighter, though still on topic. "So she's inexperienced, huh?" He was midway towards taking another long drink when she posed her final question, and managed, despite his sudden grin, not to do a spit-take. Perhaps, apt though they might have been, he'd been a bit hasty in his choice of words. Gawain swallowed, lowering the hand with the pint, but didn't manage to shake his (perhaps telltale) grin. "Ah...." He scratched his neck, attempting to dim his expression. "Well. She's more experienced than I was at her age. Generally speaking." Morgan's face split into a wide grin as she tried not to bark in laughter. She only succeeded in not guffawing outright and startling the other patrons. "First, that was rhetorical. Second, you've slept with her!" Morgan resist the urge to call him a dirty, old man. Amusingly, she could be considered a necrophiliac, and Nick a paedophile - despite the fact that their make-out sessions had led nowhere. Nick was infuriatingly old-fashioned. "Third, give me all the gory details. I'm living vicariously through you if you can believe that." He couldn't. Still, the mere notion did nothing to help the grin once more spreading across his face, and Gawain made a valiant effort to quell it by taking his final pull of lager. By the time he set the glass down again, briefly rubbing his mouth a moment later, it was obvious it hadn't really helped. He was smiling, broadly, and there was little to be done about it. "I never said that," he started in a low, almost disapproving voice (once again hampered by the expression on his face). "Furthermore, a gentleman doesn't discuss such things. ... and before you ask, yes, I am a gentleman." "You stupid man," Morgan answered, laughing quite loudly now. This was cause for celebration in her book; the pair of them were sad sacks when it came to shagging frequently and often, even if Morgan thought it was fucking stupid. What the hell was the point of holding out between? Oh right, work got in the way. So did friendships and war and... "You can say you're a gentleman all you want, doesn't make it true. Besides, I've seen your book collection. There is porn hidden in there, mate. Don't you dare deny it." She honest had no idea if he had porn tucked away among all those books, but the odds were in her favour. "A gentleman is still a man, Morgan," Gawain replied lowly, evenly, and swiftly before collecting the bottle of firewhiskey for himself once again. The smaller glass he'd earlier abandoned was dragged towards himself once more, and filled before he offered to fill hers in turn (which he did without really awaiting an answer). As engaging as he found the subject of himself and his romantic exploits however, he felt it was time to leave it before he said something stupid. "Living vicariously through me though, that's the saddest thing I've heard all week -- which is saying something. Do tell." "The only thing that needs to be said is that evidently, you're getting laid, and I'm not," Morgan answered, shifting her glass across the table as she spoke. As if punctuating the word 'not,' the glass rose, and she tilted her head back sharply as she downed the whole thing. "And I've known him a hell of a lot longer than you've known Miss Cartoonist." "Maybe that's the problem," he offered with a raising of his eyebrows as he too knocked back his most recent drink. It was becoming marginally easier to manage them, but still he felt out of practice. As if the movement would make him more comfortable (or possibly because all the alcohol was making him feel warm), Gawain set about removing his jacket. "I expect you've broached the topic with him," he added dryly. While he didn't especially approve of Morgan's choice of ... whatever the vampire was to her, he wasn't exactly in a position to get high and mighty on the subject. Much. "No, I'm pretty sure that Nick's the problem. Four-hundred years old with the mentality of a... a four-hundred year old man," Morgan answered just as dryly. But, of course, what he'd said held some weight with Morgan. It was definitely possible that because Nick had known her since she was in nappies - oh sweet fucking CHRIST - and it wasn't so very long ago when compared to his age... "Ergh, I'm never getting laid. This is terrible." Which actually was a thought that had occurred (before being rapidly dismissed). Not that her current situation was terrible, though it sounded like it was, but more that, well, Gawain imagined if he lived to see four hundred he'd probably have grown weary with such things too. That was ten times his age now, and already he'd started to find the whole issue of sex a mite tiresome -- prior to the past few weeks of course. "Well, I'd offer to help you out, but..." He shrugged apologetically. "Hah! I don't want to see you naked either, Gawain," Morgan snorted, pouring them both another drink. This might end up a contest to find out who could hold out getting drunk or breaking the seal - bathroom, of course - first. Odds were highly stacked in Morgan's favour, of course. "How are you getting laid before I am? Honestly, it's the fucking mystery of the century." Fucking mystery of the century indeed, he thought, once again suppressing the urge to become defensive about it. Of course, he couldn't feel too slighted over her (once again rhetorical) question, not when she was pouring him another drink. He leaned forward and plucked it from the table gingerly, already lifting it to his mouth as he spoke. "What precisely is your vampire like?" Gawain asked, narrowing his eyes curiously at the woman across from him. Alternately: what passes for an desirable male in your brain? "Are you seriously asking me what I like about Nick?" Lopsided though Morgan's eyes were now as she peered at him with a look of distaste. Gawain ought to know better than she wasn't going to go completely moony schoolgirl on him. "Shall I pass you a note? Draw little hearts around the things I especially fancy?" But she seemed to think better and shrugged. "He calls me out on my shite. Granted, it's in the most polite and civilized manner I've ever seen, but he calls me out on it none the less." Gawain took a reserved sip from his glass. "It sounds like I might actually approve of him." Which sparked a crooked grin before his next sip, as he full well knew that his approval of one of Morgan's boyfriends was hardly what the woman was seeking -- though even then, he was a long way off from giving an out and out thumbs up. While the vampire sounded like he had the right sort of attitude, he was still a bloody vampire after all, and Gawain wasn't sure he wanted to delve too deeply into the possible reasons for her attraction (especially since one option -- older man given to guidance and manners -- was best kept to himself: daddy issues). "I was just curious," he added as he lowered his glass. He used the heel of his palm to rub one eye. "Am curious. Not to deny your obvious charms, but fair's fair and we already talked about me... what do you think he sees in you?" "I don't have the slightest fucking clue what he sees in me," Morgan answered without pause. She twirled her finger in the air before smacking her hand down flat against the table's surface. "Unless you consider my sailor's mouth, penchant for drinking most men under the table, and tendency for violence over sobbing to be virtues." Morgan would say there were a lot of reasons she liked Nick, and none of them had anything to do with daddy issues, funnily enough. Growing up in a household that welcomed vampires tended to toss conventional age differences out the window. As for guidance and manners? Well, someone in that household had to be presentable, didn't they? The reverse - what Nick saw in her - however, was now going to bother the living daylights out of her. "But thanks, Gawain. Now I'm going to spend the rest of my evening wondering just what the hell he could possibly see in me. Somehow, I don't think the gap between my teeth is a deciding factor." All virtues jokingly mentioned were, frankly, honest-to-God virtues in Gawain's mind. After all, the vast majority of the woman he'd been attracted to in the past had shared a temperment more akin to Morgan's than his own -- for good or ill. "Morgan," Gawain began after his most recent swallow of liquor. He leaned forward, setting the glass down on the table nigh decisively before linking his hands beside it and regarding her evenly. "Would you like me to shower you with compliments? ... brace yourself, I have been drinking. A denial may only encourage me." "No, no, no! For fuck's sake, that was rhetorical!" Morgan started, looking horrified. She might have to slow down with the rhetoric if she wanted to actually have a conversation with Gawain; there was no way in hell she was going to sit at a table while someone blasted her with compliments, regarding of what they were. She held up her fist menacingly. "If you start in on compliments, I will punch you, and it'll hurt." Encouragement received. "You are..." Gawain began, voice appallingly gentle and kind. "A beautiful, vivacious young woman, with a decided lust for..." His mouth twisted to the side as he looked upwards, thoughtful. "... life, and a sense of humour wonderfully matched with a an absolutely lovely, girlish laugh..." Morgan grimaced the second he began. It was like nails on a chalkboard to her, even in jest. Before he could get the F in laugh out, she punched him hard in the shoulder. "I fucking told you, you twat. If you keep on, I'll make it so no one ever recognises you again." The punch did two things -- firstly, it hurt, and secondly, it provoked a very loud, very rarely heard, bout of laughter. Gawain was still grinning when he rubbed his arm, happy for the cushion of alcohol that kept him from flinching before she'd struck him. "And your touch is like an angel's," he finished, barely managing to keep his smile in check. Given, a conversation with Morgan could end up in more bodily harm than a duel with a half dozen Death Eaters, but he was as grateful for the distraction she provided as he was for the comfort she, despite her better efforts, managed to give. That (and the firewhiskey) would be enough to see him through 'til morning. |