[identity profile] fatherfarther.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] bait_backup

*The plane is something called a Beech C-99, a bizarre and zippy little thing that seats fifteen. Dearborn has always liked airplanes, the smaller and more rickety the better. It’s such a production, so foreign and hilarious: the noise of the tarmac, the Muggles in funny clothes running two and fro and operating machines and waving glowing things and shouting back and forth in Portuguese, the bells and whistles and switches, the roar of the engines. It may be residual intoxication from the night before, but as he mounts the stairs and enters the belly of the thing, he’s almost ebullient...but his good mood doesn't last long.

It seems at first like an impossible coincidence, the two of them seated next to one another on a Muggle airplane in a tiny foreign island, until Dearborn realizes in the next moment that it isn’t so impossible after all. He and Dorcas Meadowes are both in the habit of using Muggle transport, he due to a certain penchant for thrill-seeking and she because of her filthy blood-heritage. He and Dorcas Meadowes are in in overlapping fields that necessitate keeping one’s ear to the ground about the passing of the eccentric wealthy. The eccentric wealthy in question had been Irene Gamp, a hundred and eighteen years old, disgustingly rich and very eccentric: eccentric enough to retire to a tiny volcanic island off Portugal, eccentric enough to amass a lifetime’s worth of curios and books and enchanted artifacts. Eccentric enough to remain childless.

Eccentric enough to leave it all to her fucking housekeeper. The trip had been a bust.

Consequently, he and Dorcas Meadowes have both been recently disappointed enough to catch the first available morning fight to London. So perhaps it isn’t that impossible of a coincidence after all. As he stares down at her there is a brief urge to unclasp his leather suitcase, remove the collapsible broomstick within, and simply beat her about the head with it. But it didn’t do to neglect one’s manners, and it would certainly delay the flight. So instead Dearborn squashes his long frame into the seat, all safari tweeds and the stink of expensive cigar smoke, and smiles nastily.*

What a pleasant surprise.

Date: 2011-11-08 02:46 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*Dorcas can feel the headache building behind her eyes: a dull, disappointing pressure becoming more and more difficult to ignore. The cacophony of the boarding plane had only accelerated the process. The chatty passengers, the crying baby--why was there always a crying baby?--and the bustling flight crew, all conspiring to wear Dorcas down to her last nerve.

The trip had been an absolute failure. Even if she had been able to properly converse with Gamp's housemaid (Anita? Antonia? Not that it mattered now.) the reward would have been negligible. Even the best of preservation charms could only protect books against the heat and humidity of an island climate for so long and from the look of things, Gamp had not been in possession of her full faculties for the last decade at least. Plenty of time for the charms to wear off and for nature to ravage the majority of her library. Nothing in that house would have fetched a good price, not on any market. Dorcas had almost burst at the sight of it--nothing irritated her more than waste.

All of that, on top of the recent news from the Order, and Dorcas is ready to go home.

She is hardly paying attention when her neighbor takes his seat, but her nose automatically wrinkles at the scent of him. Fantastic. Three hours of booze and smoke in a small, contained space. This trip keeps getting better and better. It isn't until he speaks that she looks up. It takes every effort not to flinch (she won't give him the pleasure). Instead, she narrows her eyes.*

Well, look what the cat dragged in. I didn't know your kind got out of bed before noon, Rosier.

Date: 2011-11-08 03:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
By the smell of you, I'd guess not. If I knew any better, I'd suspect you found the one pub in town and drank it into the ground.

*She rolls her eyes upward, in a moment of silent prayer for patience. The hum of the engines is intensifying. The stewardess at the front of the cabin is instructing the passengers on proper safety procedures, in Portuguese of course. Horrible, backwards language. She can't help the indignant bark of laughter.*

Roots, my eye. I wouldn't know this place from the back of a post card.

Date: 2011-11-08 04:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*Dorcas tamps down the urge to rip the damn cigar out of his fingers, instead surrendering to her fate. Surrounded by clouds of acrid smoke and vulgarity it is then.

Her eyes dart around the rest of the cabin, trying to see if there happen to be any empty seats. Of course not. That would be too easy. She's mentally cursing her decision not to use more traditional modes of transport. But Muggle customs are always so much easier to get through, and old habits die hard.*

Honestly? Nothing at all. That maid's a right bulldog of a woman, if you ask me. You?

Date: 2011-11-08 05:08 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*She finds herself laughing despite herself. As much as she and Rosier clash, there is a certain familiarity one becomes accustomed to after decades of bickering about the same damn thing with the same damn person. Even knowing who he is, and what his comrades had done to the poor Prewett boys just days earlier. The older she gets, the less she worries about the blurring of lines. Business is business.*

Appalling. I don't think I've seen a collection so poorly tended to. Not in recent memory, anyway. She'll be lucky if she can pass it off. I wouldn't touch it, myself. Shame. Some impressive volumes there, too, if you can believe the rumours.

*She waves away a cloud of smoke that drifts in her direction, and settles further into her seat as the plane levels out. She barely noticed the take-off.*

Date: 2011-11-08 06:26 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*And thank Merlin for that. She was about to silence the damn thing herself. The headache isn't getting any better, but it's not getting any worse, either. Small blessings.*

Don't worry, Rosier. Human-bound books are hardly one in a million. I'm sure there'll be another one for me to outbid you on any day now.

Date: 2011-11-08 11:13 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
I'd hardly take you as one over-concerned with appearances, old man.

*The stewardess is making her rounds now, which is practically a joke on an aircraft this small. After a bit of linguistic fumbling, Dorcas manages to get the coffee she was asking for. The temptation to ask for whiskey is a strong one, but it is early. And she'd rather stay sharp.*

Date: 2011-11-12 03:44 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*If she rolls her eyes again, they might fall out of her head. She practically bites her tongue to refrain from commenting, but jabs about their minuscule age difference are old hat at this point. She side-eyes the stewardess, suddenly very interested in her coffee.*

Oh, here we go. *she mutters into her mug, and waits for the poor girl to move along, restraining her vitriol just long enough.* Sometimes I wonder just how many foreign service workers you've dallied with over the years. It's simply mind-boggling.

Date: 2011-11-12 03:57 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*The mood changes in an instant, from familiar bickering to blatant hostility. She prickles, gripping the coffee mug just a hair tighter.*

Good of you to care, but I can take care myself quite well thank you.

Date: 2011-11-12 05:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*Dorcas abruptly sets her mug down on the flimsy plastic tray with a thud and turns sharply in her seat to look at him directly.*

No, Dearborn, but I suspect you're about to tell me.

Date: 2011-11-21 04:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*Dorcas pulls back abruptly, out of the scent cloud of cigar smoke and stale alcohol. She is honestly, genuinely shocked. Of all the things she expected to hear, an attack on her family values... It's hard not to respond with a laugh, but Dorcas has witnessed the man's temper in the past and she may be tactless, but she isn't stupid. It would hardly be wise to provoke him here, in this sardine tin packed full of Muggles. Still, she can't help the sardonic smile twitching at her lips.

She feels no obligation to defend or explain away her lifestyle to him--or anyone else, for that matter. She has things more important than sentimentality and regret to waste her time on.*

Honestly, I'm surprised. I'd have thought you'd be pleased that my kind isn't breeding.

Date: 2011-11-22 10:35 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*She relaxes just a hair, the conversation moving back into familiar territory. She finally lets a small bark of laughter escape, settles into her seat, and picks her coffee back up. It's already lukewarm, and just this side of too bitter. But it's coffee, so she drinks it anyway.*

How is the family, by the way? I suppose it was rude of me not to ask earlier, hmm? Heard something about a wedding there, not too long ago.

Date: 2011-11-24 05:54 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*Oh, what a lovely little scandal. Dorcas can practically imagine Esmeralda trying--and failing--to contain her displeasure. She pities the poor little foreign girl, however. The dear thing can hardly know what she's getting into.*

My, my. How exotic. Quite the flair for the dramatic, there.

Date: 2011-11-24 06:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*She takes a sharp breath and tenses again, the composure she's been maintaining for the duration of the flight unraveling in an instant. It's just one step too far, one jab too deep on the heels of a horrific week. She knows who Dearborn associates with, has known for ages, and hasn't let it get in the way of business either way. So she knows that it was, in all likelihood, members his circle who broke into the poor Prewett boys' flat just days ago. Most likely his very son and his band of thugs who took two young, valuable lives, who practically painted the walls with their remains, who--

And he has the sheer audacity to call her barbaric. It's too much to bear.*

You've got a lot of nerve, trying to turn that around on me.

Date: 2011-12-17 03:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
*She huffs--that's really the only proper word for it. As her mouth curls and her brow furrows, she can practically hear her mother lecturing her not to scowl from decades past.*

I don't see how my profession has anything at all to do with it. I'm sure she's perfectly lovely.

Date: 2012-01-07 04:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] curiosandfolios.livejournal.com
I think we're just going to have to agree to disagree on our business practices, aren't we?

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