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@thelastprewett
She’ll be at the Party-Wake. We could stop by before we do something to get your fix.
Do you mind antiques? Or older wood furniture?
Not my thing, but thanks for the consideration.
As long as it works and doesn't smell like a pile of rubbish I don't care how old it is.
Detention, really?
I’m guessing a bar is out of the question and most things are likely closed so I was thinking of breaking in somewhere. What do you need?
If you want to be spanked by McGonagall I won't judge.
Breaking and entering? Now you've got my attention. Everything... crap to use in my room. All I've got is a mattress.
You’re the one who brought up school boy fantasies.
Then come with me instead.
I didn't say anything about fantasies.
Why? Where are you going?
Or what? You going to punish me?
So are you going, sulking, a combination of both, or going to do something else with me.
Shut up you little twat.
As if I would ever go to their morbid party.
Well, that’s not half referencing at our last meeting at all.
Of course I don’t. I don’t know anything about trying to avoid thinking about things. Ever.
That's--
If I remember correctly students aren't allowed to leave school grounds during the week. Why don't you run back to class before you get a detention?
So you’re going to …what? Drink alone, yell at people at the party-wake, or go to a bar? Sounds thoroughly distracting.
Go fuck yourself. You don't have a clue what you're talking about, kid.
My fault? You’re the one who was drinking himself into a barely-conscious stupor and crying how you didn’t have a home. Just be nice to my cat and there won’t be a problem.
Fergus always let me pet him. And whenever I was upset, he would nuzzle me. I’d say he was incredibly useful. Cats are good for comfort and companionship. Little Mousey here will make this place feel more ‘homelike’, and life feel more normal.
Perhaps a bit of responsibility would do you some good. Though since you don’t seem keen on helping to care for the kitten, at least at this time, we’ll just stick you with some of the other household chores for now. Until you finally break and give in to Mouse’s cuteness.
You're the one who invited me in. And I did not cry, thank you.
Like I even care about your old cat anyway. Just keep that thing away from me and there won't be any issues. Got it? If you can handle that then maybe I'll be nice enough to empty the bin when it's full.
I’m not going. On account of lighting someone on fire once…
And other things.
Do you want to come with me and do something else?
Pass.
Are you all fucking mental? Celebrating the end of a war that's not over yet. I hope you tossers are enjoying yourselves while my brother rots in a hole in the ground and his murderer runs loose in the streets.
If you so much as put a hair out of place on him, you’ll be finding yourself without a roof to sleep under.
Cats do plenty useful. I had my cat Fergus for seven years, and he helped me more than I could ever stress to anybody. He comforted me, and helped me get through a lot of tough times in my teenage years. And though he didn’t really stand a chance, when Death Eaters got into my parents’ house that night we lost in September, he attempted to defend them, because he was loving and loyal, and ended up, sadly, paying his life.
Don’t tell me cats aren’t useful when you’ve apparently never had a pet in your life. I feel better having a cat around the house. You’ll see, he’ll be good for all of us.
Don't think you can get rid of me so easily. It's your own fault I'm here y'know.
Did your cat ever do tricks? Bring you the mail? Do anything other than demand you feed and pet it but only when it wanted you to? Let me guess, no. Cats are useless.
I've had an owl before. Owls count as pets. But it wasn't only mine. And I never had to feed it... what's your point?
Just be polite to him, and I’m sure he’ll be polite to you.
He is not scrawny! And he’s a lovely shade of grey. Multiple shades of grey. Perhaps even fifty. He’s beautiful.
Drop the pessimistic attitude and actually let yourself enjoy something for once. What sort of freak doesn’t just adore a kitten?
How about you keep it out of my room and I promise to try not to step on it.
I'm not being pessimistic, I'm being realistic. There's a difference. That thing is going to be a menace, I promise you. Cats never do anything useful.
Plenty? You mope around. And you don’t need to do anything. Mary and I will care for the cat. I just will expect you to tolerate him. Perhaps you’ll even grow to love him.
The kitten purred when it was pet, nuzzling his head against Fabian’s hand.
Mouse? You want to name my ferocious little tiger after something he’d rather hunt? …. Alright.
Plenty. Love? It's a shedding, pooping, ball of fur with teeth. I think I'll pass on the love thing.
Would you rather call it Rat? Look at how scrawny and grey that thing is.
Hey! Watch the language around him, he’s only a baby!
Dorcas sat beside the cat on the couch and covered his tiny ears.
I don’t expect you to. Like you’d do your fair share of anything…. Though, Mary did wonder what sort of name you could come up with, and I figure I should oblige her by giving you a chance to suggest something. Something kind, mind you.
"Merlin it's a cat, not a fucking baby."
"What's that supposed to mean? I do plenty, thanks. But I'm not cleaning this one's poop or... feeding it or anything. You want me to name it?"
He reaches down to pet the cat hesitantly on the top of the head.
"Mouse."
Never seen a cat before, Prewett?
It’s our fourth flatmate. And a boy. You can bond.
I know what a fucking cat is.
Great. You're keeping it. I hope you don't expect me to help take care of that thing.
Smiling uncontrollably, Dorcas entered the apartment, carrying a bunch of bags of cat supplies, and snuggled in one of her arms was a tiny grey tabby kitten.
Mary? Fabian? Anybody here?
She put down the bags and roused the kitten that had fallen asleep.
Hello, little nameless one.
She put it down on the couch, where it began to climb around and explore it’s new surroundings. It let out a loud mew.
What the hell is that thing?
Take Me Home Tonight // Dorcas & Fabian
For a moment it seemed as though he wasn’t going to follow, and Dorcas debated just letting him go. But she couldn’t. Not in this state. He was in no condition to be wandering about all alone. As they walked, she could hear his uneven, staggered steps behind her. A smirk slipped onto her face as she thought she heard him almost trip, though that could’ve just been an awkward step he’d taken.
His question broke the silence, and Dorcas continued walking, leaving a few seconds before her response. “I’m taking you someplace where you can sleep. And you might want to try pretending you’re a bit more grateful.” She couldn’t help herself from adding in something snippy.
Her apartment building appeared into view, and she checked to make sure Fabian was still following the final stretch of the walk. She would probably need to help him get up the stairs, as it wasn’t a pleasant ascent while sober to make it up to the third floor.
Pushing open the front entrance, she held the door for him and ushered him into the well-lit lobby. "It’s just up the stairs." She gestured to the staircase, and made him go ahead of her, figuring it would be better if she were in place to catch him should he tumble down the steps.
"Just another flight of stairs, and we’re there. Promise." She said after they’d reached the second floor.
I don't need your help. Fabian almost blurted the words at her back. Thankfully his mouth didn't seem to be working very well and all he managed was a grunt and a frown. He didn't need anyone's help, he could take care of himself. After all, he had survived this long. One day more. One day more. The future didn't matter anymore, all Fabian could see was the day ahead. And, one day, Evan Rosier. So when he found himself falling asleep on a couch that wasn't his every night (or in bed next to a teenager) it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He would get through somehow so why should he be grateful?
Fabian blinked in the harsh light of the lobby. Why did it have to be so bright? He stared at her for a moment, feeling uneasy as she moved in behind him. Using the railing for support, Fabian dragged himself up the stairs. He could feel the exhaustion in every muscle, every step up. He felt his body lean away from the railing more than once, his arm snapping tight and pulling him back upright before he could fall.
At the first landing he paused for a breather. On the second he stopped, bracing his hands against his knees and leaning forward. Everything was spinning and his stomach was beginning to protest the amount of alcohol he had consumed. His face felt clammy and bloodless. But Fabian nodded at her encouragement and grabbed the railing one more time, pulling himself along to the third landing. He took several more steps before sinking to his knees in front of the first door he saw, leaning heavily against it and closing his eyes. Don't puke, don't puke. Fabian tried to focus on something else, anything else, but the vertigo was swinging him in every direction.
It was all Fabian could do to groan in an attempt to convey how he felt. And that did it. He sensed it was going to happen and leaned forward, the side of his face pressed against the wall and one hand gripping the door jam, eyes still shut tight. The vomit was warm as it came up, stomach acid and firewhisky burning his throat as he heaved. It was all liquid and in the breaths between heaving he could smell the liquor on the floor in front of him. His throat protested again but his stomach was empty and all that came out of his mouth was a wet choking sound. Fabian wiped his mouth with his arm and slumped back into the door. Hopefully he wouldn't remember this in the morning.
Frank’s a good guy, but he’s still tied down with all that official stuff. And he wants organised justice; he’s too much a good guy to get anything done. How are we supposed to keep “feelings” out of stuff like this? Merlin, even if you did, they’re beyond guilty. Don’t know how you could not lock them up. Maybe we can get locked up together; if I ever see Peter, the little shit’s dead.
Don't get me wrong. I love Frank. He's a... great friend. But you're right, he's too soft. He thinks we can just slap the Death Eaters on the wrist and tell them not to do it again. Now you've got the right idea, this war isn't over until people like Rosier and Pettigrew are in their graves. I wouldn't mind sharing a cell with a man like you.
