WHO: Mercy Smith and Sinclair Bole. WHAT: Showing up unannounced and hopefully not dying. WHEN: BACKDATED, August 11, around midnight. WHERE: Mercy's flat. STATUS: Incomplete/Closed. RATING: PG-13?
There had been an unspoken warning in the few words Mercy had written in her journal - or at least had made public - and it was simple: stay away. Or at least for those who knew her well enough, it was. Then again, perhaps the entirety of Mercy's persona made it clear that after a story like the one that had graced the front cover of the Daily Prophet, no one was to approach her. But then, when had Sinclair ever abided by social rules, much less any that had to do with one of his favorite birds?
As was their general way of things, he had made his usual pot of spaghetti and divided it between the same two containers they always used - red for him, white for her - placed them in a bag, and carted it halfway across town in order to make his way up to her penthouse. As ever, he tipped his imaginary hat to the doorman and brought his parcel into the elevator, pressing the button and gliding smoothly to the back of the elevator despite the fact that he was the only occupant. Within just a few minutes, he was standing outside the familiar door with a familiar look on his face, and he was sure that the two familiar raps on the door were exactly what she didn't want to hear at the moment. The only thing unfamiliar about the scene were the two cartons of completely sloshed ice cream outside her door; but he didn't bother with those, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe as always.