Amy's Birthday Fic
This is a fic for Amy, for her birthday. She said she wanted it, so I wrote it. There's not going to be any summary on it or anything, because... well, I don't think I can even try to summarise it. In my defense for writing it, let me just say that it is very late at night, and that she asked for it.
The proof is all there in my MSN chat files, for anyone who needs to see it. She asked for this, I tell you! :P
“I’ll have a firewhisky,” Ron said gloomily, “and make it a strong one.”
The barmaid he had considered pretty not a moment ago grinned at him, showing him a perfect set of uneven yellow teeth, and turned away to tend to his order.
Ron sighed. The-bar-at-the-edge-of-the-fandoms (or ‘that creepy place’, as Harry tended to call it) was not exactly his favourite place in the world, but at the moment, he needed a little solitude from his life at Hogwarts, and coming here seemed to be the only way to get it. Glancing around, he saw several familiar faces that looked as depressed - if not worse - than he did. ‘Michael Vaughn’ was sat in a dark corner, staring longingly at a battered photograph in his hand, and at the other side of the room, a very drunk looking Jack Shepard was regaling his tales of great doctoring victory to anyone who would listen. Up on the stage, a highly incompetent magician that Ron didn’t recognise was dancing, injuring innocent animals and spectators alike as The Final Countdown blared from the speakers.
Perhaps coming here hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He had been hoping to be able to sit here and clear his head, but so many characters seemed to have angst these days that the pub was full of movement and noise as characters moped on their tales of trauma. The barmaid put the firewhisky down on the bar in front of him, and he gave her a tiny nod of thanks before picking up the glass and downing it in one.
“Ain’t you a little young to be drinking that, son?”
He looked up. A man he had never seen before (he must be from one of those obscure fandoms, he thought vaguely) had slipped onto the stool beside him while he had been studying the room. He was quite tall, with brown hair, a weathered face, and the tightest trousers Ron had ever seen.
“Does it matter?” Ron said gruffly, gesturing to the barmaid for a refill.
“Not particularly,” the man admitted, nodding to the woman that he would like the same. “I’m not much of a rule-keeper meself.” His eyes flickered over Ron, as though he was measuring him up somehow. Finally, he said, “I’m Captain Malcolm Reynolds.”
“Ron Weasley.”
Malcolm Reynolds nodded. “And what brings you to this shiny little place?”
Ron considered for a moment before replying. This man, this ‘captain’, seemed like a decent sort of bloke. He was also clearly from one of those fandoms that nobody but the most obsessive had ever heard about, so the chances of his words reaching unwanted ears through him were slim. “There’s this girl,” he said eventually.
“’Course there is.”
Malcolm Reynolds didn’t seem to be mocking him or belittling him any way, Ron realised, luckily before that careless response caused him to lose him temper. He had sounded… almost dejected as he said it, as though it was a truth that he knew all too well. With this sudden and unexpected bond in mind, Ron found himself pouring out his heart - all about Hermione, and how he had fancied her forever, but he wasn’t good enough or rich enough or famous enough for all. All about Lavender, and her clingy ways, and how he couldn’t seem to get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried. All about Ginny and Dean, and how he wasn’t sure what the author had in store for her, but he was worried that she would never get her act together and get together with Harry. All the worries he had been hiding from over the past few weeks came pouring out, and all the while, Malcolm Reynolds just sat there, seeming to absorb every damning word that he said.
Things only went downhill from there.
A good hour later, the crazed magician on stage was still going strong, but the words seemed echoey and distant in Ron’s mind.
“This next trick is for my wife, er… Amy!” the man seemed to be saying. “I call it… the Aztec Tomb!”
He seemed to be going out of his way to sound impressive, but Ron hadn’t given a damn about his stupid tricks when he had first come in, and now, several firewhiskeys later, he cared even less.
“And then,” Mal was saying, his words blurring together slightly as he spoke, “if you’ll believe this, she says to me, she says ‘Well, since I can’t find work as a companion, I might as well become a petty thief like you’.” He laughed humourlessly. “Can you believe that? She called me petty. Me, petty! What, does she think she’s better n’me, just because she’s got her fancy whoring training or somethin’?” He carried on, muttering to himself in a language that Ron couldn’t understand, but he felt obliged to nod emphatically anyway.
“Girls! No matter what we do, nothing’ll ever be good enough for ‘em.” He noticed vaguely that his words were slurred together quite a bit more than Mal’s seemed to be.
“What exactly is she ‘specting me to do? Give up work, just so she can feel a bit more ‘respectable’?”
“Does she really think I’m just gonna sit around and let her snog Vicky all over the place? Oh, it’s fine for her to do that, but the minute I try to get myself a girlfriend, she has a bloody fit. Stupid girls and their stupid messed up minds and their stupid double standards.”
They both sat in their misery for a moment, neither saying a word, and then…
“We need to prove to them that we’re better than they think we are. We’ve got to do something to show them just how brave and clever and… and… snoggable we really are.”
And that was how the two men ended up standing outside a tattoo parlour twenty minutes later. A large neon sign over the door read ‘Flutie’s Tattoos - designs for all your sexy plot-device needs’, and Ron cast a dubious glance over the many letters than were now no longer lit. He was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, but Mal strode straight in through the door without pausing for a moment, and Ron, not wanting to be beaten, followed suit.
The inside of the parlour was just as dingy as the outside, despite the multi-coloured designs that covered the walls. A tinny sounding bell rang as they opened the door, and a bored looking witch with limp blonde hair looked up from behind the desk.
“Welcome to Flutie’s Tattoos,” she drawled, not even attempting to put enthusiasm into her voice, “the place for all your sexy plot device needs.” Her eyes fell on Mal, and Ron saw her attitude brighten instantly. “Malcolm Reynolds, how nice to see you! Our more futuristic designs are located in the corner over there. We have some just lovely Chinese designs that I’m sure you’ll appreciate!” She tittered, and Mal, looking slightly disgusted, turned and headed to where she had pointed.
The witch, seeming to think that she had now completed her job, went back to studying her fingernails. Ron waited as patiently as he could for a few moments, and then, when she still didn’t seem to have noticed him, said, “Where are the magical tattoos?”
She looked up, wearing the same look of disgust that Mal had worn just a moment ago. “Why? You don’t want one, do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said roughly.
She stared blankly at him for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether she had heard him properly or not, and then snapped, “Oh, all right then. They’re over there.” She waved vaguely at one of the walls, and then promptly started to ignore him again.
The wall she had indicated was covered in tattoos, some of them as still as their Muggle counterparts, some of them moving about in an almost hypnotic fashion. Ron stared at a dragon for a moment, which rustled its tail nervously and sent out a stream of flame every few seconds, trying to decide what would be the best one to impress Hermione with. It had to be of something that she loved, he decided, so that she would see his dedication to her. Were there any book tattoos he could get? Maybe one of ‘Hogwarts, a History’? She could never tell him off for not reading it again if he had the thing tattooed onto his back.
Then his eyes fell on a tattoo of a small purple puffskein, which was vibrating slightly, and his mind was flooded with images of Hermione playing with Ginny’s pygmy puffskein Arnold, a look of delight on her face. Grinning stupidly to himself, he lumbered back over to Mal to see how he was getting on. Ron’s choice was already made.
Ron woke up at Hogwarts the next morning with his head pounding, and no recollection of the night before. When he screwed up his eyes tight and thought as hard as he could, he could just about picture a man called ‘Mac’ or ‘Mal’ or whatever it had been, sitting beside him in that awful fandom bar, but he had no further memories of the night. Probably for the best, he decided. Any moment spent in ‘that creepy place’ was a moment he didn’t want to remember.
At least, that was what he thought until Quidditch practice a week later. Running far too late, he rushed into the changing room and pulled off his robes with a thought, not even stopping to check if the room was empty. Then he heard the high pitched shriek of his sister.
“Oh my god, Ron! What are you trying to do, blind me?” And then, strangely, there was laughter. “Ron, do you have a secret passion for Arnold you’ve neglected to tell me about?”
And memories of the night came flooding back in full force, leaving Ron with only one thought.
&@*^.
The End.
The proof is all there in my MSN chat files, for anyone who needs to see it. She asked for this, I tell you! :P
“I’ll have a firewhisky,” Ron said gloomily, “and make it a strong one.”
The barmaid he had considered pretty not a moment ago grinned at him, showing him a perfect set of uneven yellow teeth, and turned away to tend to his order.
Ron sighed. The-bar-at-the-edge-of-the-fandoms (or ‘that creepy place’, as Harry tended to call it) was not exactly his favourite place in the world, but at the moment, he needed a little solitude from his life at Hogwarts, and coming here seemed to be the only way to get it. Glancing around, he saw several familiar faces that looked as depressed - if not worse - than he did. ‘Michael Vaughn’ was sat in a dark corner, staring longingly at a battered photograph in his hand, and at the other side of the room, a very drunk looking Jack Shepard was regaling his tales of great doctoring victory to anyone who would listen. Up on the stage, a highly incompetent magician that Ron didn’t recognise was dancing, injuring innocent animals and spectators alike as The Final Countdown blared from the speakers.
Perhaps coming here hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He had been hoping to be able to sit here and clear his head, but so many characters seemed to have angst these days that the pub was full of movement and noise as characters moped on their tales of trauma. The barmaid put the firewhisky down on the bar in front of him, and he gave her a tiny nod of thanks before picking up the glass and downing it in one.
“Ain’t you a little young to be drinking that, son?”
He looked up. A man he had never seen before (he must be from one of those obscure fandoms, he thought vaguely) had slipped onto the stool beside him while he had been studying the room. He was quite tall, with brown hair, a weathered face, and the tightest trousers Ron had ever seen.
“Does it matter?” Ron said gruffly, gesturing to the barmaid for a refill.
“Not particularly,” the man admitted, nodding to the woman that he would like the same. “I’m not much of a rule-keeper meself.” His eyes flickered over Ron, as though he was measuring him up somehow. Finally, he said, “I’m Captain Malcolm Reynolds.”
“Ron Weasley.”
Malcolm Reynolds nodded. “And what brings you to this shiny little place?”
Ron considered for a moment before replying. This man, this ‘captain’, seemed like a decent sort of bloke. He was also clearly from one of those fandoms that nobody but the most obsessive had ever heard about, so the chances of his words reaching unwanted ears through him were slim. “There’s this girl,” he said eventually.
“’Course there is.”
Malcolm Reynolds didn’t seem to be mocking him or belittling him any way, Ron realised, luckily before that careless response caused him to lose him temper. He had sounded… almost dejected as he said it, as though it was a truth that he knew all too well. With this sudden and unexpected bond in mind, Ron found himself pouring out his heart - all about Hermione, and how he had fancied her forever, but he wasn’t good enough or rich enough or famous enough for all. All about Lavender, and her clingy ways, and how he couldn’t seem to get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried. All about Ginny and Dean, and how he wasn’t sure what the author had in store for her, but he was worried that she would never get her act together and get together with Harry. All the worries he had been hiding from over the past few weeks came pouring out, and all the while, Malcolm Reynolds just sat there, seeming to absorb every damning word that he said.
Things only went downhill from there.
A good hour later, the crazed magician on stage was still going strong, but the words seemed echoey and distant in Ron’s mind.
“This next trick is for my wife, er… Amy!” the man seemed to be saying. “I call it… the Aztec Tomb!”
He seemed to be going out of his way to sound impressive, but Ron hadn’t given a damn about his stupid tricks when he had first come in, and now, several firewhiskeys later, he cared even less.
“And then,” Mal was saying, his words blurring together slightly as he spoke, “if you’ll believe this, she says to me, she says ‘Well, since I can’t find work as a companion, I might as well become a petty thief like you’.” He laughed humourlessly. “Can you believe that? She called me petty. Me, petty! What, does she think she’s better n’me, just because she’s got her fancy whoring training or somethin’?” He carried on, muttering to himself in a language that Ron couldn’t understand, but he felt obliged to nod emphatically anyway.
“Girls! No matter what we do, nothing’ll ever be good enough for ‘em.” He noticed vaguely that his words were slurred together quite a bit more than Mal’s seemed to be.
“What exactly is she ‘specting me to do? Give up work, just so she can feel a bit more ‘respectable’?”
“Does she really think I’m just gonna sit around and let her snog Vicky all over the place? Oh, it’s fine for her to do that, but the minute I try to get myself a girlfriend, she has a bloody fit. Stupid girls and their stupid messed up minds and their stupid double standards.”
They both sat in their misery for a moment, neither saying a word, and then…
“We need to prove to them that we’re better than they think we are. We’ve got to do something to show them just how brave and clever and… and… snoggable we really are.”
And that was how the two men ended up standing outside a tattoo parlour twenty minutes later. A large neon sign over the door read ‘Flutie’s Tattoos - designs for all your sexy plot-device needs’, and Ron cast a dubious glance over the many letters than were now no longer lit. He was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, but Mal strode straight in through the door without pausing for a moment, and Ron, not wanting to be beaten, followed suit.
The inside of the parlour was just as dingy as the outside, despite the multi-coloured designs that covered the walls. A tinny sounding bell rang as they opened the door, and a bored looking witch with limp blonde hair looked up from behind the desk.
“Welcome to Flutie’s Tattoos,” she drawled, not even attempting to put enthusiasm into her voice, “the place for all your sexy plot device needs.” Her eyes fell on Mal, and Ron saw her attitude brighten instantly. “Malcolm Reynolds, how nice to see you! Our more futuristic designs are located in the corner over there. We have some just lovely Chinese designs that I’m sure you’ll appreciate!” She tittered, and Mal, looking slightly disgusted, turned and headed to where she had pointed.
The witch, seeming to think that she had now completed her job, went back to studying her fingernails. Ron waited as patiently as he could for a few moments, and then, when she still didn’t seem to have noticed him, said, “Where are the magical tattoos?”
She looked up, wearing the same look of disgust that Mal had worn just a moment ago. “Why? You don’t want one, do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said roughly.
She stared blankly at him for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether she had heard him properly or not, and then snapped, “Oh, all right then. They’re over there.” She waved vaguely at one of the walls, and then promptly started to ignore him again.
The wall she had indicated was covered in tattoos, some of them as still as their Muggle counterparts, some of them moving about in an almost hypnotic fashion. Ron stared at a dragon for a moment, which rustled its tail nervously and sent out a stream of flame every few seconds, trying to decide what would be the best one to impress Hermione with. It had to be of something that she loved, he decided, so that she would see his dedication to her. Were there any book tattoos he could get? Maybe one of ‘Hogwarts, a History’? She could never tell him off for not reading it again if he had the thing tattooed onto his back.
Then his eyes fell on a tattoo of a small purple puffskein, which was vibrating slightly, and his mind was flooded with images of Hermione playing with Ginny’s pygmy puffskein Arnold, a look of delight on her face. Grinning stupidly to himself, he lumbered back over to Mal to see how he was getting on. Ron’s choice was already made.
Ron woke up at Hogwarts the next morning with his head pounding, and no recollection of the night before. When he screwed up his eyes tight and thought as hard as he could, he could just about picture a man called ‘Mac’ or ‘Mal’ or whatever it had been, sitting beside him in that awful fandom bar, but he had no further memories of the night. Probably for the best, he decided. Any moment spent in ‘that creepy place’ was a moment he didn’t want to remember.
At least, that was what he thought until Quidditch practice a week later. Running far too late, he rushed into the changing room and pulled off his robes with a thought, not even stopping to check if the room was empty. Then he heard the high pitched shriek of his sister.
“Oh my god, Ron! What are you trying to do, blind me?” And then, strangely, there was laughter. “Ron, do you have a secret passion for Arnold you’ve neglected to tell me about?”
And memories of the night came flooding back in full force, leaving Ron with only one thought.
&@*^.
The End.