M for Content

„Oh, come on, look alive!“
Jim looked a little pale, barely hanging on to the shot of Granny Ripper Fiona had shoved into his palm. His other hand clung to the cue as if it kept him from drowning in stormy seas, hair still white from the last shots. That woman wanted to kill him. He was almost sure of it, almost formed that thought into a proper sentence, as she ripped the shot from his fingers and downed it herself. Fiona licked her lips and threw her head back, curls of white flowing down her black leather jacket.
“Really, Jim, you are such a bore. Can you at least play? It is your turn.” Poor Jim, build like a Viking but gentle as a garden flower, had not expected impressing a woman to be so difficult. He had thought she’d give in after a couple of shots. Or at least after the next 5. He was sure these hadn’t been her first ones, either.
Slowly, he gave up. First his attention slipping, then his consciousness.

Fiona watched him sink to the floor and sighed. She had spent the last two weeks on a hunt in the Middle East and had arrived back in London just a couple of hours ago, a day earlier than expected. It was time for fun. She deserved it fun, didn’t she? Instead, this felt like babysitting a giant. While her hair slowly turned back to its natural reddish brown¸ Fiona pushed the tip of her heel under towards his chest, nudging him not very gently. It grunted. “Well,” she said to no one in particular. “At least he isn’t dead yet.” That would have been hard to explain.

Carefully, she leaned the cue on the table and brushed her jacket off. The Middle East had left some marks on her. Beside the old, fine scar that ran down from the left side of her neck to her shoulder, the loss of the jacket revealed a couple of bruises on her right arm and a semi healed cut that only just peeked out of her top from beneath her right shoulder blade.

“Can I Have a Firewhiskey over here, please? ” she grunted as she grabbed saggy Jim beneath his shoulders, heaving him across the floor to darker corners. There, he could sleep it off without being in the way of her game. If she found a new opponent.

It was nearly three weeks that Alec Carter had arrived back in the UK after over 30 years in Norway. He’d been of the assumption that moving back would be easy. He’d catch up with old friends and make new ones before he took up the planned job at the ministry. His boss in Norway had suggested it was a done deal; by the end of March he would be the Head of Department in Britain. Alec hadn’t felt quite so confident and had spent his days making back up plans in case the interview hadn’t gone in his favour. The interview was in the coming week. A stiff drink was needed to take the pressure off interview preparation.

So the stress of an impending interview for the biggest job of his life, the boredom of barely anything else to do, and the irritation of his parents for company at home were all factors in why one found Alec Carter sat at the bar at Death & Co with his second firewhiskey nearly drained.

“Can I Have a Firewhiskey over here, please?” A voice grunted loudly and Alec turned to see a slight and somewhat bruised witch dragging a dead weight across the bar to a corner. Dark brows rose as he watched ridiculousness, not offering to help. Instead he continued to nurse his drink as the bartender followed orders.

“Common practice to ply them with booze until they pass out?” The wizard commented to the bartender, a smirk on his lips. At his favourite bar in Norway, they gave the old drunken idiots a blanket and a pillow.

“Common practice to ply them with booze until they pass out?”

Her wand made a short appearance, a rough circling of sorts to break up the game, to let the cue balls sort themselves into the positions they belonged. During her long history of drinking and picking up fights in various bars and pubs all over the world, the witch had learned that owners were much more inclined to forgive the ruckus she caused when she made an effort.

"Only if you are mad enough to drink with that rogue version of a woman", the bartender replied loud enough for her to hear. Fiona's attention turned enough for him to place the drink on the counter almost next to the stranger, making clear that with her drinking pace, she'd have to get the drinks herself. He'd not walk back and forth all the time. She grunted, closing the distance between herself and her firewhiskey.

In one swift movement, Fiona sat down on one of the free bar stools, folding one leg up in a sort of half tailor seat's fashion. She raised her hands in defense and pulled what she thought might have been an innocent face. "It is not my fault. I always pay for the drinks and usually clean up after me." Maybe it was that need of control or that superiour feeling it gave her. Paying for all the drinks she and her drinking partners consumed made her feel a lot less like a girl out for favours or compliments. The bookhunter needed neither.

"Better him than me, don't you think?" the witch asked across the rim of her glass, finally taking in the pair of dark brown eyes belonging to the wizard next to her.

The younger witch decided to take a perch near him and Alec watched in mild interest. Why she would need to clean up after herself, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to know. That, and the bartender referring to her as rogue had his warning bells going as she started to talk to him. Boredom was one thing; making friendly with a witch that made a mess of bars was another. No matter how pleasant her backside looked in those jeans.

“Oh, I don’t know.” The wizard muttered, the Scandinavian twang from his mixed accent stronger thanks to the firewhiskey. “He looks like he could be fun.” He indicated the passed out wizard with a smirk before chugging what was left in his glass and pushing it towards the bartender for a refill. “When he’s not dribbling on the floor.”

Her eyes lingered on his face, taking in his features and way of speaking. She traced a scar wandering from his chin from his neck before her attention wandered yet again. This time, by his manner of speaking. His baritone had a deep timbre revealing him as someone who has been raised with the English language, yet tainted with an obvious accent.
 
"When he’s not dribbling on the floor.” Fiona felt herself smiling.
"I wouldn't know. He made a bet with friends earlier that he'd take me home before the night was over," the witch shrugged. These things happened to pretty women a lot more than it should. She didn't like being the object of other people's bets. She did like teaching other people lessons they'd not forget. Gazing to the snoring pile of a man, she took a careful sip of her drink. Maybe remembering would be more of an issue than forgetting in his case.
"Sadly for him, I am a lot more into liquor than I am into farm boys who are new to the big city."

"Speaking of which," Fiona rested an elbow on the bar and the glass on her knee, feeling curious, "What brings a man like you from Norway to this charming establishment? Have you grown tired of all the space?"
The Nothern Germanic languages had been so hard to learn, yet she had always considered them the most beautiful. In the end, she only managed to master speaking Icelandic fluently, but the others were just as familiar to her. 

Not so interested in farm boys new to the big city. She may have been talking about the snoozing idiot in the corner of the pub but she had also technically described Alec. He was a former dragon tamer turned Ministry man. He’d never lived in a big city in his life and didn’t have much intention to. The fact that he currently lived with his octogenarian parents was not something he planned on sharing with the ‘rogue’ witch beside him.

"What brings a man like you from Norway to this charming establishment? Have you grown tired of all the space?"

At least she realised he wasn’t a Londoner. He smiled, somewhat impressed. “A keen ear for accents.” The deflection offered him a moment to consider a reason he could share. ‘I cheated on my wife and when she kicked me out I decided to leave the country to get away from the judging bitch’ wasn’t the sort of thing to help him make friends.

“I fancied a change of scenery.” After a quick gulp of firewhiskey, Alec turned slightly on his stool to get a better look at the younger witch. “I’m afraid I am a farm boy new to the city, love.”

"Sheer luck. I occasionally drop by the High North."
"Boring work stuff, " she added, her fingers automatically brushing over the fine scar along her neck. The wizard across from her seemed to know a thing or two about that, given his own clear marks. There were no pity or lectures to be expected from these kind of men. Hopefully.  Good company for the night.

The wizard turned towards her and Fiona instinctively leaned back a little, sending her curls tumbling over her almost naked shoulders. Talking about scenery.

“I’m afraid I am a farm boy new to the city, love.”

A laugh escaped her lips, mixed with a very un-ladylike grunt. Of course. Only she could manage to insult two strangers in no way related to each other at once without even trying.
"If you are a Norwegian version of a boy, I'd love to see what the men look like" Maybe he wasn't the only one who fancied a change of scenery. What did the mothers over there feed their kids? Comtemplating, Fi took the last sip of her firewhiskey, letting it linger on her tongue for a moment to explore the taste.

"So tell me, Farm boy, " she placed the empty glass on the bar, pushing it away from her. Maybe a break was in order. She could feel herself losing the control, her movements growing sloppier by the minute. "How is the big city treating you? Bored yet?"
Maybe choked was the better word. Fiona imagined how full London must seem to anyone used to a whole lot of beautiful nothing.

Allowing his dark eyes to follow the witch’s fingers, Alec remarked on their matching scars. Cute. Not that he liked to remember how he’d got his. It wasn’t something he ever willingly discussed. Any other mark on his body was fair game to the interested. He didn’t comment; only instead glancing at her now empty tumbler. Woman could drink firewhiskey at quite a pace. It wasn’t certain whether Alec found that impressive or worrying.

Oh joy; he’d earned a new nickname. Not a particularly complimentary one either. He supposed, however, that ‘farm boy’ was a massive improvement on ‘Breiddjame[1]’ which was the last thing Malin had called him when he told her he’d be relocating to the UK.

“It’s a culture shock.” Everything about the place was different to what he’d become used to. Having been somewhat naïve to presume things would still be so similar to how it had been when he was growing up, Alec had been surprised by the change. Pleasantly surprised to be honest. He’d only come temporarily to escape an angry almost ex-wife and ended up applying for a job so he could stay.

“Farm boy makes me sound 12 years old. We’ll stick with Alec shall we?” A hand was offered for the slightly tipsy witch to take.

1.	’Son of a whore’

Cenosillicaphobia. The fear of empty glasses. Not something she suffered from, of course (she wasn't that much of a drunk), but the word crossed her mind still. Looking around, the night had gone a lot quieter than hoped for. The fun didn't seem to wait around. What did wait for her was a bottle of mahogany coloured, 43% goodness that had sat on her desk for more than 3 weeks.

He handled shocks well from the looks of it, not running, but deciding to explore Diagon Alley's bars.
"You'll get used to it quicker than you think, trust me." After all, Fiona had been new to London once. Back then, the civilised manners and cool, distant attitudes had seemed even more disturblingly than the weather. A Scottish mother with a temper, a nanny made of Spanish fire and the bustling streets of Cairo did weird things to your look on life. If Paris had been difficult to handle, London had been like a social death trap.

Calloused hands meeting, her grip was firm but short. "Fiona" The historians' green eyes locked with his, trying to embed face and name into her memory. "Welcome to London, Alec."

Letting go of his hand, Fi unfolded her leg and slid of the bar stool. Enough of this sitting around. "As much as I hate to leave you now that we have come so close,..." she ran her hands over her tight jeans. As she didn't find the money she was looking for, the witch turned to search for her back pack. It had been ditched rather unceremoniously into the very same corner her drooling acquaintance snored in. In fact, he was cradling it, holding onto the soft brown leather like a child would to a teddy bear. Pushing the tip of her heel on his torso to hold him down, Fiona reached one of the leather straps and pulled. With a grunt, Jim gave it free. Even drool-free, which was nice, she supposed.

 The coins clanged onto the tiled bar as Fi turned her attention back to the wizard- Alec. "But I have to drop something off my office and pick up a very sexy bottle of a 25 year old Islay Single Malt Whiskey." Her tone of voice dropped into a seductive tone as she spoke of the Bowmore. It had been a present from Gareth, celebrating 10 years of friend- and partnership.
10 years of bookhunting. The biggest commitment she had ever made, probably ever would.

"Unless," she halted in her step, "You are into museums and late night sightseeing, Alec?"