when you hit that high [mary]

It had taken some time and some experimentation, but Gene had finally found alcohol he didn’t viscerally revile: mint juleps. It was like the mintiness overrode the alcohol exactly the right way -- some cocktails just tasted like juice, which he couldn’t abide. Mary was a gin drinker -- he didn’t like gin much, though she’d gotten him a few varieties in case he changed his mind, which he hadn’t yet.

He liked Mary a lot -- she was good company, and good fun, and the first person he’d come out to as an adult. (His own fault, really -- he’d been coy about whether he had a girlfriend, she’d started prodding, and he’d been too bored to lie.) Fortunately it seemed like this was not the first time something like that’d happened to Mary -- she had more gay friends than he did, which was just not fair, and thus she had proven to be the most important work friend he had. (Henry did not count; Henry was a school friend with whom he happened to work, which entitled him to be the most important friend he had without qualifiers.)

Gene wasn’t entirely sure whether it was ethical for him to have latched onto Mary like this, since even if she wasn’t his direct supervisor she was certainly his superior, and she was also way older than him -- but if it was morally impermissible in some way, it was definitely more her fault than his, so he was rolling with it.

Besides, he didn’t think it was anyway.

He had been enamoured at first with the idea of being at bars at the actual bar -- sitting in the tall stools, right by the bartenders so he could watch them pouring pretty cocktails that he’d definitely hate if he tried them -- but of late he had become more fond with skulking at little tables with Mary where their kvetching was less likely to be overheard by a man who might otherwise have found him (or, for that matter, Mary) charming. It wasn’t as cool to have to carry drinks to their seats, but you couldn’t have anything.

“Gin,” he explained, unnecessarily, handing her her drink (it was nearly always gin.) “Blood orange or some shite.” He sat down opposite her and slugged some of his drink. This was a little closer to a club than a pub, which he was sort of enjoying -- the music was a sight too loud to allow him to think. “You ever actually shack up with someone from one of these places?” he asked, leaning forward to be heard.

@Mary Hunt

Mary’s face lit up as Gene returned to their table. She reached out to take the glass from him like he was handing out the elixir of life. “Thank you,” she sing-songed at him as she reclined happily back into her seat. She popped the straw between her lips and had a ‘taster’ sip. “Oh, that is quite lovely,” she commented, twirling the straw to mix the gin in with the soda properly (mental note to add blood orange to her home collection).

Gene was the only new recruit Mary had taken a liking to -- and not like that, she wasn’t after a toyboy -- though he wasn’t her intern, they’d happened to cross paths enough thanks to his being assigned to Hermione. Obviously she and Hermione couldn’t discuss their other work with him around, but that was more of a blessing than a curse, of late -- Mary wasn’t abandoning the ICU, but she was still feeling a little disillusioned with it all. Plus, Gene was happy to accompany her on a night out -- it wasn’t quite so bleak if she wasn’t drinking alone.

“Hm?” She glanced at him with rounded eyes, the straw back in her mouth where she’d been absent-mindedly siphoning booze into her system.  “Oh, you know,” she said, acting coy (not very convincingly). “When there’s a stray heterosexual man who’s wandered in.” She grinned. “There was one fellow who I think was bisexual technically but,” she shrugged, not catching how awful that might sound -- the point was, yes, she had, once. Unsurprisingly, nothing long-term had come of it.

Mary scanned their immediate vicinity, looking for something more up her alley than flamboyantly dressed men mincing towards the dancefloor. She sat up suddenly. “Two o’clock, making eyes at you,” she told Gene, pretending not to look but only succeeding in being more obvious as she tucked her hair behind her ear. The man at the bar didn’t seem to mind. She leant forward and prodded at Gene’s shoulder. “Go say ‘hello’.”

Mary cracked him up; she wasn’t even drunk yet and she’d already sing-songed at him, called a drink lovely, and twirled her straw like a Roman emperor dawdling over whether to give a gladiator the thumbs-up or not. She relaxed in her seat and he followed suit, slouching until the back of his head touched the top of the chair back, wondered idly if her enjoyment of alcohol was achievable with practise.

“Oh I meant any pub, not just gay ones,” he said, a little loud to be heard over the music. “But -- good to know.” If a straight woman like Mary had lucked out in a gay pub surely he had nothing to worry about when he someday decided to actually go looking.

She’d told him she’d been an Auror before she’d been moved to her current department; this was why she could say nonsense like two o’clock as a direction. Gene still needed to look at his hands to tell right and left apart, like a ten year old; he scanned across the room until he saw someone who was undoubtedly looking. He was, indeed, roughly sixty degrees off the horizontal.

“Can’t,” said Gene, looking back at Mary, “I’m only eighteen.” He could tell he was turning pink, though -- in the time they’d been doing this not-strictly-professional stuff, he hadn’t really been made eyes at. At first because they’d gone to normal bars, and then because showing up with a woman made sort of a lousy come-on. Wingwoman or not.

Face still unpleasantly warm, he drank some more of his cocktail, which didn’t help the sensation at all. “Not my type anyway,” he said.

Not just gay ones. “Oh.” Mary’s brow furrowed, then smoothed as she smirked at Gene. “Well, duh,” she said, answering his original question under the new parameters. She had another sip of gin. “I’ve definitely got a better ratio in any pub than a gay club, but I can go out just for a drink,” she added, wary of sounding too wanton.

Gene was much more subtle than Mary, taking his time to scan around the room rather than turn directly in the direction she had directed him -- as Mary undoubtedly would have, had Mr Two O’Clock been for her perusal. Gene turned back to face her and said he was only eighteen, like Mary couldn’t perform basic mathematics -- he’d just left Hogwarts, so of course he was. Mary, who had been expecting a bit more enthusiasm, asked “So?” then, as she backtracked, “What do you mean can’t?”

Mary glanced back at the other man, still waiting at the bar, still staring. She offered him a little wave, playing her role as wingwoman even if Gene was trying to play hard to get. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked, still staring at Two O’Clock and giving him a once-over; he was tall, solid (in the muscley way, not the chubby way) and well-dressed. It was a shame he wasn’t making eyes at her, in all honesty.

“Hmm,” said Gene. Of course, his ratio would be reversed, if he ever got one. He didn’t have any plans to start looking, anyway -- anxious though he may have been to start experiencing adulthood and maturity, he was more anxious not to be knifed in an alleyway. It was an unlikely prospect, he thought, but no less troubling for its unlikelihood.

Gene shrugged. “Something, something, Sexual Offences Act. 1967,” he said. He was unwilling to describe it -- not because he didn’t remember its content, but because he didn’t remember the exact wording -- but she still seemed confused, so he added, “You have to be twenty-one for, you know.” If she didn’t know -- that was her problem.

He was still pink, whether because Two O’Clock had looked again, or because he was having this conversation with his older coworker, or because that was just what alcohol did to him. He took another sip, raising his eyebrows and trying not to look too much like he was giving Two O’Clock an obvious once-over. “I dunno,” he said, which was a lie; he hesitated a moment before going on. “I don’t like too much muscle and he’s too…” saying pretty made him feel, like, homophobic or something. “I dunno, handsome. What, do you like him?”

Mary blinked, no wiser for Gene’s Sexual Offences Act of 1967. He must have been able to tell she had no idea what he was on about because he elaborated, if delicately. It still took Mary an extra few seconds before the penny dropped. “Oh,” she said dumbly, staring at him. Another beat passed before she leant in slightly, offended by the injustice on Gene’s behalf; “Really?”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said offhandedly, reclining back and crossing her other leg over. “How is that ethical?” And then, “I can’t believe we’ve been wasting my night in a gay bar and you can’t even pick anyone up.” She sighed and had a large gulp of gin, moving her straw out of the way using her nose.

But Two O’Clock wasn’t Gene’s cup of tea anyway. Too much muscle, he said, as if that was a thing. Too handsome. Did she like him? “No!” she said, quickly, then had another look. “I mean I wouldn’t say no, if it was me he was interested in,” she had another sip, using the straw this time. She squinted at the man at the bar--his shirt was barely containing his biceps--then drew back; “Maybe he is a little too...” she trailed off, conceding that maybe Gene was right.

“What is your type then?”

Mary seemed dumbfounded by this revelation -- Gene raised his eyebrows, a little smugly satisfied at having known something about being gay that she hadn’t known first. “Sure,” he said. “Would I lie to you?”

It was only a waste of time if their only goal had been to get laid tonight; since it hadn’t been Gene’s only goal, he couldn’t say he thought tonight was a waste -- he may not be getting drunk or laid, but he was definitely getting the ambience of a gay club and a full lungful of boozy smoky sweaty smells whenever he took a breath. He shrugged -- “Well you’re not wasting your night entirely,” he said, “I bought you a drink.”

No!, said Mary, and then I mean… -- Gene rolled his eyes and followed her gaze again, grinned as she agreed with him. “See?” he said, and took a short sip of his drink before she could prompt him into saying anything else.

No such luck -- he pressed his lips together. “Dunno,” he said -- untrue -- then, “Taller’n me, skinny, dark. Kind of --” he didn’t know any polite way to say kind of ugly, so he said, “Like, Charlie Baker’s kind of good-looking. Keanu Reeves. Viggo Mortenson.” Viggo Mortenson, but only in Lord of the Rings -- Gene had seen it two years ago and it probably should have killed him.

Gene shrugged, Mary harrumphed inaudibly. She turned to look at him--he had bought her a drink--and laughed. “Touché,” she raised said drink at him. “More than I’d probably get anywhere else,” she lamented with a dramatic sigh.

See? “Yes, alright,” she waved a hand dismissively at him.

Mary raised a sleek eyebrow at Gene. Taller, skinny--she gave him a quick up-and-down and wondered what sort of wisp of a man— Charlie Baker’s kind of good looking, he said, then followed it up with some gibberish. Mary blinked, surprised, then rolled her eyes. “Merlin help you if you think Charlie Baker is good-looking,” she said, not hiding the judgement on her face. What did people see in him? She imagined it was the general vibe rather than his appearance because that nose, good grief.

She was just drunk enough to loudly declare “Sam Lynch is quite clearly the best looking man in that group,” as though it were gospel before having another gulp of her drink. But he had said Charlie Baker’s kind of good-looking, so she supposed he must understand the frontman was an acquired taste. There was nothing to acquire about Sam, she thought.

“What does Key-ah-no-reaves Vig-uh-mortsen mean? Is it Jewish?”

“Aw, shut up,” said Gene, “You’d do fine if you weren’t hauling dead weight, I think I’m the one scaring the suitors.” Not here, obviously, but at other bars. He supposed the right thing to do would be to try and play wingman for her, but he was even less versed in that than he was in the rest of London nightlife. He had only recently worked himself up to addressing the bartenders; total strangers were still another story, even on Mary’s behalf.

The worst thing about alcohol, he was deciding, was that all the good drinks were so quick to drink; he was halfway through his already. He supposed this was the appeal of wine or beer or fruity cocktails -- you could drink more of that at once -- but they were sort of disgusting, and Gene -- though he was trying to get acquainted with tipsiness -- hadn’t yet gathered the courage for really drunk. He’d only have to go home and let his parents deal with him; that didn’t seem like a good way to repay them for eighteen years dealing with him. He was expensive already.

He had another sip of his drink; the worst thing about this little glass, he decided, was that it looked like it held more liquid than it did. That seemed unfair.

Mary didn’t think Charlie Baker was good-looking, which he supposed he couldn’t blame her for. He might have been tall and sort of weedy but he didn’t have an attractive face. Gene pulled the corners of his mouth down -- “But I don’t like muscle,” he reminded her, “Plus he’s shorter than me.” He’d looked that up once. Baker was shorter than him too, but less so. He tried for a moment to explain the appeal of Charlie Baker in comparison, but was hung up again on unwillingness to say kind of ugly; he sipped his drink and weighed his options for a moment (weird, interesting, unique.)

He spat his mouthful back into his glass to keep from choking laughing -- for a moment he tried to repeat, Is it Jewish? but couldn’t get the words out. “No,” he gasped after a few seconds, grinning, “That’s not Hebrew. They’re actors -- have you ever seen a movie? Like a Muggle one?”

“That is true,” Mary said quickly, not a thought for Gene’s feelings. She sighed lazily. “It’s probably not the worst thing though, you know,” she told him, in an attempt to make both him and herself feel better. “I haven’t met Mr Right in a nightclub yet, I don’t suspect I would find him tonight.”

Mary gave Gene another critical once-over, reminding herself (in case she had forgotten) just how lanky her colleague was. “I suppose he is,” she said, halfway to another sip before turning back to her companion, brow furrowed. “How do you know how tall he is?” she asked curiously. How did one come to know this information? Mary had developed a crush on Sam Lynch as a schoolgirl, long before he’d been catapulted to fame, and she was blessed enough to see him on occasion thanks to living with his sister. Gene could not possibly have the same backstory for his crush on Charlie Baker nor his knowledge of Banshee band member heights. Perhaps he was a superfan: “I didn’t peg you as a Banshee fan,” she smirked.

Mary sat up in her seat quickly, mildly concerned that Gene appeared to be having a fit of some kind before it became apparent he was laughing, goodness knew at what. “Oh. Actors.” Of course. Had she ever seen a movie? “No,” she answered him honestly and without any embarrassment. “I’ve seen televisions in the shop windows, but I much prefer the theatre.”

Mary went back to using her straw and after one big suck was left drawing up air, loudly. She lifted her glass to inspect it. “Time for another I think,” she announced. “What would you like? Same or something different?”

“No,” said Gene, “I guess not.” Where did a nice young man go to meet other nice young men? His parents had met at a library -- it was a sickeningly cute story, and one he doubted he would ever replicate. Surely it was easier, he thought, for heterosexuals to meet other heterosexuals -- usually he concerned himself with the threat of hatred and oppression, but he didn’t dwell often on the sheer inconvenience of being gay. He stuck his knuckle in his mouth to chew on -- “Don’t reckon I’m going to start having meetcutes in grocery stores, though.” But did it matter, if he wasn’t looking yet?

Mary was looking him up and down, as though trying to measure her height with her eyes; finally she agreed with him (he thought, rather crossly, that she could have just trusted him, since he had known it for a fact) and then promptly she pried. “I read it in a waiting room in a magazine,” he said, just as promptly. “I wanted to know if I’m taller than Charlie Baker.” He waited a beat, in case she was going to ask if he was, then added, “Which I am.”

She hadn’t pegged him as a Banshee fan -- he said, in protest, “Because I’m not one! I think they’re overplayed. I didn’t peg you as one.” Somehow she’d given him the impression she listened solely to smooth jazz.

“Never?” he said with more astonishment than he really felt -- somehow he supposed he should have foreseen this too, but he still wanted to drive home the point that this was a tremendous shame. “You have to let me take you to a movie then.” The last Lord of the Rings one was coming out soon, but he thought that might be a little esoteric for her if she hadn’t seen the other two. Of course she much preferred the theatre -- he sat back thoughtfully and said, “I saw Cats with a couple of my mates.” He had not liked it much.

He was jarred out of his remembrance of the Rum-Tum Tugger -- “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said -- if she was buying, he was totally fine with that -- “Same.”

“In a waiting room,” she repeated suspiciously, one thick eyebrow arched. Mary promptly lowered said eyebrow and rolled her eyes. “I do not understand the fascination with that man,” she said. “Not just you,” she told Gene with a dismissive wave of her hand, in an attempt to sound less hostile about the man he’d confessed was his type. “My friend— Long story.” One she ought not to be retelling.

Mary laughed. “They are a bit,” she agreed; it was almost impossible to go an hour on the WWN without a Banshee song playing some days -- she wondered absently what it would take for people to boycott them on account of Charlie Baker’s deplorable behaviour, but then she wouldn’t want Sam (or Liam, she supposed) to suffer because they were friends with an imbecile. “I wouldn’t say I am or aren’t, really,” she mused. “I like some of their songs,” she shrugged. “I sort of have to.”

“Never,” Mary told him again, solemnly. She smirked and turned her head towards him coyly. “Gene, are you asking me out?” She laughed at her own hilarity. The witch sat back up straight and then almost recoiled. “Ugh, Cats is awful. Please don’t tell me you liked it? We might have to reconsider this friendship,” she said, gesturing between the two of them with her hand held aloft limply as she got to her feet. “If you’re going to take me to a movie I am taking you to a real show.” And with that, she turned on her heel and sashayed away through the crowd to order them another round.


[ out ]

I do not understand the fascination with that man. Gene opened his mouth to say something -- he wasn’t sure what, maybe fascination is a little strong, but she explained it away in a couple of painfully vague sentences. He supposed it probably didn’t matter -- Charlie Baker gave Gene the impression that probably a lot of Wizarding Britain had a friend with a long story about him. But none of them were Gene, obviously.

He grinned -- “You sort of have to,” he repeated, then said “You don’t sort of have to anything, you know. Other than, like, the law and stuff -- but this is a rock band. Who gives a damn?”

Not Gene, at least. He combed his fingers through his hair, rubbed some of it over the pad of his thumb and tried not to be overly bothered by the texture. Mary asked if he was asking her out, but laughed before he could answer, which answered whether she’d have said yes. No. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his age or because she knew he was gay or because of his personality. But probably not that last one.

“No, I don’t like Cats,” he said, a touch too loud -- a young woman nearby shot him a dirty look. Probably a lesbian. Gene sat up straighter -- “Oh, so you’ll go to a movie?” he said hastily, as she was leaving -- that meant he had to pick one, which was a terrifying prospect -- what the hell did Mary Hunt like in her entertainment? -- but she didn’t respond, so he sat back in his seat, swirling his half-melted ice and pulpy mint around the bottom of his glass to wait for her.

END