outfit

“Dom! It’s Laney. Open the door.” The demand echoed through the desolate corridor surrounding the flat. Laney furrowed a brow at the perfectly still safeguard, dead-bolted, and undoubtedly charmed to cause pain to whichever unfortunate soul thought of trespassing. An unfortunate soul who doesn’t read the papers, thought Laney.

She lifted her arm again, bringing it down, elbow bent, forearm splayed sideways, with a wondrous crash against the cool and barricaded entrance to Dom’s dwelling. Leaning toward the eye hole, through which she could obviously see nothing, she nevertheless winked and attempted to muster x-ray vision.

“I’m stopping in to say hello...” And drag him out for food and snow-caked practice. “But it’s freezing out here! Open the bloody door or I’ll summon my broom and climb through your window. You’d better not be in your skivvies, you big troll.”

Not that most women would have minded seeing that ‘troll’ in his foundation. Not that Laney even thought him a troll to begin with. It was simply an endearing use of the word-- a way to proclaim her affectionate annoyance at him for not training the door to recognize her presence. Like a dog. Where the hell was he, anyway? It was past one on a Saturday, so he couldn’t have been at practice, and there was no way he was still sleeping.

(Alright, the latter was possible. Laney often slept well into the afternoon.)

Wrapping her arms around herself, she resisted the urge to pull out a cigarette for warmth’s sake. They weren’t particularly warming, but to Laney’s mind, they did the trick. Still, with luck, her admirable mentor would show his face and agree to lunch and a bit of practice.

Dominik was indeed asleep when the clamor of banging arrived at his door.  It took him a few minutes of moaning and groaning and holding a pillow over his head before he finally gave in, sat on the edge of his bed and held his head.  Then he pushed off, picked his wand up off the dresser, and headed for the door.  But then, like a mind-reader, she begged a further delay.

"You’d better not be in your skivvies, you big troll."

Dom stopped in the middle of the room, unbelieving, and sent a rude gesture in the way of the barricade before turning back to fetch pants.  He pulled on some black cords and did his belt, then shuffled over to the door and undid the seven locks and bolts with a bit of spellwork.  At first he only opened up enough to lean against the door frame and squint at her moodily.  His dark eyebrows inclined despite his furrowed brow and he looked to be quite annoyed.  He half-sighed, half-groaned, then held the door open for her and moved aside, tucking his wand into his pocket. 

"Come on in then," he said, yawning as he moved away.  He rubbed his face and shook his hair up with both hands and started for the kitchen a bit sluggishly, looking over his shoulder at her as he advanced. 

"You want some coffee, Lo-rraine?"   

It was dark inside the flat with the heavy curtains drawn closed, and the whole place was decked out in black and grey tones, but it was worlds warmer than the hallway.  There weren't any doors between rooms besides an open doorway to the kitchen on the left side of his low-laying bed.  The main room was a backwards L-shape and consisted of a small library, den, study and bedroom all wrapped up into one.  By the leather chair on the floor there was a slew of parchment paper covered in charcoal drawings of a woman with fluffy dreads.  The kitchen lacked all the normal Muggle appliances of course and was, like the rest of the flat, a bit Victorian-Gothic in style with a modern twist. 

Dominik set the French press to work with magic and leaned against the kitchen counter, blinking heavily to wash the sleep out of his eyes.  His breath could have set fire to a small village.

"What brings you here?  What -- time is it?"

Folding her arms, Laney leaned against the wall by the door and waited. She ticked off the seconds in her head, like a countdown to the starting whistle of a death match. Play to kill. It had been her father’s only word of advice when his wayward Pureblood daughter had traded Trophy Wife Training for a broom and mud-caked lace-up boots.

The clicks clicked, one, two, three, and so forth, until Laney heard the last of seven clicks and spotted a pair of dark, roaming eyes. She tried to look him up and down, but it was impossible; he had the advantage of being indoors, in the dark, with 80 percent of a deadbolt door guarding his sleepy form.

“Don’t look so happy to see me, sugar. I might melt.” She passed through the door, offering a genuine, single-dimpled smile as her eyes adjusted to the indoors. She fell smoothly on the back of the door, pressing it closed and hearing one of the locks automatically jam into place.

She looked around a moment, before settling in on him. Studying his form, tired limbs, pillow-mussed hair, the perpetual dishevelment of bachelordom that was essential before sunset. And then made her candid analysis, one Healer Laney. “You look like you were beat over the head with a bat, Dom.”

The young woman plopped herself down onto a leather coach, pointing her wand at the drapery and daring to splice a bit of light through their ironclad shadow. Wintry sun poured through the single crack like water through a hole in a boat. She winced, her eyes having only just adjusted to the dark of Dominik’s place. Admittedly, she liked his dusky decor.

Letting the curtains fall closed with a silent wave of her wand, she pressed her back more comfortably into the chair and blinked to adjust once more to the lack of lighting. Her tawny gaze fell on the floor bear her boots, and she moved her ankles gingerly to peer over the drawings.

“Oh bloody...” The last syllable, a four-letter word, lingered on her tongue and died.


She looked up, swiping a paw at rusty brown hair, which was growing into her face like weeds. “Only if it’s spiked, Dom-inik,” she called, emphasizing the last half of his name to show her gratitude (or lack thereof) at being referred to by her Pureblood name. It was fine and all, but she hadn’t chose it or anything. And she was quite girly enough to pull it off, though it did have a certain... something... which she liked about it. Still, if her step-mum insisted on calling her by it, then she refused to answer to it.

“Is that that witch who--” She bent down, tracing a long, elegant finger over the drawings. Squinting, she recognized the hair. And then the face. Her russet eyes broadened again, this time with enlightenment. “Writes for the Prophet?”

Laney might have been a young up-and-comer compared to her veteran mentor, whose wild child, wifeless days were not numbered, but boundless. But she knew the rules. And she knew Dom well enough to know that if he was drawing women, it couldn’t be healthy.

“You know what they say about newspapermen-- and women.” She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the artwork. It was quite nice, really. Which was just plain disturbing. “Sleeping with a journo? You might as well prepare the knot on your own gallow.”

Still, he’d survived many a tabloid dramas. Surely laying one of the perpetuators would only work in his favor. Until she realized he was a bit overbearing, if oddly lovable.

Laughing in a breathy, quiet manner, she shook her head, and stood up. Wandering into the kitchen, she came to a halt and leaned into the threshold, her shoulder pressed into the entryway’s detail. She crossed her legs and slung a brow upward. It disappeared into her hair. “I thought I was bad. It’s past breakfast and lunch. Which is why I’m hoping that coffee is Irish.” She nodded toward the fancy press.

“I wanted to see if you wanted to get out and practice. Preferably before sunset.” She glanced him up and down yet again. “You look like you could use a little vitamin D... and someone to talk to beside your pillow.” It had to be said. She was doing him a favor. "What'd she do to you, anyway?"

Leaning against the counter's edge just beyond the circular opening to the kitchen, Dominik was hunched forward rubbing his face.  Both hands plunged into the tumbled mass of black hair atop his head, his eyes pressed closed and he was frowning like a mopey bairn.  All of this prevented his noticing that dear Laney was in the process of footing through his drawings from the night before -- ones that he hadn't gotten around to shredding yet, because he'd gone directly from that treasured masochistic activity to the treasured realm of hard sleep. 

Boiling water poured itself into the French press and a long spoon levitated to stir the grinds without his putting forth any effort whatsoever.

Dominik's hands slid slowly down his face, his eyes opening to stare absently as bits of recognition reached him over the threshold of half sleep.  She was referring to Niobe, to his rendition of Niobe he'd left on the floor.  Numbers four hundred and eighteen through twenty-three, though he wouldn't know it.  Dominik was too tired to care at the moment, or at least too tired to do anything about it but sink a little against the cold counter as he was reminded of the dire gloom that was his waking life.  He sighed heavily. 

Not only would he prepare the knot on his own gallow, he would stick his head into the trap like an idiot if Niobe was on the other side posed for a kiss like some desert mirage.  But not before he'd dug his grave, came a cropper, made a song and dance about it, had his cake and ate it too.  Poor Dominik was a walking dead man, setting his own trap.  It was only too true.  But he knew the real truth; he got more bad press from Niobe when he wasn't in her sock drawer.  When they were together the worst that it got was with her trying to elevate him to a more respectable level of celebrity.  Which never worked because Dominik would always inevitably do something crass to mess it up, and she didn't really want a respectable boyfriend anyway.  But it was always cute, and he'd convinced himself he needed her frenzied chaotic news reporter ways.  Her adorable obsessions and her scathing, holier-than-thou remarks.

He took in Laney's assessment without a fight and watched her come in with a subtle, late-halting in-breath.  The screen on the French press squished the coffee grinds down and worked itself into place before pouring two cups.  Dominik was still shirtless, tattoos winding up his arms and the fainter scar of the dark mark exposed as usual.  His gaze lingered a while on Laney's attractive, hard-angled face; he was secretly grateful for her company.  It saved him from a depressing morning routine of burning old parchment and ruminating over ways to see Niobe.

"A'righ," he said groggily, walking forward a few steps with his fingers pressed into his eyes like a man about to take action.  "Let's see.  I don't have any sugar.  ...Or creme."  He stopped and turned back around, dropping his hands and giving her a lazy sort of smile.  He held up a hand for pause.  "Irish whiskey though, I have Irish whiskey." 

He yawned, shuffled over to go through the fifteen or so bottles cluttering the counter-top, and subsequently poured the equivalent of two shots into each of their mugs.  He took them both up and handed her one, turning to go into the main room for a seat.  He snickered at her clever commentary and moaned his mock discomfort.

"Yeah, we can do that," he said.  "Let me wake up a bit, but yeah."   He was in for the idea of athletic practice with Laney, way in; she could play hard and actually brighten up his life with her crazy wild child clever streak.  Might take his mind off things.  Dom pushed the drawings away with his bare feet, banging them up a bit in the process and not seeming to really care.  He sat on the couch and let his head fall back, his eyes scanning the ceiling as he sought out words, jaw dropped open in lazy countenance.  After a moment he lifted back up and shook out his wild mane.

Tired, grateful, whiskeyed, coffeed, Dominik felt up to taking her offer for a talk.  He'd secretly been hoping for some girl advice as of late.  He was racing flobberworms in the cabbage patch again.

"I'm mad for her, Laney," said Dominik finally, a bit absently.  "Bloody mad for her.  But she's like a bloody puzzle.  She's the ticket.  She's the ticket for sure, but --"  Dominik hissed a little on his inhale as though terribly unsure of the ground he walked on.  He took a sip of his coffee with knotted brow. 

"What's it mean -- when a woman says for you to use your head -- if you want more 'an a rough and tumble.  What does that even mean, use your head.  Use it how, and for what.  She's like a bloody puzzle."  He shook his head and drank again, his brow lifting.  This jigsaw was obviously one he'd been working on a while.  Dom's little project.  Trying to work out the pieces by stalking his little rough and tumble buddy.  Bloody hell, it wasn't working.  Maybe he needed to do something drastic to get her attention.

Laney quirked a brow. “I’ll take it straight up, then. Bitter... just like my lovely host.” She winked, though doubted he could see it from across the room, in the dusky lighting.

Accepting the bold brew, she studied his profile, silently agreeing to let him wake up a bit. It was the least she could do before she told him that their pre-lunch appetizer (or post-lunch dessert) would include smacking bludgers and quaffles around in the snow. Oops.

She waited for him to speak, sensing a dam waiting to burst as he rubbed away the last few bits of sleep and surrendered to caffeine and liquid courage.

“Mad for her or not, Dom, the public thinks you’re just mad enough to still be a brilliant beater...” She paused. He seemed to be utterly hopeless. Laney felt a pang of guilt, staring at him after voicing a none-too-sensitive, quick-tongued opinion. And yet, the woman was bad news. She was a creator of news, even worse. She could ruin him. Her connections, her very core... journos weren’t humans. The fake morals they’d deluded themselves into believing... Laney almost cringed right there. Instead she reached out and gripped his shoulder steadily.

“But, if you like her-- if you love her--” She thought over her words more carefully now, deciding a spit-fire, cheeky tongue was not what her moody friend needed. Whiskey could only get one so far. She took a sip of her own whiskey-laced coffee. “You have to take that chance, right? You only live once.” Why not live fast and live hard?

“Women don’t have knobs to think with, Dom, that’s what she means. We’re craftier than you.” She tilted her head, studying him closer yet, smirking as she tugged him into the universal boat of ‘you,’ the collective man. “But you’re smart. You know you are. I know you are. She obviously does, too, or she wouldn’t have bothered to insult you.”

Finally, the young woman let go of his shoulder. “Come on, grab your coat. Some practice will clear your head before we eat.” She pushed herself from the couch, and took another deep sip, draining the mug in one swift go.

“If you want my advice?” Her back was to him. She turned to appraise him. She looked down, peering with keen, suspicious eyes. “Don’t think of her as a puzzle. That just aids her in any silly, ulterior journalist motives she might have. And insults her at the same time.” She stopped herself before she could insult the woman. “Look, treat her intimately, not like a trophy you’re trying to win. But intimate doesn’t mean you should stifle her. And she shouldn’t stifle you. She needs to get off her moral high broom and practice what she preeches. Tell her to leave her quill at home if she wants you. Tell her to keep work and the men she beds separate. Make her really want you, not the other way around.” Was it sinking in? Laney paused again. “Make her stir crazy for you, Dom. You’re not a Chaser.” Women. They wanted to be wanted. Laney knew. She was one of them. But she also knew how to play like a man, rough, and dirty, and no strings attached. Dom wanted something in the middle. He wanted adulthood... the part of adulthood that came long after growth spurts and graduation and gross income. A relationship. He was not a front page article, and this woman scrubbed over parchment in charcoal was not a puzzle. Of course, Laney was taking huge leaps of suspicion in assuming the worst-- that this writer was up to no good, that she was not above bedding a star beater to sell newspapers and tabloids. “It’s you or the story. It can’t be both. She can’t just use you, and you can’t just solve her or collect her. That’s using your head, Dom.”