lunch money, lunch money. [michael]

June 2003
Gotta have lunch money,
lunch money, lunch money
So I can eat lunch.

"Oh you know Rita, just workin' that grind." Jeremy said as he stepped up to the long metal counter in the Ministry cafeteria next to a particularly festive looking witch. The ministry was full of all sorts of interesting characters, Jeremy liked to think he was one of them, and Rita was one of his favorites. She was easily in her 60s, she wore Christmas sweaters all year long, and she always had candy hidden in her desk for that two o'clock munchy strike. "How was Quarter-Christmas?" He asked her as they slid their plates along the metal railings and filled up on things. Rita was the type who celebrated the cheerful holiday four types, March, June, September, and the big one in December. And Jeremy respected her Holiday preferences, of course. 

Jeremy had been so busy watching the magical moving cats with santa hats bouncing and playing with yarn on her sweater he didn't notice another person step up beside him in the line. He also didn't notice he'd forgotten to add a scoop of chocolate pudding to his tray, which was going to be a huge issue in two to five minutes. As he reached the end of the line he passed over a handful of sickles for his lunch and then headed out into the mass of round tables to take a seat at the one he always sat at. It was close to some enchanted windows, so he could pretend he wasn't in a magical bunker underground. He could tell Danny had already come and gone based on the mess that was still all over the table but Jeremy just pushed it aside and sat down in his chair. It didn't really, but he felt like this chair particularly had the perfect imprint of his butt in it. It was the most comfortable he'd be all day.

Thirty minutes of no work and all pay made him smile. That is, until he started digging into his lunch and realized the worst had happened. "No pudding..." he said sadly to himself. He looked up at the line, there were like four people queuing up but even if it was empty he'd be hard-pressed to go back. He'd already sat down, and it was like fifteen feet away, which was a lot.

@Michael Corner

This was his second lunch. Michael would have been on his way out -- he had a dinner engagement (of sorts) and his shift had ended at noon, but then Reg had asked would he be willing to stay an hour or two late to cover for Lucy (health emergency) and Michael had weighed his options and come up in favour of overtime.

He hadn’t anticipated Lucy’s health emergency and hadn’t packed an extra bag lunch, but he had nothing to do for thirty minutes, so he bought a cup of coffee (black) and a biscuit (chocolate) and craned his neck, scouting for a seat. There was a table by the windows, mostly uninhabited -- a choice location sullied only by the garbage strewn on the table and Jeremy Edwards. It was anybody’s guess which of the two was deterring people. He checked his watch -- he was off the clock for another twenty-six minutes and change -- and headed over, sticking his biscuit between his teeth to get his wand out of his sleeve.

Jeremy was looking bleakly at the lunch lines and murmuring something about pudding; ignoring this, Michael locomotored what dining detritus he could into the bin, Vanished the spills, and put his wand away, bit his biscuit in half and said, “There’s plenty of pudding left, what’re you on about?”

He sat down, checked his watch again. He now had twenty-five minutes of break, but he’d just cleaned something, so he bumped himself back up to twenty-six, had a seat and another bite of biscuit. “D’you have any good weekend plans?” Cordy was going abroad for work -- to America -- and Michael was going to see some fish cartoon (for his sisters, not himself. Hogwarts was out for the summer -- these days that was something of a relief.)

"Yeah but the pudding is really far away." He told Michael, watching as he cleared off the trash that was on the table and giving him a nod of thanks. "It's not worth it, I've already started my lunch break." Jeremy resigned to the hopelessness of a pudding free lunch and sat back in his chair, poking at his chicken surprise with a less than interested look on his face. It was a tough world, it really was, sometimes you won, sometimes you lost, sometimes they only had tapioca left.

Michael sat down at the table and Jeremy took note of what was on his lunch tray, just in case he happened to have an extra pudding laying about, and then thought about his question for all of two seconds before answering. He had the same weekend plans he always had. "Oh just trivia with Freya and Danny and everybody." He said with a shrug, even though he was so excited about it. "Got us Jersey's made. I have a good feeling that this weekend were finally going to beat the old bitties at table five." Jeremy grinned again, misery over his pudding mishap fading to the wayside.

"Maybe you and Cordy can drop in this time?" He offered, hoping they'd join them for trivia one day. It was an open invitation really, everyone they knew was invited, and each week it seemed different people showed up so it was always interesting. "It's at a muggle pub, but they have cheap beer and appetizers so it's worth it."

"What about you? Got anything going on?" He asked as he spent a good thirty seconds over salting the crap out of his chicken.

The pudding was, by Michael’s estimate, fifteen feet away; he stared incredulously across the vast expanse of cafeteria separating them from Jeremy’s beloved pudding and snorted through his nose, but he didn’t want to stand up and go get some either, so he kept quiet.

He still wasn’t clear on who Freya was -- he assumed not a girlfriend, for obvious reasons -- but the idea of Danny and Jeremy doing pub trivia never failed to make him smile. They had jerseys, now, apparently. Even better, they had rivals, and everything Michael had heard about table five suggested that these rivals were septuagenarian, widowed, and ran a craft club. It was something he hadn’t gotten up the stones to attend yet (he didn’t want to start thinking of Danny and Jeremy as his good friends and not his work friends) but Jeremy extended the invitation semi-regularly, so someday he’d have to.

“Dunno if we’ll make it,” he said apologetically; “Cordelia’s boss is sending her to California for the weekend -- some article about like, Disneyland, or summat.”

Michael grinned, watching Jeremy abuse the salt shaker, and said, “Not a lot. My sisters are out of Hogwarts for the hols so they’re coming to visit, and I’ve gotta clean house and put out the last roster next week, Quidditch season’s almost over.” In retrospect that did sound like a lot, but (1.) cleaning and fantasy Quidditch alone in his house was lame (2.) if he came off as somebody who had a thriving, bustling social life, that was fine with him.

Jeremy resigned to the fact that today was going to be a pudding-free day and slumped a little in his chair. Maybe he'd snatch some when he took his second, super-secret even though he wasn't fooling anyone, lunch break. Jeremy found a little hope in that idea and popped another bite of what Jere did have into his mouth. Turning to listen to Michael, he gave him an edgy look. Cordy was going to the states? That was wild. "That's wicked," he said softly in between Michael's statements. Jeremy rarely went anywhere outside of London, but maybe one day, he'd do some traveling. It wasn't that he was afraid to see the world; it was more his lack of skill when it came to planning or even not spending all of his extra money on pool noodles and ridiculousness.

Shoveling a bit of food in, he chewed it loudly as Michael told him what his plans were. Jeremy gave him a nod, impressed by the number of things his coworker had planned and not hiding it. Jeremy spoke with a mouth full of half-chewed food, forgetting the manners he never really had when it came to eating, and choked a little between words and breaths.

"You finally gonna' give me a shot at Regan for my team?" He asked with a cough, clearing his throat, and then raising his brows. As the commissioner, it was Michael's job to keep things fair enough, to manage the teams and the picks, and to keep Danny from cheating, of course. The red-headed wizard set his fork down and folded his hands together in front of him. Giving Michael what he thought was a severe expression, his freckled face scrunched up near his eyes. "I can make it worth your while?" Jeremy began to bargain, even though he probably didn't have much of value to offer.

“Innit,” agreed Michael; he had never been to America and God help him, he never would. Cordelia liked to travel; Michael did not. He had neither the patience for muggle travel nor the stomach for Portkeys. “And her boss pays.” Though the travel didn’t appeal to him, that definitely did -- Michael spent a lot of time on the clock scheming about how he could get things written off as department expenses. Cordelia could tootle off to California out of the Prophet’s pocket; Michael could take stationery and Mrs. Skower’s home. Sometimes he snagged quills too.

Jeremy leaned forward, adopting a serious mien, and -- naturally -- wanted to wheedle a rule change out of Michael. “I take it Hewlett isn’t accepting bribes?” he said, with a little grin; Horatio Hewlett had snatched up Quinn Regan in the first round of the draft, and Michael was almost positive that he wouldn’t change his lineup if Merlin himself had asked him.

Needless to say, Jeremy Edwards was not Merlin.

“What’re you offering?” he asked, steepling his fingers in front of his face. He wasn’t going to take it -- Michael wasn’t really a stickler for rules, but this was his game, and he imagined that he was entitled to have a rod up his arse about it. Even though it was officially unaffiliated with actual Quidditch -- a disclaimer he’d had to start giving last year, because Hewlett worked for DMGaS -- it was nearly as important to him.

Jeremy could only imagine what it must have been like to travel on someone else's galleon. He was so far from having a job like that it was laughable, so imagining was all he was going to be doing for a long time. And in a way, the red-headed slacker was completely fine with that. More perks meant more work, he liked having a meaningless job because he lived for the weekends. For Trivia, and Fantasy Quidditch, and upcoming Half Christmas, and all of the other dumb things he and his friends did. Work was just a way to get by, to keep buying as many nachos as he could eat, it wasn't something he took pride in. And that was so obvious.

"Nope," he said softly, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth before shaking his head quickly, a bit of sauce escaping his lips. "I mean... no I wouldn't know because bribing is frowned upon." He corrected himself, giving Michael a serious look that looked unbelievably foreign on his freckled face. He grabbed another large scoop of whatever slop he'd chosen (still upset about the lack of pudding) and stuck it in his mouth as forcefully as his foot had just been.

Chewing slowly he watched Michael put his hands together on the table and wondered if he was going to get a talking to. Michael was cool, he was a chill customer and fun to work with most of the time, but he was also the boss when it came to Fantasy Quidditch so Jeremy knew to tread lightly. "How 'bout more free samples? I trust Cordelia shared?" He wiggled his eyebrows as he vaguely remembered her telling him she was going to the US too. She was going to bring him a souvenir! Jeremy had nearly forgotten, maybe he'd been smoking too much lately... but also the fact that he consumed very little vitamins probably didn't help much. He didn't think much of it as he piled another spoonful of calorie rich slop into his mouth.

Michael grinned at Jeremy’s inadvertent admission. “I should make up a new award category,” he said. He took a sip of coffee to wash down the last of his biscuit (now he wanted another, but he was loath to stand up again and he still had twentysummat minutes of his break left.) “Ludo Bagman Award for scummiest, most despicable gambling practices. Just for you.”

Cordelia had shared; Michael shook his head gravely. “You know, you can’t go ‘round claiming you have the Kush Who Lived,” he said. “It all lived.” And, properly, it was the kush that lived, since ‘that’ denoted an object and ‘who’ denoted a person, but saying that would make him sound like a pedant.

“I liked that black cherry stuff,” he said ponderously, but he shook his head. "’Fraid I can’t do anything for you re: Regan, but if you like, I can give you a couple extra votes in the award category of your choice.” The awards were based on politics and not on math, which meant it was conscionable -- perhaps even obligatory -- to accept bribes, or at least to appear to do so.

Speaking of the awards: “When you get a moment you should send in your nominations for the awards,” he said. “Willbond is threatening to make up his own categories.” He hadn’t decided what to do about that, yet -- he could not afford to have trophies made for every trivial superlative that Danny made up but he had to respect the dedication.

"Just for me?" Jeremy replied, hand to his chest because he was legitimately touched at the idea of an award in his honor. DIdn't matter what it was for real because Jeremy had already forgotten that Ludo Bagman was a bad dude and that being scummy and questionable was not a good thing. He was just stuck on the 'just for you' part of Michael's words. He'd of loved to have an award just in his name, but little did Michael know Danny and Jeremy were already getting their own trophies made, just in case they didn't win enough this year (again). Once Dolores from resources had helped them find a company that would make awards and trophies and personalized stuff for anything all bets had been off. They had employee of the month badges, plaques at home for 'loudest farter' and 'most nachos ate in one bite' and a slew of blue and gold ribbons pinned on the wall with gum. It was a mess really, but as they often did, the two had gone a little overboard.

And they had even more planned for the upcoming league banquet. Jeremy was mum on that though, for now. "That's not the point... like it's not actually. it is not alive anymore..." Jeremy tried to come up with a valid point to argue back at Michael's assertions but there really wasn't one. Jeremy wasn't the type to think things through, obviously. And he didn't much care for being politically, scientifically, or generally correct about anything. "It's just, it's that good, right?" Jeremy asked eyes wrinkled at the corners because that was the only point he had to make. It was probably his best strain ever and as some of his best customers, Jere really hoped that Michael and Cordy had enjoyed it. Merlin knew he had.

"Did it make you sleepy?" Jeremy asked, always looking for feedback so he could narrow things down and make better products. He was awful at his job, he never paid rent on time, but damn if Jeremy wasn't a good Herbologist in his own right. He got paid for it, but it wasn't like it was a legitimate job or anything. Dropping his spork it clinked loudly against the metal tray and bounced a bit of slop onto his tie, adding to yesterday's gravy stain and the pesky jam from two mornings ago. "You can do that?" Jeremy asked, surprised that Michael would give him extra votes but not complaining at all.

He grinned mischievously when Michael brought up Danny making up his own categories because it was one hundred and twenty percent something that Danny Willbond would do. "Wait he can't make up categories again Michael," Jeremy shook his head, laughing a little but also meaning it, "I swear to Merlin if I get the award for "biggest bum" I will quit." Jeremy shifted in his seat a little, willing his butt to take up less space on the chair. "I will send mine in post-haste." He declared sitting up straighter, oddly serious, but also in the most dramatic and theatric way he could.

Michael rolled his eyes -- “Just for you and whoever else decides to get scummy, I wager,” he said. “Caught Proudfoot snooping around my cube last night.” Fortunately his and Clarence’s contraband cabinet was warded against that exact scenario; more fortunately Michael kept records at home too. Michael supposed he should count himself lucky that his job had largely no significance to anybody -- none of the papers he had in his office were of enough importance that it’d matter if Proudfoot was snooping in them.

He scratched his head -- “I keep meaning to get rid of the ‘most attractive’ category anyway,” he added; now that his ex-girlfriend had entered the ring he felt obliged. “Then I can just swap it out for the new one. Keeps me under budget.” Since Michael didn’t gamble, his 3ʛ registration fee went toward making trophies and tipping the Leaky’s barkeep.

"It was alright,” he said. “Cordelia liked it more.” Michael didn’t like being high as much as he liked being asleep; that was why the black cherry had appealed so much. “It put me straight out,” he said, of the black cherry. He wasn’t opposed to getting more of that for free, he supposed, but that didn’t feel fair to Jeremy -- Michael knew what the pay was like in this department, and he had been working there for twice as long.

For God’s sake, it was as if Jeremy had never read the rulebook. “Yeah, creative negotiation is fine for the awards process,” he said, “Just not in the game. Rule seven, sections two and three. I think it’s on a one-beer-per-tampered-vote basis, eh, give or take.” He scratched his nose self-consciously -- he knew, for a fact, that it was on a one-beer-per-tampered-vote basis. He’d written that rule. The commissioner before him hadn’t been so stingy.

“There’s no rule against making up your own categories,” said Michael sympathetically. “I just can’t make any of them into trophies, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He could never help grinning when Jeremy tried to look serious -- much like Anthony being threatening, the best he could manage was ‘uncomfortably cute’. Michael checked his watch -- the minute hand was at the very edge of a little dent in the face, which gave him about fifteen minutes. “Please do,” he said, of the votes, and “Did you want pudding? I’m gonna go get another biscuit.”

"No, not Proudfoot? He would never stoop that low, he's way too..." Jeremy considered the word; it was at the tip of his tongue. His thoughtful pause was unbearable, long, and slow, but he barely realized he was holding up the conversation. Overbearing wasn't quite it, arrogant was a bit much, but instead of sticking to the thought and finding the oh so obvious word (Proud), Jeremy gave up and popped another bite into his mouth. Shrugging, he realized he wouldn't mind if Michael decided to rid them of the most attractive category. It always turned into the wrong thing anyway, and Jeremy didn't have any Quinn Regan type players on his team, so he never won. Sitting back in his chair as the topic changed for the moment, Jeremy listened intently. He always wanted to hear feedback, and like a good chemist, he understood that not every person desired the same sort of high.

"All right, I'll have some black cherry ready next time Cordelia stops by," He said with a little grin, hoping to make another deal soon since they both knew he could always use a bit more sickles. He never used them for rent like he was supposed to, but who could blame him. Especially when it was between discount holiday decorations in preparation of Half-Christmas or June's rent. It wasn't even a difficult decision. Danny would approve... Greg, not so much.

'One-beer-per-tampered-vote basis' Jeremy mouthed the words back, but they both knew he wouldn't remember or abide by the rule. He was a good sport, a decent Gryffindor, and relatively truthful, but Jeremy loved playing around and bending the rules counted. Jeremy sat back in his seat again as Michael moved to get up and checked his watch. The mail clerk should have been paying more attention, his break was over two minutes ago, but he had no idea. He usually relied on Danny's Harry Potter alarm clock for that sort of thing, but he'd forgotten to bring it with him this lunch. And most lunches, really. Being late was normal for Jeremy. It was honestly a miracle he even still had a job.

"Always," he replied steadily at the offer of pudding. "But none of that caramel stuff, chocolate or bust."

Jeremy seemed almost personally wounded to hear of Proudfoot’s indiscretion; whether that was disappointment in the tactics Proudfoot had reduced himself to, or disappointment that Jeremy hadn’t thought of it first, was anybody’s guess. “Actually, Proudfoot is the reason for rule…” Michael frowned, going through the additions he’d made to the code of conduct after his first year as commissioner. “Seven-section-six,” which had discouraged blackmail.

The perils of running a gambling ring in a government office was that, if one went digging, one would almost certainly find some kind of blackmail material. Of course, Michael was a custodian with virtually no governmental power, and a war hero besides; ipso facto, he had little to worry about on the blackmail front.

Apart from drugs, at least.

“I’ll ask her to pick some up for me,” he said; Cordelia had started handling most of their transactions anyway, since the thought of being inside the (disgusting) Edwards-Willbond residence made Michael break out in hives. He was itchy right now. Presumably the new-strain discounts were no longer in effect, but just in case Jeremy had forgotten about them, Michael elected not to mention it.

Fortunately, there was still chocolate pudding left once Michael had taken the grueling fifteen-foot hike over; he got a modest cup for Jeremy, and a second biscuit for himself, and sat down again, checked his watch. (Thirteen minutes.)

“Here,” he added, passing the pudding over. He would rather have a conversation about anything but pudding, right now, so he racked his brain for department gossip. “Ey -- we’re getting a new employee when Hogwarts is out proper, Reg told me.” Michael, conscious that he was young, competent, and inessential -- perforce the most likely to be shafted with training a new employee -- had been avoiding their HR representative for weeks only to be betrayed by his own boss.

As it often happened, Jeremy forgot most of their conversation by the time Michael had returned to the table, but of course, he remembered the promise of incoming pudding. Like a moth to the flame, the wizard reached out for the sugary snack and smiled ear to ear. "Thanks, mate," He said as he popped the silvery foil lid from the top and set it down (messy side up, which would undoubtedly be an issue later) on the table. He was two spoonfuls in by the time Michael began speaking again.

"No shit, really?" Chocolate lining his lips, Jeremy smirked at the prospect of a new rookie. Jeremy wasn't particularly high up on the office hierarchy, but every time they got a fresh recruit, he went up a rung. "Any word on who it is?" The redhead popped another bite of pudding into his mouth as a thought occurred to him. What year was it? How long had he been out of Hogwarts? He did the mental math (it took a lot longer than it should have, thanks to that pre-lunch/post-not working smoke break). Slamming the spoon down on to the lunch table, little flecks of chocolate pudding went flying in every direction.

"Does this make us middle management?" Us, Jeremy said Us like he had any part in organizing anything at the ministry. It was laughable, really, but his face showed precisely how serious he was. He mouthed out the invisible ladder as he moved his spoon up and down in the air. "Reg > Us > New guy," Yeah, that sounded right to Jeremy.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Michael, sitting back down; you’re welcome felt like an invitation to be asked for more favours, so he’d stopped saying at work. Sometimes it distressed him how mercenary he’d become, but invariably when he relaxed his policy (not doing things he wouldn’t be paid for) he wound up unsticking wads of Drooble’s from the Ludicrous Patents doorframe or buying lunch for Agatha Prunesbury or something.

Jeremy’s grin was a little infectious, chocolate-stained or not; the edges of Michael’s mouth turned down with amusement. (He had been in Jeremy’s boat when Reg had hired Jeremy and Danny; he imagined they were excited as he’d been to have someone they outranked. Of course, Michael didn’t have any word on who it was, but he had speculation: Magical Maintenance tended to draw students who’d done poorly on their N.E.W.T.s; though he’d never asked after either of his colleagues’, having known them for a little while, he felt justified in believing that they hadn’t excelled in school.

“No word,” he said, “Who knows, we might get a girl.”

Michael took a small bite of biscuit and it fell apart in his hand; as he was trying to gather the pieces off the table (what a waste of perfectly good chocolate) he nodded, only half-watching Jeremy’s imagined office hierarchy. He snorted a little. “Middle management,” he mused, “I like the sound of that. I still outrank you and Willbond though.” This wasn’t strictly true; the Owlery was separate from the rest of Magical Maintenance. Michael had just been here first (which, he thought, was the only metric that mattered.) He tilted his head to one side. “Reckon I’ll get a raise if I let Reg stick him with me?” He doubted so.

"Yessss," the childish wizard said as Michael confirmed his middle management aspirations. Jeremy didn't really care about climbing the career ladder, at least not if it meant more responsibility, but he didn't mind the idea of being above some new employee either. He'd been on the end of that stick for some time now; he was ready to not be the lowest man on the totem pole, as it were. Finishing his pudding in what was probably, and disgustingly so, record time, Jeremy slammed the empty cup down on the table obnoxiously. The plasticware flung out and clunked on top of the table. Jeremy caught it before it fell onto the floor, but not before it got little droplets of pudding all over the lunch table's surface.

Rolling his eyes, Jeremy made a face at Michael's comment about still outranking the rest of them. It was true, they all knew it, but just as Michael had to declare it, Jeremy had to respond exactly the way he did. It was the push and pull of a corporate job. "Yeah, yeah, sure," Besides, Michael outranking them was a kind of shield when (not if, when) Jeremy and Danny got into trouble and broke something. Like the time they had flooded one of the floors by pressing the wrong button. Or when they did it a second time, by "accident" a week later.

"Maybe, 'specially if you've got to train them," Jeremy had never been asked to train anyone before. Not that it would be a good idea that much was evident. He'd show them around, but only the things he thought were important, like the best places to sneak a smoke or which vending machines mistook knuts for sickles. He'd forget to show them where to clock in or actually report for their assigned jobs. It was a wonder he still had a job, it was way past luck, and the fact that he hadn't been canned already was getting all to close to pity now.

"Wait, does this mean Phyllis finally retired?" Jeremy asked as it occurred to him, no filter and no pause. If so, Jeremy would miss the old bat. She must have been over a hundred years old by the time Jeremy had started working in the ministry. The ancient witch used one of those wheely things to get around and was always running over people's toes in the elevators; Jeremy had started to think it was on purpose. Phyllis seemed half-asleep most days, but Merlin knew there was no one better to call when it came to haunted toilets.

"Did I miss the retirement party?"