Title taken from Franz Ferdinand’s “Fabulously Lazy.”  Also, rated M for language, general debauchery and Margo-like shenanigans that are likely to take place.

---

It was the absolute first time Margo hadn’t gone in on a Saturday.  She genuinely found herself loving going to work.  Death & Company was what she had needed in a moment where she had no idea what she was going to do with herself: Merlin had gifted her the most wonderful older brother and sister in the world – not that she always told them that… or ever.  Maybe once.  Whatever.

They knew. 

But, she’d owled her brother that she just… she needed a night.  Her leg was bothering her, her hand was uncomfortable.  It was one of those odd things where it was very cold and her body didn’t agree with what was going on outdoors.   It was very unfair.  It’d been bearable when it was only her leg… but the more stuff you added? 

Margo was happy to just curl up in her sweats and sit on the couch for the evening.  There was a bottle of whiskey just waiting to be nursed at and some blankets to complete the mood.  Plus, if Lizard felt like making an appearance… he absolutely could.  She might even let him lay on her lap for a while.  Imagine that! 

She was just glad she didn’t have the mewing little kittens in her apartment.  That was Flynn’s deal.  The little grey and black cotton balls didn’t do anything but cry and flop (boring), so she wasn’t interested yet.  She was just interested in her whiskey, her couch, her wireless, and obviously, her blanket.  Sweet, sweet, victory.  At least until there was a knock at the door. 

Fuck. 

“COME IN,” she bellowed, “Door’s open!”  Probably not safe, but it was.  How she dealt with her evening in.  Flatmate was out, so she’d come back later and lock if.  If not, Adon was across the hall.  He’d probably hear her screaming if it was a murderer or something.  The perks of having an auror for a neighbor. 

Ahmes brushed in, stamping her feet and making a show of shaking off the cold.

Margo was looking at her from the couch, eyebrows arched.  Ahmes' eyes narrowed in response as she jerked off a pair of fur-lined gloves.  "Y'shit! Ye totally fergot!"

She kicked the door closed with a heel, shedding her shoes shortly thereafter. As she crossed the small flat, she tossed her tassled hat back towards the entry, peeled her robes off, and dropped her purse carelessly somewhere mid-journey. "I fucking did my hair, y'know."  To display the appropriate contempt, Ahmes whipped off her furry waistcoat, wadding it up and throwing it at Margo's face.   "And now I'm over-dressed."

Next came the trousers.  She shimmied out of them, showing an unprecedented care in folding them along the crease before draping them over the back of an armchair.  "And now I'm underdressed." She tapped her stockinged legs.  "Well? Ye've got to have leggings or boxers or something for me..."

So when the door swung open and Ahmes immediately called her a shit for being on the couch… it was like it all dawned on her in a rush akin to what she might feel in the blowback from a flame.  “Oh shit!” she exclaimed and her good hand clamped over her mouth.  Thankfully, her dominant hand hadn’t been taken in the fire.  Once before she’d smacked herself in the face with the metal hand… the bruise! 

Letting her hand drop, she was almost embarrassed, for a second.  But, Margo didn’t embarrass easily and the fact of the matter was, even if she forgot, Ahmes didn’t and they’d be drinking up a storm no matter the location: just so happened they’d be in her flat tonight. 

Shrugging her shoulders, finally recovered from the momentary surprise, Margo leaned her hed back just in time to see Ahmes getting straight down to business.  “Make yourself at home,” she waved her hand with a lopsided grin, “By all means.  Mi casa es su casa.”   She laughed and shifted on the sofa with a grunt, everything was pinching and she whined.  “Go in my room – bottom drawer, dresser by the window.” 

She lolled over to the side and peered at her friend through her thick eyelashes – though probably obscured by some of the hair that clung to her nose, “M’hurt,” she pouted by way of explanation and flopped her arm atop and over her head.  “Then you could fetch some glasses… they’re all in the cabinet,” she waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Maybe you could do that bit before the sweats, actually?” she grinned – it seemed a decent enough suggestion: drinking over trousers any day. 

"Well," Ahmes said, arching an eyebrow and looking Margo down the bridge of her nose.  "Aren't we just the regal ones now..."  Haughtily, she changed course for the kitchen.  Booze first, of course, and tucked a bottle of whatever-was-on-the-counter (she'd look at the label later) and carried two glasses daintily by the stems. 

"I can't change with all these anyhow," she said imperiously, "....hignhess," handing Margo a glass before delicately seating herself on the couch. 

"So if y'weren't planning on seeing me today, were you just planning on sitting on the sofa by yourself with yer cat getting drunk, then?"  She looked around. "Where is Lizard, anyhow? Getting it on again with Flynn's sweet little somthin'somthin?"  She paused, looking levelly at her friend. "Are you sad-drinking because Lizard has left you for Flynn's cat?  You knew it was just a matter of time until  something younger and hotter came around, right?"

“Sweats are ovverated  anyway,” Margo shrugged her shoulders, “much less essential than liquor,” she added, eyeing the glasses and the alcohol that Ahmes had so kindly toted from the kitchen less than fifteen feet away.  It was a gift really, since no one wanted Margo summoning anything.  It usually ended up with shit broken. 

She didn’t have the energy to deal with broken shit in her own flat. 

“Sounds about accurate,” she shrugged to Ahmes’ play by play of her evening plans.  Shifting around, Margo made sure to pour generously.  She took a sip and snorted as she mentioned Flynn’s cat.  “Lizard is always sneaking off for that floozy,” she rolled her eyes and shifted.  “Speaking of: want a kitten?” she raised her eyebrows.

“There are plenty, for free,” she waggled her eyebrows to try and entice her friend, “Small and black or grey – like our hearts, souls, and livers.”  To accentuate the point just a little more clearly, she took another drink.  “Besides, I’m surprised you even made it up to me anyway, with Hughes around.” 

"Sounds like you're a little bitter." Ahmes snarked. "Tell you what. I'll show true friend solidarity and not support Lizard's adulterous relationship.  No kittens for me. Besides. Cria's about all I can handle right now."  The adorable alpaca she'd bartered for with her backpack on her Peruvian trip with CeeCee was no longer backpack-sized.  "Though I do hear they get on alright with cats."  But did Ahmes, really?  Cats were so... aloof.  Distant. Disdainful.

Ahmes sputtered, finally wrinkling her face up into a look of long-suffering perturbation.  "Hughes," she said, punctuating the last name, "is around every day at work. Somehow I manage to keep myself together." As much as she ever did.  "He's probably too busy with not-so-secre-llover Cass, anyhow."   She raised her eyebrow.  "I'm surprised you're planning on pining alone on the couch.  If you were going to blow me off, I would have at least thought it would be for that sweet quidditch player somethin-somethin."

She paused.  "Was there a sweet quidditch player somethin-somethin? Shit. Am I getting it mixed up with Char?"  Char always had several men lined up.  Then again, Margo usually had her own steady supply of men.  When it wasn't that grumpy neighbor.  "And you've got New Hot Neighbor now, yeh?  Planning on making Old Hot Neighbor jealous?"

Not that she was going to bring it up again, but wasn't Margo related to Old Hot Neighbor?

Alpaca! Margo forgot about Cria.  “Can you ride her?” Margo asked with a dreamy, far off expression.  She wondered what it would be like to ride an alpaca.  Of course, she’d never been the sort to like that kind of thing – even as a child, when other little girls she grew up near had loved horses and ponies, Margo had always been more interested in dragons and spiny reptile like creatures. 

Lizard was a good cat for her – didn’t crave too much attention, didn’t spend too much time wanting her attention and just… sort of lived with her.  She couldn’t imagine being like Flynn – he loved his furry little thing, which didn’t mean Margo didn’t, but she didn’t dote.  Ahmes’ crack about Cassidy though.. Margo’s eyes widened, “Do you think?!” she asked, sort of surprised.  It had never crossed her mind, “I mean… never thought about that.  Wow.” 

Blinking wildly, Margo just shook her head.  “The things I learn.”  She was going to just take it as fact: it seemed like Ahmes would know, after all, they did work together.  Margo knew way more about the people she currently worked with and way more about the people she used to work with… way more.  “That’s gotta be…” she shook her head-  the mental image was a little weird.  Like a purple kneazle weird. 

Or random quidditch player weird.  Margo’s face pinched in confusion.  “Definitely Char,” she informed her – though, to be fair, Margo didn’t know if Char had a secret quidditch guy but it was far more likely than Margo.  Making a pained face, Margo grabbed her chest.  “You wound me,” she exclaimed, “I don’t always need to be fulfilling my filthy, insatiable urges,” she snorted.  “Besides: neighbors are overrated.” 

So overrated.  Even if Adon was hot – way too high maintenance for Margo.  Besides, she’d just hooked up with some lawyer or something… what did he do?  She racked her brain for a moment – didn’t matter!  “New Hot Neighbor does have gelato… or at least usually,” she noted, “we could owl him later.  Make him bring it.” 

"Ride her?" Ahmes echoed, trying to see if she heard her right.  "Have ye seen Cria? I don't even remember.  She's tiny.  Like..." she searched for a comparison.  "I dunno... the size of a setter.  Would you sit on an Irish setter?"  No, because Irish setters were aggressive and horrible and she'd been bitten by one once and it had chased after her and she was still scared to walk down two blocks from her childhood home.  "Alpaca are not for riding, they're for snuggles." There was a dirty joke in there somewhere. Ahmes was too lazy to find it.  "Like that one furry pillow Nona's got. And they're good for making sweaters."

Speaking of sweaters... 

One could not think of Flynn (if one had to) without thinking of sweaters, too.  "Oh, don't act all scandalized," Ahmes rolled her eyes.  "Cass'n'Flynn wear matching sweaters, Margo," Ahmes said solemnly, as though this were the sole qualification needed.  Ahmes glanced down at her glass, stirring its contents slightly before, with a shrug, taking a hearty swallow.  Ahmes might have already started drinking; it was always good to be prepared and primed. "Besides," she said, flopping herself back onto Margo's pillows dramatically, hand held to her forehead in a swoon, nearly tipping her glass in the process, "he's not madly in love with me, so he must be."  A pause.  "Gay, I mean.  Though I suppose just 'taken' would explain it, too... Though not the sweaters..."

"All the good ones are. Taken, I mean.  But if Gelato Boy wants to come over..." Ahmes tilted her head, back bent across the arm of the couch so she could see the door. The door through which Hot Neighbor and his gelato would appear.

"Bring the gel-aah-tooo..." Ahmes cooed.  Ugh, this position was uncomfortable. "Help," she rasped, holding her glass out for Margo to take.  Once unburdened, she pulled her stomach muscles in and right herself.  God! Her abs burned.  She should go to the gym.

"Gelato's a euphemism, isn't it?  Cuz while I know you don't need to be fulfilling your filthy, insatiable urges..." her eyes watched the response in Margo's face cautiously.  "Don't you want to...indulge?"  She smirked boldly, grabbing a pillow in preparation.  She knew what came next: a pillow to the face.  And she would be prepared, shield in hand.

“Sorry! I didn’t remember,” she sighed as though it was some kind of burden to remember the size of an alpaca – or what it was for.  Margo didn’t know much about the furry sorts of creatures – especially ones that were just cute.  “But you are right on that: I wouldn’t sit on a setter.”  Not pleasant, really.  She imagined it’d be all teeth and bony and long red hair everywhere… Kind of like Nona?! 

Alright, even Margo knew that was mean. 

Didn’t mean she didn’t think it though.  And the remorse was short lived: Margo didn’t know how to be sorry for too long.  Which was good because talking about matching sweaters and rolling her eyes at the thought.  She could totally see it once Ahmes pointed it out.  “Don’t feel too bad about it,” Margo snorted, “having someone madly in love with you is probably highly overrated.”  She didn’t have too much experience with that and even when she might have, it was definitely drama filled and way too much work.  She did not know how she survived that whole thing (just barely, her brain supplied). 

Gelato boy, as Adon Eleor had been dubbed, was not a viable option however.  Unless he was peddling gelato.  Then he was the greatest option ever.  “Got some parchment?” Margo pursed her lips, “You give me the parchment, I can make that happen.”  Most likely. 

The idea of Adon being anything other than gelato boy though… Margo loudly laughed.  “Oh Merlin!” she sputtered and shook her head, “Nooooooooooooooooooo,” was the best response she could muster before burying her face in her hands. 

“He’s like another brother I never asked for,” she explained.  “Witch Weekly was so wrong.”  She knew Ahmes had to know the article she was talking about – everyone did[1].  “Besides, it’s barely been like… two weeks since I hooked up with Hot Lawyer.”

Margo paused and drew her eyebrows in with thought, “I told you about that, right?” 

1.	Because it is always relevant

"Ugh!" Ahmes proclaimed in despair with a hearty eye roll.  Leave it to Witch Weekly to get something direly wrong.  And like that, Gelato Boy had been downgraded to just B-Class fantasies.  What a shame. But maybe even B-Class fantasy was a more realistic mark.  Ahmes was skeptical that it would ever be overrated to have a hot man madly in love with you.   "So does that mean he's available, though?" she persisted until one thought registered.

Hot. Lawyer.

Ahmes' eyes bulged as she turned on her friend. "Nooooooooo," she said, eyes suddenly narrowing to slits. "Auch, Margo, you are the worst!  You did not tell me."  She wondered if her friend was becoming an amnesiac.  First tonight, then Hot Lawyer...  "So... tell me! Details. Now."  Acting quickly, Ahmes grabbed the bottle they were drinking from by the neck, holding it high overhead.  "Or you shall never see your booze again."  Maybe she'd take it over to Gelato Boy as a fair exchange for... gelato.  Or Flynn as an exchange for... cats?

Margo cackled at Ahmes’ question.  “I have no idea,” she  breathed, grabbing her stomach as she continued to laugh.  “I mean, I have no claim on him: that’s for damn sure,” she shrugged.  Far be it from Margo to hold her friend back from having some fun with her hot, auror neighbor.  He was fun to look at, even fun to talk to, but definitely not for her. 

She’d love to watch Ahmes and Adon though.  That would be hilarious. …Margo would definitely try and negotiate that at some point this evening… for certain. 

Margo was surprised though, she didn’t realize she hadn’t said anything.  It’d been like two weeks!  “I didn’t?!  Well, I’ve a story for you – and he’s American,” she informed her, surprised at herself.  She thought she would have bragged about that one… oh, but then... the memory rushed back and Margo couldn’t help herself, she started laughing hysterically.  Details were the best part of the story.  “It was his birthday – you know, at the bar,” Margo explained, as if she needed to indicate she’d met anyone she hooked up with at a bar.  It was a fact of life, really. “We were having a good time, some drinks… typical,” that part was, actually rather boring and mundane. 

Thankfully, the rest of the evening hadn’t been.  Otherwise there wouldn’t be much of a story to tell.  Raising her eyebrows, Margo smirked, “You know, a real lady doesn’t kiss and tell… but,” she bat her eyelashes obnoxiously, I’ll make an exception for you: abs on abs, Ahmes.  I mean,” her eyes rolled back, “I cannot even tell you – and ugh!” she rubbed her hands on her face.  “I just... if there is ever an opportunity for you to look at him… I don’t usually like pretty: as you’re very well aware, but… I made an exception.” 

She took a breath and continued, “and then… oh my Merlin, Ahmes.  Big finish, right, all great… and then… he puts his hand up.  I wish I was kidding, he puts his hand up – up in the bloody air like we’ve just won a quidditch game and says ‘good fundamentals.’  Can you believe that?  Fuck if he wasn’t good in bed.” 

"Oooh, Amerrrrrrrican," she cooed--not entirely sure what the particular appeal was, there. It wasn't like they were Bertie Botts flavored--one from each country.

...Or were they?

Honestly, Ahmes had enjoyed a wide sampling; never giving nationality much thought.... Had she even been with an American?

A fact pulled her out of clouded reminiscences though.  "It was his birthday?" she echoed.  "You pried him away from his friends or something? Booold, Margo," she congratulated.  Ahmes had very much approved of Margo's new venture.  Not only was Ahmes a sucker for innovation, but it seemed to supply Margo with a distraction from her injuries and supply her with a steady stream of hot men.  Some women had all the luck.  It was deeply deserved in Margo's case, however.

Listening to the story, Ahmes nursed her drink, sipping thoughtfully at the details.  Her smile grew predatory at the mention of ugh-worthy abs (what woman couldn't appreciate that?), and she countered, "I never mind looking at pretty men.  You should bring him around to the pub sometime."  Margo wasn't the steady sort, when it came to men.  There had been--that, um, sort-of-cousin--but it had always been vague just how exclusive or serious they'd ever been. Margo was not the sort to kiss and tell on feelings.  (Which was fine by Ahmes.  Descriptions of abs was very much a suitable replacement for sentimentality at boozy brunches.)

She let her statement hang in the air for a moment before furthering, "You are going to see pretty American sex-bomb again, though, right?"

 It was a novelty for Margo, whose entire job was based on traveling to reflect on just how… diverse her tastes were.  But the flavor of the week was American and it was a good one. 

And she was rather proud of how it all happened.  Ahmes’ congrats on the matter just served to affirm that she did, in fact, do something fantastic and she sat up a little taller.  Her lopsided grin only widened: she was bold, wasn’t she?  A dramatic hair toss later, Margo tilted her head back after nodding, looking at the ceiling as she recalled.  “It wasn’t like they were stopping him,” she noted, glancing over.  “I was like the shiniest present there is.” 

She could have kept that metaphor (that was a metaphor right?  Or was it a similie… Margo had no idea) going for a while, but decided against it – particularly in the face of further conversation about abs.  “He comes to the pub most days,” Margo noted, “I think he’s got an office around Diagon,” she noted, “comes for lunch most days.” 

She neglected to mention the tiny person that comes along with him most days: freaked her out.  Easier to pretend that wasn’t real.  Shaking her head, Margo took a concerned sip of her drink: see him again?  That thought made her nose wrinkle, “No idea,” she answered honestly before turning quickly.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she started, gesturing her arm open, “I’d welcome the opportunity,” she raised her eyebrows – that unmistakable single movement that indicated just about everything one needed to know about an encounter, “but I don’t owl first.”  It was one of those self-imposed rules, Margo didn’t… do that.  She showed up, in certain circumstances, but that had… not worked in her favor, at all. 

“Besides,” Margo finally decided to bring it up: the very large elephant hanging up in the room, “I think," I know "he has a kid.” 

"But I don't owl first."

"I see," Ahmes said, though her brows knit.  She didn't.  If he was that hot and eligible and, well, there, go get him! What was she waiting for?

"He has a kid."

"Oh, shit."  Ahmes held her hands up in surrender.  Oh, hell no.  Ahmes could call the shots and ask a man out but no. Noooooo kids.  "God, is he married?" she asked in a whisper, eyes wide.  She tried to play it off as a joke; she wasn't sure if it landed. It was too close to the truth. They were talking about big finishes and high-fives and mad sex.  But this had escalated quickly. 

She bit her lip.  This was awkward.  Ahmes didn't know whether to distract, move on, or talk about it more. Talk about feelings? Did Margo want to talk about feelings?

Try all the things.

"Well, you are a shiny present--you must get loads of birthday boys in at the bar."  It was genius, really.  She got to scope out all the men and, being Margo, the hot provider of alcohol, likely got her pick of them, too.  "Iiiiiif we had gone ooooooout," she said, eyes batting along to her singsong voice, "we could have searched for a sequel. Unless you're hoping for a repeat with the man? I mean... maybe the kid's not... did he tell you he had one?"

Bombs could not drop with more deadly force than the ‘kid bomb’ did.  Hearing your friend confirm the recital of ‘shit’ that played on the hour when it was remembered in the back of one’s head was not a reassuring thing. 

Though, at least hearing her next question that wasn’t a thing.  Oh Godric.  Margo could not imagine that.  Fortunately for Margo, once they’d started talking, Margo had realized how small the wizarding world actually was (sometimes it felt like it was only comprised of a dozen or so people with a startling amount of connections). 

“No, no – not married,” she replied emphatically, “the wife died,” she supplied easily, “hadn’t realized it first, but turns out I worked with her.  Fucking crazy, right?” Margo shook her head.  She almost hadn’t believed it when it came up: it’d sucked losing Jill as a colleague, couldn’t imagine what it was like for them.  But, that probably made this weirder.  A part her thought Jill wouldn’t have been mad about it, like sister-wives[1] or some weird cult shite she talked about from American moving pictures or something…

Whatever!  Whatever! It was definitely not a big deal. 

Obviously.

She nursed her whiskey and rolled her eyes with a laugh.  “I can almost see the headline,” she reached forward and fanned her hand out in front of her, as though it would magically wave a Witch Weekly headline into existence (if only, that’d be bloody cool.  Margo was not that talented, however), “World Class Trollop, Margo Amherst, Settles Down!”  She cackled with laughter for a moment, imagining the terror of that day.  The closest she’d get to settling down would be in her grave… and Merlin willing, there wouldn’t even be enough left of her to bury. 

She shrugged though, “Definitely wouldn’t complain about a sequel,” honest and direct:  Margo was not one to mince words.  No one could call her indecisive.  “I’m telling you, Ahmes: bounce-a-quaffle-off-them abs.”  She shook her head.  Unbelievable.  Bloody unbelievable. 

“But, m’leg hurts,” she pouted ridiculously, “hence no going out!”  She raised her glass in a mock toast, drinking a hearty gulp.   Breathing out, Margo pursed her lips.  “I sounded very old saying that, didn’t I?” she gasped and pushed herself further up in her seat, suddenly feeling her heart race in her chest.  “Maybe we should go out,” she side-eyed her, trying to gauge her response. 

1.	Term from 2006’s Big Love and later the masterpiece TLC theatre reality television show.