Continued from The One with the Tiny T-Shirt.

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With Nona in tow, they finally arrived at Death & Co.  The bar was mostly empty still, but small pockets had formed already and it was clear by the speed with which Emeline was pouring beers and Dorsey was mixing drinks, that one of the larger groups had ordered and was expecting their orders.  Oh was on standby, waiting for the order and Margo motioned for Nona to follow her in.

“Whosit for?” she grinned as she walked forward. 

Dorsey looked up with raised brows, as if Margo didn’t know, ”Who do you think?”   This was clearly a sign.  What a good night this was going to turn out to be.

“Add a whiskey on the rocks for me,” she leaned on the bar and smiled warmly at Dorsey who rolled her eyes, “And scotch, neat for my roommate to the order.”  Glancing at Jefferson, now there was the second most important thing to deal with.  She would have pushed him off to the side for her and Nona to deliver the drinks… but that was probably a poor choice on so many levels.  Neither of them were particularly graceful, they didn’t know who belonged to what drink…

The less business savvy Margo might have considered it in her first week, but now she knew better.  Mostly because Raul had drilled it in: time was money, mistakes were money, and the more of each you had the less money you were going to pull in and that was bad.  So, Jefferson would take them, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to ask, “Where are they sitting?” 

Jefferson looked surprised that she was talking to him – he always did.  ”Oh! In the back, by the pool tables,” he explained with a higher than normal voice that Margo actually wasn’t sure wasn’t his normal voice. 

Turning her attention to Nona, she smirked.  “Ready to get into trouble?” she smirked and winked at Nona before taking the lead with heavy steps.  They approached the group of ministry workers who traditionally found themselves at Death & Co after a long day of beast wrangling, criminal chasing, and all around being badass.  Margo seemed to stand even taller and threw her arms out (able to avoid hitting Nona in the face).  “It’s your lucky day everyone,” she announced with the air of a circus ringmaster, “dragged out of the office and the apartment with a glass of wine already in her, I present Nona Spectre – and the life of the party, me.” 

She dropped into one of the seats by Vincent and motioned to another open seat, “take a seat, Spectre – unless you’re already ready to take on the pool table?” 

There's a fire.

There was only one interpretation to that note from Margo, received at 4:43 at her office at St. Mungo's: time to put on something spangly; she was on wing-woman duty, and needed immediately.  Considering Margo'd been sorta-kinda-definitely-butnotreally seeing that supermegafoxyawesomehot abogado americano, there'd need to be some commiserating alcohol involved, too.  Because you could breakup with guys you were sorta-kinda-definitely-butnotreally seeing, after all.

Luckily, Ahmes had gone to work already wearing spangles, so all she had to do was whisk directly into Death&Co, the tassels on her hat swinging in excitement at her momentum.  She scanned the crowd, looking for Margo's height.  She was just plunking herself down in a small crowd.

Ahmes approached carefully, the heels of her shoes echoing in the half-full pub, trying to decide who Margo was planning on digging her claws into this evening.  Eyes scanning... no new dishes.  Margo had chosen the spot next to next to Vincent French-name.  He was hot, but even Margo should have known better than to rebound with past flings.  She'd thought better of Margo's imagination.

Why, if Ahmes didn't know better (well, she did, come to think of it), it didn't appear as though Margo was on the rebound at all.

"You need more codes, Marg," she informed with an arched brow.

Nona smiled sweetly at Dorsey and blew her a kiss with a small wave before following after Margo. It felt like she had to take two steps for each one of Margo's but she was used to that and even in heels managed to keep the pace fairly well. She did lean away as the leggy former Dragon wrangler flung her arms wide, but then even in her heels she was still a good bit shorter than Margo.

A cursory glance around the table showed some familiar faces but not the one she might have secretly been hoping to see. Up to the point Margo had mentioned him Nona hadn't thought about the Russian Giant much. She hadn't let herself. There had been too much work and wine in her life to focus on any one missing social element. Now that she was out she was a bit sad to see he wasn't hanging around D&C where she left him.

Of course there were lots of other pretty faces to acknowledge and she did so happily dropping into an empty seat across from her roommate, "In this dress? It's a little early in the night for that particular brand of indecent exposure. Later though, I will trounce you soundly."

Her trash talk was interrupted by the very glittering Morgan and her grin grew. A night out with Ahmes never failed to lead to some kind of mischief. She was slightly puzzled by the other witches greeting and found hazel eyes darting between the two as she raised a curious brow, "You have codes I don't know about? Rude. Roommates shouldn't keep secrets, except for my wine stash. That is for emergencies only."

Nate's parents were in town-- and as much as he did truly love them, they were too much to handle.  They had insisted on having 'alone time' with their precious granddaughter tonight. He was far too eager to give it to them-- it gave him an excuse to get out of the house on a mission to hold on to the bare threads of sanity that were left.  He had nearly lost it when his secretary not-so-innocently asked him about his polyamorous relationship with Margo and Cepheus.

After work, he had changed out of his robes and into the proper party attire-- a  pinup-sasquatch printed Hawaiian-style button up, beige shorts that made his ass look good, and socks with birkenstocks. Nate's good looks, like always, were tempered by his sasquatch-dad fashion sense. Margo liked to say that his clothes looked better on the ground. Sometimes Margo lied; sometimes she was horribly wrong. In this case, truer words were never spoken.

As Nate entered Death & Co, he noticed it was busier than usual.  He gave both Margo and Nona a brief wave of acknowledgement before going to the counter to order a drink.

"A beer, not pumpkin. Not water-beer." The bartender, Emeline (if he remembered correctly), said. "You sure you don't want two more? One for each of your mating partners."

"Yes--" Wait, "No, I mean. Yes, only one." Oh my god. "A tall one."  She poured the beer with a definite smirk on her face and handed it off to him. He looked back at Margo, Nona, and their probably-evil friend. A silent plea for help.

Rascal was, of course, playing a game of pool against himself when Margo and her entourage came streaming into his side of the bar - Ministry workers found themselves here most nights, drawn like objects in space to some mass of dubious gravitational pull.

The author didn't drink but he was aimless enough to be around people who did, excessively, and shrewd enough to note that people said all sorts of silly and revealing things when they were drunk. He had cheerfully waved to Margo before sinking a yellow striped ball with satisfaction.

"Nathaniel, Nathaniel-!" Rascal exclaimed with cheer as he spotted the lawyer heading over, and he brandished his cue stick to point directly at the other wizard's Hawaiian print chest - barring him from joining the others just that moment. "You're looking a cuttlefish more colourful than you did in the papers.[1]"

They had met before on other occasions that involved Nate and the others with too many drinks inside them, Rascal with a safe number of sparkling pumpkin juice tickling his own innards.

He lowered the cue stick after a beat and tucked it under one arm to take Nate by the elbow conversationally. "I like your sandals. Margo!" Rascal called out, approaching the table of familiar faces. "Do you like his sandals? Did he keep them on, or did Cepheus make him take them off?"

1.	Ménage à trois and Mischief - Witch Weekly, March 8th

This was shaping up to be quite the party!

“You wish you could,” Margo waved her hand at Nona dismissively, “you’re just lucky Rosier’s already up there – I’d kick your arse right now.”  Speaking of him, she lifted her hand to wave: he was a strange one, but entertaining.  Margo was a fan even if she couldn’t sit through his books.  Not her fault, she was just more of a… non-fiction reader. Looking back to her roommate, a wide grin spread across her face as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder.  She caught sight of Ahmes in the process.   

She had really shown up in everything but the kitchen sink (it might have been hidden under a layer, truthfully).  But, for all of the owls to send to her, there was no code this time.  Oddly enough, Margo was quite content with her situation and didn’t need any wing-woman’ing.  But, she hadn’t called Ahmes in for her.  Oh no.  Much bigger fish to fry. 

“Not that code!” she held her hands up, a quick surrender, glancing between the two women. “It’s time to have a proper night out.”  It had been a while and today seemed as good a day as any!  Nona could use the stress relief.  She could really be wound up sometimes!  That’s what happened when you threw yourself head first into things and didn’t look back: less time for fun or relaxation.  “And,” she looked to Nona with the same teasing expression as earlier, “for the record, with the frequency it is tapped, the wine stash is hardly a secret.” 

Because she could not help herself and she was of the maturity of a sixth year boy, Margo pretend to whisper (an impossible task for the loud witch), “Lush!” unable to keep the ‘quiet’ before cackling.  Margo did impress herself sometimes with how funny she could be.  More people needed to appreciate her for that.  Like Nate! He arrived and she gave him a curt wave as well, almost like a salute, because why not? 

She lowered her hand into her hair and pulled it through her mane of hair. Margo looked between all the parties at the table – Vincent carefully avoided eye contact and sipped his drink solemnly.  He knew better than to get involved in this.  She couldn’t hear what was happening at the bar, but she could certainly here as Rascal called out to her.  Mouth hanging slack, she stared dumbly at him for a second. 

The whole magazine thing was not new to Margo and honestly, she was beyond caring at the moment.  Then, it made total sense.  How many people had read that?!  Looking around the group, then spotting Nate again – Godric, he was such a nerd.  But a hot one.  It was so weird.  He should not have been attractive as he actually was.  What was up with that?  “I like them better off!” she called back.  Shame was foreign to Margo, and this time it was in front of friends and not his family.  It was only then she had realized she could feel any shame at all.  “I know I prefer him au naturel,” she wiggled her eyebrows, “but you’ll have to ask Ceph: I don’t know his opinion on the matter.” 

Cepheus shouldered open the door from the gents, right hand fingertips rolling down the end of his left jumper sleeve[1]. Margo’s reply was the first line he heard from the group at Death & Co. on his return.
“I know I prefer him au naturel, but you’ll have to ask Ceph: I don’t know his opinion on the matter.”

The Being Division Head looked about himself to take in the position of his friends. Ras was poised with Cepheus, a pool cue under his arm, across to Margo who had replied, and given her general gaze, to a question poised nearby to Nate, unless it was about Nate.
“My opinion on what?” He asked, with a suspicious frown, approaching quietly. “If this is about Witch Weekly again - Margo you’re going to have to establish a forfeit for mentioning it in here.” His pale cheeks bore a blush and he exchanged a look with Nate, a slight shake of his head as he did. He smiled as he looked beside to Ras, always good company.

“How are we all doing for drinks, it’s my round? Ras?” It was then he realised the round had increased, "Nona, good evening.” Cepheus particularly greeted a face which had been absent of late to mid-week gatherings, and approached gently to kiss both her cheeks, “Ahmes,” and so followed much the same polite greeting. “What are you drinking?"

1.	Nuri's wonderful polyvore <3

With a very soft grunt that was more breath than sound, Grigory dragged up his fly and headed for the sink.

Because Death & Co. was still – if not new, then young – its mirrors were still in relatively in good shape—which was to say clean, and even more importantly, in one piece. Its lights, too, were also in good shape; beneath their glare were a similarly clean floor, walls, and corners devoid of suspect stickiness, spills or stains. All in all, for all its traffic and easy theft of Level Four’s biggest crowd, the bar had managed to maintain a state of cleanliness usually unseen in places most like it.

(Of course, both walls and doors had begun to accumulate a small but impressive collection of graffiti. Grigory didn’t know how it was like in the women’s restroom, having never having the honor of being there himself, but he knew for a fact there was a gallery’s worth of dicks gracing one of the men’s few actual bathroom stalls—some of them no doubt contributed by some industrious members of Level Four, because there were at least a few surprisingly accurate ones that no one outside of it would know how they looked like. In any case, any bar worth its salt had at least some amount of graffiti in their bathrooms, and Death & Co. was a better bar than most.)

That said, tonight was a night that this beast handler did not have it in him to appreciate all the effort Death & Co.’s staff had put into keeping it clean, because it meant that he could see his reflection in one such mirror, which he did not want for a number of reasons—the first and foremost one being that he looked like shit. Or, someone did, because the guy in the mirror was hardly recognizable to anyone who hadn’t seen him in weeks.

Dark bags shadowed even darker eyes, turning them nearly black under an already heavy gaze. A smudge of a bruise from a few days before still clung to his cheek, surly and yellow; it had only just begun to fade. The small nick across his brow had been seen to, but had left a shiny white scar in its place, splitting that brow into two. That generous lip, while healed, sloped into an unhappy pout, only adding to a look of discontent—which only worsened as its owner frowned even further, patting down unruly soft brown tufts of hair. They were just one more thing that refused to cooperate with him, and tonight Grigory wasn’t in the mood for more.

For as much as he wanted to deny it (preferred not to think about it at all, actually), there was a reason behind such discontent, and it was Prim. For the past few days she had been avoiding him—or at least, avoiding talking to him; whenever he wanted to talk (and not even Talk talk, but just talk), she curbed him with dizzying kisses, ardent tugs at his hair, his clothes, until attempts became heavy breaths and moans and the world narrowed down to every point of connection. Even the most innocent mention of the weather seemed to set her off. But with her there, with him… he didn’t question it. Couldn’t. How could he, when she was looking at him like that?

They could talk later, he thought.

Had thought.

Grigory hadn’t thought much of it at first, thinking it was only exhaustion; after being invited to the stay the night the first time around and falling asleep almost instantly, he could understand. But then it wasn’t just that; when they weren’t in bed, she began leaving right after. Clothes were thrown on in a hurry. Kisses became hasty goodbyes. Grigory could only watch her go, dazed – bewildered – and utterly helpless to stop her.

And then, when he finally managed to tell her that he wanted to talk about their relationship… She brushed him off. What’s there to talk about? We’re having fun, aren’t we?

Bent over the sink, Grigory splashed water on his face. The cold sting of it helped push back the memory, but only just; at the same time it was a reminder of why he was here in the first place: that he had been moping. Irina – initially sympathetic – first indulged him with rom coms and ice cream, but when morning came she shoved him out of their shared flat.

Your feelings will make me fat, she had said as she tossed him his hat. We are going out instead.

Because if there was one thing she could count on, it was that Grigory’s manners kept him from lashing out in public places.

But he did enjoy himself, that much could be said. ‘Going out’ had turned out to be grabbing drinks with colleagues and friends, and friends of friends—people he hadn’t seen since he began seeing Prim more and more, apparently; one of the handlers pointed out as much. The insinuation that it was because of a new witch – or wizard – took out some of the pleasure in seeing everyone again, but that was soon overshadowed by alcohol and atmosphere. He wasn’t even halfway through his first drink before he was invited for a game of pool, and when he was, more quickly followed.

Irina had been right, as always.

Pushing the door open, Grigory stepped back into the room. He spotted her first (by the pool table with Colin, cue stick in one hand, a drink in the other), but his attention was soon captured by those newly arrived: Margo, Margo’s friend Ahmes, Nate, the spindly eccentric Rosier, Cepheus…

And then – there: nearly lost amidst the much taller frames of their friends and colleagues had it not been for her brilliant red hair and even brighter, gorgeous smile, was one Nona Spectre.

Surprised, Grigory came to a stop, but a grin was already tugging at his lips. “Nona?” He hadn’t seen her in forever.