(no subject)

[hugogogadget]

Who: Hugo and Corrie
What: Onna date!
Where: Henhurst to Glasgow to Poor Lenore's
When: April 17, Saturday, 8 pm
Rating: PG (😎 legal drinking 😎)



Timing was difficult with dates. On one hand, being slightly late could be a great way to reassert dominance after being flustered from being asked out. But on the other, how did you know the other person was on time if you weren't yourself? Best to just show up when you're supposed to, probably, and not let on that you were almost deeply weird about the whole thing.

Instead of commenting on the time in any way, Corrie nodded at the poster on the kitchen cupboard just opposite. "You know, I think I like the Don't-waste one a bit better really," she said. "Nothing against the Food of the Nation, but that one's a bit tetchier and that's funny to think of the person behind the poster being really tetchy."

“Well, I feel properly scolded,” Hugo replied, amused by the thought of the peeved poster-maker. “Feels like one of my dad’s pre-date lectures, if I’m being honest. Tuck in your shirt, talk about things she likes, don’t order anything messy, please don’t be gross.” The speeches were well-intentioned, a bit cliche, and made it abundantly clear that Ron fundamentally didn’t understand why Hermoine fell for him.

Hugo, if anyone was curious, had arrived at the kitchen five minutes before their agreed upon time, decided he was too early, returned to his room, then doubled back once more to the kitchen exactly two minutes early. Which, to his estimation, was good. This level of consternation was unusual for him. He was a proud veteran of many dates and a handful of girlfriends, thankyouverymuch, but this date had a few not-insignificant firsts. For starters, Corrie was his sister’s friend. And two, Corrie was a witch. And while maybe that shouldn’t matter, it did.

Hugo turned back to Corrie, putting on the sunglasses he’d been instructed to wear. “Last chance to bail. Otherwise, I say we be on our way, order some food, and be sure as hell to eat all of it. For country.”

"Countries," she corrected, immediately starting for the stairs. "I'll be in mine so obviously I've got to eat all, can't have an Englishman showing me up on my own turf."

His dad's pre-date lectures sounded weirdly mundane to Corrie. Almost… nice? Like what your older mates told you before you went to Hogsmeade with someone. All she'd got was some frankly awful advice and assumptions (and other things) from her mum, and anxious medical explanations from her dad, all of it way earlier than she had any interest in using it. Which actually may have been why she didn't use any of it sooner. The number of dates she'd been on when her folks were there to see her off had been almost nonexistent. And when Wil'd come to visit her, she'd felt more like she had to lecture them.

But Hugo had lived at home, given everything, so it stood to reason that he'd got kind of matey with his parents.

"Oh," she said in a different tone as soon as they reached the stairwell. "How're we getting there?" Scotland was as good as a step away to her, but it was a ways if you didn't have magic, wasn't it? Could you side-along apparate a squib?

You could indeed. Hugo had bounced around the country and world as witches and wizards’ plus-1 for years. Earlier in his life, he’d resisted. A stubborn, childish rejection of magical help that had added hours to many a family trip. However, as he’d grown up, he’d cared less. And in this moment, not at all. Especially since it meant-- “Take my hand?” He extended one out to Corrie. “I trust you know the way.”

Her face flashed relief, and then, just as suddenly, suspicion: holding hands already, huh? her eyes seemed to say. But if he looked shifty she couldn't see it, because he'd worn shades as instructed. Curses, foiled again.

She flicked him on the bridge of his glasses, and took his hand. "Of course."

*****

"Ooh hurry hurry the spot's open, grab it quick," Corrie said, dragging Hugo through locals and free-standing tables to the prime location at the bar, and depositing them at the appropriate barstools with a sigh of victory.

"Hail the conquering heroes," the gargoyle sneered, rolling its eyes at her. "There's five other places you could sit, can't you pick one of them?"

“Mate, you don’t even know us. What if you love us, eh? Give us a chance.” Hugo retorted, hopping up onto his barstool. “And hey, if we’re really as terrible as you expect, you can always go take one of those five tables for yourself, you know?” And with that, Hugo turned away from the gargoyle and to his date, not entirely expecting that they’d be spared further interruption.

“I’m not always that rude,” he assured her before looking around the room. Corrie’s old haunt. “So, what are the chances we run into someone you know? Family, old mates, one of your fans.” She was a professional athlete after all! Then, at the risk of undercutting his comment about not being rude, he added, “Maybe an ex?”

Corrie snorted and shoved a menu at Hugo. She'd known him two months, she knew he wasn't always rude.

"Besides the staff? Maybe mates. The old house's only," vague wavyish gesture, direction uncertain, "in Paisley and it's all Quidditchers and it's not a match night. I wish I'd get a fan round, but not many people recognize me yet unless they're diehard Pride, which." She grimaced, unaware that Hugo wouldn't know the significance.

"But unless they come creeping specifically, it'll probably be family-free. The only one lives up here is my gran and she's not one for pubs." And she hadn't told her sister where they were going tonight. Try sleuthing that one out, Hollyoaks.

She turned her attention to the menu. "They do a good steak pie here, but the macaroni's not bad either."

So, she ignored the part about an ex. Noted. Went there once, shouldn’t go back. The Middle East of conversation topics. Relatedly, Hugo probably shouldn’t bring up England’s history of imperialistic conflict, even though Corrie had seemingly previously enjoyed their conversations about WWI and WWII. Conversation. A metaphorical minefield, eh?

Instead, he picked up his menu and weighed her recommendations. One of the two items would’ve given him the farts, so-- “Yeah, steak pie sounds good to me!” Hugo set back down his menu and looked at the taps. “And maybe a Bearface lager.”

“She ignored the part about an ex,” the gargoyle felt a need to point out.

“Mate, that’s none of our business!” Hugo shot back, then looked apologetically at Corrie. “Sorry about him. Honestly.” He shook his head. Some people. Unbelievable. “Alright, so no family unless they creep around. You close with them, yeah? You mentioned your brother in the journals the other day. He gonna come around the building sometime?”

"Nnnnn, yeah," Corrie said, shooting a glare at the gargoyle. Better her brother than the ex, and anyway, where would she be if she just vetoed subjects left and right? She'd be her brother, that's where, refusing to tell people about anything.

"I'm giving him use of my garden plot on the roof so he's coming this week to set it up." She shrugged. Grubbing around pulling weeds wasn't her idea of a good time. She'd already did her time in Herbology. "He's old and dull so he gets more out of plants and stuff. I don't know what the duchess sees in him."

That description elicited a laugh out of Hugo. “I’ve got no clue either! Though, good for him, yeah? Feel like we’re all looking for someone who sees things in us that no one else does. Or understands us in a way others don’t.” Hugo shrugged, then from the corner of his eye, caught a slack-jawed gargoyle giving him a WTF look. “Aaaaand that ends my philosophizing for the evening,” Hugo tacked on with a self-deprecating laugh. “Ready to order?”

Corrie sat in silence for a moment. Someone who saw you different was great. But what if you realized they saw you all wrong really? What if they saw you different because they completely missed the point?

Or what if they were right, and you were the one that was wrong?

She shook herself. "Oh, uh, yeah," she said, and waved to call someone over.

*****

"Told you it was good," Corrie said, grinning at him as she sliced up her barbecued chicken. Based on her tone you'd think he had doubted her and fought her every step of the way. "Scotland does the best steak pie."

“No, England!” Hugo shot back, matching her grin. But the retort was mostly out of patriotic duty, and a large mouthful of (absolutely delicious) steak pie likely betrayed his real feelings. Whatever. If questioned under oath, he could honestly say he stood up for the Queen.

He nodded toward her food. “Surprised you got the chicken. Figured our current residence, you know, might affect your choices. Or,” he leaned forward, chewing thoughtfully, sly smile returning, “is there no changing Coronation Street Pye?”

The fact of the matter was that she had a bizarre need to never order the same thing as whoever she was with. But the chicken was good, too, so it was fine.

"Why should I change?" she retorted, sounding suddenly very Scottish and uncannily like her mum. "I'm grand. Anyway," she said, leaning toward him and lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I'm pretending it's Gallus. No chicken gods, no masters." And she stuffed a slice in her mouth with an air of unnecessary defiance.

What a moment. Sitting there, both leaning in close over a sweet-smelling plate of barbecued breast meat, inviting the wrath of the chicken gods... “No,” he shook his head. “You shouldn’t change.” Hugo watched and waited until Corrie finished her blasphemous bite. “So, safe to say we’ve crossed ‘appetizing’ off our to-do list for the night?”

Corrie let out a puff of laughter, her eyes darting to him and then skittering away again. "Yeah, I reckon we've done that," she admitted, and took a swig of butterbeer.

That was the second time he'd remembered something they'd talked about and brought it up again. Wait, third? That she could think of? And there was nothing wrong with that, she did it herself to other people, but she wasn't used to them doing it to her. At least not new-ish people that she hadn't known that long really, when you thought about it.

"...Probably still not nourishing though," she added when she'd come back up for air.

"You knew what you were getting into when you came here," said the gargoyle.

“You’ll miss us when we’re gone,” Hugo lobbed back at the gargoyle. And the reverse would be true, too. It was a unique experience, having your date be the subject of color commentary. Hugo wondered how they compared to all the other interactions the gargoyle had witnessed. Was this date... good? Hugo folded his paper napkin in half into a triangle, then again once more. “Well, if we’re not going to find nourishment here, do we soldier on to Poor Lenore’s? Or do we accept our two victories and call it a night? Not tempt the Fates any more than we already have?”

That was an out. A clear one. Huh.

"Have you been to Lenore's?" Corrie said, cocking her head and giving him a sidelong look. There was nothing more nourishing there -- hot dogs were not nutrition -- but they did have more kinds of non-beer and she'd been planning on getting a real drink there. And there was music, and things.

She drained her bottle and set it aside. "Yeah, let's go on," she said. "It's fun, and I wanna do the photo booth."

“Good,” Hugo replied. And he meant it. He hopped off his seat and stretched without realizing it, because sometimes that’s what you just do after a satisfying meal. “Oh,” he turned to Corrie, “when I went to the bathroom earlier, I paid.” He threw his sunglasses back on and offered out his hand. “But I’ll take another ride if you don’t mind.”

"What're my options?" she asked, but it was without any edge of heat, chill or suspicion. And taking his hand, they popped off.

"Good riddance," grumbled the gargoyle.

*****

"You can lose the shades," Corrie yelled into her date's ear. "It's too dark in here!" Too loud, too, even if they weren't in back with the live music. Lenore's whole business was built on that high-volume-low-light ambiance.

And as promised (to herself), the drinks were better. Marginally. Easier to get something fun that actually tasted like something. She sipped her fruity mix in satisfaction.

The shades came off and near-blackness was replaced with, well, mostly-blackness. But now Hugo could see his drink (something red, smoking, with a straw that moved on its own) and Corrie (fruity drink in hand, a little flush, leaning in to be heard) and a mass of patrons incl--

Hugo ducked down, so sudden that the semi-sentient straw seemed to jump in surprise. By the door he’d seen the unmistakable brick frame of Jessalynn Jorgens, Auror Secret Service member and Hugo’s friend [...] government-issued bodyguard. Perhaps here to socialize, perhaps here to find her ward. “Photobooth?” Hugo yelled over to Corrie, wary that mentioning his bodyguard was here would be aggressively uncool. “Didn’t you want to do the photobooth? Probably quieter in there!” he added, glancing unmistakably back over at Jessalynn, who was scanning the room.

Corrie, startled by the spontaneous Whack-a-mole impression, followed Hugo's gaze, half thinking she was going to catch him ducking some spurned lover: that was guilty over a jealous ex behaviour all over. But all she saw was the general everyone, and… oh, wasn't that their neighbour?

Wait.

Oh, right. Dur.

She smoothly sank down beside him. This way, she mouthed, and jerked her head, then straightened and led the way, pushing through the crowd with the occasional casual backward glance to ensure they wouldn't run into his bodyguard, and pausing to let him go in first.

Hugo slipped through the velvet curtain into the photobooth and scooted as deep as he could to make room for Corrie. He leaned over her to peek back out. Jessalyn was milling about the bar. At least she wasn’t showing everyone a photo of him like some detective on Law & Order: Diagon Alley. Hugo pulled back inside. “I think give it a few minutes and we’ll be in the clear.” Hugo rested his head against the back wall, then turned it to look at Corrie. “Don’t worry, I know some people in high places. I’m pretty sure you won’t get charged for kidnapping. Definitely no jail time. Maybe some community service.”

Corrie scoffed. "Kidnapping nothing, you delinquent. I'm an innocent bystander, you just ran off. Next time at least tell me so I can have the fun of knowing we're on the lam." Though maybe she should've realized when he'd shown up alone, but that was generally the way of it, after all. And she'd just forgotten about all that bodyguard business. It wasn't really a thing for anyone else she knew, and she knew a lot of people.

It wasn't a thing for Rose, even. She chewed her lip. Her head fell against the wall, clunk. "Oi," she said, quieter. "Have you ever actually needed all that?"

Hugo exhaled, thinking. “Over the years, different guards have…” he counted off on his fingers, “...saved my spot in line, held the door for me, stopped me from walking into traffic, listened to my woes and shared their advice, helped me with maths homework, given me extra change when I came up a little short, kicked the football back and forth with me, and one time, clotheslined what we thought to be a mugger, but turned out to be a young female fan of the Minister’s son. Either way, it could’ve gotten real ugly.”

The truth was, there were likely many more times his bodyguards had stepped in over the years. Times they’d done things he just hadn’t been aware of or privy to. Thinking about the whole situation made him feel… small. He pushed the feeling away and gave a sidelong smile to Corrie. “I try to keep them busy.”

That was a much more mundane list of duties than she'd been expecting, though she supposed you couldn't be in life-threatening danger all the time. But nothing he'd said was anywhere near as mad as half the things Hugo had done since she met him. Rappelling down the elevator shaft, for one: how had the bodyguard not caught him in time to stop that? Wouldn't that be part of the job, or had he somehow wriggled out of her grasp then too even though he'd literally made the plans publicly, in the journal? (Maybe she wasn't a big reader.)

The only instance that was particularly interesting was:

"You had a fan?" Corrie said, in a possibly insulting tone of disbelief.

“Obviously I had a fan,” Hugo scoffed, making an effort to sound offended. “I’ve probably got... loads. Handsome guy with a great personality and sick beats, it’s bound to happen. That’s just maths, mate. Don’t need to be a Quidditch player to have fans.” He took a sip of his drink then peeked in Corrie’s direction. “You’re fine though. My bodyguards don’t clothesline every girl that likes me. Just the ones who run up screaming and wildly waving a camera.”

Corrie snorted. "Thanks for the warning. I can't promise anything about screaming, but I'll remember to leave my camera at home." She nudged him, not hard enough to hurt but enough to jostle his drink. "Well if this booth's the only way I’ll ever get a photo with you, I reckon we'd better make it good. I say we start off strong with a Rock on, any objections?"

Hugo slid his sunglasses back on, letting them rest half-way up his nose. “No objections from me.” He fished out a couple of coins from his pocket and fed them into the machine. As the timer began to tick down, he mussed his hair so it lay messily over his forehead. Then he tried to do the same to Corrie. For the aesthetic… and as payback for nearly spilling his drink.

Her mouth dropped in mock horror -- and since she'd already geared up to rock out with an aggressively scrunched face, the combination that the booth caught as she turned toward him was expressive, but not her best look. She realized it a second too late - gave up - and went for his hair with her free hand, trying to hold her precious drink safely out of the way.

Okay, he deserved that. Not only did Corrie successfully get his hair, but all that chaos in such a small space caused Hugo to spill his drink down the front of himself. A rather cold drink, judging by his shocked expression in the second photo that was taken. “You,” his eyes narrowed at Corrie, the rest of his body still frozen a beat longer. “Oh, it’s on.” He grabbed a handful of ice cubes from his cup and flicked them her way. The thought of a truce never once crossed his mind.

Instinct kicked in. Corrie went to block the cubes with both hands, bringing her drink hand down, suddenly, and out, sharply. It was too much, too late: the cubes bounced off her, and her berry-flavoured cocktail sloshed out on Hugo, the booth catching them mid-splash.

At this point, all Hugo could do was laugh -- the sheer ridiculousness of it all! He was wearing two different drinks, his sunglasses were barely hanging onto his face, and a mop of berry-flavored hair hung down over his forehead. Laughter -- difficult to stop once started -- tipped him sideways and up against Corrie’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw a fourth and final flash followed by the rhythmic churning of the machine, as their photo-strip was printed out.

Corrie's head fell back against the wall, her face to the ceiling, choking, eyes streaming. She tried to speak, but it took her a few minutes to manage more than a strangled ow. "That - was not - a Rock - on," she said finally, and dissolved into giggles again. "We can't go back out there like this. Well, mainly you."

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Hugo tried to cut through Corrie’s laughter and get her attention. “I’m sorry, but what about me isn’t fit for going back out there?” He punctuated his faux-indignation with little huff, which was followed by a sigh, which was followed by a put-upon, “Okay fine whatever.” Hugo leaned forward, presenting himself for her to make whatever little ‘alterations’ she thought were necessary.

Corrie let out a long pfffft, a breathy remnant of her laughing fit. "No, back," she said, as if it was obvious, and pushed him against the wall, giving her space to pull out her wand. She'd need a few minutes' calmdown to cast anything more complicated, but drying spells were easy, you used them all the time. A burst of warm air blasted Hugo's hair back, and he was no longer dripping. "Can't help the smell and you'll wanna wash it, but it's dark enough no one should notice much."

The gust of warm air and suddenly-dry hair felt nice. And it was hard to hide it, so Hugo didn’t. He gave a cheeky shrug. “I like the smell.” He reached out to grab the photostrip, only to discover there were actually two. “Here,” he handed one to Corrie, before glancing down at his own. He smiled. They looked ridiculous. And Hugo took special care to put it in a dry pocket. “Another round?” he asked Corrie, then added an important clarification, “And this time we agree to actually drink them?”

"Pfffft. Yes, please," she said, looking up from the photos. They were completely stupid -- but weirdly fun. Fitting. "It made a better drink than an accessory."