truth is anybody’s guess [dennis]

late june

They’d arrived in Paris by portkey and the plan had been to apparate to Besançon, which was apparently toward the middle of nowhere, France. They’d actually asked them about their plans at some sort of weird customs things, which had led to being asked for their apparating licenses, which led them to renting a car -- with Edith’s slightly fudged driver’s license saying she was 25 -- instead. It wasn’t bad, nice almost -- once they were out of Paris. Edith had never driven outside of England before and it took her a few minutes to get a hang of driving on the right -- wrong -- side of the road.

Once they were properly in the country, though, and Edith had time to focus on anything other than the stop-start of traffic with the wrong hand on the gearshift it, it was much more obvious that she didn’t know how to start a conversation with @Dennis Creevey .

It was weird that they were on this trip together at all; they hadn’t worked together before; the only work-related things they’d done since he properly started at The Quibbler were drinks with other staff -- a weird occasion in its own right -- which conveniently included alcohol. They were better with drinks. But now, driving: no drinks.

Edith was meeting with someone tomorrow who had completely given up magic, reverting to muggle life, during (or after) the war and the editor had thought it’d be nice to have photos -- hence Dennis -- since they didn’t document muggle life after magic too often. She hadn’t asked Dennis what his plans were -- was he planning to hang around during the interview? or just take some photos at the beginning and leave? come later and leave? -- but she normally worked alone and somehow the idea of Dennis being her audience was gnawing at her.

She didn’t mind the silence but she apologized as she mashed the buttons on the radio, skipping ahead a few stations to find something a bit more bearable; now that she’d said something though, it was too tempting to say something else, even if it wasn’t much. “We’re gonna have to stay somewhere else, what with the rental cost.” There had been plans to stay at the inn (and pub) where Edith would be having her chat tomorrow, but that was in the center of town and boasted center-of-town prices, too. They could just ditch a room, too, and double up but-- not drinking, not suggesting that.

june 2003

"Mm?" Dennis glanced at what she was doing as she apologised, before shaking his head to show that no, he didn't mind, and returning to awkwardly staring out the window.

He'd been disappointed when the sort-of-friendship they'd had had shifted into more of a sort-of-nothing. He'd been disappointed with himself for never following up after the repeated "oh, we should hang out sometime"s that happened at the end of rare work drinks with the Lovegoods. Dennis had a hard time looking at the times they'd hung out last year - almost a full year ago, now - and remembering how they actually went. What actually happened. The current canon was somewhere between him just reading far too much into it all and him reading it right, but then being a kind of shit friend after. Seeing her briefly at Dean's birthday party had been awkward, he should have told her he'd dropped out of school.

And now they were here.

He'd been doing better overall, since the last time they had a real conversation. It helped to not have had any big, destabilising events happen in the past six months. No breakups (no romance, period), no wild, off-the-rails type mental health events, no fallouts with important people, no deaths or monsters. Sure, his room was small and got almost no natural light - and he was ninety percent sure it was supposed to be a study, not a bedroom - but for the first time since he was fifteen he had his own space that was totally his. He had enough money and a stable enough few jobs that unless Luna fired him or something, he was sure he'd have a roof over his head. Certain he wouldn't be back on couches, or in hostels, or worse. And he still drank too much, especially when he was sad, and he was still sad too often, but it wasn't like before.

Not that any of that translated to suddenly being a great conversationalist, of course. After the initial part of this trip, the part where they'd bonded over a mutual understanding of how ridiculous their employers were, the conversation had died off a bit. And now there was just silence. Dennis was thinking about it - couldn't turn his brain off - but he just didn't know what to say. He looked up a bit too quick when she spoke again, like he was waiting for it. He was.

"Yeah, 'course," Dennis said, nodding. He shifted in the car seat, adjusting his seat belt where it was rubbing his neck. If things were a little different, he could have just popped home for the night, and come back tomorrow, but he didn't think that would work this time. His lack of a license hadn't stopped him for apparating in emergencies, but he wasn't good at it, and had splinched himself more than a couple of times in the past couple years. To varying degrees. Apparating across the channel was totally out of the question.

Edith glanced at Dennis and teetered on the edge of saying something else -- he could pick the music if he wanted because what she really wanted to hear was The Smiths and she didn’t think she’d find them on the radio here -- before deciding against it and looking back at the road. It stretched out far ahead of them; traffic was light but she stayed as far to the right as possible (once she figured out that passing was on the left and not the other way around like it should have been).

She mentioned their hotel situation after another minute. Dennis responded with two words, which was honestly one word more than she had been expecting, so she nodded her silent agreement as she glanced at him one more time.

They passed a sign that read ‘Auxerre 20’ and she nodded again to herself as she tried to do some mental math. Twenty miles at -- she glanced at the speedometer -- a hundred twenty miles per hour-- no, kilometers per hour and twenty kilometers to Auxerre; Edith blinked slowly and shook her head. Without taking her eyes off the road she reached for the map she had stashed in the door, pre-folded (by her) to show the right section of France. She brought the map up and propped it on the steering wheel, glancing down for half a second; it was just enough time to find Paris and not much else.

She gave up, tossing the map up on the dashboard. They’d get to Besançon whenever they got there.

There was a service station coming up -- a sign advertising services in French but at least the pictures were in a language Edith was better at -- and she glanced at Dennis again. She had no idea if he drank coffee or if he even wanted any if he did and she didn’t think the odds were in their favor for finding a good cuppa; again she decided against saying anything else, hoping he’d say something if he wanted to stop. She almost impressed herself that a few minutes had gone by before she thought again that this would be so much easier after a pint or two.

Dennis wanted to shift again, push the sleeves of his shirt up or something, but he was hyperaware of the stillness inside the car. Naturally, making himself sit still meant that he was suddenly also very aware of every part of him that was uncomfortable, or itchy. The seatbelt was still sort of digging into him, and his back hurt from fixing his posture a minute ago – he wanted to slouch. He wanted to clear his throat. Scratch the back of his neck.

But, whatever.

He almost offered to help when she got the map out, a part of his brain pulling up a rather vivid momentary vision of them bowling off course and driving straight into another car, but the moment passed, they didn’t crash, and then she’d tossed the map onto the dashboard. He wondered what she was thinking and if he’d done something wrong – both quite common thoughts for him. Unfortunately, his internal dialogue provided no clear answers. No surprise there.

He’d packed a flask. It was sort of humorous that he was thinking about it now, that long minutes of silence made him want to drink. Humorous in the same way that his total inability to have a conversation with her was humorous, that was. Dennis didn’t really know what the details of tonight were; Luna hadn’t given him much notice. He doubted that she’d been the one who’d booked everything anyway. And if it was Edith, like he thought, then surely they’d end up at a bar or something later tonight. Surely they would. Hopefully?

He felt her eyes on him and he resisted the urge to look at her, catch her gaze. What was he supposed to say, anyway? Apologise for being awkward? Dennis wasn’t willing to be so self aware anywhere outside his own head. He’d been thinking about Clem a lot lately, given that they’d broken up almost exactly a year ago. Wondering what she was doing. He’d been thinking about that one night that he and Edith had gotten drunk in and fallen asleep in a playground. He’d been thinking about how empty his past few months had been (not in the bad way persay – he’d probably needed it) and that wasn’t somewhere he wanted to dwell. God, especially not with her.

His gaze was unfocussed as he leaned his head against the cool glass, barely taking in the little houses by the road or any of the other cars as they whooshed by.

Edith sniffed, pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, flipped the sun shade down. She was fidgety and there were only so many things she could do about it while driving. She had her right hand on the steering wheel and shifted slightly to proper her left elbow on the door, but it wasn’t as comfortable as she had imagined and she switched hands on the wheel, letting her right rest on the gear shift (like it probably should have been in the first place but she was on the wrong side).

She tapped her fingers against the wheel in time to the music, some EuroPop something she wasn’t familiar with.

She hadn’t bothered asking if Dennis knew how to drive; they’d discussed it once -- hadn’t they? it had been nearly a year and she wasn’t sure which pieces she remembered and which she had made up in the meantime -- and she didn’t think he’d have learned at Hogwarts or living in London. She’d only learned because of her parents and Dennis-- she glanced at him for half a second, head against the window, eyes still open but not looking at her.

Eyes back on the road, Edith tried to think about tomorrow. She’d prepared questions (like she always did) but she had to be ready to pivot if the other witch -- muggle, now -- changed course. If anything, Edith was worried she’d agree too much with her reasons for leaving, though she’d already decided that wasn’t the right choice for her. She pushed her glasses up her nose again, more habit now than any actual need to readjust.

The song had ended and another one almost exactly like it started; Edith pushed the radio’s buttons a couple more times, landing on a news station, enough fast French -- she caught enough to know that France was in a record heatwave but Edith had figured that much out for herself already -- to drown out any other thoughts.

Dennis found himself increasingly irritated by the radio channel changing constantly, despite acquiescing only moments ago. Was it just moments? Felt more like an hour. Was it going to be like this for the whole trip?

Instead of obsessing over his sudden super-awareness of his own body, the space he took up in this claustrophobic box, or alternatively, obsessing over her every little movement in the corner of his eye, Dennis let his mind wander. He thought back to their night together last year, and the day that had followed.

He hadn’t been in an amazing way the next day, in any sense. He’d bought snacks from the vending machine down the hall in his hostel and eaten pretty much… just that. That whole period of time was pretty blurry for Dennis, though, so he didn’t really feel it as he thought it. He wondered how much she remembered, thought it had to be more than he did.

After a bit, they passed what looked like a service station and he resisted the urge to check the fuel level on the dash. He really could have gone for some coffee. That, or something a bit stronger. He sort of hated coffee, but he drank it anyway, with his housemate Marian when she made some for him, or with Dean when they ate at a cafe or whatever. Seemed like the grown up thing to do.

Something caught his eye and he looked forward. Dennis made a sound of acknowledgement - a sort of 'mm' - as he made out the police car on the side of the road up ahead, apparently there with a car that had crashed and been pulled out of the way of oncoming traffic. He glanced at Edith for the first time in what felt like forever.

There were lights up ahead, on her side of the road. Dennis made a noise as if to point it out, as if she hadn’t been looking at it already, and Edith glanced at him, nearly taken aback to find him also looking at her. She looked back at the road then checked over her left shoulder -- after looking over her right first and fuck, she’d never get used to driving on this side -- before drifting into the next lane.

She pushed the radio button one more time, listened to the song for a few seconds without removing her finger, changed her mind, turned it back to the news. She glanced at Dennis one more time -- not paying attention -- and back at the road.

She managed to stick with the news (still in French though there was one point they aired some of the PM’s speech and it was barely audible under the French dub) for the next hour or so; she shifted, switched hands on the steering wheel, moved the sun shade up and down as it suited, glanced sideways at Dennis almost every time she moved. He looked, for the most part, asleep or so bored that keeping his eyes shut was a better option than talking to her (and she couldn’t blame him).

It was an easy drive, for the most part, staying on major roads without needing to slow down through villages. She kept focused on the news, picking up more French -- despite years of non-use -- than she expected, glancing less at Dennis when he was more obviously asleep (she thought).

It wasn’t until the Besançon 5 sign that she said anything. “Hey, Dennis.” She poked his arm after a second with no response. “Sorry, just--” She looked back at the road. “Almost there.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel for a beat. “Do you mind if we park on the edge of town and just apparate to the hotel?” She looked at him again, out the corner of her eye. “They’ve got a pub. Or a bar. Something.” She shrugged. “I don’t have directions and don’t feel like driving around or y’know, asking.” She over explained, making up for the couple hours of not talking.

After a while, Dennis shifted from staring-aimlessly-into-the-distance to a more classic eyes-shut-and-thinking sort of thing. It was too awkward, the silence, but he was too awkward to break it. He drifted between memories in a very abstract and round-a-bout way, remembering the shitty hostel he’d been staying at when she’d showed up to tell him he was in trouble, and then shifting to the last time he’d been in a car, which must have been... five years ago now. Thinking about his parents was too difficult, so he switched back to her, remembering the first time he’d seen her after that one night, when school had started again and he was avoiding his ex girlfriend because seeing her made him want to fold in on himself.

At some point he drifted off.

“Mmh?” She poked him in the arm and Dennis sat up too fast, getting choked by his seatbelt. He wiped his mouth self-consciously with the back of his hand and straightened up more slowly, shaking his head. “All good,” he said, blinking a couple of times. Dennis looked outside the window, as if he’d be able to tell where he was by getting a better picture of his surroundings. It didn’t help. “Sure,” he answered, looking back at her. When their eyes met, he felt the sudden need to talk more. “I mean, yeah,” he added. Amazing. Nailed it.

Returning his gaze to the window, Dennis cleared his throat and tried to wake himself up a bit. He couldn’t remember it, but he was pretty sure there’d been a little dream in there somewhere, even though he was sure he’d only been out of it for half an hour or something. He glanced at the clock to check. Last time he’d checked had been an hour ago. "Bar sounds good," he said, still somehow incapable of full sentences, his voice a little rough from being asleep or maybe just being silent for what felt like forever.

He resisted the urge to stick his head out of the car impatiently, like a dog, as they found a park, but he was definitely feeling impatient. He unclipped his seatbelt a second before they stopped, and was out of the car two seconds later. A surprising sense of relief washed over him as he shut the door behind him, and he took a second to stretch his back and crack his knuckles. He took the train all the time, but hadn’t been in a car for a long while; had they always been that claustrophobic? He stole a glance at Edith as she got out and felt a bit guilty.

They'd pulled up outside an old and weathered pub with a couple of benches out the front, occupied currently by two old men drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. A sad-looking plant in a too-large pot sat beside the entrance. The men outside didn't even glance their way as Dennis and Edith approached the door beside them. "Lemme get you a drink," Dennis said, holding the door open for her, "You drove, so."

“Okay.” That was helpful, Dennis. Edith had already looked back at the road but she rolled her eyes anyway. It’d have been easier to just drive and park and tell him after the fact that they’d need to apparate but the silence had been bordering on unbearable.

She glanced at him quickly when he (belatedly) agreed to the bar idea. “It does, yeah.” A bar sounded really good, in fact; that should have worried her more than it did. She didn’t push him to talk anymore, focused more on the road now that they were getting close to town. Downshifting, still driving on the wrong side, street signs in the wrong language-- she stopped at the first place that looked good enough to park: a park. They were still on the edge of town and she had to lean forward over the steering wheel to try and read the sign she’d parked next to; it seemed free and legal (enough).

Dennis was already out of the car before she had her seatbelt off. She moved the map from her door to his abandoned seat, not bothering to fold it back up before she ditched it.

Edith stretched, shrugged, looked at the buildings across the street; she couldn’t have found a better parking spot if she had tried (and she hadn’t); there was a pub, right there. She thought that they’d go ahead and apparate into the city center, find where they were supposed to stay, but-- she glanced at Dennis and figured he wouldn’t mind if they took a little detour here.

He grabbed the door and she went in, blinking to convince her eyes to adjust to the dimmer inside lighting a bit quicker. “Drove three hours so, three drinks.” She nodded as if she was serious; she was serious about having three drinks, at least, if not about him buying. They had some petty cash that was probably better spent on food, but-- Edith handed him the envelope with the tens of Euros they’d been given (despite that not covering much food, either).

She let him order his own drink, at least, and after the many eyerolls the bartender gave them (and their accents), they settled into a booth on the far side of the pub. Liquor had seemed the safer choice in a French bar and Edith had a good few sips of her whiskey and coke, buying herself a few more seconds before she felt compelled to talk again. She had no idea if he had volunteered to go with her or if it was heavily suggested by a Lovegood, but all the same: “Glad it was you, coming along. Terry--” the photographer that probably would have been sent in his stead-- “probably would have talked the whole time.” About his kids or his cats, it was a toss up with him. “I bet he whistles with the radio, too.” He seemed the type, anyway. Happy.

Dennis didn’t know what she was thinking. He’d never been particularly perceptive, or particularly good at separating his own weird projections onto people when he tried to guess these kinds of things, so he just tried not to guess. He flicked his eyes from the cash in his hands to her as she ordered, then back to the cash quickly. His hope was that after a few drinks he wouldn’t feel like he needed to know. Or... at least he’d feel it less.     

After (stressfully) ordering himself a couple of drinks and settling into a booth with her, Dennis felt a little more relieved. It was better like this, he thought, even though they were more or less face to face now, it was easier with a drink in hand. Dennis felt the self-reinforced pressure of social conventions to slow himself, make sure he wasn’t downing his mixed drinks like they were shots. He’d gone out for a drink with Dean a couple of times and really had to make sure he was watching himself; these days, his alcohol tolerance was too high for “a couple of drinks” to do it for him. Still, he sipped his drink a bit as she spoke.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to hers again, trying not to fixate on wondering why it felt so awkward to be here with her. He wanted to answer with something like I wouldn’t have come if it’d been with anyone else, but it sounded far too familiar for how little they’d talked recently, and for how sober he was right now. He drank again instead, nodding as he put his glass back down on the table. “I haven’t talked to him much,” he said with a bit of a shrug.

Then, belatedly, “I’m glad it was you, too.” He hoped it didn’t sound too tacked on. His gaze dropped to his drink again. Why was he like this? It was frustrating. “I kind of guessed it’d be you… considering.” He glanced up, but he knew she’d know what he was saying. What other team of people would the Lovegoods send for a piece like this? Dennis felt a bit weird about it, but whatever.

“Yeah.” Edith offered him a small smile before glancing back down at her hands holding tight to her glass. She drank when he did, figuring she probably should have said something to elaborate, coming up short of anything other than ‘Terry’s lame’. Dennis picked it up, though, and she matched his shrug. “Me either, really.” She mostly avoided talking to anyone she worked with, present company excluded (though lately he’d been kind of included in that, too).

She had another drink, looked from her glass to (one of) Dennis’s. She should have ordered two like he had; she was going through her one pretty quickly, which was more or less on par with all their past conversations.

He wasn’t looking when she glanced at him and she chanced a small smile. He was glad, too, and Edith almost believed him. “Considering,” she repeated with a laugh, holding his gaze for a few seconds. She knew what he meant; this was the niche she had carved out for herself and he was probably more aware of it than anyone. It felt like that, anyway. “I’ve packed my ‘I’m a mudblood’ shirt, in case it weren’t obvious enough.” She smiled — at her own joke — and had another drink.

“Were you gonna—“ she drummed the fingers of her free hand on the table, leaning back against the booth. “Sit in on the interview?” She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the question the whole drive, whether he’d stick around to hear her talk about what they almost ended up always talking about, except sober and with someone else and she maybe cared what he thought about it all.

Considering.

He was sure he was on this trip for the same reason. For a family that was so clearly deeply, deeply immersed in the magical world, they sure were interested in the affairs of muggles and, specifically, muggleborns. He drank, more. She was going through her glass quickly too, so he didn’t feel like he needed to pretend; this, at least, was something that they could understand about each other without any room for misinterpretation.

Dennis smiled a bit as she laughed – just a half smile, one teeny dimple. "You did drive here," he pointed out. She mentioned the mudblood shirt, and he remembered that joke. He felt a little uncertain, though, and was sure it showed in his expression. It wasn’t like they’d spent a long time going over what had happened that night or anything, and sometimes he felt like it had all been a weird dream. Some surreal trip or something. “I got that tattoo,” Dennis said suddenly, looking up at her, his smile gone now, replaced with something a bit more serious. Would she remember that? “Not the owl one,” he clarified.

His fingers itched to touch the place he'd gotten it, eight little letters just below his collarbone. He'd felt a bit weird about asking for Dean to do it, so he'd gone to a muggle tattooist; it seemed fitting somehow. Did she understand? He frowned when she spoke again, his fingers resting around his second glass now. “Oh, I wasn’t... sure?” At first he’d sort of assumed he’d be there; surely his job wasn’t just to take photos of, like, the woman’s electric heaters and landline phones? "Do you... have a preference?"

“I did.” She matched his smile, deciding not to get into how much of a hassle it had been to drive here (on the wrong side of the road) and how she wasn’t looking forward to the drive back to Paris tomorrow or-- maybe after spending time together today they could have a conversation on the drive back without it being the weirdest thing in the world. Wishful thinking, probably. No drinking on that drive, either. She had another swallow as she thought about it -- the lack of drinking, not their inability to overcome social anxiety, or whatever.

Edith raised her eyebrows a smidge; he got that tattoo. She swallowed softly, not missing how the tone (despite how few words had been spoken so far) had taken a turn. He’d mentioned the tattoo that night and she thought she remembered him saying something about where; her gaze dropped to his collarbone but she brought it back up when he said not the owl one. She didn’t know how she could have remembered the tattoo; it had probably been a one off they hadn’t talked about again but their matching patronuses -- how’d she forget about that? -- and any talk of owl tattoos past that had stayed crystal clear.

She let that turn over in her mind for a few seconds -- matching owl patronuses, him not getting an owl tattoo because it’d just remind him of her -- and asked about the interview instead, as if it was another thing they’d have in common that she could just ruin, too.

“I dunno.” She shrugged, both hands cradling her glass now as she looked at him. “This is.. new.” She’d never had photos along with an article -- still didn’t really get why but she wasn’t about to push back now -- and she didn’t know what’d work best. “Up to you, I guess.” She sniffed. “Or her. I don’t know if anyone told her there’d be photos.” Now that she thought about it, it made less sense; this woman had left the wizarding world and would suddenly be fine with her photo running in The Quibbler? “Fuck, yeah. I dunno.” She had another swallow of her drink, setting her glass back down with a grimace.

“I’ve never had anyone sit in on an interview before,” she said, glancing back up at him; of all the people to be there for that, of course it was Dennis; he seemed to have a way to influence her column, though he couldn’t take all the credit, she supposed.

She glanced at his chest, then back up to his eyes, and he felt a little jolt of nerves. So Edith remembered, then? Or perhaps she was just remembering his other tattoo – he did recall taking his shirt off in the playground that night, and the thought made him feel a bit embarrassed. He looked down at his glass again and tried not to think about it too much.

He didn’t say anything as Edith mentioned the woman, and not knowing if she knew that there’d be photos. Dennis felt a bit uncomfortable about that; he didn’t want to have to be the one to ask. He hadn’t really seen Edith in a professional setting before, but he didn’t imagine she’d want to ask either. “I don’t... have to,” he said hesitantly. There was a small frown on his face as he took another sip of his drink and tried to consider her perspective. It had always been one on one, then? It made him more curious, but more apprehensive at the same time. Dennis knew that if he was there he'd be wondering about all of his own answers to whatever questions she asked. His second glass was almost empty, he noted, tilting it a little and watching the liquid pool on one side – maybe he should have ordered more.

There was a bit of a strange dynamic there, he thought. On one hand, they were sharing the story of a woman who wanted her story shared; one way or another, the Lovegoods or Edith or whatever had gotten in contact with this person and she’d consented to sharing her fairly unique side of events. On the other hand, though, Dennis knew that it would be mostly magical folk reading this article. He knew that every choice they made when showing off this woman’s rather bizarre “lifestyle” would edge on some kind of exoticisation. He wasn’t really in charge of much here, but he still felt a bit uneasy about it. It was simple enough to take photos of crumple-horned-snorkel-whatevers, but it got more complex when it was personal, Surprise, surprise.

“I was thinking I’d do them still,” he said, flicking his eyes back up to her. Dennis was used to moving photographs by now – all of their readers would be, too – but this felt important, somehow.  “You know. Considering.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug and another half-smile. Readers probably wouldn't enjoy the artistic choice, but, well, fuck them. As long as the Lovegoods let him do it, he'd do it.

He had another drink; Edith did the same, again wished she had got a second one. She was perfectly capable of getting up and doing just that, but now that they were talking she thought that any interruption might set them back.  “You can,” she said after another few seconds, balancing her glass on its edge — and keeping her hand close — before she looked back up. She thought she was just saying that, just not agreeing with him not wanting to be there, but not too sure what it was she actually did want. But it still made sense, him being there, for work reasons or not.

He looked up and Edith held his gaze for a second before looking back down at her drink; the ice had barely melted, she’d gone through it so fast. Considering, he said again. She looked back at him as quickly as she had looked away, returning his half-smile. Still photos, considering. “Yeah, that’s—“ She tilted her head in a slight nod. “Yeah.” That made sense, too. She still had no idea how she’d spin this — considering her audience — without it sounding like some sort of ideation, some indication that she wanted to join her in leaving the magical world. Part of her thought that was what it needed for it to mean anything but— at least she could edit with a drink, if not do the interview with one.

“Rum and coke?” She was pointing at his empty glass(es) before palming their envelope of cash, sliding out of the booth with every intent to get him another anyway. She brought her empty glass back up to the bar, chewed on a piece of ice as she waited to trade it for another drink, a drink for Dennis, and a couple of shots of whiskey, too, because why not? She was done driving.

A glass and a shot in either hand, Edith returned to the table, setting the drinks down before she slid back into her seat, suring herself up directly across from Dennis. “Er—“ She nudged a shot glass toward him, in case he thought she’d brought both for herself — it wouldn’t be an absurd assumption, anyway. She didn’t wait for any sort of ceremony, her hand already around her own glass; she drank it quickly, set the glass back on the table with a thunk. It made sense to her to use her mixed drink as a chaser, so she had a swallow of that, too.

She looked at him again after a long blink. “So can I see it?” She tugged at the collar of her t-shirt, her eyes flicking to his collarbone and back up. “The tattoo.”