After the Plague, Brady had managed to run from the Origins for almost a month - an impressive achievement, really, considering that Darla and Davin, at the very least, had direct access to his house and, if willing, could apparate anywhere they wanted inside, be it a drawing-room, a bedroom, or a loo. But it seemed like Davin decided to give him time to recover and a chance to come back to them on his own, whereas Darla had enough of her own mess to sort out, so Brady gladly (not really) took the escape route they'd given him, like an escape artist he was.

It's not like he actually hoped to escape what had happened. But that's why he couldn't make himself step over the familiar threshold as if nothing had changed; if he couldn't forget that it was him, no one else, who had told them of the Plague as soon as it had started, that it was him who was the reason why they had managed to reach the Knockturn Alley before it was covered with the anti-apparition barrier... what are the chances that everyone else forgot? Would they be happy to see him at all... no, no, that wasn't so much important as - would he be able to look them in the eye? Could he?

Brady knew that not everyone had returned from the Knockturn Alley alive. It would be so much simpler, so much fairer, if he was one of those. But since he wasn't, then the least he could do is to stay out of the Origins' sight and, hopefully, out of their mind, too.

For almost a month, he managed just that. Without any extra effort, really, especially since the Plague was closely followed by that charity concert that turned to shit and ashes and took even more lives. The concert hit Dursley pretty hard, so Brady and him together hid in that little world of theirs, in the inchanted house in the forest in the middle of nowhere, caring to their wounds, trying to mend each other back to whole. But even though the wounds had mostly healed over time, the traumas hardly had. Unfortunately, one couldn't simply treat them with dittany essence.

In the end, Brady had started coming back to the outside world a lot sooner than Dursley. His leg still bothered Wade, and all in all... Anyway, Brady didn't nudge him but as for himself, he couldn't bear sitting there useless any longer. Anxiety, nightmares, and other fine chaps were still keeping him company but Brady realised that it's easier to put up with them on the go. And it's not like they magically acquired extra cash all of a sudden, so the sooner Brady could go back to work, hunting for artefacts, the better. And then maybe... Maybe, Wade's shop still got a chance to survive.

For now, though, walking the streets and shops of London felt ambitious enough.

And a pub, yeah, why not? Brady's favourite hot spot used to be The White Wyvern - the first "adult" pub he was ever served at, the place where met his first friend after school and got so shit-faced he failed to remember how he landed himself his first job, Brady had been faithful to the Wyvern for years, up until... yeah, well. He didn't know for sure if the Wyvern had re-opened or not, if anything there had re-opened, in fact, but he wasn't in any haste to check. Walking was fine - the last thing he needed was war flashbacks from the sight of the familiar cobbled stones. That kind of shit he wasn't ready for just yet.

Therefore, The Hopping Pot. Either out of naivety or foolishness, Brady doesn't think he'll bump into anybody he knows here. Or, rather, he kind of expects this could happen but for some reason, he doesn't think it would be anyone of the Origins. And even if this is the case, why would they want to deal with him at all?

So, no, he doesn't expect to turn away from the counter, having just placed an order, and - Dorian, it's Dorian, right in front of him, the gold of his curls and the anger of his voice and his take on personal space, very loose. No hi from him, no how-have-you-been, but also - no it-was-you! and no punching in the face as Brady would've predicted.

Dorian is mad, Dorian is hurt but the reason is so unexpected it takes some time before Brady understands what has just been thrown at him in a passionate, slightly accentuated stream of words. Dorian is obviously drunk but it doesn't matter for now, doesn't hinder the message. So Brady gets it - and feels lost. Catches the light reflected from the golden curls and with a sinking feeling in his chest understands that the last time he last saw Dorian was that morning in the Knockturn Alley. They were separated soon after and... the thing is - and it's the most awful thing to come around to - Brady couldn't be sure, not until this second, this meeting, that he will ever see Dorian alive again. It's been a month, and he still hasn't mustered enough courage to find out the names of those who died that day. Coward.

He doesn't know what his face reflects at this precise moment but the guilt hits him so hard, the realization of his utter cowardice makes him so sick that Brady desperately wants to cover it with his hands. Of course, he doesn't.

He opens his mouth instead and:

'I didn't know... I wasn't sure you'd want to see me,' comes out almost quieter than could be heard in the noisy pub, next to the wild crowd, apparently from the W.A.D.A. Brady almost can't look Dorian straight in the eye but he tries, his gaze constantly slipping away to something more bearable, to some or other bloke behind Dorian's shoulder, anyone or anything at all. He tries louder: 'How is everyone? How's Davin? How... how are you?'

Someone pocks him in the shoulder then and Brady's been so tense, so strung out, that he flinches from the touch - but it's just a barman, handing him the cocktail. Brady looks into the depth of the stuff he's ordered back when he has thought that the evening is going to be quiet and uneventful. Then sighs, turns back to the barman, gives him back the drink, and asks: 'Can I have some firewhiskey, please?'

Отредактировано Gilroy Brady (2020-10-17 20:20:44)

Dorian's words feel like slaps - no, like stabs in the heart. Brady goes pale, Brady suddenly doesn't know how to talk because there is something in his throat, like a rock, that takes all the place and threatens to strangle him for good. Every decision he's made, every step he's taken since November turn into the biggest mistakes of his life under this furious current of words, turn into betrayal. They've been waiting for him, the living and the dead, and he let them down. Is there any excuse he can make? Does he want to be excused at all - or, better yet, forgiven?

He tries - not that but. To explain himself at least. Although he doesn't know what he's going to say when he utters helplessly:

'Dorian, I...'

And then something happens. Something happens to Dorian.

His first thought is that his friend is just drunker than he's presumed but it's more than this and weirder, too. Dorian's eyes are glassy, his forehead looks clammy in this half-light, and all of a sudden he turns so unsteady that Brady has to catch him midfall, alarmed, his cocktail spilling all over his chest.

'What?' he asks in shock. Poisoned? The fuck?! He grabs Dorian by his shoulders, looks into his face and sees that he's barely conscious at this point, sweaty and shivering and hot. 'Dorian!' He's so freaked out he can't think of what to do; his mind goes blank and in Dorian here he sees everyone, every person from the Origins on that day, dying dying dying in his arms, right before him, and he can't do anything. No, actually he can do something tonight! Holding his friend closer to him, Brady turns to the barman and shouts at him: 'Hey! My friend's been poisoned! Call a doctor or... or something!'

At the meantime, he demands to let him through to the nearest couch and half-carries, half-leads Dorian to it, lowers him down gently.

'Hey, pal. How are you doing? Don't kick the bucket on me, alright?' he squeezes Dorian's arm and his fingers are shaking.

Отредактировано Gilroy Brady (2020-10-18 22:32:59)

It takes one look from the barman who's returned from wherever he has gone to, to understand that help's not coming - at least, not right away. So in this crowd, surrounded by the confused and worried flock of Dorian's mates, Brady finds himself completely alone - not to discount Dorian who's lying restlessly, making indistinct noises, and clearly has no intention of just magically getting better on his own.

Magic. They need some goddamn magic.

The answer is so obvious it seems like a trick - to bring him back, to lure him, make him return. But even though Dorian is a pretty good actor, to pull off that kind of knocked out would be too much even for him.

'Right, get out of the way, we're going.'

Because he can't apparate, can he? Not with Dorian in a state like this - who knows how bad the apparition process will treat him. No, he will have to do this himself and hope he has enough time.

Almost carrying his friend out of the pub, with his arm over his shoulder and legs barely moving, their height difference not much help as well, Brady thinks this - all of this - looks too much like a reckoning. Of course, it's not about him, it's about Dorian but Brady remembers Dorian's words about him being hurt during the Plague as the weight of the body of a grown-up man pulls painfully at his own wound, straining torn-up muscles and scar tissue, barely healed. What goes around comes around after all.

However, as they cross the street and turn the corner, Brady starts realising what kind of poison Dorian could have meant and the panic slowly subsides. His first thought was to fear the very worst - in his line of business, poisoning usually means the stuff that can be only cured by a bezoar stone and shit, and it's easy to forget that for others the world operates in a kind of a different way. That there are such things as food poisoning and... well, that stuff that a pretty boy like Dorian can get slipped into his drink to be made meak and unresisting. Brady blood's boils at the thought. He doesn't think he will get a clear reply but he asks anyway:

'Hey, does anyone drugged your beer or something?'

It doesn't mean it's not dangerous or urgent. It just means Dorian won't die on him, and this thought almost makes Brady sit right here on the street and cry with relief. And then head straight back to the pub and punch every motherfucker who looks too disappointed by them leaving. But who will take care of Dorian then, who will help him and bring him home?

Nah, Brady, it's your job and you'd better not screw it up this time. Brady looks at his friend's profile and says softly:

'Don't worry, I won't leave you.'

Whereupon his mind's voice adds unnecessarily, Again. 


The Origins' house is quiet at this kind of hour and Brady has enough feelings to battle through at the moment, confronted by all too familiar sights and smells, to wish for any real confrontation to top it all off. Besides, he knows his way around the house and he knows how to deal with problems like this as well.

It takes twenty minutes tops to work his way through the Origins' potion supplies and make a quick concoction which he carefully makes Dorian drink and then stays to watch how life and self-awareness slowly return to his friend.

The room is barely lit and smells strongly of herbs. Brady sits on an ottoman next to the couch and fidgets with the bowl of green mass in his hands. The smell triggers... all sorts of things and it's the longing, the forbidden desire to rummage through the cabinets once more and cook up something really quickly just to calm the nerves and ease the muscle pain, that makes Brady talk, just to stop the thinking:

'Funny how I should know this stuff works, right? One guy tried to slip something like that to me once but luckily I was high as a kite and only learned about it from him when he got all handsy and didn't expect me to resist, the jerk. My memory was shit in October but I thought - huh, that can come in handy again so I tried and remembered what I'd put in my potion that helped me so. I guess I was right.'

Отредактировано Gilroy Brady (2020-10-19 14:47:39)

Slowly but surely, Dorian comes to his senses; the process takes his full attention, for now, sparing none for Brady's words and, honestly, for the better - Brady has been rambling for his own sake mostly, just to keep his mind from wandering. He is certainly glad that he has someone to answer to now - that Dorian's better.

"Some douchebag must have spiked your drink," Brady watches his friend, trying to assess his well-being although not much can be discerned in this half-light. Still, the very fact that Dorian is talking and moving certainly seems like a good sign to Brady. "If you know who it was, tell me his name, I'll slip him something nasty next time."

He avoids answering the next question - he doesn't know how. He's here for now, and as for him coming back... Surely they can talk about it, think about it some other time when none of them is freshly poisoned?

But Dorian has other ideas, as always. He tries to sit, all aching body from wounds old and new, and Brady tut-tuts at him in a fond albeit amused way, trying to support him lest he fall over.

"Really? You're asking if I'm okay, me?"

But the thing is, they both aren't, and even though the effects of the wicked potion will soon wear off, something gnaws at Dorian from long before this night, and Brady knows the source - and the pain - all too well. He swallows his first, intuitive response - "Honestly, I'm trying not to think about it right now, like, very hard" - because he owes Dorian at least that. To quit shutting it all off. To quit running. So he sighs and takes another long look around. He knows this house in and out, from the creaks of the stairs to the shape of its walls.

"Like nothing has changed," he says at last, softly. "But that's the problem, you know. Everything did."

He's quiet for a moment before he adds, dropping his gaze.

"I wasn't going to desert you all. I... I wasn't in any shape to help anyone after Mungo and then, in a few days, the charity concert happened and Wade was... well, you can imagine. He felt so responsible, I just couldn't leave him like that and... truth to tell, I felt responsible too. Still do," he swallows before looking Dorian straight in the eye. "We wouldn't be there in time for the anti-apparition barrier to drop right behind our backs if it weren't for me, you know that."

Отредактировано Gilroy Brady (2021-02-16 22:02:17)