Bait and Bleed - An AU War RPG

Don't suppose it does. And no, of course not.

Apparently they met at a market or something, she dropped all her shopping.

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*There's a narrow corridor at the back of the dining room, with the kitchen at the end and the loos to the left and - to the right, opposite those - the polishing room. It's small and dim, full of racks and shelves of stemware, and it is, at the moment, thankfully empty. Shutting and locking the door behind him, Remus quickly refocuses his attention and concentrates hard.

An instant later, halfway across London, a silver, spectral dog bounds into the living room of their flat. Ears pricked, it looks gravely at Sirius, and Remus's voice fills the room. He sounds tense but collected, if in something of a rush.*

Things didn't go as planned, Rosier came home early and they insisted on dinner out and I couldn't duck out of it without being suspicious. I'm going to try and see if I can get any more information out of them, but if I'm not home by eight, come find me. Until then just wait, I'm fine. Don't do anything stupid, Sirius, I mean it.

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It takes all sorts, I suppose. Is he still tutoring?

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I didn't get that impression. It wouldn't surprise me if he couldn't find anyone to tutor, the way the laws are now.

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No, I suppose not, although--ah, garçon--

*In rapid-fire French, Evan orders a bottle for the table--nothing too fancy--and steak tartare for each of them. That should hold Lupin's interest.*

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*Trusting that the message got through - and trusting Sirius not to be stupid enough to send one back - Remus returns to the table a moment later and takes his seat, looking around mildly.*

This is a nice place.

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*And it begins, the intricate bee-dance that is dinner at a very expensive restaurant. A handsome breadbasket appears along with the wine and sparkling water; glasses fill themselves, gilt menus and the appropriate silverware materialize of their own accord, and so do suitably attractive waitstaff bearing tartare complete with precious little toast points and quail's egg.

Amrita's unmoved by any of it--part of the dance too, in its own way, and she is very good at it.*

We went ahead--plenty of other things to start with, though, take a look--

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--but you really do have to try the tartare, it's incredible.

*Evan watches, smiling over his wine glass, for a reaction--just how prudish is this werewolf about his baser tendencies, after all?*

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*He's not nearly as adept at the dance, impeccable though his manners are. He knows about all the silverware, but isn't used to it; the gilt and glamour are easy enough to meet with his trademark calm and politeness, but he can't help the little tells. He looks just a heartbeat too long at vineyards he doesn't recognize on the wine list, and blinks a little too obviously at the sparkling water, and is far too aware of his carefully-mended trousers and the frayed places on his shirt cuffs, thankfully hidden by being rolled up. The whole thing is a less than subtle gatekeeping mechanism, and they all know it: the Rosiers belong here. Everyone else in the room, with their tasteful diamonds and bespoke clothes, belongs here. He doesn't. Half-blood and poor, lycanthropy quite aside, every detail of the restaurant is engineered to mark out the million ways that all this is not, and never was, meant for him. He hasn't felt so conspicuous in a very long time, and when you spend your life trying desperately to blend in, conspicuousness is deeply uncomfortable.

Still, he makes a good show of trying, at first. He's dog-paddling but it's enough to keep his head above water; he's out of his depth, but he'll be damned if he acknowledges it.

And then there's the tartare. The need to blend in is wiped from his mind as it's set in front of him, and he can only stare at it, frozen. It's the sheep's head all over again, only with fine china and linen, and no Sirius to pull him out of it, and oh, this was a mistake. The push and pull over what he wants against what he shouldn't is immediate, with instincts he won't claim as his own warring with deep revulsion against what he is. It's only a few days past the full moon, but even without the timing, the memory of wanting exactly this is too sharp and too close - only it wasn't this he'd wanted, it was something fresher and hotter and alive and pumping, it was the feel of ripping throats and tearing muscle and spilling bellies, and 'want' didn't even really cover it. There is a reason that he's practically a vegetarian half the month, and this is it. The color drains slightly from his face and his hand twitches in the instant before he withdraws it into his lap, trying and failing to look normal.*

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*For her part, Amrita's lost in the tartare. It may come with capers and lemon and salt, and on a fancy toast point on a fancy plate in a fancy restaurant, but it's still meat, still flesh, even with the savagery of it tucked politely out of sight. And the same goes for her: Amrita's manners are impeccable, but she closes her eyes just a fraction longer than a blink, the high-necked bodice of her dress rising and falling just a little faster than it ought to. She can't resist, and no wonder. The small indulgences she carved out for herself at the Leaky--a cigarette in the bathtub, almond oil and rosewater for her hair, a plate of liver on certain weeks, if Miss Fletcher wasn't around--they sustained her, like air pockets might a trapped diver. And now, she's not accustomed to moderating such things, and they haven't been around long enough to grow stale. And of course there's Evan, who is in no business so much as the business of indulging her. And don't they generally end up hurrying home, when they've dined here, if hurry is even an adequate word for it--

But that pulls her right up short; then, she notices Remus' polite disquiet, and then understands it, and her face falls a bit: oh dear, I've been very rude. So she sets at once, if a bit dizzily, to fixing things.*

--the baked brie en croute's wonderful, if that's your sort of thing---

Did you find anything in the Alley today, Evan?

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Nothing particularly. I did find this lovely opal necklace when I stopped in at Borgin's, but of course it's cursed so powerfully that I'm not even sure our cursebreakers could undo it. It's been sitting in the case for fifteen years, looks like, and it's like to sit fifteen more.

He keeps selling out of those wands we've begun importing, of course, thanks to this Registry nonsense. It's not as if there's been a sudden boom in 11 year olds who are getting their wands from him and others, but if they're being sold to adults, it's Borgin who's breaking regulations, not me. Everyone wants a backup wand, even those who aren't doing a thing wrong. After all, who really wants to have someone else see every little spell you cast?

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Honestly.

*And that's about as long as she can make it before returning to the tartare. Oh well.*

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*Amrita is glued to the damned bloody thing on her plate, and Rosier is driveling on about illegal wands - it should be relevant and important but it probably isn't anything sensitive if he's talking about it here, and Remus is still too disturbed to really be listening anyway.

It's a monumental effort, but he tries to focus. Scooting the little plates in front of him around gingerly, he nudges the tartare away and shuffles a little brie over closer. His appetite's shot but he can't just push the meat away like a finicky child, it'd be rude (and they all know who's footing the bill here, anyway, which is a level of embarrassment he hasn't even really had time to grapple with yet.) Still, he does little more than pick at it, a bit grey in the face and altogether silent.*

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I'm surprised there hasn't been more outcry. But it seems everyone's too frightened--did you see that thing about Vitandus in the Prophet? It's barbaric, is what it is.

*A bit rich, from someone putting away raw meat like it's going out of style. But at least she's using the right fork.*

Have we thought about what we're going to order? They've upgraded their menus to gilt roofing tiles, apparently.

*Dismissively, she hefts the thing.*

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New format, same old menu. I'm not even going to look, I know what I want.

*He looks at Lupin, the same old amiable smile affixed to his face like a plaster mask. Only the eyes tell how cruel he knows he's being.*

How about you?

*And good luck finding anything without at least some kind of animal flesh in it.*

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*When he finally looks up from picking at the brie, Remus can't, indeed, mistake the look in Rosier's eyes. He's toying with him - baiting the werewolf, literally, and in that moment Remus hates him deeply. And how could he be doing anything else, it was stupid of him not to realize; if Amrita's given into those instincts, then Rosier must know about them, and it's no very grand leap to figure out they aren't exclusive to her. Wanting to hit Rosier, wanting to just get up and go home, Remus picks up his own menu and looks at it a bit woodenly.

It takes a moment, and some scouring through names he doesn't recognize and words he can't pronounce, and wanting viciously to make Rosier go to Yorkshire and try and navigate local cuisine there, on Remus's turf. Or better yet, have Nana toss a lot of Scottish food at him and just see how well he manages that. But then, mercifully, he finds something that doesn't make him feel ill just thinking about it. It's not as good as the chips and curry takeaway he'd rather be getting with Sirius right now, but it'll work, and Remus doesn't bother altogether hiding the hard edge of vindication in his eyes as he closes the menu and lays it back down.*

Quiche sounds lovely.

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*Whatever polite and quiche-related power struggle that's going on at the table goes unnoticed by Amrita, who is frowning prettily at her menu.*

Oh, I'm a bit torn. Do I want the entrecôte or the carré d'agneau?

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Oh, the lamb, certainly.

*He doesn't wait for her to give assent, but glances toward the service station, and the waiter appears almost instantly. He orders for the table, getting the entrecôte thoroughly rare for himself. When the waiter disappears, though, all his attention snaps immediately back to Lupin.*

So, I hear you've gotten married? Congratulations! Married life seems to suit the both of us. I'd love to meet your little woman sometime.

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*Lamb. There's no way that isn't intentional, and Remus again pictures how very satisfying it would be to break Rosier's nose purely for beint a right little twat about all of this. He'll get him back, he promises himself, the next time there's a fight and Rosier thinks he's safe behind that mask of his. He doesn't know how he'll know it's him, but he'll figure out a way. Remus is not, by nature, particularly vengeful, but he's hating Rosier more and more every moment that passes.

As to his "wife," well. Obviously out of the question, given that said 'little woman' is actually a rather scruffy, charmingly unkempt and not-all-that-diminutive man, and even if he weren't, even if they weren't cousins anyway, Remus wouldn't let Evan Rosier within a mile of his own, anyway.

But that's hardly an acceptable response. Giving a smile that's polite enough but sharp at the edges, he tilts his head slightly.*

Really? Amrita did mention she's a Muggle, I trust?

*And let the bastard think he's sharing a table with someone bedding a mudblood; Remus watches for discomfort, determined not to take all this lying down. If people overhear and are put off, all the better.*

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She must be quite a captivating one to catch your eye. But we cannot be blamed for where the heart leads us.

*His smile goes a bit soft, and almost tender, in the direction of his wife, before he returns to the matter at hand.*

No, muggles are a wonderful sort, and so clever with their electricity and cars and whatnot. Heavens, my father even has ridden on their airplanes. I'd love to meet the one who thought up that and managed to convince people to get on it without a broomstick to save them if it fell out of the sky.

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*It's automatic: she returns Evan's smile and impulsively reaches out to cover his hand with her own. Not that she isn't following the conversation.*

And apparently sometimes they do! Right out of the sky, everyone onboard dead. It's madness.

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Pity more wizards don't give it a go.

*It's said totally innocently as he takes a sip of his wine, but he's done playing nice. He'll be polite enough to stay in with Amrita, but he can't stomach a whole dinner of Rosier alternating between barbs at him and soppy saccharine looks at his wife. The steak tartare's already got him feeling ill enough as it is.*

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Mm, indeed.

*It's a pleasant, noncommittal sort of noise, and then Amrita excuses herself and rises from the table, depositing her napkin elegantly before she goes.*

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