September 20th, 1890 — The Augurey Beak Cafe

"Finally back at work?" he asked as the bartender refilled his glass of beer. He hadn't yet figured out how to navigate life after the unfortunate series of events that last month had brought. He had not been released by the healer to return to the quidditch pitch, but in truth he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He was missing a finger and had suffered nerve damage in a number of others. It would be a miracle if he could ever play competitively again. It was already certain his prime had come to an end.

Quidditch was not the only uncertainty in his life. He still struggled to face Tilda without being overcome with guilt. He'd considered finding his own place on the isle—perhaps a cottage near the cliff sides, where he could be alone while he came to terms with the consequences of his actions. Intertwined with all his conflict was his acquaintanceship—no, friendship—closeness—fondness for Fallon. It was a relationship unlike one he'd ever had before: formed in conflict, developed in bickering, and solidified in trauma. He wanted to be around her, and that he was aware of that was enough for him to build a metaphorical wall between them.

"You haven't told me much. Not that you're obligated to." His tone was dry, likely from the four good-sized glasses of beer he'd had since arriving two hours prior. She'd only been seated next to him for a fraction of that time, but it had only sped up his drinking.

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@"Fallon Abernathy"

  

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Having a suspect in custody meant Fallon was able to reclaim some of her lost freedom. There was no guarantee the suspect was in fact the assassin, but she was inclined to believe a man with a potent poison attempting to enter her home had to be the correct person. Tomorrow she would hopefully find out who it was, however tonight was reserved for a celebratory drink.

"Not quite yet." Merlin, she was itching for it, though. Even if she sat on desk duty for another month, that had to be better than the relentless boredom of her flat. JP's case file had taken but a day, and he wasn't going to be able to send her more to decipher from a hopsital bed. "They want the case closed before I come back."

A single glass of beer sat in front of her half drunk. Fallon didn't wish to tempt fate into making the caught suspect the wrong man. It would be too easy to sneak up on her in such a crowded setting if she wasn't remaining vigilant. "They think they caught him," she then announced with a small grin. "I only just found out yesterday."

  

A closed case. Lachlan almost barked a laugh. How easy it would be, then, to incapacitate the entire Auror Office if one person decided to male attempts on all of their lives. He wondered how much of it was rooted in Fallon’s sex—or if something was known to them that neither of them knew.

“How disappointing. I haven’t had a chance to track them down yet,” he said, a the sarcasm dripping from his words. He’d been hoping to stumble across the assassin, somehow, some way, but he hadn’t really been stumbling anywhere since his hospital release, apart from a few pubs and the checkup he’d had the day previous.

“I take it you’re pleased. I would be if my employment rested on some asshole being caught.” He reached to his glass, his hand still visibly wrapped. He’d been hoping his own employment would be settled soon, one way or another. He needed to talk to coach and Mr. Gallivan.

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It was only a few days ago that Fallon had realized Lachlan had the right idea for vengeance. A beater's bat to the skull would be a sufficient punishment for the hell they endured, or perhaps she'd get creative first. Cast a few spells to mimic the conditions of the tundra, allow the bastard to freeze as they had. Perhaps then she would feel a bit better about their situation.

"Wouldn't have had to look far. They caught him near my apartment building. Sounds like he was looking to sneak something into my possessions again." That this bastard had been in her bedroom was enough to make Fallon boil with rage. She took a sip of her beer, her hand in a white knuckled grasp around the cup. "At least they caught him and not me. I would've marked it all under self defense."

She frowned at his still bandaged hand. They probably weren't able to grow his fingers back, then. All because of her and her flailing hands. Fallon would never not feel guilty for causing him such pain. "Pleased to go back to work, for sure. I still have to pass the fitness tests again." Those were a struggle to make it through before she had developed an intense fear of fire. Now, she wasn't sure how she'd cope. "Are you ... are you going to go back to quidditch?"

  

”Near your home?” what kind of idiot attempted murder a second time, and near her home at that, likely with the knowledge that they were being pursued? Maybe he did deserve to get beaten.

“Sounds like a persistent bastard. I hope he keeps up that determination while in Azkaban—he’s going to need it,” he scoffed, shaking his head. He took another drink, an excuse to think for a moment. He still didn’t know who the assassin was, or why he would target Fallon of all people, but he sure was ballsy. If he’d tried only two, maybe three weeks later, Lach might have been there to beat him to a pulp. “They should take our tundra time as your fitness test. I’d like to see them stumble around for days.” He was still bitter—not towards her, but towards everything. The match. His victims. The drinking. The ice. His missing fingers.

He paused upon being asked about his own job. He glanced at her, and then at the table, and then he took another drink. He set the glass down on the table after his sip and let out a deep sigh, an indication of his indecisiveness.

“I don’t know.” There were so many variables to consider: his age, physical strength, injuries, public opinion, his emotions and new anxieties towards playing. He hadn’t yet figured out how to cope. “My Ma said she’d rather see me at home. Not all dragon work is overly physical and dangerous, and probably easier on my body.”

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"Near my home," she confirmed. The bastard was lucky she hadn't caught him, he wouldn't still be breathing. "I hope he lives a miserable life in Azkaban for all the hell he caused us." She hoped his soul was sucked out little by little until he withered away into nothing. An empty shell of who he once was.

Fallon sighed and took another sip of her beer. She wasn't going to be cleared to go back to work, not unless she sat in front of a bonfire until she reconditioned her brain. "Not sure if I'll be cleared...I'm afraid of fire now, a candle, a fireplace, all of it. I see the light shifting and suddenly I'm back in the cave and you're dying next to me." The speech left her in a muted hush, her gaze on the glass in front of her instead of the handsome man across from her.

Lachlan leaving quidditch was a sad prospect, one Fallon felt immediately guilty for. Yes, he'd sent a bludger into the stands, but he would be forgiven for that as soon as blame was placed in the ministry instead. Leaving because of the injuries he'd sustained was just ... sad. "But...?" She asked hesitantly.

  

Lach hummed in agreement, all the while his mind trying to conjure up an image of the culprit. He was probably small and scrawny, as small on the outside as his heart was on the inside. It was only a small man, a weak man, who tried to end a woman's life, auror or not. And to target her again—he'd have to know that she'd survived the initial attempt, know what she'd gone through. He'd never been to Azkaban, but he hoped the cells were cold as ice.

Her admission startled him. "A fear of... fire?" he asked, brows creased with concern. He could understand a fear of snow or ice, or even cold, but fire? Assuming he wasn't blacked out for a portion of their time in the tundra (a real possibility) he couldn't anything from their time that would cause such a fear. She mentioned watching the fire in the cave, but he'd been there and came out without such a fear. He wondered the true magnitude of the mental strain their arctic adventure had put on her. "What do you intend to do if they don't clear you?" He couldn't envision Fallon as a desk worker; she was too physical, too hands-on. She was capable, too, and to see her out of the force would be a shame.

At least he had a backup plan, even if it wasn't the same. Dragonkeeping provided little to no competition except between the MacFusty men itself. There was a thrill, but one caused by the danger of dragons, not the fun of flying. It was a lonesome job, too, and though Lachlan had always insisted he could function well alone or in a group, he didn't fancy the idea of his day-to-day interactions being limited to those he shared blood with.

"Not buts," he said quietly. "I don't know if I can go back. It's too much all at once. I'm past the natural age for retirement, anyways. It's time I start being a real man, don't you think?" Real men had real jobs. Anything he was qualified to do paid better than quidditch, even if it brought him less joy. Dragon-keeping was not an especially lucrative career, but it would help keep his family afloat into the next generation.

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"That's not an option," she answered. Fallon was somewhat disappointed he didn't share the same sentiment, but he had slept for most of their time together. Lachlan hadn't had to force himself into consciousness to keep an listening ear on her heartbeat. "I'll figure it out." Tomorrow while Malou was at work she would force herself to sit in front of the fireplace until she was no longer trembling with fear

Her brows furrowed, and Fallon reached a hand across the bar to lightly touch his. "Your employment doesn't define your masculinity," she told him earnestly. Quidditch or not, Lachlan was as good a man as they came. One day, some lucky woman would be lucky to call him her husband. "Anything less than a real man wouldn't have survived what we went through." Besides, a real man wouldn't have functioning equipment, and Fallon knew from experience that he did.

  

So she intended to be stubborn. He didn't know why he thought anything less. In truth, he was worried about her, and for her future. He did not frequently think about the socioeconomic statuses of his friends and acquaintances, but he knew Fallon didn't have a cushion to land on if her career went south. She would have to find something quick, and something that provided enough—that or she'd need to seduce one of her fellow aurors. As much at the thought amused him, he also found himself irrationally angry with his own thought process. He doubted a male auror (with their self-importance and superiority complexes, from what he'd heard) could handle her as a wife.

"I'm not worried about my masculinity." He didn't need to be vain to know he was perfectly masculine as he was. He was reminded of it every time he stood beside the average Brit. "Quidditch is a sport. A game. It's meant for boys, not men. You don't make a lifelong career out of it, is what I mean." Most went on to roles in the Department of Magical Games and Sports like Fitz, or chose to coach teams after retiring. Neither were his ideal. "The only reason my father didn't make a fuss over my quidditch career is because he knew it wouldn't last forever. It never does."

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Content that he was comfortable with his masculinity, she chuckled and withdrew her hand. Already, she missed the physical contact, but friends weren't meant to touch like so. And, despite her once belief otherwise, that was all they were ever likely to be. Men who were interested acted more like JP, didn't they? With the small gifts and unsubtle teasing. Lachlan hadn't teased her in a long time.

"There's nothing wrong with earning a living from quidditch," she replied. "We wouldn't have the professional sport otherwise. And, it doesn't have to be over for you. Not if you don't want it to be ... you deserve a better ending." What an awful note to retire on, killing a woman and going missing shortly after. "You can do another season."

  

He lifted his glass, smiling against it as she argued against what he considered common sense. He put it down after a moment, an amused smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "Nothing wrong with it, no," he admitted, shaking his head, "but you don't buy property on a quidditch salary. I'm thirty. Men at that age, you know... we're supposed to start settling." It had a different meaning for every man, and he was still unsure what it meant for him, but he supposed his body was telling him that he needed something stable and routine-friendly.

"Are you under the impression that I'm giving up too easily, or is it that I'm sitting in the presence of a disappointed fan?" He had to smile at that, though he kept his eyes low and off her. She'd said once that the Cannons were her favorite, but he hadn't known whether to take her seriously. She might have been trying to butter him up after the rocky start to their acquaintanceship (friendship, relationship, whatever it was) but she'd definitely expressed an interest in watching him.

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Settling. The word left a sour taste in her mouth, perhaps because she was long past the age of settling herself, but mainly because it felt so wrong for Lachlan. "Is that something you want to do, then? Settle?" She asked before taking a sip of her beer. Picturing him as a domesticated husband just didn't suit what she knew of him, that was more Jesse's territory. (Which, what did that say of her?)

Fallon laughed and rolled eyes, grateful for the chance to diffuse any growing tension. "Disappointed fan, for sure. The Cannons won't recover from the loss of you for at least a seasom or two." Lachlan might not have believed her, but the Cannons really were her favorite team. They just had an energy about them the other teams didn't. An earnest passion for the sport. "I can't bear to watch them lose."

  

He'd been asking himself the same thing. As startling as it was to admit, he didn't hate the idea of being married with children—or at least, the image of it. It was nowhere near the worst life to have, even if it was one he'd long thought unavailable to him. He didn't come across as a conventional man: his hair was longer than it should be, he played quidditch at thirty, his family kept dragons as their main source of income, and he'd never been as focused on finances and livelihood as aging men were supposed to. He was more wary of establishing a family of his own than keeping one, anyways; while his values did not stray too far from society's expected, he did not take to society with ease as most did.

"Should I not want to?" he rebutted, his gaze straying to an empty area behind the bar. He thought back to the Hogsmeade healer he once had hid eyes on, only to be overwhelmed with sadness and regret, not at the missed opportunity, but his own cowardice. As easy as it was to find women who gawked over him for his quidditch status, the whole courtship ordeal (and even the mere thought of it) brought out his most awkward side. "I think every man does at some point. We're natural adventurers as boys, but eventually we seek security. It's harder to find than any trouble I've been in."

He still wasn't certain that she was a fan, even though she'd repeated it multiple times now. "I'm sure they'll go on. If I was that valuable, they'd have made me captain by now." He smiled, not too worried about that in itself. He'd never been one to seek out the top spot; he was content enough where he was. Still, it was enough that he hadn't learned to consider himself indispensable.

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Fallon was rendered a bit speechless by his rebuttal. His wishing to settle and find security was fine, but if that was the case whaf was he doing here with her? Drinking with an unmarried woman wasn't going to help his reputation or prospects any. In fact, if they were to spend too much time together now she would further hurt him by association alone. The thought had her looking down towards her hands, a sudden and cold wave of sadness washing over her. Their friendship, like most of the friendships she had from childhood, would soon be nonexistent if he was truly looking to settle.

She buried the thoughts and feelings, and instead focused on how to address the comment. "You can want to, that's not what I meant." Merlin, why was it so easy to talk to Jesse, and yet with Lachlan she constantly felt as though she was on the defensive? "Just didn't know that was something you're interested in. Settling is great, security is even better. I hope you find it."

Fallon suddenly felt antsy, like she ought to leave and call it a night. She wasn't normally the type to flee a tough conversation, but she didn't know how to handle herself here. Still, suddenly leaving would be worse than awkward conversation. "They're just fools who don't know their heads from their asses," she eventually replied. "You should've been captain when [enter previous captain] retired."

  

"Find it?" he echoed with a chuckle. He shook his head and mindlessly patted the top of her hand. He might have pulled it away quickly in any other circumstance, but he'd just finished another glass of beer. "I've always thought settling was one of those things that just happens, don't you? Nobody just goes out and says 'I'm going to be an exhausted father of four' now, do they?" His father hadn't, he was sure, and despite his still-active roll in the family business still spent his days bickering with Quillian and hoping he'd see grandchildren eventually.

He thought to Pettigrew, who had always come across as wild and carefree since his scandal, but was now thirty-one and strapped down with wife and child. It just happened to people, didn't it? If it happened to him, it would; if not... well, he'd hear from his mother in another few years, or after Quillian settled down. He looked at her, his amused smile fading into a smaller, almost concerned one. "What about you, Fallon? Has our little near-death experiences made you think about 'settling'? Or am I the odd one?"

Quidditch and careers aside, it was obvious that their shared experience had changed them, whether it was newfound worries about the future or fears of fire. How would they move forward? Would they continue doing this—meeting up weekly for life updates? Or would it end, like most things in life eventually did, leaving them to handle their problems themselves?

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No, nobody sought after a litter of children, but there was definitely a concrete choice in choosing to move in that direction. Especially given the trajectory of Lachlan's life prior to the World Cup. Marriage and domestic life didn't just happen to a man on top of his game like that. He would've agreed to fall in love, chosen o propose to his would-be wife, and accepted that children were part of the deal.

She shrugged, her disagreement clear on her features. "Settling doesn't just happen." It was part of why she had gotten nervous about being engaged to Jesse. Marriage felt like too much too fast, and while she liked the brunette Ravenclaw, she wouldn't go as far to say she was in love with him yet. "You have to be accepting of the change for it to be something you want, otherwise you'd run from the idea."

Fallon hadn't thought about settling past that she wasn't emotionally prepared to be married just yet. Sometimes, she could picture herself a mother, but others the idea was so outlandish she was revolted by the concept. "I think I need to get back to some kind of normal before I can think about settling." Married or not, a mother or not, Fallon would never willingly quit her profession. "My job makes settling a bit difficult, too. Gone for days at a time, dangerous conditions. Few men would be accepting of such a wife."