mp | heaven help the fool [quinn]

december, 2003

Obviously Sam should have known better than to show up to the exact same party at which he’d met Quinn last year. Not only was this the same bar, but he was fairly sure it was the same gang of Ireland fans that hadn’t gotten tickets to the actual game -- he wasn’t sure where he’d met their ringleader, some bloke named Cornelius or possibly Copernicus, but he had at some point. Of course, when it came to this party, it didn’t usually matter if you know the hosts -- but Sam liked to hope it would advantage him somehow, someday.

Of course, what really advantaged him was that he’d actually attended the game (though this could be a drawback too; there were a select few middle-aged chaps for whom not actually attending the game seemed almost like a point of pride.) What also advantaged him was that this year, he hadn’t brought Charlie or Liam (or, God forbid, Alan): people didn’t tend to recognise him when he wasn’t in their vicinity, so he could get hammered without minding his reputation so much.

Quinn looked pretty smashed too, though she was obviously more recognisable to this crowd: though Sam had meant at first to stay on the other side of the room at all times, he was less inhibited now, and not as bothered as he should’ve been that the discussion he’d been having with a couple of gingers he’d never met before had taken him this direction and driven him to stumble accidentally straight in front of her.

Was he still hurt? No, he decided in the instant, he wasn’t. It felt like it’d been far longer than eight months since their breakup; the timelines of tours had never quite felt real to him. (She could probably relate -- she worked on the road too.) Quinn had been a brilliant friend and a brillian girlfriend; he wanted to say something stupid (we had a good run, didn’t we?) or possibly something stupider (blimey, you look swell) but he had the sense to just hold out a beer (the one he hadn’t been drinking) and say cheerfully, “Hey! Have a drink, for nostalgia’s sake?”

@Quinn Regan

This party was way better than the last; it wasn’t some Friendly Four Nations stunt, the majority of the crowd was (presumably) wanting to see her, and no one involved in team management had been invited. She didn’t need any more to drink but she hadn’t been saying no to the offers. She might not have finished her current drink before moving on to the next, but it was more than enough to guarantee she would be walking home. She had never been more grateful for living in Dublin.

Quinn pushed through the crowd to find a Regan--any one, she wasn’t picky at this point--and stopped just short of colliding into someone going the other way. It took her a second and a couple of blinks to realize who she was looking at. She matched his enthusiasm: “Sam!” She took the offered pint, ignoring how it sloshed over her hand as she moved it to the side, more focused on pulling him into a hug, her other arm wrapping around his neck as best as their height difference allowed. “Just when I thought tonight couldn’t get any better,” she spoke into his chest before taking a step back.

She wasn’t surprised she hadn’t seen him sooner; she couldn’t exactly see over the crowd, even in heels. “Hi,” she started again, her voice back to its normal pitch. She swapped her beer to her other hand, flicking the beer-splashed one a couple times to fling off whatever was left. She’d had enough to not be embarrassed or worried about her reputation as a ‘sloppy drunk’; that, and of all the exes to bump into, she was pleased it was Sam because she thought she liked him the best.

“Good catch, right?” That had been his move last year, hadn’t it? Complimenting her catch. She clinked her glass to his and took a drink.

He didn’t really hear her over the party -- she was talking to his pecs and not him -- but she looked in good spirits (deservedly; she’d made a hell of a catch tonight, and it’d been even more impressive after that embarrassing match a couple weeks ago -- Sam was glad his best friends didn’t give two shits about Quidditch, as the knowledge that they were bandwagon fans took a lot of the sting out whenever they got a chance to gloat.) “Hi,” he echoed.

“Hell, I was just thinking that,” he said -- he let her clink his glass and gulped most of the remainder of his beer. “Brilliant, obviously, we’re lucky to have you on our team, you’re sure you won’t transfer to Wigtown? I’d take Kenmare at this point --” though, he supposed, he didn’t particularly want to have to start rooting for his cousins at games. But Falmouth infuriated him for being so damned good.

He scratched his chin and said, “How’re things going? You doing good?” In a somewhat more sincere, less chipper tone he added, “Hey -- top of the league, bet you’re keeping busy?” When he’d met her -- around this time last year -- her schedule had promptly become horrible (and so had his, with the new music and the divorce and whatnot.)

But his schedule had died down after the tour, and she was about to be thrust straight back into the Quidditch season; he wondered fleetingly whether she would want to talk about Quidditch at all, when she’d probably been doing so all day, but he quickly forgot that concern in favour of ogling her, less surreptitiously than he intended.

He was just thinking that because of course he was. Whether he was actually thinking about tonight’s catch or about the similarities between this and last year’s conversation-- that remained to be determined, but Quinn would be fine either way. Either way he was thinking about her, and isn’t that really what she wanted?

But she realized she wanted him to be thinking more about the actual catch once he had said as much. Quinn beamed--brilliant, obviously--and  bowed her head because even she could ever so graciously take a compliment. Sometimes. She laughed when he suggested she transfer to Wigtown, sad for half a second when he didn’t give her a chance to ask if he’d come see her play against Wigtown, whenever that would be. Kenmare, though. “Want me to take another job from your cousin?” She grinned, again recalling their conversation from this time last year: it was one hell of an icebreaker to tell someone they’d taken your cousin’s job, which is precisely what she’d done with the Irish team. “It would fit,” she agreed with a laugh, having another drink as soon as she was able.

She looked up at him as he asked her how she was doing. “I’m good, yeah.” She smiled, didn’t miss his change of tone, and offered him more of a genuine smile. She sure was top of the league but this wasn’t like, an adoring fan commenting on it. “I am.” Busy, she meant, not top of the league--though they had just established that she was that, too. “Busy, busy,” she clarified. When was she not? She’d gone to Spain for a month after they broke up, so maybe then, but-- She held her beer a little to the side and rolled her shoulders back; she didn’t think she was mistaking where he was looking.

“You?” She took another quick sip. “The tour and--” she didn’t know what else, she supposed, and the tour had been over ages ago, hadn’t it? Quidditch was a much more tangible thing than music, she thought, because she had no idea what else went into it, even if he’d been just as busy as she was when they were dating. “You want another?” Quinn pointed at his beer instead of admitting she couldn’t really venture a guess at what else he did with his time (if it didn’t involve her).

“Well, he’s a knob,” said Sam -- and his cousin could do with a new job -- but he grinned. “Guess you won’t want to fix what isn’t broken, though.” The Falcons had lost the league -- though only barely -- he’d had a cousin playing in that game, too, though most of the Lynches had opted to ignore Colm’s presence on an English team. (He’s only there because he’s not good enough for ours, Brody had said last week, as if the Kestrels weren’t behind the Cannons right now.) A good fit indeed.

She was busy, busy; Sam, who was not, nodded along. “Good thing to be,” he said -- she asked how he was, so he grinned ruefully and added, “Less busy, busy, d’you reckon? Tour’s been over, I think my mates are all --” he shrugged, not because he didn’t know what they were up to, but because he didn’t want to say. (Honey Bea Flume indeed.) “-- also busy, but me, I do bugger all. Did you see me take my sister to the gala?”

(He wouldn’t have dredged that up if he hadn’t noticed she’d brought her brother.)

Quinn pointed at his beer and he held it up, as though surprised he was still holding it. “I’ll go for another,” he said, and set the bottle down on the nearest flat surface -- Corinthius would get it later, probably, whatever -- and started to weave toward the bar, checking over his shoulder to see if she was following. “Let me buy.”

“I’m not gonna lie,” he said, and paused to count out a few sickles at the bar, “It’s been dull as dung lately, this is the best party I’ve hit up in a while. Feels like I’m the only one in the band who doesn’t have a life outside it. Anymore, at least.” He’d had a life outside the band about -- oh -- six months ago, when he’d been seeing Quinn. “Bit early in my career to be bored, innit?” This was of inclement concern to him, usually, but he was drunk now, which made it just sort of funny.

He wasn’t busy; that was a damn shame, wasn’t it? Hadn’t they broken up because they were too busy to get to know each other? Or too busy to realize they weren’t really compatible? Quinn’s alcohol-addled brain was conveniently forgetting there had to have been other reasons but time together-- and speaking of time, there wasn’t any to dwell on it now.

She had seen him with his sister, yes, and she nodded, grinning a little. It had made her feel better at the time, because: “I brought Alex.” He must have known that already, but she was commiserating, and she didn’t take her eyes off of Sam to look for her brother in the pub like she would have done talking to anyone else. “And it wasn’t the first time.” And it wouldn’t be the last, probably. At least he was fun at parties.

Sam agreed to the drink and Quinn nodded before she had a bigger swallow of her own, bringing herself closer to needing a refill, too. She followed after him, allowing herself a quick glance down at his backside before she brought her gaze back up (only after he had looked back at her). “Alright,” she agreed, deciding not to argue about who was buying or that she could probably get them for free if they wanted because she was pretty sure this was her party.

She had another few swallows of her beer and set the mostly empty bottle on the bar before she leaned against it, propping herself up with her elbow. “Really?” She was a little skeptical, that this party was the best thing he had going for himself, but she didn’t try to come up with any suggestions for new hobbies, either. She had exactly one hobby. But still: “A bit.” Early, that is. But it wasn’t like he had one of those careers with a set retirement date, and she didn’t know how long she had left in her own. “Well, I dunno.” She took her new beer with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

“Like—“ she moved a few paces from the bar, enough to get out of earshot of the nearest person (she assumed)— “I’m looking forward to them shaving off a few grams from broom twigs.” Every gram mattered for lift and speed and blah, blah, blah. Quinn rolled her eyes. “I reckon I have a couple years before I’m bored bored but--” What would she even do next? Coach? Gross. “Hard to get excited when we keep losing.” Coming in second was losing; it wasn’t first. She leant in to whisper her next thought because it almost pained her to admit it: “Four Nations is kind of pointless.”

“No,” sighed Sam, “Not the first time for me neither.” Nor would it be the last, he imagined.

He didn’t think he was mistaking where she’d been looking; he was glad he hadn’t worn the robes he’d worn to the game (all robes were rather shapeless in the behind.) At the time it’d been a practicality -- bars were hot, and this one was frankly unbearable. If he were a different sort of man he’d have envied Quinn her dress. (But he wasn’t.) As though he’d heard Sam mentally disparage him, the barkeep wanted a touch more money than was reasonable -- fucking Copernicus -- but he broke after about ten seconds’ haggling, so Sam handed Quinn a new bottle with something of a smug air.

“Maybe not?” he said, quirking his eyebrows -- that probably wasn’t very flattering. Either he was too old for his industry, or -- no, that was probably it. He’d never imagined music as an industry that lent itself well to boredom. “Guess I’ll work it out once I can only book those whatsit shows in Las Vegas.” Vegas -- why did he hate Las Vegas? There was definitely a reason that he would remember when he was sober.

She leaned forward as though she was telling him a secret far more scandalous than broom twigs -- Sam grinned, let his grin drop sympathetically. Falmouth wasn’t doing that badly -- in fact, Sam was a Wigtown fan, so Quinn’s moaning was, frankly, uncalled for -- but he imagined that even the high-flying Quidditch life would get old sometime. The high-flying concert life sure had.

Four Nations was kind of pointless, but Sam sighed. “Perish the thought,” he lamented, settling with his elbows on the bar and glancing down at her. “God, I can’t believe we have the coolest careers available to us and we’re here moping,” he said. “My counselling with McGonagall, I told her I wanted to test-drive broomsticks, can you imagine?”

Quinn raised her eyebrows as he raised his, briefly wondering if she had said the wrong thing. She relaxed after another second, after he made it clear he wasn’t taking it the wrong way. “Well I’ve always wanted a reason to go to Las Vegas.” She hadn’t, really; Las Vegas didn’t seem much like her scene. Someone had told her it was in the desert, which would have been the least appealing part if not also for the fact that next to no one there would know who she was because quodpot.

He seemed sympathetic, at least, which was nice because she was trying to be sympathetic to his cause, the cause of being bored. She appreciated that she let her have her moment of complaining, not trying to correct her about losing or talking about Wigtown or anything else that could have distracted her.

She grinned, still close after leaning in. Perish the thought, as if she could. She pulled a finger across her lips before she held it there against them, telling him not to repeat what she had just said, before she straightened up and had another swallow of her beer. She shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t busy with her drink; coolest career or not, she was allowed to be mopey, and the same applied to him. Besides, it was her party--mostly--and she could do whatever she wanted.

Sam said something about test flying broomsticks and Quinn laughed before she could tell if he was kidding or not. Either way, it was funny, and she was drunk. “I can picture it,” she said truthfully, nodding once. “Have you always been so--” She glanced at his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, before she reached out to touch the closest one-- “Aerodynamic?” She laughed again because he really wasn’t and that much was obvious and the alcohol was making her giggly.

“Still,” she went on, dramatically. “S’better than mine. I told Snape I wanted to play quidditch and he suggested I make the house team first.” She rolled her eyes, not bothering to elaborate on her annoyance because it would have been the fourth or fifth time Sam had heard that particular complaint. She hadn’t even been allowed to tryout her fourth year because her dad hadn’t bought the entire team new brooms, and then Slytherin didn’t even win against Gryffindor or get the Cup-- never mind it had been cancelled but, whatever. She was getting off track; she had another drink. “But then I dropped out, so, joke’s on him.”

Sam snorted a laugh -- somehow it was ridiculous to imagine Quinn Regan in tacky, neon Vegas. About as ridiculous as it was imagining himself there, come to think of it. He was no Elton John -- frankly Elton John had never struck him as an Elton John until he’d booked those seventy-five shows two months ago. He ran a hand over his hair -- it was gelled back but had started to muss free sometime during the game -- it didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t a solo artist by any means, and never intended to be.

She sat back to have a drink; Sam sat back too, as she did, and took another pull from his own drink. Quinn seemed less concerned with the inherent tragedy of their moping at a victory party -- he sort of envied her that -- but she was probably just more drunk. He could fix that a lot easier than he could fix the fact that he was sitting here in a pub pushing thirty and thinking about retirement.

“Hey,” he said, pushing her hand playfully off his shoulder, “That’s pure muscle.” Which it wasn’t, but who cared? He didn’t remember when it was he’d gotten on the bigger side for his age, but it’d been before Hogwarts, which meant that probably the only people who remembered were related to him.

She sat up straight, as if to divulge something just as embarrassing, but -- no -- she’d told Snape the truth. Sam raised his eyebrows, impressed -- he wouldn’t have told Snape the truth about his aspirations if he’d had a wand to his temple -- and said, “I always got the impression Slytherin didn’t let girls on the team, anyway, just trolls and that Malfoy prat.” He grinned into his next sip.

Somehow, he hadn’t dropped out, though he remembered being tempted -- his grades had slipped drastically in his sixth year, and he hadn’t had a job lined up for him after school. “Joke’s on him,” he agreed. “And hey -- fucker’s dead now anyway.” That wasn’t funny, but he was drunk, so… he had another drink and said, “No regrets, I take it? Just pure enjoying the life?” He wasn’t sure how much irony he could spin into that sentence, so he said it almost earnestly.

Quinn rolled her eyes as Sam pushed her hand away from him. Pure muscle. She grinned, in too good a mood--the win and the beer were both equally to blame--to argue. “I remember,” she said, shrugging one shoulder lightly. Maybe it wasn’t pure muscle but it wasn’t like she minded, not now, not then.

He was properly sympathetic to her complaints and she nodded enthusiastically before having another sip of her drink. “Feckin’ Flint.” She rolled her eyes again and had another sip, this time setting the bottle on the bar and removing her hand from it so she didn’t have another so soon. At least she didn’t need to go on her Malfoy rant now. It was probably the opportune time to mention there were girls on the Slytherin team now (at least according to Niall, who she had asked this specifically), but no; this felt more like a ‘disparage everything’ sort of conversation. And Quinn was alright with that.

She laughed when he agreed with her, and laughed again as he pointed out the obvious (though the second laugh was half nervous laughter). She didn’t have anything to say to that bit, so she had another drink.

Quinn shrugged, both about having no regrets and about enjoying the life. “I guess I haven’t got, real complaints, like,” she said honestly. (She wouldn’t have been honest if she was talking to anyone else--or drinking any less.) “Season’s alright.” Wouldn’t be better than that until it was her best, and even then she wasn’t sure if she could be happy with that. “I’ve almost got an all-girl lineup--” that was related to what he’d said about no girls on the Slytherin team-- “Just have the one Lynch hanging on.” She smirked, flicking her gaze from her drink back to Sam.

“Are you--” she paused to hiccough-- “Really bored with the band?”

“Motherfeckin’ Flint!” Sam echoed, shaking his head. of what he knew of Marcus Flint came from what Charlie had told him over the years -- they’d sure never all hung out, or anything -- and much of it hadn’t given him a good impression. Flint, Malfoy, Snape -- Sam had always been rather wary about making fun of the dead, but she laughed rather than tell him off -- not, he thought, that either of them were in any mood for telling each other off at a party when Ireland had just won the tournament.

Even if it was -- as she’d said a bit ago -- pretty pointless, where was the harm in celebrating a pointless victory?

He leaned back on his elbows against the bar, cradling his beer against his sternum. “Me either,” he said, more quietly. Her season was alright -- again he wanted to protest that at least it was better than Wigtown’s, but it wasn’t the time -- and she had almost an all-girl lineup -- “Oh, Colm?” he said, and laughed. Colm was a decent player, and so most of the Lynches hated that he flew for the Falcons; Sam shook his head and said, “You should kick him, then, and get another girl on, let Colm join a real Irish team.” Or -- failing that -- just not an English one.

But they were moving on from Quidditch, which was probably for the best, before Sam started saying things about Colm in a crowded bar full of Irish Quidditch fans. “Not with the band,” he said honestly: he still loved the music, still loved it when they got together to write it or rehearse it or perform it, still loved their nights out at pubs. He loved it when it was just the three of them, the way they’d started out. “Just… in general. Feels like I should have more in my life, you know? Like -- my kid brother is married already. I’m off my tits at a party at one in the morning.”

“Colm,” she agreed, rolling her eyes. Having him on her team wasn’t that bad, not now that she wasn’t reminded of Sam literally every time she looked at him, but-- he was interfering with the all-girl lineup. He could go play for a real Irish team, Sam said, and Quinn scoffed. “We’re almost half-Irish, with Colm on.” Her, Keela, Colm-- they needed one more to tip the scales. Plus, he could fly for Ireland, probably. If he wanted. A lot of her teammates on the national team needed to age out, anyway. Never mind the ‘real’ Irish teams. And about that: “Falcons are leading all the ‘real’ Irish teams,” she said, dramatically moving her fingers through the air for quotes around the word ‘real’.

She nodded slowly as she sipped her beer. She thought she could understand that--bored in general--because she wasn’t tired of the Falcons, not specifically. She didn’t think she would suddenly feel any more fulfilled with some other team. She let him talk, however, because there was a first time for everything. Ryan was married, he said, and Quinn nodded because she was aware. (She was also nodding to keep from scowling because she couldn’t help but feel like he might blame her for not being married yet, wasting six months dating her.)

But it was her party and she didn’t want to be in a bad mood. And that wasn’t what he was getting at, anyway. Quinn was drunk, and more than just a bit.

She set her beer down on the bar and gave it a quarter-turn before she glanced back to Sam. “So just-- take a break. Not like you need the money.” She shrugged, not thinking through any possible consequences a break might entail. “Find the girl, just--” she shrugged again, offered him a small grin-- “Preferably not at the parties I’m at.” However good or mutual their breakup was, she didn’t want to see that. But until then: he was unmarried and drunk off his tits at Quinn’s party and she wasn’t ready to stop drinking (or mingle with anyone else) so she clinked her bottle against his before she had another swallow.

The Falcons were leading all the teams, overall, Sam was pretty sure – he snorted. “The Cannons are leading the Kestrels, don’t count yourself too lucky.” Of course, the Cannons were leading the Wanderers, too, so he dropped it.

His instinct was to be sort of offended – not offended, say, but shocked – at the suggestion that he simply take a break. He already took breaks a good deal more than he thought he should; he’d always imagined gainful employment to entail rather steadier work than the long hours they put on their tours or while they were writing, and the stretches of nothing in between. Probably that was his problem, taking his job as all-or-nothing, as either an overwhelming pile-on or as a dreary slog.

And he’d always found the girl, in the past, when he wasn’t necessarily looking – he hadn’t flirted with Quinn Regan, National Seeker, last year with the expectation she would actually be interested. He knew he was a rockstar, and that he was funny, and that he looked more normal than Charlie, but even those three traits together had never felt like enough to make him desirable.

Quinn smiled, slightly, and Sam caught on and grinned back. “Not to worry,” he said breezily, “I reckon you’re always going to be the most fun to talk to at these parties, anyway.” He clinked his bottle against her, worried for a moment he might be sounding a little too still-into-her, and forgot it by the time he’d had another sip.

“I probably just need something to keep myself busy,” he said, decisively. “What on God do you do, in the off season? Train?”

Sam told her not to worry and for a second, she really wasn’t worried. And then he said she was the most fun to talk to-- he had phrased it a little differently, a bit more skeptically with a he reckons but she heard exactly what she wanted to hear.

“Mm,” she agreed, lowering the bottle back to the bar. “New hobby.” It was easier said than done; she had no suggestions, nor did she know what she would do if she had to take a break, Merlin forbid. And Sam knew as much, apparently, asking her about the off season. Quinn laughed and smiled, shrugging her shoulders. “Yes.” The training wasn’t as intense as it might have been during the playing season, but that didn’t really change the fact of it. “Last summer I trained in Spain, though.” She had found a new trainer and a new training regimen but this wasn’t that sort of conversation.

She wouldn’t have gone abroad for a month if they had been dating, but once they weren’t-- “Took the cats, and everything,” she said, before having another swallow of her beer. “Maybe you should get a cat.” She said it with a grin, erring more on the side of it being a joke rather than a serious suggestion.

There was a tap on the shoulder farthest from Sam, and Quinn turned, her lips still turned up in a grin; that was probably the thing that made her look more interested in the new person than she really was. When it became clear Quinn couldn’t get rid of him--after two seconds--she turned back to Sam with a small frown. “Sorry--” he must have heard the other man complimenting the match and asking for an autograph. She didn’t want to stop talking to him now but she was surely to do some good PR if she had the chance and surely Sam knew the feeling.

“Let’s get dinner sometime,” she said with a more genuine smile, before collecting her beer and her fan to go find something to write with.

[out]

“Should take up a sport,” said Sam thoughtfully – it was the only thing he could think to do, and it did seem like the perfect polar opposite of music. He drummed his hands on the bar, tilted his head – he didn’t really want to think of himself as the sort of person to get a cat – the lads would never let him hear the end of it if he became a cat woman on top of already being the lamest rockstar alive. They’d already suggested something akin to that, the time he’d put a hat on his toad. (It had been cool, though.)

She was probably joking, of course, but now he wanted to go back home and find those photographs – it’d been a hassle getting the toad to stay in the frame, but it had been worth it.

Sam looked up over Quinn’s head at the newcomer – she gave him an apologetic look, but he waved her away: “Go on,” he said, and, “Yes, let’s do it!” He had never really remained on friendly terms with his ex-girlfriends before – at best they’d always parted ways as acquaintances – but he was glad to think that Quinn was still part of his life; they’d always had a lot more in common than they had any business having.

And now back to the party – he looked over his shoulder as she went, then back ahead, and ordered something stronger.


OUT