OPEN POST pt III

[wunderkind]

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, coffee, summertime, AUs, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on, like we did last summer



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

I'm gonna leave dishes in your sink

[jurisimpudent]

"Completely empty," Edgeworth corrects just a bit dryly. "Gryffindors are quite of a single mind on most things, trips to Hogsmeade included."

Gryffindors except for him, it should be said. But he's always been quite apart from the rest of them.

"In any case, that sounds just short of hellish." He thrusts his hands into his pockets, and he tries to look confident; he's falling just a little bit behind, now, though, trailing behind Sirius. He doesn't know the path. "I don't tend to enjoy either noise or being intoxicated in front of untrustworthy sorts." As soon as that last part is out of his mouth, he gives an uncomfortable little shrug; it probably sounds mad and paranoid to just paint all his classmates as untrustworthy.

you're a monster!!!

[doggedly]

Sirius himself doesn't have much trust for his housemates--though his is a more aristocratic distrust, holding those you'd consider inferior at a sort of arm's length, in case they should prove to be unworthy of any trust of substance. His circle of trust is very small, its lines largely defined by familial ties.

There's a separate sort of trust that he has for Edgeworth, one that's more resigned. He does not like to think of it, or much consider what it means.

Instead, he turns down the narrow lane toward the edge of the village. The Hog's Head stands at the end of this way. Its grimy windows give it the appearance of being shut for the day, but Sirius presses on with confidence.

"You'll hate the Hog's Head," he promises, "if that's the case. Not for the noise, but for the untrustworthy sorts. The place is full of 'em."

And if Edgeworth says something soppy about how Sirius is trusthworthy, he will hex him.

busterbluth.jpg

[jurisimpudent]

He says nothing, but he thinks about Sirius' trustworthiness. Not sentimentally, either - not precisely. There's nothing particularly sentimental about his trust for Sirius Black; it's not based upon affection, or a personal connection, or understanding. There are elements of that that perhaps led him to believe that Black would watch his back that day, yes, but...The trust comes from Sirius saving his life. In the cold terror and violence, Sirius kept him alive, out of nothing save kindness and a desire to do the right thing. That's not a warm thing, or a thing that springs from something pleasant, but it's absolute.

"I'll survive," he answers tersely. That is uttered, of course, before he catches sight of the sign and sees where they're headed; admittedly, he does wonder for a moment, seeing the windows and the state of it, whether he'll not perish of hepatitis from the place. It's altogether hideous.

His voice is dry when he asks, "Do you have any recommendations? Are there specialties of the house?"

exactly.

[doggedly]

Sirius' grin is a little wicked, when he turns around to look at Edgeworth. He does so like to be a little shocking sometimes, even to people that he likes. The fact that he doesn't really like Edgeworth only makes this even more amusing.

"Yeah," he says, as he reaches over to clap him, briefly, on the arm. "The specialty is, don't drink the beer, it tastes like piss. Go for the whisky. C'mon--"

He breaks ahead of Edgeworth to go inside, without any polite holding-of-doors.

The interior is a little worse than the exterior. The light looks colder, coming in through the dim glass. There's a fire smouldering in the hearth, and it lends the narrow common room a damp sort of air, like a cottage shut up too long in the summer. Sirius strides over to a table in the corner almost cheerfully, as if he hasn't noticed at all.

Behind the bar, the barkeep looks up, dully. His grey beard lays long and unkept on his chest.

Sirius kicks out a chair for Edgeworth, as he slumps into his own. "Just here."

and then I'm going to buy you a bottle of Lagavulin

[jurisimpudent]

Edgeworth sits down just a little gingerly, making certain that his cloak is positioned under him. Even through those multiple layers of cloth the wood feels sticky. He can feel it through that indirect contact. The table is sticky, too, and the floor, and he can predict with some certainty that the whiskey will come in glasses flecked with lime and grime, and the whole enterprise smells sour. No: Edgeworth does not like this place at all.

It's nearly empty, though, at least. Only one other patron, dozing over a mug of beer. That's something. And the barkeep looks like he is not even capable of summoning the energy to care about the identity of either Black or Edgeworth. A bit of anonymity - or apathy - is not a bad prospect.

Edgeworth leans over and mutters to Sirius, sotto voce: "Will he come take our order?"

a bottle nearly half my age amazing

[doggedly]

"No." Sirius smiles, almost cheerfully, delighted by the unhelpfulness of the barkeep. It is, perhaps, a little like slumming, but he can't be disgusted with himself. No one ever wants to go to the Hog's Head. It's known to have its dangers--rumours of unsavory deals--but it's never been the chic Dark Arts establishments in Knockturn Alley, shoved in right alongside the half-crumbled buildings and shops selling fresh and shrunken squids right out of barrels. There is no mystique in the smell of goat.

Sirius heaves himself to his feet, thumps his hands briskly on the tabletop. "I'll fetch 'em for us," he tells Edgeworth. "What are you going to have?"

More than half, it's 16

[jurisimpudent]

"Whatever you have," Edgeworth responds. He briefly toyed with ordering a water instead, but frankly, whatever foul whiskey-based concoction Black will favor is almost undoubtedly safer; after all, typhoid cannot live in 120-proof liquor that ends up set on fire and is at least three quarters rat poison.

Edgeworth does trust Black with his life. He's a bit more trepidatious about trusting him with his liver.

While Sirius goes to the bar, Miles pulls out his wand and taps it on the table, muttering a quick "Tergeo." It does help, a bit; there are many, many layers of grease on this table, but this at least strips off the top few. The handkerchief Edgeworth keeps in his pocket goes to work on the few below that. (He supposes it would be far more polite to simply ignore it, but the barkeep hardly seems to care enough to be offended.)

whatever numbers

[doggedly]

On his way back with the drinks--both, indeed, some 'foul whisky-based concoctions', although the foul bit has more to do with the state of the glasses--Sirius purposefully slows his steps, the better to watch Edgeworth work. His diligence at cleaning is ridiculous, and focused enough that Sirius can approach quite directly and stand beside the table for a few beats, still observing.

"Having fun?" he asks, eventually. He does not offer one of the glasses, but withholds until further explanation is offered.

I'm serious though

[jurisimpudent]

Edgeworth looks up. Far from looking embarrassed, there's a hint of righteous satisfaction as he folds his handkerchief and puts it back into his robe pocket. He'll launder it later, and then launder the robe. (He does all laundry himself, rather than giving it to the house-elves; the house-elf system makes him uncomfortable, and moreover he only really trusts his own hands.

"Please, sit," he says unselfconsciously, nodding to the chair across from him. "What did you purchase?"

well then i'm excited and it's nice to meet you serious

[doggedly]

"Whisky," Sirius answers, unhelpfully, and sets one glass before Edgeworth before he climbs into the booth opposite of him. "You know that cleaning it off is only going to make it worse, right? It opens an opportunity for more grime to cake on. To say nothing of the fact that I think you've actually destroyed something of historical significance. Some of this grease has been around since the Goblin Wars."

Solemnly, he raises his glass to Edgeworth.

"So we'll drink to the eradication of history, then. Cheers, mate."

It's very nearly jovial and friendly, in a way Sirius so rarely is. The closed-doors nature of the Hog's Head makes it easier, as does the promise of whisky (however shit).

And you too, Mr Lupin

[jurisimpudent]

It's a strange thing to see Black so relaxed and cheerful. It's actually rather nice. It's funny, perhaps: excessive joviality, particularly over alcohol, is something that quite annoys Edgeworth. Yet Sirius is here, cracking jokes about the Goblin Wars and grease, and instead of finding himself getting irritated by his manner Edgeworth actually finds himself, for once in his life, smiling.

"To dooming ourselves to repeating it," he says, and lifts his glass to tap it against Sirius'. Then he raises it to his lips, and takes a sip -

And then immediately spits all of it out right back on the table, destroying in turn all his hard work cleaning it off. It - God, fiery doesn't even begin to cover it, it's acrid, it's caustic - for a moment, Edgeworth wonders if Sirius hasn't filled his glass with paint remover as a mistake - and he coughs, lifting his sleeve to his mouth, half out of decorum and half to try to wipe the foul taste from his lips.

"Oh my God," he finally croaks, his eyes damp, his lips numb.

[doggedly]

It was, perhaps, a little unfair, to serve Edgeworth and not warn him what he was getting into. Sirius' own sip after the toast was a measured sip, one that carefully avoids the suffering that Edgeworth is currently experiencing. So yes, it was unfair, but it's also hilarious, and Sirius leans back in the booth with a grin that he could never hope to hide or suppress, his glass held carefully in his hand. The move helps him to avoid being spat upon, but also helps him to look cool and aloof and composed.

"Something wrong?" he asks, mildly, once Edgeworth has finished spitting. Arching one eyebrow, he takes a slow sip from his glass. Whatever could be the trouble?

[jurisimpudent]

"You're an ass," Edgeworth gasps back at him. Which isn't entirely fair - it's not as though Sirius was giving Edgeworth anything he himself wasn't drinking - but which is nevertheless uttered from the heart. Because - damn him, looking so smug and drinking it like it's nothing -

Well, he's braced this time. He knows what he's in for. And he becomes suddenly, ferociously determined to wipe that grin off Sirius' face. Because no matter how fraught and awkward the relationship between them is, no matter how uncomfortable and uncertain Edgeworth is around the other boy, he is not going to be grinned at like that.

So the second sip follows a moment later. And it's bigger than the sip Sirius took. And it's swallowed down hard, and even though his stomach rebels just a little he keeps it down and then gives a hard, satisfied nod.

[doggedly]

Edgeworth's second sip doesn't quite take the grin off of Sirius' face. It lingers, of course--but he does appreciate the effort that Edgeworth makes toward this display of cool collected manliness. He lets himself sober, even as he takes a second slow sip of his own.

"Better," he congratulates, and tips his glass toward Edgeworth in a little toast. "Not your usual brand, I'm guessing. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, as they say."

And this is, clearly, all the more reason to drink whisky that strips your throat raw. Still untroubled, Sirius takes yet another sip.

[jurisimpudent]

"I would counter with loss of limb, debilitating illness, and blindness caused by the consumption of wood alcohol," Edgeworth responds, but he sits back and takes another drink. This third mouthful goes down considerably easier than the ones before; either he's getting used to it or he has actually murdered all the nerve endings in his mouth and throat. It still isn't anywhere near pleasant, but - it's easier.

"In any case. No. My usual brand is tea. Certainly nothing like this."

[doggedly]

"Tea." Sirius raises his eyebrows, his tone flat and unimpressed. "Tea's all right for an afternoon, yeah--and for breakfast--but come on. No one gets together in the evenings for a cup of tea. No one below the age of ninety-six, anyways."

Another sip, and he considers the barkeep, thoughtfully. "You could try ordering a cup."

[jurisimpudent]

"I don't think I will," Edgeworth responds at once, very dryly. "I'm rather particular."

He takes another sip, and a deep one. He can see how little Sirius thinks of his habits, and so there is a certain amount of pride involved in proving that he's perfectly capable of holding his own when it comes to alcohol. He doesn't care what Sirius Black thinks (naturally), but he does not wish to appear weak-willed or delicate, and so he ensures that he's drinking faster than Sirius is.

Unfortunately, this also means that he's already getting a little bit more honest.

"And it's not about getting together in the evenings. It's about enjoying myself, which is typically easier when not in the company of others." That's said scornfully more than anything else, and with a little nod of self-assurance.

[doggedly]

Sirius makes a noise of disgust, which is all for Edgeworth. He sets his glass down on the sticky tabletop and combs his fingers through his hair, like he's got to get somehow clean of the notion that Edgeworth has just put forth.

"Merlin, and everyone accuses me of being a non-joiner. At least I'm not sanctimonious about it. Just a snob and a bastard."

It's a moment of self-deprecation, the sort of thing you can only say about yourself. Sirius raises his glass again, in a little toast to himself, and takes another good sip. His own mood has softened a little under the influence of alcohol--a little more slowly than Edgeworth, thank God. What Edgeworth has on him in sheer metabolism and size, Sirius makes up for in drinking slowly and years of practice. He levels a finger in Edgeworth's direction, an accusatory gesture.

"You're certain you're not a ninety-year-old?"

[jurisimpudent]

There's a moment where Edgeworth wonders if he's supposed to argue against that. When one's friends are self-deprecating, he understands, one denies their deprecations; one assures them that they're worthwhile. But he and Sirius aren't friends, and even if they were, Sirius is a snob and a bastard. To deny that would simply be dishonest.

So he drinks to keep from having to respond to it, and then sets down his glass when Sirius jabs that finger at him.

"Don't ask me that like you think you're insulting me," he returns, and then gives a little scoff. "I don't like carousing or socializing. I see it as a waste of time. There's nothing sanctimonious about that, nor anything shameful."

[doggedly]

"But I notice you didn't deny being ninety." He sets his glass down on the table and folds his arms over his chest, his chin lifted with an air of superiority. It's mostly affected, though if asked, he'd still rate himself better than Edgeworth. Some things never change. "Interesting."

And it's at this moment--a moment of relative good cheer and friendliness, or something approaching friendliness, at least--that the door thuds open, and a group enters the Hog's Head. Sirius' face stiffens, immediately. His shoulders don't go back as they did when his father had entered the interview room at the Ministry, all those months ago. Instead, he slumps forward, grabs hold of his glass.

Three seventh years--two Slytherins, and a boy from Ravenclaw. There's a man with them, too--he's already approached the bar, but the students from Hogwarts have fanned out to select a table. One of the Slytherins catches sight of Sirius and Edgeworth--startled, he laughs.

"What's this?"

[jurisimpudent]

Edgeworth has classifications for Slytherins: bad and not as bad. Perhaps it's not fair; there are plenty of them who are decent, of course - here's Sirius Black, sitting across from him - but even so, when he sees those green scarves his shoulders tense and he prepares himself for nastiness of varying degrees. One of them (Nott, the one laughing) is bad; the other (Smythe) is not as bad; the former has uttered the word Mudblood, while the latter has not in Edgeworth's presence. The third, the Ravenclaw, Carrow, is actually worse than both of the Slytherins, but...Well, that hardly matters; Slytherins are still the worst of them, truly.

Of course, all the profanities and slurs were hurled at Edgeworth before he became the boy who killed Voldemort. Who knows if they'll dare to speak that way now?

"Kindly go away, Nott," Edgeworth responds. He doesn't look up at the boy, and doesn't look at Black, either; he simply fixes his eyes on the wall somewhere above Sirius' head, and takes another stoic sip of whiskey.

[doggedly]

Constantly, mentally, without even realising he's doing it, Sirius winnows the importance and social standing of those around him. It's an easy way to classify the world, to sort the superior from the inferior. He has been raised on this exact practice, so thoroughly it's like second nature. You recall a man's name, surname first, and then you know all about him before he's said so much as four words to you.

Nott, Smythe, Carrow. Sirius looks up, coldly, and looks Nott right in the face. He doesn't deign to look to the man at the bar. He has status enough that people introduce themselves to him, he doesn't gape at them and give second-glances, to try and figure them out.

"Don't have to." Nott comes to stand right beside their table, his arms folded over his chest. The other two have sense enough to hang back, either cowed by Edgeworth's accomplishment or by Sirius' dark glare--or perhaps a bit of both. "It's a free world now, and we've got you to thank for that, eh? I'm just wondering what kind of meeting is taking place here."

Sirius lets his glare drop a few degrees, a downturn of temperature that seems to affect their little corner of the Hog's Head. "How'd you even get out of the castle?" he asks, chilly, a sneer tugging at his lip. "You facing expulsion and all. I heard about the letter your mother wrote to you. How is she doing, by the way? Your mother."

He hasn't lost it. The nasty edge that creeps in his voice puts this beyond tattle-tale territory, into something even beyond gossip. There is something about Nott's mother. Doesn't he know.

[jurisimpudent]

A little bit of whiskey in Edgeworth, drunk on an empty stomach; he's taken by some surprise by that comment, and in his tipsy state he looks towards Sirius with a bit of a frown. Sober, he'd keep up his stoicism, not evince any surprise, not even act as though he was hearing this conversation; a little drunk, he can't keep up that facade.

(In his heart, Edgeworth wishes that it wouldn't be like this. He wishes that he and Black didn't have to act like this as soon as anyone shows up. It's a stupid, sentimental thought, but he wishes that Black would be willing to admit to being on friendly terms with Edgeworth. He's embarrassed by his sentimentality, embarrassed on a half dozen different levels, because he sounds even in his own head like Juliet, lovelorn, asking that one's name be denied and all that nonsense - But it's still how he feels.)

Nott is clearly shaken by that implication - whatever the hell Black is implying. Whatever his mother is up to, or whatever she said to him, is enough that the mere citation makes him go a little pale. But his voice gets a little more aggressive; he tries to go on the attack, tries to shame Sirius. "Don't act high and mighty, Black. What's it look like, you being here? With him? People are already talking."

[doggedly]

He can feel Edgeworth look around at him, but he does not look back, doesn't so much as acknowledge his presence. The cool authority that he's using on Nott makes it seem like he's looking down his nose at him, even though Nott is towering over the table like a bloody mountain.

And though there's a horrible twist in Sirius' gut, at that, at people are already talking--he doesn't let so much as a twitch show in his face. He is too good at keeping a schooled expression for such sloppiness. The lack of reaction strips a measure of power from Nott's accusation: Sirius just goes on looking at him, the way people look at children having a fit in a toy shop.

"I suppose it's too much, asking you to keep to your own business." There's a hint of regret in his tone, like he's genuinely sorry that Nott is too stupid to manage. "But come on. Is it really so impossible, that you--" Your family, there's always such implied inclusion-- "--would be a little left out of things."

That's going too far, maybe. The House of Black will refuse all integration with muggles and muggle-borns. There are lines that are not crossed. But it might be enough to put Nott off for now.

And it is. Nott's face blanches again, and he fumbles a step backwards, flustered by the dismissal. The man at the bar turns around at last and looks over. Sirius lets his gaze transfer to him instead. He does not, he realises, know him, and so he looks away quite deliberately, and picks up his glass once more.

"Go and have your drink," he suggests, coolly. He takes a sip, and adds: "Now."

[jurisimpudent]

Edgeworth has no goddamned idea what the hell just happened. Why on earth would the phrase left out of things trigger some intense reaction in the boy? Nott looks like he's been punched in the stomach, and Sirius keeps sitting there with his look of cool satisfaction, having delivered some devastating blow that Edgeworth doesn't even come close to comprehending. It's like watching some game between two spies, or a cold-blooded argument carried on in a foreign language - you can see the impact of the words being spoken, but what the words mean is lost on you.

He decides, not for the first time, that purebloods are completely fucking inexplicable.

Nott sort of jerks his head and shuffles away; he looks like he's about to be ill. That's a subject for extreme sympathy, as Edgeworth could not imagine the horror of having to use the toilet in this place, let alone get close enough to hurl into it.

"Right," says Edgeworth, finally, after enough of a silence that the word comes across as wry and dry rather than as awkward. "So. I suppose I could purchase a bottle to go?" He knows what the answer will be: a stern rebuff, because even though Sirius clearly despises the other Slytherins, even though he holds them in the keenest contempt, their presence will almost certainly be enough to remind him of how ashamed he is of his acquaintanceship.