March 31st, 1891 — Macnair Residence, Inverness-shire

Between the wound, the consequent potions he'd ingested, the alcohol he probably shouldn't have mixed with the aforementioned, and the testosterone, it was fair to say that Charles was not in his right mind when he decided that apparating a ridiculous distance to Macnair's house was a good idea. The only place he ought to have been apparating to was a damn hospital.

He'd planned on returning to his apartment in London for the night as the new Hogsmeade house wasn't quite habitable yet, in fact that was where he'd tried to send Valerian with the intention of going there himself once he got confirmation that he'd show up. Being in Hogsmeade at least meant his chances of splinching himself were significantly reduced. It seemed like a good idea to take his owl with him and some writing materials so he could contact Macnair if he didn't believe he was actually there.

With a 'crack' he appeared in front of the Macnair house and fortunately he still only had one injury to complain of. He fell to his knees as he nearly passed out and it took him longer than it should have to recover his senses and notice the absence of his owl. Or rather, the absence of some of his owl. In his hand he held the bloody, dismembered feet of his owl. He hurled them away from him and had to force the vomit back down his throat. He composed himself as best he could and staggered off towards a little copse not too far away. He started to reconsider his life choices as he launched himself at the nearest tree for support. Perhaps this wasn't the fine idea it had seemed. He lit his wand and hid himself behind the tree, or rather slumped himself against it and dangled his arm out to the side so Macnair could see him. Hopefully.

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Valerian Macnair

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   Valerian Macnair

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Valerian had finished his glass of whiskey by the time he made his way over to the window. It had been a celebratory glass, but had quickly shifted into a necessary one as his thoughts went off on a tangent about how he would handle Macmillan. His letters made it clear that he was completely in the dark about the day's events, but Valerian did not want to be the one to reveal them. It wasn't his choice to make. He decided the best course of action was to go along as if it had never happened.

As if Tatiana had never agreed to be his wife, even in the wake of Macmillan's betrayal.

It was dark outside and there was nothing of not to watch, so he'd ambled over to his bookshelf and grabbed out a dusty old book from the farthest corner of the bookshelf. He settled himself back at the window and flipped open the book, and was almost immediately seized by a fit of coughs as a cloud of dust filled the air in front of him. He waved it away, and only then became aware of the little light coming from the yard. He couldn't see anything around it, but there was no mistaking it: it was a wand light.

He took a deep breath and moved from the window. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on, and then paused. Did he really want to see Macmillan? The answer was no, of course, but he also knew that refusing to meet him in his yard would make him a coward. He had no reason to hide, anyways; he wasn't a cheater, he wasn't dishonorable, and he wasn't a liar. He'd won the duel, cleared his name, and now Macmillan was the one who should have to answer for his actions. He was in the right.

With his wand raised he apparated into the field, where he was immediately greeted by a gruesome sight.

The bird: dead.
Its feet: too close to where he stood.
Macmillan: looking like he ought to be lying in the hospital.

"What is wrong with you?" he hissed, his nose scrunched in disgust.

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   Ursula Black

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Ah, there was Macnair! Perhaps he wasn't a complete coward after all. Still, it was unforgivable of him to force him out after having shot him earlier. It was also the least of Macnair's crimes in Charles' opinion. He extinguished his wand light and wrapped an arm around the trunk of the tree to keep himself steady as he turned to face Macnair properly. "Not a fan of your own handiwork?" He sneered ruefully at the other man. "I saw that bullet curve, you son of a bitch!" His words weren't slurred but they were clearly heading in that direction.

"You cheated! You bloody fucking cheated and ruined my proposal, you shit!" If only Macnair would come a little closer, he'd get what was coming to him then!

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"My handiwork?" Valerian scoffed. Clearly Macmillan knew nothing of him if he thought he actively wanted to shoot him. It had only been out of necessity—to defend his honor—and when it had ended he'd been consumed with worry that he'd be responsible for the man's death. "Are you suggesting that I intended to prove I was an honorable man by doing something that would prove without a doubt that I wasn't? Why would I even agree to duel you?" he hissed. There was no denying that the pistol had been tampered with, but it wasn't him who'd done it.

Not that Macmillan would believe him.

He stepped forward to get a better look, knowing very well that Macmillan had been shot in an area that required great care. When Elmer had suffered puncture wounds from mere arrows he'd been confined to bed for the entire day, so to think that Charles Macmillan had been walking around all day with a bullet would—Merlin.

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   Charles Macmillan

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"To save your own neck, it makes perfect sense!" What did Macnair take him for, a complete idiot? "You couldn't face the possibility of dying like a man because you're a little weasel. And I'm supposed to sit back and let Tatiana ruin her life for you?" To his delight he noted that the other man was moving closer, just close enough he thought he could throw a punch his way.

As soon as Charles propelled himself forward off the tree he realized he'd made a grave mistake. The pain was immediate and felt like Macnair had shot him all over again. He was vaguely aware of the impact upon colliding with Macnair before he lost consciousness. The clenched fist he'd been aiming at Macnair's face went limp along with the rest of him.

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   Reuben Crouch, Valerian Macnair

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Valerian stopped and stared, mouth agape, at Macmillan as he hurled accusations his way—and eventually, a fist.

Valerian raised his hands to shield him from the punch, but it never arrived. Instead Macmillan's entire body crashed into him, and Valerian instinctively slipped his arms underneath Macmillan's to steady what was clearly a very limp body. He muttered an expletive and slowly shuffled forward with Macmillan in his arms until he could use the tree behind him to held steady the body.

He pulled back, his face a little whiter than it had a moment ago and mind a little less fuzzy. (There was nothing like a nearly-dead body to sober someone up, especially when that body was the one he'd put a bullet in earlier in the day.)

"Macmillan," he murmured annoyedly, shaking the man by his shoulders. No movement. No sounds. He was definitely breathing, though—but he was also definitely bleeding. He glanced back and forth between Macmillan's shirt and face before he made the decision.

He needed to get him inside.

"If you die this is your own fault," he grumbled as he drew took hold of Macmillan's arm, raised his wand, and apparated them back into the Macnair home.

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   Reuben Crouch, Ursula Black

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As he opened his eyes and his surroundings came into focus he realized he didn't recognize anything. The pain from the bullet wound had eased considerably though. He looked down and that was when he realized he was in a bed. Not his bed, not any bed he'd ever seen. His arm was - no, his whole chest was bare!

Not usually one for getting drunk at all, let alone black out drunk, waking up in a strange bed with no recollection of how he got there was an unfamiliar experience and not one he cared for. Someone had bandaged him up though. Macnair! Where was the bastard? He'd probably removed half his organs to sell on the black market or something else equally insidious. Charles' eyes quickly found him, he was loitering in the corner like a vulture. "What is this?!" Not the most eloquent way of stating his confusion but there'd been too many questions vying to be asked first and that was what tumbled out of his mouth. He tried to sit up suddenly but fell back again with a grunt of pain.

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   Valerian Macnair

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For a while, it seemed as though Macmillan might not wake up. It wasn't as though he was eager to face the man again—there was no telling what blabbering or hollering he might do that could wake up the household—but after seeing the state of the wound he hoped that he would show some sign of life that didn't involve a raging fever and incoherent ramblings.

Fortunately, about an hour later, he did wake up.

"Your wound was infected," he said quietly, not moving from his spot. It was a touchy subject; he'd put the bullet there, caused the wound, and yet tending to the wound had felt so awkward. Macmillan would have left him for dead—wanted him dead, even—but Valerian's feelings were... not reciprocal. Not completely. "You'd have been better off in bed today. Did you even take the potions the healer gave you?" His tone was a mixture of genuine concern and defensiveness. Maybe he should have left him. Maybe he should have dumped him on the bed and waited for him to wake up (but then, would he have?) so he wouldn't have had to explain the thoroughness of his care.

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   Ursula Black

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This was a very drastic change in dynamic from what felt like a couple of minutes ago to him. He didn't like it. "Your cousin said she'd accept your offer if I hadn't made mine by April, so excuse me if I didn't exactly have time for lounging around in bed - getting shot wasn't part of the plan!" He'd taken some of the potions he'd been given but he'd also rushed the healer who had initially patched him up because he wanted to make sure he was on time for Miss Lestrange, he really ought to have gone back for further treatment as soon as she'd left but he hadn't. He'd been too proud and too caught up in wanting to thump Macnair for screwing everything up which was far more satisfying than seeking medical attention.

Did this mean then that Macnair had actually seen to his wound properly? That was annoying. It was a relief not to be in so much pain or helplessly bleeding all over the place, but now he felt uncomfortably in Macnair's debt and that was decidedly the last place he'd ever wanted to be. "Why?" he asked slowly, eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion. By that, of course, he meant 'why did you treat me?' but left it purposely vague because he was too embarrassed to ask properly.

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   Valerian Macnair

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There were plenty of things he could have said—and would have said, if he wasn't aware of the severity of Macmillan's wound. His hatred for the man didn't seem so severe now that he was aware of his physical state, and it bothered him. Macmillan deserved his hate. He deserved the wound. The only thing he didn't deserve was Tatiana's hand in marriage, but if he brought that up there was a chance that Macmillan would try to leave—or worse, fight—and nullify the efforts Valerian had just put into ensuring he didn't die.

"There are thirty-one days in March," he pointed out. His voice was still quiet, his tone unusually even. His expression was neutral—too much so, as if he was making a great effort to keep it that way. Even waiting a day would have given Macmillan the chance to rest and see if the wound healed at all.

Then there was a question of why. It was an easy one to answer, but less so to vocalize. "I... didn't want you dying on our property," he lied through his teeth, his gaze shifting to the portrait of a woman holding a flower that hung on the wall opposite of him. In truth it was much riskier bringing him inside the home, when his mother, father, younger brother, and Tatiana slept not too far from them, and where a handful of servants were always awake to hear something. "And the bleeding wasn't... promising."

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   Charles Macmillan

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He shot Macnair a thoroughly unimpressed look when he pointed out how many days were in March as if he had been a fool not to notice. Obviously there was one more day but he'd booked one day off work and the 31st didn't fall on a weekend. Yes, he could have changed his proposal plans or not challenged Macnair to a duel in the first place but both options he refused to consider and maintained that they had been unavoidable. What hadn't been unavoidable was the date of the duel but Macnair had been more stubborn than a mule about that and so really, once again, it was his fault.

Charles could trace the blame for his current predicament back to Macnair a thousand different ways and annoyingly he still felt some revolting shred of gratitude somehow. Recognizing that it was probably the natural moment to thank the other man for what he'd done, Charles remained uncomfortably silent at first. "I suppose... I owe you," he muttered reluctantly.

This was just great. What sort of alcohol-infused fever dream delirium had possessed him to think picking a fight with Macnair with a hole in his stomach was in any way a good idea? Yes, he still wanted to avenge himself but now he was in this situation which was infinitely worse. Wait... Where was he? He was pretty sure he knew where he was, it was the obvious conclusion to draw, but he really didn't want to believe it. "This isn't the house is it? Your house, your family's house?" He had to leave anyway, he had work in... Probably not enough hours to get a decent night of sleep, but no one in the house could know he was there, Tatiana couldn't know he was there.

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   Valerian Macnair

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I owe you were words that Valerian never thought he would hear directed at him from Charles Macmillan's mouth, and despite being used to hearing it from most of his patients in some fashion, it was downright unsettling coming from him. It made him seem... not as terrible as Valerian had convinced himself. (Of course, if he was as terrible as Valerian had thought in his darkest moments then he would have never healed him—that or Valerian was a much better person than he gave himself credit for, but he wasn't ready to admit to either.)

But still: any sentiment that Macmillan currently held would be gone the moment he figured it out. The moment he learned that Tatiana would soon become his wife.

He couldn't acknowledge the gratitude—physically couldn't, as the words wouldn't leave his lips. He closed his mouth and forced himself to look back at Macmillan, hoping to see any indication that the words were insincere, bitter, or forced, but if anything he just looked uncomfortable.

"Well you did show up in our yard. Leaving you there would look even worse than bringing you inside," he explained, "and—well, I suppose I'll have to clean up the owl mess in the morning."

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For a moment he was distracted from the confirmation that he was indeed in the Macnair house by the mention of his owl. His owl. He'd forgotten about the poor creature entirely. Damn. He supposed he would have to make a detour to Diagon Alley after work tomorrow to get a new one. What a shame, his owl had been very expedient and trustworthy with his mail, who could say if his next one would be as reliable.

"I'd imagine the wildlife will beat you to it." He pulled back the sheets and was pleased to see he was still fully dressed from the waist down - it was going to make leaving a lot easier. Charles started to maneuver himself towards the edge of the bed but stopped almost as soon as he started, taking a sharp intake of breath as he registered the pain. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself in frustration. How was he going to get home and and go to work if shuffling across a bed hurt this much?

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As Macmillan threw back his covers and focused on getting himself to the edge of the bed, Valerian quietly went to the dresser on the other side of the room and grabbed the same potion vial he'd used to ease the pain earlier. He walked around the bed and came face-to-face with Macmillan just as he reached the bedside. Crouching down in front of him, he tried to get a look at the bandages from all angles to ensure they were well-fastened, and then met Macmillan's eyes.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, in way that was more ominous than he'd intended. In truth, he was nervous that Macmillan would be too stubborn to listen—to him least of all—and undo his hour of handiwork. "It's not good to mix magic with - this," he said, pulling himself back into a standing position and holding out the vial for Macmillan to take.

"For the pain," he explained.

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Charles recoiled ever so slightly as Macnair knelt before him, finding the gesture weird and somewhat alarming. He scowled - assuming he'd ever stopped, that is. His hand reached for the vial automatically although he had no intention of doing anything with it, least of all inspecting it. "I can't stay here, it's madness! I have work and if-" Merlin's beard, how close was Tatiana right at that moment. For all he knew she might be in the room next to this one. His mind wandered for a moment until suddenly he was suddenly pulling the sheets partially back over himself and fixing Macnair with a glare. "I can't be here!" If she found him there... Well there'd be far too many questions to answer and he had no idea how he could possibly explain it without telling her truth and he absolutely could not tell her truth.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Macmillan was being... as unreasonably stubborn as always, and if he hasn’t passed out in his home’s yard Valerian might have smiled a little. But the situation was dire—more dire than Macmillan seemed to think, if his Wellingtonshire proposal was any indication—and Valerian was in no joking mood.

“You’ll have to—or else you’ll put yourself at unnecessary risk.” And the thought of Macmillan working was out of the question. “The Minister will have to do without you for another day. I won’t have your blood on my hands today.” He would not make himself a murderer a day after coming to terms with the events of the previous morning.

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   Mariana Macnair

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