call the shots [alex]

october 2002 | london

Quinn stifled a yawn with one hand, knocking at her brother’s door with the other. It was late, but she honestly didn’t mind waking him up. It was important, after all. Sure, everything she did was important, but this was different. Quinn had never decided to leave Oliver -- the father of her child -- before. You can stay, she had told him. I’m going to my brother’s. She didn’t think she’d need to confirm Alex’s whereabouts first.

It hadn’t exactly been a spur of the moment thing, but she couldn’t pinpoint when she had decided this was the best decision, either. Either way, Alex should have anticipated her moves, right? He was usually better at predicting the lengths of her relationships than she was, anyway. Lula had made everyone soft, stupid.

She knocked again, louder this time, adding an, “Alexander,” toward the end. Quinn didn’t drop her hand as she sighed, glancing sideways at the small bag next to her on the doorstep. She had more belongings, of course, but she figured she would send for them tomorrow, after Alex had agreed to let her stay for awhile. There were other places she could go, but nowhere else she wanted to be.

Another knock, another, “Alex,” and another break before she tried again. She rested her forehead on the door, straightening up only when she heard someone -- her brother -- approaching. “Alex.” She didn’t have time to wonder about him, why he was out so late, why he was using his front door at all. She quickly pulled him into a hug, tighter than she had intended, hoping he hadn’t seen her bag before she had opened her mouth again: “Hope you don’t mind,” though she couldn’t care if he did. “Just me. Lula’s in Glasgow.” She had waited until their daughter was away before initiating any sort of conversation, at least.

She pulled away, though she remained close, avoiding Alex’s gaze. “It’s a long story.” And in the same breath: “Are you drunk?”

@Alex Regan

Work was an absolute shitstorm.

When wasn’t it? Often it wasn’t, really, but the sentiment felt right enough. Alex felt like an ass whenever he got bored enough with small cases and false alarms to wish something bad would happen, but every time something bad did happen he forgot he’d ever felt boredom in his life. Lately they’d been having to shut down rumors about Purcell left and right, even from inside the Ministry. Alex didn’t like the thought that the man was living it up in Italy much more than the thought of him stoking dissent in Britain.

He didn’t know what to think. He wanted to be angry at the higher-ups for saddling them with this, but Shacklebolt had been an Auror maybe as long as Alex had been alive, through two wars and more political tension than he could likely even conceive of. The Minister wasn’t an idiot. He knew someone like Purcell, who Alex had seen once sitting placidly in an Azkaban cell like the weight of butchering countless innocents didn’t trouble him at all, was too dangerous to let free. All Alex could guess was that the war had changed too little in the government. They may have put a good man in charge, but the Ministry was still too full of unscrupulous profiteers with too much power to stall him at every turn.

But you couldn’t complain too much if you wanted their jobs someday, so Alex just got drunk instead.

He wasn’t drunk enough to forget how dumb it would be to Apparate, but he had been out almost until midnight when he stepped off the Knight Bus as gracefully as he could manage. But there was someone standing outside his door. She said his name, and Alex squinted at his sister. “What?” he called flatly up the stairs. “Did I forget someone’s birthday?” When wasn’t it someone’s birthday? He usually remembered, of course, but there were other things on his mind.

She rushed forward to hug him, and asked to come in. “Oh,” said Alex, stupidly. He looked down at her bag on the stoop and it sunk in for a few seconds. “Oh, shit.” Quinn had left men before, obviously, but none of them so far that she had a child with. It felt utterly incomparable.

He waved off her concern, or offense, or whatever it was. “Don’ worry about it,” he mumbled, fumbling in his pocket for his key and coming out just with his wand. “I’ve got a potion somewhere. Was hoping to sort of, y’know, stay drunk for a while, but oh well, I guess.” Giving Quinn a mirthless joking grin and throwing out his hands, he kicked off his boots in the entryway. “You couldn’t have done this before they let a Death Eater loose?”

With a flick of his wand, he lit up the ceiling lamp and wandered toward the bathroom, but halfway there he paused. “Wait,” he said. “He didn’t, like—do anything to you—did he?” Alex couldn’t say he’d ever gotten that impression of Oliver. With some of Quinn’s other boyfriends that might have been the first thought he had. But what did he know?

Either way he would bet she felt he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.

Alex saw the bag and the penny dropped. Quinn pushed whatever small amount of embarrassment she had about the situation to the darkest, farthest reaches of her mind; she had previously claimed he was the one -- maybe only to herself because who would actually to admit to such mushy shite? -- and she’d be damned before admitting she had been wrong.

She pulled the bag through the door behind her, letting it fall with a thud and a shrug. “Maybe they should have considered that I was deciding to do this before they let a Death Eater loose.” She was only half serious, she thought. As usual, she wasn’t too aware of what was happening globally, or nationally, or locally, if it didn’t directly concern her (or her daughter) or quidditch. He must know that, though, so she didn’t feel like reminding him. There were more important things now, anyway.

Flopping backwards over the arm of the sofa, Quinn made herself perfectly at home, quietly willing Alex to stop talking about himself. The ‘are you drunk’ question really only needed a one word answer. She had said she had had a long story to tell and he didn’t seem interested.

She sighed dramatically as he walked away.

“What?” Quinn sat up quickly, propping herself up with her elbows. “Of course not.” Oliver was as amazing and as chivalrous as usual. She’d be surprised if he didn’t also vacate their house in an effort to let her stay there; Quinn was packed and ready to go first, though.

How stupid would she sound if she said she needed to be a free spirit? Was Alex drunk enough to let her be stupid without calling too much attention to it?

“Never mind that potion.” Quinn hoisted herself up and invited herself to rummage through the kitchen, coming back with a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses. “Better this way.” She kicked her heels off before sinking back down onto the couch and immediately moving to give each glass a decent pour. She set the bottle down and held out a glass with a, “Stay drunk.” She’d catch up to him, anyway.

Her drink was half gone in two swallows that she immediately regretted. Eyes shut, she wondered if this was really the best course of action; three seconds passed before she had decided that yes, this really was the best, both the leaving and the drinking. “I’m rubbish,” she said, her voice strained from the drink and from admitting defeat. “Being domestic.” She took another swallow; this one went better. “Not for me.”

Alex paused to give Quinn a second once-over. A twice-over? He hadn’t been paying enough attention the first time, just enough to notice she looked intent on staying the night. “Are you planning to move in with me for...ever?” There was a better word for what he meant, he was sure, but he’d forgotten it. “How long you’ve been deciding, then?” he asked. “Not long enough to owl me ahead of time?” Asking for his permission would have been pointless. Obviously she had permission to stay they both knew there was no way she couldn’t. But Alex felt he was justified in preferring to be asked. He’d have gladly talked it over, helped... Maybe he was just bitter she hadn’t taken his opinion into account before making a major life decision.

He closed the bathroom door to pout in solitude for a minute.

“Why does he get the house?” called Alex over the running water. “It’s your aesthetic. You’re telling me Oliver Wood wants to take care of all those plants all over everything? Hasn’t he got some brother to move in with?” Shaking his hands dry, he re-emerged to find Quinn had broken out the Firewhiskey. He sighed and sank down on the other side of the couch, tucking his good leg under the other thigh. “Not that I wouldn’t love to have you, obviously,” he said. “You and your one-year-old daughter, whom I dearly love.” The absolute last thing he wanted in his home was a small child, but family was family and that was that. “But if nothing happened—you didn’t do anything to him, did you—?”

She looked pathetic enough now to make him feel bad about saying that, despite his curiosity. Surely there was all manner of drama tied up in not being cut out for domesticity. “Well,” said Alex slowly. “Was worth a shot, I figure. You might’ve been. Never know unless you try. And now you do.” He’d been tempted to make fun of her, all I could’ve told you that. But thankfully for the both of them he wasn’t drunk enough not to hold that back.

He leaned over to top off Quinn’s glass. “You’d better keep me well stocked, Miss Quidditch Money,” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “That’ll be my condition.”