alone on a hill | mickey

[temperance elizabeth fleming]

This isn't all about attention

This isn't all about connection

March 2, 2029
michelangelo tiberius mclaggen

A year changed a lot of things. Temperance nursed the beer one of her coworkers had bought her, though she was still processing the last shot someone had shoved in her face. Thank Merlin, it was Friday, and Temp could sleep the following day. Since burying her father, life had simplified in a way. One less thing to worry about, managing his things, had been handled quite robotically. Naturally, she sold the house. There wasn’t a need for such a large space full of unhappy memories and the room where Eli had found his body. Now Temperance rented an apartment in London—a comfortable space for herself and Shiloh.

The guardianship paperwork had taken little time, and Temp threw herself wholly into her work. Momentarily forgetting about the beer, she asked the bartender for a glass of water. Her mouth felt dry. Her coworkers continued to drink and talk amongst themselves, and Temp didn’t mind. They had come out to celebrate her promotion that week. No longer an associate producer but a full producer in her own right. Merlin knew she’d been pulling that sort of weight for a while. Now, she had the pay and title to match.

Looking back down at her phone, she stared at the message she’d drafted but not sent. Every once in a while, she had to force herself to blink as her vision blurred from staring too long, as well as the alcohol in her system. The irony that a Quidditch-related project essentially got her the promotion was never far from her mind. The reboot of 7 for 7 was a remarkable success, and she was working on the next season. But she hadn’t told her family. Honestly, Temp didn’t know why. She basically only texted Cal if she had mail for them or something, and if she had to tell Shiloh something, it was usually in person. The glass of water arrived, and Temp sipped from the cold glass while still pondering the message.

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[michelangelo tiberius mclaggen]

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Having a Friday off from both practice and a match was a rare occurrence, though one Mickey could wholly appreciate. He spent the morning lying about on his sofa, hours sucked away by staring into his phone. Typically that was an activity reserved for the wee hours of the morning, when he struggled to fall asleep after getting home from a late match. The days that followed games weren’t always free, unless the team won, because they were instantly trying to correct any poor behavior that had reared its ugly head over the previous week. Starting fresh wasn’t exactly a thing that the Bats did. It was a constant grind of practice, correction, and adaptation to playing against the next squad. Personally, Mickey enjoyed it. Too much idling about created laziness. As the Captain, he was required to make sure that didn’t happen.

Going out as a team helped prevent that. Mickey, while he always attended, was not the biggest fan of his teammates’ constant clubbing. Usually he bowed out halfway through the night and found himself in a corner of a bar on his own. It worked better for him, and the quiet contemplation it allowed was far more preferred to the rambunctiousness of the team. Today, he had already excused himself from the line of muggle clubs that they had decided upon and made his way back to Horizont Alley. It was still early, maybe even too early to be clubbing to begin with. They had practice in the morning and keeping himself in working order was sort of important for his position. Plus, they were also putting a potential recruit, Addilyn Slater, through a series of tests. Mickey had seen a few clips of her with the Harpies before suffering from an injury. Now, she was looking at the Bats to get some playing time. Luckily for her, they had the space to offer it.

Popping into the Violet Hound, Mickey nodded at the bartender for his usual and started to push his way through a throng of bodies that were pooled around the center of the bar. At first, he didn’t realize that the many familiar faces all belonged to members of the Witch TV crew, having spent some time with them over the past year working on one of their newer Quidditch programs. After the third person said hello to him as he made his way towards the other side of the bar, it finally clicked. It seemed like he had unknowingly descended upon a party of some sort. That didn’t stop him though, as he had already made his order and was in the process of slinking into his normal corner spot.

Which was taken by a grizzled looking dragonologist sort, who, from the way he was holding his pint, had lost two and a half fingers on his left hand. Nasty business, that was. Far more dangerous than having quaffles and bludgers launched at your face daily. At least those were somewhat predictable. Correcting course, he decided that he wasn’t too opposed to being near the Witch TV group. They were all fine enough people. And luckily for him, he recognized one of their producers already seated at the bar, nursing a drink on her own.

”I didn’t know half of these them had faces,” Mickey said as he took a seat next to Temperance Fleming. ”They’re always stuck behind cameras that I only know them by voice.” The bartender placed his beer in front of him and Mickey instantly drained half of it. He needed that after the walk he’d just made after separating from the team.

temperance elizabeth fleming ● 605

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[temperance elizabeth fleming]

This isn't all about attention

This isn't all about connection

March 2, 2029
michelangelo tiberius mclaggen

It took Temp a moment to place the voice, which was perhaps just a side effect of the alcohol. Truth be told, she didn’t drink like this often. Something about watching her late father’s miserable spiral for so long turned her off to it. But, at the same time, she couldn’t deny the serenity found at the bottom of a bottle. The thought was enough to bring a chill up her spine because while it was good, it was also a slippery slope. Glancing sideways, Temp saw the Quidditch Captain she had become acquainted with the previous year for this program.

”I’m definitely better with voices than faces.” Mickey had a point, and Temp found herself failing to notice if someone changed their hair or grew a beard but immediately if their voice would change. The cameras and constantly looking at notes would do that. ”No team today?” Temp wondered as she returned to her beer. Meeting various players over the past year had been interesting. Some, like Mickey, were more or less pleasant to be around, while others required much more patience. Then, the occasional one would recognize that Temp’s father was a former player, and that uncomfortable topic would arise.

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