axweasley:
who: @eldestprewett
where: outside of molly’s flat
when: present, on a friday evening
He’s seen it in all the movies before. Friends showing up to each others’ flats, a bag of greasy takeout in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. With her, he’s lived that life before, too - lost in some star-less city and yet, by some miracle of fate or even divine intervention, always finding their way back to each other. Humid nights under dimming lightbulbs, cheap and lukewarm beers thrown back with a smile and a grimace, sitting on barren rooftops or dingy plastic chairs or even moss-covered tree stumps - all they needed was each other, amidst the backdrop of a land that didn’t know their names and didn’t even care to. Outside of her flat, Arthur smiles as he considers then, but as fast as lightning, it fades when he remembers now.
Now they live in a world with crushing responsibility. Now his family still reels from the death of his older brother, and his mother looks at him like he’s somehow betrayed her by not crying his eyes out every other hour of the day. Now he’s got a job he doesn’t particularly care for, surrounded by a culture of politics and bureaucracy that he doesn’t have the patience for. If this is the settling down that so many people have glorified, that so many people work their whole lives for, then call him ungrateful because he doesn’t want it. And he doesn’t know about Molly, but he hopes she’s not ready to give up on that call of adventure yet, either.
And so, before he arrives at Molly’s flat, he grabs a roll of parchment - stolen, of course, from the supply closet of the Department of International Diplomacy, because there’s no way in hell he’s actually spending his own money on paper - and tears it in half. On the two sheets, he scrawls a makeshift airplane ticket on each, both with her name written on it in his chicken-scratch excuse for handwriting. He has to think for a moment after he writes ‘destination’, and then he decides: Buenos Aires on the left, and Singapore on the right.
He clutches both “tickets” behind him, and if he stops to think about it for too long, he realizes it might really, really be a stupid idea. What’s he thinking - whisking her away from their lives, if only for a moment, so they can live in the past again for a few hours? But if what he’s heard about the Auror department is true, then he thinks that she just might need this reprieve as much as he does. Arthur knocks on her door and waits for her to answer, almost giddy as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. When she opens the door, he gives her that smile - the one without any hint of irony, or sarcasm, or malice, the one that only seems to be possible when she’s around. With a flourish, he pulls out both “tickets”, holding them out in front of him with the words facing her. He knows he’s no Leo DiCaprio, but he tries anyway. “Where to, tonight, miss?”
Molly can only rationally describe the day she’s had as precisely that: a day. The indescribable strength she felt she’d gained as an Auror was quickly becoming overpowered by the complete lack of control she was experiencing day to day. She longed for the days where her most important decision was where to spend her evenings; in dim-lit bars with attempted jazz bands, bowls of salted peanuts and pretzels and drinks that were more expensive than she realised. When she’d get back to the hotel room, look at the muggle money and convert it to her own currency, and realise that £11 for a cocktail was not cheap at all.
The only time her hair would be tied back was in hasty, messy ponytails or half-arsed buns piled on the top of her head in the mornings. The only time she’d wear makeup would be at festivals - picotee blue designs around her eyes, lips painted the red of a blaze. There would be no need for foundation, for professionalism, for a ponytail that must be neat and for tiny tattoos to be hidden by sleeves. She loves her job, it became the thing her world revolved around when she returned to London, but she’s beginning to wonder whether she loves it anymore than she needs it. Needs the stability and the meaning it brings to her life. Whether she simply needs to feel like she’s helping - and that this was the only way she knew how to.
But she can’t consider any of that, it isn’t worth the risk of any awareness it may bring. So, sitting on the floor, back against the footstool, she stares at her empty couch. Her hair is tidily pulled back, and she’s still wearing the black trousers and jacket that are required for the job. She’s had plenty of time to change but she can’t bring herself to. The way the jacket hugs her is a stable enough reminder of how important it is that she stays. That she doesn’t just run away - back to days with Arthur, of free spirits, and free-flowing spirits.
As if on cue, she hears a knock at her door. She pushes herself to her feet, brushes her trouser leg down. She always knows when it’s Arthur, somehow. The smile she puts upon her face is less forced by the prospect of seeing her best friend, and when she opens her door, the relieved grin on her face is almost natural. “Hey, stranger-” Molly starts, before being faced with the tickets. “Arthur.” The word is emphatic, and she hopes that he’ll ignore the way her voice breaks on his name. Something overtakes her, just for a second, and she utters an apology before pulling him to her. He’s perhaps the absolute best person she could see right now.
