11 December 2011
9am Sunday morning
McBoid Farm

Even though he'd found the couch around two or three in the morning, he didn't think he properly fell asleep until well after that. Finishing off the vodka had helped in the end. Booze will knock you out but the sleep is never as restful. His mind was keeping him alert and awake in the unfamiliar space waiting for a werewolf or Bagnold or the waxed man to appear.  The slumber that found him was forgetful so that when he woke up he didn't notice he wasn't in his own rickety bed, not at first.

He shifted around on the couch a little, looking for his wand, groping for the clock he expected on a side table. Finding neither he, opened his eyes.

Figaro sucked in a breath of air and grabbed at the blanket; there was a ruggedly handsome wizard with green eyes staring at him from the kitchen table. Fig blinked hard and fully remembered where he was. Moira's cottage, her house on her farm. That she shared with her, oh right, her father and uncle. Which one was watching him sleep? Figaro worked his way up to sitting, scratching the sleep from his hair and patting around for his shirt. Not finding it, he just adjusted the hand-crocheted blanket around his shoulders and smiled sleepily at, well, it would have to be Mr. McBoid.

"Hi," he said hoarsely.

Sleeping in was a wonderful way to start the week. When Duncan first began helping out and working on the farm 13 years before he had worked to his old schedule from the Ministry, though over time that schedule slipped away. Then he started his other 'job', began taking more business trips, and worked when he wanted to. Everything that needed doing was always taken care of, though, so Angus had no reason to gripe at him about it.

Today, however, was a little different. Moira had taken an extra shift when she should have been off, to his understanding she would be working every day for the rest of the month at least. Another thing was the young lad asleep on their couch. Duncan thought he had heard another person when Moira arrived home late last night.

Duncan went through his usual morning routine. He worked out, took a shower, then went to get breakfast. Still the surprise guest was asleep. Angus had let the boy be when he went out to work earlier, likely when Moira had, so he sat himself down at the table and ate on his breakfast. Staring at the lad the whole time.

Finally, there was movement. Patiently he waited while their guest got his bearings. Once he had, it was time to play. "Good morning!" Duncan intentionally let his voice fill the room. He had seen the empty bottle of vodka on the corner of the couch and it was already 9am.

He took one of the last few bites of his breakfast and considered the now awake boy on their couch. "If you don't mind me askin', lad, who are ye?"

The booming voice caused the not quite awake Figaro to visibly wince, but he did attempt a smile.

"Moira. No. Fig. Figaro. I'm Moira's Figaro. Friend."

Oh my god. He could taste the train wreck in his mouth. He took another look at the McBoid at the table. Even though he was sitting, Figaro could tell he was a tall man who could toss him like a caber in a blink. Hopefully not, if Moira's gentle nature was anything to go by.

"I'm sorry, is Moira here?"

The follow up questions were beginning to congeal such as, did she happen to mention what they were up to last night? Or if a certain werewolf hunter had been by? Also, who are you? Also, where are my pants?

Duncan considered the boy again. Figaro. He'd heard that name before. Then it struck him. This was the Sellaphix lad that had managed to drag Moira out on the town. That helped explained a few things.

"Uh-huh. Well, Moira's friend Figaro, she left for work just over two hours ago. Though it appears she made extra for breakfast so you could still have something to eat." His voice was back to normal speaking level now.

Seeing him glance around, still looking lost, Duncan finished off his food. "Your trousers are a short distance behind the couch. Not sure I want to know how.

I'm Duncan, by the way. Moira's uncle." Moira's somewhat protective uncle, in spite of his attempts to let her be. He had helped teach her to be self-sufficient, make her own decisions, and think things through. As such, he trusted her choice on letting this teenager sleep on the couch. Did he have to toss his trousers off though?

Right, Moira had said something about having to work. This was uncle Duncan. There was food. Things were starting to make sense. And, if Duncan didn't know who he was that was a good sign Moira hadn't told any funny tales of mudlarking on the Thames or funny glowing coins or werewolves in the park.

And his trousers!

"Cheers," Fig lit up, not worried that Duncan had read his mind concerning his missing clothes. He held the blanket around him as he got up and shuffled around the back of the sofa. He regarded the mudstained garment a moment before sliding them on. His shirt he spotted next, dropped free to the floor probably having been tangled in the afghan.

"I got hot," he explained. Could have been that. Or he was buzzed and fell into old habits. Or both.

Now that he was up, he saw his jacket was hung up over his shoes by the door; not his doing. Moira, he guessed, but maybe Duncan. Now clothed, Figaro joined Duncan. He rested his elbows on the table and yawned.

"Moira said she had an uncle," he said. "Nice to meet you."

Duncan couldn't judge the boy on his sleeping habits. He preferred sleeping nude as well but generally in the confines of his own bed. Not at someone else's house, drunk or not. Could have been worse. He might have slept somewhere other than the couch.

Watching him join, the Scotsman decided to give the lad breakfast details. "Nice to meet you, too. Food's on the stove, plate's beside it. Glasses are in the far right cabinet. We've got coffee, water, juice, or goat's milk." They were supposed to be getting a cow sometime the next week, once the calf was ready to be separated. "Generally the last one to eat does the dishes."

His last statement was only partially true. Breakfast was normally his shift, lunch they did their own, and supper-time was Angus. Moira did the dishes on the rare occasion she didn't cook.

Glanced over the state of Figaro's clothes Duncan raised an eyebrow. "What were you doing last night to get so muddy?" If his guess was right, asking the lad questions would be nothing like asking Moira.

If Figaro learned anything properly it was respecting his elders. Well, most of the time. From what Moira said, she was practically raised by Duncan so he was as good as a parent-of-a-friend. So he was grateful to be properly invited to eat; he stood up and shuffled to the hob and found a skillet of a breakfast hash. He saw potatoes, tomatoes, sausage, and eggs all missed together with what looked like fresh herbs. Bless Moira. Bless her responsible adult who took care of the idiot men in her life. Present company most definitely included.

Knowing he was last to eat, he loaded up the plate. He might have expected that questions would quickly arise regarding he and Moira's whereabouts last night. Clearly Moira had escaped questioning and Figaro's trousers had betrayed them. "Uh, yeah, you know. Stuff..." he said eloquently.

Back at the table he tucked in (avoiding the sausage). Knowing his initial response would probably not go uninspected, he tried to elaborate without damning them both. Especially after all the shit he'd given Moira for the off chance she'd give it away to Kurby.

Gaze focused on his food, Figaro said as casually as he could, "mucking about by the river. London. We weren't there too long." Full moon and all.

Duncan waited patiently for an elaboration on what Figaro meant by 'stuff'. He didn't ask for more information. He didn't say anything at all, simply expecting the boy to followup. Disappointment never came.

Of course, Figaro didn't look up at him during any part of his answer. Sign of a guilty conscience? The lad didn't seem to be the shy type.

"Bit of a strange time to be playing by a river, don't you think? Find anything interesting?"

Perhaps he was having a little too much fun with this already. This kind of chance was a rarity, though, and he didn't intend to waste it. After all, it was entirely possible he'd hear the tale from Moira if she told that horse of hers.

Moving to take a drink of his coffee but finding it empty, Duncan frowned. Not realizing he had drank it so quick he got up to make another. He glanced back having noticed Figaro didn't get a drink, "Not thirsty?"

"Coffee'd be great," Figaro said with his mouth full and chanced a glance at Duncan's back. "Cream if you've got it."

Uncle Duncan appeared to consider Moira and Fig's full moon caper to be benign breakfast conversation, which was lovely and inconvenient. He did know last night was a full moon didn't he? The direwolves business was all over the paper. Figaro now began to suspect Duncan was toying with him. Figaro narrowed his eyes. Challenge accepted.

"A broken bottle," he answered and then quickly pivoted to, "So you're a farmer? That's brilliant. Taking care of the winged horses and all that. You must have loads of stories. You know Moira," he suddenly barked with awkward laughter, "not much of a talker is she?"

He took the offered coffee and more or less dove into it. Maybe he could eat fast and evade.

Nodding, Duncan got a second cup down and poured them both a coffee, adding some creamer into Figaro's while listening to him talk.

"I have a few. I don't see what's so special about a broken bottle, though. I have at least one of those in my room." Now he was trying to divert the conversation. He needed more practice.

"What was so interesting about it? And if you weren't at the river long where'd you go after that? Coming in after one in the morning on a work night's not normal." Not normal for Moira, anyway. He had been horrible about getting home at a decent time when he left Hogwarts.

Sitting back at the table he gave the Sellaphix lad his coffee and smiled, offering an explanation, "I'm a light sleeper." Some old habits died hard, even if sleeping light was one he preferred to keep.

Figaro looked up from the breakfast. What was this? Old Man McBoid here was clearly not just small-talking. Is this why Moira was so good at dodging questions, even the easy ones, because she was constantly fending off her nosy Uncle's badgering. He'd deftly brushed off Figaro's attempt to change the subject and was picking his argument apart like he was in a Level Two interrogation room, which he knew all about now.

"Why are you asking so many questions? We're not together if that's what you're hunting for."

He suddenly let his fork drop, sat back and crossed his arms.

"How do I even know you're who you say you are, huh? We didn't break any laws. I don't owe you anything, do I?"

It was a gamble, sure, but there was no payoff to trying to be wily. There just wasn't a way to spin his tale without giving away more than he wanted to, which he already had.

Duncan looked over at Figaro's sudden show of bravado and raised an eyebrow. Watching him he took a slow drink of his coffee. Just long enough to make him more uncomfortable and reassure the lad he wasn't intimidated in the least.

"So are you saying you wouldn't ask any questions if you found a stranger asleep naked on your couch." He let that question hang for a moment.

"I'm not part of the ministry anymore so dealing with broken laws of any kind isn't part of my day to day. As for who I am, do you really think anyone would be able to come into this house uninvited?"  Not a chance, he made sure of it. Wards were on Moira's new cottage too. He'd gone over them with her when he made them.

For his last question, "I don't know. Do you?" Duncan took another drink.

Figaro sipped his own coffee slowly.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'.  He didn't owe Moira's funny uncle a thing. Other than doing the washing up. Which he would do. Because he was a good house guest. Other than yakking in the yard. But that couldn't be helped. It had been a tense situation.

Figaro mimicked Duncan's hanging pause, doing a far better job keeping his tongue in his head since the last time he was subjected to questioning. His mum would be proud if she didn't know any of the details. At least Uncle Duncan wasn't with the government.

"Just two kids having a laugh. All you need to know." Slurrrrrp.

"Having a laugh? You sure you know Moira?" He finished his coffee and again frowned at the empty cup. Setting it down on the table he looked back to Figaro.

"Knowing Moira as I do, she likely would only be out that late if she was worried about someone. If it's not regarding their general well-being then there's a good chance some kind of danger might be involved." As he spoke he watched Sellaphix for any signs of distress or that he'd hit a nerve.

"I know she can handle and take care of herself, she's a skilled young witch. The problem is she would rather be harmed protecting a friend than letting said friend suffer whatever injury or fate, and if anything were to happen to her there'd be the devil to pay." Duncan made sure his statement and tone were non-threatening, no warning involved beyond the fact itself. He didn't want the lad to feel like he was on trial or being accused of anything. He just wanted to make Sellaphix think a little bit.

Figaro tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve, so when Duncan changed tack Figaro took notice. Duncan's tone was still conversational, still hospitable, but the words carried enough weight on their own. Figaro struggled with, ahem, accountability; he always had. He expected to mess up, he expected to take his licks, but it never seemed to stop there. People seemed to queue up for their own chance to drive the point home over and over. Drove him up the wall. It was hard to sustain penitence when he assumed one apology would be enough. A frown had crept on his face.

Then the corner of his mouth turned up. Moira knew exactly what she was doing when she left him to sleep in this morning. This family had a routine and she had to know Figaro would meet her uncle.

"Well, we're both fine. And if Moira wants to tell you about last night, she can. Not about to go ratting anyone out to anyone's uncle." Moira had made the same promise, to keep the details of their evening safe from Kurby Bagnold. Because it was over. And they were fine.

The plate sand forks clinked together as Figaro gathered up his and Duncan's dishes and took them to the sink. He had to go get his wand where it had been left tidy in his jacket pocket, and when he returned he started washing up. 'Oh ho, so you do know the spell for that,' he heard his dad's voice in his head.