Details for The Thunder Rolls |
Summary: | While a summer storm clears the air outside, things between Morrow and Anson take a decidedly more complicated turn… |
Date: | July 4th, 1941 |
Location: | Selwyn Apartment, Mysticked District |
Related: | — |
Characters |
The summer evening, while it remains almost stiflingly warm, has given way to a much-needed thunderstorm over London. With any luck, it might clear the air. In Morrow's apartment in the Mysticked District, all has returned, for the most part, to normal. Her shredded pillows have been replaced, the bedroom returned to order.. and a few new dresses purchased, to replace those she accidentally clawed up. One, she's wearing right now; a black tea-dress with a sweetheart neckline and full, widely-pleated skirts that fall to mid-calf. The cut emphasises her tiny waist and hourglass silhouette, without being revealing in the slightest. It's all in the tailoring, you know.
With the tall bay windows of the living room flung wide, the young lady is perched upon the bench within the curve, an elbow propped on the sill and an air of tense watchfulness about her. Maybe she's just watching as the storm rumbles closer, waiting for the pattering rain to give way, in due course, to full thunder and streaks of lightning to illuminate the city.
Or maybe she's watching in the hope of glimpsing a wolf in the shadows. It's been a couple of days now since her shaken friend revealed the dangerous transformation undertaken by Oberon Lestrange… and thus far? No news. She has no way of knowing if anyone of importance at the Ministry even heard her frantic warnings, let alone paid them any mind. It's a waiting game. And Morrow, like the predator she herself shifted into, has no patience for such things.
It's been a few days. Long enough for Anson Abbott to grow used to his new eyes, to his new hair, to his new habits of body. Long enough for him to risk paying a visit. He walks through the storm toward Morrow's apartment, rain beating down around him but not actually touching him, deflecting off a translucent, shimmering, bubble around him. He's carrying a bottle of wine, its label reading something fancy in French, the sort of thing that even Wizards are having a hard time obtaining since the beginning of the war. God only knows how he came by it.
He pauses in the street, looking up at Morrow's balcony for a long moment, his golden eyes fixed on the silhouette in the windows. Lightning flashes, freezing the cobalt-haired young man in an instant of brilliance, his shadow long on the cobblestones. And then he moves again, disappearing from view.
Soon enough, footfalls can be heard outside the apartment. There is a stillness. And then a knock at the door, once. There's a difference to Anson that is evident even in the knock — if one could hear emotion, this knock is preremptory, not hopeful. Single, not a triple-knock of someone waiting to be greeted.
One ear twitches, involuntarily. She's still not used to the sensation, as it stirs her dark hair, and it takes a moment for Morrow to be prompted. Straightening a fraction, the young lady raises her head, unthinkingly akin to a feline as she focuses her attention, and senses, toward the door. Another neighbour? Another disappointment? The footfalls on the stairs have her slowly beginning to rise from the cushioned bench, lowering her bare feet to the floorboards, breath caught in her throat. Will they keep going or..?"
Yes! A knock! Quite out of character for her usually languid sort of grace, Morrow flies across the apartment, through the doorway, the dining area, the kitchen, to the door. Her own blue eyes are wide with the hope she's really trying not to cling to.. but it can't be helped. Is it him?!
The disappointment, when she flings wide the door, is woefully palpable. She doesn't mean it to be. But she looks crestfallen when the visitor is revealed to be Anson, with his new hair and shimmering, unsettling gaze. "Oh." How's that for a greeting? "Hello, Abbott."
Gathering herself, forcing herself back to elegance and civility, Morrow straightens her shoulders in defiance of her own crushing despair and rests a palm to the doorframe; that infuriatingly impenetrable mask of charisma and smile back in place. "How uh.. how are you feeling?"
Golden eyes stare at Morrow, Anson's head canted in an unconsciously bird-like posture. And then he smiles, quick and lean. "You look so different," he says. "I wondered what you'd look like." He holds up the bottle of wine, displaying it toward Morrow. "I'm feeling… good. Very good. I'm getting used to it. And I brought an offering." He sweeps cobalt hair off his forehead with his free hand; this gesture, at least, is purely Anson Abbott.
"I know I'm not who you were hoping to see," he says. That much is obvious from the expression on Morrow's face, from the first word out of her mouth. "But I need to talk to you. I thought the conversation would go down easier if we had wine." He looks at the hand on the doorway, barring his entrance. "Please let me in." It's as though he's rehearsed these words — they're slightly stilted, a bit out-of-tune with his usual brilliance, but there's also a determination in them that's rarely heard. Anson isn't here to play the usual game, it seems.
And Morrow's not in the mood for games at all. Gesturing vaguely in what's either invitation or resignation, she drops her barring arm and turns away from boy and door both. No doubt the offer of wine was a wise idea… he might have gotten a curt earbashing, otherwise. It takes her until she has reached the glass-cabinet in the kitchen, however, to register Abbott's words. "What I'd look like..?" Those blue eyes flit him a look askance as she stands on tiptoe to retrieve some glasses. "Oh. It's affected your vision, I take it? I've been noticing small sounds more, actually… not much of a blessing. Literally quite a bloody headache, actually."
Settled back onto her heels, the brunette turns, placing the slender-stemmed glasses down on the island that dominates much of the kitchen space. "So. What do we need to talk about?" Apparently she's impatient to get back to her silent sitting and worrie musing. There's none of the usual playfulness in her enquiring manner tonight. As a ripple of unease hits, though, she settles her gaze on Anson and softens her tone; unnerved by a thought. "It's not about Oberon, is it? Have you heard something?" At this stage, to be honest, any news would be better than no news. And it would explain why her visitor thought alcohol would be necessary…
"I can imagine. I've been sitting outside all day, trying to learn what I'm seeing. Colors without names. You glow, you know. Purples that I've never seen before." Anson smiles again as he enters, following Morrow toward the kitchen. He lays the wine atop the counter, draws his wand, mutters "Alohomora." The accent is slightly different than for doors, and the gesture of his wrist is a bit off. The foil at the top of the wine slices neatly open, however, and the cork slowly pulls itself free. Anson slides his wand back away.
"It's about Oberon," Anson says quietly, confirming Morrow's concern. And then, after a few moments, "He's alright." The words are quiet, neutral. "At least so far as I know." He gestures toward the cabinet, silently urging glasses. "I know you think I just want you for myself," he says. "And I agree, I'm a bloody git. But you and I are friends, even when we're mad at each other. Even after last year." He chews his lower lip, frowning unconsciously — another familiar gesture. "I need to tell you something, and I really want you to listen before you get mad."
Well.. that's some sort of reassurance, right? Still, Morrow sinks down to a perch on a tall stool before nudging the set-out glasses toward the blue-haired boy with her fingertips. It's his place to pour. She's not a waitress. "Purple's never really been my colour." she replies, with the faintest twitch of a smirk. Folding her arms on the polished wood of the countertop, the girl initially just rests her head down upon her forearms with a heavy sigh, as Anson starts down an all-too-familiar track. She's had enough of arguing over their.. relationship? Friendship? Whatever it is. And she knows he dislikes her new choice in partner. Does she have to hear about it again, with everything that's going on.
"Yeeeees, Anson.." These words are somewhat muffled, and so she raises her head enough to look at him, an odd mixture of withering long-suffering and tired amusement apparent in her pretty features. "..we're friends. We're fine." Something in the ever-so-slightly sharp cut of that 'fine' might just imply that.. no they're not. But is Abbott likely to catch the subtlety? No. He requires subtlety wrapped around a brick and flung at his head.
"If you're just going to tell me again how much you hate him.." she begins, warningly.
"Forget that I hate him," Anson counters as he pours the burgundy into Morrow's glasses, sliding one toward her and taking the other in his hand. "Just set that aside for a moment. Try and listen to me like it's not me talking." The Gryffindor stares at Morrow as he lifts his wine-glass, taking a sip and clearing his throat. "I'm here because I care what happens to you, Morrow. Even if it means we aren't fine anymore." He reaches out with his free hand, trying to touch her forearm. "I don't just hate Oberon Lestrange. I'm terrified of him." The last words grate out, as though they're physically painful for the egotistical young man to say.
"When he came at me with his wand, when I transformed, I didn't mean to peck at him. I was scared." The confession comes with a vivid transformation of his features, his face flushing red as he looks away. "I tried to hide it. Like I always do. And then he slashed my wing. You probably won't believe me, but that was on purpose. Morrow, please believe me." He trails off, tilting his head up to the ceiling.
"As long as I've known you, you've been the smartest girl in the room. The dishiest. Never really the sweetest, though." A pause. "But you've never been cruel, Morrow. He would've killed me if it weren't for you. You saved my life. I know you don't believe it, but you did." He swallows hard, lowering his head to look at Morrow again.
"You're right. I do hate him. And eventually, we'll fight. But I'm begging you to believe that I'm here because I'm scared for you."
Though her fingertips toy with the base of her wine glass, the girl doesn't raise it just yet. Her eyes lower, idly watching the motion as her forefinger trails to and fro around the smooth rim, letting Anson speak without any reaction from her upon which to base his own manner. She doesn't even try to avoid that fleeting touch to her forearm. She just stays very still, until he's got his speech over and done with. And even then, it's an unbearably long few moments more before a gentle inhalation announces it's her turn to say something.
"..we're not fine, anyway. You're the reason that the werewolf office and half the Aurors in London are out hunting him down. How would you feel if that were me out there, Abbott?" She's drifted back to the more formal address. And she's still refusing to look at him. Her tone is very soft… dangerously so. "Or Prince. Or whatever doe-eyed damsel you've taken a fancy to, this week. How would you feel?"
Now, belatedly, she picks up her wine, though only to dangle it idly, gently swirling the sweetly-scented contents. "..he was trying to help you. You were trapped in your shirt and he tried to help, at risk to himself. You responded by hurting him. No." Those blue eyes snap upward to meet the golden hues of Anson's. "..you responded by inflicting this sickness upon him. And you did it in full possession of yourself, didn't you."
Her gaze averts again as Morrow laughs humorlessly and shakes her head, venturing a sip of wine and barely seeming to taste it. "He wouldn't have killed you, don't be so dramatic." That's rich coming from her! "..and if he wanted to.. what on earth makes you think my being there would stop him?" The first chink in the unperturbed armor. The first fractional admission that maybe - just maybe - the illusion of control when it comes to Oberon is just that. An illusion.
Gritting her teeth, the brunette rises to her bare feet, taking an unhurried step or two and keeping the island between she and Anson with the movement. "..I'm sorry about your wing. Or.. arm. But it was an accident. You've no reason to be afraid for me… nor so paranoid for your own wellbeing."
"Oberon is the werewolf?"
Surprise is stark on Anson's features. Followed closely afterward by ingenuous hurt at the rest of Morrow's accusations. He turns away, lifting his wine-glass to his lips and taking a long gulp. Swallows hard. "I'd be terrified for you." Now it sinks in, the reason for Morrow's anger. He closes his eyes for a long moment, cobalt hair dropping forward over his forehead as he lowers his head. "I didn't do it on purpose," he says softly. "You should know that."
Another long swallow. Half his wine is already gone. It doesn't seem to be making the conversation flow better, though, does it? "But if you don't think he was going to hurt me, why'd you step in?" He's not looking at Morrow, staring out into London as another down-strike sends thunder rippling through the apartments, close enough to feel as well as hear.
He listens to the rain beat down, sighing before he finally turns back to look at Morrow. "Ask yourself this. Just think about it. What bloody idiot — Merlin's beard, Morrow — would peck at someone who was casting a Severing Charm on them? He didn't slip because I tried to peck him, Morrow. That's just not what happened."
"..And for the record? There's only one girl I've been out with since last year. And you asked me to do it."
"Well then you understand, or can at least try to understand, how I feel." Half-turning, Morrow puts down her wineglass and braces her hands on the rounded edging of the countertop. "Now imagine that the person responsible for me being out there was someone you knew hated me because of you." Ahh. That's not just anger. That's guilt. And that might make her lash out even harder, in an attempt to ease the burden she's placing on herself. "I don't believe you, Anson." She states it, pure and simple, staring across the expanse between them with the maddening air of neutrality.
"Why should I?! Why should I believe what you did was an accident, and what he did was intentional?" There's a vague sensation of crockery rattling, presumably in a sideboard over by the dining table, at that sudden vibration of thunder. What timing, as the young woman's cold fury begins to surface, unbidden; the rain-fresh breze drifting into the apartment lightly straying strands of near-ebon hair across her features, only to be swept angrily aside with a swift motion of her hand. "You want to hear me say it? Fine He was going to hurt you." She'd seen it in Oberon's eyes. There's no denying it. "But just because I stepped between you doesn't mean.."
Trailing off abruptly, she presses her lips in a firm line, damming the flow of words. "..the cut was an accident." She's just not having it. And that little 'by the way' from Anson does nothing to pacify her. "And for the record.. he's been nothing but a perfect gentleman toward me. Why are you so hell-bent on ruining this for me, Anson?" Another lightning strike fleetingly casts her in silvery light, rather than the dim warmth offered by the oil lamps still burning in here.
Anger. Well, Anson has claws too. And they finally start to come out. He slams his fists down onto the counter — perfect timing, as yet another roll of thunder cuts through the apartment. It's hard to tell whether his fists or the thunder sets the wine to vibrating in the glasses. "Damnit, Morrow. How often do you sit there and tell me I'm bloody incompetent? Make fun of me for cocking up? Jab at me for being the dumbest Gryffindor in the history of the House?"
He stalks away, prowling toward the window, gazing out into the storm, then turns back, his golden eyes gleaming. "Well, I'm not. I'm not a bloody fool." He draws in a breath, his chest rising and falling. "Listen to yourself, damnit. By God, you're smarter than this. You're better than some swooning girl obsessing over a boy." His voice is raised — not indeed to a shout, but to far louder than a conversational tone. He stalks back toward Morrow, his arms outstretched to either side. "Just look at him! Look at him logically!" A ludicrous plea from someone that angry.
He reaches as though to grab Morrow by the shoulders, his jaw clenched. "Ruin it for you? Ruin it? Morrow, ask your friends. Ask Harriet. Ask Audra! Ask bloody Rosetta, for the love of God. I'm the only one trying to tell you the truth!"
"Yes, you are. You're a complete and utter IDIOT." Instinctively, fuelled by her own ire, Morrow half-pursues the lad as he storms away from her, intercepting his return path of her own accord, when it comes. "I keep helping you and you keep repaying me with this ridiculous masculine pride. Get. Over. It. Get over yourself, Anson! I don't need you to protect me, I can look after MYSELF!" Shaking with anger she's now failing miserably to suppress, the girl glares right back when he turns to face her.
"I am not swooning. OR obsessed. If anyone's obsessed with this, it's you. Why do you hate him so much? Other than the fact that I like him, why? He hasn't done anything! YOU look at it logically!" She's unwilling to back down or back off, even if that means letting Anson grab her shoulders. Truth be told, she practically lounges in his grasp, stubbornly refusing to give an inch and tilting her jaw in open defiance. "What truth are you trying to tell me?! All you've done so far is tout your bruised ego as a reason I should apparently hate him, too!" Well, that last syllable she punctuates with a sharp shove at his chest. More for the sake of attention than trying to free herself. Outside, the storm has drawn in right overhead, the rain lashing down upon the streets now, thunder rattling the window panes in their aged framework.
That shove rocks him back a bit; he responds by tightening his grip on Morrow's shoulders. "Hasn't done anything? He sliced me to the bone, Morrow! To the fucking bone! Do you know what I remember about being a peacock? Pain. I remember pain." Anson's head comes closer to Morrow's with every word, lips twisted back to bear his teeth. "You are refusing to see it. You don't want me to be right, because it's easier to think of me as an obsessed idiot."
"Why do I hate him? Because he's a bully. Because he's cruel. Because he scares me and I can't figure out why." A ragged exhalation of breath. "And yes, Morrow, because he's with you. Yeah. It hurts me." His strange pupil-less eyes stare into Morrow's. "But it's also because of the way he came at me after he cut me. It's because of how he hates Muggles. How he and those friends of his torture the Half-Bloods. It's because he's cruel, Morrow." He stares at Morrow's features from inches away. And then, finally, he says, in a gentler tone, "…And you're not. You try to be, but I've heard you sticking up for Harriet when she's not around. Morrow, I've seen you help me, even when you've hated me. You protect people. You don't hurt them. And I don't want to see you change."
"It - was - an - ACCIDENT!" This time, Morrow roars the denial back in his face, her voice lent an unearthly timbre by the lingering feral tones of her transformation. "Say whatever you want, Anson, but he didn't have to try and help you! And you don't want to believe it because it's easier for you to think of him as a villain than accept that I've chosen to be with him!"
Well. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.
All of a sudden, in that enraging way these things happen, at least in the fairer sex, Morrow's blue eyes are gleaming as the flash of lightning from outside reflects across them. Silver, staring unwaveringly back at gold. "He's not cruel to me." It's not much of an argument. Truth is, she can't argue most of those furious points. But.. it's almost a plea. Almost. "It's the way of the world, Anson. Some people are at the top of the food chain for a reason, while.. others are just prey. I'm not all that different from him. He's just more upfront about it."
Her hands, having a moment ago gripped the front of the boy's attire, now gradually loosen until her palms rest flat against his chest. This is a dangerous proximity, when her fury is ebbing, and she's suddenly very aware of how close Anson is. "You have to stop this." Abruptly, her tone has softened to little above a whisper. "I'm not yours to protect now, Anson. I'm his. And if he's as formidable as you seem to believe.. then surely that means I'm in safe hands?" Imploring him to see it from her perspective, she searches those odd golden eyes. "..assuming.." Uh oh. There's a flicker of returning anger there, smouldering still beneath the surface. "..that he hasn't already been killed because of you."
"If there is one thing I am certain of in this world, Morrow, it's that Oberon Lestrange is not going to die because I pecked him. Wed've heard if he was even captured." Anson exhales slowly, visibly shaken by the tiger-like roar into his face. But he holds his nerve. And he keeps himself in close against Morrow, his head canting to one side. "He's not cruel to you yet." The words are soft, and there is genuine fear, genuine concern in them. "Whatever you want to believe, Morrow, you're not like him. Maybe you're not like me — I'm not saying that. I'm not saying you have to care the same way I do. I get that I'm not as smart as you, I do." He runs a hand up and down Morrow's arm.
"But Oberon Lestrange sees all of us as prey. Even you." His features are pleading, as painfully earnest as they've ever been, none of his golden-boy acts now. "And I won't stop protecting you, Morrow. That's.. well, it's just not going to happen." He tips his head forward to brush his forehead against Morrow's. Perhaps he's missed that dangerous look in her eye, that flame still burning beneath the smoke.
He's practically whispering now. "Your colors don't have names, Morrow. The things I see when I look at you, it doesn't have a name." He sighs. And then, in an act of idiocy or leonine courage, he leans in to kiss Morrow, quick and hard, not particularly gentlemanly in the way he takes advantage of this forced proximity.
"You don't know that." Morrow protests, stubbornly defending the absent Lestrange. "You don't know him. And you certainly don't know how he sees me." Neither does she, to be fair. "And stop telling me I'm smart while you're explaining why you think I'm stupid."
For all her arguments, however, the girl holds Anson's gaze when he looks down at her, ignoring the ticklish brush of his cerulean hair across her brow; softening a fraction at his pleading expression. "Don't ask me to choose between you. If you must insist on trying to play this 'chivalrous' role you've developed a taste for, do it from a distance. Otherwise you'll bring chaos down on both our heads."
Perhaps she'd expected his next statement to develop into a tangent. She seems about to answer, or even question his meaning, regarding him up close with uncertainty in her stormy eyes… and realisation a splitsecond too late. What was that about bringing chaos down upon them? Caught off-guard, there's a reflexive tensing of her arms within his grasp. And then, just for a moment, she relents, yielding to the pressure of his lips upon hers. When that moment ends, the crack of lightning-strike outside perhaps what prompts her to rousing, there's an explosion of reaction from Morrow. She simultaneously tries to throw herself back and away, while shoving hard at Anson's chest with the heels of both hands. Regardless of whether she's successful, she looks up at him with a gasp, wide-eyed. "..have you lost your mind?" Why whisper? It's not as if Oberon's in the next room. Well, hopefully.
Anson stumbles backward, his golden eyes snapping open wide at the shove, one hand coming out to grab at a chair and steady himself. Just for a moment, before that lightning strike, he had thought.. No. The thoughts are printed on his face, one after another, and he reaches up deliberately to brush his hair back off his forehead. When he speaks, his voice is sad rather than angry. "Yeah. I suppose I have. But I lost it awhile back, Morrow. A year ago." He lets his fingertips brush down to his lips, then drops his hand to his side.
Bringing his shoulders up in a shrug, the boy turns and walks toward that half-empty bottle of wine, pouring himself another glass and taking a drink. He seems in a hurry. Because, surely, he's about to be thrown out. "But here's something to think about, darling. If you're not scared of him — why are you whispering?" He sweeps his wine-glass around the empty room in a gesture meant to encompass their privacy.
"I'm not going to apologize for kissing you. I'll probably do it again, if I get half a chance." His smile turns crooked, mischievous. "And ask yourself this, too. Do you really blame me for that?"
Still dumbfounded, it would seem, Morrow stares back at the boy as he rights himself, then strolls back toward the wine. No snappy comeback? Hell may freeze over. Has she completely underestimated Anson? Because.. that's the last thing she needs. One uncontrollable young man at a time is enough. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, she turns to keep her gaze upon the boy, though noticeably moves no closer.
"Let me get this straight, Abbott. Because I'm confused. You come here to warn me off of Oberon Lestrange. You tell me he's dangerous, cruel.. all those other things. You claim you've come as a friend, because he's terrifying and you're concerned about my safety.." The tone wouldn't be out of place if she were actually counting these points off on her fingers. She doesn't. "..and you think kissing me is a good idea?!"
Now, she does venture a step toward him. But only to emphasise the words that follow. Her jaw is set in icy resolution, now. Line crossed. "Take your wine.." She raises a slender arm, pointing at the door to the apartment. "..and get out." Apparently those other questions will go unanswered. The only sound that follows her demand is the continued rush of toerrential rain outside the open windows.
"Alright, Morrow. I'll leave." Anson Abbott squares his shoulders, draining his glass and setting it down atop the table. My, that's a lot of wine for a young wizard to drink on a stormy night. And he takes her at her word, lifting the bottle. "But kissing you was always one of my better ideas." He considers Morrow with those golden eyes, his features slightly flushed with alcohol — and perhaps with something else, as well. Anger? Embarassment? It's hard to tell.
Turning away, the young man moves toward the door, keeping his posture ramrod straight. "I'm always on your side," he says as he turns the knob. "And I think you're going to realize that sometime." He's speaking to the wood, his own voice as flat as the planed lines of the doorframe. "I'm sorry I cocked the rest of it up tonight, but I'm still not sorry I kissed you." The door opens, he steps through, the door closes. Gently. And outside that door, if someone had eyes to see, they'd see his composure crumple. His face screws up, as though he sobbing, but no tears come from those golden eyes. Peacocks don't cry.
He gives up on that failed display of emotion, takes a gulp straight from the bottle, and walks downstairs and out into the storm. This time, he seems to have forgotten his magical protection, for he's soaked through in moments. He stands out in the street, head tilted up to those open windows, occasionally illuminated by flashes of lightning. And then, after one particularly blinding burst of silver, he turns and walks away.