outfit

It had been weeks since she'd bumped shoulders with the bumbling book hunter in Diagon's dusty hardback locale. Laney had chalked it up to the man's sheer bashfulness, her own lackadaisical manner of decorating her new and self-owned flat, and the Magpies' ridiculous winter schedule. They must have toured half of Western Europe and all of the U.K. twice over before Laney even had a chance to enjoy a peppermint schnapps.

Not that she should be complaining. Any normal, modest witch would be counting her lucky stars. But Laney wasn't the most normal of girls in her graduating class, and she was by far the least modest of them. Her salary could by as much holiday-spiced alcohol as her heart desired. Hell, it could easily accommodate rounds for the whole house. Several rounds. Merlin knew it kept her brother from sleeping under a cardboard box in the slushy London rain. (Not that he would have minded, allergies aside. Clinton was even stranger than his semi-sadistic sister.)

One foot on the ground like a wayward, punch-drunk pointe ballerina, the young woman spun in slow, idle circles, but with a sense of determination that was nearly comical. The brass and magic holding the intricate web of rope to the ceiling creaked in protest with every full circle. Finally, when it was so tight that even Laney couldn't tempt it past the brink, she kicked her shoeless foot from the floor, grabbed hold of her knee, and shook out her scrappy chocolate locks, embracing the head rush of a masochistic child on a tire swing.

As the hammock finished its music-box spin, becoming the lovechild of a slug and pendulum and fighting for the momentum to twist itself round in the opposite direction, a knock resounded through the spacious, airy white flat. Laney hopped up, woozy and laughing, and stumbled toward the door, avoiding clusters of knickknacks and furniture that sporadically dotted the otherwise (purposely) barren bungalow.

At first, Frank had been excited about the address that had been hastily written on his palm. When he got back to his apartment, a month and a half ago, he’d written it down before rain could wash it away. And then the memory of it faded into the background with the life-shaking transformation that happened just days later.

It hadn’t been until he had stumbled across the rewritten address on his piled up desk that he recalled the meeting, the young woman, and how much she’d made him nervous. In a good way. How long ago that seemed now… especially after his second experience as… whatever it was that he was. He could still see the events in his mind, and the lingering memory of the taste of bystanders fear made him both salivate and nauseous.

It took him less recovery time, the second turn, but it still bothered him. It was harder to ignore, to pass off as a bad dream. Especially when he looked for his shenanigans in the Daily Prophet the next morning and were greeted with guilty snippets of uncovered attacks that were leaving authorities at a loss. After all the research he had been engulfing himself with, Frank was also at a loss—how could he be a werewolf if he was one during the daylight?!

Next time, he was going to overdose on wolfsbane. Well, he kept swearing he’d take it anyway. The first time had been a nightmare he thought was make believe. The second time only clarified how real a nightmare could be, and he didn’t need a third time to clarify.

Regardless, Frank was recovered (well, physically), and on his way to see her again. Or, rather, he was in the area and had happened to remember her address in his pocket. He was a little less happy-go-lucky than she might remember, but he was attempting to hide that for his friends and family. Surely he could pass it off to her as well… There was always the possibility that she wasn’t there.

To be fair, though, he had gone on a mission, and she happened to be the variable in between. Small tote in hand (the holidays were upon him, after all, and he was notorious for last minute shopping), a cigarette in the other, Frank had stood at the bottom of her steps contemplating his decision to stop by.

Three and a half cigarettes later, and Frank grumbled at himself and made it to the front door, knocking loudly while the leafy tar hung gingerly from his lips. Glancing around, he realized a little late that he wasn’t sure where to discard the latest cigarette. And after jogging up the four flights of stairs… he was a little winded. Leaning on the doorway with one hand, he winced and glanced around, leaving the cigarette poised precariously to the side of his lips, the hand in charge of it stuffed into the leather jacket.

When the door opened, he attempted to feign surprise—then recalled that it was he who had shown up on her doorstep. And so he frowned slightly before giving her a half smile, his shaggier than usual hair making the back of his neck itch (surely it wasn’t his sudden nervousness creeping up). “Oh, ah.” What did you say when you dropped in on someone? “Hey.” What else? “Happy holidays.” Good job, Frank. Just like your mummy taught you.

Wand leveled steadily, Clinton's intense gaze was focused on one object in particular, and the fine art of manifesting his favorite snack--kettle corn.  It had taken four or five bags to figure out just how long it took to warm the bag without burning it.  The bag shook within the iron pan, spasming with each satisfying pop.  Just a little bit longer and...done.

Clinton tucked his wand back into his rob pocket, feeling the warm tip brush against his hand.  Ouch.  He gingerly picked up the bag by a corner, spilling its contents out into the bowl beside it.  A dash of salt, and a small square of butter and he was set to go.  He jumped up to sit on the top of the clean white kitchen table, daily prophet spread out beside him.  Werewolves--he sniffed more out of habit than anything--were all over the front page.  That and some other illicit tidings.  Hand to mouth, he perused the news while munching on his popcorn until a knock interrupted the domestic bliss.

"Got it," he yelled, jumping off the table in an attempt to beat Laney to the door.  A few kernels spilled to the floor behind him, but Laney was already there, dizzy yet still able to pull on the door. He stopped, curious to see who might enter the flat this time. 

"Frank?" Although he knew the book hunter was based in London, Clinton supposed he would have to hunt the man out himself.  And to have him there on his doorstep, well, it was somewhat creepy just how good Frank Pratt was at his job.  "Hey, how are you? Didn't think you'd find me that fast." he said with a grin, stepping forward to give his friend a hug.  During his own travels, Clinton has often been in need of a couple of texts and the firm had never failed in finding them.  He had kept up a correspondence with the book hunter, and throughout his travels it was nice to compare notes with his fellow traveler. 

“Move.” Laney’s usual demand resonated through the small entryway, preceding her in her mad dash to the door. She doubled her speed, the vertigo wearing off, replacing itself with a competitive drive. Shoving past Clinton-- or, rather, placing a hand on his shoulder and using him as a platform from which to propel herself-- she barreled into the door and threw it open without bothering to peak through the spyglass. Clawed to the threshold and leaning forward to greet the mysterious knocker-of-doors, she found herself standing within in an inch of a scruffy, leather-clad man with a cigarette and an awkward smile. Frown. Smile.

“Hey,” was the next syllable to leave her lips, which puckered themselves into a sly but genuinely delighted smirk. Her dimples divulged themselves to the long-time-no-see bookhunter, who was looking mighty... cool.

Or was it hot?

Laney’s eyes darted to the picturesque London scene adjacent to her building, and decided the weather was a nonissue. “Nice jacket,” she commented, finally abandoning awkward, echoed greetings for a usual Laney-style bluntness. Her brown gaze refocused on the man, perusing him from top to bottom, and lingering none-too-subtly somewhere near the middle. Reaching on tippy toes, she extended a lanky arm, and her Seeker fingers brushed his cheek in their swift swipe of the cancer stick gracing his foxy grin. She claimed it for her own, took a drag, and leaned nonchalantly in her doorway, still guarding the entry. “I thought I’d scare you away,” she announced, letting the smoke snake into the sky and dissolve into the cold, foggy air that one’s breath made in such December elements. “Good think you finally showed up. Your timing is actually brilliant. I’ve just started with the bookshelf. Thought I might as well, with all these Christmas decorations laying arou--”

Laney stopped dead in her vocal tracks, a rare occurrence. Her brows knitted in annoyed confusion as she spun to look at her brother, whose face was somewhat shadowed thanks to the brilliant white and gray of the sky. Looking back to Frank in a whirl of untamed, choppy locks and stolen cigarettes, she tilted her head. “You know him?”

More importantly, why was he here to see Clinton?! Did they not both know they were making a fool of her right now? And Laney Irving hated being made to look stupid. And she hated the idea that her brother was friends with her eye candy. Uh-uh. No. It didn’t mix well. She wasn’t having it. He probably liked Russian trollops, too.

Swinging the door opened wider with one half-hearted press of her palm, she dropped her arm like a rag dolls and turned round to head back for her hammock.

It was easy to give her a return grin, the slight blush that tinted his cheeks the easiest sign that he was as caught off guard with himself showing up out of the blue as she might be. Doubled with the fact that the door nearly took him down, and Frank felt like checking himself to make sure he was still in one piece. One minute, he was staring at a door, the next… well, he had a nicer view now.

When she commented on the jacket, he took a moment to look down at it, frowning however slightly. “Thanks.” It was worn in and comfortable, and for the weather outside, warm. When his eyes finally perused her face, he took note of where her gaze seemed to hang, and he couldn’t help but take his own appreciative glance. Surprised when the cigarette was gone, he let out the smoke he’d kept in his lungs, smirking at the lingering tickle she had created by brushing against his scruffy shadow.

Shaking his head in disagreement, he shifted on his feet. “I was just busy.” Which was true! He had a bit of recovery time before having to catch up on work. Plus with his promotion… well. He needed a break from whatever his life had become, and thought a task as mundane as ‘putting together bookshelves’ sounded good for him. Raising an eyebrow, he bit his lower lip, eyes glancing down to hers as she spoke. Of course, hearing another voice (and a man’s) made him pause, frowning as he glanced past her.

That was his name the man said. Blinking, attempting to see who it was, Frank pursed his lips slightly in concentration. The entire exchange left Frank confused, his mouth slightly hung ajar with his eyebrow raised, glancing from Laney to—wait, “Clinton?” The hug took a moment to reciprocate, still in slight shock—no, scratch that, complete shock. What was his penpal doing at Laney’s apartment, though?

“Well, uh, I didn’t…” Wait what? Find him so fast? He was here to see Laney… Seeing her starting to limber away, Frank pulled back from the hug, clearly torn on what he wanted to ask first. A hand lifted up, as if to grab her from a few feet away and stop her. “Laney! Wait, how…” He should have owled first. His pointer finger moved from one to the other, his mind clearly attempting to work this out. “How do you two know each other?” Was she with Clinton?

If she was, Frank was starting to feel a rather unfamiliar tinge of jealousy. His temper was shorter than usual as well. Frowning, he shook his head and clapped Clinton on the shoulder, fighting the urge to walk away from this headache. “I didn’t know you were in London.” Staring at Clinton, Frank tried to remember the last letter he’d had from the world traveler. 

For a moment, Clinton had no idea why his friend seemed so puzzled.  But then, it sank in.  Laney's nonchalant greeting then cool departure.  Shit. 

"Oh," he sighed.  "It seems you've already met my sister.  Lorraine."  Watching her sulk off like some slighted fifteen year old was a little amusing, but mostly annoying.  "Oh Laney, Gods forbid I actually know one of your little boyfriends."  It didn't take but a second for his smile to return. 

"Come in, come in," he spoke as he shooed Frank inside towards the hammock room and shut the door.  "I'll make drinks.  Looks like you'll need one."

Leaving the two to sort out his presence, Clinton poured each of them a glass while shouting from the kitchen.  "Just got in a couple of days ago.  Bumming a spot with Laney til I find my own place."  He lowered his voice as he reentered the room, tray with drinks in hand.  As he sat it down, Clinton continued to interrupt any conversation they might have enjoyed.  "Teaching yoga now.  Freelance.  Great stuff, meet tons of women," he added with a wink. "How have you been keepin'? Aside from hitting on my sister, you know. As elder brother I'm sworn to frustrate any and all efforts."