It was getting on to midnight. The street level entrance of Spellpunk would be easily missed if not for a flickering sign in a dark window. The front of the nondescript narrow building was plastered in layers of posters. A club beat thumped low, echoing up the stairs from under ground.

The crack of Apparition was quickly followed by a bellowing vomit.

Moira had successfully got them both across town via Side-Along, but the journey had stirred up Figaro's already compromised gut. A smelly wet pile of pub food was settling into the cracks between the cobblestones.

"Bollocks!" he gasped as he came up from his bent over posture. He was smiling. "Sorry. That felt good actually."

Suddenly, he flinched, feeling another one coming. He held up his finger to pause it. "Nevermind. Thassit. Ready?"

Moira was suddenly very grateful for her strong stomach. Figaro throwing up all over the cobblestones was far from pleasant, but she had dealt with more unpleasant things. Creatures had all kinds of vile bodily fluids for a myriad of reasons. A little vomit of pub food and alcohol wasn't about to get to her.

"You're sure?" Once he reaffirmed as much she nodded and headed for the stairs and the door.

The music was loud as expected. She paid the entry fee for both of them since he had said he was the one buying the next few drinks at least. Once their hands were stamped she looked around the room, taking in their surroundings.

Walking around the large dance floor and towards the bar with Fig she said, "I don't think I'll be able to apparate after this."

M: A spot of language


"S-screw you, mate! I'm am going! I'm #^@#'ing going! No, you're drunking funk, mate. I'm Figaro $&@'ing Sella- Sephalix, dick."

The bouncer didn't appreciate Figaro's tone, and began to assist Figaro's departure bodily. Figaro perhaps should have stopped after his third Auror Piss, but a birthday party buying a round for everyone wasn't something you just refused. Would have been rude. In rising for the birthday toast, he'd lost his balance and fell from the stool. The resulting chain reaction toppled a young couple making out, and broke four glasses.

It wasn't long before Figaro found himself back on the cobbles of chilly Diagon Ally.  He'd lost his jacket somewhere along the way.

"That's some bullshit," he sang, taking a few wobbly steps. "Bu-hull sha-hit!"

He sank down on a bench, rather put out, but too sloshed to be embarrassed. He blinked once, very slow. "Hmm, I'm done. Shhh."

While Fig was getting tossed out by the bouncer Moira was by the bar finishing off the last of her latest drink, courtesy of the party goers. Her body was tingling pleasantly from head to toe and she hummed to herself watching as Fig insulted the bouncer. Never a good idea. Not about to leave him by himself she grabbed her bag, Figaro's jacket had been tucked inside once he had discarded it, and made her way to the exit. It was way too hot to stay inside anyhow.

Joining Fig on the bench, the cool air felt fantastic against her skin, she looked over at him. "Where'd you live again?" Her words were slurred though still understandable. "Need to get you home." Why she felt responsible for his getting home safely Moira couldn't say. He was the one who had convinced her to go out on the town drinking when she should have been home asleep. It had been a fun night though.

Moira rubbed her eyes and face, as though that would make focusing easier. She had no idea how she was going to get home. Hopefully they could just walk to Fig's flat. Then she wouldn't have to worry about him getting mugged or who knew what.

Moira sat down beside Figaro and asked him where he lived. He tilted over and laid his head on her shoulder.

"Right here, I live on this bench. We're bench people now," he mumbled sweetly.

In reality, he lived in East London and without safe Apparition it would be a two hour journey by foot - likely more than that if by 'stumble'. Figaro had taken the Underground only a few times for a laugh, but he wouldn't be able to figure it out tonight. Their only hope would be to find somewhere that had an open Floo, and Figaro being sharp enough to pronounce his address.

"Thirty-four Upper Montagu St," he said nearly asleep. His family's house in Marylebone. In his impaired state, that was the address that came to mind.

"I'm not sleeping on a public bench," Moira mumbled, letting Fig rest his head on her shoulder. The address he gave her sounded different from something he had said earlier that evening.

Dammit. He was falling asleep. There was only one option at this point, she'd have to get them there herself. Pulling her bag onto her lap and she rummaged through it, searching for one of the potions that would make her sober enough to get to his place. After a few moments she successfully found one and took a drink, putting it back.

Lightly slapping his cheek to wake him up enough she hauled them both up to their feet. "Come on, Fig. Let's get you home." Holding him up more or less she got them down the street to an accessible floo point and to his home.

It certainly didn't look like a bachelor's place upon arrival. Tapping his cheek again she got Fig to 'his' room and dropped him on the bed. It was almost two in the morning.

His bed was deep and soft. Figaro laid down and slept the dead slumber of the happy sot, not a thought to the debilitating headache he'd wake up to in the morning.

Blessings on Moira McBoid, a sweet enchantment for her, letting them both loose at Old Brick!

fin