InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Don't forget to eat!"

Maggie had no idea how many drinks in they were. At some points, she had no idea what they had been drinking. But what she did know were the mugs of famous quidditchers—especially the rival team's—and she knew, for a fact, who the person in the corner of the bar was.

She jammed her elbow into Tor's side and nodded her head indiscreetly toward them. "It's Campbell!" She whispered (poorly, loudly). "Montrose. The Angus one. Magpies." Eyes flitted from bearded mascot to bearded reserve and back. "We should ha' a dram wi' the enemy."

Tor clutched his side, pretending to be wounded. "Watch yer pointy elbows! Ye cuid dae some serious damage wi' them!" A night of drinking made his accent come out stronger as he tossed back the whisky that was still in his glass. "None o' thaim ur aff tae gie up MG's secrets, ye ken. Unless ye'r juist trying tae persuade him Portree's th' better team."

Angus was several drinks deep and still going strong; a bad night followed by a lackluster practice had brought him to a pub in Oban where no one was likely to know him or judge him for drinking alone. He wasn't paying attention to much, but the couple on the other side of the pub caught his eye when they kept looking at him. The woman looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place her, and the man not at all.

After a few moments of consideration, he drained his ale and stood, and made his totally steady and not a bit wobbly way across the floor to their table. "Evenin'," he said by way of greeting. "Do I know ye? Or do ye know me?"

She shot Tor a look that so plainly said SEE??? even though he hadn't doubted her before she turned a smile up at Angus and thrust her hand out. "Maggie and Tor," Her free hand pointed at the McTavish, as though there was anyone else to indicate. "We work wi' Portree." Under the table, unseen, she kicked her foot across the table to knock the free chair out. "Dram?"

"Ye likelie ken me better as Laddie th' Lion," Tor explained but refrained - for the moment - from doing his trademark roar for those at the pub. No need to draw too much attention to themselves. Tor, in true Scottish hospitality, wasn't going to wait for Campbell's answer and poured him a whiskey while refilling his own glass and Maggie's.

"Mags 'ere is oor medic, keeping oor girls in fightin' shape - 'n' th' lads tae, though we've less o' thaim."

Angus peered at both of them, enlightened but not sure how good an idea it was to drink with Portree's mascot and medic. Then again, there was that whiskey sitting there undrunken and tempting… He shrugged and lowered himself with exaggerated caution into the empty chair. "Dinnae mind if I do."

He took Maggie's hand for a firm shake, sizing her up. "Angus Campbell. But I reckon ye ken that. Gregor McGregor's mate and landlord," he added to Tor. "And Lennox's brother, of course. Did ye ken Lennox? No, why would ye. Anyway, ah… cheers." He saluted them both with his glass.

"Cheers!" Tor said, raising his glass before feigning a look of being shocked. "Hauld yer horses - ur mascots suppose tae be landlords? Ah didnae ken that. Na yin tellt me. Mags - waant me tae be yer landlord? Or ah cuid be Scrimmy's landlord - she's wee enough she'd fit in mah flat."

"Mine's got food, cheers." Maggie interjected, sticking out her tongue. "Bide 'bove a pub. Get one an' we'll talk." Then she raised her glass with a "Slàinte!" before draining most of it, despite it having just been refilled.

He turned back to Angus. "Mah flat's nae gey muckle, bit Scrimmy - oor hauf pint o' a chaser - isnae too muckle either sae it juist micht wirk."

Angus laughed at the pair of them, relaxing into his chair and stretching out his long legs under the table. Drinking with the enemy might have been outside his usual evening plans (well, except Meaghan, he'd always drink with his old pal McC if it was on the table), but these two were braw.

"A've seen yer wee Scrimmy oan th' pitch," he commented, relaxing into his broadest Scots just for the fun of it and the joy of knowing he'd be understood. More or less. "Lassie kin be minkie bit Godric's beard, she's pure mental. Dinnae reckon ye'd want a skiddelty wild beastie like that livin' wi' ye."

That made Maggie laugh. "Reckon ye'd need fuckin' earmuffs live with Scrimgeour, an' I say tha' wi' love." Scrimmy had grown on her despite her apparent dependence on Skele-Gro.

Tor chuckled. "That wee wild beastie's mah cousin, 'n' Ah love that half-pint tae pieces."

She swished the whiskey around in her glass then peered up at Angus with a considering look. Well, as close as you can get to there while being sloshed. "So, Campbell, my wee lad, wha' brings a Magpie tae Oban?" Then, looking at her glass with a snicker, she muttered in a familiar cadence, "There once was a Magpie in Oban, who... ah, fuck, ah dinny ken. Who got hisself fixed with a coven." A shrug as she took a drink to cover up the fact that not only did she not have a third line, but the first two were downright awful.. This must have been a stunning first impression.

Tor laughed and put a hand up, downing his whiskey before taking a breath.

"There once was a Magpie in Oban,
Who got hisself fixed with a coven
Lions got him drunk
To prove he's no monk
Sent him back o'er the glen."

Tor couldn't hold back his laughter as he finished because it was a downright rubbish limerick. "Y've got tae gimme something better tae wirk wi', Mags. That was rubbish." He blew her a kiss across the table anyway.

Angus grinned wryly at the pair of them. "Wisnae the worst poem A've had writ about me, A reckon. Cheers tae that." He put back his drink and set down his glass again, fiddling with it. "D'ye ken, A may play at Montrose, bit A bide juist ower th' sea oan Mull. In th' hoose A was born in. Wi' me ma." He laughed at how ridiculous that was (at 32, Merlin's saggy bollocks) and waved to the waitress to keep the whiskey coming. "So yer poem isna strictly accurate, my lad. Reckon ye'd be better tae start:

"There wis a braw Magpie fra' Mull,
Wha's Friday nicht drinkin' grew dull…"

He shrugged. "Dinnae ken where we go fra' there."

Maggie awwwed because fuck maturity, she'd love to live with her parents. In theory. Then she leaned forward over her drink and closed her eyes—making the world spin just a bit, so she opened them again and focused on the liquid in her glass instead—and continued slowly, with a little less slur.

"'Till wi' a medic an' mascot,
He drank—no fuckin' bullshots—
An' by morn he was outta his skull."

Aye, there were some artistic liberties taken, but she still sat back in her seat with a proud grin.

That earned a whistle of appreciation from Tor as he topped off their glasses. Of course, if they kept going like this, they'd need another bottle soon enough. He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip and gave it another attempt.

"There wis a braw Magpie fra' Mull,
Wha's Friday nicht drinkin' grew dull,
'e looked like a beater
But as chaser was neater
… aw feck me.."

Somehow he couldn't manage to outdo Maggie's one on that. Well, turn about was fair play. He gave Angus a grin. "A'm aff tae need yer hulp oan this one, mate."

"Pride's loveliest lass is her healer
Every lad's wanting to steal'her…."

Angus was still chuckling and shaking his head over the idea that he looked more like a Beater. Well, he had the arms for it, but he'd been Chasing more than half his life by now, and the idea tickled him. He held up a hand while he concentrated, tapping out the beat with his empty glass on the table. "Aha," he said after a suspenseful pause. "Awright, ye twa, hearken noo:

"Pride's bonniest lassie's her healer
An' ilka lad's wantin' to steal 'er,
If he'll want tae git frisky,
He'll ply her wi' whiskey,
Then oot o' the howff he maun wheel 'er."

He rose from his seat, doffed an imaginary cap, and sketched a bow. "Reckon oor Rabbie hisself coudna hae dane better."

Maggie... well, Maggie stared, for about five looooong seconds, because this was not the treatment she'd expected. Then the drunken spell broke and she clapped for the poets, whether or not the two men at her table had just devised one about how to "ply her wi' whiskey." What could she say? Whiskey's fuckin' braw, especially when it begins with fire-.

Making grabby hands at the bottle so she could refill her glass, she shook her head. "They said romance wis dead, but here I've got twa lads writin' me poems." A fake tear was wiped away. "Son o' Scotland's rollin' in his kist, he is."

Tor was on his feet, clapping Angus on the back and throwing his head back to let out a Laddie Roar™ in appreciation. "Ah dinnae think ye'r paying fur annur dram th' nicht. That wis braw."

"Ach, weel, in that case," Angus said, and poured himself another generous portion, topping up the other two as well. "Reckon A kin fashion a wee rhyme for the League's second greatest mascot. Gie us a minute noo."

He narrowed his eyes in concentration, mouthing words to himself for a moment in between thoughtful sips of his whiskey, and finally he cleared his throat.

"A heard o' a lion name o' Laddie,
Wha's voice it was nae such a baddie,
When he'd gie oot a roar
It'd dinnle the floor,
An' the lassies would gae all uncladdie… oi!"

He lifted his glass to Tor, sloshing a bit of the liquor out, but a little damp was nothing to fash about. "'Pologies tae the lady. Reckon A may be a wee bit bluitert."

It was Maggie's turn to roar, except she wasn't capable of roaring — but she was capable of bursting out into laughter. "In the name of–" Okay, and her roars were actually snorts, which were an unfortunate and unavoidable side effect of being doubled over like that. "I cannae– Fuck– Fuck." Eventually her forehead rose from its new home on the tabletop and she grinned, holding her glass high in honour of Angus. "Tae the new Bard of Mull, the freish Ploughman Po– aw fuck, ye put the 'plough' in 'Ploughman,' Angus Campbell."

Tor was doubled over in laughter, clutching his side, but managed to collect himself well enough to let out a loud roar before climbing onto his chair. He roared again to get the attention of the whole pub. "Oi! All ye lads 'n' lassies, a toast - tae th' Bard o' Mull! Whose wit isnae matched by ony in oor fair lund. Raise yer gless tae th' Bard o' Mull - Angus Campbell! Slainte!" He stomped his foot on th chair as a cheer rose up throughout the pub. If there was one thing Tor was good at it was working a crowd. With an extravagant flourish, Tor bowed in front of Angus, nearly toppling of his chair before landing - as intended - on his arse in the chair.

"Aye, laddie, that wis guid enough ah will th' comment aboot bein' seicont best skiite. Though ye micht wantae chaynge th' lest line tae laddies instead o' lassies - if we're gaun fur accuracy. Anyhow, Ah owe ye anither," he said emptying the bottle in Angus' glass before signalling to the waitress to bring him another.

Angus accepted the top-up with a grin, puffed up at making the younger pair fall over themselves laughing and the cheer from the pubgoers, despite his impression that these Priders were sozzled enough to find anything hilarious and that the punters probably didn't know what they were actually cheering.

He blinked at Tor with his glass halfway to his mouth at that last bit, his forehead wrinkling. "Och," he muttered, boozily surprised, and peered more closely at him. "Are ye that way, then? A didna ken. Awright, so kin A juist ask ye, okay, what it is aboot men… that… how come?" He leaned forward in his seat, glancing between him and Maggie speculatively over his glass. "And ye twa are no a pair?"

"Dinna fash," Tor said smiling at Angus as he refilled his glass and took another sip. "Aye, a'm that wey. Or baith ways ah suppose. Bit ah tend to fancy th' laddies mair than th' lassies."

Tor chuckled at the question. "Me 'n' mags? Definitely nae a pair. She deserves better." He gave the woman in question a big grin and a wink. "Ah well, Ah s'pose Ah see the same thing in lads that wummin do. Fur me a bloke's roar or smile... Weel, that's whit ah gang fur."

Meanwhile, Maggie nearly did a genuine spit take at the question.

Tor flushed slightly, pink spreading on his cheeks. " 'n' ah think ah hae a thing fur quidditch players."

Recovering from her near-choke on her whiskey, Maggie shot Tor an affectionate grin and muttered, deliberately loud enough for both of them to hear, "That's because ye'r a fuckin' groupie, McTavish."

"Huh," Angus said, still not completely convinced. For a second he pictured Micah's smile, trying to see if there was anything… but the most he got out of that image was a vague sort of fondness for his captain. He shook his head sadly. "Weel, it takes all sorts, A reckon. Me, A'm for the lassies." He winked broadly at Maggie. "What about it, darlin'?"

Maggie rolled her eyes with another grin and nursed her drink, faking thinking very hard. "Cannae be a groupie when half the players I ken're under my care, aye? Laddies or lassies, doesn't matter tae me." Settling back in her chair, she shrugged. "Barely hae time for any o' that business, 'tween the club an' the hospital." She said, drinking heavily and composing limericks on a night where she was so clearly not on either clock.

"Nae a groupie. Juist dating yer beater. Er, former beater?" Tor shook his head, not really wanting to discuss Portree business or Luag's leave of absence right now, both of which were Much. Too. Serious. Topics.™ for a night of drinking. "Mags is selfless. Worrying aboot a' body else 'n' nae herself."

Tor raised an eyebrow at Angus. "Whit aboot ye, laddie? ne'er thought aboot th' lads? ah reckoned a' quidditchers hud a phase where.." He trailed off, gesturing with his hands.

"Pfffff," Angus said to that idea, and then "Pffffffffffff" again to his glass as he lifted it. He took the shot and settled the glass very gently down on the table again, moving with exaggerated caution. "Nay. A wis never int'rested in…" He waved his hands demonstratively right back at Tor. "A' that. Godric's bawsack, it'd be nice if A were. Got a lovely wee lass that's insistin' on me comin' tae bed wi' her and her man and A juist -- hold up, MacFusty?" he interrupted himself, eyes wide with realisation. "Not Lorna, A mean -- her wee brother?"

Angus may have carefully placed his glass, but Maggie full-on slammed her to the table and pointed a finger in Tor's face. "I knew it!" There was nothing quiet, or subtle, about her reaction. "Fuckin' knew it! Should hae started a fuckin' bettin' pool, I'd hae won enough galleons for a fuckin' cruise." A beat and crossed arms, "Nae that I'd gang on it, but I'd hae the galleons."

Tor's cheeks flushed. "Weel, thir's naught wee aboot him. In ony wey. But, aye, Luag an' Ah… well, he tellt th' fowk ower yule."

Tor ran a hand over his hair, further mussing up the wild mane of dark curls. "If ye'v git a chance fur a threesome, tis nae th' wirst thing, lad. 'n' ye kin dae as muckle touching or nae as yi'll waant. Ye cuid pat th' lassie in th' middle, fur instance. Ah haven't bin in yin in years - not since WADA - bit they're barry hings."

Maggie's eyes went from Tor back to Angus, and she downed the rest of her drink because it felt like the medically responsible thing to do, given the conversation. "Nae since the States for me. Twa times–" she held up three fingers, then realized her mistake and went back to two, "It kin be braw or crap, partners dependin'." She shifted, a little uncomfortable but mostly indignant, "If the wife hollers 'homewrecker' a' ye a month later, 'twas crap."

But that was a fuckin' downer, so she refilled her glass and held it up to Angus with a crooked smile. "So, just dinnae go to New York an' fuck those two an' ye'll be braw."

Angus's mouth was hanging open just a bit at the response from the both of them. Merlin, young people were all kinds of adventurous these days. Or maybe that was just Prides. He coughed, averting his eyes. "Weel," he said a little dazedly, "reckon A'll stay oot o' New York tae be safe, then."

He shook his head after another beat, taking another refill himself. "Didna reckon on havin' this convo the nicht. Thanks fer th' advice… A think. An' noo A'm changin' the topic. Och, whit aboot that ref-- the refef-- fuck me, the Scotland vote, eh?"

The change of subject was, admittedly, a bit of a welcome one for Maggie. "Shaggin' tae politics, we're braw conversationalists." With a smirk, she relaxed, and picked at the sleeve of her sweater for an excuse of something to do with her hands. "Fuck you, the Scotland vote, indeed. Tae close, some micht say." Maggie might say, although she wasn't about to admit it, sober or drunk. Instead she chewed on her lip as she tried to find something constructive to contribute, but she... was... drunk, so all she could settle on was a "Bonnie Scotland."

It was an abrupt change of pace that made Tor worry they'd pushed the Montrose lad too far. He made a mental note to ask Mags what the fuck had happened in New York. "Aye, to Bonnie Scotland," Tor said, raising a glass. He might have been drunk, but some instincts were hard to break. He took a sip of his whisky before leaning back and softly singing:

"O Fhlùir na h-Alba,
cuin a chì sinn
an seòrsa laoich
a sheas gu bàs 'son
am bileag feòir is fraoich,
a sheas an aghaidh..."

The melody to "Flower of Scotland" was familiar and the gaelic words seemed more fitting tonight, his tenor voice still remarkably in tune despite how much he'd drunk.

The first notes sung had Angus sitting up to attention, his own glass raised in salute. He didn't know the Gaelic words, at least not without studying first, but the song was one of his favourites in any language. By the end of the verse his eyes were misty and he had to blot them on his sleeve. "Och, that wis bonnie, mate," he sighed. "Nay -- nay, that wis braw an' bonnie. Noo that's a song fer the heart." He shook his head fervently and tipped his glass to Tor. "Tae Scotland an' Scots, man."

While she was no stranger to Tor's singing, Maggie would be crazy to insist that hearing that song right then did nothing to her heartstrings. She wasn't about to weep (because Maighread MacDougal does not weep in public), but she did hold her glass out and up to mirror Angus's toast. "Scotland an' Scots." And then, for good measure, she drank it in one gulp. It seemed the appropriately Scottish thing to do.

She set her glass back down on the table and covered it with the coaster. "Ye lot ken how to make a nicht o' it. Poems 'n serenades, when a' I expected wis a drink or three. Weel done."

Torquil drained his glass with the other two before clasping a hand on Angus' back. "Ye shuid come oot wi' us mair aff. Sod this rivalry nonsense." He tossed a look in Maggie's directions. "'n' as fur ye, Maighread, ye shuid ken ye'r fàilte tae mah songs ony day. Identical goes fur ye, m'dear Bard fr' Mull."

"Aw," said Angus, boozily touched by the sentiment, and punched Tor in the shoulder. "Cheers, mate. A'd write ye a dirty poem anytime. An' twa dirty poems tae ye, bonnie lass. A like the way ye drink."

"Laddie, if Ah was nae spoken fur, you'd be making me weak in th' knees," Tor teased. "But our bonnie Maighread seems to be the one in need of drinks an' poems."

Maggie gave Tor A Look that included one (1) raised eyebrow and very plainly communicated to knock it off. Buuut, then again, some possibilities were appealing. Even more than appealing. The gears turning in her head were slow, sure, and aye, they were rusty, but they were turning.

She waved at the server for the bill before her gaze landed back on Angus. This time the raised eyebrow was intended to be inviting, instead of threatening. (Can an eyebrow really be inviting, or was she just drunk enough to think so?) "I'd hear another yin, in a wee while." She aimed a little kick under the table at Tor's shins.

Angus yelped as the kick went awry and Maggie nailed him in the leg. "Och," he complained, reaching down to rub at the spot. "Hope ye're plannin' on carryin' me hame, darlin'. Whit is that, steel toes in yer boots?" He gave her a speculative look, or as speculative as he could look when sozzled. She wasn't bad-looking, and she was there, and female, and in his present state of mind that was enough to be going on with. "Wouldnae mind composin' an ode to yer footwork, A reckon." He attempted to raise an eyebrow in return.

"She's pure tough enough fur that," Tor said with a grin. He set a stack of coins on the table to cover the tab. "Her legs ur nae even th' best thing aboot her."

Maggie's cheeks flushed as she realized her error. "That wis meant for McTavish," she pointed out as though it weren't already obvious. "If I'd been kickin' you I'd hae bin lighter about it. Promise." Then she paused for a moment of deep reconsideration, "Likely."

Tor got to his feet, stretching his undamaged legs and tugging down the hem of his tshirt. "Tis bin a stoatin nicht, bit a'm needin' tae be getting back tae mah dragons." He went over to Maggie, ruffled her hair and gave her a big wet kiss on the cheek. "Dinnae dae anythin' ah wouldn't dae."

Maggie responded "Murder's out, then" as she reciprocated with a hug. "Drop by in th' morn' if ye'll need potions afore the match, aye? Cannae have ye roarin' like a kitten."

Angus, who wasn't the most brilliant at maths even before uncountable drinks, added some more coins to the table, and after considering the pile, added some more just to be sure. "Pride's playin' the morrow?" he inquired, and then snapped his fingers as the date caught up to him. "Och -- the bloody Bats. Crush 'em, Priders." He grinned genially over at Maggie, all kicks forgiven. "A'll cheer fer ye. An' maybe A kin be yer lucky charm, eh?" Angus attempted a significant leer, but probably just looked cross-eyed.

Throwing her own handful into the pile, all the while cursing wizards for refusing to adopt the simple art of paper money, she nodded. "Ye'll be as much if Quigley doesnae pulverize the team." (Her heart fluttered a little at her own mention of Fantasy Quidditch Husband, Finbar Quigley. It was unavoidable.)

Her only response to Angus's 'leer' was to raise an eyebrow again, although she probably couldn't do much better. She stood, steadied herself against the table, and reached for her leather jacket, then nodded at the corner he'd originally come from. "But I'd ower find oout how lucky ye'll be th' nicht. Git yer jacket." At least smiling worked regardless of how many sheets to the wind she was.

Angus, used to taking orders from diminutive women, saluted Maggie, still grinning. "Aye, chief." He rose and slapped Tor on the back. "Gie yer MacFusty a kiss fer me, Laddie. Not fra' me," he added, pointing a wavering finger at him. "...But if ye see Lorna, gie her a kiss fra' me. Awright, mate." He wandered off to fetch his jacket (and to get a cup of water from the bar, in case it wasn't too late to avoid really regretting not doing so earlier), humming O Flower of Scotland, when will we see.. as he went.