FIC: "Closing Time" for krechet
Recipient: krechet (IJ) / seatbeltdrivein (LJ)
Author/Artist: arcadian_dream
Title: Closing Time
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Minerva/Rosmerta, mention of past Minerva/Celia (OFC)
Word Count: 1172
Warnings: age disparity (I imagine so, anyway), femmeslash ... yep, that's about it.
Summary: Minerva was older, but she was not dead and the girl - woman, really, that's what she was; the way her dress clung to the plush curves of her body left Minerva in no doubt of that - well, the girl was breathtaking.
Author's/Artist's Notes: I doubt I've gone anywhere near as deep as you might have liked, but I do hope that I managed to get enough of your likes in so that you enjoy this nonetheless. Cheers.
***
Of course she had noticed the girl; the new bartender at The Three Broomsticks. She was young, vibrant, and Minerva couldn't help but notice the bounty of her cleavage as it threatened to spill over the low, square-cut neckline of her dress.
Minerva was older, to be sure; she was reserved, subdued; but she was not dead and the girl - woman, really, that's what she was; the way her dress clung to the plush curves of her body left Minerva in no doubt of that - well, the girl was breathtaking.
Not that Minerva allowed her breath to be snatched away right then and there, seated at the bar, a Butterbeer in her hand. But that night, with her nightdress bunched around her waist and her fingers probing, probing, probing between her legs and beneath the sheets - well, she allowed the girl to take her breath away as she thought of her; again and again and again.
*
Rosmerta had not expected to notice her, the older woman at the bar. She had thought that yes, someone might catch her eye - a handsome wizard, perhaps; dashing and debonair ... but a woman?
No; it had never crossed her mind.
Never, that is, until the woman had looked up from her Butterbeer and Rosmerta's eyes had met hers: hers, lively and darting, glittering with a spark that Rosmerta had never seen before, or since.
*
“Min, it's just not working,” the woman seated across from Minerva said.
“It's fine, Celia,” Minerva offered as she extricated her hand from Celia's consolatory touch. “I understand.”
“Are you -” Celia paused. She leaned forward in her chair and lightly cupping Minerva's jaw in the palm of her hand, raised her face to meet Minerva's gaze. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Minerva nodded. She took Celia's hand in her own. “I'm sure.”
Celia looked worriedly at Minerva. Minerva offered a wan smile. “It's fine; truly. Go. Edward will be waiting.”
Apparently satisfied, Celia rose from her seat. She whisked past Minerva, though not before laying a chaste, dry kiss on her cheek. “We'll talk soon,” she whispered and Minerva nodded sadly, knowing, as they both did, that they never would again.
Easing back in her chair, Minerva sighed. It was a disappointing turn of events, to be sure, but hardly, she realised, inevitable. Celia was married - had been for as long as Minerva had known her - and their relationship, composed of harried encounters behind half-closed doors at dinner parties, and clandestine weekends together while Celia's husband, Edward, was in London on business, simply could not withstand the rigours of reality.
Minerva thumbed the handle of the tea cup that rested on the table before her. Yes, she thought, Inevitable and, with a final, resigned sigh, she finished her tea and left; both the empty cups and saucers, and Celia, behind her.
*
She had been coming in more frequently of late, Rosmerta noticed. The older woman; the one who had caught her eye.
The older woman Rosmerta thought to herself; she shook her head. Minerva, she corrected silently as she poured another round of Firewhiskeys for a loutish group of wizards clustered at the end of the bar.
Minerva McGonagall, she repeated in her mind: Professor at Hogwarts. This was what she had gleaned from overheard chatter during the early months of working at The Three Broomsticks.
As she delivered the tray-full of tumblers to the boisterous group, baying at the end of the bar, she turned the woman's name over in her mind; she let it rest on the plush, pink muscle of her tongue as she worked: Minerva, Minerva, Minerva.
*
Around her, The Three Broomsticks gradually emptied. Outside, Hogsmeade's street lamps glittered against the dark canopy of the night sky. Straggling patrons shuffled out the door, its bell ringing loudly in the pervasive quiet of late.
“Closing time,” Rosmerta said as she approached Minerva's table.
Minerva looked up. “Oh. Right,” she said as she pushed her half-emptied glass into the centre of the table. She made to rise from her seat when she felt a hand on her bony shoulder.
“You can stay, if you like,” Rosmerta offered with a smile. “Have a drink with me. You look like you could use it.”
Minerva opened her mouth to decline Rosmerta's offer but, somewhere between sitting and standing, she decided on a different course of action. She lowered herself back into the seat.
“Thank you, I will.”
“Wonderful,” Rosmerta said as she busied herself with wiping down the bar. “But not here.”
Minerva tilted her head, curious. “ … Where, exactly?”
“Upstairs. I'll just finish up here, if you don't mind waiting.”
“No,” Minerva said in a voice rather more quiet than she had anticipated. “I don't mind.”
*
"Make yourself comfortable," Rosmerta offered gesturing to the dining table.
"Thank you," Minerva said as she seated herself across the table from Rosmerta.
Minerva looked around the flat: it was small, and a little cramped but, she noted, warm; undeniably so. And, despite the fact that she had been there for only a few minutes, she felt a sort of comfort; ease.
Returning her gaze to Rosmerta, she smiled - softly, softly - as the younger woman poured two glasses of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.
"Thank you," Minerva said again; it seemed, despite the apparent ease she felt at the moment, her thanks were all she could offer.
"You're very welcome, Professor," Rosmerta added. She was not, she realised, exactly sure how to proceed, or if she wanted to proceed at all; and if she did, in what capacity? Rosmerta, however, needn't have worried, for as she sipped her drink, Minerva, in a sudden brave act, leaned across the table. Gently, she relieved Rosmerta of her glass. Placing it down on the table, Minerva took Rosmerta's chin between thumb and forefinger, and kissed her.
Minerva closed her eyes and, for a moment, allowed her lips, dry and cracked and tainted with the harsh bite of Firewhiskey, to linger over Rosmerta's. As she pulled away, Minerva opened her eyes: as she did, she was confronted with the open-mouthed and wide-eyed sight of Rosmerta gazing back at her.
Minerva panicked: she had misinterpreted things, she had gone too far. She swallowed nervously. "My - my apologies," she said quickly. "I thought maybe - but obviously not and - I'll - I'll just go." Minerva pushed back her chair and made to leave when, once more, she felt Rosmerta's hand on her shoulder.
"Professor," she said quietly, her voice hoarse; nervous: "Minerva. Please. I'd - I'd like you to stay."
Minerva's eyelids fluttered hurriedly as she processed the information; as she allowed the implications of Rosmerta's words to wash over her. "So -" she began, a little uncertainly, "So you - are then, you know -"
"No," Rosmerta said. "I'm not, actually. But around you, Minerva it's just - different."
Minerva smiled; she would stay.
And that night, over The Three Broomsticks, Rosmerta would hold Minerva's name on her tongue once more: Minerva, Minerva, Minerva; again, and again, and again.
***
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Author/Artist: arcadian_dream
Title: Closing Time
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Minerva/Rosmerta, mention of past Minerva/Celia (OFC)
Word Count: 1172
Warnings: age disparity (I imagine so, anyway), femmeslash ... yep, that's about it.
Summary: Minerva was older, but she was not dead and the girl - woman, really, that's what she was; the way her dress clung to the plush curves of her body left Minerva in no doubt of that - well, the girl was breathtaking.
Author's/Artist's Notes: I doubt I've gone anywhere near as deep as you might have liked, but I do hope that I managed to get enough of your likes in so that you enjoy this nonetheless. Cheers.
***
Of course she had noticed the girl; the new bartender at The Three Broomsticks. She was young, vibrant, and Minerva couldn't help but notice the bounty of her cleavage as it threatened to spill over the low, square-cut neckline of her dress.
Minerva was older, to be sure; she was reserved, subdued; but she was not dead and the girl - woman, really, that's what she was; the way her dress clung to the plush curves of her body left Minerva in no doubt of that - well, the girl was breathtaking.
Not that Minerva allowed her breath to be snatched away right then and there, seated at the bar, a Butterbeer in her hand. But that night, with her nightdress bunched around her waist and her fingers probing, probing, probing between her legs and beneath the sheets - well, she allowed the girl to take her breath away as she thought of her; again and again and again.
*
Rosmerta had not expected to notice her, the older woman at the bar. She had thought that yes, someone might catch her eye - a handsome wizard, perhaps; dashing and debonair ... but a woman?
No; it had never crossed her mind.
Never, that is, until the woman had looked up from her Butterbeer and Rosmerta's eyes had met hers: hers, lively and darting, glittering with a spark that Rosmerta had never seen before, or since.
*
“Min, it's just not working,” the woman seated across from Minerva said.
“It's fine, Celia,” Minerva offered as she extricated her hand from Celia's consolatory touch. “I understand.”
“Are you -” Celia paused. She leaned forward in her chair and lightly cupping Minerva's jaw in the palm of her hand, raised her face to meet Minerva's gaze. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Minerva nodded. She took Celia's hand in her own. “I'm sure.”
Celia looked worriedly at Minerva. Minerva offered a wan smile. “It's fine; truly. Go. Edward will be waiting.”
Apparently satisfied, Celia rose from her seat. She whisked past Minerva, though not before laying a chaste, dry kiss on her cheek. “We'll talk soon,” she whispered and Minerva nodded sadly, knowing, as they both did, that they never would again.
Easing back in her chair, Minerva sighed. It was a disappointing turn of events, to be sure, but hardly, she realised, inevitable. Celia was married - had been for as long as Minerva had known her - and their relationship, composed of harried encounters behind half-closed doors at dinner parties, and clandestine weekends together while Celia's husband, Edward, was in London on business, simply could not withstand the rigours of reality.
Minerva thumbed the handle of the tea cup that rested on the table before her. Yes, she thought, Inevitable and, with a final, resigned sigh, she finished her tea and left; both the empty cups and saucers, and Celia, behind her.
*
She had been coming in more frequently of late, Rosmerta noticed. The older woman; the one who had caught her eye.
The older woman Rosmerta thought to herself; she shook her head. Minerva, she corrected silently as she poured another round of Firewhiskeys for a loutish group of wizards clustered at the end of the bar.
Minerva McGonagall, she repeated in her mind: Professor at Hogwarts. This was what she had gleaned from overheard chatter during the early months of working at The Three Broomsticks.
As she delivered the tray-full of tumblers to the boisterous group, baying at the end of the bar, she turned the woman's name over in her mind; she let it rest on the plush, pink muscle of her tongue as she worked: Minerva, Minerva, Minerva.
*
Around her, The Three Broomsticks gradually emptied. Outside, Hogsmeade's street lamps glittered against the dark canopy of the night sky. Straggling patrons shuffled out the door, its bell ringing loudly in the pervasive quiet of late.
“Closing time,” Rosmerta said as she approached Minerva's table.
Minerva looked up. “Oh. Right,” she said as she pushed her half-emptied glass into the centre of the table. She made to rise from her seat when she felt a hand on her bony shoulder.
“You can stay, if you like,” Rosmerta offered with a smile. “Have a drink with me. You look like you could use it.”
Minerva opened her mouth to decline Rosmerta's offer but, somewhere between sitting and standing, she decided on a different course of action. She lowered herself back into the seat.
“Thank you, I will.”
“Wonderful,” Rosmerta said as she busied herself with wiping down the bar. “But not here.”
Minerva tilted her head, curious. “ … Where, exactly?”
“Upstairs. I'll just finish up here, if you don't mind waiting.”
“No,” Minerva said in a voice rather more quiet than she had anticipated. “I don't mind.”
*
"Make yourself comfortable," Rosmerta offered gesturing to the dining table.
"Thank you," Minerva said as she seated herself across the table from Rosmerta.
Minerva looked around the flat: it was small, and a little cramped but, she noted, warm; undeniably so. And, despite the fact that she had been there for only a few minutes, she felt a sort of comfort; ease.
Returning her gaze to Rosmerta, she smiled - softly, softly - as the younger woman poured two glasses of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.
"Thank you," Minerva said again; it seemed, despite the apparent ease she felt at the moment, her thanks were all she could offer.
"You're very welcome, Professor," Rosmerta added. She was not, she realised, exactly sure how to proceed, or if she wanted to proceed at all; and if she did, in what capacity? Rosmerta, however, needn't have worried, for as she sipped her drink, Minerva, in a sudden brave act, leaned across the table. Gently, she relieved Rosmerta of her glass. Placing it down on the table, Minerva took Rosmerta's chin between thumb and forefinger, and kissed her.
Minerva closed her eyes and, for a moment, allowed her lips, dry and cracked and tainted with the harsh bite of Firewhiskey, to linger over Rosmerta's. As she pulled away, Minerva opened her eyes: as she did, she was confronted with the open-mouthed and wide-eyed sight of Rosmerta gazing back at her.
Minerva panicked: she had misinterpreted things, she had gone too far. She swallowed nervously. "My - my apologies," she said quickly. "I thought maybe - but obviously not and - I'll - I'll just go." Minerva pushed back her chair and made to leave when, once more, she felt Rosmerta's hand on her shoulder.
"Professor," she said quietly, her voice hoarse; nervous: "Minerva. Please. I'd - I'd like you to stay."
Minerva's eyelids fluttered hurriedly as she processed the information; as she allowed the implications of Rosmerta's words to wash over her. "So -" she began, a little uncertainly, "So you - are then, you know -"
"No," Rosmerta said. "I'm not, actually. But around you, Minerva it's just - different."
Minerva smiled; she would stay.
And that night, over The Three Broomsticks, Rosmerta would hold Minerva's name on her tongue once more: Minerva, Minerva, Minerva; again, and again, and again.
***
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