gideon prewett, at your service. (prwtt) wrote in raveled, @ 2017-02-16 17:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! decade: 1970s, ! log, fabian prewett, gideon prewett |
WHO: The Prewett twins.
WHAT: Learning about the Muggle world firsthand.
WHEN: Late 1973.
WHERE: Muggle London.
WARNINGS: Minor violence.
Fabian still walked a bit oddly, or at least it felt a bit odd to him, in Muggle trousers. They sat wrong, rubbed wrong, and Fabian was absolutely unsure about the fastenings called zippers. Teeth didn't really belong near the pride of the Prewetts. "So what's this game you want to teach me again?" he asked Gideon, who was more at ease in Muggle garments than Fabian thought he'd ever be already. "Billiards," the word rolling off his twin's tongue with a deserved hand gesture, a motion depicting the wonders that awaited. The elder Prewett walked with perfect grace, as though he'd grown up in the world that surrounded them: one where wands were sticks and magic was fantasy. "You hit balls into holes with long poles," was Gideon's conclusion, "and pretend it's quite a bit less dirty than it sounds." Fabian, because he was eternally about twelve where Gideon was concerned, snickered at the very idea. "Considering some of the tripe I have to keep a straight face about, that's not so hard." He was doing his best not to gawk at the overwhelming amount of noise and number of people out and about in Muggle London. They paid him little to no attention, going about their own business to the exclusion of these awkward strangers unknown to them. "How much further until we get where we're going? And will they have something to drink?" With confidence, his twin clapped him on the shoulder, arm round them a moment later. "You don't think I'd ever steer you wrong?" He asked, grin bright and broad, doing exactly that: steering, at least, though the narrow street the two of them were suddenly aiming down was unfortunate-looking. Unsavory, like. "Not when it comes to drinking, at least," he amended. They were near halfway down the length of it, a small brick establishment squashed near the end their destination, when a set of four men, rank with dirt and casual intention, stepped out from the shadows, their attention clearly captured by the approaching, quieting pair of Prewetts. Fabian's instincts for trouble had been honed by years of working under Alastor Moody, and this was trouble. He nudged his shoulder into Gideon's side by way of getting his brother's attention, on the unlikely chance Gideon didn't see what they'd just walked into. After a long moment of the two groups sizing one another up (and the twins' steps slowing to a halt), Gideon's mild greeting broke the air. "Evening, gentlemen," came easily enough, though his arm dropped from around his twin's shoulders so he could innocuously press both hands into jean front pockets. "Need something?" They ignored him. "Milo, tell me," the largest of them sneered, "Am I seeing double?" "Toffs like them come in twos," was another piping up. A leering grin sat on another's face, the four of them cautiously spreading out to either side of the twins. They were arranged side-by-side, and Fabian doubted that they understood that he was left-handed and thus both of them had their on hands clear and free. They couldn't use wands, but one of the things Fabian had learnt in the Auror Office, or confirmed, really, was that you didn't always need a wand to get yourself out of trouble. But, being Fabian, he had to try, at least, to do it with sweet words. "We come in peace. Perhaps we could interest you in a round of drinks at the local at the end of the way?" "We'll be drinking on your money," the big one told the twins, teeth gleaming yellow, "but you won't be." Fabian moved to put his back to Gideon's as his twin pulled hands easily from his pockets, rubbing at his nose. "That's an unfortunate choice on your part. But it's your funeral." Which was enough to set the lot of them leaping on the Prewetts, four on two. They swept in together, cocky and entitled fists aimed at the twins. The first to reach out got knocked on his ass. Knuckles bleeding, Gideon's curse had barely split the sounds of struggle, an aggrieved, "Hardheaded piece of…" before the next had set upon him, his own hand smashing firmly into Prewett cheekbone and nose, forcing him to stagger back. The thing about being a left-handed fighter was that most people--wizard and muggle--were trained to expect a strike from the right and not from the left. Which always gave him a successful surprise strike against someone not expecting it. Milo took the first punch; Fabian got a swing in on the second; but the second gave him a hard right to the gut that drove the air from Fabian's gut and knocked him backward toward Gideon. Their backs hit hard, arm against the middle of the other's shoulderblades. Meanwhile the one Fabian had knocked back into the rubbish had picked himself back up, swearing, ready to launch himself at one or the other of the twins again. "Bring it on, you tosser," Gideon spat the curse as casually as the wad of blood; his grinning teeth flecked with red, his eyes gleaming with the pleasure of the fight. "If you're ready to run back to your mum screaming." Fabian wasn't sure he and Gideon could back Gideon's mouth up with their fists, but he was damned well going to try. The twins' advantage was that they worked together as if they had the fabled connexion believed common to their kind, and if Fabian wasn't hitting Gideon, whoever he was hitting (or kicking, or smashing with the lid of the rubbish bin he'd picked up because Fabian didn't believe in fighting "fair" when it was four-on-two) was of the other party. Which made it much easier for him and Gideon to send the would-be thieves packing, or at least to damage them all badly enough that they gave up on the twins as bad prospects. Which was not to say Fabian was coming away unscathed. Nothing was broken, not as far as he could tell, but he had bruises and scrapes and a sluggishly bleeding wound on his right arm where someone had drawn a knife on him, necessitating the use of the bin lid as a makeshift shield. Still breathing hard, wiping his bloodied nose on the cuff of his ruined shirt, Fabian turned to Gideon to give him the once-over. "I think I've had a lesson, but not in 'billiards'," he told Gideon, sounding less put out than he might have. "All right?" When he came up from his position, bent over with hands on knees, the elder twin was laughing exhilaratedly, a bark of amusement that saw one more mouthful of claret spat onto the stones beneath their feet. "Never better," the transparency of the statement accented by the little hacking sound in the back of his throat. Bruised ribs, split lip, a few marks that left him worse for the wear: but Gideon's hand once again came up to clap against his brother's shoulder, coughing out a chuckle. "Maybe billiards, another day." |