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rarepair_shortsTitle: Anything You Can Do
Pairing: Rufus/Tonks
Prompt: Just like everyone else
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 343
Summary: Rufus contemplates the war in his office.
Author's Notes: Still haven't died, guys! This is a continuation of a series; you can find the previous parts by looking in my prompt table.
Link to Prompt Table: [link]
Rufus is well aware of public sentiment towards him, especially with the Prophet trumpeting every failure of the Ministry's with a relish that's unsuitable for any type of responsible print journalism; more than anything he wants to seek out Rita Skeeter and her ilk and take them to his office, force them to crawl out before the slavering dogs of the media at every press conference and stand tall by the podium, stare the people in the eye and tell them those dreaded words: no progress has been made, there have been more attacks, there has been a leak of information in the Department of Mysteries. Or worse, sit at his desk, uncorking the top of his bottle of firewhiskey as he signs the letters that begin, "Dear Sir or Madam ___________, we regret to inform you that your son or daughter ____________ has fallen in the line of duty protecting his country and wizardkind" – and afterward, when most lower-level workers have gone home, he sits in that same oaken chair (bottle three-quarters drained by now) and listens to the Howlers his public sends him, glassy-eyed, letting every last word and painfully muffled sob rip him apart like the alcohol destroys his liver. Could they do that, these pathetic sniveling journalists who believe they could straighten this country up and turn it around?
No, they can't, and that is why Rufus is here in his office at two in the morning, the pain in his leg so deep it's almost faded from his mind (until he tries to move; then he staggers, nearly collapses, grips the corner of his desk and wonders just how he'll survive when the final battle comes). He tips the remainder of the firewhiskey into his hip flask; good to have it on the run. Good is the wrong word for it, of course, but he can't be bothered to think about the correct one. He is so gut-achingly, marrow-throbbingly weary, with every connotation the word has. He misses her profoundly.
This exhaustion is almost worse than the loneliness.
Pairing: Rufus/Tonks
Prompt: Just like everyone else
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 343
Summary: Rufus contemplates the war in his office.
Author's Notes: Still haven't died, guys! This is a continuation of a series; you can find the previous parts by looking in my prompt table.
Link to Prompt Table: [link]
Rufus is well aware of public sentiment towards him, especially with the Prophet trumpeting every failure of the Ministry's with a relish that's unsuitable for any type of responsible print journalism; more than anything he wants to seek out Rita Skeeter and her ilk and take them to his office, force them to crawl out before the slavering dogs of the media at every press conference and stand tall by the podium, stare the people in the eye and tell them those dreaded words: no progress has been made, there have been more attacks, there has been a leak of information in the Department of Mysteries. Or worse, sit at his desk, uncorking the top of his bottle of firewhiskey as he signs the letters that begin, "Dear Sir or Madam ___________, we regret to inform you that your son or daughter ____________ has fallen in the line of duty protecting his country and wizardkind" – and afterward, when most lower-level workers have gone home, he sits in that same oaken chair (bottle three-quarters drained by now) and listens to the Howlers his public sends him, glassy-eyed, letting every last word and painfully muffled sob rip him apart like the alcohol destroys his liver. Could they do that, these pathetic sniveling journalists who believe they could straighten this country up and turn it around?
No, they can't, and that is why Rufus is here in his office at two in the morning, the pain in his leg so deep it's almost faded from his mind (until he tries to move; then he staggers, nearly collapses, grips the corner of his desk and wonders just how he'll survive when the final battle comes). He tips the remainder of the firewhiskey into his hip flask; good to have it on the run. Good is the wrong word for it, of course, but he can't be bothered to think about the correct one. He is so gut-achingly, marrow-throbbingly weary, with every connotation the word has. He misses her profoundly.
This exhaustion is almost worse than the loneliness.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-13 05:26 am (UTC)I love this. I love the way you characterize Scrimgeour, and descriptions you use--so heart-wrenching! God this bit killed me: No, they can't, and that is why Rufus is here in his office at two in the morning, the pain in his leg so deep it's almost faded from his mind (until he tries to move; then he staggers, nearly collapses, grips the corner of his desk and wonders just how he'll survive when the final battle comes).
And then the end, oye! I was wondering how Tonks was going to fit into this and then you just smoothly tied it into the end.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-14 08:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-03 04:24 am (UTC)I love this drabble and goodness how I have missed your fics. So simple and startling and profound all at once! I like that you give Scrimgeour some dimension and that he actually has some good sentiments despite what we see of him in the books. He does seem to be a good man, so thank you for bringing out that side of him. Please keep writing! :D