Wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she set out from her funeral home in Diagon Alley early in the morning, just as most shops would be starting to open their doors. The ghost had destroyed half of her stock of potion ingredients when it had its temper tantrum in her basement. The apothecary jars had been shattered on her basement floor, and the ingredients had spilled out everywhere- and the ones that had been broken were definitely not salvageable. She was annoyed at having to replace so many things. And the amount of... questionable potions ingredients she needed had driven her to Knockturn. It wasn't that anything she was looking for was exactly illegal, just commonly found in the potions that were illegal to brew, so it was better to buy the large quantities from someone who wouldn't ask questions and would turn a blind eye.

Her breath hung in the air in front of her as she exited the apothecary with a large crate full of fresh ingredients in new jars. There was a slight drizzle starting already, and the breeze was chilly. She cursed, realizing she had left her umbrella sitting by the front door of the funeral home. Damn! Many of her ingredients were sensitive to moisture. Cursing, she ducked under an awning to one of the few bars in Knockturn Alley. She rested her crate of ingredients on top of a pub table left outside, and fished out her wand.

Dervla then began unwrap each of the glass jars and carefully cast waterproofing spells on them to keep out the rain for the last of her trek back home. One of the jars- containing live beetles- made a curious rattling sound as she waterproofed it. She rolled her eyes a bit at the panicked beetles inside, wrapped it back up, and placed it back into the crate again. It was a somewhat time consuming task, and almost twenty minutes had passed by the time she had unwrapped, enchanted, re-wrapped, and replaced every jar in the box. Once finished, she grunted and cracked her back a little. The rain had picked up considerably. The drizzle had turned to a light rain, and Dervla really wasn't looking forward to walking home in it.

She reached up, twisting her now frizzy curls into a bun and pinning it into place at the nape of her neck. The windows of the pub were still dark, and judging from the sky the rain ought to clear up or slack off soonish. Sighing and shrugging, Dervla hopped onto one of the bar stools at the table. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands and her elbows on the tabletop. One foot hooked onto the bottom rung of the chair, the other swinging back and forth. Dervla pulled the cloak of her hood up and did her best not to make extended eye contact with anyone. That was a definite no-no when you were lurking in Knockturn. You never knew who you might cross the wrong way. Pulling a cigarette case from a pocket, she extracted one and lit it, blowing the smoke out in front of her. Ah, that was delicious. Now if she only had some warm coffee, then waiting out the storm wouldn't be nearly as bad... 

With only slow, measured steps to warn her, Rick came up to the table and set something down down, heavy brows lifted slightly in greeting when she’d meet his stare; it was a tankard, filled to the brim with something hot and spicy, and to the wizard’s judging eye she looked like she needed it.

They weren’t exactly what a guy would call close, but... Rick liked her, in his own way. Though he was hardly the friendly type (barring happy hour, of course– or any hour he had a drink, actually) much less chatty (unless he wanted to bore you to tears, just so you’d leave him alone), there was something easy about their relationship, mutually beneficial yet tension-free. If the wizard had to call it anything other than congenial, it would be ‘quiet’—sought for professional reasons, but kept for personal ones, too. With Dervla, the wizard wasn’t expected to entertain – or just be welcoming, the way most people usually were – but he didn’t feel tempted to be the complete opposite, either.

Rick found her pleasant, if he was honest. She was cheerful but not enough to make him grit his teeth, confident without being too obnoxious, and the tacit understanding between them about the Things That Are Off-Limits meant there was no friendly nagging about “getting out more” or “meeting someone nice.” Instead, there were interesting conversations about books and methods, and aspects of work other than the idiots that they had to deal with– things that he didn’t mind talking about, and often didn’t get the chance to talk about.

It was nice, the crosspatch admitted to himself (albeit grudgingly), to be able to have a discussion sans the awkward (or insultingly surprised) “what’d you say was your job, again?” Dervla Bagnold wasn’t the usual kind of lady he often found himself around, but knowing the women who were—that… was probably a good thing.

“Went shopping?” Rick asked, as he casually took a seat without so much as a by-your-leave, and gave her purchases a slight jerk of his chin. The stool creaked under his weight.

---

Dervla looked up when the tankard was placed on the table in front of her. The witch's nose twitched in response, inhaling the spicy scent of whatever was in it. It smelled delicious, and she could feel the heat radiating from the drink that Rick Donovan had just placed in front of her. Dervla licked her lips, and offered Rick half a smile as he slid into the empty chair on the other side of the high table. With barely any hesitation, she reached out for the warm drink. Whether it was for her or not, Dervla had decided that Rick was going to share it. It was chilly out and the drink smelled amazing and if he hadn't wanted to part with a few sips, he shouldn't have left it within arms length of her.

She shrugged a little when he mentioned the shopping. "Guess so. Not exactly voluntary," she told him. "Ghost got into the basement earlier this week, decided to wreak havoc on my stores for some reason. Had to fill back up on some of my more... common potion ingredients. And, naturally, those which are more expensive."

"Nice to see you, too, by the way." Dervla grinned a little. "Hope you've been doing well enough. And I'm glad for the company." She motioned at the rain. "Hoping the rain will slack off long enough for me to get back home. Don't want to risk getting these wet. I waterproofed them, but you know, can't always predict exactly how effective a spell will be. Besides, I don't fancy chancing unsure footing on the cobbled streets. They can get slick in the rain, and dropping my crate of goodies is a sure way to ruin my day. It's already half ruined by my having to climb out of bed so early to get this shopping done. It would be nice to get a regular night of sleep for once in my life." That didn't happen often. Either someone died in the middle of the nigh, Fox showed up in her basement, or her research kept her up late.

Dervla finally lifted the tankard to her lips, taking a few cautious sips- careful not to burn her mouth in the process. The warms felt good on her hands, and she sighed happily with half-lidded eyes. Oh, that was wonderful! "Delicious," she told him, sliding the drink a few inches in his direction (but still well within her reach). "Hopefully you don't mind sharing," she added. "I can pay you for it, if you like. I just couldn't resist. The weather is disgusting and I've been sitting under the awning longer than I'd like."

"So tell me, what exactly have you been up to lately? Haven't had time for so much as an owl?" she teased. Dervla wasn't even the slightest bit angry. Why should she be? It wasn't like she'd gone out of her way to write to him, either. But good natured ribbing was something you did among friends. (Or so she'd learned somewhere along the way.) "How's business been? Steady, I hope."

Rick made a face. Ghosts. They were almost as much of a pain in the ass as the living—and he knew more than a few who were really annoying. He had enough trouble with them as it was.

Of course, leave it to Dervla to brush it all off as just another day at work. Instead of cracking the smile his mouth threatened to, Rick rolled his eyes, letting the chatter wash over him as light ‘n easy as the rain, and smirked and grimaced as he listened. He snorted at the mention of payment. “Please,” he said, impatiently waving her off. “I got it for you.”

At her questions, Rick grimaced again, pulling a face that only began to articulate a lot of feelings that, doubtlessly, would make a small child burst into tears somewhere if they were voiced. The less said about them, the better. “More or less,” he eventually went with, shifting in his seat. “Lost a client last week, but the guy was an ass.” He shrugged. “Someone came in with a car they wanted fixing—it was crapping chickens all over the place-” A quick grin flitted over those harsh features, dry and amused, before it shriveled; “Another tried to sell me junk.” The wizard scowled, still offended the guy had even tried.

But… it hadn't been all bad, if he was honest. And Dervla would find out eventually—hell, it wasn’t even a secret. His scowl easing slightly, Rick hesitated. “I got an apprentice over break,” he admitted gruffly, snagging the mug back to take a drink. “Annoying kid, but bright. What about you? Found any help yet?”

Dervla smiled wen he stated he'd bought it for her. "Well that's awfully gentlemanly of you, Donovan. Feeling alright? Spending a lot of extra time with your mum or something? Not accustomed to such genteel behavior, especially not from you," she teased. But after he told her that the drink was really for her, she pulled the tankard back to her hands and held it there, warming up her fingers. She took a few more sips from the drink, glad for the warmth spreading quickly through her body. It felt like it was going straight to the beone. "I suppose I'll have to owe you one, then. Next time we meet for drinks, I'll get you a nice firewhiskey."

She laughed when he stated the client was an ass. "Most customers are, I've noticed. Especially in a line of work that the regular public knows nothing about. Always underestimating exactly how precise the art is, how difficult, or the chost or time it takes." Sure, artificing wasn't the same as being a mortician- but she had encountered  plenty of people who thought they knew more about her work than she did. People just couldn't fathom how complicated it all was. "A car?" she quirked a brow. "Crapping chickens? Well, at least that's something interesting and different if nothing else." Dervla knew the monotony of her work could get to her sometimes, which made something different coming in a breath of fresh air.

Dervla wrinkled her nose at the mention of an apprentice. "If he's annoying, you ought to give him a kick to the pants and set him out on the curb. Doesn't matter how bright an apprentice is if they make you want to throttle them on a regular basis. Never pictured you one for teaching, though. Kid you say? That biological clock of yours tick-tocking away then?"

She shrugged when he asked if she'd found help. "Nobody new. Still keep that squib boy on payroll to take care of the stables and clean the carriages, and have my record keeper. But nobody who really works with the bodies. Not many people are eager to learn how to prepare the dead, after all. Plus the job has a certain stigma most people don't want to deal with." A stigma she was used to, at this point. She had gotten used to it working as an unspeakable so many years ago. "I figure I'll get real help when I'm old and gray and have to pass the business on to someone." Because she had no plans of having children to inherit the funeral home. Dervla didn't like children and didn't have the patience to be a mother. "But if you're offering to apprentice, I could find some work for you to do."

Rick’s face twitched in that way it did, whenever he was confronted by all and any mention of having kids. Despite coming from a pretty big family himself (or, probably because he did), the wizard didn’t want any, soon or ever. He had enough nieces and nephews to keep his hands full (infants and teenagers, thanks) to keep him set for life– a quick 101 in parenting that, while useful, he sincerely hoped he’d never personally need.

Because as much as he cared about the brats, getting his own opened up a whole ‘nother can of flobberworms best left unexplored. And Rick was not about that life.

Hilarious, he wordlessly deadpanned when Dervla joked about his… biological clock, jesusfreakingchrist. “Not a boy,” he said instead, and left it at that. God knew Rick knew all about annoying, but he’d known what was he was signing up for when he actually, y’know, signed the paper for it. Anyway, despite the lack of sung praises, that pretty much was his equivalent; somewhere in that hard, crusty soul of his, he recognized a kindred spirit—even when it was sassing him to hell and back.

His bitchface eased up at her mock-offer, giving way to a roll of his eyes. “Like I’m not doing enough already for you?” he shot back, though the slight twitch to his lips took away the sting. He didn’t mind the work, to be honest– even if it did leave a funny smell on his clothes sometimes, when he worked on-site. He’d had worse experiences. “We have time enough anyway,” he abruptly said. Having a few gray hairs himself, he more than ready to put that whole line of conversation– of successors and whatnot –to - ha - rest. “If you don’t need one, then don’t. Seems like you’re getting on just fine even without my help,” and brows rose in unspoken question.

Capable witch though she was, Dervla Bagnold still was, after all, just one person.

"Oh? A girl then?" Dervla's smirk grew. "Well now, that's another thing all together, isn't it? Better not be too young. Don't want to get yourself into any trouble, Donovan. I know young girls can be quite pretty, but the last thing you need is some wet behind the ears barely-graduated or almost-graduated girl digging her claws into you. Though I have to admit, it might amuse me to watch you fall all over yourself for some girl... Best keep yourself out of trouble. Hate to see scarlet robes marching your way."

"You do more than enough. Without some of your more inspired inventions I'd have have a lot less accomplished in my spare time. Speaking of which, I might need your aid again sometime soon. I need something special rigged up for my cauldrons down in the basement. But this is not the place to talk of such business," Dervla looked around. The street was beginning to come alive, even in the rain. "There are ears everywhere, of course. Even in a place where business is routinely less than savory."

Dervla sipped her drink some more, glad that it was cool enough to properly enjoy at this point- yet still warm enough to do the job. "Sometimes it gets busy," she told him. "I can get inundated. So long as there are no mass deaths from disease or accident I get along just fine most of the time. It would be nice to have the freedom to sleep in and have someone else receive bodies and prepare them once in a while, but it is the profession I chose and I chose it for a reason." And that reason was certainly not because she enjoyed it.

She grunted, and readjusted herself on the tall chair. Dervla tossed a bit of hair over her shoulder, and grunted. "But who knows. I might be too much of a perfectionist. I don't know that I would trust anyone to do the job and to do it properly. Especially young people these days- always cutting corners, looking to do things as quickly as possible instead of taking the time and effort to do a job thoroughly and properly... My reputation is too fragile to risk ruination from some so-called apprentice half assing it. Maybe one day I'll find the right person to help out 'round the home, but until then I'd rather run myself ragged doing it alone than get extra rest trusting my livelihood to the wrong sort of person."

Even if she had meant it teasingly– and Merlin knew he wasn’t a stranger to some good-natured ribbing –Rick’s face went carefully neutral, punctuated by a blink and the slow rise of his brows. Did she just-

She had. Did, and the fact that she’d even gone there at all, was... He could only choke out a laugh, the sound blank and disbelieving as she went on—something about future assistance (he was still kind of stuck on the thought of Alex ‘digging her claws’ into his anything, okay? On top of being totally laughable, just thinking about it was also completely traumatic) before moving onto normal day woes, clearly warming up to the subject. Being a disgraced Unspeakable-cum-necromancer meant working around the clock, he supposed– much like his own job, if not more. Death didn’t cut anyone a break just because they needed a nap. At least his meant he could bend his hours when necessary (not to mention pick and choose his clients) without business suffering too much.

But, god. As she spoke of reputation, Rick’s expression grew slightly pained. He’d forgotten the reason why he dropped by her place so rarely  never encouraged her to make appointments in person  told her owling was okay  how much she liked to talk. And talk. And talk. Experience had long taught him to let her chatter run its course—especially when she got started on “young people these days.”

Yeah, he did, too. But then again he was the one who had an apprentice.[1] And speaking of which…

“Guess that makes one of us,” he said cheerfully, snagging the mug back and tipping it at her, before smoothly chugging a good half of it down. When he set it in front of her again, there was a great deal less, and any trace of repentance was licked away with a quick swipe of his tongue. “Don’t know if I should tear you a new one for thinking I’d be dumb enough to fall for some chit, let alone mess around with one I hired—got a feeling the answer’s yes-” he offered her a sharp, sardonic grin, “but as the one who seems to be the getting the most sleep out of the two of us, I’ll give you a pass this time, Bagnold. You should put it to good use—maybe make like your dead and get some rest. You look like you need it,” and Rick nudged her foot with his, the grin curving into a broad, cocky smirk.

Biological clocks and jailbait. How the fuck even.

1.	And a shop assistant. And probably another one come summertime, if his sister’s threat– which probably hadn’t been meant as one, but he was choosing to view it in the spirit in which it was made, thanks –actually meant anything.