Grape Scott!

Some claimed that the seedy side of the Wizarding World was kept exclusively to Knockturn Alley. A few months in the offshoot street’s most famous club, however, would come to tell you that the seedy underbelly of their society wasn’t so openly traversing as the aforementioned belief might suggest. No, beyond the glitz and the glamour and the veneer of satin, lace and velvet which made up the nightclub, there was a much more deliberately subtle society that escaped notice by doing its dodgy deals amidst the writhing and moaning of the harem that surrounded the wealth and splendour of this pinnacle of affluence buried deep within the sprawling slum of darkness so many believed Knockturn Alley to be.

The scent of tobacco was high in the air and the hiss of beads being shook by the hips and arms they were draped over rang out over the beat of the music that pounded through the club. Strung up in cages and dotted around to draw businessmen back into the room on the upper floors, the dancers of Satan’s were the main event and, in many ways, the sole reason that many pressed for entry into the club. The alcohol ran smooth, the cigarettes were fresh and the women were sumptuous. Here, if nowhere else, secrets were going to be spilled and so it was in the midst of this, covered in glitter, feathers and sequins, that Elizabeth Murdoch was thrust.

It was in one of the booths that she found herself, sat in the lap of a businessman who told her in a deeply slurred voice that he was one of the sponsors of the Daily Prophet. She indulged him, doing shots with him, having learned the art of spitting it back out into a bottle of beer. They got drunker and more foolish whereas the dancers stayed sober and were able, often, to extort even more out of the men who enjoyed their company more than ever. They moved from each one with each song that played and Beth found her mind swirling with all of the information than their less than charming marks had let slip. There was nothing useful she could take to the Ministry but she had learned that there was a house in the Bahamas which a member of the Quidditch Association – she was distraught to see him there – used to take ‘girls like them’ back to.

By the time eleven o’clock swung round, Beth was more than eager to go and planted a soppy kiss on the thick cheek of the man she had been with at the time before swapping out with the girls that would go until the early hours. She disappeared with the others into the back room and extricated themselves out of their carnival gear, pulling on a pair of shorts, too desperate to get out of there to worry after the fishnet tights she still wore. Then, pulling on her jacket over the top with its plunging glittery neckline, she zipped it up and grabbed her bag. Then, after wiping off her makeup, Beth was out of there in a heartbeat.

Outside a light summer rain had begun to fall and Beth turned up the collar of her jacket. Sighing she picked up her face, moving quickly and methodically out of Diagon Alley, refusing to draw her wand. Once she was out in the bright, pleasant light of Diagon Alley’s street lamps, Beth could relax but she still kept up her pace, unable to real pause and draw a breath until she was in the courtyard out the back of the Leaky Cauldron. She leaned back against the brick wall, shielded somewhat from the rain by the overhanging roof. Rubbing her hand over her face, Beth shuddered out a sigh and pushed off, away from the wall, using the same hand to grab out and open up the back door.

Inside the Leaky Cauldron there was something of a lull in business. It was late. She was sure that the last call had already been rung. The side door in the courtyard would be opened up soon enough so people could get back into London without having to go through the pub which would be closed up for the night. If there was one thing Beth wanted then it was one drink. After a night of washing a myriad of alcohols around her mouth and not being able to enjoy them, she wanted something. So slowly she made her away through the pub towards the bar, noting the way some of the drunken wizards were already fast asleep, their hands curled protectively around their firewhisky bottles.

And here she was – dressed like a scarlet woman – judging them.

Beth knew she couldn’t quite shed the ‘Zelda’ personality she’d taken on for the sake of the job just yet. As much as it wearied her she knew that even in the Leaky Cauldron she couldn’t be anything other than a non-descript dancer from Knockturn Alley. She certainly screamed that. Thankfully there was no law against serving her even if attire and origin did suggest there wasn’t something wholly right about the witch that walked up to the bar. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to cause any trouble – either by brandishing her badge or inciting something by being Zelda. No, all she wanted was a quiet bottle of wine to nurse. Perhaps she’d take it home and finish it off there if the pub closed up before. Simple pleasures were always the best after a night of conflicting, sickening ones.

“Hey, bartender,” she called out, pushing herself up onto a stool, abandoning her bag on the one next to her. “Do you want to buy me a bottle of wine?”

The students of the Wizarding World had most definitely boarded the train that morning at eleven. Declan was certain of that, if only because business at the Leaky was so much slower than usual. Even still, though, the pub failed to be empty over night. Oftentimes, people staying in the rooms upstairs would linger, or people who had dealt with a particularly terrible day would avoid leaving in an attempt to avoid whatever it was that was ailing or offending or even broken.

So the dark-haired man found himself wandering between tables as he swiped his cleaning towel over top of each one. A particularly tipsy blonde stood as he approached, running a hand over Declan's arm as she did so, leaning to the side a bit too far for his tastes. "You staying here, tonight, bob?" he asked gently, glancing over to her particularly embarrassed friend. The brunette nodded, eyes wide as she moved to wrap an arm around her friend's back.

The two stumbled off, leaving Declan with a raised eyebrow and a new table to clear off. Shaking his head with a half smile, he picked up the glasses, setting them in a black plastic bin along with the empty plate that had once held an order of chips. He could well have done it the wizarding world way, using magic to clear and clean and all the rest. But he was getting closer to falling asleep if left idle, and letting magic do all the work had never been something he enjoyed. Even the cooking was done by hand when it came to Declan. The customers always said that they preferred when he was the one behind the stove.

Regardless, he cleared the bin away, returning to wipe off the table so he wouldn't have to do so come morning. Dusting off whatever appeared overnight would be far easier than actually having to sanitize all of the tables and chairs when opening time arrived. His arms extended, lifting the bin so Declan could move it behind the bar. The mugs and plate were dunked into the low sink, sanitized water running through the faucet to let them soak until he could set them in the wash overnight.

When the door opened, Declan had to reign in a particularly snarky reply and tell himself not to roll his eyes. The woman clearly knew what time it was, but her attire suggested that she wasn't the sort to actually care what the clock said. Judging someone was something that he attempted to avoid but typically ended up doing subconsciously. This time, though, it was harder to avoid. She, of course, sat right down and let out a cheeky question.

"Bartender?" He laughed, "Try owner, sweetheart."

Turning over his shoulder to look at the woman again, Declan leaned forward on the counter, his arms crossed atop the wood as he regarded her. "You think you need a drink? Try working three double shifts in a row," he joked, invading her space all the more as he leaned closer to send her a wink.

It was a bit sarcastic, sure, but he had indeed spent three days working upwards of twelve hours each, and if he didn't get some kind of amusement out of it, Declan wasn't sure he saw the point. He could have easily sent her away, told her to head home. At least the woman didn't appear drunk or ridiculous, unlike the two blokes chatting in the corner. But he peered at her for a moment before standing up straighter, letting his gaze linger on her as he backed away, lifting a hand once he looked away. His fingers wrapped around the neck of one of the less sharp white wines, taking it down from the shelf and setting it on the counter in front of her.

"Hope this suffices," he said, looking around for the corkscrew in order to twist out the top. "Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for that buzz you're after." The cork popped out of the top and he twirled the bottle a few times before pouring up a glass and pushing it across the bar top towards her. "Unfortunately," he added slowly, extending a hand for another glass, "you'll have to split this bottle with yours truly."

Duplicity had not been until very recently something that Beth had dealt her hand in so deeply. She had always been honest. Even when undercover she knew to switch off, to change out of the clothes, to take her hair out of the mess it had been allowed to get in. She’d managed as much as that. She’d managed to get out of the majority of the former. Yet, she’d not turned off. Somehow, being like this, being Zelda, allowed her to be more of herself than when she wore her own clothes, flashed her badge and was sent careering off down an alley because Holden never liked to chase their suspects but she, she’d always gotten a kick out of it. She didn’t enjoy the job that came with being ‘the other woman’ – as it were – but she did relish the freedom of being unknown. The Wizarding World were all too willing to forget a face – though she couldn’t really blame anyone for not worrying about her face when they could look at the kaleidoscopic beads hanging off of bras and panties. The face could be anything, the person anyone, but the body was universal and universally attractive, too. Desire was to be the folly of so many.

Sat in the Leaky Cauldron so near closing time, her boot-clad feet tapping an idle rhythm against the bar, she felt every inch the jezebel that the case had slid her into being. Her hips ached from being up in one of the cages in the early evening – which really meant nine o’clock – and in part she felt as buzzed as she was not. So much alcohol had passed her lips it could have sunken as small ship yet she sat sober, painfully sober, painfully awake with nothing to show for an evening of, after being dragged out of the cage, being passed from lap to lap for sloppy kisses and overly groping, sweaty palms. She could deal with it better now. A few months on this job had made her something of a hardened prostitute albeit the dancers never slept with anyone unless they were formally requested. Beth? Well, she’d been requested a few times. Or, should I say Zelda? Zelda had been. A quick confundus charm and they thought they’d had the ride of their life. She was quite sure sex on the job was prohibited. That said, given that was what was assumed to be her favourite pastime, it wouldn’t have been questioned if she had done. It was just too bad they were all greasy, married and disgusting. Not that she was feeling that way inclined. With all of the booze they’d had, anyway, a confundus charm was easier than unsatisfactory soppy seconds.

This was her little pleasure. As a rule she tended to take refuge in Eli’s, though tonight it had closed early, and sit and drink until the sun came up and they had to throw her out. Then she’d sleep the day away, get up in the afternoon, fill out some paperwork and go back to what was beginning to feel like her real job. They were no closer to arresting anyone, Holden had been moved onto another case and she had been left to do what she was sure the Ministry thought she liked to do best. There had been no chatter about making her an Auror again. There had been nothing pertinent about anything in regards to her. In fact, she was half certain that if she’d died they wouldn’t have noticed, just been irate the paperwork was missing. No, she found more comradery amongst the dancers. In fact, she preferred being Zelda. At least, for the right or wrong reasons, Zelda was valued. But the boozy hours after allowed for her to come down, shake it off, be some strange mesh of the two women before finally sliding back into Beth, acknowledging the twinging pain in her shoulder, and all of the disappointment that went along with it. Until then, however, there was still a while to go.

In good company too, it seemed. At the bartender – no, sorry owner’s words, a slow smile drifted its way across Beth’s face, scarlet lips tugging up around slightly pointed, white teeth. A laugh broke through, a long, lingering sound that slid through the air languishingly – almost like honey. Then she whisked it away and readjusted her body, straightening her spine as he leaned over to her.

“Owner then,” she amended, tipping her head to the side half-mockingly. “Just the man to afford the whole bottle.”

A little part of Beth wanted to mock that she had suffered a similar thing but she instead rose an eyebrow, a smirk resuming its gradual pace across her mouth as her eyes glinted in the strange lighting of the pub, a mix of humour, mutual sarcasm and a thin empathy with the feeling. She watched, stretching an arm out across the bar, her fingers smoothing across the polished wood in an almost fond gesture, as he retrieved a bottle and as a few bones popped in her arm and elbow, the glass was turned down the length of the bar to her. Her hand shot out, her long fingers curling around the glass, and she lifted it up, dropping her other arm back to her side.

“What a dreadful thing to have to do,” Beth mocked, cheekily adding, “No, you can’t have any. It’s mine!”

She lifted the glass she had away, in case he had the inclination to try and take it from her and a daring grin settled on her features. She moved the glass back onto the bar with a wink and lifted one leg over the other, wiggling a little at the strange feeling of the fishnet tights rubbing together. She would always despair of that and wondered why she’d let them linger. But then, in her eagerness to leave, she’d not really worried after the tights. She had no need to do so now, either. The dying embers of a crowd lived on in the pub, some electing to stumble out the door, others up the stairs. The poker table had been largely abandoned barring the man who usually slept there, his face in his cap, and barring those lingering on, it was really just herself and the owner.

“I’ll buy the next one,” she told him offhandedly, bringing the glass to her lips. The wine was tart, as was all white wine, with the familiar zing that came from little disparity between the grapes each producer used. Yet this one was smooth and pleasant and not at all like the rough and ready reds that she had become accustomed to. It smoothed its way over her tongue, across her palette and was oddly soothing to her as the sweetness gave way to a dry maturity that gave a sudden depth to the drink that she hadn’t been expecting.

“So, Mr Owner knows his wines,” Beth commented, setting the glass down once more with a clink against the countertop. “It’s a good choice.” She nodded, turning the glass around by the base with the tips of her fingers.

“Do tell then,” she added, sitting up again, lifting her leg down to brace her foot on one of the rungs on the stool beside her. “What is so blisteringly unpleasant about working in here? Or, poor baby, are the cocktails not living up to the dreams?”

She could sympathise with that. Her life lacked all of the cocktails, anything and everything to make the lack of dreams seem okay. The wine would do, though. It would go a ways to dull it all. It had to. If it didn’t, she’d have to go looking for more – and there was always more.

"You seem to have missed the fact that I have the bottle, doll," Declan pointed out with a smirk. "If anyone needs to share, it's me. So perhaps you should be a wee bit nicer, hey?"

He wasn't oblivious to the attire the woman had donned, and though he was still fairly concerned about it in all honesty, it was also rather distracting to the man who had just minutes ago considered kicking the drunkards out of his pub for the evening. He had done it before, yet they still returned. Perhaps the men never remembered it come morning, but it hadn't hurt business either way. Now, Declan supposed he would be up for some time, so it didn't matter if the men stayed.

Leaning on the bar, Declan sat the bottle between them, not actually caring if she did decide to snatch it. He was tempted to point out that he wasn't sure he would be up for another one, but she tasted it, and he was a bit too interested in her reaction. A slow smirk grew, but he covered it after a moment by drinking from his own glass. Setting it down, he considered her for a moment, then corrected her. "It's Declan. And yes, I do. Suppose I have to after so many years," he mused aloud, swirling the wine around by tilting the glass to each side.

Why he gave away information about himself, Declan wasn't at all sure. But perhaps it didn't matter, when he didn't even know her, and wasn't likely to get to the point of actually knowing her. He had no reason to. Yet she continued to try and chat with him, which only made him lift an eyebrow. He had been getting ready to head off and try to convince the other patrons to leave. Instead, he gave her another, slower, once-over before taking another drink.

Fixing her with a serious gaze, Declan let the glass clink as it settled on the bar top again. "I don't dislike my job, okay? That's not the problem. The managerial side comes as easy as the cooking. I guess you could say I don't do well with people. I grow tired of dealing with careless men and naive women."

Declan tilted his head to the side, his eyes dropping to her hand where it curled around her glass. "But you - you enjoy what you do? Whatever it is," he added belatedly, not exactly wanting to make any assumptions aloud, though many were swirling around in his head.

In the dim light of the Leaky Cauldron, it was easy to see why so many fell asleep curled around their tankards and glasses. There was a weariness beginning to eat into the bones of the woman perched neatly on the barstool. Her fingernails were tracing careful, abstract patterns into the glass, drawing a little in the condensation that was forming at the bottom as the cool wine clashed with the warm material of the glass.

She was content where she was, feeling the lap of the fire from the heart wash over her back and chase the cold from her skin. The company was different and unique. It was tempered almost. He was just a normal person. As normal as they came. He was as refreshing, like the fruity, sweet wine bruising across her palate. It was a change.

Beth lifted her eyes from the bar and blinked up at the owner, a small smile lifting the sides of her lips. She swallowed and picked up the glass again, muffling her expression with a sip of the wine  

“My manners must have slipped my mind,” she responded silkily, adding, “given you have the bottle, I’ll play nice just this once. I am eternally grateful to you, of course.”

When he introduced himself, Beth found herself considering giving her actual name as opposed to the one that serviced her profession. She sat back a little, straightening her spine as another glorious beat of fire heat slid across her like the tender caress of a familiar lover. She took another sip of wine and then eventually decided that it was better to be consistent with the evening and gave her name softly as ‘Zelda’, though something within her did question the sense in doing so.

“Is it British?” She asked, reaching out for the bottle, curling her fingers around the neck to turn it, her eyes lifting from it to glance at him. “Not taking it,” she teased, her lips tugging up over her teeth into a grin again before lowering her gaze to look at it curiously before letting the bottle go and sit back once more. “Experience serves you well,” she commented.

Beth’s eyebrows lifted up to her hairline and her mouth turned down a little bit at the sides as she tried to decide what the man before her meant. She supposed there were those types in every bar but she didn’t linger in Satan’s until closing time to see it. She did also think that perhaps she filled the role of the naïve woman in many cases. The reason she was in the bar, sat there, lying to a man she should have had the freedom to be honest with but wouldn’t care either way was because she was naïve.

Getting off of the bar stool, Beth straightened up and smoothed out the skirt of her dress. She opened up her bag and fished out a few sickles. She smiled briefly at Declan before turning around and picking her way amidst the chairs and tables towards the jukebox. She spent a few moments flicking through before pressing the sickles into the machine. Then, slowly, the melody began to drift absently into the bar, low enough to be ignored yet loud enough for the lyrics to still be discerned. Then, Beth returned to the stool.

“I don’t enjoy what I do,” she told him honestly. “It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be. Naïve woman syndrome, you see.” She smirked absently, playing with the bar mat idly, flipping the corner to and fro with her index finger. “At least you can see the results of your hard graft, though. You’ve got that luxury, at least.” She picked up the bottle and reached to top of his glass and her own once more before setting it down again, taking the cork up in her hands which she began to toss between them.

“Have you got a room spare, Declan?” She asked after a while. “I don’t want to go home tonight.”

And it was true. An empty flat verses the familiarity of that pub? It won out every time. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t her things surrounding her, either. The flat was more of a showcase to prospective buyers than a real home. She was half-certain she didn’t even have a carton of milk in the fridge anymore. All she had was some frozen lasagne and herbs. That was it. Brilliant. No, a room, a good sleep and some Leaky Cauldron breakfast was what she wanted. At least that way she could keep pretending her life was a certain way and not the way it really was.

Declan's eyebrow lifted, clearly suspicious when she offered her name. Hadn't he heard of a magician named Zelda somewhere? It was a Muggle thing, if he remembered correctly. He supposed it was entirely possible, of course, but the coincidence was there. It wasn't her fault, after all, that he was innately unable to trust women - especially ones like her. Or, at least, ones dressed like her.

So he let a neutral expression take over and pushed the unease away. It was incredibly unlikely, of course, that he would end up seeing her again. At least, outside of the Leaky, he figured it was. Interacting as a bartender was different than being expected to actually spend time with her in any real capacity, right?

"St. Helena, California," he corrected gently, pointing a finger are the label. "Quite a distance traveled, this one." Her comment about being experienced almost sounded like it held a second, more pointed meaning, but he chose to ignore that as well.

Declan had to admit, too: It would be a lie to say that he wasn't intrigued. He was incredibly curious, and likely shouldn't have been. So when the woman stood and moved over to the jukebox, Declan drank down the majority of his glass in one go, refilling it and topping off hers as an attempt to cover it up. He cleared his throat quietly as she sat down again, lifting his glass to sip once more.

"Ah," he returned between her words as she toyed with the mat. "That would explain your lack of manners," Declan mused aloud, smirking at her even as he tucked his chin. His gaze fell down to the rinsing sinks behind the bar, blinking and lifting his chin once more when she posed the question.

"A glass or two of wine and you're already done in for the night?" he asked, not sure he understood exactly what she wanted. It would be wise, he knew, to just set her up in a room and leave her the bottle and let her go after it. "For someone who claims to know her wines, you seem oddly lightweight, if that's the case. But I do have a room," he conceded finally. "Just let me get these folks to go and clean up a bit, then I can show you up, yeah?"

Declan took a long drink of the wine before setting it back on the bar top, then picked up his towel and twisted out the extra water before making his way around to her side of the bar. His feet stalled as he passed her until he finally stopped, his hand dropping to the top of the bar next to her arm. Declan frowned slightly, watching her expression.

"There is a part of me that doesn't trust you," he informed her, not exactly sure why he felt the need to do so. Declan shook his head once, his eyebrows pulling together. It was probably because of the drinks he had downed throughout the night more so than the wine, but he found himself leaning a bit too heavily on the bar as he spoke. "Don't make me regret giving you a room and this drink for nothing."

That night, the Leaky Cauldron seemed like a fitting end for Zelda. Catching sight of herself in the mirror across the bar, Beth suffered a sigh as she brought her glass to her lips. Years ago, she’d imagined herself as a successful auror with all of the trimmings of a career that was on the right track. Now, she couldn’t even admit to a stranger that she was who she was. She’d uttered a false name and was exhibiting the behaviours that came with being who she was now. In truth, being the dancer from Satan’s nightclub now felt more real than anything else. She couldn’t bear to go home now and peel off the life that actually had meaning and replace it with the one that stank of disaster. Even the subtle odour of cigarettes and alcohol was more pleasant than that, putrid or not.

Slightly tacky but no less delicious American wine seemed to soothe some of the hurt even as her joints and muscles began to strain and weary. She felt slightly giddy and as she turned the bottle idly she stared at the volume, affirming to herself that she would have a hangover to contend with the following morning. Despite herself, though, she couldn’t find she cared. It was enough to wake in one of the Cauldron’s beds than her own, hangover or no hangover. It also made their game of words much more interesting to be a part of.

Looking up at his words, Beth felt her scarlet lips break into a smirk. She hadn’t thought her manners had been particularly poor but - alas! -perhaps they had. Beth hummed in agreement as she lifted the glass up again, a dark eyebrow quirking as he went on. She laughed a little and shook her head, fixing him with an earnest yet challenging stare.

“Certainly not done,” she replied in kind, smirking openly at him, now. “I have a lot left in me yet, I assure you. I can show you if you’d like.” She wriggled her brows as her smirk gave way to a bemused smile and she reached for the bottle once more just as he came to a stop beside her.

Beth’s fingers froze around the bottle’s neck and she turned her head a little, allowing herself to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Clever boy,” she whispered, her mouth curling up at the side again. Beth sloshed some more wine into the glass and looked at him pointedly.

When he pushed away to go and deal with his regulars, Beth put down her glass. She lifted her bag up onto the bar and began to absently rifle through it, her fingers quickly setting upon her Ministry ID. She turned it over thoughtfully, opening it up to look at the badge, and she sighed before moving to grab for the Satan’s one. It was a gaudy purple colour that bore a grainy image of her and listed everything correctly bar her name. Zelda Fitzpatrick – an almost play on words. It amused her to a certain extent but not nearly as much as the farce as a whole.

Poking it back into her bag, Beth took out her purse and looked inside, taking out a handful of coins she knew would cover her for the night if good humour and kindness failed the bartender. She didn’t see much in him at present anyway – yet it didn’t bother her as much as it would have if she had been wandering around as herself. She wasn’t, though. She didn’t command respect. In many ways, she didn’t deserve politeness, either.

A little scrap of fabric would be enough, Beth decided, to transfigure herself something to wear to bed. She needed to unwind herself from the guise of Zelda, regardless of how comfortable it was. She wanted water running through her hair and a scrubbing brush darning her skin red raw. Then she wanted something soft and comfortable to fall into that didn’t belong to her and even if she had rid herself of her façade she still didn’t have to be herself within the four, impersonal Cauldron walls.

“So, untrusting man,” Beth began impishly once Declan returned. “Why don’t you bring up another bottle of wine when you’re ready, hm?” She inquired, taking the key off of him and glancing at the number. She lifted her hand and folded down his collar as she looked up at him, adding huskily, “then we’ll see if I can make this worth your while.”

Beth breezed past, dragging her bag off of the bar before heading for the stairs. She stopped at the foot of them and removed her shoes before bouncing up the steps, turning at the top of the landing before moving in search of the room she’d been allotted for the night. She found it with relative ease – only getting confused once – and opened up the door, abundantly pleased to find it clean, quiet and entirely not hers. A bathroom adjoined and it was to that which Beth veered first, abandoning her clothes as she went.

The shower stormed into life, scalding her skin just as she wanted and out of her hair she took the grease, out of her skin she took the alcohol and stealing from her entire essence she took the scent of her profession until she was left vaguely fragrant, smelling of soft strawberries. She sighed contentedly when she emerged from the shower and patted herself dry. Then, after folding up the towel she gathered her clothes and stuffed them into her bag before transfiguring the bit of material she’d found into a loose, white t-shirt. Her old top also got transfigured into some fresh underwear and Beth dried her hair after getting dressed, a contented sigh reaching past her lips.

Throwing her hair up into a pony tail, Beth moved her things onto a sideboard before flopping down onto the bed, the faint sound of her pendant sliding along the silver chain around her throat whispering past her ears. Beth closed her eyes and curled around herself, closing her eyes as finally a little bit of quiet ebbed over her. She felt sober now, painfully so, yet still a little bit wonderfully giddy with the alcohol. Here she was at peace, now, in a strange liminal space – neither Zelda nor Elizabeth Murdoch, neither home nor in a strange place, neither alone nor with company.

A low chuckle rumbled out from between his lips, the sound surprisingly warm as compared to the man's usual demeanor. Declan supposed that it could have sounded almost interested in her suggestion. And, really, that wouldn't have been a true stretch; he wasn't as much of a cad as that probably made him sound, but he was also starting to seriously feel the effects of what he had been drinking,  and that just ended up making him all the more willing.

Declan gave her a slow once over as she murmured her reply, his gaze surprisingly steady and dark. He hesitated only a moment before shoving off and moving to talk with the men at their table. They were pleasant enough, although one seemed to catch on to his vaguely wobbly state. The man laughed brightly and nodded at Declan's request for them to leave, patting the younger man on the shoulder as he directed his friend out of the pub.

Clearing off the table, Declan wiped it clean before taking the glasses over behind the bar to wash them. Setting them down, he reached across to their line of keys, dangling it before her. A smirk grew at her words, wondering if she intended it to sound like such a come-on. Her attire and the general scent of smoke and alcohol suggested that she did, but Declan had to question the legitimacy of his conclusion, given that he himself seemed to have a lingering alcohol smell about him.

That said, he took his time in washing the glasses free of the dregs of their drinks, silently debating his choices. He could simply go upstairs and pretend there was no real issue in his doing so, but he also decide to retire to his own room, adjacent to the office, and pretend he didn't understand her request. He didn't want to think about it, though. So he washed up the glasses, and reached for one of the coasters. Setting it on the edge of the bar so that part of it hung off, Declan used the backs of his fingers to flick the coaster upwards, letting it fly back down rather like a coin toss. It spun upon landing, but the answer was obvious.

So, up he went, a new bottle in hand.

Flicking his wand over his shoulder, Declan locked up, thanking Merlin that he had a bartender coming in to open for him the next day. No one would suspect that he had not, in fact, gone home. A gentle knock on her door later, he pushed the door open and swept his gaze across the room until he let it settle on her. The girl with the questionable name. As much as he wanted to lift his eyebrows in question, Declan merely shook the bottle a bit from side to side.

"I'll just leave this for you, then? Seems like you're set to bunker down for the night," he concluded, his eyes drifting down to her legs, now not covered in fishnet, before they snapped back up to hers. "Thought you might prefer a red this time."

With an arm tossed over her eyes, Elizabeth danced somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, reluctant to commit to either. When the knock to her bedroom door came, there was a part of her now that wanted to turn him away and when his voice met her ears to suggest it, that part was eager to let him. Beth knew that leaving her with the bottle of wine was the least sensible thing for him to do, though, so she lifted her arm off of her face and sat up, sliding her feet down to the floor. She pushed off of the bed and crossed the room, curling her fingers about his wrist to tug him inside before shutting the door firmly behind him, twisting the old, battered key in the metal lock.

“Good choice,” she all but purred, sliding the bottle out from his fingers. “Where’s this one from?” She asked, knowing full well she could just look on the label but for the sake of irritating him she wanted to ask and did so as she wandered away, moving to the sideboard where she found two glasses. Straightening herself up, she nudged the doors closed with her knees and turned back, lifting the glasses onto the table across from the bed. She held out her hand for her wand which zoomed out of her bag and with a pop she uncorked the bottle with a smidgen of magic before pouring out a sizeable amount into each glass.

Picking up the glasses, Beth held out one to Declan before retreating back to the bed where she set down her glass on the side table and abandoned herself across the bedspread, leaving her legs to drape over the side, forcing her t-shirt to ride up. She threw her arms over her head and sighed, stretching out her muscles.

“You don’t trust me,” Beth announced, recalling the words he’d uttered to her not too long before this instance now. “Now, why is that, I wonder?” She sat up and pulled the hair band out of her hair, releasing the pony tail so that her dark tresses could fall about her shoulders in silky waves. She tossed the band away and curled one leg underneath herself as she looked at him, reaching for her glass as she did so.

“Is it because when I walked into that pub I screamed ‘prostitute’?” She raised an eyebrow at him, half tempted to accuse him of just that. She would have been flattered in a funny sort of way. It certainly meant that she’d done well to hide her steely, ministerial façade. She was who she was perceived to be, it seemed. It was as good as it was bad, in many ways. “Or because I’m lying to you and you know it but you know I’m not going to tell you the truth?” She turned out into the air, arching her other eyebrow.

“For one night,” she began looking up at him through her lashes, “can it not matter? We’re probably not going to meet again so let’s drink and not think about it – without a single string attached. Maybe I’ll explain if we ever do,” she got to her feet again and drew up before him, her fingers finding the top button of his shirt. “But I doubt it’ll happen,” she pointed out, squeezing the button through the hole. “So trust me for one night, hm? Hate me in the morning. For now, let’s drink.”

"I could tell you that it comes from the Beaujolais region of France, which is true, but it seems like you might be more entertained if I suggested that it also came from California. So, let's say... Alexander Valley," Declan jested, leaning against the chest of drawers that often came to fill the role of a table for some of his guests.

He hadn't expected her to actually pull him into the room, and the skin at his wrist still held the last lingering twinges of heat that her fingers and palm had provided. But the man was hardly one who could claim he didn't have an idea where her actions were headed. The more curious thing, he decided, was how the intended to get them there after appearing so ready to tuck in for the evening. She could just as easily have sent him away, but apparently the curiosity was not only present in his mind, but also in hers.

Using his elbow to lean on the dresser, he set his chin in his palm and looked at her sideways as she draped her body across the bed. Perhaps he would be paying more attention to her questions if she had bothered to find herself something to cover her legs. Well, besides the fishnets, because those didn't really help her case.

"I would be lying," he conceded, "if I said that the former didn't apply. But that came after I realized the latter. When it registered that you didn't seem so very much like that sort of girl, and yet you wanted to appear that way."

As she approached, the rest of his explanation died away, the guilt at his assumption going with it. Instead of worrying after what 'Zelda' believed he thought of her, Declan set the glass down atop the chest of drawers and turned his torso to face her properly. His gaze lingered on hers as she went for the buttons of his shirt, and in the back of his mind, Declan decided that it might actually be quite interesting to try and force another interaction with her down the road. But, obviously, that would come later; he was far too distracted just then to worry about it.

His fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, the backs of them brushing just under the edge of her bottoms, and he used his grip there to tug her towards him. Despite the apparent ease with which he drew her in, he would have to admit later that it felt very strange indeed. Usually he only allowed himself 'one night' when he was roaring drunk and didn't actually think too much about it. But he was more sober than drunk, and he knew full well what he was getting himself into. But, hey, Declan mused to himself, at least he wasn't the one that started it. He could just chalk it up to further proof that women weren't to be trusted -- after all, this one hadn't been around him for more than five minutes before she invited him up. Either he was absurdly interesting - which he doubted - or she was rather lonely. That, he supposed, could be possible. But something in him suggested otherwise, given how easily she had convinced him. He couldn't tell, and wasn't actually sure that he wanted to, so he pushed away all thoughts, reaching again for the glass and draining more than hall of it down his throat before setting it down again.

Despite the fact that he had kept eye contact throughout his movements, and the possibility that she would have let his hand wander, it didn't. She expected him to hate her, which struck him as odd. No, he didn't often put up with women, given that he detested most of their habits and their general nature. But he was interested, and he didn't often stick around one of them long enough to become interested. This woman had managed it in seconds, merely confusing him and giving him no choice but to investigate. It was his only option.

Obviously.

"Perhaps I won't hate you. I don't yet," he confided, voice low and words languid as they tripped out from between his lips.

Preferring to skip over the preamble and pretense of who initiated what, Declan let his free hand sneak under the loose fabric of her shirt and around to the middle of her back, offering back some of the warmth her hand had wrapped his wrist in a few minutes before. In the same move, he leaned forward to trace her jaw with his lips. The hand gripping the hem of her shirt tightened as he reached her lips, hovering over them, merely a breath between them at most.

His eyes searched hers for a moment, suddenly wondering if he was doing exactly as she wanted. She could have come in, looking for someone to be there, only to leave once she had gotten what she wanted. He didn't know her well enough to assume otherwise, and he had a bad habit of suspecting the worst in others. So, rather than dive in and let himself become a man without any forethought - where the hell was that drunk feeling when he needed it? - he hesitated.

"Your move."