It was the early evening but certainly a safe bet he’d still be here. People didn’t work their way up in the ministry without putting in the hours after work and she’d known this particular wizard long enough to have an idea about his habits.

Now coming onto level 2 was little problem for the Minister for Magic’s legal assistant. After a wand check, she was straight past the security and heading to the deputy’s office down a long corridor. In her hands, she carried a small pile of parchments. Long robes had been slipped over her tight, blue suit dress. As usual, her hair was clipped up neatly, a thin cream scarf wrapped around her neck to conceal the unwanted tattoo on the back.

A simple knock at the door and she waited to hear his voice from the other side as a few law enforcement staff passed. She slipped the door open and stepped heeled foot onto lush carpet.
“Mr Riordan,” bright blue eyes found his and her lips formed a knowing smile. “I’ve something for you to inspect, Sir.” The door was carefully pushed to click shut behind her and she stepped further into the office.

“Now,” she fixed his gaze with her piercing stare, “would you like it on the desk, or your lap?”

The documents in her grasp were gestured to and she raised her eyebrows.

He was swimming in requests, filtering through the paperwork. Misery liked company, though, and Riordan had to be a touch of the sadist: he very much enjoyed the fact that, for once, nearly everyone on the floor was pulling late hours. Riordan looked up sharply at the word 'Mister.' His gaze lowered, with a frown, at 'Sir.'

No man was a 'Sir' to the Evangeline Kuester. He looked her up and down, slowly.  She had that tight-wound thing going on, ready to spring something on him. Sir. This was some sort of roleplay no dou--

"...Or in your lap?" Riordan capped his pen, tossing it atop the desk with a light shake of his head. There it was. He gave a single chuckle. He leaned forward a moment before, slowly, rising to his feet. His desk chair rolled out of the way.

"Well," he said, his progress towards her slow, controlled--more of a prowl, "it depends on what," his voice was a low rumble, "it pertains to." He slinked his arm around her waist, his hand slowly moving down her curves, the other reaching for the sheaf of parchment, plucking it from her fingers as she pulled her a bit closer.

He looked down:

INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO

 Request for Work Plan...

Riordan read it absently, brows knit. The work plan deadline was 4 weeks out. This was busywork.  Of course. Riordan concealed that needling feeling of frustration with a well-practiced default: the lazy smirk. He supposed he ought to be flattered, the paltry excuse contrived solely to see him; though Eva Keuster likely kept a repertoire of ready bedfellows on rotation. Still: tonight got to be his night, in her books, which was saying something.

Alas. Tonight was not going to be the night--not here, at any rate. Too many people milling about the halls. Riordan had a notorious open door policy, which made it all the more eyebrow-raising when there were meetings behind closed doors. And even if the Aurors didn't suspect the nature of the... dalliance... a closed-door conversation between the Minister's Assistant and their Deputy Head could be enough to get the rumor mill rolling for political reasons. Tensions were high, what with one of their own most-wanted and in custody.

Gamp--the Auror, now that there was a need on Level 2 for that distinction--had been sharpening her claws, ready to sink her teeth into Musgrave for the better part of a year, now. And Cavanaugh'd practically broken into bits upon encountering him, according to all accounts. And Adon Eleor, for reasons unclear, was nothing but bits at the moment. Not to mention the multitudinous other closed door conversations going on about him. These sort of things hurt morale. They were low enough as it was. Moments like these should be wins, really. It was troubling. It was the closed doors.

Without a glance, Riordan carelessly dropped the papers back onto his desk, pulling her in for a kiss, fingers habitually running up the collarbone, through her hair, to reach for the hair clip--

He halted. Shite. Damn Level 2. Damn Lawrence Musgrave and his horrible timing, getting arrested at a time like this.

"Not here," he said cautiously, pulling back slowly. His arms moved down to her arms, applying what he hoped was a reassuring pressure. Despite knowing Eva most his life, she was a woman. As such, he never fully sure what she might do. Pout? Sulk? Extract apologies? Exact vengeance? Take it in stride? Damned if he knew.

"Later," he furthered, hoping to commence negotiations.

His hands, his touch was familiar. Eva allowed herself to relax fairly quickly in his company, despite the lack of speech. His arm was around her and he plucked the parchment from her grip, scanning it with little interest. There’d needed to be a reason to simply show up at his office. Neither had ever been interested in making anything public. That meant admitting there was something more than a simple attraction. Neither would ever do that. It was an unspoken rule between them.

Thin fingers traced his neck until her arms wrapped around it, pulling closer into the kiss, her lips pressing against his in their familiar embrace. It was true what people said about sticking to what they knew. Gilchrist was familiar territory and that which she knew wouldn’t reject her.

But the bastard stopped and pulled back and the witch’s brow shut up, unimpressed at the interruption. Her muscles tenses despite his continued grip on her arms. Her lips remained parted as she stared up at him.

“Later?” To say that she wasn’t amused was an extreme understatement. The witch lowered her arms, lips now pursing as she realised that the comfort she was seeking that evening wasn’t going to be from her favourite bureaucrat.

“I didn’t come down here for a ‘later’ Gilchrist.” It was rare that Eva would call him by his name. Tonight, there was something different about her reaction, about her approach to seeking time with him. She’d not seem him since before Musgrave had come in, she was on edge. She needed distraction from her thoughts.

"Later?" Pursed lips, eyebrow arched, tone icy.

Great. Fecking great. She'd sprung this on him--unbidden, by the by--at the worst possible time, and now it was his fault and problem to deal with. Riordan caught himself mid-thought. He was spending too much time around his little martyrs.[1] He had this in hand. Even if he did cringe visibly at the use of his name--from her. She knew better!

Entirely abandoning the thought that this might end well, Riordan heaved a sigh, dropping back to lean heavily against his desk, hands now splayed across the paltry excuse for paperwork.

"Why did y'come down here, then, Eva?" It was unlike him--unlike either of them, really--to press into the particulars (their entire relationship seemed to reside in the grey). But then again, she did usually come by for a later. She didn't normally fling herself at him like this. It came across as desperate. Not desperate for him, surely. They knew each other too well for that. Desperation came when you had so little in prospects, or so little of a desired person that you clutched at just about anything. Eva'd had plenty of prospects and of him, both over the years, and so little had changed.

But something obviously had.

Deep lines formed between his brows. He'd admit it: concern. "'Vrything alright?"

1.	Affectionate term for the long-suffering attitude of most Aurors as they go about their work.

“Of course, it is!” Her response was probably a bit too quick as Eva crossed her arms defensively over her chest and tried not to look as irritated as she felt. Riordan never rejected her, that was the point in coming here this evening. He was a sure thing and had been since they were 16. It had been easy to fall back into his arms when she’d come back nearly 2 years ago and now he was pushing her back until later?

“Can you not take a gamble without fearing repercussions?” She asked, quietly. “Can you not throw yourself into something different without putting it off for the chance to consider it and be safe?” Her bright blue eyes flitted between his and she lifted her hand to push some stray blond hair back behind her ear. “Later might never come, Jesus. Your omnipotence should tell you that.”

“I came down here because I had evidently forgotten that you’re just a set of smart robes.” A distraction wasn’t good if you had to wait until later. She needed the distraction now. She needed to get out of her own head now. At home, at night, this meant long walks in the middle of the night through the streets of London, it meant getting away from reality. “My mistake.”

Gilchrist Riordan wasn’t an unpredictable sort. He was her usual type, the bureaucrat with a brain. But her choices frustrated her, her inability to find a wizard who would be unpredictable, who could roll with her immediate whims and needs. Life was short, waiting until later was pointless if you wanted something then.

Angry as a cat in a bathtub. With just about as many claws, too. Scratching out blindly. No, no, no--he listened closely. She was trying to hurt him where she figured it hurt the most: in the ego.

“Can you not take a gamble without fearing repercussions? Can you not throw yourself into something different without putting it off for the chance to consider it and be safe?”

"Aw, kitten! Yer calling me a coward?!" This was unbelievable. This was delightful. This was--oh, this was better than any wireless programme. He gave a surprised laugh.  And then she called him, "Oh, Christ!" Riordan gave a loud bark of laughter, trying to recover with a cough. Not a success. He shook his head, mirroring her posture a moment, composing himself and, crossing his arms for a moment when she then called him omnipotent...

Riordan was nearly doubled over in laughter by now, cackling and only barely trying to show restraint. "Sweet Mary," he said. It was unclear if this was a new nickname, or a curse, "Omnipotence. Y'give me too much credit for my," a slight lift of the eyebrows,  "prowess," he drawled in agreement. "Flattered to have deluded ye for so long."

Having recovered his composure--at least insofar as to bite back any further laughter, he looked about the office, arms now wide. "So, where to from here, Pontius? Still fixin' to hang me high? Level 2's overdue for a good crucifixion, anyhow."

"Aw, kitten! Yer calling me a coward?!"
 
This was not the reaction Evangeline had anticipated. If she were to be honest, she wasn’t completely sure what she’d expected. Coming to his office like this was new grounds, unprecedented. She’d bitten back for being pushed away and all he could do was laugh and come up with a steady stream of nicknames, only one of the reasons she had never committed to a real relationship with him.

The laughing continued, the wizard feigning an attempt to control his reaction. Eva simply watched him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Usually, she would have bitten back, quick as a whip. Banter such as this with her oldest ‘friend’ was normally something to enjoy. But tonight? She had little patience for it.

When, however, Riordan mentioned the need for a crucifixion on Level 2, Eva did smile begrudgingly.

“I imagine you nailed naked to a cross at the lifts would be a more efficient deterrent than the trout faced welcome witch checking wands.” she paused, eyes searching his face for a moment before she chanced, “But you have a crucifixion coming, no? You ‘ave personne numéro une? Which is why all of your little martyrs are scurrying around.”

Her faked smile faded to be replaced by an expression of mild concern, “Were you there? When he handed himself in?”

Humor was almost universally a sound tactic; you just had to use it right. There was a favorite saying he'd heard: "If you have to tell the truth, make them laugh. Otherwise, they'll kill you."[1] Humor could incite change by pointing out, pretty harmlessly, just how ridiculous someone was being. It could laugh someone out of misery. Give her the chance to take an out, if she wanted. Or, if he prodded enough, he'd get her to snap and find out what the hell it was that had her coiled as taught as a bedspring. ... He was hoping for humor. So, when she took the bait, the self-effacing smile grew less determined. more genuine.

"I dun think anyone ever said anything about me being naked, Peaches." He tilted his head, smile slow. "I'm hurt; y'got a kinky side I don't know about?" He shook his head ruefully. All these years...

“But you have a crucifixion coming, no? You ‘ave personne numéro une?"

"Aaaah," Riordan said, nodding quietly to himself. So that was what all this was about. Here she was, trying to get cozy to canoodle some information out of him. Well, joke was on her. And it really was funny. Because, after all, you had to see the humor in these situations. Otherwise, he'd kill himself.

He leaned more heavily against the edge of his desk, bearing down. "No," he said, a bit of a sigh in his voice. "I was not." Nor, he would like to add, had he been there for anything else. It was fine; he was just the damned Deputy. But damned if Eva saw their in-house dirty laundry. She was still the Minister's secretary assistant. Who was making her opinions in the use of 'scurrying' a little to apparent. "From what I've gathered, the case against him is straightforward and ironclad." Truth told, he was a bit wary about how straightforward it was, but at the present moment, he was doing what he could: make sure the grounds for conviction were grounded in the law, and the evidence sufficient for conviction. It seemed to line up, according to the reports coming across his desk. But those were few and far between, an indication that all was not well in the State of Denmark.

That wasn't what she wanted, though. There was a slight, lopsided smile. She always bristled against anything that looked like soothing or reassurance, but that sure as hell was why she'd come here, even if she wouldn't admit it. And she never would. "Looks like it would take a lot for this to end in anything other than significant time served, but we're preparing for that, too, should it come to that." She wasn't wrong. They needed this. He tilted his head, eyeing her cautiously. "You'd know better than anyone, though; I can't say any more than that." And he'd know better than her that, really, he couldn't.

1.	Oscar Wilde

There was something more to his answer than he was letting on but Eva decided not to comment. But she did watch him carefully, the sigh, the resting back against the desk. His body language had always told her so much, it was hard to hide such from people you’d known for so many years.

From what he gathered. Eva tried not to appear too concerned as she folded her arms over the dress she wore, shifting her weight onto her left. Everyone around her seemed on edge about Musgrave. Even the minister had looked shaken when the message had arrived.

“I know.” The witch quietly agreed as she glanced back at the door. It could be tough, being on the outside of Level 2. Throughout her career, Eva had been privy to information. She’d been knowledgeable and kept in the loop. But the prospect of being informed certainly wasn’t enough to coax her back. Level 2 was her history.

“But you can’t blame me for wanting to know.” She offered a shrug. Riordan knew her history with Musgrave; his lopsided smile of pity was enough evidence to that. She hated the lopsided smile of pity. It was certainly not what she’d looked for tonight.

She started to move towards the door before stopping, turning once more to face him. “Make sure he’s being treated exactly as guidelines state. Nothing more, nothing less. A human story of being mistreated or well treated by angry law enforcement forces the Wizengamot to reconsider sentencing. You do not want them to see a human being the day he makes it to court. Keep his crimes fresh in their minds, not his humanity at your hands.”

"I'd be worried if you didn't try, Lioness." It would have meant she'd given up.

The moment Eva began to advise him on how to do the job they'd held since they'd first started together over 20 years ago--and he had continued in since then--was the one he, with deliberation, kept a guarded, open face. It was kindly meant; and coming from real concern. Riordan gave a silent nod, not willing to commit to "making sure" anything until he could make good on the promise. Right now, he felt sure of little. "You know me, Peaches. Guideline guru extraordinaire." As scruffy as he seemed to come across... as laid-back as his colleagues seemed to think he was, Riordan was a conventional thinker, a stickler for the rules, and not likely to make exceptions for anyone. "I'm not throwing out the book any time soon."

She looked at her hand now, resting on the doorknob. Guess it was a firm no to that 'Later,' then. "Thanks for coming by about this. If you ever want to talk about it--in a non-official capacity. Drinks after work... dinner." He shrugged, keeping it vague. "Later." How different that word sounded, now. He gave a sincere, if a little haggard, smile. "My door's always open. Which--" his tone grew a little playful, "if you'd leave the door open when you leave..."

"I'd be worried if you didn't try, Lioness."
So many nicknames. He used them so often Eva could have been quite convinced that he didn’t know her actual name if they hadn’t known each other for 30 years. There seemed to be a list he used and recycled rather than simply calling her Eva. E.V.A, not hard, not strenuous, but not possible for Gilchrist Riordan. Peaches had be the worst. As if she was sweet and would coo at his voice and attention. She didn’t and had never.

Well the guideline guru extraordinaire wasn’t going to like what she was going to be doing tomorrow. It didn’t follow guidelines or precedent (as far as she was aware). But it was necessary and she’d tell him after. It was far better to ask for forgiveness than to be denied permission, after all.

Her hand was on the door handle when it paused. Did he just say dinner? As if when you sat down for a meal with another person and ate rather than simply getting down to business? He must have been worried about her. They didn’t do dinner unless it was a takeaway late at night.

“Later.” The witch offered a cautious smile and pulled the door open. “Don’t forget to sign those papers,” she said, her professional tone returning. “I hate missed deadlines.” A passerby gave the Minister’s assistant a nervous look, seemingly feeling sorry for the wizard in the office and Eva headed down the corridor, the Deputy’s door wide open to the world.

End