bait_backup | Russian roulette is not the same without a gun

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Russian roulette is not the same without a gun

*Electricity is a funny thing. It can do so much, and yet it's so very easy to disrupt. Such are the woes of the proprietors of Maurice's, an upscale café that tries to look more edgy than fancy, and fails. It can't quite shake the air of snobbery infecting the area, the taint of We-Have-Too-Much-Money. Maybe it's the silk ascots; maybe it's the disproportionate number of Italian shoes. At any rate, no one thinks to notice the young man slipping out of the alley next to the building, in his new wingtips and old waistcoat, his button-down a bit rumpled and his trousers mended here and there. By the time anyone notices the breaker box on the back wall sparking and smoking, he's vanished into the crowds.

He takes the long way 'round back through some side-streets, timing it so that he walks up to Maurice's - again - about five minutes after he's agreed to meet Amrita there. Perfectly late, perfectly nonchalant, as he strolls up to the café, pretending to be unaware of the frustrated owners and the 'closed for maintenance' sign now hanging on the door.*

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*Evan Rosier's stash of wank material - because this couldn't be anything but - is not on the list of things Remus was digging for. In fact it's not on the list of things he ever wanted to see in his entire life. He's by no means prudish, but the particular spin of the images makes him quickly and distinctly uncomfortable. The last straw is the bloody ones; he's woken up with his own mouth full of blood too many times to not be disturbed by that, and he quickly flips past the rest of the pictures.

The file surprises him. It shouldn't, probably; the Rosiers have high connections, and it makes sense that Evan would have Amrita's file, but what is it doing in this folio?

It's another answer he wishes, very quickly, that he had not found. The pictures on top when he opens it show parts of Amrita - lovely though she is - that Remus hadn't particularly wanted to see. He's almost grateful when she speaks up again, and hastily closes everything, putting back the folio and the cadenza lid and the curios, and vanishing the rest of the tacks. He only sounds, he hopes, a fraction as caught off-guard as he feels.*

- Really, you needn't go to any trouble -

Oh hush--

*She emerges at last, a little breathlessly, with a tray that is certainly overkill and possibly even ridiculous: there's the sliced nectarines and tangellas, and a bit of chocolate laid out in neat little squares, and scones and butter and two small plates. In her high-necked dress and transparent, almost childlike anxiousness to please, she couldn't be more different from the girl in the pictures, wearing the savage tracery of scars on her hips and thighs as if they were silk stockings and laughing cheekily into the camera in a way that couldn't be less meant for Remus.

But of course she has no idea, as she takes a bit of tangella and gestures eagerly for him to do the same. Why should she?*

It's nothing, don't be silly, and I'm the peckish one anyway--

*Pasting on a smile, he studiously avoids looking at any part of Amrita that isn't her face or possibly her hands, and picks up a square of chocolate. Really, it's not even the fact that there were pictures of her in the folio - she is Evan's wife - but why was her Registry folder in there? That's what's so starkly uncomfortable, that conflation of institutional humiliation and 'wank folder'. (And that is, of course, to say nothing of the rest of the contents, which are a level of disturbing unto themselves.)

And then, beyond the embarrassment, is an even more unsettling question: if Rosier had access to Amrita's file, whose else might he have access to?*

Ah - thanks.

Are you all right?

*Amrita produces her walnut wand from the clever pocket in her dress and wordlessly Summons them a pair of cloth napkins. They arrive at once, neatly and briskly arranging themselves on the glass table.*

You look a bit like a goose walked over your grave.

--ah, there it goes. It's a good thing we came inside, don't you think?

*Outside, it's finally started to rain. The windows on the far wall are practically floor-to-ceiling and make this amply clear.*

*Sliding Amrita's chair out with a flick of his wand, Remus takes a seat himself and buys a few seconds with another sip of tea. He's got to get it together, he tells himself sternly; this is no time to get squeamish and distracted.

Playing a hunch, he shrugs and smiles again, a bit more calmly.*

I'm fine, just thinking ahead. I've got to go into the Ministry tomorrow. When's your appointment?

*Because something's going on there, he can just feel it. He just can't put his finger on what.*

*The rain's suddenly very loud. Amrita, too, buys herself time with a sip of her drink, with a nibble of chocolate. This was always going to come up--Remus is one of very few who knows the truth about her, anyway. So the truth is what's needed here. Or as much of it as possible. Eyes lowered, she begins carefully.*

Ah. I don't--I don't do the Registry anymore.

I don't exist anymore, technically. I'm only a foreign bride, now.

*He doesn't bother trying to hide his surprise. Eyebrows raising, he looks at her over his teacup for a long moment, and he can't quite help the mild disapproval in his voice. It's not that he'd begrudge a friend having an easier time of it; God knows he wishes he could have one. But Amrita isn't a friend, and people like her - people with her views on their condition - are precisely why the Registry exists.*

...Well. That's quite a perk, isn't it.

*Well that's reading loud and clear. Amrita feels a little flare of irritation, and she speaks composedly, but a little too quickly.*

That's one way of putting it.

I don't know whether you read the Quibbler, but what they print about werewolves is true, every word of it, and if Evan hadn't, do you think I'd even be sitting here--

*He's overstepped, and whatever it might cost his pride to fix this, he can't let it cost the mission to not fix it. Setting down his cup, he raises both hands a little in supplication and speaks over her gently.*

Okay - alright, I'm sorry, I just - that was petty of me...however much I hate going in it's no call for jealousy. I'm glad you're out of it. Truly, Amrita, I'm sorry.

*Lies, all of it; she's becoming precisely the kind of monster that needs those checks and balances, while he plays by the rules and suffers for it. The contrition in his voice and face does, indeed, cost dearly.*

*And there it is, inevitably: a bitter little pill of guilt. Of course he's jealous. Remus still has to go in every month; Remus is still subject to that kind of danger and degradation, and he's a little shabby and the flat is so nice and he's so earnestly apologetic, now, that she almost groans aloud.*

No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump down your throat, it's only--it's not just a lark, for me. Or a perk. It's-

*She looks up directly into his eyes, then, and for a minute she's as hollow and unhappy as the barmaid he first befriended.*

I, ah, lied before. I didn't lose my wand.

*Evan has been busy all day, but his last appointment was surprisingly brief--the shoddy underground wandmaker, instead of being ready for a round of fierce negotiation in which he tried to raise his prices yet again, was actually just dead in his little dingy office. Evan covers his tracks--and the tracks of Rosier & Sons, with a quick glance over the man's correspondence--and makes his way home an hour early.

The door opens silently when he presses his hand to it, and shuts behind him with a quiet click.*

Darling?

*And that's thrown cold water on her little germinating confession before anything else can come of it. At his voice, Amrita jumps, as if someone's dropped a crystal ball on the hardwood floor. But she recovers quickly enough: a genuine smile blooms on her face, and she calls to him.*

Hello Evan, I've got Remus over, Maurice's was closed because of the plugs or something and it's been terrible out today--

Oh, dreadful. Well, I'm through for the afternoon, and I'm glad I'm just in before the rain.

*He emerges, looking at their guest perhaps too warmly. It's the perfect opportunity, after all, and he doesn't intend to waste it.*

Hello, Lupin. So sorry to intrude.

*Nothing good ever comes of a Death Eater looking quite so pleased to see someone, but it at least serves as a distraction from his disgust over the Registry. Rosier himself was not part of the plan, and this whole endeavor just got exponentially more dangerous; he'll have to tread carefully, and it's ruined any idea of poking about more.*

Not at all! It's good to see you.

*Would be better to see him in shackles headed to Azkaban, of course, but....*

I'm sure you two remember one another, from school--

*She's sitting up very straight, now, and pointing a bright please get along smile at each of them in turn.*

Of course, we were both prefects.

*There was also the time Rosier had tried to pay him. And then, of course, there were all the times that they'd probably nearly killed each other in running battles. Also that.*

I think I remember being rather hard on you and your friends. I do hope there's no hard feelings now.

*It's innocent enough, but the hidden meaning is clear enough to anyone who lived it: You'd do well to remember how I used to put your friends in their place every chance I got.*

In fact, why don't you come out to dinner with us? We can catch up. We were planning on heading out just after I got home, but I shouldn't want to cut your visit short just on my account.

Yes!

*It's a wonderful idea: Evan can finally see how clever and kind Remus is and he'll understand, and there's the added bonus of showing Evan off, besides. They'll be fine for dinner--her dress is on the plain side and he's got a waistcoat on and that's close enough, and he is Remus and delightful and no one could possibly mind him. She fixes him with all the considerable power of her most plaintive expression.*

Please? Remus, you must.

*It is marginally less horrifying than the wank folder, but only just. What was supposed to have been a quick poke around the flat is spiraling out into what could be actually and seriously dangerous - dinner out means too many opportunities for Rosier to get him alone, too many chances for a quick curse and a hidden corpse, and every rational fiber of Remus's being is screaming that this is a terrible idea.

And it is. He knows it is. Except that backing out now, when Rosier's just laid down that thinly-veiled power play threat, would be potentially riskier. He's obviously got this time blocked off for Amrita; he can't plead a prior engagement. His "wife" is ostensibly Muggle; they all know she wouldn't be welcome company, so he can't put it off on her. Short of looking like he's running, there isn't a back door out of this - and he can't look like he's running without looking like he has a reason to run. The all saw the crime scene photographs of what happened to the McKinnons; obviously the Death Eaters figured out that they were in the Order. That isn't a hand Remus is willing to tip so easily.

Thinking that Sirius is going to absolutely pitch a fit over this, he feigns a quick, self-conscious scrub to his hair and a rather uneasy smile, but his acquiescence is a given already. He just hopes it's enough to cover the dread in the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with shyness.*

Ah - really, I would hate to be a third wheel....

Don't be ridiculous. My wife's friends are my friends, and I'd love to get to know you better.

Sweetheart, did you have a place in mind? I had thought La Parisienne might be nice.

I'm not dressed for La Parisienne.

*And neither is Remus, which is what she's really thinking of--still, it's elegantly done on Amrita's part. She appears only the spoiled wife briefly acting the brat.*

And I'm not changing.

Let's go to Trois-Echelles.

*Remus has been to none of these places, so Amrita's intervention reads as exactly what it's meant to. To him they all mean one thing: a sharp class distinction that he will always be on the wrong side of, and a reminder of such. Trois-Echelles, La Parisienne - either way he'd rather be at home with take-out and Sirius, but of course can't say so. Instead he just lets them figure it out and sips his tea, hating himself for feeling out of depth over stupid restaurants.*

Perfect. Well, I see no reason to delay. Are you both ready to leave, or would you like a moment to freshen up?

*It's a good opportunity, but Remus checks himself - he needs to contact Sirius just in case, but not here. He isn't sending a Patronus from this flat, not after all the spellwork that was on that cadenza. No telling what it'd come up against.*

Well. If you insist - of course, thank you. I'm ready when you are.

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Russian roulette is not the same without a gun

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