Fascination Street
Summary: There are unlikely encounters, and then there are unlikely encounters. A werewolf and Ravenclaw meet on a cold night.
He was drunk.
He was drunk and she wasn't his type.
She was bored.
She was bored and he definitely wasn't her type.
He was drunk, bored, and she definitely wasn't his type.
But the eyes. Moon pale, icy blue and defiant onyx, meeting through a too sparse crowd of tables—each lit as if from stage spotlights by hanging lanterns—the eyes were locked, and that was the beginning of the end.
He debated for only a second if he was too drunk to go to where she sat, at a table by the embering fire. Of course he wasn't. So up it was and over, flicking a smile just slight enough to conceal the tasting of lips and teeth. He snagged a waiter on his way, ordering something light and sweet for the (lady? girl? bloody Asians were impossible to pin down) and slid into the seat opposite her, never doubting his welcome.
Up close she was more girl than lady, which prised something like a real smile.
"Pardon my taking interest," he graveled as gently as he could, "but you don't exactly look like a regular."
She shrugged as if one dim, grungy pub were just as bad as all the others—but that didn't exactly hold for the patrons. Her eyes hadn't left him. At least he had that going. Before she could really get a word in the waiter settled a slightly dusty flute of something in front of her and a fresh pint in front of him.
"Is that all it takes to get such attention?" she asked, lifting her flute, "Cheers."
His smile was crooked. She had to lean in to make sure the glasses connected and it was obvious the movement was also to better scrutinize him—the ancient scars, the weathered skin and silver hair—all were subject to the jury of the right eye and judge of the left. The executioner was most definitely the lips, capable, he suspected, of as much wondrous cruelty as his hands.
Hands that were, for the moment, incredibly undecided. One wrapped around the handle of the mug, pretending it was her fragile little neck, the other which tapped and fiddled against the tabletop to something that might have been a drinking song.
"No, but it helps in these parts," he said after a a long drink. "And if you say you're waiting for someone I'd say he either has terrible taste or it really is as cold as you look outside."
A giggle, coy and fleeting. "I won't say then," was the reply as her eyes shifted to roam the scars across his face. The older ones were barely visible in the dim lighting, but those that were not so stood out like deep crags. Her fingers twitched in suppression of the need to touch, as the judge and jury widened and--
"I'm sorry for staring, but your scars...how did you get them, if it's not terribly rude...?"
Somewhere, a pair of jaws snapped shut and locked. He shook his head, stretching casually, but in such a way that musculature was hinted at beneath the heavy coat that was draped loose about his shoulders.
"I have the bad luck of running afoul of almost every magical beast I meet, and I travel, so that tends to be a lot," It was almost the truth. Nothing said that he was one such beast himself.
She leveled a look of amazement with his pale eyes, as if searching for something. The lie, maybe? Or just taking another step down the rabbit hole?
"Surely you've learned how to avoid them by now? Or are you one of those rugged types who lives for the thrill, or impressing ladies like myself?" She thought she had him with that for how he paused, his fingers stopped tapping, and he returned her searching gaze.
But he only laughed, a rumbling bark, which drew several curious eyes from the bar. Not that anyone could really appreciate the joke but him. He took it back. Maybe she was his type after all.
"Impressing birds is for blokes out on a romp, I think it's much more fun to fascinate them, personally." Whether it was the alcohol or the girl, he didn't know. It had been ages since he'd been confronted with her sort of (blind?) fearlessness. It made him want to know what she did fear. Never a good thought when he'd only just begun to consider if she was his type.
She leaned back, considering his words, careful not to betray much outwardly. The smile flickered and warped into a thoughtful frown—she seemed unaware in that considering silence of the minute change in his breathing; the rapidity of it compared to a moment before.
"That's a terribly clever way of looking at things," she replied at last. "...has it earned you much success?"
Her hand loosed from the stem of the flute, and it was everything in his power not to show her how far this same game they were playing now had gotten him. She was small, it wouldn't take much, and here no one would care. He could make as many similar lamb to the slaughter analogies as he liked, but if he wanted to be honest, none of them quite fit. The lamb was ignorant to it's danger not confident towards it.
In the end he compromised, putting his free hand more squarely on the small table, to the point where fingertips were almost touching.
"Enough," he countered, "Don't you think you'll spend more time wondering about what we don't say tonight?"
Electric blue nails clicked against his heavy, unkempt ones. "Only if I'm the type who wonders." It was the first time she tried to hide the fascination, the fact that he had long ago captured her with a glance and a smile. This time it was his hand that twitched, nerves triggered by a fall of soft black hair that escaped from behind a moved shoulder. If this kept up, he would just pull her into the back room.
It couldn't be helped, fingertips brushed lightly as she reached for the flute again—took a sip—and returned it to the table. He bit back a frustrated growl, whatever bizarre reason he had for holding back burning like moths—his hand unclenched to catch her small one--
And suddenly she stood, turning towards the door. His hand retracted immediately as she gathered a long black coat and large case of some sort, all apologetic smiles.
"I guess he has bad taste," she said, by way of farewell, with a kind wink and shrug. There was a young man waiting outside, rubbing his arms briskly against the cold.
He watched her go, seriously considering not. It was her fault, getting him all worked up and then scuttling out with a smile. But no, no, he reconsidered, all the better to let this one go.
It always made meeting again so much more interesting.