Lately, whenever she went somewhere, a cloud of smoke followed her.
Streaming from her mouth and sticking somewhere around the back of her head while she walked to the bodega near her apartment or during Order meetings where she pretended to listen but mostly just sat at the far end of the table burning the edges with her lighter. She was standing with her back against a graffitied wall across the street from the bench where she had told Albus to meet her, watching while he fidgeted, and had been watching since he’d shown up early. It took her five minutes to finish her cigarette, and another five to get a certain satisfaction out of seeing him look so uncomfortable.
Ten minutes, in total, before she actually walked across the street, smiling in her big leather jacket and bigger boots. Liv starts talking when she’s a few feet away from him, all, “Color me surprised, baby Potter. Didn’t think you’d actually make it.” Gestures for him to stand—he looks the same as the last time she saw him. Laughs. “Wipe the scared look off your face, man,” she reaches over and muses up his hair. “Nothing we do tonight will be too damaging for your mind-strike-body-strike-spirit. Only a little bit damaging.” She links her arm through his and starts walking further downtown; stopping only when they’re about five blocks away from the Slippery Nipple to push him through a propped open door and in to a brightly lit pub.
She takes a seat at the sticky bar on an equally sticky bar stool and holds up two fingers. “Two Irish Car Bombs for me and the kid.” Throws a look over her shoulder.
“Step one in having fun: alcohol.”
Right, I must be out of my mind.
Not that there was anything wrong with Liv, per se, but he had agreed to meet her across a named the Slippery Nipple, and better judgment should’ve told him he shouldn’t have shown up at all. But he’d arrived early, of all things (because he always arrived early to any appointment), and sat slightly hunched at the park bench, playing with the slightly-frayed edges of his long-sleeve and occasionally checking his watch like it was a nervous habit (it hadn’t been, until today). 5:50 rolled around; he murmured, “she’s late,” and couldn’t help but let a bit of grumpiness fall over his expression.
He hears her first, several feet behind him, and he twists his body to face her. I didn’t think I’d make it either, he thinks, and stands up, a little too nervous and dazed to actually say anything. “I’m not scared,” he manages in a slightly croaked mutter before Liv is reaching over and mussing up his hair. An oddly affectionate gesture. He squints as she does so, having never really liked other people touching his hair like that, but doesn’t bother to fix it afterwards anyway. The night may not be so bad after all.
Arm-in-arm, they make they way down the street and into a conspicuously well-lit pub. Al takes a brief glance around surveying his surroundings, as if he’s never set foot in a bar before, and follows suit by sliding onto a bar stool, the sticky seat squeaking against his pants. He balks when Liv makes the order. What the hell is an Irish Car Bomb? he feels like asking, but on second thought, he probably doesn’t want to know. Instead he says, “I-I, uh. Well, there’s a reason I don’t go out drinking. I have a low tolerance and I end up doing…really inappropriate things.” He isn’t looking forward to the heated stare she’s probably going to throw his way for his protests.
"I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that," (lips twisting in to a smirk, fingers idly tapping on the sticky bar counter) "The first part, I mean. We'll get to those inappropriate things later." The bartender sets a pub glass filled with Guinness down in front of each of them, and Liv smiles wider. Most nights she came here it wasn't for heavy drinking, but tonight, she was making an exception. Her mission was to get Albus Potter to stop being such a vagina, and despite meager protests, she wasn't going to give up quite so easily.
Shot glasses are filled with more alcohol, topped with whiskey, and Liv looks over at Albus. "You have to drink it fast, when it starts fizzing. Else it'll curdle and we definitely won't be having a good time." She pats him on the back while the shot glasses are dunked in to the Guinness--then picks up her drink with one hand, tosses it back like she does this everyday and wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket before turning back to her ward for the night.
The smile slips back on to her face while she watches him. "Step two in having fun: more alcohol, and then we can move on to step three."
