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R.A.B (fairosalind) wrote in the_8th_floor,

"Oh," Rosalind glanced at the pile of books crowned with glassware and smirked. "Personally I think most of those look more fetching right now, than laying around - I haven't had any proper use for that book of wizarding law in ages." Curling up in the other corner of the sofa but drawing her bare feet up so that her toes almost touched his thigh, Rosalind took the glass John handed her, her fingers brushing his briefly. For a moment she stared thoughtfully into her glass, before realising that she had invited him over with the expressed intent of getting drunk anyway. Earlier she had had a brief discussion with herself whether it was a bad idea to even attempt such a thing, considering all the emotions and terrorist actions she might end up confessing to (the two being equally horrifying to think of voicing) and then ignored the propriety of it all.

"I'm..." She began, speaking a little too early before she had organized her thoughts and then falling silent. Drawing the strong, pungent smell of whisky into her lungs, she considered the Witch Weekly article that had set all of this off. What had hurt hadn't been the actual phrasing (although "most fertile years" was a combination of words that would now ignite her anger in about five seconds), but the idea the short snippet had tried to convey. What did they know about her private life or her innermost thoughts? Would they have written the same bloody thing had they known how the last few months together with her fiancé had been filled with...well, shagging and pregnancy tests in that order.

Probably, they clearly had no scruples.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts a moment, she realised she did not have an answer for John, and said so.
"I have no idea really. Should I attempt to hold it all inside, I think it'd spill out at the first opportunity anyway. So - for the sake of my pride and reputation as an ice queen, let's pretend everything is normal for a moment."
Taking a sip of the whisky, feeling it burn all the way down her throat and settling into her stomach, the words started piling up in the back of her throat even as she thought she had nothing more to add.
"I guess it was all a lucky shot, some reporter at Witch Weekly actually hitting where it hurts...you've never seem to care much when they aim at you, John?"