#temp:starter

despite the fact this is where most of the dead bodies he has to dispose of ends up, amycus enjoys being at the docks. this is the closest he’s ever been to living near water all his life, and he tries to make the most of it. he still remembers the stories his mother used to tell him, the photographs she would show -- she’d grown up in a little japanese fishing town, and she’d told him that when people died, they all went back to the waters. 

well, he doesn’t know if his mother is waiting for him in the murky waters near new york city, but something about being here calms him down. 

there’s no one else around, or at least he thinks, and he has managed to sneak onto one of the tiny fishing boats by the docks, if only to be able to dip his feet in the water underneath. eyes closed, he barely notices someone approaching him until he’s tapped on the shoulder, and he nearly falls forward. 

“sorry,” he says, almost instinctively, eyes going a little wide. “i’m -- sorry. is this -- is this your boat?” 

it was late by the time that arthur stepped out of the front of his store, making sure the door was tightly sealed, chains locked, front shuttered, even taking a step back to do an assessment for the hundredth time, before he was satisfied enough to walk away, feet leading him in the direction of boulevardier as it often did. sundays were one of their slower days, what with men having to carry the pretense of being upstanding heads of family, and most activities and gatherings around the city reserved for the weekend. were he more active in the community, arthur supposed he would be one of those people, with social circles and parties, flitting around friends’ homes, but his was a clandestine business, his identity not quite the norm, and frankly, he didn’t mind his small group of friends.

most of whom, truly, had become more than, dorcas being the foremost of those. was it a habit or a quiet arrangement, arthur didn’t know, but once they fell into the routine, it became like clockwork: arthur finishing work, going to pick her up as hers ended, then sharing the travel back to their building, catching up on how the other was doing, checking on each other, then finally sharing a meal; hardly as conventional as most families, but it was comforting, having that opportunity to make sure dorcas and her mother were doing as well as can be managed. for him, they were, in essence, living together as family, his adopted mother and his little sister...

... and at the sight of her, a wide smile broke out across arthur’s face, mixed with relief that she appeared fine. shifting the brown bag full of hot food he had tucked under his arm, he quickly made his way over to her, giving a small wave as he did then feeling foolish about it, but he couldn’t really feel bad, he just always felt excited seeing her again. “hey, doe-nut,” he pulled her close, giving her a half hug with one arm. “everything went good tonight? no fights or creeps?”

who: open

James swirled his glass, the amber liquid catching the little light in the club. He didn’t always make it a point to spend the evening here, but he had felt the familiar itching under his skin, an impatience indicating that he needed to get out, to find something to occupy his time. Taking a sip of his drink, his eyes scanned the room for a solution to his problem, settling on a figure near the stage. Sauntering over, he slipped into the seat next to theirs, a smirk playing on his lips as he said, “Enjoying the show?” as he nodded up at Mary.

tuesday nights were calm, or as calm as they could be at the felix felicis. the gamblers themselves didn’t ask for too many drinks, and the only real traffic coming through were fellow deatheaters. nights like things served as the perfect time to try to crack open a book, which led to him usually closing it prematurely to break up some kind of debacle.

when: lunchtime

who: open

Minnie’s day could have been better - should have been, really - but she had made the resolution to try and make it more positive. There was no reason to dwell on the stress of her job, or the fine line she sometimes walked with those she held closest to her, or the fact that her apartment still sometimes felt empty years after the loss of her husband. She wandered through the familiar shelves, trying to find a particular book, only to round a corner, knocking a book out of someone’s hands. “So sorry about that,” she said, stooping to pick up the book from the floor, “Are you okay?”

Fabian forced him here. Pulled up outside of the prison gates in the car that frank missed so dearly, garment bag in hand, to instruct him of his attendance at the black’s memorial gala in honor of their uncle. He came without Gideon in tow, despair painted across the irises of his eyes, but there wasn’t nearly enough time to cry. Frank did his time, yes, but there were more important appointments at hand. Frank had to pick up what the hole of Gideon left behind: smile, make nice, flirt with the ladies, all so Fabian could go and do whatever it was that he had to do. For some reason, he couldn’t tell Frank. Wouldn’t, Frank thought was more like it. But now he was back to where he belonged--back to his promises. It was bittersweet, surrounded by the extravagance and slightly ostentatious decor the Blacks preferred, because while he felt finally alive... The mark of death clung to him so.  

He stood near the bar, a lively jazz band playing a few feet away from him, and smiled in kindness as some older man--an old business partner of some firm or other--was talking his ear off. Longbottom, I know the name, but he offered no other information about his father, his ancestors, than he would have liked to hear. So he smiled. He nodded. His eyes glanced around the room, scanning for an escape, when a hand on his shoulder startled him. 

“Excuse me, sir. One moment,” he said to the stranger. Then, “There are politer ways to interrupt a conversation,” he pointed out as he turned to face who had approached him.

Mary was having a good night. It could be argued that her evening was better than that, that she was having a grand time at the party. The alcohol she had managed to find throughout the evening so far left her feeling warm, a little giddy as she sought out something to help her parched throat after the last dance. She leaned against the dry bar, fingers drumming gently across it’s top as she waited for her drink when she spotted something out of place beneath a crumpled napkin. Absently, she reached for it, turning the queen of hearts card over and noting the address written on it. It was for a place in Manhattan, that much she knew, but she wasn’t familiar enough with the area to place it. Without much thought she slipped it into her bag, making a mental note to pass it on to one of the hosts before the night was out on the off chance someone came looking for it. She thanked the bartender as they handed her her drink, turning to go and almost immediately bumping into someone. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry-are you alright?”