Alfred's stomach flipped when she smiled. Merlin, not only was he flirting, but it seemed like it was working. This was uncharted territory for him. It seemed like the only thing in his brain at the moment was a confused buzz of how did I get here? which meant that the smile he flashed her in response was almost unconscious. He was on autopilot to a certain extent as he shifted his gaze down to the table and looked for something to write on. He often carried a small notebook in his pocket, but didn't have it today, which left him with no recourse but to pick up a discarded copy of the Daily Prophet that some earlier patron had left lying on a nearby chair. Fishing his wand out, he mumbled a spell to turn the tip of it into a quill pen temporarily — one of few spells he used regularly, because who had the time to mess with ink pots? — and scribbled his address in one of the empty margins.

"This is my flat in London," he said, tearing off a large triangle of the newspaper and sliding it over to her side of the table. "We're on the floo, so you can come by that way. Just send an owl so I can warn my flatmate first, eh?" he said with a teasing grin. "He might mistake you for a robber otherwise." The last statement was clearly offered in jest — but depending on how the rest of this conversation went, it was possible that Alfred might want her over at a time when his flatmate was out for other reasons. If nothing else, he didn't necessarily need Bilton to know unmarried and unescorted ladies were visiting to get a look at his tattoos.

He glanced down at the scrap of the Prophet he'd put on her side of the table and realized that he'd caught a bit of a headline, which proclaimed in large black letters TO WED. He flushed, and all at once the how did I get here? part of his brain took over. Had he seriously just invited a woman over to his flat after having known her for less than one full afternoon? And had he really done that without even giving it much in the way of conscious thought? The only real form of encouragement he'd had was a smile and an offhand comment from her, and that had been enough for him to slip her his address and an open invitation? What on earth was the matter with him?

This was not the sort of thing he did, or at least not the sort of thing he had ever done before. Even sleeping with Zelda, which had been probably his biggest misstep in the world of society to date, had been preceded by time and build-up and feelings. This was so casual and had happened so quickly — it was the sort of thing that seemed perfectly in character for the type of man Ari Fisk had more or less accused him of being, when they'd had their confrontation, but it wasn't the type of man he was. Or, at least, it hadn't been.

A waiter had noticed his empty glass and was approaching with another, but more alcohol was the last thing Alfred needed. He tried to subtly wave him off, but the man didn't catch the hint (or pretended not to) and placed the full pint glass down in front of him. She'd just gotten another glass, too, which meant they more or less had to sit here for at least another twenty minutes. How big of an ass could he make himself out to be, he wondered, in the span of twenty or thirty minutes?