gideon prewett

we’re the gladiators: closed for gideon prewett

When she was at Hogwarts, Lily had been in the dueling club. She hadn’t been the best dueler, but she’d been far from the worst. She’d often surprised her opponents with how aggressive her style was, she favored offense and an attack first, evade later strategy. It served her well at school where she’d had a reputation bordering on goody-two-shoes. She’d been the girl to go to if you needed help and, despite all the times she’d given a bully whatfor, not the girl to watch out for. 

If there was one thing she learned at her first dueling training, it was that she had a lot to learn. At the Barns, she didn’t have the benefit of surprise, and she’d never before realized how much of her strategy relied on being underestimated. Her fellow Order members expected her to be good, and it showed her that she wasn’t. At least, she wasn’t good enough, as good as she could be, as good as she wanted to be. So Lily Evans, star pupil of just about every class she ever attended, decided to do one of the many things she did best, and get help. 

Lily knew she had a few different options for help. She could ask Remus, who was undoubtedly the best dueler of the new recruits, or go to one of the instructors. But she didn’t want to bother the instructors just yet and she didn’t want to just be the best of the new recruits, she wanted to be better. So she watched the older recruits and picked out one who good, really good. 

Later, at the campfire, she approached him. “I’m Lily Evans, are you Gideon or Fabian?” She figured she had about a 50/50 chance of him telling the truth, if the infamous former prankster was anything like her marauders.

@gideonthesoldier​

Gideon looked up with a smile, chin lifting from the perch of his hand and eyes shifting from the warm, red firelight to the warm, red halo of hair surrounding Lily Evans’s face. “Your reputation precedes you,” he said with a wink, arranging his position to face the younger girl. Old habits died hard and he was very, very tempted to pull some switch-er-oo...but there was no real benefit and a whole lot to lose, and the proud resignation was on his face as he held out a hand for a shake. 

“Gideon Prewett, at your service,” he said. “Although I’m flattered you thought I could pass for my better half.” That wasn’t sarcasm, either; it was a delight to be mistaken for his favorite person, someone undeniably more lovely than himself. 

“How are you hanging in so far? Having fun?” 

Gideon did not know how late it was; only that it was late, and that he was stuck staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

The closest thing to a pocketwatch available to him – at least in this light – was the fading, blunted stomp of Alastor Moody’s bad leg as it echoed through the otherwise-silent farmhouse.  Bed checks typically happened at three on the nose; whether Moody didn’t care about catching folks by surprise, wanted to give them some wiggle room to plan their mischief, or was just sufficiently convinced that he was scary enough to respect without bursting unannounced through the door, Gideon did not know. 

What he did know was that bed check tonight had passed either hours or minutes or seconds ago, which meant it was the deep middle of the night. All Moody would have found was a body in each bed; Vince asleep in one, and Gideon pretending to be asleep in his own. But as soon as the door closed and the footsteps faded away, it was back to staring at the bleak ceiling and the shadows that stained it. 

“Vince?” Gideon whispered it, quiet but so suddenly that it sounded louder than it ought to, hissing through the air like a teapot about to declare itself ready. It might have been a plausible thing, an ‘oh, were you awake?’ or ‘odd, I thought you were missing!’. But all of those required a mental commitment to untruths that Gideon didn’t have even on his better days, when the sun was up and he’d gotten some real sleep. 

So he spoke again - “Vince?” - in a mid-afternoon voice, sitting up while he said it, the sheets rustling away from him in protest. Assuming it best to go all in now that he was on the path, Gideon tossed his pillow through the air, across the empty space between the beds, and waited for the telltale thump of gravity dropping it upon Vince’s once-peacefully-breathing head. 

“What are the chances that you happen to be awake right now?” — @vince-whoisleft​

Gideon, for his height and lankiness and general...well, loudness, was surprisingly good at stealth and tracking training. 

(Stealth and tracking was once called “S&T” affectionately by the Order recruits of his day; until they decided it was a nickname better worn by Sin & Tonic, a specialty, sloppy Barns cocktail invented the following weekend.) 

For one, Gideon was good at stealth and tracking because he took it seriously – not that that uncommon in the Order of the Phoenix, especially during the annual training sprint. But he also enjoyed it, which seemed to be the trick one needed to actually get a gold star in sneaking about and looking invisible – or at least casual – while doing so. 

This skillset did not translate successfully into Gideon’s personal life. 

They’d been at the Barns for just over fifty hours now, and Gideon was proving great at keeping himself busy. Late to bed, early to rise, volunteering for every meal preparation...he was making a big show of getting involved. It wasn’t so different from the way he overloaded himself with patrol shifts during the year. Though driven by very different – very different – factors, they still had one in common: reluctance to go home, to be still, to be his unvarnished self in the room that he rented or that had been assigned to him. 

Normally, this wouldn’t bother Gideon one lick – except for Vince. 

Vince, and the fact that he seemed to be catching on to the fact that he and Gideon hadn’t yet overlapped in being both in the shared room and conscious for longer than ten minutes. Vince, and the way that Gideon had a feeling he’d think of himself as the problem; and the ways it wasn’t true, and the ways in which it was, but not in the way he was bound to think. 

Vince, who Gideon didn’t hear crossing the lawn and didn’t hear approaching and didn’t see at all, until it was too late. They were right next to each other: Gideon making a big mess of trying to fill a bucket from a water pump, muggle style; Vince managing to look even less like he belonged on a farm, even though he had a deeply comforting way of looking like he belonged anywhere. 

“Hi!” said Gideon brightly, standing up. He tried to wipe a smudge of dirt off the thigh of his trousers, and only succeeded in smearing a new layer around. It was slightly easier to be normal here, out in the open even if they were alone (and even with Gideon bursting to say four hundred things at once). At the very least, it was more convincing that night one, when he disappeared to take the supposed second of back-to-back showers, despite the Barns having less of a ‘water heating system’ and more of a ‘buckets like the one Gideon was currently filling with cold well water’ system. 

Standoffish was a bad color on Gideon, but he donned it and took a step back, trying to invent some new step in his work that could steal his attention. Still, the words had started and it was a losing game to try and keep them back, with so much else already on the line and on his mind. So Gideon chatted away, gamely avoiding eye contact and striking a strange, neutral tone. 

“Glad to see you’re in one piece. Although Gerard won’t be. I think he was plotting to steal your dinner away if you were late. Or – not yours, anyone’s really.” — @vince-whoisleft​

Cautionary tales, as far as ideas went, did not seem all that objectively horrible to Gideon when first presented. The recruits were new and damn proactive; clearly keen to get started on this war business, even before they arrived in hand-holding droves at the Barns for their first days of practice. As Gideon pictured it, it was to be a night of near-misses and lessons-learned, a gently reality check to temper the newest of their ranks. 

But in the Order, Gideon had found that events had a tendency of going one of two ways: party, or funeral. This campfire business quickly became the latter. Eulogizing and proselytizing were the name of the game, a Moody scare tactic standing small on the shoulders of the veterans’ bottled up need to vent. 

They had gone around the circle and Gideon, solidly halfway, thought at first he’d stay silent when the time came for him to speak. Instead, he took a deep breath and began to speak. A little bit about being worried for his friends and family; then a lot about Weldon Elks, and the mission he’d died on, and the story of how horrible it felt to feel like family at the funeral, surrounded by the man’s actual family. The family couldn’t be told how their lost member really died; the Order couldn’t claim their lost member as one of their own. 

It was a straightforward, sad story and Gideon poured the remaining sips of his drink forward, into the campfire that hissed in protest, instead of downing it. A little homage, but he didn’t know who it was really for. 

The air was heavy, not just from the summer humidity, when the campfire ended. Gideon reckoned there would be less people partying tonight...but those that did would drink twice as hard, and he could probably pick them out of a lineup. 

He didn’t notice that Remus Lupin was in his orbit until they nearly collided: two loose-orbiting figures alone together on the dusky grounds. 

“Cheerful, wasn’t it?” Gideon asked, his grin more worried than self-deprecating as he caught Remus’s eye and nodded a hello. “You see now why we don’t invite our fearless leader to our parties, usually.” — @remus-whoisleft​

The air around the Barns was almost too fresh, the way it stung at Gideon’s lungs – but he knew that had more to do with the winding-and-bruisemaking conditioning drills of the morning. The magical training, led by Moody, was as brutal as ever, but at least it had more muscle memory built up around it after being in the Order for so long. Gideon was a bony, busy lad in his twenties; him waking up before dawn to run laps happened only as often as he got his five daily fruits and veg, and that was here at the Barns where they overlapped at the demand of his betters. 

Walking down from the main farmhouse felt strange. Gideon could remember himself as a new recruit stowed away in a bunk bed above Fabian not so long ago...but time had slipped away as he’d slipped further into the glow and draw of the Order. 

The sneaking aspect of seeking out the large red barn didn’t bother Gideon. He’d done too much mischief in his life to worry about Moody being passively annoyed at him as part of a larger group. But it still felt strangely like he was sneaking away from something looming back in his assigned bedroom – not that he’d allow himself to think it was anything other than the nursery’s creepy dolls. 

Light was pouring out of the cracked barn door, and Gideon felt warmed by it despite the already-warm summer air closed it heavy around him. He wasn’t sure who he was expecting to see as his first face when he passed over from grass to hay – but it surely wasn’t Safiye Fawley, drink in hand and dangerously close to mingling territory. 

“Is that a plastic cup?” Gideon asked, before he could help himself – with a wink and a wide smile on his face, even if he suspected a brusque brush-off was coming his way soon. “I think I saw some fine china gathering dust up at the house, if you’re in need.” 

— @safiyeece​

the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover ; gideon & vince

“My god,” was all Vince could repeat, delighted, at Gideon’s insistence of no proof. The proof was perfectly there, and it was just about the most amusing way to start a day that Vince could dream of. Well; did he sort of dream that Gideon had woken up in his bed, this hungover or maybe not hungover at all even? Of course. But this would do; he continued grinning, a child on Christmas morning, as Gideon sluggishly moved past him. “Look at you. You’re more liquor than man right now!” 

It was all teasing, yes, but there was no doubt there was an impressed edge to his jokes. A hangover like this only came from a proper night out.

“Sure, right. I’ll carry you home or have Fab come do it, really give the folks of London a confusing treat to see the two of you struggling home like that.” Vince followed behind Gideon, shutting the door behind them and gently placing a hand against the other man’s back to steer him in the vague direction of the couch. The lanky Prewett probably wouldn’t love falling asleep on the couch if it came to that, small as it was, but he could make do in a pinch. 

“Ah,” Vince blinked at Gideon, wondering whether now was the time to let his imagination get the worst of him; he hadn’t been home the night before, then, and had walked to Vince’s place from somewhere nearby. He couldn’t be terribly upset if Gideon had found someone to hook up with while ingesting what smelled to be an impressive amount of vodka; it seemed like not quite the thing he’d do, but neither was showing up on Vince’s doorstep hungover. “So you didn’t even go home last night, then, you cheeky devil? Been wandering the streets, have you?”

Sure, that felt like the proper balance between extremely curious and gentle friendship teasing. 

“You were out drinking with Sebastian Nott?” Vince gasped, genuinely surprised and - again, the theme of the day - delighted. The thought he went home with Sebastian Nott didn’t even cross his mind, for fairly selfish reasons; Sebastian had never slept with him, and they’d had plenty of opportunities. “Jesus, no wonder you’re a wreck. I didn’t know you knew him! He’s an absolute lad, isn’t he?” He stared at the cup in Gideon’s hand, realized he was no longer drinking from it but staring hard at it. He tried his best to contain the laugh. “Do you… need some more coffee, Gid? What shenanigans did Seb put you up to?”

- 

"Thank you,” Gideon groaned, hands pushing through his hair like that would do anything to alleviate the brewing headache underneath – but it was impossible to tell if it was a sarcastic thanks for the offer to call him a sherpa-twin home, or a genuine one for the guidance in the direction of the couch; hell, a genuine thanks for opening the door in the first place. 

He had a passing urge to ask Vince if he’d had a night of his own, maybe spilled a bottle of vodka somewhere...but he realized quickly that the smell was coming through his own pores, and he tucked it away as something to feel mortified about later, when he had more headspace to handle it. 

“Not even. We were at some horrible, posh underground club—literally underground, mind you, nothing radical about it—and I didn’t realize how late it was getting. Or, early, I suppose.” Gideon collapsed onto the couch and took a long, indulgent moment to drop his face into his hands...but then lifted his face with a game, brave smile and nodded at the open seating space next to him. As if Vince needed an invitation to sit on his own couch. “I wanted to walk a little once I left, just to clear my head a little bit, and before I knew it? I was here. Bothering you.” 

Gideon snorted at the question, pulling one ankle up to rest on his opposite knee, prepared fully for his leg to fall asleep but knowing the pins and needles might help keep the rest of him awake.  He was blind to Vince’s probing, the wonder about whether he’d gone home with someone else the night before; he was too busy being thankful, now that he was settled, that someone other than Vince hadn’t answered the door. Or rolled over in bed to complain about the noise of Gideon’s crash landing. Maybe it was selfish! Maybe he was too tired to care! 

“I was,” he confirmed, only barely able to sound appropriately grin through the smile he couldn’t fight. “I was out drinking with Sebastian Nott, and if they make a model of man that’s more of a lad? I hope to never, ever fucking meet him, because I don’t think I’d survive it.” 

Gideon frowned down at his coffee, freezing cold and doing not one ounce of the soul-saving he’d hoped for. He thought about asking for a shot of vodka to spike the drink with instead, hoping that some hair of the dog would do the trick and extend his faltering lifeline at least until he could get home. Instead, he smiled a wide smile and said, “Just the company for now. It’s a tonic.” 

Fighting back another laugh, Gideon took a performative sip of the coffee...and instantly recoiled, pulling a face at how bad it tasted. 

“I barely know him,” he said, shaking his head fondly, red hair falling into his eyes. He needed a fucking haircut, but he needed a lot of things – a night of sleep, a shower – that ranked above it. Molly would hold him down and give him one herself next time he went to the house; he knew it. “He used to come into the pet shop all the time with that gorgeous, gorgeous dog of his and...oh! Where is Agatha?” 

Distracted from his point, Gideon used his last available dregs of energy to look intently around the flat, hoping to catch the swish of a tail around some nook or corner. 

“Oh, Vincent. Oh my sweet, wonderful Vincent,” said Gideon, putting his face back into his hands – for the theatrics this time, purely. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but you need to promise before I start: no pity allowed, alright? Only mocking allowed.” He paused just long enough to allow for an agreement, but not long enough to actually wait for one. “So, Sebastian took me out for a night of raucous drinking because I lost my job yesterday and he happened to find out about it. I know, I know, don’t dwell on it, it’s fine. But the best part? He spent the entire night...on a mission...singularly, loyally dedicated...to finding a woman for me. What I was supposed to do with her from there? Anybody’s guess, but he was determined.” 

asynchronous ; gideon & fabian

“Thanks,” Fabian mumbled absentmindedly, the topics of love and romantic interests far from the sphere of his interests at the moment, wanting to chase away the little joke Fabian had opened up with to let the mood of their flat to settle. Not that he minded lightness and jokes - heck, he couldn’t possibly be one of The Twins if he did mind; he was as guilty to easily (though not as easy as Gideon) accept banter and good humour in lieu for any heavier topics Fabian didn’t feel quite ready for. He knew he had to let Gideon dress down, to let his mind catch up to the fact that he didn’t have to keep that charade up any longer when it was just the two of them, so Fabian allowed the stream of banter, interjecting with a roll of his eyes and a softly snorted

“Oh, shut up,” towards the handsome comment until Gideon, having chosen the sofa instead of the bed Fabian had caught him glancing towards, landed without a joke and Fabian could feel himself relax. It was a certain kind of comfort when you could trust every single thought and word of someone, accepting was what being said and shown as much as letting guards down to find that familiar home-base they shared where Fabian found nurture and where they could bounce towards any direction they wanted or needed. And despite all the nuances and layers of differences that were so obvious to them yet so seemingly difficult for others to spot, how similar they could be also, in the safety of each others presences. Gideon would always be the stronger force, an energy Fabian would borrow in exchange for a bit of calmness. 

“Nothing,” Fabian answered, the oddity of having an agenda of ‘nothing special’ making him chuckle. “I just needed a bit of peace and home.” The last crunch of the apple, and the leftovers vanished as Fabian leaned against the wall. “I’ll take it. Longbottom’s shift. Take a shower, go to bed. There’s a bit of Molly’s cooking in the fridge. Had fun, by the by?” Fabian inquiered, jumping from duties to the alcoholic self-inflicted damages of Gideon’s night, sliding down the wall to sit cross-legged, slouched, displaying that careleness that was as much Fabian as one mightn’t suspect, to listen to Gideon’s adventures. 

- 

It was the shut up – fond and familiar and no holds barred – that finally reminded Gideon that, despite the time away, he was home. Not because of the familiar, secondhand couch or because of the plain, warm-painted walls, because he was here, one-on-one, with the only other person in the world who really got him, and he didn’t need to make jokes to either help along or hinder that process. He smiled as he stared up at the ceiling, but not in jest this time; he was finally relaxing. 

“Well, welcome home,” Gideon said; really meaning: I’m glad you’re here. “I’ll see what I can do about giving you peace, too.” 

Touching as the offer was, Gideon sat up at once, propped up on the arm of the couch and rubbing at one eye like his body needed the pointed reminder to stay awake. “Oh, I appreciate that, but I can manage it,” he insisted, biting back a yawn all the while. “You need a night off just as badly, stay in and relax. Just as long as you save some of that Molly cooking for me to come back to.” 

As critical as the need probably was to take care of himself, he knew he would get any sleep or remember to take a shower if he was caged up at home, worried about Fabian getting into hypothetical trouble during a shift he’d passed off. 

“Besides, I think Vince is going to be at headquarters tonight and I want to see...er, thank him.” The lift of his eyebrows may not have said it all, but it was certainly saying something. “Sort of made a crash landing at his place this morning, before I came here.” We he pumped one fist up into the air, more of a slow stretch than a celebration, it was rife with gentle self-deprecation. “Impulse control at an all-time low.” 

Gideon slumped into a more comfortable position as Fabian slid down the wall to sit, both of them bundles of sharp knees and elbows and tousled red hair, totems placed parallel across the room. 

“Listen...” he said with a grimace, thinking it better to rip the bandage off now, rather than later. “I did have fun. Real great time. Probably my last fun night out for a long while because I may have, technically, in a sense...lost my job at the shop yesterday. I’m going to figure out rent, don’t worry about that. I’m going to take care of it, and the flat. But it was less of a ‘celebratory night out’ and more of a ‘necessary’ one.” 

asynchronous ; gideon & fabian

Fabian had nearly as much an uncommitted relationship to their flat at Gideon - if it wasn’t for work, it was the business with the Order, the stints at Molly’s, or trying to keep an ordinary life and all that entailed despite the chaos that was such a central part of their lives, now, keeping Fabian away. A  bit more homebound, yes; the peace and familiarity of a place away from duties and socialising needed to rebound and recharge. It was one of the few rare days where Fabian let a free day be mostly free -a few hours at home to himself before mantling responsibilities come later hours. 

The telltale signs of the wards being unlocked and the way someone stumbled into the flat all suggested the appearance of Gideon, Fabian gravitating towards the common room to greet the one that truly put the homeliness into what mostly otherwise was just another apartment. With a habit they sadly had to pick up to the point it was as much a reflex as the need to curse when stubbing your toe against a threshold, Fabian, too, had his wand at the ready, in case an intruder somehow had learned of their location and the way to enter it unharmed. 

His twin’s laughter coaxed the wand back into his back-pocket and Fabian laughed too, amused by Gideon’s disheveled confusion as Fabian was relieved to see him, a feeling Fabian knew he would carry with him beyond the war. However much twins they are, it didn’t mean anymore that they spent each second side by side, and with the realities of war had served them for years now, Fabian was aware that he couldn’t keep worrying for Gideon until proof of his well-being was presented to him. Honestly, Fabian hated the feeling. He hated that he had to even worry for his twin (well, perhaps he didn’t have to precisely, he didn’t have to do anything), knowing too well that the war is merciless and it did not discriminate in who it picked as a victim. Fabian hated too what it made of him, now being someone prone to trying to hold Gideon back out of worry for his safety than being relaxed in the knowledge that Gideon knew how to fend for himself. 

“Oh, the poor man isn’t ready to make us official,” Fabian joked with a lazy smile, jumping on a joke to dishelf thoughts he didn’t want to keep active, shrugging off pretend disappointment with the same motion he wordlessly accio:ed an apple. 

The crunch of a bite became the soundbyte to Fabian looking Gideon over now when the revelation of Gideon’s safety made his immediate world more peaceful for the moment. Had Gideon’s laughter in the beginning spun the warmth of unity and safety, it now also scratched at the concern and worry Fabian tried to keep at bay. Yes, Gideon has this ability to laugh despite, and could probably do so when he had a few breaths left to take just because shit could always be a bit worse, Fabian knew it could well also be a welcome cloak of protection and a residue of the mask carried in public. Fabian hardly had to state that Gideon looked like shite, all too sure Fabian had felt it plenty enough. 

“You alright?” Fabian asked softly, glad that his genuine care for twin that had always been there, before war and terror and the potential of death and torture was as much part of their lives as their united existance, won over the worry that had grown because of it. “Hey?”

- 

"Ah, well, he’s a slag anyway,” said Gideon. “You can do better.” 

Tired as he was, the young man truly was giving the joke his best and most valiant effort – all the while rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand, and trying to remind his body that no, it wasn’t about to nip off to steal some sleep just because it could see his bed lurking off in the distance of the flat. 

(Distance being a particularly poor choice of words, given how small the place was; the Prewetts had never been rolling in gold, and it wasn’t as though the twins were going to run headlong into the Ministry for a paycheck when there were wars to be fought and principles to be kept.) 

Gideon lowered himself to sit on the arm of the twins’ threadbare sofa instead, drumming his fingers gently against the familiar fabric. Head cocked to the side, he watched Fabian chewing down on his apple – and it occurred to him, not for the first time, how strange it was that anyone could confuse him for Gideon, and vice versa. Sure, they had the whole...identical faces thing working against them, and Gideon had always delighted in playing the three-card-monty of identity obfuscation. 

But Fabian looked so...adult in the light of their kitchen, so pensive, so concerned. The concern was something Gideon was familiar with, too. But it tended to burn away his stomach lining with acid or lurk angrily in the nearest corners of his mind when he was trying to fall asleep. It didn’t sit stoic and present on his face the way it did Fabian’s. It didn’t gently demand an answer; it didn’t make Gideon feel like guilty shite for being the root cause. 

“I’m right as rain,” he said, squinting through a smile in that self-deprecating way of his; the grin of a young man on a tightrope over a snapping alligator, but one who’d climbed up there on a dare instead of being forced. “And while yes, that is technically a lie, it’s nothing for you to worry your handsome, handsome head about. All self-inflicted damage, here. Of the alcohol variety, not even patrols. Though I do have one tonight, now that I mention it; forgot I said I’d cover for Longbottom when he begged off for a Ministry thing...” 

Cutting his rambling short, Gideon pressed his lips together to stop the words flowing out. He arranged them into an abashed little smile instead, holding one hand up in surrender. 

“It’s nothing a shower can’t fix,” he assured Fabian, without joking this time. “What about you, what has you home at this hour?” 

Gideon dragged his limbs home behind him, after what felt like months away from his flat, rather than just a few days. 

Truth be told, only the last stretch of his absence had been ill-advised. Babysitting at Molly’s had turned into dinner at Molly’s, had turned into two bottles of wine and a comfortable sleep in the spare room. The next day brought Order meetings, and then an overnight patrol. He’d meant to sleep after that one, or at least find some time to put his feet up at home, but he’d dozed at Headquarters instead until the time came for his pet shoppe shift. 

And from there? Well, it had been a speedy transition from ‘fired’ to ‘tequila shots’ to ‘dragging his hungover corpse over to Vince’s for a quick visit.’ 

But at long last: Gideon was home, sure he’d find the place empty and even more sure that he couldn’t wait to splash his face with water. He didn’t bother to be quiet about shoving his keys into the door, waving his wand on - thankful - autopilot to disable the wards that were extra fortification on the twins’ rental. His bag was tossed onto the couch, his shoes kicked off, all of it happening in one swift, so-exhausted-he-was-wired motion.

As for Gideon’s heart? It was jumping out of his chest, as he turned around and caught the terrifying flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. 

“Merlin’s....tits, Fabian! Fuck’s sake.” It was a strange way to express how happy he was to see his twin, but even as he clutched his heart and tried to coax his wand arm into lowering, Gideon was beginning to laugh. He knew he probably looked a sight himself, disheveled and booze-stinking and with dark circles on display under his eyes. But if anyone could laugh through worse circumstances, it was Gideon. And - hopefully - if anyone could be reassured by that, it was Fabian. 

“I had...no idea you were going to be home. I was starting to think you’d officially moved into Moody’s place and forgot to tell me about it.” — @fabianprewtt​

the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover ; gideon & vince

The knocking at Vince’s door was mainly surprising thanks to the hour; the hollow sounding pounds, nothing like hands banging on a door, barely registered through his own sleepy haze. 

Vince wasn’t - not a morning person, really. He just typically ended up being more of a night owl naturally, staying up late to finish his articles or pour over some new piece of intel or conducting his own research. So when he fell asleep, he tended to stay asleep as long as his mile-a-minute brain would let him.

He was awake, in theory. In practice he was about half-there, having moved from his bed to the nearby couch on the other side of his dividing screen - a deliriously delightful secondhand shop find - where he lounged, willing himself awake with the aid of his first cigarette of the day. His hair was pulled back into a messy, messy bun, flyaways the main telltale sign that he’d only just rolled out of bed.

It was shocking enough that Vince didn’t yell or call out for the knocker to wait, he just fumbled to put his cigarette out - just in case it was the sweet old lady upstairs and he’d forgotten to re-up the charm that would keep the smoke from leaking out of his flat - and stumbled up and over to the door.

Gideon Prewett himself was on the other side, which was a whole other happy surprise, and Vince took one look at the poor man - two hands clutching a shitty cup of coffee, red hair a rumpled mess, eyes bloodshot and the mild wince of a telltale headache - and realized,

“You’re hungover,” Vince gasped, showing the bare minimum of respectful restraint by not yelling it, grinning with immediate amusement. “Oh my god, Gid. You look like you’ve been run down by a steamroller. Come in,” he paused in his own bout of steamrolling to move back from the door, giving Gideon the space needed to hobble in. “How did you even get here? Did someone carry you?”

-

"You can’t prove that,” said Gideon, in a single breath that took far too much effort for him to put forth and, despite his best attempts at wakefulness and coffee-chugging, was probably still oversaturated with vodka - like his pores would be, as soon as the hangover fever broke - and smelled closer to rubbing alcohol for injuries than a man in a doorway. “You can’t prove it, and you have no proof.” 

The proof was abundant, and Gideon hadn’t come here to be in denial - about his hangover, anyway - but Vince was as talented of an investigative journalist as Gideon could ever dream up; he’d cite his sources easily if he wanted to torture Gideon by rubbing it in. 

Not that Vince needed to run anything in further. He looked well-rested even through the fog of sleep that hung over his face and his hair was distracting in its unkemptness, inspiring a feeling that Gideon genuinely couldn’t name. Was it envy? Admiration? It didn’t matter, because his head ached and it was going to ache more if he tried to find the exact line of thought where their friendship bled over into the want for something more. 

“Nobody carried me!” he said, complaining  as loudly as he could bear, the fact that he hadn’t been carried a horrid tragedy now that the thought was put in his throbbing head. Maybe Vince was rubbing off on Gideon more than he thought. “I walked here. I was out for the evening, near...near-ish by, at any rate, not...as far as you might think...and I’m sorry to drop in, but I can’t stand the thought of apparating. I’d say feel free to kick me out, but! Bad news for you, mate, now that you’ve put that ‘be carried’ idea in my head.” 

It was too many words to say all at once. Gideon’s mouth was perilously dry, and he found that when he sipped his coffee he found that it’d gone cold. No longer warm enough to warm his blood back into circulation, but not good enough cold to bring any lost hydration back - it was useless. He frowned at it, but didn’t put it down. Gideon was pretty sure the cup was vital to his structural integrity by now, even if the drunk was useless. 

“I did not know,” he said, once words came back into his skillset. “That you were friends with Sebastian Nott. He speaks very highly of you. I think. He spoke highly of literally every person he mentioned.”

"YOU COME HERE ALL THE TIME?” 

Gideon had to shout to be heard over the music which was, frankly, deafening. That wouldn’t normally be a problem for Gideon, and his proclivity for nighttimes stolen away in the throbbing basement of clubs - and their acoustically generous bathrooms – and crowded pubs. Not to mention the fact that he’d grown up in a big, loud family who was growing in numbers and volume every year. 

The louder and the livelier, the better as far as he was concerned! 

But this place was...on another level. It was less crowded than it seemed, every free inch of air packed with sound waves of pure directionless noise, carrying on in one indiscriminate, repetitive beat. Clusters of people grouped together; some in shining, sparkling slub attire and others dressed down in that effortless, plain way where nothing matched and nothing looked quite like it’d been worn before, that made it clear they had money. 

A bar made up one entire half of the room; the rest was littered with pockets of dance floor and clusters of couches, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. 

Sebastian had offered to take Gideon out for a drink ‘somewhere unforgettable,’ to be sure. And Gideon didn’t know what he’d expected! Only that it wasn’t...this. 

“They do serve alcohol here, right?” he called, plugging one eardrum with a finger. “It’s not so fancy that they’ve cut that out of the equation?” — @sebastian-whoisleft​

Being in Diagon Alley was weird now. It wasn’t an especially poetic word, nor an especially mature one. But it was the only one that fit the sensation of walking down the familiar cobblestones streets, twisting past the same storefronts and cafes he’d known since childhood. It should have all been worn-in and comfortable, but of course the pet shop stood out as the glaring exception: right in the middle of everything, and still a new and painful sore spot. It was just...weird. 

Gideon spent so much time looking over his shoulder these days, was the thing. For Order comrades, for possible dangers, to make sure he wasn’t taking too sharp of a turn into too dark of an alley. Now he had ex-coworkers to add to the list which seemed, in the grand scheme of things, like the lowest stakes issue. It didn’t feel that way, though; not now, when he was actually on the streets. 

Which is a big part of why it came as a surprise delight when something caught Gideon’s eye that was – none of those things! The sight of a wagging tail was enough to catch his wandering attention on the best of days. Three tails was even better; recognizing the dogs they were attached to was, flat out, a best case scenario! 

In an instant, Gideon was crouching down, saying an enthusiastic and energetic hello to each of them in turn...before he realized how rude he was being and looked up, grinning, face colored a bashful red. 

“Sorry!” he laughed, feeling a tongue against his cheek and reaching to pet the offender behind the ear affectionately. “Can’t justify it, and honestly not even that sorry, but hello to you, too!” 

— @geraldine-whoisleft​

Gideon was standing in the corridor outside of Vince Sinclair’s flat, clutching a takeaway coffee with both hands. The time had come to knock on the door and he’d been considering the task for upward of a minute now, staring with bloodshot eyes and trying to make his brain - which felt like sludge, but only in between the pangs of his headache - work out how to make it happen. 

He took a deep breath. Considered dropping one of his hands away from the coffee cup. Considered the fact that it was impossible. 

Giving up, Gideon kicked the door instead. 

Not too hard, but the pounding sound still sent shockwaves through his skull. He winced, closing his eyes uselessly against the sensation, and weighed the heavy, heavy proposition of whether he’d have to do it again if nobody came to his rescue and answered soon. 

“Before you say anything,” he rasped, as the door finally opened. On a normal day, he might have been worried about someone other than Vince answering, which seemed a worse case scenario than nobody answering at all. But this was not a normal day, what with his brain about to cave in, and he’d take any lifeline offered to him at this point. “I’m dead. Also? I am dying.”  

— @vince-whoisleft​

ready, aim, fired ;

“Oh, sure, decency, morals…” said Sebastian, scrunching his nose up and waving a hand around, like Gideon had invoked something like the weather or creamer versus milk in morning coffee. Although, technically speaking, they did have a greater effect on his day and weight on his mind, nowadays. “Good stuff, mate. Good stuff!” 

After that, Gideon’s backtrack to joking — probably joking, but either way something Sebastian was infinitely more comfortable with — was all the more welcome. Sebastian tossed the would-be-stolen toy down on to the shelf he’d swiped it from, and made his way over to the counter with interest, hands slung low into his pockets and a curious furrow in the center of his brow. 

“Wait, you got fired?” he asked, surprise coloring his face – and beyond, honestly. If there was a way someone could carry surprise in their shoulders, that would be Sebastian. 

The price markup was neither a surprise nor a concern (actually, it strangely made him trust the store more, knowing how to move quality products to people who wouldn’t complain about the price but would complain about giving their pets cheap toys), but a firing was baffling. Including but not only because Sebastian had lucked his way into a career and continued to stumble upward, no matter how much effort he put in. He didn’t know Gideon well, but knew he at least — probably, based on the limited paths they’d crossed — knew enough to know he worked harder than Sebastian. And in a store, no less! How was that fair?! 

“For what? Mate, you should let me rob this place. You should rob this place! I’m talking, take all of it, then set up a stand outside and sell it all for a double markup. Merlin. Shit.” 

-

Gideon let his eyebrows answer first Sebastian’s comment - the way he brushed off decency and morals, in that way only someone who floated through life like Sebastian Nott could - and then the ugly question of employment. There was no good answer to give, other than a pair of raised brows. 

That’s the way Gideon saw it, at least. 

He was someone who loved to overshare, because when it happened so organically one had no choice but to jump on board. But the wound was too fresh to open up with talks of missed shifts and showing up tired; chugging coffee to stay awake and ‘having an energy that alarmed the cats.’ 

“As solid of a business plan as that is,” he chuckled, crossing his arms and finally pausing the fidgeting he’d been up to all day. The conversation was enough to carry him for now, though there was no telling how fast that candle would burn through. “I think I’m going to get out of the pet game for a while.” 

Not that Gideon had any idea what he wanted to do next. He was already such a high-energy person. He doubted he’d have the wherewithal to stop working even if he hadn’t been raised in a family that praised hard work...and always had a deep, critical need to do it. Which he very much had been. 

He checked his watch. Not much longer now. 

“Maybe I’ll just get one of those made-up jobs I keep reading about in the papers,” he said, scratching at the side of his nose, beginning to look around for his bag. A ‘bolt’ was the only speed of exit that felt appropriate for the situation. Not from Sebastian, but from everything else in this building, bad memories included. “A consultant’s consultant, or one of those political staffers with no real title.” 

we want YOU ; vince & gideon

“Swear on my mum’s life, mate, her words exactly. She’ll have a pout about it if he ever does beat her in practice, but I think she’s emotionally preparing for that possibility.” Vince laughed, turning the file toward Gideon so the other man could get a better look at it. “I find it hard to believe, personally, since he looks like a moderate wind could blow him over - but I suppose he won’t be the only lanky bastard in the ranks.” 

At that he shot a gloriously cheesy wink at Gideon, no further explanation necessary.

“Order of the Eagle!” Vince gasped, like it was the best idea he’d heard in a lifetime. “Maybe we just break off and do our own thing with the new ‘claws. Stage a coup or something. Moody’s probably listening in right now and fighting back a conniption, so I’ll add,” he cleared his throat imperiously, “just joking, of course! Love phoenixes. Love the idea of bursting dramatically into flame. No problems here.”

“I’m mean, Gid, I get mean and I sort of just - I do my best not to be. And I shouldn’t be that way with you or any of my friends. Especially not you.” Vince sighed, the… vulnerability of the moment eating away at him in a way he knew was healthy in theory but it was fucking hard. He was desperately grateful for Gideon lightening the mood, veering softly back into gentler territory. “I don’t even mind if it is condescending at this point. I’ll take it knowing you don’t think I’m the world’s worst, most dramatic arsehole anymore.”

Vince grinned at Gideon, full-wattage, still blushing the faintest bit, then shook the hand offered to him. Gave it a light squeeze to make sure the point was made.

“Both pricks. Happy to co-own that with you, Gid. I’m partial to blueberry muffins, by the by,” at that he added a wink, because why the fuck not, grin sliding into a smirk. Back in his true comfort zone, letting himself be more distracted by how close they were sitting rather than with how much Gideon might hate him.

He was surprised by Gideon’s reaction to the reveal about Dorcas, but not unpleasantly so - his eyebrows raised, he jumped a titch at the hand suddenly on his knee. He placed one of his own hands over Gideon’s, trying to be… comforting? Just taking advantage of the situation to half-tease, half-revel in it?

“What what, I’m - no, no, I’m fine. Absolutely fine. I just saw her go down during the attack and that’s when I ran headfirst into it. To help her. I lost my balance and was trying to counter-curse and the glamour must have - shifted. We made eye contact, I saw her get it, you know. She didn’t say anything. Hasn’t said anything.” He shook his head, looking slightly aghast. “And I didn’t wipe her memory. No, Christ, I couldn’t stomach that.”

At the last question he looked vaguely sheepish, but he waved it away as casually as he could.

“Just Gretchen and you. I’m going to the graduation ceremony, I’ll talk to Dorcas then - right before Dumbledore tells her about us. Keep it as, er, vague as possible. But I think it’s fine. It’s probably fine. No one trying to kill me saw my face, at the very least.” He blinked, as if the idea was only just occurring to him, looking for the answer in the vicinity of Gideon’s lovely eyes. “Do you… think I should tell someone else? No. She’s one of ours, I know it, if anyone was going to see me that day I’m glad it was her.”

"I would never mistake you for the world’s worst, most dramatic arsehole,” said Gideon, pairing the words with a gooey, over-affectionate look that was just played up enough to take the very real, inconvenient, feeling fueling it and focus instead on the joke about to land on the other side of it. He reached out and patted Vince on the shoulder. Same-fucking-situation. “I think you’re the world’s best, most dramatic arsehole. And it’s important to me that you know it!” 

And it was fine, probably, that he was turning his efforts to remembering blueberry muffins instead of the paperwork in front of him, or the lingering effects of the fight. According to Molly, at any rate, Gideon didn’t think enough about food. 

Gideon pressed his lips together and hung on every one of Vince’s words, nodding with a little too much vigor and frequency to make sure the other man knew he was listening. He was listening, mind – but this wasn’t a time for fidgeting or staring off into space, or any of the things he could get away with back in school while still retaining enough of the general idea to pass the final exams. 

“Of course...of course,” he mused, sounding sympathetic all the way through. It was what Moody would have suggested (or, more realistically, demanded), but Gideon wouldn’t have been able to stomach it either. Not just the act of doing it himself, but the knowledge that Vince had done it, had gone through it and suffered accordingly and compromised the sensitive part of him that was clearly aching at the hypothetical now. 

“If she was going to say something, she would have done it by now. And...I dunno. Even if she was going to, and the risk was high. Some things just aren’t worth it. We could have protected you, if your cover was blown, and your family, too. It would be awful, obviously, not an ideal situation, but. to preemptively move on her, even if she wasn’t someone we were about to trust with a lot more than one glimpse...” 

He was rambling, but he couldn’t stop; short of actually reaching over and giving Vince the long hug he looked like he needed, commiseration was the best comfort he could offer up. 

Gideon shook his head and looked down at Dorcas’s file in Vince’s hands, worry and thought pulling his brows together. 

“No,” he said quietly, almost tempted to leave it there. “I think you’re right. It was a best case scenario, it being her. And there’s no reason to panic people for no reason. The way Gretchen was treated after the codes leaked? I don’t want that to happen to you. You don’t deserve it, for one. That and...well, you know. I do like the ego boost of being in on a secret with you, even if it’s temporary.”