Work Text:
11 July 1996
Jess had been working at the Holly Bush since the day after she'd dropped out of uni five years ago, which meant she'd been around the block a few times. She knew how to tell which customers could be wheedled into tipping better with a little superficial flirting, which customers would end up leaving their food scraps all over (and under) the table, and which customers could be counted on to puke in the loo sinks.
The pub's staff, with the exception of her boss Liz, seemed to cycle through entirely new faces every few seasons. This summer, Liz had hired a bunch of young kids that had pretty faces but still got confused about things like the specials menu and how to work the till, even after two months on staff. And no matter how hard Jess tried to stick to the shadows, she always managed to get roped into teaching the newbies how to do stupidly simple tasks that she was absolutely certain it hadn't taken her this long to learn.
"Oi, Jess, do me a favor? Show Rosie how to clear broken glass—someone's dropped a mug by Table Two."
Jess gritted her teeth as she led Rosie down the aisle between the tables with a pile of wet rags and a bin bag. She made a big show of very slowly and carefully showing Rosie how to siphon the glass shards off the floor with the rags and ensure that all the rags ended up in the bin bag.
"So, you just rub the towels over the glass, yeah?" Rosie asked lazily, leaning against the bar counter as she watched.
"You don't rub—"
But Jess broke off, suddenly distracted by a snippet of conversation—a low, hoarse voice coming from Table Seven across the room. She jerked her head up to look, and with a thrill of excitement, she spotted him.
Jess had been working at the Holly Bush since the day after she'd dropped out of uni five years ago, and the only thing that made the grueling hours and her nagging boss slightly tolerable was the potential for snooping. And in the last year or so, she'd found a wonderful excitement in eavesdropping on this particular regular—this sickly-looking, older gentleman, with his tattered, old-fashioned overcoats and his seemingly endless slew of flashy, excitable, much younger girlfriends.
The first time she'd seen him in the pub was the previous autumn, perhaps a day or two after the Halloween madness had subsided. The girl he'd been with that day had had orange—orange, not red—hair and they'd mostly laughed and chatted in the back corner over some chips and beers. Innocent stuff, it had seemed like. At the time, she'd even thought they might be father and daughter. But the next time he came in, a few days before Christmas, it was with a different girl with curly turquoise hair and bizarrely bright eyes. That day, with a few more drinks in him, he'd seemed more confident, bolder, brushing the girl's hair out of her face a few times, skimming her lower back.
After that, it was like clockwork. Twice a month, every month. Usually on Thursday nights, sometimes Wednesdays, never on Fridays or Saturdays or busy holidays. A pint for him, a vodka soda for whatever girl was with him that day. Jess had found it weird that all the girls always got the same drink, especially since they were usually the ones that ordered, all talky and vivacious, while he skulked in a booth in the back, looking tired and old.
And the conversations. The weirdest thing about him, by far. He talked about things Jess had never heard of. Perhaps he was a medievalist. Or a cult member. Or both. Either way, the girls seemed to eat it up—and, strangest of all, they always kept the conversations flowing. Maybe they were medievalists, too. Or cult members. Or both.
"Jess. Jess. Bloody hell, are you even listening to me?"
Jess blinked, looking up. Rosie was glaring impatiently down at her.
"Sorry—look, take this and finish up here. I've got to run," Jess blustered, thrusting the rags and the rubbish bag at Rosie and jumping to her feet. Ignoring Rosie's indignant splutters, Jess sped past the bar toward the broom cupboard. Seizing the first broom and dustpan she could find, she weaved back through the tables until she was a few paces away from Table Seven. She began sweeping a patch of ground under a nearby booth, keeping her back turned to the pair at Table Seven, all the while listening intently.
"…It's going to be dangerous, very dangerous and long," the man was saying in a tired voice. "I won't be able to stay in touch with anyone. I…I'm sorry—"
"You're joking," the girl sitting across from him cut in. "Tell me you're joking. You're not—you can't leave now, not after serious—"
"Don't. Please."
Jess's mind was racing. The man was leaving? For something dangerous and long, nonetheless—was he in the army? It seemed like a stretch, given the state of him. No, no, it was probably just an excuse to ditch her. Jess pursed her lips and chanced a glance over her shoulder. He was the same as ever, thin and lined and gray. The girl who was with him looked as young as the rest, though she seemed sober and morose, her hair light brown and mousy. Jess raised her eyebrows. A departure from his usual flamboyant, chatty type, then.
There were a few moments of tense silence and Jess clutched her broom tightly, waiting.
Then, the man spoke again, slowly, painfully, as though the words were being dragged out of him. "Dundledore is counting on me. I have to do this—I'm the only one who can. You…you know that."
And, there it was. Jess almost snorted out loud. She couldn't remember a single time this man had come into the pub without mentioning that name to a girl at least once—Dundledore, was it? No, Dummledore. It was hard to tell, given that she'd never been able to figure out what the hell it was. Maybe they were the leader of the cult. Or honestly, maybe it was some imaginary company this man had invented a job at, to get out of telling these poor young girls about his actual life—
"Why did you bring me here?" the girl had raised her voice, angry and accusing. "Why did you bring me out if you were just going to tell me you were leaving?" Jess froze in stunned amazement, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard. In her five years at the Holly Bush, she'd never witnessed a public break-up, much less in the middle of the day.
"I knew you'd be upset," the man said heavily. "But I couldn't leave without…you have to know why this can't work. I can't do this anymore—I can't put you in danger. I…I care about you too much."
Jess's eyebrows flew up her forehead. God, he was a good actor. How many times had he said those words before? she wondered. And how long would it be before he was in here saying those words to a different girl?
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, don't give me that nonsense," the girl hissed, lunging toward him so suddenly that her glass tipped over and cracked, spilling the drink all over the table. Jess winced, and so did the man, but the girl hardly seemed to notice. "You're not doing this because you care about me—you're doing this so you can continue living your tortured, lonely existence in peace. Well, tough luck, because you're not alone anymore—people care about you, Remus—I care about you, I love—"
The man jumped to his feet so suddenly that Jess let out a soft gasp. The girl just stared at him, unfazed.
"I've got to go," the man croaked. "I'm late for a meeting. I've got to…"
He trailed off, perhaps hoping the girl might fill the silence by shouting at him some more. But she didn't. She just looked up at him, her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. Jess was amazed at her confidence.
The man gazed down at the girl for a moment longer, looking pained and tormented. Then, suddenly, he turned around and walked briskly away, past Jess, down the pub aisle to the door. The door creaked and guttered in his wake, and Jess watched him disappear into the crowd in the street. She turned to look at the girl. She was staring down at her cracked glass and spilled drink, her face drawn and expression empty. Jess felt a rush of overwhelming pity for her.
She had watched this go on for too long. She was sick of watching this strange, old man hurt these women. She'd have to remember to have a word with Liz before her shift ended about putting him on some sort of "no service" list. It seemed the least they could do. At least he wouldn't be able to break any more hearts on their watch.
Jess put the broom and dustpan back in the cupboard and quickly prepared a new glass of vodka soda at the bar. When she approached Table Seven again, Jess saw that the girl's eyes had gone red and puffy.
"Excuse me?" Jess asked softly. The girl startled and tensed, snapping her gaze up to meet Jess's. "Er—I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to give you this, on the house. I…I saw you spilled the last one."
The girl closed her eyes, looking embarrassed. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."
"No—no, don't be," Jess said quickly. "It happens. Look," she lowered her voice suddenly, and the girl frowned at her. "I didn't mean to overhear, but…I saw how things ended with—with that man, just now. And I just wanted to tell you that…I'm sure you can do better. I've seen him in here before, with other girls—he's a bit of a weirdo. The things I've heard him talk about…" She shook her head. "You're better off, I'm telling you."
The girl looked wary now. "What sorts of things has he talked about?" she asked slowly.
"Oh, God, where do I start?" Jess rolled her eyes, giving a dark chuckle. "All sorts. I reckon he thinks he's part of some sort of alternative universe. A superhero, or something—a wizard, even." She snorted, and the girl looked horrified. "I know, I know, it was all very fascinating to me at first, too—but you've dodged a bullet, honestly. I mean it."
The girl just stared at her for another moment. Then, suddenly, her face split into a rather unnervingly bright smile.
"Thank you, seriously—for the drink and for…for telling me this," she said in a rush, rummaging in her jeans pocket for something. "Erm—what was your name again?"
"Oh—Jess, Jess Castle," she said brightly. "I've worked here five years, so I've learned to recognize all the regulars. And I really don't mean to overhear things, but sometimes, it works out for the best—" Jess broke off abruptly, blinking as her vision blurred. She frowned unfocusedly down at the girl. "Oh—I'm sorry, I've just remembered I've forgotten something at the bar. Can I get you anything else?"
The girl shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Thank you again."
Jess smiled back, though her vision still felt a little unfocused. She blinked hard. "Not a problem."
Jess had been working at the Holly Bush since the day after she'd dropped out of uni five years ago, which meant she'd been around the block a few times. She knew how to tell which customers could be wheedled into tipping better with a little superficial flirting, which customers would end up leaving their food scraps all over (and under) the table, and which customers could be counted on to puke in the loo sinks.
Usually, the only thing that made the grueling hours and her nagging boss slightly tolerable was the potential for snooping. But for the rest of the day, she kept feeling strange and guilty every time she overheard a customer's conversation. And she couldn't shake the prickling, nagging feeling that she had forgotten something—something important.