Approximately 11:15-11:30 PM. 

---

After having spent a lot of time on the inside, Margo’s cheeks were flushed and she could feel her long hair sticking to her neck.  It was hot in the bar and things were packed.  She knew it wasn’t midnight yet, but it was somewhere in the neighborhood.  The DJ in the yard would be announcing – he’d mentioned inviting her up for the countdown, she thought… her memory was a little fuzzy around the edges (all the drinks).  The only other thing she had to worry about was the champagne but the bar staff would have it under control. 

She was ready to just enjoy her party, see what the outside looked like and what was going on.  When she sauntered down the small stairs there were twinkling lights hanging above the space, lanterns floating and though cooler than the inside, the temperature was comfortable.  Jefferson had done a good job on the charms, she thought.  There were some stray tables at the back of the industrial looking space.  Abandoned drinks and glasses were scattered on top of them.  Signs of a good party.   Some people standing toward the back – not the sign of a good party.  She needed to go over there! 

Running her good hand over her forehead, Margo wiped some strands of stuck hair from her forehead and grinned as she saw Nephthys walking by with a very full glass in her hand, and many empty glasses on her tray.  Margo raised her eyebrows and Nephthys rose her voice. “Didn’t want it anymore,” she poked her chin toward the glass. 

Margo, being the sort of person who didn’t care about such things grabbed it from her hand.  “I’ll take it,” and winked.  Nephthys rolled her eyes and walked, leaving her ‘well oiled’ employer outside.  Margo took the opportunity to push her way around and resumed her mission.  Maneuvering her body around dancing patrons, Margo laughed and nodded – pretending she could hear anyone over the music in the crowd and got to the destination.  “Needed a break?” she asked loudly as the DJ mixed whatever track he was playing. 

A small group had formed in the back area of Death&Co. New faces often flitted to join them, though their rehearsed departure, with a fresh drink in hand, usually made it clear they had come only to test the rumors. Regardless, a young man greeted each one, as if he hadn't noticed the pattern. Many "hi, how are you, what's your name?"s later, Ambrose had a long list of new names and faces in his memory.

Word traveled fast, it seemed, of a young man being quite liberal with his drink buying. Bought company, but Ambrose didn't mind. He was content simply knowing that he facilitated their night of drinking. At least most were polite enough to hang around for some conversation. In fact, many had chosen to stick with him! The man was no Death&Co host, but he was having fun keeping the small group going, listening to stories and laughing along with, "oh, so, earlier tonight..." anecdotes. He'd had a few drinks, but somehow he'd ended up with a moderately clear head, regardless. Between all the conversation and distractions, he'd been nursing the same glass of alcohol--whatever it was; Ambrose couldn't even remember, and not because he was drunk-- for quite some time.

Many came and went, save for Ambrose himself, so he wasn't surprised by the approach of a woman in black and silver; however, he was surprised to see she already had a full glass. He righted his posture slightly, giving a full smile to the woman. Had she actually come to see him? There's a thought Ambrose could entertain.

"Margo!" He had definitely heard her say that, right? At any rate, the loud music, only slightly dampened by their distance, was hopefully forgiving to any mistakes. He laughed a bit at her question, momentarily forgetting he'd parked himself near the dance floor. He outstretched his arms, lifting his lukewarm glass in a faux fanfare of a gesture.

"I've practically got my own party here," he said, "care to join us?" Ambrose himself looked slightly disheveled, with his sleeves pushed up and hair swept back, but he certainly did not look as exerted as Margo did. He leaned in a bit to speak more directly:

"You look like you might need a break. How 'bout it? How are you?" She had been fluttering around all night, Ambrose had seen her, which only made him wonder if she would even consider his offer. The way he saw it, she was either going to use him as an excuse to rest, or she was about to springboard off of him in search of more shenanigans.

Being greeted immediately with a wide gesture made Margo feel at home – and at least reassured that her guests were not bored out of their minds.  She didn’t want to throw a bad party and she’d thought she had enough going on to stop anyone from having a bad time.  Even her stuffier cousins wouldn’t be able to find a reason to be upset or bored at the function.  She had pool inside, the DJ, good food, good drinks… It was the recipe for a great time. 

So, she sidled up to the group and took a drink out of her glass.  She looked at the little group, all smiling and flushed – alcohol had done its job here.  Margo couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. 

At the suggestion of a break, at first she was a little affronted.  She had come outside with the intention of maybe joining the dance floor – meeting people and making moves (quite literally) over there.  Even if she was not the most… proficient… dancer, she was as passable as anyone with discernable hips would be.  She couldn’t look that beat, could she? 

She knew she was sweating, but everyone was – bars with dancing and loads of people did that.  Plus, alcohol.  So, she didn’t need a break.  But, looking at a chair, Margo realized how much her leg was protesting doing much else for a bit and there was a group here. 

It wouldn’t hurt the business if she took a break.  It wouldn’t hurt her either.  It’d save her the trouble of digging around her medicine cabinet for a salve that hadn’t passed its expiration date.  She wasn’t about to go to Mungo’s, after all.  She knew healers weren’t doing that on purpose, but Margo wasn’t going to risk it.  She’d already lost enough this year. 

So, she dropped into a chair and grinned.  “I’m excellent!” she announced loudly to the group, “Just glad to see everyone having a good time,” she raised her glass – some others in the small group did the same with wide, alcohol fueled grins. Turning her head toward the center of attention himself, Margo’s lip quirked upward.  “What’s keeping all these people in rapt attention?” she asked, kicking her foot out and crossing her ankles. 

Ambrose grinned at the newest addition to the group, glad to see her relax for a moment.

“’Excellent?’ That’s fantastic!” he was among those to raise his glass to her. As for what these people found interesting, he couldn’t say. Ambrose gave a sweeping gesture with his glass, which eventually turned into a shrug.

“Not me, for sure," he couldn't take any credit, it was mostly him prompting chatter from the others, "Nice atmosphere? Good music? Great alcohol?” he guessed—”Free drinks,” one of the patrons chimed in. He and several others raised a full-sized drink to that, and Ambrose laughed—“True, too. I’m buying,” he motioned his drink to Margo’s, “I’d offer, but I see you’ve been there,” his articulated volume came with a concerning amount of ease, too used to this atmosphere. “Next one’s on me?”

If he was ever informed that she was the owner of this place, then he’d forgotten. Regardless, he was happy to buy for her, too. If anything, it was even more reason to buy her a drink! He took a sip of his alcohol—warm and watery, having been in his hands for far too long—and made a face before deciding to simply rid himself of it. Ambrose downed it with some mocking applause from a groupmate.

”Ambrose finally finishes his drink—after, what, an hour?” she teased, and he shook his head with a bit of a laugh.

“Impressive, right, Shauna?”  He grinned, “I've been told my drinking skills are quite something,” another groupmate made a choked noise, having seen Ambrose drink elsewhere. Quite something, definitely. He gave a knowing laugh in return, but ultimately chose to ignore the other man, drumming his hands on the empty cup. “What’s next? Something adventurous.”

“Beer,” Shauna suggested, and Ambrose made a disbelieving face.

“More adventurous.”

“Shots?” Another suggested.

“Uh, less adventurous.”

”That’s not even a type of alcohol,” a third pointed out with some scattered laughs from the group, though a fourth locked eyes with Ambrose and raised his brows with a smirk.

”Hey, wait wait wait. What happened to Mr. Quite Something?” he asked, calling Ambrose on his sarcasm, and a few others at the table turned to him expectantly as well. While he hadn't been expecting his statement to be read into, he tapped his fingers against his empty glass with a giddy enthusiasm, not about to back down.

“Are you going to do shots with me?” Ambrose turned the drinkers’ eyes back onto the man. He gave a guffaw of a laugh, as if Ambrose had been joking.

”Absolutely not, I’ve done my drinking,” he pointed his glass at the other, ”unlike you.”

Ambrose pulled a face and audibly slapped his hand over his heart, tipping his head back.

“Guilty-- But!" he sprang to attention again, "it’s no fun by yourself." A sly smile spread across his face, "if I’m doing shots, then I’m taking someone down with me.” Ambrose dismissed the idea as he addressed the group again.

“Other suggestions?” He asked, now looking directly at Margo with a playful look, deciding to challenge the newbie. “Any recommendations? I know you've been here all night, too. Whatever you've been drinking, you seem to be having fun.”

Now that was what Margo wanted to hear!  Cheering to the suggestion that the night was well orchestrated with all the things one could possibly want from a party!  Especially the drinks.  She laughed easily when he noted he was buying- and it immediately ticked that little thing in the back of her head that recognized why there was a group.  Where there were give aways, there was a crowd. 

Meant they were smart people! “I’ll take you up on that,” Margo nodded and tipped her glass toward him before a sharp pull back and sip.  He didn’t need to know Margo wasn’t on anybody’s tab.  Let him think he was being generous. 

From his accent, he wasn’t British – sounded American, based on the people Margo had worked with in the fields and whatnot.  If he wanted to throw his money about, who was she to stop him?  Show off for the adoring crowd and whatnot!  It was a position she respected, one she played often. 

She continued to smile, resting a little more easily in her chair. 

“Yes, shots!” Margo echoed in response to the suggestion, kicking one of her feet up a little bit.  It was an exciting thing – social and it would just add to the growing buzz in her head and spreading warmth in her body. 

Margo leaned forward in her chair, readying herself for a round – but it appeared Mr. Money and so aptly pointed out by another member of the party, Mr. Quite Something wasn’t having it.  Shaking her head, that wouldn’t do. 

She only joined parties with people who could keep up with her.  “From the sounds of it,” Margo shook her head, “It’ll be someone else taking you down.”  She narrowed her eyes, quirking a brow in challenge.  “And I think,” she licked her lips, “We’ll do a couple of rounds,” she smirked. 

“I’m a… friend of the establishment,” tipsy Margo had a nice way being evasive but completely obvious at the same time.  A very useful skill, obviously.  “Find the exceptional server with the bright red hair,” she informed one of the group members, “and tell her to bring over: two flaming firewhiskeys and two sets of the unforgivables.”  Tossing her dampened, and now curling hair, Margo grinned at him. 

The young lady scampered, obviously repeating the order to herself as she shuffled away in her heels – Margo laughed to herself – she was funny, and then turned her eyes back to Mr. Quite Something.  “I hope you’re only in the UK visiting,” her smile widened, “because you’ll want to be headed back to America when I’ve finished drinking you under the table.”   

---

The three drinks Margo refers to:
Flaming Firewhiskeys
The Unforgivables are a trio of shots perhaps tastelessly named after the three unforgivable curses.  The Imperius, The Cruciatus, and The Avada Kedavra. 

Good luck, Ambrose.

Ambrose grinned at her insistence.

“Oh, you’ll do shots with me?” he asked as he leaned his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers as if conducting business, though his smile was far too friendly to look the part.

“It feels unfair, though! You’ve been drinking, how are you supposed to win?” The earlier groupie who had scoffed now only laughed.

”Consider it a handicap,” the groupmate said, and Ambrose smacked his hands on the table in surprise.

“A handicap!” the man might have looked offended, if he could wipe the grin off his face. “I don’t need a handicap-- Oh, it’s on,” with a shake of his head, he locked eyes with Margo as she gave orders. Whatever she’d ordered-- Ambrose recognized none of it-- he was game. He wished he could jest back at her, but, frankly, he couldn’t discern her accent. It was all Greek to him; or, as the case may be: vaguely European. Regardless, Ambrose couldn’t help but laugh at the dramatized oooohs she had instilled in the nearby partygoers.

“Nope, Miss Margo, I’m here to stay. Whatever this is—“ he made a gesture to the table, “hopefully you’ll have to deal with it again," he lifted his empty glass to her, "Assuming you're not too ashamed to come back here, that is. Which would be a shame, since this place is pretty coo—Ooh!” his eyes widened as he saw their drinks arriving.

“What!” Ambrose’s mouth opened in an astonished laugh, and less-than-nimble hands nearly knocked over his firewhisky as he lunged for it, “I didn’t know it was—what, like, it’s literally on fire—wow!” he spun the shotglass between his fingers, examining it from all angles as if the flames were some sort of clever trick. "What!" It was easy to ignore a snickered, "have you never seen a flaming firewhisky before?" because this drink posed more questions than it answered.

"Do you drink it with the fire still on it--?"

"Yeah, mate, definitely."

"Or, like--?"

"Please do."

"No!" one of the girls nearly knocked the flaming shot from his hand as he brought it to his mouth, "Jesus, not unless it's enchanted."

"Well, is it?"

"Stick your face in and see."

"How do you drink this?" at an unhelpful, "You'll figure it out," Ambrose looked to Margo. So much for boasting. Well, it was all in good fun, right? Nobody was really competing. They were all winners here. Something like that. He propped his chin on his hand, gazing to Margo expectantly.

"Does The Friend of the Establishment know? She must," he grinned, "I can see it, she has that 'look.'" Ambrose lifted the flaming shotglass to her in cheers.

"Unless The Friend of the Establishment drinks fire, which is much more impressive than firewhiskey, I'll admit." He gave her a nod, "Not that I'd be surprised, she seems the type. Fire-drinker, Dragon-wrestler; all that." Hopefully Ambrose could pick up a thing or two from her; he was surely lacking in fire-drinking in his daily life. Granted, literally drinking fire was not where he had intended to start.

Margo laughed and would have pulled herself out of the chair to give the somewhat tall tan guy a high five for his assessment.  It was definitely a handicap.  He’d need one.  Margo was four drinks in?  Four seemed like a reasonable number, and if that’s what she told herself then it was bound to be true. 

No one was counting anyway; it was her night. 

Reclining back, she raised her eyebrows at the cocky American.  “I think that might be the difference between us,” she motioned between them, as individuals but maybe also as representatives of their countries, “is that I have no shame.” 

She downed the rest of the drink currently in her hand and put the glass down on the table with a smack of her lips.  She shimmied her shoulders with eyes closed, savoring the burn before her eyes snapped open. 

Sounded like – oh, yes, definitely.  Jefferson was walking toward them with the tray of drinks.  The three unforgivables were levitated above a silver-y (she didn’t think it was real silver… not all patron friendly) and the flaming firewhiskeys were… flaming.  Jefferson smiled nervously and started putting them down.  ”Anything else, Margo?” he wrung his hands in front of himself.

“We’re good, really,” she met his worried look with a steady, certain expression, if a little smiley because when she was a little tipsy she couldn’t quite stop smiling.  Remember?  Only four drinks in! 

After Jefferson left, she looked at the flaming drinks - Margo had watched Dorsey come up with it – a signature drink of the bar and thne looked around the circle at stunned faces.  “What did you think would happen when I said flaming?” she laughed and the look on the face of the tan gentleman turned thoughtful. 

Blowing minds one by one, she figured.  Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Inexplicably, Margo liked him. 

She found most of people in her presence currently good company and when all eyes were on her to take the shot, Margo took the glass in her hand.  The flames were not dangerous – for sure, more or less, and she may have fumbled a little at the dragon comment.

The wound was still new and hurt over the loss of her past job snuck up and bit her from time to time. 

She shook her head and raised the glass with a grin.  “Be prepared to be dazzled,” she winked and then raised the glass to her lips.  The fire slipped in with the alcohol and it was warm with a smokey flavor.  Margo swallowed and made an “o” with her lips to let a steady stream of fire out of her mouth, cool as a cucumber.

It was probably much easier to do with a few drinks under your belt, but the aftertaste was a strong cinnamon: Margo’s favorite flavor.  Licking her lips, she leaned forward, put the shot glass down triumphantly and lifted the next: the imperius.  “Keep up!” she shouted in friendly challenge and downed the next.  Its effects were a widening of the pupils and a blankness – for only a moment, really. 

Her shoulder muscle tweaked as the “blankness” ended.  Two in about two minutes. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her tongue and decided she’d let the American catch up.   

Margo! Yes, he was right, Ambrose noted as the server addressed her by name. Ambrose voiced his thanks to him, taking a moment to quietly wonder: he looked young, this was maybe his first day on the job—ever. Ambrose smiled a bit at the thought of that, making a mental note to thank him, specifically, later. First days were always tiring, perhaps he’d appreciate it. Later, for sure; Ambrose wouldn’t let himself forget.

As the young server left, he returned his eyes to Margo. She seemed all smiles, much like himself, and Ambrose was thankful for that. People of good attitude—whether drunk, sober, or somewhere in between—were his favorite sort of people.

‘Be prepared to be dazzled,’ and dazzled he was, indeed! Ambrose watched her bring the fire to her lips. His excited grin turned into open-mouthed surprise, and he audibly gasped when she drank it whole. Even with warning, he wasn’t expecting such a flawless display. This woman was playing up her social vibe to be much cooler than Ambrose had anticipated. Heck, if he were the type, Ambrose might even have been jealous. He only hoped she wasn't too mortified to be seen with him!

“Really, you just—drink it?” The prickling smell of alcohol wafted to his face as soon as he raised the drink, “I’m trusting you, I hope you know,” Ambrose added with a raised-browed look her direction, then downed the shot as Margo had done.

Not that he didn’t trust her. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Ambrose’s trust was a puppy, where no force of man or nature could stop it from barreling headlong into anyone, acquainted or not. At some point, far into the future, perhaps Ambrose would realize: allowing an experienced drinker to not only compete against him, but also to choose the playing field, was not a fantastic idea.

The burn of whiskey caught at the back of his throat. He quickly swallowed, small flames billowing from his mouth as he coughed against the assault of cinnamon—Ah! Despite the burn, Ambrose had to give an amused grin to the harmless flames. Not nearly as elegant as Margo’s, but hey, it was a start. Besides, it was hard to not feel cool with flames in your mouth, regardless of how smoothly they were handled. As far as Ambrose was concerned, choking on his alcohol was the coolest thing he’d done all night.

He laughed a bit, expelling the last of the fire with a look to Margo. The next drink was in his hand: one of the unforgivables, as if he had any idea which one. It didn’t matter, because it was already down his throat without a second thought.

It burned worse than the first, but Ambrose found he suddenly didn’t mind it at all. He closed his eyes as the bar seemed to fade away for a moment, leaving him feeling strangely serene by his next breath. He raised his brows with a smile as he realized what had happened.

“Enchanted drinks?” The little decorative enchantments were one thing, but this was a whole new level of neat. “Too cool!” The Cruciatus was up next, and Ambrose bat the glass between his hands while Margo took her’s.

The Unforgivable Spells were something most people knew about, but Ambrose wasn’t so sure if it was morally sound to make light of them VIA alcoholic drinks. Granted, Ambrose was also currently on a one-way trip to a bad time, and so he was not particularly concerned about social politics. Regardless, the trio was clever.

“Cheers,” he raised the glass before downing its contents, soon muffling an unwilling “Mmh!” as a strong, prickling burn coursed through him. It sent a chill down his spine, and he shook off the sensation by slamming the shotglass onto the table. “Ah- haha!” His discomfort quickly melted into a humored laugh, ”too cool.”

He wasn’t sure if he was easily amused, rightfully amazed, drunk, or some combination of the above. Not that it mattered to him. At any rate, hopefully this was entertaining enough to spectate. Several of the partygoers had wandered off as Mr. Quite Something became distracted, but a few did stick around to egg on any bad ideas.

”Maybe you should slow down?” one of them suggested, but Ambrose already had the Avada Kedavra between his fingers.

He knew the other guest was probably right, though, and gave an acknowledging look. He had no idea how much alcohol he was consuming, but the burning in his chest made him suspect it was quite a bit. He couldn’t feel it yet, but he could only hope that the sarcastic origins of the ’Mr. Quite Something’ comment wouldn’t become obvious. Granted, this legitimately seemed like a lot of alcohol, too, even for someone with a normal tolerance. All the worse for Ambrose, but it did remind him—

“Does this place still have food?” He asked Margo, who, he remembered, had come from inside, “I could go for something.”

The place did have a food table, but that was hours ago. With how many people were here, it was hard to say if the bar had prepared enough. He wasn’t opposed to walking somewhere else, though. Late-night walks for midnight meals were always fun, drunk or not.

He tipped the last shot back, scrunching his face—eugh, now that had some flavor. He wished he still had his watery drink to chase it down, but that was becoming increasingly irrelevant as another distant feeling crept over him. Like watching an oncoming wave, there was a growing sense of urgency, though Ambrose couldn't place what it was, or what he was meant to do. It towered over him, until-- like the pop! of a bubble, absolutely nothing remained of the feeling. He blinked, wide-eyed at... well, the bar was the same as before, but it certainly was a jarring feeling. He grinned. "Toooooo cool."

And thus, the Bad Idea Trio had been vanquished. Ambrose turned his gaze to the brown-eyed witch expectantly.

"Down for a distraction? Or are you up for another round?" The question had been more carefully-phrased in his head. Really, he was sure another round of those shots would only be trouble once the first caught up with him-- but who was he to reject a challenge? If she was up for it, then he would be, too.

"Or maybe something a bit more casual? Less death-inspiring? The beers are supposedly good." He tried to read her expression through the various dancefloor distractions. Notably, he did not suggest dancing-- but, again, he was a sucker for challenge.

"Ooor," this suggestion likely did not come as a surprise: "Finding food?" Ambrose brought back his initial question with a quirk of his brows, adjusting the folds of his casual suit-jacket as he re-rolled the sleeves. (His mother would have been appalled. Speaking of his mother: one of the things he missed about New York was the abundance of open food places, even at 11:25 PM on New Year's night. He was also just a sucker for food, though.)

"What do you want to do? You choose: Whatever it is, I'm paying." The man suddenly gave Margo a pseudo-scrutinizing look, ruined by his lack of any intimidating features. "How are you feeling?"

“You can trust me,” Margo winked with a big smile.  They were probably famous last words – for someone else.  It was the type of thing you heard before someone convinced you to eat something you didn’t know and you were like fifty feet tall a minute later. 

Thankfully, Margo didn’t have anything that intense at the bar.  Drinks named in bad taste?  Of course.  Anything stronger than some basic enchantments?  Not at all.  Her bar staff was, to some degree, more responsible than Margo could ever be. So, the canary eating cat that was Margo Amherst leaned back in her chair and waited as the American took the burning shot. 

She convulsed with laughter as he coughed and little flames came out… He was like a puppy.  Margo was so amused.  Wiping some stray tears of mirth from under her eyes, she was just so happy.  “Too much for you, Mr. Quite Something?” she asked with the remaining giggles still interrupting her speech.

Mr. Quite Something wasn’t going to give up though and he wanted to go into the Unforgivables.  He was easily amused, it appeared, and the enchanted drinks were like something blew his mind.  It was kind of endearing, the fact that he was so excited about everything.  It was like he’d never drank before! 

He did sort of have a young face.  Margo wondered how old he was.  Then she remembered: irrelevant.  He’d crossed the age line.  It hardly mattered!  The suggestion to slow down from another group mate struck her though. 

Margo was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol settling in.  She was smiling much more easily, swaying a bit, but still had her capacities together (for the most part).  There had definitely been nights where that was not the case, see her birthday in Australia this past year.  There was a reason darts were not allowed inside of Death & Co…

Didn’t mean she was going to slow down though. 

The cruciatus was one of Margo’s favorites.  You had to respond to it, like a jolt through you.  It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it did make your muscles twitch and definitely lit a fire in your stomach.  Her shoulders and back muscles twitched while her eyes closed before the sensation passed.  “I love that one,” she announced out loud, licking any stray drops from her lips. 

Another group mate, of the few who were left voiced concern.  Margo looked up at the girl with the worried expression and sighed.  “Get yourself another drink!” she informed her, “just tell them to put it on Margo’s tab,” she winked – the bartenders would know that meant make it on the house, “I suggest the fire crab.”  It was jewel toned and you spit flames at the end…

The girl shook her head – her loss and Margo looked back to Ambrose.  At least someone was willing to party!   
 
Ambrose already had the Avada in his hand, asking about food.  “Yeh!” she responded enthusiastically.  The food was good too.  She wanted something with bacon in it… the thought distracted her for a moment and her eyes wandered up and to the corner… just day dreaming about whatever was up there.  She refocused and noticed that he was taking the shot.

So, Margo did the same. 

It was probably her least favorite of the three shots – the feeling of impending doom was a little too real for her taste, but it was strong and came with the trio.  Bracing herself for the impact of what felt like falling to her, Margo was startled out of the experience when she should have been hitting whatever it was and her expression blossomed back into a smile.

It was hard not to smile when you were one foot in the door to black out drunk and totally winning this challenge. 

Even if the colors of the lights were starting to blend together and people’s faces were totally not distinct anymore, Margo was ready.  “The beers are great!” she announced proudly, bracing her good hand against the arm of the chair ready to push herself up. 

The same worried girl looked at her with an expression of what could only be described as horror, ”Don’t you think…”

Margo cut her off with the wave of her hand, “but we’re not going to drink one right now,” she rolled her eyes and sighed. 

Her attention turned back to Ambrose as she pushed herself to her feet – shaky all the way.  Luckily, worried girl was all over that and helped prop her up.  Margo couldn’t brace herself with her other hand and her leg was sore (you only realized you were uncomfortable after you sat for a while), but the feelings were dull under the warm and comforting blanket of alcohol.  “I feel hungry,” Margo finally declared in response to his question.  Notably, her stupid grin had not disappeared at all.     

If she still had feeling in her face, she might have noted her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.  Margo held her arm out as though she was going to guide her guest to the food location, but really ended up just leaning and maybe stumbling a little before passing the dancing crowd on their way in. 

Margo was in that place.  That special drunk place where everything was fantastic and life could not be better.[1]  “After food,” she reached over to grab his forearm, “after food we need to get a beer and go back outside.”  This was, of course, said with the most serious expression.  “I's almost midnight, right?” she was starting to slur.  Classy.

1.	See Iliza Schlesinger's War Paint set about The First Hour of Being Drunk. it is NSFW for language, so be warned!

Food! Ambrose hopped to his feet, realizing with some surprise that he was already woozy-headed. It seemed he wasn’t alone, at least! Fine by him, but that alcohol had hit him faster than he was expecting. Still, he grinned. He’d totally won that challenge.

He gave some quick goodbyes, thank-you’s, and handshakes to anyone who opted to not follow the retreating table host, but soon turned back around in pursuit of Margo. Just in time, it seemed, as he recognized her form slipping past some moving bodies. Ambrose made a swift reach for her, his fingers finding her elbow before she could be further lost amongst the crowd.

She weaved them through the energized dancers, and Ambrose had to give an apologetic smile and hasty explanation to anyone who tried to deter him; was it not obvious that he was a man on a mission, here? There were too many things between him and his food!

He was quick to locate the food table, although his eyes were drawn back to Margo's at the touch on his arm.

“Sure thing,” he smiled before gazing down to his watch. It was an undoubtedly nice timepiece... but now was not the time to admire a shiny, Ambrose thought as he caught himself staring at its gleam instead of its face.

“Uh, maybe, it’s like…” What time was it? Six? Almost seven? No, it was much later than that... He squinted past the mental fog, but it didn’t do him much good. Giving up, Ambrose gently hooked his arm around Margo’s shoulders so she could see for herself.

“’Bout that time,” he provided helpfully, then, with a too-close grin: “Time for food.”

Ambrose’s eyes wandered back to the table, analyzing its contents as he meandered closer. “What’s all this?” Sober Ambrose asked politely, though the question was apparently rhetorical, since Drunk Ambrose was already putting something into his mouth. The things on the table were edible, and that was enough information for the less-civilized side of him.

He raised his eyebrows as a decorative doodad caught his eye, and suddenly turnined to give a full scan of the bar. His questionable balance turned into an unnecessary step towards Margo as he looked up at the ceiling, then at the walls. Finally, Ambrose beamed over to the woman.

“You know I’ve never spent New Year’s in a bar?” He asked, picking up something else to eat, “I’ve always been at home, with my family. This is my first year all by myself!” The alcohol told him that standing around was quite an exciting thing, and Ambrose bounced on his toes in agreement. He still smiled proudly, as if finally leaving home, at age twenty-two, was some sort of accomplishment.

“I mean, it’s kind of sad, but it’s not like I could be there anyway. Besides,” he gestured to the rest of the bar with a miscellaneous food item, “Isn’t this place neat? I’m having fun on my own—and with you, of course.” With that, Ambrose was looking back to Margo as he swept some of his hair back into place.

“What about you?” he asked, giving a purposeful sway in her direction. “Is this,” another gesture around the bar, “typical for you, or no?” The question had far more possible interpretations than Ambrose had intended, but that fact missed him completely.

He wasn’t sure if the food helped him at all, but he was enjoying it, regardless. He smiled easily, embracing a warm and happy feeling-- even happier as he noticed that he was holding his alcohol better than this particular brown-eyed diva, at least for the moment. It was quickly closing in on him, he could feel it a little more every minute, but for now he was better than alright. He had been doing this long enough to know how his tolerance worked. That turn from 'okay' to 'not okay' was not happening right now, and, therefore, it was nowhere in his mind.

The right now was reserved for eating and Margo, only; he couldn't help it. The drunken haze made it hard for Ambrose to see anything besides food and people-- and right now, he was seeing that he'd been with this woman for quite some time, but still knew nothing about her. He watched her with a sense of amusement, grinning openly. It wasn't often that Ambrose could stare into a face and have a nearly empty list of facts. Yet, here she was! How unusual; mysterious. Nothing he couldn't fix, though.

"Right, and beer-- got any recommendations, when we get there? Something nice?" Now, of course, he had to tease: "But only if you're still up for it, Miss Friend of the Establishment. There are plenty of other things to do."

Margo couldn’t help but laugh when he put his watch up, indicating that the time was there.  She squinted, trying to read the face of the watch, but when his arm moved, Margo swayed and it became very obvious that perhaps it was not the safest, or smartest, idea that she try to figure it out. “Doesn’t matter,” she laughed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  Those drinks were definitely hitting her, but in a good way! Time would probably pass much more quickly now – or at least feel like it. The cheering and the singing for the midnight hour would have to suffice as time telling devices… She had been very clear there were to be no fireworks, which was actually quite sad for her.  Margo rather liked them before Guy Fawkes Day.

She imagined the noise might make her jump out of her skin now though.  Even excess heat made her stomach sort of churn, whereas she used to enjoy the danger of a little sizzle. 

There were little canisters underneath the food trays, keeping everything ridiculously hot, she was sure, and it all smelled really good.  She and Jummalhad come up with the menu for the evening in a very large pig out session, fueled on her end by drinking (obviously) and on his, a love of food. 

Grabbing a couple of fried things in a napkin, Margo went for the easily eaten while standing.  She couldn’t exactly hold a plate and a fork… Not yet anyway.  Flynn said with time. 

While contentedly chewing on whatever was stuffed inside the potato skin, Margo’s eyebrows raised as he explained he’d always spent holidays with his family – that this was his first time in a bar for New Year’s Eve.  There was something very… boyishly cute about that.  Usually, Margo was spending her time at bars with people who were very well acquainted with the scene.  This was like a “Always gotta be a first time for everything,” she motioned at him with the potato in hand, laughing at his question.

Oh.  That was even cuter. 

Margo was like… born in a bar.  Well, not really.  Her mother wasn’t so much for it… but she knew her way around.  She was surprised – Amborse knew her name! He’d greeted her – she imagined she probably dropped by him at some point earlier in the evening to introduce herself, since that was technically her job… but maybe she didn’t… Looking up in the air, she considered that point with a pinched, concentrated expression.  His question was easy to answer: what she had been doing earlier in the evening was a little murkier. 

Shrugging, Margo refocused her attention and smiled easily.  “It doesn’t need to be a holiday for me to enjoy a good bar,” Margo grinned and grabbed a few more potatoes (they were easy to stack and hold in one hand) before turning her attention to one very… great… word.  Beer.

That was the idea right now.   

“You,” she jabbed the bitten end of a potato wedge toward him, “are going to regret that!”  She turned and sauntered – perhaps stumbling on a little bit (she couldn’t be blamed! Her lack of functional limbs had, as it was proven, been out of her control for some time. 

He really would regret it though.  Margo may have shown a lot of the symptoms of drunkenness, because she was drunk… but she had a lot of practice at this.  It wasn’t the sort of competition she couldn’t handle.  Last time that happened, she’d woken up handcuffed to a coffee table with no shirt on. 

Good times. 

Her mouth curled into the most devious of smiles, “We’ve got an IPA that will knock your socks off.”  She held up her good hand, “On my honor: you’ll never want to quit your holiday to go back to America – it’s that good!”  They hadn’t really established why he was in the UK for New Year’s, but Margo could only imagine it was a vacation… “Right now, Ambrose,” she looked at him seriously, “You and I are going to that bar and having a pint.” 

She pointed forward and they were off to the dark wood bar with the glasses lined up on the back, shining from the overhead lights that illuminated the alcohol cases.  Margo loved this bar.  She shoved (not hard) some people out of the way to find space to occupy against the cool, dark wood.  Patting the stool, she signaled for Ambrose to sit in it. 

“What do you want, Boss?” Emeline asked behind the counter, and Margo grinned at her.

“Two pints of my favorite IPA,” she nodded and Emeline was off like a shot.  Margo looked at him with an easy, heavy lidded smile.  “It’s good to be the owner, you know?”

Her taunt was met with a grin—he was going to regret that, was he?

“We’ll see about that,” he reflexively extended a hand towards her stumbling, “if you can even keep on your feet, that is.”

Ambrose had no inkling of what an IPA was, but it didn’t matter; he was excited for whatever concoction Margo planned to have served to him. After all, he trusted her! She’d confirmed that she was trustworthy and everything. What’s more, so far, Ambrose was finding something therapeutic about her. Despite their flitting between locations and ideas, he felt a sort of peace in their exuberance. Maybe that was the alcohol.

Or, maybe it was the constant sense of direction. It left him wide-open to all sorts of circumstances, yes, but Ambrose found it mind-numbingly pleasant to not have to make his own decisions. As such, he had no objection to the phrase, ‘you and I are going to that bar and having a pint,’ so he grabbed a few extra munchies before shadowing her path. Such brute determination from the woman had to be admired, and he slunk into the open seat beside her with a laugh.

“You sure can make your way around,” he commented, squinting behind the bar for a moment as his head caught up with his actions. He soon raised his brows in acknowledgement of an attentive bartender (or, had she been there the whole time? Either way, she was gone now.)

“’Boss?’” he echoed the woman, turning to Margo as he rested his elbow on the bar, “Do you go by ‘Boss’? Can I call you that?”

That was cool. Ambrose would have pinned her as a ‘Captain,’ but ‘Boss’ was just as good. He eyed her with interest for a moment, silently processing her words. She was the owner? Was that some sort of British slang? Or, maybe 'the Owner' was a nickname. Maybe she just had a penchant for official-sounding titles. Boss Margo the Owner, now there was a name he could get behind.

"I'll bet it is, that's a good title -- Ah!" his eyes lit up as his thoughts veered off-course, "Have I mentioned that my nickname at Salem was Admiral Ambrose? You and I," he motioned appropriately, albeit in the wrong order, "we could practically command our own fleet." He nodded, oblivious to any non sequitur or implausible ideas, laughing lightly at the thought. "That seems like a lot of work, though--"

The heavy clunk of pint glasses drew his attention.

"Well then," he smiled back to Margo, "you said this one's your favorite?" The frothy liquid seemed inviting enough. "Any reason?" And, as an after thought, he added with a quirk of his lip: "Anything I should know about? Any enchantments? Will it literally knock my socks off? Because I need those, I only brought so many."

His playful tone was obvious; however, as they say, jokes are often based in truth. It occurred to Ambrose: Hadn't Margo mentioned wanting to take the beers outside? That seemed like a long time ago, now.

"So," he raised the pint in cheers, "To a new year, and new friends? New things to do, and places to be-- all that?" Ambrose lifted his chin in questioning, "You are looking forward to a new year, right? There's plenty to be excited about."

He couldn't speak for her plans at all, of course-- but wasn't a new year always a good thing?

Margo didn’t understand what he was on about.  Could he call her boss?  “I guess, if you want to work for me?” she raised her eyebrows with a provocative smile.  Well, wasn’t that something?  She didn’t know the baby face had it in him!  Mr. Quite Impressive, indeed!   

She wasn’t sure she could imagine him working in her bar though.  He was a little clean cut.  Even Jeffy was a little more hardcore than the blond-ish, blue eyed man sitting in front of her.  “I usually only hire people who can keep up with me though,” she snorted and was happy to be waiting for her drink.  She wanted her IPA in front of her and she wanted to keep drinking and have a good time.  That was already happening, but if a train lost stream…

It wasn’t going to! 

Admiral?  Margo barked with laughter and leaned back to be able to give him a once over.  “I’d rather just run the bar,” she rapped her knuckles on the dark wood of the counter top (oh, that was kind of sticky) and immediately wiped her hand on her leather pants.  That was… interesting.  “But, I’ll let you put on the little sailor outfit.”  The smile on her face was absolutely wolfish and Margo just… had trouble turning it off. 

She liked to flirt, she liked to make people (just slightly) uncomfortable and if she could do it all in one fell swoop… it was like a tiny slice of heaven for her.  That and alcohol all made everything perfect.  “It’s strong and assertive,” she grabbed her glass and held it up, “and strong.”  A beat, “just like me!” She winked and clinked her glass against his before taking a big gulp. 

Smacking her lips, she let out a deep sigh and shimmied her shoulders.  It was so good.  “It’s not going to do anything t’you,” some of her words just managed to squish together… the way they did when one was a little (re: a lot) drunk.  When he finally offered the toast – she supposed after she had confirmed they wouldn’t die or have their hair turned green by drinking it, he was ready. 

“Here’s to every new adventure!” Margo laughed and shrugged before taking another drink and hopped off the stool.  “Let’s start right now,” she immediately started off and ducked into the crowd that was starting toward outside.  The DJ was saying something – maybe it was almost midnight?  “Come on!” she got on her toes of her good foot (the other lifted just enough that she wouldn’t fall on her face) to see over the crowd and spotted him.

Her free hand waved out and she ducked through the doorway, making sure he was following along.  She cheered and raised her free hand above her head, waving with a cheer.  ”Two minutes!” the DJ announced and Margo took a big gulp of beer before cheering again as the music started to pump again.