15 December 2011
Just after 8 PM

It had been raining when he'd gone into the Ministry early that morning, and raining when he left, long after the sun had set.  Now that the paperwork from the full moon had been mostly wrapped up, most of the Capture Unit was planning to take the next day off.  Kurby had spent the last few hours wrapping things up and making sure he had what he needed from the other WCU members, and then had buried himself in going over the notes from Harper Graves one last time before the trial in the morning.

He'd finally run out of excuses to keep himself busy, but he felt too antsy to go back to his flat.  Instead, he'd grabbed his cloak and hit the street, determined to wander.

There was one particular bar in Diagon Alley that Kurby had studiously avoided since it had opened nearly a year ago.  Death & Co. had become a popular hangout for his coworkers on Level Four, but he had curtly refused any invitation to go drinking there after work.  There were some bridges that he didn't need to try and cross again, and some wounds that took longer than most to stop feeling so raw.

But tonight, somehow, he found himself standing in front of it, looking up at the bar's dilapidated exterior.  Daring himself  to go inside it prompted a different sort of adrenaline rush than picking fights with wandless ex-Azzies or dumping Nate Briggs in a rubbish bin. 

He regarded the exterior for a moment, his face carefully expressionless, and then went in.

Inside, the bar was dark, but there was a comfortable level of chatter from the Thursday night crowd.  A small group appeared to be gathered around one of the billiard tables, letting out a roar as something exploded.  Kurby carefully made his way to the counter and grabbed a stool to sit on, studiously avoiding looking around too closely or making eye contact with anyone.  He didn't even know if she'd be actually working tonight.

Silently, he crossed his arms and began to examine the tap handles, as on edge as if he'd just walked into a room full of werewolves right before the full moon.

Margo had spent a good portion of the day arguing with Dorsey about how they did not need a Christmas tree in the bar.  It wasn’t that kind of place and they didn’t cater to a crowd that really embraced the… touchy-feely holiday stuff.  Honestly, she’d be open on Christmas day and anyone in a bar on Christmas probably wasn’t going to want to stare at a tree. 

It was probably an unfair advantage that Margo owned the bar and as a result, no Christmas tree would make its way onto her premises.  Unfortunately, Margo had obviously only emphatically vetoed a tree.

So now, on the corner of the bar by the way, in its own pot, was a Christmas cactus..  “It’s not a tree,” Dorsey had chirped and Margo, for all of the things she wanted to say, found herself speechless.  The Christmas cactus was not going anywhere. 

It wasn’t the only thing out of place in the bar tonight.  She came out of the backroom with replacement bottles of firewhiskey in her hands - some of the bottles were looking low and for all of her stumbling blocks in getting into the hang of running a business, by now, with the one year anniversary of its opening coming up, Margo actually was getting the hang of it.  And becoming successful.  What a novel experience. 

So, imagine her surprise when she went to put those bottles in the well only to see the gruff face of someone she had not seen since she left the Ministry.  Thoughts had obviously crossed her mind, but Margo wasn’t one to apologize, especially when she didn’t feel she did anything to warrant that - and even more to the point, when she was the one who had almost died again and was greeted with radio silence.

What was he doing here then? 

Whatever the case, Margo ran this bar and she hardly denied people service, even if they were massive assholes who didn’t ask if you were okay after you almost died - even if the last time you’d really spoken before that was a huge fight.  (Wasn’t it always with them?) Grabbing a pint glass, some things you just couldn’t forget and she put it under the tap she knew was closest to what he had been drinking when they were… whatever they were. 

Lifting her head and fixing her posture, Margo strolled over - because she was going to be confident dammit.  “I think you’ll like this one,” she informed him.  The casual tone of her voice and the faint smile on her face did not go with a first time seeing one another in over a year, but hey, when was Margo ever appropriate for an occasion?

Kurby had been in the process of reading the tap handles for the fourth time when a drink found its way to him.  Silently, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised, and took a moment to examine the one-legged, now one-armed bartender.

It had been...a while.  The last time that he'd really talked to Margo Amherst had been the night when they'd both ended up drunk in her flat, when he'd said something incredibly stupid and she'd laughed in his face.[1]  Since then, they'd run into each other once or twice -- once with the Dementors outside St. Mungo's, a couple of times at the Ministry -- but he'd gotten better about studiously avoiding her, and everything had just...faded away.  He'd heard second-hand that she'd been caught up in the Leaky Cauldron explosion, but it had been a couple of weeks after it had happened and at that point, everything had still felt too raw to try and mend it.

They hadn't been anything, not really.  Amherst was friends with his sister Rosheen, and she'd taken it upon herself to occasionally drag him out for drinks.  And just as occasionally, one of them would drag the other back from drinks.  But that was it.  Their interactions hadn't been an obligation.  They'd just happened to end up in the same place at similar points in time, over and over again.

He picked up the pint of beer, dark eyes still fixed on the witch, and raised it to take a sip.  If nothing else, at least Amherst still knew her alcohol.  Serving drinks probably played better to her talents than trying not to set Ministry paperwork on fire.

Kurby shrugged as nonchalantly as he possibly could and set the pint glass down again. Despite the alcohol, his throat felt dry, and he felt more uneasy than he had any right to be when he hadn't had a drink yet. 

"It's alright," he said shortly.  Eye contact was getting too uncomfortable, so he let his gaze drift over the room again.  "Nice, uh, bar.  It looks like your kind of drink list."

1.	16 January, 2010 - Good Idea, Bad Idea

“Now I know you’re a liar, that’s a bloody good bitters,” Margo scoffed at his assessment.  She was not going to let herself be cowed by eye contact or his surly scowl.  She knew that scowl all too well and it had never succeeded in anything but getting a rise out of Margo Amherst.  Even a year removed with so many things being different, some habits were hard to break. 

He was right though.  This was definitely her kind of place and her kind of drink list - because it was hers.  She’d finally really settled into the reality that she wasn’t a world travelling dragon adventurer anymore.  And, honestly, it was a much better job than working in the offices of the ministry.  Sometimes she couldn’t even believe she had tried to make that work for so long. 

But, things changed and big events had their way of changing people.  Margo was certainly different.  Still carefree, still lackadaisical in all the best ways, but she was the boss here and actually really enjoyed it.  “It’s a collaborative project,” she explained, “my bartenders are the best.”  An entirely true statement. 

“I’m surprised to see you here though,” Margo finally pointed out because he worked on level four and hadn’t bothered to show up to any of the events or after work drinking that their previously shared colleagues did, so she knew that was on purpose.  “We don’t get much of the Witch Weekly crowd here, so I guess it’s not a date night?” she raised her eyebrows in question.  It wasn’t a secret that Kurby had started seeing (was it seeing? She didn’t really know) an editor for that magazine, which suited him perfectly because every time they’d appeared in it he had almost stroked out.  Karma was a thing, wasn’t it? 

Besides, it wasn’t like she cared.  She’d been dating Nate for a while.  Like really dating.  With meeting parents and meeting his kid - and giving Callie the ugliest kitten on Earth (suitably named Princess Grandma).  And even their separation had been amicable.  Worlds away from whatever had been with Kurby (which was nothing because they were nothing) - but still, the point was, Margo had moved on.  This was just… idle chit chat, since Kurby was in her bar and it was relatively slow for a Thursday night so she had some time to kill. 

Back at the Ministry, Amherst had never seemed like she fit.  She'd always been awkward and a little clumsy, setting him on fire one minute and putting it out with a poorly-aimed jet of water to his face the next.[1]  He knew she'd never been happy about being sentenced to death by paperwork after losing her leg, and a lot of the time, it seemed as if her carefree attitude was in direct response to the drudgery all around her.

But here, even with the more recent addition of a silver hand, Amherst seemed like she fit.  She seemed comfortable and confident, in command of her space and not phased at all by him showing up uninvited.  Despite the fact that he was still decidedly unsure if dropping in and inserting himself into her night had been a good idea -- judging by the way that his stomach was painfully knotted, it probably wasn't -- it was nice to see her happy.

The mention of Witch Weekly made him blanch.  Kurby grimaced, immediately dropping his gaze as his face heated up.  Of course some idiot from Level Four would decide to discuss that here.

"I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about.  Billiard tables and light-up cactuses are right up their alley."  He shot her a quick grin, as if to demonstrate how un-phased and unaffected he was by this entire discussion.  "Better be careful how much further you go with the black-and-edgy decor, or you'll be overrun with swoonin' house-witches lookin' for inspiration to do up their parlors."

1.	16 January 2009 - Mission Accepted, Target Acquired, Going In

Even though Kurby pretended he was completely okay, Margo saw it.  She saw the way he looked down and his cheeks darkened.  But, he didn't seem to get mad.  This threw a wrench in things.  Was Kurby also a more mature adult in a relationship he didn't deny at every turn? Not that they had been in a relationship like that.

That was probably where the resistance came from.  Made sense.  Well, that was cool. Kurby Bagnold had moved on and could make jokes about it. Super cool.  Okay.

Leaning her good hand against the spill guard on the bar, Margo tossed her hair over her shoulder - completely casual- and grinned easily because that's what she was good at. Clearing her throat, she shook her head at his assessment. 

“If more housewitches embraced grunge, I'd make a better housewitch,” she winked at him and grabbed two shot glasses from under the counter.  Flipping them easily, she set them together and grabbed that new bottle of Ogden's and poured the two.  Somethings about Margo didn't change and while she no longer drank until she blacked out (most of the time), this was reason for a shot wasn't it? She pushed one toward Kurby and lifted the glass with a little tilt.  “To housewitches?” She laughed a little and tilted her head back so the liquid could slide right down.

Smacking her lips while she slammed the glass back down against the wood. “It's on the house,” she gestured to the shot she pushed toward him. “Gotta christen the bottle with someone - bad luck, all that jazz.” Not completely true, but whatever.  She would start her own thing. 

The werewolf hunter flashed her a fierce grin and picked up the proffered shot glass, tilting it towards her in a half-salute. 

"Sláinte," he replied, and then tossed it back.

The firewhiskey burned his throat on the way down, hot and strong.  It was immediately warming, even if the combination of heat and alcohol stung a little.  Shaking his head to clear it, Kurby slid the shot glass back across the counter to the bartender, and then retrieved his beer.

This was how most nights had started: Amherst buying him one shot, then another, and then things took a turn from there.  Three years ago when they'd been regularly drinking together, his wallet often couldn't keep up with the pace of the former dragon researcher's nights out.  Amherst's pureblooded family had never lacked for money, and she'd always been generous with it, so he'd kept drinking with her.  He'd always suspected that her job at the Ministry had been more for something to do than because she really needed the paycheck.

And now here she was, still handing out shots like sweets except this time, she was on the opposite side of the bar.  Kurby smirked back at her as he settled onto the bar stool, leaning his right elbow on the counter.  Being able to slip back into banter made the knot in his stomach start to settle, making this feel less like an incredibly stupid decision and more like the old days, one of their typical nights out.

"Well, I hardly want to be responsible for bringin' bad luck on your fine establishment," he countered nicely, lifting the pint glass to take a sip.  "Any time you need to christen a new bottle, Amherst, you know where to find me."