M for probable swearing and general Kurby/Margo debauchery.

It shouldn't have been this hard to unlock his front door.

Granted, Kurby realized in that sort of slow-witted state somewhere between unconsciousness and insobriety, his hands weren't exactly free, which made fumbling with the doorknob a bit more difficult than it would have been normally.  There was also the way that Amherst was practically standing on top of him, her metal leg hooked awkwardly around his knee.  It made it nearly impossible to focus, or at least nearly impossible to focus on anything as mundane as unlocking the door behind him.  Fuzzy-headed as he was, he was focusing just fine; it just so happened that something else was monopolizing his attention.

But they couldn't stay out here in the hallway like this forever.  For one, it was uncomfortable; as much as he hated to admit it, inebriated or not, Amherst had a good few inches on him, which made standing up decidedly more demoralizing than it ought to be.  For another, there were neighbors.  In his current state, he couldn't exactly vocalize why that was a problem, but he had a vague, foreboding feeling that it would be once his hangover kicked in come the morning.

That pair of revelations made getting into his flat slightly more urgent than it had been seventeen minutes ago, when they'd first arrived.  "Hold on, hold on," he muttered at Amherst, elbowing her away in an attempt to make space.  The door was waiting patiently behind him.  Kurby squinted at it for a moment, and then frowned at his key.  Scowling, he attempted to insert it into the lock.

But even with him devoting considerably more effort towards concentration, the key still didn't seem to fit.

"What the hell?!"  The werewolf hunter let loose a virulent string of colorful vocabulary that was certainly not going to improve interneighborly relations come morning.  Angrily, he grabbed the doorknob and started to yank on it furiously; the wood let out a cacophony of bangs as it was yanked again and again into the doorframe.  "What the goddamned hell is wrong with it?" he shouted, glaring viciously at the stubborn door as if he might somehow scare it into submission.  "It won't bleedin' unlock!"

It always started somewhere between the bar and their flats. 

She told herself every single time they went out that it wasn’t going to happen again.  After all, it wasn’t like it was something that had to happen every time they went out… but... somewhere between the bar and the flats, something happened and it was like a predestined event or something. 

It was particularly disheartening when they burst through the doors of the building and Margo, in a rare (so very rare) moment of clarity realized how much their neighbors would want to kill them. 

That wasn’t new, she was pretty sure the witch on the fourth floor hated them both – and frequently gave Margo dirty looks in the morning when she ran out of her flat ten minutes late for work and totally knocked over the potted plants on the second floor that witch seemed so adamant to take care of… but… didn’t matter as she knocked them over again (maybe by accident) and she pulled Kurby toward her and kissed him again, laughing as she did. 

Take that, slag, she thought as she stepped over the fallen pot and tugged on the hair on the back of Kurby’s head just a little bit. 

It made it slightly harder to get up the stairs, but Margo didn’t care.  She didn’t even know many stairs they climbed before the got onto one of the floors, she assumed Kurby was keeping track because she certainly wasn’t and followed along ready to distract at even given opportunity.  It seemed to be something she was good at.

So, when they were standing in the hallway for Merlin knew how long, she didn’t really give it any mind.  Margo was far less conscious of the social graces of not biting someone’s lip and growling in public than others were. 

She whined slightly when he pushed her away saying to ‘hold on,’ followed by a puff of aggravated air flying out of her mouth.  She wanted him to open the damn door.  Leaning against the door frame, Margo drummed her dragon scale colored nails against the woodwork.  He was kind of sexy when he was mad… alright, he was totally sexy when he was mad, which was probably part of the reason she liked to piss him off so much, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck standing up as he scowled. 

“Try this,” Margo grinned, holding up the key to her flat.  She figured he might be pissed about it… but she didn’t care.  Everything was a joke to her, after all, so might as well make this one too. 

"Why the bleedin' hell would I want to try that?!" Kurby bellowed.  Somewhere up above, there was the sound of a door being yanked open and someone angrily hissing 'Shhh!', but the reprimand barely registered over the stupidity of the moment.  Why the hell would he want Amherst's key to unlock his --

Oh.

The werewolf hunter looked at the number on the door of the flat, looked down at the key, and then ground his teeth angrily.  He shot a glare at the witch behind him, and yanked the key away from her with considerable force.  Huffing loudly, he jammed it into the lock.  This time, the doorknob turned with little effort; he wrenched it open anyway and stomped inside, not bothering to hold it open for the woman who would surely be entering behind him.

"I need another drink," he announced unhappily. "What've you got?"  He didn't wait for a  response; he went immediately to the kitchen and began perusing loudly through the cabinets.  A decent supply of alcohol was never far from afoot with Amherst.  That was one of the reasons that he went through with this, night after night; that and the fact that ever since she had moved in downstairs during the heat of the Dugan MacDuff manhunt, late nigh excursions with her were far more convenient than trying to pick up a witch at a bar.

If it wasn’t so funny, Margo might have been annoyed at Bagold for a minute.  Anyone could see, from the dents in the doorway that it had to be her door.  It took her all of one second peeled away from him to notice.  She figured he would have too, considering he was over almost as often as she was.  Chances are, where one was, the other was as well.

Of course, not many people got to be privy to that information – if anyone at all, really.  Because it wasn’t like that, obviously.  They were just having some fun: that was what Margo’s life was all about, especially after she returned to London after Romania.  It had been made very clear to her that life was way too short not to enjoy it, and more than that, why not enjoy it with someone you knew you’d enjoy yourself with?

For all the grumpiness that Kurby brought with him, Margo liked him – they’d known each other for ages, respective splotches on each of their families.  That’d been comrades long before they starting spending the night. 

So, she didn’t pay his grouchiness much mind (except to admire the determined way all of his muscles clenched as he strode into her flat – and that was all of his muscles, she noted as she gave his back – and back end – the once over).  Smirking to herself, Margo dropped onto the couch, while Kurby strode straight toward the kitchen – unleashing a wild yowl from somewhere under the piece of furniture and a flash of grey as it darted toward the bedroom. 

While under the influence, Margo couldn’t help but howl with laughter as she kicked off her boots – landing with terrible thuds on the other end of the room.  She was fairly certain she heard banging coming from downstairs.  Either someone else was really enjoying themselves, or there was a broom end knocking on their ceiling.  Either way: Margo continued to laugh. 

“If you don’t know where it is by now,” she threw her head back over the arm of the chair, “You’re hopeless, Bagnold!” her arm flopped down over the side of the chair and she hitched her good leg up over the top of the couch, sprawled like a drunken sailor and giggling all the while.  “Get me one too!”

Sooner or later, he was going to murder her damn cat.  The flea-ridden, yowling, scraggly thing -- aside from being about as far from endearing as an animal could get, it didn't help that the thing still made him jump whenever it went racing out from under Amherst's furniture to hide in some further undisclosed location.

"Get it yourself," he grumbled, but even so, he grabbed a second beer before he made his way back to the main room.

Scowling, he dropped down in the armchair, fumbling for his wand.  It had been far too long -- too many months, although the night felt too fuzzy to calculate out exactly how many -- since the witch had moved into his apartment building.  He'd understood why she'd done it, even back then.  The incident with Dugan MacDuff had shaken Amherst more than she might have wanted to admit.  He'd tolerated her staying in his flat while the worst of it had been going on; he'd even tolerated Lizard for a night.  But once it was over and MacDuff was in custody, there had been no more excuses.  He'd kicked her out -- and the next thing he knew, she was his downstairs neighbor.

It took more concentration than he really wanted to muster to vanish both of the bottle caps, but finally it was done -- Amherst laughing all the while.  Giving her a sour look, Kurby grudgingly passed one of the bottles over, taking a long swig from his own.  That was part of the problem with Amherst.  She might have been terrified when the danger of MacDuff had been lurking just out of sight, but with him gone, she'd gone back to her carefree life.  Drinking, debauchery, and spending her inheritance as she pleased -- while he still dealt with the same terror every full moon.  While he risked his life, and battled monsters, and lost stupid young kids who couldn't make the right decisions quickly enough.

"Would you stop?" he demanded, clearly perturbed.  Sometimes Amherst's endless good humor was endearing; tonight, it was just annoying him.  He shot her a dirty look.  "How the hell is it that funny?  Don't you ever stop to think about things?"

Margo rolled her eyes from the couch.  Kurby was just going to get her the drink anyway.  It was just his way to complain and yell about everything. 

It was a wonder how people processed the absurdity of their lives so differently.  Margo had very few cares in the world at this point.  Kurby seemed to care about everything.   She pushed herself up on her elbows, reaching out for the bottle he’d obviously brought for her, and took a long drink before smacking her lips together and sighing. 

It was slightly strange that he sat on the armchair instead of perching himself on the end of the couch.  Sure, she took up quite a bit of space, but she was sure to leave the last cushion, and that was how it usually happened, he’d sit there and they’d drink a beer, and then the couch would be fully occupied for a while.  It seemed to work.  She shrugged her shoulders and took another drink. 

At the very least, it was refreshing.  The moment of silence between them, however, was not quite Margo’s style.  She hated quiet.  It just… rubbed her the wrong way.  When there was an opportunity for noise, she took it. 

Before she even started to think about it, she reached for her wand and flicked it at the wireless, turning on whatever wrock station she had left on last.  She was just about to start babbling her version of the lyrics to whatever was on when Kurby snapped at her. 

The lanky woman blinked at him for a moment, trying to process what he was talking about.  “What are you talking about?” the smile had died on her face, and an edge had taken to her voice, “We are having a good time,” Margo slurred and swung her leg down from over the top of the couch, sitting up.   

Licking her lips, Margo swished her hair over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, “Don’t you ever stop thinking about things?”

Of course Amherst thought that they were having a good time.  She hadn't noticed that the good time had stopped a good sixty seconds before, when he'd failed to unlock the door and promptly become irritated with the world.  Scowling, Kurby eyed her over the top of his beer bottle.  She was lucky they'd made it into her flat and not his own; if he'd been the one playing landlord at the moment, then the witch would soon be finding herself alone in the hallway.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.  He tensed defensively, the line of his jaw tight.  Amherst's question had hardly been an accusation, but after a long night -- a long day, a long week, several long months in a row -- it came out sounding awfully accusatory. 

Of course he thought about things.  Not everything, but that was his job -- to think things through so the kids under his authority didn't get killed.  So the public didn't get killed.  And too many times in the past year, he'd been having to think so that Amherst didn't get herself killed.  If he hadn't been there, if she hadn't gotten away from Macduff -- or if the goddamned Aurors had decided to use her as bait after all --

"That's what adults do, Amherst."  Kurby's voice was icy as he eyed the woman.  "The ones who don't want to get their throats torn open, at least.  But you don't really care too much about that, do you?" he asked sardonically, giving her a disdainful look.  There was a tight feeling in the back of his throat, like a growl that was just beginning to rise, but he ignored it, his teeth clenched.  "Not thinkin' worked well enough for you and Macduff, didn't it then?"

Margo could tolerate a lot of Kurby’s malfunctions, at least when they weren’t directed at her.  Usually she could see them falling on a harmless passerby or one of the idiots they worked with.  It didn’t really faze her. 

But, when he started to turn nasty on her, Margo didn’t really like that.  They were friends, they always had been, and she never thought that hooking up would change anything.  It hadn’t thus far – they stilled tortured one another and were generally horrible, but sometimes it seemed like Kurby tried to find reasons to be even nastier to her since she moved downstairs from him. 

“Well, considering as of five minutes ago one of your hands was up my shirt and your tongue was halfway down my throat, I think that qualifies as a good time,” she rolled her eyes.  He took everything so seriously; even Margo had a hard time getting him to relax. 

But he decided to keep going, and throw barbs at her.  Insinuating that she wasn’t an adult and not caring about getting her throat torn out – ridiculous.  She snorted in disbelief at him – even Drunk Margo knew that this was totally uncalled for.  And Margo just took another long drink from her beer.  She downed the whole thing, bringing her free hand up after the bottle left her lips and ran her lips along her wrist to wipe away any liquid. 

“Oh right, of course,” she smacked the bottle on the coffee table enough to make the old glasses on it (that she hadn’t bothered to wash) rattle as she did – for a split second she was worried the bottle might have cracked.  Thankfully, there was no beer flowing off and onto the floor.  “I mean, I was supposed to know who he was when that started – of course!” 

She threw her hands up in the air before running them through her hair.  “I forgot, you know, after years in Romania and an entire year in a St. George’s trying to recover, I should be fecking miserable and pessimistic about everything – like you!”  She pushed herself off the couch, wobbling a little – partially drunk, partially shaking with rage and with only one good leg. 

“For Merlin’s sake.  I need another feckin beer.”  She stalked toward the kitchen, scowling as she did. 

"How the hell am I miserable and pessimistic?!" Kurby shouted back furiously.  If it hadn't been so much effort -- and if it wouldn't have really pushed the limits of their fourth-floor neighbor -- and if it hadn't been full of beer that he didn't want to waste, he would have flung the bottle at the wall out of downright frustration.  As it was, he scowled at it, and then promptly lifted it to finish the rest of it in one goal.

This was just like Amherst.  As soon as his temper started rising, out came the countering attack: that he was pessimistic, that he took it too seriously, and then before he'd know it, she was stalking off to have another drink.  Gritting his teeth, the werewolf hunter squeezed the empty bottle of beer, applying enough pressure that he could nearly feel it crack.  It didn't matter what he'd been through for the woman; it didn't matter how many times she'd almost gotten herself dead.  No, she'd much rather avoid taking responsibility for anything by laughing at him and then stalking away for another drink.

Scowling, he pushed himself to his feet, setting the empty bottle down hard on the coffee table, causing it to shudder a second time.  With an angry swagger, he stalked after Amherst into the kitchen.

"Don't you think that maybe I'd give a damn if you get yourself killed?" he snapped at her exasperatedly.  "Or is that just somethin' else for everyone besides you to worry about?"  As furious as he was, the cause and effect of the entire situation were becoming slightly skewed, but it was late enough and Kurby had had enough to drink tonight that it wouldn't have mattered, anyhow.  "That bleedin' werewolf nearly killed me, and you still didn't give a damn about runnin' off to snog him!"

Margo didn’t really know what he didn’t leave well enough alone.  If he was so mad, he could walk out her front door.  He hadn’t stopped himself from doing that before.  Sometimes, it’d be so bad that she had to fix the hinges on her door before.  Granted, that’d only made it worse and the Super was definitely not her biggest fan either, but hey, she had enough money to pay him monthly, and for her repairs, so he didn’t exactly want to get rid of her…

She really wanted to get rid of him.

Hearing his feet pounding on the floor after her (like some kind of angry stomping horntail), Margo squared her shoulders and ignored his stamping and stomping, attempting to break her coffee table, or her beer bottles, and snapped off the top of another bottle. 

Maybe putting another drink in her mouth was not the smartest idea… but it seemed reasonable, and one of the only things Margo knew how to do in times of distress.  (Maybe this was a problem? …nah…)

Leaning against the counter, she watched him come in, glaring the whole way – she figured if he had the power too, spells would fly out of his eyes at her and incinerate her on spot.  She tried to be nonchalant, eying him as he growled upon entrance (just like a dragon in a cave), but when he suggested that he might care if she died, Margo couldn’t help it. She coughed so hard that any liquid in her mouth sputtered out and a large amount ended up right down the front of her already sheer shirt.

“What are you getting on about?” she balked in disbelief, using her arm to wipe the frothy mess from her lips.  That came out of bloody left field, and Margo was not prepared for any sort of conversation on that topic.  “Kurby Bagnold!” an uncharacteristic high pitched screech, “None of that was about you.”  She felt it necessary to point that out – it was her choice, her life – he just got involved. 

“For fuck’s sake, Kurby…” She dropped her head exasperatedly and rubbed her temples with her free hand.  “If this is about feelings or some shite like that,” she looked up, “I’m not very good about those things – but if I didn’t care about you, why the hell do you think I stick around?  It’s certainly not just because I like making you miserable - or putting your life in danger - or making you miserable.”

A sudden fit of pouting seized upon her and Margo crossed her arms, taking a sip of her beer.  "You should go if I've totally ruined your life in every explainable way," she added with a snotty sort of tone one might expect from a fifteen year old, more than a grown adult nursing a beer and the promise of a hangover from hell in the morning.   

As he listened to her talk, he was only getting angrier and angrier.  Hearing her say that it wasn't about him -- how could it not be about him?  And if it wasn't, then wasn't that reason to be furious all over again?  Back then, they had been even more casually involved than they were now -- but they had still been casual, and she had still run off to get involved with the werewolf!

"Maybe I will go!" he fired back.  Storming out of Amherst's flat -- it was starting to sound more and more appealing.  He could stomp back to his own flat, and lock the door, and not worry about witches who didn't seem to get anything or ever want to grow up.

That was the frustrating thing.  Not that he cared, because he didn't, but -- well, who the hell cared if he did care?  Amherst certainly did not.  That had been the heart of the issue through the entire situation with MacDuff, when he'd felt as if he were warding off werewolves and Aurors alike, and she'd been content to happily go about her business as if the entire world wasn't thoughtlessly playing with her life.  The closest she ever came was sneering at him about feelings, or storming off to get another drink when he suggested that she might want to consider acting like a functional adult.

He gave a frustrated growl -- if it had taken any less effort, he would have kicked at the wall, or tried to break something, but the night already felt like it had stretched on for far too long.  He settled for angrily yanking a chair out from the kitchen table instead and dropped down into it to sit, resting his elbows heavily on the table.

"How the hell long are you plannin' to go on like this?" he snapped, taking his head in both hands.  It hurt -- everything hurt -- and if it hadn't been for the fact that he was still so angry, he would have just stomped out of the room.  "Don't you ever think that maybe you might want to think about finally growin' up?"

“Good!” she practically howled at him, “Go then!” she threw her arm out and pointed toward the exit of the kitchen, practically doubled over from the strength she used to scream at him.

She couldn’t stand him sometimes. 

All her life people had told her to just shut and listen to what everyone told her – she wasn’t smart enough to do anything to make anyone happy, she was the wild one: that was it.  So, she did the opposite.  She didn’t listen to anyone, and she didn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own and she wasn’t going to be controlled by anyone.  Least of all Kurby Bagnold, who for some reason she had thought understood her impulse to ignore what everyone told her and live her own life was not just trying to do the same thing.

Of course, he couldn’t even do her the courtesy of leaving.  He pulled out a chair and plopped down on it, acting like the heaviest weight in the world was placed on his shoulders and he grabbed at his hair (which she had been very happily doing for him before he decided to become a raging, screaming griffin with a stinger in its foot), and snapped at her. 

The message to grow up was not taken very well.  Margo put the glass bottle on the table, breathing in a very deep, very restrained breath.  “I’m not an adult?” Margo asked, a sneer on her lips as she crossed her arms tight across her chest.  “ I have a job, a place to live, a cat… please, enlighten me as to what else I need to be a fully functioning adult like you?”

"How the hell do I know?" Kurby fired off.  He was snapping more at the table than at her now -- his head still in his hands, his shoulders hunched and his teeth clenched, wishing more than anything that he didn't need a wand to burn a hole through the wood.

That was really the question.  Was he a fully functioning adult?  It didn't matter that he had a good job -- had gotten promoted -- lived on his own, supported himself.  Every year, twice a year or however often he got dragged to Bagnold family gatherings, the subject was raised.  It didn't even matter that he was happy -- well, not happy, but at a place where he didn't mind being complacent.  Or at least could be complacent with being complacent.

It was why a part of him had been secretly relieved when Nate and Myrni had broken off their engagement, as awful as he'd felt for both his cousin and his friend.  Why he was lucky that Rosheen was more interested in saving the world than settling down, and Dervla was always there as the family disgrace.  He got pressured, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the pressure could be if he were the only one. 

That was how society worked; how families worked.  He bucked it, but Kurby didn't think for even a minute that he'd ever really escaped it.  No one did -- except for Margo, to whom this was all still just a game, some silly thing to pass the time, and to get angry when any of their relatives ever suggested otherwise, and never mind that he was already on the wrong side of thirty, and she was nearly there.

"You could try actin' like things mattered."  He gritted out each word, forcing himself to form them almost against his will.  It didn't help that his tongue felt so heavy, or that his head ached from the alcohol.  Alcohol or not, he didn't want to be having this conversation.  "Or -- I don't know.  Like they aren't a joke.  You could try gettin' married."

That answer was not good enough for Margo. 

Honestly, if he wanted to tromp around telling people what they should and shouldn’t do – and how they should view their lives, he should, at the very least, know what the hell he was talking about. 

She didn’t know what was up with him recently, anyway.  It was like he was trying to do ten thousand things at once.  It wasn’t like he ever rested.  He got a promotion, but that wasn’t even good enough for him.  She didn’t know what was the problem – if everyone was happy, what was the matter?  It wasn’t like he was the failure in his family anymore. 

Running her hands through her hair, Margo couldn’t even believe him.  Her fingers contracted into fists up above her head, eyebrows drawn in, trying not to seem quite as horrified as she was.  Masking emotions had never been her strong suit, however, and it probably showed clearly as she balked.  “What?!”

“Are you out of your bleedin’ mind?” she asked him, looking at him with wide eyes.

She let her arms fall to the side and then looked down at herself.  “Kurby, outside of every other problem with that damn suggestion; who the feck would marry me?!” This was an honest question if there ever was one. 

She was not marriage material, she was very sure he knew that.  Even if it did get her family to take her seriously, they never would: no matter what.  “Let’s just look up the big long list of men who want to marry a charred up gimp, shall we?” she snorted, walking back to get another drink.
 
“Ridiculous,” she snorted, shaking her head.  “Abso-feckin-lutely ridiculous.”  The fizz of a beer was just the sound she needed and out of frustration, and perhaps a little embarrassment, Margo sucked down quite a bit of it.  “You really have lost your bloody mind, haven’t you?”

There were things that Kurby had sworn a million times over.  How he would never settle down; what he would do to his sister if she ever invited herself into his flat again; even the choices he'd have to make for himself if the unthinkable ever happened on a werewolf hunt.  He stood by his convictions, as he had for all of his life.  Everyone knew that when he said something, he meant it.  Kurby Bagnold didn't change his mind.

Except...

It was ridiculous to think it.  Maybe his brothers were finally getting to him; maybe it was having to listen to his mother fuss and fret over their disowned sibling over the last round of holidays.  Maybe it was even because Amherst just made him so damned angry that he was willing to shout anything at her to be contrary. 

But sometimes, sometimes, maybe it felt like it was because he got tired of fighting.  Because the life that he'd chosen at twenty or twenty-five or even thirty was now beginning to feel a little worn.  It was easy not to make plans for the future when you knew that you wouldn't have a future; except here he was, a decade later, and barely the worst for wear to show for it.  And he cared about Amherst, as much as she might drive him mad, as much as he might hate to admit it.  He would have gone after MacDuff for anyone -- well, almost anyone -- but he'd been ready to rip his throat out because of her.

Kurby kicked at the floor.  His head ached, but he still felt as if he hadn't had enough drinks for this; as if he were too far on the wrong side of sober to even think about having this conversation.

"I would," he said shortly.  He might have to say it, but he wouldn't look at her; he'd had enough of Amherst mocking him for one night.  "Marry you.  So maybe I have lost my mind."