RP: Sick
Date: 12 September 1999
Characters: Fergus Mitchell [NPC], Crispin Wright [NPC]
Location: London
Status: Private
Summary: A drunken encounter.
Warning: Violence, triggering subject material
Completion: Complete
Fergus was steaming fucking drunk.
Stumbling against a wall, he felt the bottle he'd been holding - along with whatever had been in it - slip from his fingers, crashing against the pavement, but ... fuck it. It'd been mostly empty, anyway. Maybe. He was pretty sure.
Trying to focus, Fergus shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Fuckin' ... fuck," he groaned and clapped a hand to his head, standing still until he could feel his legs under him again, for the most part. Time to get back home. Wouldn't do to get picked up again for the same bloody thing. So far, he had the 'drunk' part covered (like hell he was ever going to give that up), but he'd yet to move on to the 'disorderly' bit. That made three days without a repeat offence. Maybe now the Aurors would stay he hell off his back.
Diagon Alley was a lot quieter this far down. Fergus much preferred it down this end, closer to Knockturn; less people breathing down his neck, and more people that he could actually deal with. Bit too empty tonight, though. Didn't even see Johnno around anywhere; who knew where the sodding hell he'd got to. Last time Fergus had seen him, he'd been keeled over a table back at the pub after drunkenly proposing that he and Fergus take a turn round the dance floor.
Like fuck. Fergus shuddered. Not enough ale in the world for that, not even if the pub had had an actual dance floor. Which it hadn't. Fergus had stood abruptly, grabbed the bottle they'd started drinking, and left, telling Johnno that he'd see him later. Fucker never could hold his liquor, not like he could.
He hiccupped. That was enough thinking about Johnno.
Where the fuck was he again? Fergus looked up and down the street, picking a direction that was hopefully not the one he'd come from and weaving his way along.
He made it about a block before slumping against another brick wall. Maybe just one more break; needed to find his feet was all. He took a moment to be glad that Johnno actually couldn't see him when he was this messed up, before he reminded himself that the bastard was probably passed out somewhere himself.
"Alright there?"
Fergus opened his eyes and found himself staring at a pair of bright red boots. He followed them up a pair of skinny denim-clad legs and slight, jacketed shoulders, until he focused on the bloke who'd spoken to him. Might've been a bloke, anyway. Shit, who could tell? Fergus had seen his type before. He squinted. "Wot?"
"I saw you stumble," the bloke said easily. "Just wanted to check if you were hurt or whatever."
"Where'm I...?"
"Diagon Alley, of course," the bloke gestured further up the street. "If you don't know that, you must've had a heck of a night, yeah?"
Fergus slid his gaze away from the man when it lingered too long. Wouldn't do to be giving him ideas. "I know," he muttered. Of course he'd known. Just forgot for a second. Could happen to anyone. "Look stupid to you, do I?"
"No ... just a bit pissed. More than a bit, actually," the idiot prattled on. "Got someone to come pick you up?"
"I'll fink of somefin'," Fergus slurred. "The hell're you?"
"My name's Crispin."
"Crispin," Fergus drew the name out like a child relishing his first curse word. Crispin's eyes widened slightly, the first flicker of alarm that Fergus could detect in his state. "Seen you round 'ere, I fink. With tha' old bloke."
"He's my boss. I work at the design studio." Crispin's voice wavered a bit. The sound made Fergus want to smile as he watched the Adam's apple bob in Crispin's puny neck. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it, even as he got a sick feeling in his stomach that was too familiar.
"'Course you do."
"Right -- well, I think I'll be getting on. You're not hurt and you seem like you know where you are now. I've got to … erm, meet someone."
"'oo?" Fergus sneered, then pushed himself off the wall and into Crispin's way. "Your boyfriend?"
"Don't - look, don't worry about it, yeah? I'll be on my way." To his credit, Fergus supposed, Crispin didn't turn and run in the other direction, only moved to push past him. Fergus weaved slightly on his feet as their shoulders brushed, but he was quick enough to lift a hand and grab the other man's arm and yank him closer. "Don' touch me," Fergus snarled in his ear. "Fink I want your like puttin' their 'ands on me?"
Crispin shoved against him, but Fergus was much bigger. Stronger. "Makes my skin crawl," Fergus rasped, licking spittle from the corner of his own mouth as he shoved the man back. Sent him sprawling.
"Wot, you fink I'm like you? I'll never be like you." Before Crispin could get up, Fergus advanced on him, feeling his blood surging, pumping just like the first time he'd done it, in Hogsmeade. He relished the feeling. Grabbing a fistful of t-shirt, he yanked Crispin up from the ground and shoved him back again, hearing a dull thunk against the pavement. His mind felt clearer now, less hazed with alcohol, but replaced by a different haze altogether; something darker and much more intoxicating. The rest was a blur; Fergus could hardly see what he was doing. He just felt and heard his fists connect. Felt stronger than he had in months.
When he was finished, he got to his feet, and looked up and down the empty street before he stared down at the body, his breath heaving. "'m not like you." His voice shook as he wiped his torn knuckles across his mouth.
It wouldn't do to be seen. With no idea whether his victim was still breathing, Fergus turned his back and headed for home. Fuck, but he was sick to his stomach.
Too much sodding ale, probably.
Characters: Fergus Mitchell [NPC], Crispin Wright [NPC]
Location: London
Status: Private
Summary: A drunken encounter.
Warning: Violence, triggering subject material
Completion: Complete
Fergus was steaming fucking drunk.
Stumbling against a wall, he felt the bottle he'd been holding - along with whatever had been in it - slip from his fingers, crashing against the pavement, but ... fuck it. It'd been mostly empty, anyway. Maybe. He was pretty sure.
Trying to focus, Fergus shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Fuckin' ... fuck," he groaned and clapped a hand to his head, standing still until he could feel his legs under him again, for the most part. Time to get back home. Wouldn't do to get picked up again for the same bloody thing. So far, he had the 'drunk' part covered (like hell he was ever going to give that up), but he'd yet to move on to the 'disorderly' bit. That made three days without a repeat offence. Maybe now the Aurors would stay he hell off his back.
Diagon Alley was a lot quieter this far down. Fergus much preferred it down this end, closer to Knockturn; less people breathing down his neck, and more people that he could actually deal with. Bit too empty tonight, though. Didn't even see Johnno around anywhere; who knew where the sodding hell he'd got to. Last time Fergus had seen him, he'd been keeled over a table back at the pub after drunkenly proposing that he and Fergus take a turn round the dance floor.
Like fuck. Fergus shuddered. Not enough ale in the world for that, not even if the pub had had an actual dance floor. Which it hadn't. Fergus had stood abruptly, grabbed the bottle they'd started drinking, and left, telling Johnno that he'd see him later. Fucker never could hold his liquor, not like he could.
He hiccupped. That was enough thinking about Johnno.
Where the fuck was he again? Fergus looked up and down the street, picking a direction that was hopefully not the one he'd come from and weaving his way along.
He made it about a block before slumping against another brick wall. Maybe just one more break; needed to find his feet was all. He took a moment to be glad that Johnno actually couldn't see him when he was this messed up, before he reminded himself that the bastard was probably passed out somewhere himself.
"Alright there?"
Fergus opened his eyes and found himself staring at a pair of bright red boots. He followed them up a pair of skinny denim-clad legs and slight, jacketed shoulders, until he focused on the bloke who'd spoken to him. Might've been a bloke, anyway. Shit, who could tell? Fergus had seen his type before. He squinted. "Wot?"
"I saw you stumble," the bloke said easily. "Just wanted to check if you were hurt or whatever."
"Where'm I...?"
"Diagon Alley, of course," the bloke gestured further up the street. "If you don't know that, you must've had a heck of a night, yeah?"
Fergus slid his gaze away from the man when it lingered too long. Wouldn't do to be giving him ideas. "I know," he muttered. Of course he'd known. Just forgot for a second. Could happen to anyone. "Look stupid to you, do I?"
"No ... just a bit pissed. More than a bit, actually," the idiot prattled on. "Got someone to come pick you up?"
"I'll fink of somefin'," Fergus slurred. "The hell're you?"
"My name's Crispin."
"Crispin," Fergus drew the name out like a child relishing his first curse word. Crispin's eyes widened slightly, the first flicker of alarm that Fergus could detect in his state. "Seen you round 'ere, I fink. With tha' old bloke."
"He's my boss. I work at the design studio." Crispin's voice wavered a bit. The sound made Fergus want to smile as he watched the Adam's apple bob in Crispin's puny neck. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it, even as he got a sick feeling in his stomach that was too familiar.
"'Course you do."
"Right -- well, I think I'll be getting on. You're not hurt and you seem like you know where you are now. I've got to … erm, meet someone."
"'oo?" Fergus sneered, then pushed himself off the wall and into Crispin's way. "Your boyfriend?"
"Don't - look, don't worry about it, yeah? I'll be on my way." To his credit, Fergus supposed, Crispin didn't turn and run in the other direction, only moved to push past him. Fergus weaved slightly on his feet as their shoulders brushed, but he was quick enough to lift a hand and grab the other man's arm and yank him closer. "Don' touch me," Fergus snarled in his ear. "Fink I want your like puttin' their 'ands on me?"
Crispin shoved against him, but Fergus was much bigger. Stronger. "Makes my skin crawl," Fergus rasped, licking spittle from the corner of his own mouth as he shoved the man back. Sent him sprawling.
"Wot, you fink I'm like you? I'll never be like you." Before Crispin could get up, Fergus advanced on him, feeling his blood surging, pumping just like the first time he'd done it, in Hogsmeade. He relished the feeling. Grabbing a fistful of t-shirt, he yanked Crispin up from the ground and shoved him back again, hearing a dull thunk against the pavement. His mind felt clearer now, less hazed with alcohol, but replaced by a different haze altogether; something darker and much more intoxicating. The rest was a blur; Fergus could hardly see what he was doing. He just felt and heard his fists connect. Felt stronger than he had in months.
When he was finished, he got to his feet, and looked up and down the empty street before he stared down at the body, his breath heaving. "'m not like you." His voice shook as he wiped his torn knuckles across his mouth.
It wouldn't do to be seen. With no idea whether his victim was still breathing, Fergus turned his back and headed for home. Fuck, but he was sick to his stomach.
Too much sodding ale, probably.