London.  Just after 20h00.

There was no doubt that the holidays were in the air.  Every warmly lit window that he passed as he made his way down the cold, bitten street was like a glimpse into a whirlwind of light and color.  Primly decorated trees, strains of cheery music, muffled peals of laughter and murmurs from distant conversations drifted in and out of his awareness, offering tantalizing hints and wisps of lives that seemed like they were separated behind some looking glass.

The Sunday before Christmas was always one of the chosen days for celebration.  Jonas had passed so many parties on his way from the Underground that he couldn't help but dryly marvel that there was anyone left to attend them at all.  Family gatherings; friends and housemates; even a few that were clearly Those Blokes From The Office, which were always obvious because the people attending tended to stand far too close to the door and laugh a little too loudly after too much to drink.  He tried to pick out which were which as he limped his way down the pavement.  His leg ached badly; a day in Hogsmeade followed by a long evening running errands had done him in, and was hardly helped by his stubborn insistence on climbing five flights of stairs as he'd been alighting from the Underground instead of taking the suggested lift so that he could prove, once and for all, that he did not need a cane.  At least if anyone had been watching, he would have made his point.

The block of flats stood apart from the other buildings on the street.  It didn't manage to look uninviting so much as unremarkable, undistinguished, a perfectly respectable place of habitation for any individual who felt that respectability was the best quality worth having.  If it had been a person, if Jonas had been trying to profile it, he would have pegged it as introverted, completely uninterested, taken with appearances and putting little energy into anything else.  He didn't have a lot of use for respectable lives.  Anna might be respectable, but he never had been.

Either way, it was clear that there were no holiday parties happening here.  The inhabitants had either travelled elsewhere to celebrate the Christmas season or they had locked themselves inside behind closed curtains; here and there, a lonely light flickered through.  It was like widows keeping watch, though there was no one remaining to stay vigilant for.  Veiled widows, then, turned inwards, with no interest in the lively sea breaking around them.

Judging by the impression that he'd gotten of the building on his first visit - a closed, impenetrable, and unfortunately respectable fortress - he wasn't surprised at the lack of lively comings and goings.  A party would have made getting inside much simpler.  As it was, he still felt certain that he could talk his way in.  Hefting the paper bag against his chest, he pushed open the gate and began the slow walk to the pedestrian entrance of the building.

He was pleased to recognize the same doorman as the last time, though the man did not seem nearly as pleased to see him.  Apparently even their long wait on the stoop in the pouring rain had done nothing to build camaraderie between them.  Jonas didn't let it phase him; he flashed the doorman a crooked grin, putting a hand to his hat in a mock salute.

"Here to see Miss Marian Alridge in 517?" he asked cheerfully.

That did not seem to improve their relationship.  The bloke's eyes narrowed at him, and he stayed firmly in the middle of the entryway, barring admission.  "You expected?"

"Yeah," Jonas replied, his brow furrowing.  "Didn't she tell you?"

He could see the man's mind working.  Deciding if it was worth it to disturb the mysterious lodger who lived in 517, whether he should risk ringing the woman that was so eccentric she probably didn't get electricity, let alone visitors.  Jonas was recognized, but he did not have permission.  But he had been granted permission the last time; trying to force him to acquire it again would just likely cause a headache, and at the time of year when tenants were setting aside money for their Boxing Day tip.  The internal debate could have only one end, but getting there took ages.  For not the first time, the private investigator wished he could hurry things along by waving his hand and proclaiming that these weren't the intruders he was looking for.

Instead, he waited.

The doorman seemed to reach a conclusion.  "Go ahead up, then," he said, voice slightly grudging as he stepped aside to admit entrance.  "You'd better head straight there."

It was what he'd wanted, if a little gruff.  Jonas tossed the man a mock salute and started inside, hefting the bag in his arm.

This time, when there was clearly no one there to see, he decided he could allow the lift instead of the stairs.  Tapping his hand against his leg impatiently, he watched the arrow slowly shift to 1, and then 2 and 3 in its slow arc.  All around him, the lift groaned and creaked, as if this much effort was too much to ask this late in the evening.

The elevator let out a hesitant ding as it reached its destination on the fifth floor.  Jonas gave the device a reassuring pat on the wall and then waited for the door to open.  Gathering the paper bag in the crook of his arm, he stepped into the hallway, moving slowly so as to minimize his limp as he picked the way toward the one familiar door.

When she had hired him on, Tamis Raynor had given him a minimal amount of direction.  Instead, she seemed willing to trust him to carry out his work as he saw fit, which Jonas cheerfully thought was exceedingly trusting and respectful.  Her instructions, indeed, had been only two: that he report in when necessary, and that he refrain from conducting any more nighttime visitations to her own flat. 

Jonas had willingly agreed to both stipulations, and technically, he thought, he had not violated either yet.  That was because technically he was not here for anything resembling work, which meant he was not reporting in; and technically he could likely make a case for it still being the very late evening if he really had to try.  The letter of the agreement had been upheld, and if the Head Auror saw fit to disagree, well, Jonas would happily stand down from the case and leave her to field the eccentricities of Adon Eleor and his investigative prowess all on her own.  (At least Jonas didn't come unannounced down chimneys.)

The door to 517 was shut.  When he listened, he could hear no sound coming from inside.  The private investigator considered for a moment whether knocking was likely to risk life or limb; decided it probably was not, seeing as how 517's inhabitant most likely had to suffer visits from her landlord from time to time; and delivered a brisk, firm rap with the back of his knuckles.  He would have given anything to see Tamis Raynor's expression at the interruption.  At the very least, Jonas hoped that he had made her jump.

"Marian?"  It was informal - probably too informal an address for any listening neighbors.  But Jonas, as nonchalant as he enjoyed acting, was not about to use the other half of the pseudonym tonight.  His presence here tonight was already pushing any luck that he might have. 

"Sorry to creep up on you, but it sounds like your buzzer's down again," he continued through the door, allowing a faint trace of humor to creep into his voice.  Chances were the buzzer had been yanked out of the wall and burned at the fireplace upon Suspicion of Being Muggle.  "You might want to turn the ringer up.  A shame to miss someone important because you don't hear 'em coming, innit?"

Time was said to ease the pain of a memory; dim the physical remembrance until only the recollection of the events themselves remained, experienced as if in a dream.

It was true that time improved endurance, but it was an increased tolerance to the pain rather than an absence. You learned to live with it.

A molten orange glow consumed the center of a plain cut and unremarkably sized sapphire. It was set on an equally undistinguished band of yellow gold that, despite all best efforts, had begun to tarnish from age. It was a modest engagement ring, a typical budget-forced resolution to the more traditionally extravagant varieties. The proposal of a man who’s heart had been larger than his wallet.

The flicker of the fireplace vanished from the stone, leaving it opaque and blue once more as Tamis Raynor discarded it on top of the coffee table.

The distinct absence of cheer inside the socially dismal residential complex suited the tenant in room five hundred seventeen just fine. The twenty-first of December, the Yule of the Yuletide season, never quite struck her as a day to force smiles and suffer through the false pretenses of Goodwill to Man that never seemed to quite outlive the liquor.

 It was not the lack of invites that kept the workaholic Head Auror in the solitude of her flat. She had, in fact, received two; proof that even Tamis Raynor could manage to wrangle a Holiday summons. Though, she was still convinced the welcome to a ‘Bombay Dinner Party’ was a clever revenge ruse at the hands of Graham Bombay…

Cat’s bright green eyes glowed yellow in waxing and waning of the fireplace as the half-kneazle consulted her owner, gray tail swishing in thought. The Egyptian Mau hybrid was Tamis’ only companion tonight in the usually more trafficked flat. Squeak, the resident house elf, had been ordered back to the Raynor Manor until the morning. And Archer… according to their “schedule” she should have been at his place tonight. She was not sure if the man had been upset or relieved when she altered the plan. This was a complexity to her life that she was not ready to invite him into… if she ever would be ready.

Normally, she handled the anniversary of Tait Aldridge death with significantly more grace but the reopening of the Runespoor Investigation had brought back more suppressed emotions that she cared to (or would) let anyone know. The more they delved the more it began to seem that Tait Aldridge’s murder had not been the simple, tragic happenstance it had been portrayed as.

Dissatisfied with the lack of attention from the petite witch, Cat leaped up into Tamis’ lap and collapsed there, purring pathetically. The Auror stared back ruefully. She was not falling for it. She was only being this affectionate through process of elimination. Since Archer Radley was not in residence there were not many other options. Of all the mediums, she had never expected that her competition for her boyfriend’s affections would come embodied in feline form.

In passive aggressive revenge Tamis reached for her steaming cup of tea rather than give Cat a customary scratch behind the ears. The tail flickered again; in annoyance.

The second of the neglected invitations had fallen to the foot of the coffee table without any efforts made to retrieve it. It was a letter by all appearances, carefully scribed almost top to bottom in thoughts made indistinguishable in the low lighting. Most clearly, and in the largest writing as if firmly trying to get the point across, were the parting words: ‘Forever and Always Your Mother-in-Law, Charisma Aldridge’.

Every year she sent a letter arriving on the twenty-first of December. Every year she invited Tamis Raynor for the Christmas festivities. Every year she diligently wrote an annual summary of the Aldridge Family developments and signed the bottom of the page in same verbatim. And every year the letter went unanswered.

In fourteen years, the petite Auror could not gather the courage to –

-- A short, abrupt knock on the door endangered her brooding.

An unexpected one.

The tea cup cradled in her hands jostled and upturned spilling the steaming hot contents down her wrist and all over the carpet and sent a highly offended Cat spitting from her lap. Stifling a curse, Tamis nursing the burn with her mouth as the fingers of her left hand secured reflexively around the wand.

She stared stock-still at the door. The landlord had learnt (the hard way) to schedule appointments. Even if Archer would disregard her request to be alone he would not knock. The door was keyed to recognize him now. That left only one other person it could possibly be. And he certainly had enough sense to stay away, particularly on this day of the year.

It was not the first time she had been wrong.

While the words were muffled, the tone was recognizable immediately. The amusement. The cheekiness. Why was Jonas Trevelyan hollering through her door? And who had let him up? Stifling a curse, Tamis threw back her blankets and almost tripped over Cat as the feline darted in front of her and into the kitchen.  She really should stop feeding the thing.

Hand resting on the doorknob, she let her palm conform around the cool metal, pausing. She could ignore him. She could retreat into the bedroom and pretend he was not there. Unlike certain individuals, her home was well protected against invaders. But knowing him, it would not work. Out of sheer spite he might merrily set up camp in the hall for the rest of the night. And… Merlin alone knew what he would tell the neighbors.

The door opened.

Tamis Raynor was not herself. That much was immediately evident. Her color was no less fair than any other day. She did not seem to be suffering from ill-health. But there was something… lacking. She felt normal. No self-imposed authority. No captivatingly confident presence that belittled her stature. No sign of the signature edge in those dull gray eyes. It was as if she had been subdued. The woman that answered the door did not look like the infamous Head of the Auror Office, she looked just that; a woman. A very small, delicately built woman. Nearly fragile.

The attire could have had something to do with it. The lounge-y tank and drawstring pants lurking under a cardigan (more befittingly called a blanket) was a far cry from the perfectly tailored militaristic outfits she usually wore. The bunny slippers poking out from beneath the knit slacks certainly did not help.

More typically, she evaluated Jonas Trevelyan in silence taking in the signature ginger hair and brown paper bag cradled in one arm. She would have crossed hers if she had not still had a hand pressed against the burn on her wrist.

“A shame,” she finally agreed.

There were particular moments that had been burned indelibly into his memory.  He had gone into the office early that morning, which was about usual for him, even this time of year.  The plan had been to take a few days off so that he could go home to Truro over the holidays, which in turn had left him scrambling to get reports written up and leads followed before he left.
 
The past few months had been stressful. After the second escape of Sirius Black back in June and the even more recent events of the Quidditch World Cup, a strained undercurrent had been building in the Auror Office. Hints of dark activity were everywhere. You-Know-Who's followers were on the rise, restless and eager. Officially, it was all a load of nonsense; the so-called Dark Lord could not return, and no one at the Ministry would even admit to the possibility.  But even a rookie could sense that something was starting to build, and it was impossible not to feel the tension.
 
He had come in early that day, expecting to plow through a mountain of work before his upcoming holiday. Jonas had been assigned to the World Cup investigation, had been trudging through records and alibis, trying to put faces behind masks. It was going nowhere and they all knew it. Unlike the Great Tait Aldridge (as Jonas had taken to calling him whenever he was safely out of range of possible retaliation), not every rookie cracked their first case within months and moved on to other less boring assignments.
 
The Auror office had been quieter than usual, which should have tipped him off that something was wrong. The others that were in were solemn and subdued, as if something hung heavy in the air. He had dropped into the seat at his desk, had started plowing through the most recent report, when it happened.
 
He remembered every instant of it. The summons. Not by memo, which was usual, but in person.  Scrimgeour stopped beside his desk, looking tired and worn despite his lion's mane of hair. Standing, his chair scraping back, an unsettling knot forming in his stomach. The long walk to the Head Auror's office. The click of the closing door. The direction to sit; the cool wood of the chair against his back; the white, indefinable brightness of the wall behind his boss's head. Jonas hadn't looked directly at him. Couldn't, after he'd started.
 
Each word, quietly spoken. A deep breath. He'd had to remember to breathe.
 
It had hit him hard, but he had no doubt that Tamis Raynor had been hit even harder. Even if she hadn't been there, hadn't seen it, hadn't suffered and paid of her own accord as Tait had been murdered right in front of her, it still would have affected her even more strongly. She and Tait had planned their future together, and the young Healer had lost her life with her fiance. Her plans, her hopes, her dreams had all died with him.  Laying claim to any part of his best friend's memory after Tait had died had felt like Jonas was intruding on the young woman's private pain. She had suffered far more than he had. Even now, Jonas felt like an unwelcome interloper, standing in her door and interrupting her vigil.
 
When he'd been younger, it would have stopped him. He would have drawn back, have left her alone to grieve privately. Now, he decided, to hell with it. They were both private enough as it was.
 
"Glad you agree," he replied, flashing her a lopsided, sincere smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Now that the door was open, that it was more likely that he'd be granted access, he lowered his voice. No reason to make a scene.
 
Tamis looked, though not awful, small, shrunken; less. Less than herself, less than she should be, and surely less than happy to see him, which Jonas had expected. They weren't friends, had never been close, but that didn't mean he couldn't force unwelcome company upon her.  Tait Aldridge deserved to be remembered, and not by individuals moping and sullen on their own. He deserved toasts in mead halls and mentions in epic ballads, and if he couldn't have those, then a shared rememberance between the two people who had probably known him the best would be a weak but acceptable substitute.
 
Jonas wouldn't admit it out loud, but he owed it to Tamis Raynor too. She had saved his life by risking hers to help him get away. Tait had been the wall between them, holding their battles at bay and forcing them into proximity. After his death, the barrier had been gone, but much of the fight had washed away with it. She had risked quite a bit for him eleven years ago; up until now, Jonas had never offered the same. Like Tait, after what she had gone through, she deserved better than to not be remembered tonight.
 
He quirked an eyebrow at her, silently asking.
 
"You know how I hate to interrupt you without calling ahead, but I was just on the way back to the office to have a pint," he said, hefting the brown paper bag so that she could see it, "when I realized I was passing by your flat." The lie was obvious but, Jonas presumed, understandably good intentioned. Forming a direct line between Diagon Alley,  Tamis Raynor's flat, and his office would have required geometry, a protractor, and a side trip through at least three different dimensions.
 
"Thought I saw a light on, so I reckoned that you might be about. And a drink with company's always better'n drinking alone, innit?" he concluded, still smiling crookedly. His hand was on the door now - obstensibly to take the weight off of his bad leg, but if she tried to close it, he could give her a fight. "Mind if I stop in for a bit?"

Coming face-to-face with Jonas Trevelyan shook her. Their two previous encounters had carried a distancing undercurrent of professionalism that had allowed Raynor to detach from the situation; to accept the reality that he was standing there without actually coming to terms with it. This was different. She was no less caught off-guard than she had been over a month ago when he first showed up at her residence. In fact, she was at least considerably drier. But she had just come off work, had been dressed as such, and when the initial shock had worn off had managed to gain the upper hand.

Despite the groundbreaking arrest of Theodora Kingstreet’s accomplice Devlin Matthews earlier that day, Raynor had left the Office uncharacteristically on-time. Only the dwindling band of Aurors employed from before the second war had understood why. She had showered, she had changed, and she had stripped herself of her materialistic identities to wait out the night. With all of these barriers gone and little opportunity to rebuild them Tamis Raynor was forced to confront the familiar cheeky grin of Jonas Trevelyan.

A man she owed far more than any blood debt he thought he owed her. The same one she owed to the Aldridge family. Neither of them could ever know it.

For fourteen, now fifteen, years Tamis had burdened the guilt that it was a great part her fault that Tait Aldridge was not alive today. She was not strong enough to put voice to the truth that they all deserved. She had not been oblivious to the cool regards and baleful stares the Aurors had given her in the weeks preceding Tait’s death. The anger and pain at the sudden loss of a promising young comrade stung and she had not been willing to divulge on details. She told them what they needed to know; the who, the what, the when, the where, the how.  But she had left out the intimate details. Many had felt she did not believe they were as entitled in Tait’s death as she was, that in excluding information about a dear friend she had been slapping them in the face. The truth was… that she was protecting them from the truth. The lie was kinder.

But Jonas, Jonas was different; harder to withhold information from. He had known Tait Aldridge longer than she had. He had been his best mate. Facing him had been the hardest so she had avoided it at all cost, even after she joined the Corps, she had skirted around his cubicle. It had not always worked, especially not with the man partnered to Archer Radley. When the Ministry was on the verge of collapse, she had risked her life to aide his not in a noble gesture but as a small part of the owed debt.

And now here he was again. Come to plague her.

She scrambled to assemble her best mask possible, listening. For there was still the grand unanswered question of what he was doing here.

He hated interrupting her without ‘calling’. Yes, as otherwise lurking on the stoop for hours was a respectable alternative. One of her eyebrows quirked a skeptic hair. Discovered that he was passing her flat on his way home. A geographical anomaly, that. Her eyebrow inches a little higher. When he saw a light on. From behind her the feeble candlelight battling the vastly shadowed interior mocked him. She just stared.

Her fingers found and wrapped around the door handle. His hand pressed firmly against the center of the wooden panel. Locked in the cold war, her chin and her back straightened as if to somehow belittle the significant vertical distance between them as she appraised him. There was stout determination in his blue eyes that did not compliment his smile, except in one measure; this was all very crooked.

The younger woman knew enough about knee injuries to know a night like this could not be boding well for one. She also knew better than to pity an individual for something so trivial. Jason MacDonell would never escape the limp that plagued him and he could still embarrass her in a dueling arena. While Jonas Trevelyan might not have the same level of expertise, he had the same stubborn will and pride. And clever mind. There was an ulterior motive to that well placed hand.

Knowing this made her less sympathetic in causing him grief in the battle for the door but it did not eradicate the emotion entirely.

She scowled.

The old rivalry between them, as dormant as a sleeping dragon beneath the surface, stirred and added tempo to the air. Stirred in response to the challenge. His motives were still unclear. While she did not believe Jonas Trevelyan would appear on her doorstep on the evening of the twenty first to conduct business, she could not immediately eliminate the possibility. After all, she had believed the man dead for a decade and he had only saw fit to remedy that misconception when he had needed something from her. He had not owed her any sort of reunion however more pleasant of a reintroduction might have been. It reminded her that they were not friends and that the man had very little need to call on her socially.

“Whatever has come up can surely wait until tomorrow,” she said quietly, wearily, testing.

It was that final attempt to make this into the business venture that it was not. The subdued quality of his blue eyes mirrored hers. His smiles, while carried on the backbone of irony, were far too genuine. He was far too genuine and determined behind the sarcastic façade. It left her considering the possibility that tonight was not about her. Nor was his being here. As much as she might be beleaguered with nightmares they were not just hers. Tait Aldridge survived in his family and he survived in Jonas Trevelyan. Despite her fears and uncertainties, her love for the deceased and her respect for those that had cared for him in return made her relent.

And perhaps, just perhaps, deep down inside in the small part of her soul that recognized that she was only human, she did not want to be alone.

 “You make declining seem like an option,” she replied dryly, pulling the cardigan around her shoulders closed with the hand not engaged on the doornob.

At long last her fingers fell away from the metal handle and she took a step back, silently deferring to his victory. Though not for the reasons the man might assume.

Ever since he'd walked away from the Ministry and struck out on his own, Jonas had become very used to less-than-welcome greetings.  A private investigator was always understood as a essential evil.  No one ever wanted to hire him.  Most of his jobs arose out of necessity, either as a result of the distant, clinical requirements of a corporation or a law office, or the impassioned fears of someone who thought they had lost something important. 

He'd grown used to it over the years.  Unwelcome visits.  Barely tolerated intrusions.  Even those that you knew outside of work couldn't help wondering if you were investigating them.  It had driven Anna crazy, but Jonas had to admit that he almost liked the alienation.  Playing the part of the outsider was quite the useful trick.  He'd gotten good at opening doors that might have otherwise remained closed, mostly out of sheer stubbornness, and it had been years since he'd been bothered by a less-than enthusiastic greeting.

It was clear that, per usual, he wasn't entirely welcome here tonight, but Tamis hadn't closed the door on him yet.  When she stepped back, admitting him, he knew that the game was as good as over.  Jonas had been prepared to win this time - he hadn't really expected the Auror to leave him standing in the hallway on tonight of all nights, especially not when dealing with the consequences of an unofficial camp-out would have been far more trouble than just letting him in - so he managed to hide the flash of triumph more effectively than usual.  Biting back most of his smile, he removed his hand from the door and gave her a gracious nod before limping inside.

"Oh, declining's always an option," he replied cheerfully, glancing around the interior of the flat.  "It's just sometimes an option that ends with me dead in the corridor, so I don't know if it's an option that would be worth all of the extra paperwork that  comes with it."

"Depends, though," he said thoughtfully, as he glanced back to wait for her.  Tonight seemed a particularly morbid time to contemplate his own mortality, but when it came down to it, mortality was really the only thing that had ever brought the two of them together.  Tait's death.  His own supposed death.  His future death, if he irritated her enough.  At least that was something to look forward to.  He'd pay good money to see her have to give the eulogy.  "If you're really that opposed to the visit, then maybe the paperwork is worth it."

By the look of it, the flat's defenses were winning the war against electricity.  Duct tape seemed to still have the perimeter secure against rogue electrical sockets, and a few candles were flickering weakly in direct defiance of the bright, artificial light that burned in every other window on the street.  Jonas had to give her points for consistency and atmosphere, even if he questioned her commitment to the twenty-first century.  

He set the paper bag down on a table, wondering if it was worth the risk to dig for glasses in the kitchen on his own.  Being magicless in a magical world was surprisingly easy most of the time, but in a witch's home, it posed a noticeable disadvantage. If he wasn't careful, he was going to place himself in a difficult-to-explain situation.  Best to play it safe and stay where it was obviously light.

"Fetch a couple of cups for us, will you?" he asked her over his shoulder.  The house elf that he'd encountered last time had yet to appear; he wondered if it was past its bed time, or if it had merely wandered off as it hadn't been expecting a visitor.  "You need help reaching 'em, just shout," he added bemusedly, assuming it was now too late to kick him out.

There was something immensely satisfying in the act of just going about his business as if it were perfectly normal, as if they were old friends who had drinks all the time, as if he'd visited more frequently than twice in ten years.  Jonas couldn't force Tamis Raynor to give a damn about him or anyone else, but he could very well make her deal with him.  The faked routine somehow still felt more genuine than both of their previous meetings, awash in careful wordings and so much left unsaid.  After side-stepping so many issues for years, he was bloody tired of it.  They could either go about things full-heartedly or not at all.

"I'm sorry about barging in."  It was probably officially the first time that Jonas had ever apologized to her, and he didn't look up as he said it.  It was much easier to busily go about opening the growlers that he'd procured from Cinaed Tawse earlier; if he said anything about the owner of the Black Chimaera, it was that the bloke had excellent taste in beer.  "I just figured you'd be about tonight, and I'd rather share a pint than end up somewhere on me own.  If it's really too much trouble, I might even be willing to remove meself after one drink."

"Or," he offered cheerfully, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, "we could use the opportunity to catch up."  The idea of Tamis Raynor sitting around a campfire, trading stories and signing yearbooks, was almost too funny to resist, even when he was trying to extend an olive branch.  "You might have me beat in war stories, though.  Think your job might be just a bit more interesting than mine."

Tilting her chin up, Tamis stepped back to allow Jonas entrance with weary defeat. At least he did not gloat, she allowed. Much. But he had the intelligence to try and swallow his smile, tilting his head down in acknowledgement (and likely to hide the unsurpassable expression of victory). He also had the presence of mind to step forward as soon as his hand slid free of the door panel, preventing her from quickly shutting him back out. Not that she would. She might have been tempted.

Pinching the blanket closed around her shoulders with one hand, she closed the door with the other, taking comfort in the familiar click and grind as both physical and magical locks secured back in place. Her eyebrows relaxed and her grip loosened on the handle as he limped passed her. Limped. Very prevalently.  The petite woman was not ignorant to his old injury but in all of their encounters the man had gone to great lengths to mask the stutter in his step. The scolding against whatever he had done to aggravate his knee died on her tongue as swiftly as the concern fled from her face when he turned back to look at her.

“No mortality is worth the paperwork,” she replied, not much in the mood for morbid humor. Well, not entirely. It was such an available defense mechanism. “Though you make it sound enticing.”

Immediately hanging a right, a couple of the candles flickered to life on the chandelier hanging above the kitchen. It was almost as if the flat felt its owners somber mood. Turning on the facet, Tamis used the detour to finally run cool water over her wrist and (more legitimately) to flee Jonas Trevelyan and take a moment to absorb the sudden intrusion on her solitude. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes to calm her inner turmoil – and almost immediately peeked them back open.

" Fetch a couple of cups for us, will you? You need help reaching 'em, just shout.

She might not kick him out, but she did extract revenge by chucking an oven mitten at him as he passed cheerfully down the hall on his way to the living room. Shutting the facet off with more force than necessary, she grumbled under her breath and surveyed the kitchen.

Where the bloody hell were the cups? Barely home for more than five hours at any given time, most artifacts in the flat were untouched or underused, especially pertaining to the Kitchen. The only chinaware she ever got herself was the teacups and Squeak rightfully kept her Mistress from the pots and pans. Everything else Squeak usually got for her or already had set up at the table by the time the Auror got home.

Gray eyes scanned the cabinets underneath the countertop, they looked either too large or two small to house cups. Her gaze lifted and glared at the cabinets overhead. Glancing to make sure Jonas was not braving retracing his steps, she carefully pulled one open, trying to make as little noise as possible. Plates. It closed with a faint click. Next. She was not sure what was in there but it looked cooking technical. Click again. Third time was the charm. And there were the glasses – inconveniently on the second shelf. 

Just out of reach.

She scowled up at them, quite convinced that she was not asking for assistance. Magic was the simple answer but there were enough borderline legal enchantments of the muggle residence that she rarely chanced her luck with its usage while she was home. Quite determinedly, she closed the door on the glasses and snatched two tea cups very conveniently within reach hanging from hooks above the sink. A cup was a bloody cup.

Moving into the living room with her acquisitions, she watched the red headed man with muted curiosity. Raynor did not drink. That did not mean she could not. It was a rare occurrence but tonight was a rare night. Jaw set, she just stared at him as she set the two teacups next to the beer, daring him to say anything.

He did. But not what she expected. The apology brought her up short on her way to the couch. She was very grateful he was not looking up to see the surprise register on her face. In all the time she had known Trevelyan, she could not recall ever receiving an apology from him. It made his words feel heavier, their meaning a little deeper. He had not wanted to be alone tonight. It was subconsciously touching that he had sought her company. She blamed it on the fact that Tait Aldridge would seemingly always be the glue in their interactions. Losing the man was the only reason they tolerated each other now, she was sure. Still. He was waving the white flag.

“You are nothing but trouble, Jonas.” She replied neutrally. “Now is no different.” The smallest, barest of a smile touched her lips and her eyes when she said that, maybe even warmed the words just a bit. He likely would have had to look up to confirm it, but the sentiment disappeared almost as soon as it realized.

Resting on her haunches, she picked up the fallen teacup from earlier and found the rug mostly dry. She patted the stain with a napkin nonetheless, not adapt at such household things but it gave her something more to do than just sit there and twiddle her thumbs at the awkward expanse of air between the old colleagues. She ignored the letter from Charisma Aldridge and left the old engagement where his was. She did not want to draw his attention to either object.

Slipping long hair behind her ear, she paused in her ministrations. After a long moment, she shook her head. “Maybe not,” she allowed. “But my job is rather predictable.” Forsaking the rug, she slipped off her haunches and sat fully on the floor, resting her back against the couch cushions. “You lived a decade hiding from the Ministry,” she finally offered. “You cannot expect me to believe you spent all of it hiding in a hole.”

It was the closest she had yet come to asking about what had happened to Jonas in his ten year absence from wizarding society. She had quite stubbornly avoided ever asking. Why now? He left the opening. He had clearly come here, knowing it would be a sensitive time to become chummy, so there might have been feeling a touch vengeful. And it was much easier conversation than having the topic turn to fifteen, rather than only ten, years into the past.
 

Opening the growler was nearly impossible.  Jonas couldn't tell if he were just that tired or it was just that late, or if the bottle, sensing the identity of the individual who was about to consume its contents, had decided to be even more obstinate than usual.  For an instant, he nervously wondered if it had been spelled to remain shut until de-enchanted with a wand, but he kept stubbornly pulling anyhow.  Magic or not, the laws of physics meant that something had to give eventually.

The cap finally popped, releasing a hiss of air.  Jonas let the carbon dioxide stream out, and then started to undo the cap.  The comment that he was nothing but trouble brought a quick smile to his face.  He ducked his head to keep it from being obvious, grimacing as he tugged one final time at the porcelain cap to hide his bemusement.  Being considered trouble was a badge of honor; if the Auror had really meant it in a purely negative fashion, he wouldn't have been allowed her flat to begin with.

With the growler open, Jonas reached automatically for the glasses that she'd set next to it, and then paused.  His eyebrows shot up as he examined the tea cups, tilting his head to the side as amusement began to show in his features. 

"Trying to make the glasses go down as quickly as possible, are we?" he asked bemusedly, picking up one of the two teacups and tipping the liquid contents of the growler into it.  "That wasn't quite what I meant when I said I'd be out after one drink, you know.  I'm still going to hold you to a full pint's worth."

He passed the first tea cup to her - were those flowers painted on the side?  He thought they very likely might be, but if he looked too closely to find out for sure, he was likely to injure himself in fits of laughter - and then poured the second for himself.  Setting the open growler down within easy reach on the table, Jonas took the tea cup in hand and looked for a seat.  Tamis had apparently settled herself on the floor, so the private investigator carefully prepared to do the same, using one of the arm chairs to brace himself as he took the weight off his knee and lowered himself to the ground.

The mental picture of the two of them, Head Auror and former Auror, sitting on the floor sipping beer smuggled from a black market establishment out of flowered tea cups, suddenly became almost too much to bear.  Jonas nearly threw his head back and laughed like he hadn't in years, but he attempted to swallow his smile, attempting to disguise it by downing the full tea cup of beer all at once.  Unfortunately, he nearly choked himself in the process; drinking anything was much more difficult while one was on the verge of bursting into laughter.

Swallowing hastily, he attempted not to cough as he poured himself a second tea cup's worth of beer.  Jonas leaned back against the base of the arm chair, giving Tamis a bemused look as he raised the tea cup in a mock salute.  "Cheers," he offered, smiling broadly as he settled and considered her words.

Despite their long and storied history, the Head Auror had not, as of yet, officially asked him anything about what had happened between the time she'd last seen him disappear into a crowd and his reappearance at her flat ten years later.  Jonas assumed that it was because she either didn't care or didn't consider it her business.  Their relationship was not purely and simply professional, but it was close; in all the years that he had known Tamis Raynor, neither of them had ever tried to make things other than what they were.

"Trying to fill in the holes in Eleor's report, yeah?" he asked nicely, closing his eyes as he cradled his cup in both hands.  The drinking apparatus was really ridiculous; every time he tried to sip from it, it made him want to start cracking Mad Hatter jokes.  "I would have thought he'd have given you most of the details after he came to the house.  Go right well in me file, it would."

The question was unspoken, but the opportunity to reply was still there.  Since returning to the magical world, most of his interactions had involved dodging questions about where he'd been, what he had done.  He'd become adept at turning inquiries aside or giving non-answers, and such an indirect probe didn't present much of a challenge to continue doing the same.  Part of Jonas desperately wanted her to just ask, to wonder what he had been up to for a decade, but he knew that she wouldn't.  Their conversations were framed by mortality; their lives never came into the equation. 

He knew too that it was just an interrogation technique, just like how Eleor left long gaps in their conversations every time he was trying to pry information out of the private investigator.  Tamis didn't want to talk about her own past, so she had turned the conversation to Jonas's doings instead.  But for once, whether because of whose night it was or because it had been so long, he wanted nothing so desperately but to answer.  He'd spent ten years away and yet since he'd been back, no one who had mattered had asked.

Tait, he knew, wouldn't have hesitated to inquire.  That was an uncomfortable realization to push away.

"Didn't do such a proper job of living in a hole if your man could hunt me down so easily last week, did I?" he asked lightly, resting his head back against the chair's armrest, his eyes still closed.  "There's no surprises to it, Tam.  When I left, I went down to Devon."  He shrugged uncomfortably, opening his eyes as he took another drink from the tea cup.  Still hilarious.  Smiling crookedly at it, he dropped his gaze to the floor.  "Couldn't get the work I would have wanted since I didn't have any references to speak of, so I took what I could.  Apprenticed on as a private investigator.  Which turned out alright," he remarked dryly, eyes flickering to meet hers.  "It's been a living - although if I'd known how much bloody work there was among witches and wizards, I might've come back a mite sooner."

Tilting her head up, Raynor returned the redheaded man’s quip about the teacups with a humorless smile, letting him maintain what conclusion best fancied him. She was not about to admit her vertical inadequacy with her own kitchen. The smile slipped when he carefully maneuvered his bad knee to settle next to her on the floor, where she had sat subconsciously. The couch had seemed oddly formal and socially uncomfortable but she punctured her guilt before it could fully manifest. Pride was a cruel mistress and she knew Trevelyan’s well enough to still comment.

The petite woman brought her knees up and locked her arms around them, arranging the blanket draped around her shoulders to where only the beady eyes of her slippers poked out from beneath the hem. She took the drink from him silently, staring at the fire to avoid the grin he was unsuccessfully hiding over whatever he found entertaining about her chinaware.  She had never been a very good sport about being the butt of a joke. When he began sputtering she could no longer resist commenting.

 “Merlin forbid if you choke on this one,” Tamis sidled a glance at the man sitting beside her as he poured a second serving with residual coughs. “Death by floral teacup seems a bit melodramatic for a headstone.”  The small smirk lessened the harshness of the words and it threatened to grow when Jonas saluted her, beaming broadly over top of his teacup. Okay, perhaps it was a little funny. But admitting it would mean letting him win.

Luckily, she did not have to force her lips to maintain their meager sign of amusement for long. His next words wiped it from them entirely. It was not an undeserved rebuttal. Her question had been a purposeful redirect but she had not meant it in the way he was now inferring. It almost hurt. Tamis turned her head from him, jaw tightening.

“I did not ask,” the words were sharper than she intended. Tracing the hand painted pattern on the outside of her cup, she concentrated on the varying textures of the brush strokes, restoring some calm so she did not seem angrier than she was. “Using my job to pry into your personal life is a little immoral, ‘yeah?’ ” Gray eyes found their way back over to him, “I would appreciate it if you did not use me to fulfill your fantasy of some nonexistent government conspiracy against you.” Not to say he did not have a file. All ministry personnel, past and present did, Aurors in particular had lengthy background checks and disciplinary summaries and the sort. All of the files gathered during the Second War under You-Know-Who’s reign had been destroyed. Or rather, they were stored in some dark, dank corner that even she was unaware of.

She was not angry with him. He had a right to distrust the Ministry and to distrust her. It was his own interrogation tactic, trying to gauge her real motive behind asking about his past – or trying to trap her into actually asking. It was a game to him, she was sure; trying to get her to admit that she cared. Raising the teacup to her lips, she finally took a sip of the beverage within and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. It had been a long time since she had a beer or its derivatives. She did not recall the taste being that pleasant. “It is very good,” she allowed quietly.

The truth was she had wanted to ask what had happened to him for quite some time. Ever since he had first reappeared on her stoop a few months ago, grinning cheekily at her over having caught her unaware. They had never been friends, she knew. He had always been Tait’s friend and she had been Tait’s girlfriend that Jonas had tolerated – and oh, she had enjoyed making that toleration as torturous as possible. Tamis Raynor knew she had not been a very good person at Hogwarts, she was not a very good person now and she had done a lot of growing up since then. But that did not mean she had not cared. She just felt that she had deserved to ask.

Jonas started talking again and giving a small start, she glanced back over at him warily but he had his eyes closed, lounging back against the armchair’s front. It was not the context of what he had said, it was the way he had said it. Tam. No one had called her that since he had disappeared. And he had been the last person to since Tait had died. Swallowing the unsettling lump in her throat uncomfortably listening to the uncomfortable revelation. Devon. Apprenticed as a muggle Private Investigator. She could not imagine what walking away from Wizarding society had been like, but as he said, he seemed to have ended up all right.

“Things have been rather quiet with ‘us’ wizarding folks until recently,” she commented, picking up on the way he classified himself as separate from the magical community. He had offered her something about himself. According to Akiva Katz, it was a courtesy to offer something in return before asking another question. Otherwise it did seem like an interrogation. She frowned, taking another gulp from the cup, almost draining hers as well.

She was quiet for a long moment. “Reorganizing the Ministry began almost immediately after the Second War ended,” she started. “I went to work every day. Did a lot of overtime. Came and went back to work the next morning.” It was not quite as lonely as it sounded. Her life was just her work. She had decided on that sacrifice fifteen years ago. “In two thousand and four MacDonell retired,” as a result of a mass attempted break out at Azkaban that had claimed the lives of nearly a dozen Aurors, but that was not a fact you mentioned to a man you were trying to sell a reformed wizarding world to, “and promoted me. That was less received than when I joined the force. Trying to convince wizards such as yourself that the Aurors are no longer the heavy hand of the Ministry the Second War made us is a difficult, ongoing task.”

Playing with the rim of her now empty teacup, she asked the second question that had been plaguing her, far more direct, but without looking at him. “What made you decide to come back?” By the time he had come to see her he had been reemerged enough in the Wizarding World that he had come asking for Level Two access as his agenda. Their first re-acquaintance in fifteen years had not been a social call, which is why she had a hard time believing, still, that this was truly one. 

Tamis's tone might have been calm, but her words could have sparked a forest fire.  Jonas's eyes snapped over to meet hers, his expression going carefully blank, only the tightening of the muscles in his neck betraying any other emotion.  He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then forced himself to take a long swallow from the teacup to loosen his throat, finishing off his second miniature cup of beer. 

Her words weren't fair.  Whatever Raynor had lived through during the war and since then, she didn't have a right to snap at him about what had happened.  The private investigator held no illusions about what he owed the younger woman; if she hadn't been willing to risk her life to help him walk away, he would have ended up with a fate worse than Azkaban.  Maybe she didn't deserve to be classified with the rest of the Ministry as an individual, but that didn't change what she was.  The magical government was entirely about manipulation and control.  It had been even when he'd been working there.  Just because the faces had changed to ones that he might be inclined to trust didn't mean that the intentions had shifted to match.

It wasn't fair, and any other night of the year he would have called her on it, but things were different tonight.  Tait Aldridge wouldn't have wanted Jonas to go and bother the love of his life on the anniversary of his death only to blow up at her about something that really didn't hurt him in the long run, and so the private investigator swallowed his words and forced his gaze down.  This wasn't about holding his own with a former rival.  If Tamis wanted to tell herself that Eleor's arrival at his house wasn't about forcing him off his game and reminding him that the Ministry was in charge after all, she was welcome to keep up the illusion.

The red-haired man very deliberately took a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut as he listened to her words.  It couldn't have been easy after the war; he had no idea what shape the Ministry had been in, how many casualties they'd suffered, but he suspected that a victory couldn't have come without cost.  He could imagine, too, what it must have been like for Tamis.  'Less received' was a diplomatic way to put it; she'd been hazed badly enough as Tait's helpless girlfriend who was in over her head and out for revenge that he couldn't imagine a worse response.  At least the first one had been slightly moderated by some carefully selected words quietly expressed on the sly when Raynor wasn't looking.

Her question took him by surprise.  Jonas glanced up at her, and then paused, considering the painted flowers on his own teacup as he turned it around in his hands.

"Divorce went through about a year ago.  I never told me wife about the magic," he said recklessly, reaching for the growler again.  Did three tea cups equal a pint?  Probably not.  Either way, if this was the direction that the conversation was taking, he wasn't suffering through it without a glass of something in his hands.  "Living on me own without her and the kids made it easier.  Meant I didn't have to worry about explaining if I started slinging around a magical stick again."  And it meant that if there had still been trouble, he could have dealt with the consequences without dragging Anna or his children into the mess.

The red-haired man gave a shrug, his attention focused on pouring the beer as if it took all his concentration to make sure that the frothy liquid made it into the teacup.  "Making a living with the work I can get's always a bit tough.  Reckoned it might help to open up the market a bit," he added evenly.  "So I took out an ad in the Prophet.  Once I realized I might be getting regular work out of it, I figured I should let one of you lot know I was around.  It was easier to track you down than Arch."

The last was a total and complete lie, at least in the physical sense.  For all Jonas knew - and he could guess quite a bit, having known the man well for several  years when he'd worked closely with him in the Ministry - Archer Radley was probably living in the exact same flat that he had ten years ago, keeping the same hours as he came and went from the same desk and worked the exact same sort of cases.  Finding him wouldn't have taken nearly the time and effort that he'd put into locating Tamis.  But the thought of facing Radley after a ten year absence was something that he still didn't quite want to stomach.  Raynor had understood why he'd left; she'd even helped him go.  He still wasn't entirely certain that his former partner would.

Jonas took a quick breath, and then glanced at Tamis, extending the growler to her, as if offering to refill her teacup again. 

"Though if it's that much of an inconvenience, I might be willing to let you pay me not to get regular work," he quipped nicely, flashing her a tight smile.  "Nice way to take the worry out of me accusing you of immorality again, innit?  Although it wasn't a non-existent conspiracy, Tamis," he added, nonchalantly diverting his gaze just past hers.  "You lot all want to go on pretending it didn't happen and it's alright now, that's fine, but I can't."

There was still a proverbial fourth wall that he hadn't dared to broach.  Jonas took a deep breath as he set the growler down again, shrugging as he leaned back against the sofa behind him and took up his drink once more.

"It's like Tait, yeah?" he asked, lacing his fingers firmly around the body of the teacup as he pointedly avoided looking anywhere near her.  "We can go on talking circles around him, but we both know why we're here.  And this isn't the night when it feels right to keep on ignoring it."

It was evident that she had struck a nerve. Jonas Trevelyan only excelled at the Carefully Blank Expression when he made conscious viable effort.  He stared at her incredulously and she almost immediately regretted her words. It was not kind to throw that at him in the way that she had, but the accusations that she was corrupt enough to use such tactics against him -- that he had thrown her in with a labeling of the Ministry during the Second War had... hurt. There was no denying corruption in the Ministry, even now. The sentiment went hand-in-hand with power. But she respected the good the Organization did as well.

As much as she might deny it, there was truth in his words. Tamis Raynor was loyal to the Ministry of Magic. As a ward of the government growing up, it had been the closest thing to a family that she had to relate to. A poor, sterile excuse for one, but she had made it work. And after Tait died... the place had given her somewhere to focus and direct her life. The Auror needed to believe there was good in the Ministry of Magic.

For whatever grace of mercy the redheaded man had allotted her, Jonas swallowed whatever retort had gathered on the tip of his tongue. And then hit her with another hex*. Divorce. And Kids -- plural. Perhaps she should have squeezed more details out of Adon. suddenly, Jonas' ten year absence made more sense  He had married a muggle woman, had children, and at least for a time found happiness in his life. Why in comparison would he seek out a return to a world that had not nearly been so kind to him? A world that had tried to persecuted him because he had not been born directly into it. There had not been any reason, or anyone, worth risking coming back to. Until hi marriage fell apart. Then, cliche to Jonas' MO, he fled worlds again, back to the old one.

The realization hit her so suddenly, it stunned her into silence. Despite herself, she felt a pang of envy before she squished it. Not for the end result, but the experience. "I hope your children are well," she said finally, not sure what else to say. 

And just when she was starting to feel sympathy for him, he ruined it by not letting sleeping dragons lie. "I am not ignoring what happened," the Auror replied as mildly and patiently as she could. "But the past is not the present. Wallowing will not --" He surprised her again.

Tamis did not stare at him as he had her. But her metaphorical hackles rose.

"Don't." The single syllable was short and crisp, a threat and a plea simultaneously -- and uncharacteristically informal. Her fingers tightened around the teacup in her hands, their tips paling as the porcelain cup shook between them. It was the only sign of emotion she gave following his accusation and she quickly set the cup down to eradicate the display of weakness. They both knew what to say to hit the hardest and closest to home. She also knew it was more than shallow spite that provoked the comment.

Defensive anger caught in her throat but she could not get mad at him. Not for this and the unspoken question in his words. It was owed to him. But not tonight. It would be too much to handle. The unresolved portion of her past was too real at the moment. "Please," she tried more diplomatically. It seemed to be a competition between them; who could avoid the most eye contact. The Auror was doing her part to stay in the running, looking into the air in front of her as if the absent space was a captivating phenomenon.

 "Tonight is not about ignorance, Jonas." She picked the teacup up again without drinking from it. "It is about survival." Which is what she did every year, with every anniversary of Tait Aldridge's death. She had done it that day, fifteen years ago; Survived. Not all of her, but more of her than should have. Tait Aldridge survived through those that had loved him. Tamis Raynor believed in life, she preserved it even if not in the way she had originally intended. Life was worth it, no matter how hard it became. The goal was to Survive. "It is all any of us can do."

Tamis took a steadying, wavering breath to reaffirm her resolve, "when you admit the Ministry is no longer interested in chasing you, I will come to terms with a dead man.  Fair is fair."



* equivalent of dropping a 'bombshell'?

In retrospect, it was incredibly lucky that the Auror took her beer with a tea service; normal pint glasses wouldn't have given him nearly so much in the way of a pattern to occupy his attention with.  Jonas turned the flowered tea cup around and around in his hands, intent on keeping it steady, not so much because it was a challenge - small as they were, two tea cups worth of lager weren't nearly enough to affect his motor skills - but because it gave him an excuse to pretend he didn't notice the emotional cracks in Tamis Raynor's normally robust shield.

He hadn't meant to push her.  If just mentioning her one-time fiance's name tonight was enough to set the normally stoic woman teetering on the edge for the briefest of moments, then it was lucky that he hadn't dove straight into war stories and reminiscing.  It had been nearly fifteen years since Tait Aldridge's death; that was time enough for even the most grievous wounds to heal.  But it seemed as if he couldn't even broach the subject without being called out on an unfair play.

Even so, Tamis recovered quickly from the unintentional assault, launching the ball back into his court.  It was the anniversary of Tait's death, and they still couldn't get through a conversation without one of them issuing a challenge.  Jonas took a deep breath and let it out again, attempting to release any irritation that he might feel at the change in subject.  He wasn't here to fight.  He could remember that.

"It's not that I think the Ministry are chasing me," he began, sounding more defensive than he meant to, and then stopped.  Except that it sort of was.  He grimaced and tried again.  "Well, it's not that I think that they're  actively chasing me.  But it's hard to forget, yeah?" he asked, painfully aware of the glove that had been thrown.  "Bit hard to trust things in the same way.  You keep thinking that the other shoe's about to drop, even when you can rationally point out that everything has changed."

He paused, mulling over his own words, and then shrugged.  "Yeah, fair's fair.  But tonight's about more than just survival, Tam," he said mildly.  "I've been at just survival, if only for a bit.  Miserable, that is.  Building towards something's a hell of a lot easier to forge on with.  Ta- The, uh, bloke whose name I'm not supposed to mention'd say the same."  He offered her a small, tight smile as a truce. 

He meant it as much as he ever had, though it was frustrating that, tonight of all nights, there had to be a truce.  Just like they couldn't get through a conversation without one of them issuing a challenge, apparently they equally couldn't just drink beer out of ridiculous glasses and remember the old times without it turning into one of the old games.  Through it all, Jonas had to tread carefully and not offend her, for fear of the knife stabbing back at his chest.  It was just lucky that Raynor hadn't thought to move on from prodding him about the Ministry to anything more personal, especially now that he'd given her fresh ammunition.  After the length of the day and the solemn subject of the evening, he didn't want to think about having to answer questions about Anna.

The private investigator sighed, glancing toward the door.  Whatever gesture he had come to try and make was clearly not necessary.  If the Auror didn't want to talk and was only tolerating his presence so that he didn't camp out in her hall, he wouldn't make her.

"Look," he said, running a hand over his face.  "I didn't come by to start shoving truisms at you.  Or to predict what Tait'd tell you to do fifteen years later, because that's sure as hell not me place," he added tiredly.  "I just figured, for once, it'd be nice to talk about him with somebody who remembered."

He shrugged and finished off what was left in the tea cup, setting it down next to the half-full growler. 

"But I know that you and me, we've never been friends," Jonas offered nonchalantly, as if the observation were the biggest understatement of the past ten years.  "If you want me to get on me way so that you can go back to -"  He gestured, indiscreetly, at the few incriminating items that he could see: the ring, the fallen letter, the somber mood of the room in general, the woman's pajamas, complete with bunny slippers.  "-not wallowing in the past, then I will.  I can go sing heroic ballads and tell war stories with some blokes at the pub down the road, even if we don't all know who we're singing about."

“It is hard to forget,” she agreed heavily, still staring intently inside her teacup as if it held something other than air. She understood his words, more than he likely intended her to. Some negative experiences stuck with a person no matter how hard one tried to shake them, and unintentional or not, they also learned negative lessons.

Trust was not an easy gift to give. It meant admitting to care enough to Trust. No matter how much that one rational part of yourself told you that it was over, the rest of you could not help being afraid that it was going to happen again.

The lecture did not ease, and while well-deserved it hit her hard. She let her hair hide her face and any emotion that might have surfaced on it. Tait would have said the same. He had been a much better person than her, so full of life, and he had always lived every moment of it. He would tell her to move on. Would have encouraged her relationship with Archer – possibly even laughed himself back into his grave at the irony of it. But it was not fair to ask of her, when he did not have to move on.

Finally, Jonas came clean about his intentions there tonight. Not that he had not stated them from the beginning, but it was the first time she believed them. And then he gave her an ultimatum on him staying or not. Not wallowing in the past. Elegant way of putting it.

No, they had never been friends. In fact, the complete opposite.  And yes, he had infringed upon her alone time. But however much that may have been true; she realized that she really did not want to be alone tonight. Having Jonas sit there beside her, having someone who could understand… was comforting. Perhaps, for one night, they could pretend to be friends.

She was silent for a long, long moment. Then, finally,

“I do not want to sing ballads,” she told him quietly, “but I would appreciate the company”, and held out her teacup for more beer.