charity [harlan]

20 december 2003 // london

The English and Irish teams--the PR teams--were trying something new, showing there were no hard feelings between the two teams--the quidditch teams--or the two countries or something; Quinn hadn’t paid too much attention to the reason. Whatever it was, she wasn’t the biggest fan, anyway. Ireland had won so the party should have been about Ireland. At the very least, the party should have been in Ireland.

It was still a good party, even if the decorations were all wrong. They were neutral holiday festive things, and that meant some green, but there still wasn’t as much as there should have been. But whatever was in the punch was really… packing a punch. Quinn finished her glass and found another, just in time for her manager to find her.

He was also wanting to take advantage of the joint party. Quinn wasn’t the captain of the Irish team but she was the captain of the Falcons and Harlan Bellamy was captain of the Griffins. Ballycastle was just barely ahead of the Griffins in the table but realistically the Griffins were favorites over the Bats. It was a good photo opportunity, if nothing else.

So after the third reminder that she needed to have a good--or at least a good looking--conversation with Harlan, Quinn picked up a second glass of punch and made her way over to him. She slid into the space just vacated by whoever he had just been talking to and offered him the glass. “You looked good out there.” It was a practiced saying, not because she said it often but because her manager had made her practice saying it with him a few times.

@Harlan Bellamy

"Nah mate, still alright," Harlan half lifted up his glass that he'd taken all of two more mouthfuls from in the time between the last time the poor bastard from the second string (maybe even third) of the Irish team had offered him punch.

Quite frankly, it was starting to get weird.

Harlan turned back into the conversation with a few of the coaches who were still discussing the highlights of the Four Nations matches, another pet peeve of his, dissecting plays in which they had no real part. They weren't on the pitch. Small talk was miserable enough as it was but throw in some manufactured show of sportsmanship and it was a guaranteed recipe for a bad time.

Eventually, the conversation broke up and Harlan had a moment to himself. To breath. Until—

Quinn Regan. They knew each other, of course (how could they not?) but they didn't really know each other. Harlan could count on one hand the number of conversations they'd had and most of them were as surface level as the event they currently found themselves contractually tied to. "Regan," He nodded a greeting and braced a smile. He looked good out there, she said, and he knew it was bullshit.

"Congratulations," He held up his glass after catching the eye of Eliza, PR for The Griffins, who was watching carefully from a distance. "To a well-deserved win," That much, Harlan meant. The Irish team had outplayed them and fair was fair.

“Bellamy,” she repeated, as equally impressed as he seemed to be having this conversation.

It was hard to see anyone over Harlan Bellamy’s shoulder but she couldn’t miss the hand of her manager waving her on. “Thanks.” His congratulations sounded as sincere as her you looked good out there but at least she knew she deserved the congrats. Still, she tried to relax her body language, remember what else her manager had told her to pay attention to during their conversation.

Quinn had a large sip of her drink, appreciating what sounded like a more sincere congratulations a second later. “Thank, but you--” not Harlan specifically, though, so she corrected herself-- “England still beat Ireland in that match.” She was able to hold his eye for half a second, but she needed another drink after what she’d said. She didn’t want to talk about that match, the only one of her three where she didn’t catch the snitch.

How many minutes had passed since she had walked over there? Not enough, despite how long it felt like she’d been standing there.

She had another sip, figuring that maybe they could agree about one thing: “I think our PR teams are really angling for that Christmas bonus, putting this show on.” She rolled her eyes--hopefully quickly enough that no one outside of the conversation could see--and sipped at her drink again.

Harlan hadn't planned on bringing up the fact that Ireland had lost to England. Or any detail of that particular match for that matter. In truth, he hadn't planned any conversation with Regan, but inevitably, there they were.

"Ahh, minor details," He almost grinned, pausing over the lip of his glass. The only thing worse than a bad winner was a sore loser. Ireland won the tournament and that was what mattered, he thought. The conflict between feeling tied to The Griffins and his pride for being on the national team was a dichotomic wavering that he was still working through. Half of Harlan felt like he'd let down England and the other half was more concerned with what the remainder of the season for his might yield.

He lowered his glass before taking a sip. He had been trying to pace himself. "Seems to be working alright..." He followed Quinn's gaze to where the PR pit was not-so-subtly surveying the interactions in the room amongst teams. Then he caught sight of Kearns from the English team sneaking out of the crowd after the Irish witch whose name Harlan thought might be Kent.

"That looks like trouble," He nodded as Kearns gave a last glance over his shoulder before dipping around the corner. Unfortunately for them, it seemed, most of their efforts were more fixated on the alleged rivalry between Regan and Bellamy and how it might boil over. "Suppose we give them a show?" Harlan teased, eyes flicking over to where he knew they were being watched.

Minor details. That got a small smile out of her, but she quickly hid it behind her glass, having another sip. It was minor details, she supposed, but the details included her not catching the snitch and it was hard to ignore. At least her drink was making it a little easier to ignore, push off thinking about that any more until the morning.

He wasn’t drinking with as much fervor as she was but if Quinn was being honest, it was the only thing that was helping her lean toward friendly, like the organizers wanted. “Alright enough,” she agreed with a shrug. She was still holding out for the after after party in Dublin, where she was planning to meet her family and people that actually wanted to see and be seen by her.

Quinn followed Harlan’s gaze across the room, rolling her eyes when she spotted one of Ireland’s chasers sneaking off with England’s something. That should be her, having fun, but instead— she lowered her glass and looked back to the beater standing in front of her, eyebrows raised. “What kind of show?” As much as she wanted to be the one having fun, she didn’t need that sort of headline, not so close to Christmas; that sort of thing might just kill her mam.

She thought she could sacrifice her drink to the cause—giving a show—because she also didn’t want anyone to think she was genuinely friendly with England, despite captaining a quidditch team in England. Then again: “Dunno if I want to waste my drink.” She took another sip, close to finishing it anyway. “Is pretending to talk to me that bad?”

Quinn asked what kind of a show but seemed to answer her own question as her eyes cast down to her less than full drink, not wanting to waste it, on him, he could imagine. Harlan's own eyes narrowed as a grin subtly crept over his features. His mind hadn't gone there, a drink to the face, but she'd shown her cards in saying so. "No need," He shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. There were plenty of other ways they could distract to make an escape.

But, then again, maybe it was too early in her career to know all of the tricks of the trade.

Is pretending to talk to me that bad? The question caught him off guard and it showed. Harlan took a moment to think. It was a strange thing coming from Quinn, who looked like she would rather be quite literally anywhere else on earth than next to him. "I'm not the one who looks as if I'm getting teeth pulled..." Harlan teased before taking a more generous sip of his drink that he'd been nursing for most of the evening.

"Thought I might do you a favor," In offering. He added with a quirk of his brow, gaze flickering to 'their people' before landing back on her.

"Provide an out," Harlan added. In truth, his team had given him what he imaged was a directive— mingle, play nice, don't get into trouble. But Harlan had never been much for following the rules. And he had no intention of being told who he should and shouldn't talk to. If he had it his way he would have been out the door long before the canapes were circulating the room.

There was no need to waste her drink, apparently, but he wasn’t offering a better idea. (And Quinn wasn’t about to suggest he waste his drink, either.)

He didn’t immediately answer her, if it was really so bad to have a conversation--if that’s what one could call this--with her, pretend or not, and that was an answer in itself. Quinn rolled her eyes and finished off her drink; surely she couldn’t be expected to hang around him much longer with an empty glass; this was her out. She laughed--couldn’t help herself--when he pointed out how she must look. But had he ever tried to have a conversation with himself? It had to be about as bad as getting teeth pulled.

“Oh. Right, thank you.” What was the favor, again? The alcohol wasn’t helping her follow their mostly-stilted conversation. She followed his gaze toward her manager, talking to someone she could only assume was his. How long did they expect them to do this? Surely this would look better closer to the end of the season, anyway; what sort of good press was this buying them now, after they’d already played their regular season match, after the Four Nations, months out from even the possibility of meeting again in the playoffs.

Quinn sighed, looked up at Harlan again. “Provide the out then.” He was all talk, no show.

The longer the conversation went on, the more Harlan got the distinct feeling that Quinn Regan wasn't his biggest fan— as if he hadn't already suspected that after the last season. They had spent more than enough time together publicly without ever having to have a real conversation, and in the present, he wondered if they would have been better off that way. Regan didn't seem to be the type to be so easily swayed into a PR move, but Harlan reminded himself of the games his own management played when they needed him to play nice.

Harlan took a measured sip of his drink, surveying his options. He wasn't one to back down from a challenge, and that night was not going to be the exception— forget whatever consequences might come of any stunt pulled. He knew he had to be smarter this time, though.

The opportunity struck at the opportune moment— Neilan, a particularly hot-headed Irish player who Harlan knew well from their time together with Ballycastle— was edging past someone who looked like he had been a bit too heavily served over the course of the evening. Subtly, Harlan flicked his wrist and the full drink in the stranger's hand poured down Neilan's once pristine white dress shirt. Et Voila, he thought smugly.

As suspected, Neilan had a few choice words (and in very close proximity) for the man so Harlan didn't waste any more time. With all eyes on the room on the fight that was certain to break out, or at least be intervened by management, it was his one chance to sneak out.

Harlan took a glass from a floating tray after finishing what was left of his own in one swift movement before glancing back at Quinn. "Now's your chance," He commented before slipping through the crowd himself, wondering if she would follow, make an escape of her own. The distraction would buy half an hour of going unnoticeably missing, Harlan could slip back in just as the night was wrapping up, take a few photos, and then be on his merry way.

fin

Quinn told him to provide the out and to his credit, he at least looked like he was trying.

She followed his gaze, her eyes landing on Neilan--that prick--but she couldn’t miss that subtle flick of Harlan’s wrist, definitely couldn’t miss that drink spilling down Neilan’s front. Quinn let out a laugh before she managed to cover her mouth with her hand; she couldn’t be seen laughing at her teammate’s misfortune, didn’t want to be seen laughing as if Harlan Bellamy had told a good joke. She flicked her gaze back to him--Harlan--and tilted her chin down, as close to admitting he’d provided an out.

Harlan grabbed himself a new drink and very obviously didn’t grab her one--off a tray too high for Quinn to smartly reach for it, no less--and she nodded. “Looks like it,” she agreed, but he was already leaving. There was a benefit to following him--his shoulders were much more effective at parting the crowd than hers were--but she left enough space between them so it didn’t look like she was following him. If she had had a little less to drink, she might think through the consequences of both of them leaving at the same time after being seen talking for all of five minutes, but that certainly wasn’t the case.

“Have a real party in Dublin to get to,” she said, once they had emerged into a deserted hallway. She looked at the glass in her hand before looking around for somewhere to put it; she shrugged after another second and pulled her wand out, quickly (and somewhat illegally) turning it into a portkey because she wasn’t about to go back in there and find her manager so she could be apparated across the Irish Sea.

She only offered her thanks after she had turned away, heading down the hallway to find a place she could quietly leave from. “Thanks--” it was short and quick and she waved the hand not holding her glass over her shoulder, not sticking around to find out where he was off to.

[[ out ]]