after lunch
Donovan’s, first floor; the office
 


As soon as the door quietly clicked shut behind him, Rick leaned against it and dragged a hand over his face. Fucking hell, teenagers; now that there was a solid floor and a wall separating him from, well, them downstairs, there was nothing but silence now, and for the stressed out werewolf it was a welcome break.

At ass o’ clock in the morning, that had not been the way he wanted his day to start. And when there was still the rest of it to go, he’d consider himself lucky t’ be buried in paperwork; people weren’t (and never would be) his ‘thing’ –much less a bunch of them who still had more than a passing acquaintance with puberty. Dealing with the usual annoyance of ‘em was one thing; bad enough without tossing in all the hormones that went with them—at an ungodly hour, no less—was just… ugh.

Scrubbing one callused palm against his cheek, Rick pushed off the door and made his way to the table shoved to the left side of the room, where his coffeemaker stood amidst a small clearing of clutter like a tiny meteoric accident from planet Relief. In a building full of Artificial wonders (not to mention made from the scrapped parts of a muggle printer), it was probably his favorite; without fail it made his coffee exactly as he liked it, which he was really going to need.

Tipping out another binder from one of the many shelves that stocked the room, he brought it to the desk (along with the freshly made cup once he’d passed by it along the way) and made himself comfortable, intent on burying himself in the desk side of things again. Thud went his boot, once the heel landed at the desk’s edge, followed by the telltale clink of ceramic against wood - still piping blisteringly hot from its contents - and there went a rustle of paper-

He was half a binder in when there was a knock – and then another – on the door, sharp, brisk raps that let not even a second pass by, before precluding a full swing open that revealed the figure behind it.

Rick took one look at her and rolled his eyes. For fuck’s sake.

“I distinctly remember saying workshop and storeroom only,” he announced to the room at large, as he directed his stare back at the binder in his lap again. Slowly – deliberately – he scanned the papers, scribbled something in the margins and turned to the next, pencil tip ghosting down the page –before finally looking up with that same flat, unamused stare. “Or don’t you learn that ‘til seventh year?”

---

Like most- well, some- of the time, Alex began with the best intentions, in this case the intent to linger in Flourish and Blotts for a while, and possibly to buy a book or seven. Regrettably, the seething masses, who were seething with rage and frustration and all the other charming things that not quite last minute Christmas shopping tended to inspire,  had ripped her intentions to shreds. She reached her tipping point when a flatulent hag had hit her in the back, supposedly by accident, with a canvas bag that Alex assumed held rusted farming implements, because books were not that jagged or heavy.

Why on earth she'd been carrying around rusted farming implements, Alex didn't care to guess.

Instead of staying there, and possibly hexing the woman, who demanded an apology from her for being inconveniently right where she wanted to swing her bag of blunt instruments, Alex departed, elbows forward and woe betide all who stood in her way. Despite the dangers of exposure to the elements, she sauntered as slowly as possible on the way to Donovan's, the better to be in a reasonably calm frame of mind when she reached her destination, or failing that, not a murderous one.

Upon arrival at Donovan's, the young witch was freezing and still furious that the wretched cow had suggested that she had been in the wrong, which would make what was already going to be difficult needlessly more so. It was just too much fun needling Rick- but that was precisely what she should not be doing, because needling people from whom you desired boons was an excellent way of not getting boons, or the secrets of how to make mobiles that took your breath away. Alex was far more intrigued by the latter.

Paused in front of the fish, Alex shook herself, her hands reaching up to brush her hair away from her face with a practiced flick, eyes fixed on one of the smaller fish, noticeable for the bright blue and yellow of its scales. It was far better at distracting her from crazy farm workers with violence aforethought than the frigid stroll had been, so that when she eventually headed up the stairs (two at a time) in search of Rick, she wasn't nurturing violent intent.

Coming to an abrupt halt, the Ravenclaw offered Rick a smile, which soon dissolved in favour of a frown, "You must have missed out a small but key part of that no doubt scathing question, because it made no sense whatsoever," and there went Plan Be Nice To People You Want Things From. Pathetic, it hadn't lasted a minute. "You've never mentioned anything about that before," Alex lied, "and anyway, you weren't in the workshop or the storeroom, I checked."

The distinct look of skepticism on his face wouldn’t, couldn’t have been any more obvious if he had actually voiced any of it out loud. Yeah, right, his eyebrows said, knitting into a frown that mirrored hers, and he said as much with a timely, none-too-polite snort. “Did you,” he muttered under his breath, and no, it wasn’t a question. Distantly, he wondered if he was paying for his sins; he had to be. “Amazing.”

It really wasn’t. The intrusions were old hat, much to the artificer’s everlasting dismay. The kid was more persistent than a damn chiz’.

Peering over at one folder, which lay open on his desk, Rick frowned (-or, at least, frowned more) and glanced down at the binder again. His pencil scratched angrily away at a figure, and he hoped – albeit halfheartedly (despite experience telling him otherwise) – that if he ignored her long enough, she’d go away on her own—though he knew damn well that she wouldn’t. Like her father, Alexandra Carstairs seemed to have a fucking annoying habit of viewing the word ‘no’ as a pesky little shit that could be turned around eventually.

God. With the amount of teenagers feeling free enough to come ‘n go through Donovan’s as they pleased, he might as well be another shop in Hogsmeade, he noted sourly. Or a teacher. (His eye twitched at this.) Annoying little shits, all of them.

Just to be contrary, Rick stubbornly continued on in silence, determined to get some more work done before being forced to spend the rest of his time reigning in his temper. Finally, after crossing out—then rewriting—and then crossing out the same figure again for what was probably the twentieth time, the man gave in –sort of. “If you came for your Christmas present,” he drawled, pencil tapping at a name twice, so that it highlighted itself with the familiar glow of ‘follow-up needed’, “then you can stow it because I didn’t get you one.”

Maybe. Sort of. He was still chewing on the one he had in mind, trying to make up his mind if it would be worth it – the grief (and grey hair) it would no doubt give him – in the long run.

He paused. “It would’ve been coal anyway,” he added, smirking, just to be a shit.

---

"Bordering on the fantastical," Alex agreed, prepared to accept anything that fell under the category of not evicting her before she'd made her proposal.
 
The silence that followed her words, however, was disappointing, not least because it was so futile in its stagnation. She didn't let it bother her when she was only asking idle questions because they were more interesting than simply wandering about and staring at the merchandise, so why she would be dissuaded when she had come specifically to ask Rick about something, she had no idea. It was almost at the point where Alex was bored enough to suggest that he should probably look into knitting to release the tension that was obvious from the way his hand was gripping the pen – surely not healthy – when Rick finally relented and spoke.
 
"You didn't get me a Christmas present?" Alex gasped, hand pressed over her heart and taking a step back, her face a parody of shock, before snapping into a lopsided smirk. "The consideration you put into the gift you didn't buy me is truly touching."
 
Alex didn't speak for a moment, expression almost mulish as she considered the final rush of doubts that she was happening. It wasn't that she doubted the sense of what she was going to do, although she had a numbered list of problems associated with the idea somewhere, but the timing seemed inopportune, and while she would accept a rejection out of hand, she would probably (however resentfully) do so eventually. It was unfortunate that she hadn't the skill of her Father, or Theo, when it came to persuasion, although since Rick seemed to be totally immune to his charm, it probably wouldn't help her.
 
When she did speak, it was at a far more considered pace than usual, almost so slow as to be stilted, "Since we're discussing Christmas presents, there is something,” and it was actually quite an important something – to ask directly or to ease into the subject? – “I was wondering, would you ever consider taking on an apprentice?”

With no one his age around at the moment to judge him for rolling his eyes, Rick’s features morphed into a sneer; he was, he liked to think, more than a match for one teenage girl’s mockery. Brat was gonna pull something, if she wasn’t careful.

But even as he was being – and he quote – ‘a witchface’ (a Galleon for the genius who could guess whose words those had been), the look on his face gave way to a marginally friendlier scowl... which, admittedly, wasn’t by much. (He’d never had much patience for kids to begin with, and it seemed to lessen the older they were.) As far as topic starters went, it wasn’t exactly subtle—she wasn’t one for delicacy, Alex, never had been, unless it was a go at sarcasm so pointed you could sew a bullseye with it—but all things considered, it was probably just as well. He wasn’t the patient sort, especially when in the middle of bookkeeping, and both of them knew it.

And it’d be a lie, saying he hadn’t been mulling over the same himself.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to make things any easier. Admitting it would be the same as a concession, and if this conversation went the direction where she hoped, it’d be a shame if she got used to them. “Can’t say I haven’t,” Rick finally said, his glower falling to the mess of paperwork scattered on his desk like it had betrayed him. He jotted something down. “I get an earful about it every time…” He gestured vaguely at the air; it could mean any of his sisters. “come to visit.”

Hell, CeeCee brought it up nearly every day, when the kids were back in school and there was no one else to bring him his morning coffee. Many a not-so-subtle hint had been dropped when she came by, about maybe taking on Dani (“She wants to be an architect, CeeCee.” “Exactly!” “No, CeeCee.”), or Mrs. Farnsworth’s son, y’know, the weedy-looking one with the teeth (“Hell no.”), or, hey, Phillip, now wasn’t there an idea (“There wouldn’t be a shop left.”)-

Or… Alex. Who was a huge pain in his ass – nosy, flip, and judged all his life choices – but also curious, keen, and showed talent.

Kind of a no-brainer, if he was honest, except he was serious about the migraines he’d be signing up for.

Dropping the binder on the desk, Rick looked at her and clasped his hands on his gut, resisting the urge to rub his temples by a hair’s breadth. “Spit it out, Alex.”

Was it really so difficult to speak in complete sentences? Alex didn’t think it should be, but Rick seemed to be struggling nevertheless, and she was beginning to be concerned about it. He spoke English as a first language and therefore had no excuse to drop words without reason, it wasn’t as though saying “my siblings” or “CeeCee” required any effort – assuming, of course, that was who he was referring to. But it was unlikely there was someone else who he would listen to when they harassed him about hiring somebody.

If Alex were in a bad mood, she might wonder if he had some kind of affliction that meant he had difficulty with coherency, or if his retention of the knowledge requisite for practicing his trade has somehow caused him to forget how to speak properly. Fortunately, Alex was serene, and not going to be affected disproportionately by poor grammar.

It wasn’t even that difficult.

“Spit it out, Alex.”

“That would be unhygienic,” she said instead, “No wonder – ” no, she might not be capable of being nice to Rick, which was as taxing as trying to be happy when faced with a dementor (both were an uphill struggle and left you with the sickening sensation of having lost a part of your soul) but she wasn’t going to be rude either. Especially because, no matter how annoying Rick was, he was a genius at what he did, not that it totally excused being so curmudgeonly and his predilection  for speaking with his eyebrows.

Speaking of which, they were currently communicating a lack of patience with the delay in her reply, although he obviously knew what she was going to ask and was merely trying to irritate (or, possibly, embarrass) her. But if he knew – well, he hadn’t said no, yet. “Would you consider me for the position?” she asked, looking up at him by the time she’d finished, looking for a response and, when one wasn’t immediately forthcoming, speaking again.

“I know it’s an imposition,” although she hoped that his comment about persons unidentified meant that he was more receptive to the idea, “But – I learn quickly,” there was little point to adding that it was only when she was interested in the subject; obviously, she was interested in what Rick did, “and I think that what you do is fascinating.” As arguments, it was far below her best, but Alex had little to offer, other than her interest in how Rick managed to create the things he did; hopefully, Rick would think that was enough to make it worthwhile.

His brows shot to his hairline, when she’d begun snapping back—although it wasn’t annoyance so much as amusement that did it, coupled with smug expectation as he waited for her to catch herself. He wasn’t one for formalities and such, to be honest – they could be annoying as hell but had their uses – and, really—who else would he choose, anyway? There wasn’t anyone else. But if it meant a chance to watch someone bite their tongue in an effort to be polite to him (instead of, say, the other way around), then he wasn’t about to complain.

Quite the opposite, in fact. And being the so very generous person that he was, he was going to milk this for all its worth, too.

(Guess she knew him better than he thought.)

“Do you?” Rick hummed musingly, tipping his head back as he leaned back in his chair, every hard line of his body loosening as he made himself relax. Eyes drifting shut, he was the very picture of a hardworking man about to take a nap, that half-empty cup of coffee notwithstanding. Alex, of course, was just as free to make herself comfortable where she stood; if she didn’t want to take a seat (never mind that the closest one to the desk was a creaky, shitty thing, that was merciless on one’s ass), that was her problem, not his. “Seems to me following simple directions might be cause for concern, if you’re filtering them so easily…” and a smirk played across his lips.

Of course she found his work ‘fascinating’—Rick doubted if he’d have ever realized she was a smart kid with potential otherwise, other than simply a smartass; even under that veneer of boredom he’d always gotten the feeling she was one of those kids– the ones who weren’t interested in excelling if they weren’t interested in the first place. Not unlike himself. And because Alex was, in this case, she did, apparently grasping core concepts and the offhanded tips he gave her in passing, sometimes responding with some paraphrased, summarized form of it to prove comprehension, sometimes firing back with pertinent questions of her own.

If he was honest with himself, it was actually pretty gratifying. (And he’d be taking that with him to his grave.)

“Say I do take you on,” he said quietly, comfortably, eyes still shut. “What then? You might think it’s all fascinating now, but you’ve only caught me working on commissions, stuff with a specific purpose, specifically asked for—and they’re only a fraction of what I do. Everything else is grunt work. Wandless work.” And it was true; if he’d been fit before taking on the more complicated jobs, from all the sports he’d played in school and the hobbies he’d taken up outside of it, that had been nothing compared to now, when he’d set out to learn the crude, muggle ways of doing things. Magic was reserved for fine-tuning, making careful adjustments when his dexterity didn’t cut it or certain parts couldn’t be reached, and special enchantments to give them those special properties, either working with the ones they already had on an intrinsic, basic level, or endow them with ones suited for their physical form; in an environment that was sometimes highly charged (or wasn’t, but was vulnerable to the smallest bit of casting regardless), one couldn’t afford to use magic at the slightest convenience.

Artifice– at least, his kind– involved more menial labor than most realized. Sometimes, to get the best results you had to make the parts yourself. It had taken him ages to get the right guards up, to sufficiently protect his workrooms from outside influences—the magically charged atmosphere of Wizarding London.

“And I know how you feel about cogs,” Rick added, his smirk growing into a grin.

---