11 November 2011
Friday @ 9am
The Daily Prophet

Figaro Sellaphix. Figaro. Sellaphix. Figaro #*&$^! Sellaphix. Why did he keep hearing that name? Why did he read it in the paper? Why did rumors about him ever reach his ears? Why in the world was any shred of his attention being occupied by a bleeding idiot barely-literate assistant? These were the mysteries of this Friday morning, mysteries that haunted Barnabas Cuffe since he'd read his own copy of the morning edition.

He arrived to work as usual, banging through the glass doors with an uncovered teacup. He spared a smile and hello to the welcome witch, he nodded and waved to the reporters in the bullpen. But instead of turning right, he turned left. Instead of heading up these stairs to his balcony office, he headed for the corner of the building where the assistants lazed about when they lacked the ambition to find something useful to do.

And there he found Figaro. &#&@ing. Sellaphix.

Figaro had been at work since 6am, not that it bothered him. By then the paper was out and the delivery kids were back. The morning was usually quiet as everyone filtered in. Mostly coffee runs and pulling from the archives. Figaro sat with his feet up on the table, chair tipped back. He was in an animated conversation with Sylvie Ballentyne about the merits excessively violent beaters vs a more subtle approach. One one hand, Wiedman-style beaters incurred more penalties which could harry the progress of the game. On the other - HUNF!

With a sudden yank, Figaro nearly flew backwards out of his chair. But he barely hit the floor - someone was hauling him away by the collar. He scrambled to gain his own feet, and when he able to (barely) keep up with his 'guide' he realized that the sudden slip and iron grip was courtesy of - holy merlin - Barnabas Cuffe.

Cuffe didn't slow at all, his old-man strength easily bringing the startled youth along with at quite the pace. Figaro found himself being lead bodily through the bullpen, up the stairs and deposited in the glass-doored office of the Editor in Chief.

Again.

He'd finished his journey without spilling a drop. Now that the Thorn in his Side was set neatly by the door, Cuffe went round the back of his desk where another copy of the morning paper was waiting.  He whipped it open with a snap that belied the wrath growing under his collar. He didn't look up at the Sellaphix kid.

Instead, he mumbled in a quiet voice.

"Why is your name in my newspaper."

No answer.

"Why is your name in my bloody &&#^! newspaper!"

With a swipe, he flung the nearly full teacup - a warning shot. Agatha[1] had advised he be more patient with the junior employees.

1.	Agatha Pendragon, his wife

Figaro regained his balance just in time to not answer a direct question and dodge a cup of tea. It smashed and splattered against the door behind him. He crossed then uncrossed his arms, not sure what to do with himself. You've been through this before, Fig, and survived, he told himself. You can't win. Just let him go off.

A copy editor had given him a head's up about a tiny snip in the back of the crime section about him being questioned in connection with the robberies, but it didn't make sense that something like that would even hit Cuffe's radar. He figured he better answer the question, though.

"I'm sorry, not particularly happy about it either," he tried. Wasn't his fault though, was it? "Maybe talk to the reporter about it."

He clamped his mouth shut. Bad idea.

The desk creaked as Barnabas leaned forward. He slid his glasses off without breaking half-lidded eye contact.

"Excuse me?" he whispered.

Figaro swallowed a lump in his throat, but repeated. "I didn't write it. It's not news. Why are you mad with me?"

Barnabas maintained the blank stare as he straightened up. As he lifted his chin, his expression twisted into a wide-eyed snarl.

"Because you are a thick $*@$^! twit! You manage to shit the bed every goddamn day. How is it," he suddenly switched from tirade back to a tense whisper.

"How is it that in six bleeeeding months you've managed to burn this newspaper to the ground, hmm? I don't employ degenerates!"

"But Thursby - " Everyone knew Niobe Thursby had a criminal charge, right? And he loved her.

This inspired in Barnabas Cuffe a vein-popping tirade of Shakespearean curses, punctuated with snatching jinxes and manually chucked rolodexes which erupted into a flock of fluttering business cards. Had there not been a desk between them...

"You better rescue your boy, Thurby."

"Who, Figgy? He's not my boy."

"Whatever, but Cuffe's got him and it isn't good."

Niobe glanced up in time to see a flash of spellfire in Cuffe's office.

"Aw shit."

She hadn't seen it this bad in awhile. Not sure what this was about, she jogged up to make sure Cuffe didn't give himself a coronary.

Tap, tap on the door even as she opened it. The kid was still standing, that was something, but Cuffe looked like he might explode.

"Boss. Oi! Boss! You done with him? Toilet's backed up. It's everywhere."

If she had something suitably terrible as an excuse, maybe Cuffe would release Figaro into her 'custody'. But Merlin's knickers, what did he do?

Yeah, okay. Bad strategy. Some people like Cuffe actually wanted to see a little mustard, they respected guts; that if you stood up for yourself they'd be more impressed. But turns out, that was not the right tack. All this he mulled over as he covered his head. There wasn't really time to consider just cheesing it out of there before Thursby arrived - wait, had she heard?

The harangue ceased for the moment, Cuffe's wand arm in mid swing. He glanced back at Thursby who offered him a discreet wink. Fig held up his hands.

"Okay, shouldn't have said that." It would not be good if Thursby knew what he'd just said to Cuffe.

"You're right, I should stay out of trouble. I"ll, uh, get on that. Won't happen again."

A valiant goal, but easier said and done for the oldest Sellaphix boy.

What the hell did Thursby want? Toilets? Couldn't she see that he was in a meeting? But her interruption worked for the moment; he took a few deep breaths and lowered his arm. Cuffe was not lacking in self-awareness - his temper didn't do much to boost morale (even if it was effective to maintaining ship discipline).

He ignored whatever excuse Niobe had come peddling.

Cuffe reverted to his deadly calm tone.

"Mr. Sellaphix here is keen to be a celebrity, Miss Thursby. Isn't that delightful? What a charming young man. So ... ambitious ..."

He set his wand down on the desk with a sharp snap. He reached for his tea, but he'd used it as a projectile. Instead he tapped his fingers on the desk.

"So much so that he's taken to becoming a major suspect in crime waves and conspiring with the Witch Weekly."

Cuffe's voice was calm on paper, but beneath the level tone was a volcano about to blow.

Ooh... Niobe's mouth made an 'o' shape. Shhhi ... Niobe hadn't meant for Cuffe to ever find out about her little prank, putting Figaro in the path of Genevieve Garcia-Gamp. And she certainly didn't mean for Figaro to get reamed for it.

She slipped fully into the office, let the door close quietly behind her. She had to step over shattered porcelain to flank Figaro.  Niobe winced hoping some supplication might subdue their tempestuous boss.

"Yea, boss, that last bit might've been me. Had him drop by something for Gen on the Leo Gamp thing. Nothing to worry about. He just dropped it with her assistant, didn't you, Figgy?" she pinched him in the back of the ribs.

Cuffe didn't need to know he'd spent like a half hour in Queen G's inner sanctum. Figaro certainly didn't need him to know that. Also, who the heck had snitched? Who did that help?

Figaro was beginning to feel that having Niobe Thursby for a patron wasn't as beneficial as he'd thought. So far her help had gotten him a nicely rounded fuckall. He jumped when she pinched him, but hesitated to lie to Cuffe. If Cuffe knew he was fibbing, there'd be a party. A great big going-away party. But if he contradicted Thursy, well, that'd be throwing her under a train.

Cuffe was glowering.

"Not exactly," he began, and Thursby pinched him again. He elbowed her back.

"I gave it directly to Quee-- Mrs. Gamp because it seemed important. I promise there was no conspiring. I wouldn't even know how to that."

There - that was the truth and it only slightly buggered Thursby.

"Look, I'm happy exactly where I am, sir. I swear, I've learned my lesson. Quite satisfied fetching coffee and, um, unplugging toilets. If there's --"

"Shut up!" Barnabas waved his hand. Did the boy ever stop talking? Honestly, if he heard one more word from this little shit, his brain would explode. Cuffe didn't care. He didn't care about stupid excuses or this kid's five year plan. He wanted him to go away. Hadn't he made that clear last time?

"Just. Shut. Up." He massaged the space between his eyes.

"Just."

He fell dangerously silent.

Barney stopped and Niobe could hear Figaro's heart beating. After a few seconds of strained silence, she gently laid her hands on the young fool's shoulders.

"Shh shh," she whispered as she slowly backed them both out of the room.

"That's it, shhh...."

"Am I fired?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth as soon as they were out the door.

"Sorry, kid. You're not that lucky."

fin