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Issues of Epistemic Modality by AC_rules
Chapter 1 : Propositions and Prepositions
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 10

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 Despite having grown up what she considered an unnecessary amount over the years (Molly considered the point when she was responsible for filling in Ministry forms for the floo access to her own flat and working out whether she was supposed to be getting any tax returns too grown up), it seemed that there was an odd sort of sentimentality surrounding the first pub she and her Hogwarts friends had brought their first legal pints, because every time the letters and reminders and floo-conversations started flooding in from Erin about the next time they were going to get together already The Deranged Quaffle always seemed to be the location for these rendezvous.

It was usually easier to turn up because, despite all Erin’s many fault and flaws (or maybe it counted as a flaw) she was doggedly dedicated to maintain their friendship. As a bit of a queen-bee, of the geekier circle of movements, at Hogwarts – with the boyfriends and the overreaching slightly more popular friends than her dictated group – the real world had been a bit jarring for her, Molly often thought. Where Roxanne was happy to put all those years happily in a box labelled ‘past; not relevant’, Erin thought it was important to remember their roots. What it boiled too, in the end, was that about every three months Molly would be cohered into remembering her roots by drinking a bit too much in a pub that was a bit too cheap (although, according to Erin, it has been recently refurbished from teen-drinking-joint to a gastro pub; hopefully that meant they’d still sell chips) with an ever shifting company of ghosts from the pasts depending on who Erin had bugged enough for them to fit in maintain friendships from long ago when, really, Molly suspected that they simply wanted to bury the hatchet and have done – because this friendship lark took a lot of work.

Unfortunately, or not depending how Molly decided to squint at it, Erin’s usual efforts must have been slightly lacklustre because she was currently sat on quite a nicely padded (she approved of the refurbishment, thus far) bar stool next to Dexter. Alone.

“So... you’re the only one who’s gonna turn up?” Molly asked dryly, accessing Dexter’s quasi-smirk feeling disgruntled. Dexter looked like less of the spotty teenager and more like an actual man, these days; but Molly supposed that this was to be expected due to this inconvenient time thing that everyone seemed so bloody obsessed with. Still, she knew Dexter well. She couldn’t entirely pin down how (or why) they’d stayed in contact, but he remained – quite disturbingly – as one of her closest friends.

“I’m not exactly delighted that you’re my entertainment from the evening, Molly-wobbles.” Dexter returned, leaning on the bar with his elbow as he accessed her.

“Still an arse then.” Molly muttered.

“Always.” Dexter said, flagging up the barmaid and ordering two pints. Molly watched with the usual unimpressed demeanour at his attempts at flirting with the woman (poor girl – having Dexter hit on you really was a frightening experience and, as Molly had to remind herself, she’d know): the usual easy talk about whether it had been busy or not, what she thought of the new gastro pub arrangement and whether or not they still sold chips.

“As long as you’ve finally managed to admit to it,” Molly said, taking the pint glass in her hand and taking a long sip, “where’s sodding Erin?”

“She’s got to work.” Dexter shrugged.

“I thought she said she was going to skip her shift?”

“Yeah, well...” Dexter shrugged, “turns out if she skips another shift she’s joining the ranks of the unemployed.”

“Sodding employers,” Molly muttered, “no consideration of my social life.”

“I’ll go beat him up, shall I?” Dexter suggested, nudging her slightly and causing her to slosh her drink down her front. Molly sighed deliberately, placed her pint glass down on the bar and began trying to dab the beer off the front of her top. They’d had a bit of an in joke about spilling drinks on each other for awhile: it had been someone’s birthday, maybe, when Molly had been a slightly on the wrong side of drunk and had chucked an entire bottle of Wizapop over his white shirt because she thought it would be funny. In retaliation, he’d poured half a pint into her heals when she took them off to massage her feet and complain about it wasn’t worth emasculating short men for the pain; the shoes had retained the beer very well until Molly had put her shoes on again and been very, very confused with her very sticky, very alcohol smelling, wet feet. So, she was entirely convinced that Dexter had nudged her on purpose and if, before they’d even had their first drink, Dexter was resorting to that then she suspected it’d take a week to get the scent of gastro pub out of her hair.

Molly suddenly realised that in dabbing her top dry she was drawing a significant amount of attention to her chest.

“If you’re staring, I’m going to murder you,” Molly muttered, “you’re such a shit.”

“How’s life, Molly?” Dexter smiled, taking a long drink of his beer and shaking his head at her, “still a ray of sunshine?”

“I’m excreting rainbows,” Molly said, “sorry, look – bad day. Wanted to whine at Erin. Or Roxanne, but she’s all up on her bloody fiancé and, quite frankly, I don’t care what mad-skills he has in the bedroom department – particularly not when it’s all she’s been chatting on about for like, two years.”

“You’re such a dedicated maid of honour.” Dexter grinned, passing his pint glass between his hands as he watched her.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Dexter.”

“Go on, whine at me. I’m offering up my listening services.”

“You do that? I thought you only provided sex and insolence to the general female population.”

“You know you’re special, Molls.”

“Awh, Dex,” Molly retaliated, taking another sip of her pint and rolling her eyes, “okay, well, as Erin has no doubt told you, I’m having Phil-issues.”

“Molly and her ever difficult romance life.” Dexter grinned and nudged her again. Molly managed to put her drink down before sloshing it everywhere this time, sent him a look and folded her arms over her chest purposefully.

“It’s hard being so god damn hot,” Molly continued, “obviously.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Dexter nodded. Molly elbowed him and quirked her eyebrows upwards, “okay, I’m listening properly. So, Phil’s not taking your reversion to spinster ways very well?”

“Well, no. I can’t deal with this relationship shit, you know I’m crap at it, Dex. So, you heard about the whole break up fiasco?”

“In explicit detail.”

“Oh, gawd. Erin needs to learn when to stay silent. But, for the purpose of recapping – and because I really enjoy the sound of my own voice – Phil was being a git, I decided I didn’t have time for it, I communicated this to him...”

“-you mean, you chucked him out your flat.” Molly flushed slightly: Dexter had a way of making what really had been quite a well thought through decision seem ridiculous and childish. Yes, Molly wasn’t exactly a love guru and after receiving a different self-help guide to romance from Roxanne every Christmas since she turned twenty she’d gotten the message that being adept at that sort of thing wasn’t Molly’s forte – but things with Phil had been getting difficult and complicated and she’d thought about it, and there was nothing to be done but exorcise him from her flat.

Dexter always spoke to her like he understood all her reasoning, saw through all her excellently executed circular logic and right to the angsty-teenage girl who’s spotty face leered somewhere within her decision making process. And damn him for it.

“Then, he wanted to talk it out. Then, after I dealt with that he’s convinced that we should be friends. And, well, I just think it’s too awkward. You’ve seen me naked oh, that’s fine, let’s go for a meal at bloody Pronto’s Pizza Place.”

“Hate to rain on your parade, Mols. But I’ve seen you naked.” Dexter said, raising his eyebrows her. Molly awkwardly brushed her hair out of her face before waving this away. That was a different issue all together. Soon to be resolved and soon to be put to bed (literally?).

“I thought there was an agreement never to speak of this again?” Molly suggested, tugging at her skirt feeling slightly self conscious.

“You told Erin.” Dexter accused.

“She... interrogated me! It was a full frontal attack. And you told bloody Phil, so I think it’s possible we’re even.”

“I didn’t tell him. It came up in conversation that we’d both tapped that.” Dexter shrugged, his lips tugging upwards into his normal not-quite-smile not-quite-smirk. Well, if Molly was Mrs Cellophane to Dexter than at least the situation was reciprocal: his would be casual speech, the lack of logic... Dexter had purposefully thrown that dung bomb in Phil’s direction and everyone knew it.

“Came up in conversation? You mean you bragged about it to my boyfriend for ages. And you didn’t, anyway, Dexter. So don’t go getting all arrogant and pompous on me now, we didn’t get it on so your statement is invalid.”

“Well, that wasn’t my fault.”

“It most certainly was. If you weren’t such a shit -”

“If you weren’t such a -”

“- if you call me a frigid bitch, I’m going to kill you. This is why we’re such crap friends. You’re so bloody annoying. I thought you were supposed to be listening to me complain?” Molly had missed the easy banter, actually, given recent events had pushed Dexter rather firmly in the other direction – as in, after that last drunken incidence when they nearly slept together, Molly had been avoiding him.

“Sorry, but, got to a hazard a point – you could be friends with Phil, if you wanted to. You’re just looking for excuses.”

“Don’t psychoanalyse me. You know I hate that,” Molly said, “so, Phil has been stressing me out – no surprises there – then, well, Roxy’s been a horrific bride-zilla, as you can imagine. Why she didn’t she made Erin Maid of Honour? I’m obviously the last person on earth you’d pick to help you out with something –“

“ – bolloucks,” Dexter said, “I mean, you’re not miss-emotional but you get shit done. Don’t be so self deprecating; it’s like stepping back into ten years ago.”

“One of my co-workers is pregnant, which is fine, but she’s decided that this gives her a brilliant excuse to do no work for nine months. The boss is baby-crazy, of course, so it’s just been assumed that I’ll do all this over time for no extra pay. Without Phil’s very helpful income, the rents a bit of stretch – and I know that’s my fault, but it’s still bloody annoying.”

“This is why you should just embrace your spinster status,” Dexter interjected, finishing his pint with a dramatic flourish before turning to face her, “the second a relationship messes up you start regressing back to your sea of teen-angst and, apart from being a right strain on my ear drums, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“I should have talked it out with Phil.” Molly said fairly. They had lived together. Admittedly, they hadn’t lived together for very long; sharing a flat made everything lacking in Phil seemed like a black hole sucking away her happiness and, when she had to sit opposite him eating breakfasting, she’d sit there wishing he’d sod off so she could have some room to breathe. Sharing a flat may have been the killing curses, as far as their relationship went, but she should have been a bit fairer to him and let him plead and beg a little more until he saw it her way too.

“He shouldn’t have been such a shit,” Dexter shrugged, “I never liked him on principle. Anyone associated with you obviously has questionable taste and can’t be trusted, but he was whiner than you and that’s impressive. He was fairly nice, I suppose, but far too interested in his own inflated sense of self worth. You shrank when he was around and let him do all the talking – which was quite frankly weird. Honestly, Molly-wobbles, I thought I was tripping last time we were at the pub and he was rabbiting on about your state of domestic bliss.”

“I can’t live with people.” Molly admitted, “people drive me crazy. Seven years sharing a dorm room with Erin, Roxanne and Simrath was way too much sharing.”

“I knew you were going to snap,” Dexter grinned, “that’s why I told Phil about the incident.”

“Don’t mess with my life, Dexter.” Molly said starkly, thinking that Dexter admitting he’d been corrupting her relationship was a step in the right direction. Depending on what direction they were headed, obviously, which was still as of yet an undefined root. It wasn’t quite as ambiguous at it had been, though, Molly was beginning to decide that a simple ‘point me’ spell would be so sufficient for  her to work it out.

“Oh, come on. That relationship was terminal.”

“I know,” Molly said, “but that’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Dex, that’s not the point at all! The point is that it’s my fault it was terminal. Phil was fine. I’m just, like you said, a frigid bitch.”

“You’re not that frigid.”

“You should learn when to shut up,” Molly muttered, finishing her beer with a roll of the eyes, “don’t know how you ever managed to proposition me.”

“It was criminally easy,” Dexter returned, “anyway, Molly, I’m pretty sure you started it.”

“Like hell did I.”

“I’m surprised you can piece together enough memories to remember.”

“You do realise that by that you’re sort of implying that you were less drunk, which means you were taking advantage, which confirms everything I’ve ever said. All the insults.” Molly said, raising her eyebrows slightly as she awaited the insult and return reasoning that would counter her argument: this is what she liked about spending time with Dexter.

“Nah,” Dexter shrugged, twisting in his chair, “you’re just a cheap drunk.”

“Stop buying me drinks then.”

“Who said I’m paying?”


“Well, Gee Mol, you know I’m a slave to your whims and wishes.”

“Go die somewhere then, please?”

“Who’s gonna buy you your third pint then?” Dexter asked, picking up Molly’s glass and finishing the dregs of Molly’s beer before placing it back down on bar.

“Point. You have some uses, Dexter.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dexter said, raising his eyebrows at the barmaid in the name of the acquisition of more drinks, “shots?”

“Always. Stop making eyes at the barmaid, you prat, I’ll get jealous.”

“That’s entirely the intention. Reckon I’ve got a chance?”

“No way,” Molly said, “being chatted up at work is the worst.”

“You’re a Ministry worker?”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean I don’t get hit on by people at work now, Dexter. I’ve said it before and I’ll say again – its difficult being as damn hot as me.”

“Like I said, I understand your dilemma.”

“Oh God, we share an understating about something. I feel the need to go wash myself. Stop tainting my perceptions of myself. I’m nothing like you”

“You’ve got to admit, you’ve missed this,” Dexter said, “us two – the banter, the utter hatred, you just about resisting ripping my clothes off.”

“It’s tough but I get by,” Molly said dryly, “it feels like we’re back in the Hogwarts days.”

“You mean back when you used to fancy me?”

“I was fifteen, you tosser. I had an immature grasp on life. Anyway, I was attracted by the banter. Nothing quite as wonderful as being verbally put down.”

“You’re fat, Molly.” Dexter said seriously, his gaze fixing steadily on her face.

“Nice; mature, sophisticated and a fine display of your Ravenclaw prowess.”

“I’d love to hear you try and talk dirty.” Dexter seemed to loom forwards in Molly’s vision, so he almost seemed to take up more space than he had done previously: Dexter was like that though. Uncomplicated, for the most part. So when Dexter flirted it was just as obvious and transparent as anything; a bit different from Molly.

“I don’t. Full stop.”

“Guess I’ll just have to imagine it.”

“Don’t soil my virtue in your perverse imagination, it’s not decent.”

 “Oh, I already have.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Molly asked, rolling her eyes deliberately and equally as deliberately not flushing. She did, however, subconsciously pull down her skirt.

“Because, Molly, about three weeks before you met the amiable Phil, we went to the pub, got very drunk and ended up making out and then -”

“The narrative is unnecessary, thanks.”

“Well, we never did talk about it,” Dexter shrugged, “you just did the classic Molly thing and awkwardly avoided me for a few weeks.”

“What’s there to talk about? I was wasted, you were wasted and anyway, nothing actually happened.”

“I’m not trying to pin you down here, Molly; I’m just saying I thought we should have talked about it.”

“You definitely pinned me down at the time.” Molly returned, glancing up at Dexter and resisting the urge to shake her head at him.

“So you do remember?”

“Bits of it. I try not to. I dislike the feeling of nausea.”

The barmaid finally returned with the shots. Good timing, as far as Molly was concerned: because Dexter’s latest series of comments was the ‘point me’ sign that Molly had come to try and decipher... meaning things were about to get messy and a bit uncomfortable.

“Here’s to getting wasted and repeating the previous events.” Dexter grinned.

“Here’s to reverting to our pact to never mention it again!” Molly returned, clinking her shot glass with Dexter’s before downing it. The twin noises of glasses placed back down on the bar, a shared God-shots-are-still-awful-glance at each other and a split second of silence.

Molly coughed.

“It’s inevitable, Molly,” Dexter said, “you know, secretly, you’ve always wanted me.”

“Don’t be facetious, it doesn’t suit you. Actually, that’s a damn lie.”

“Of course it is.” Dexter grinned.

“How is curse breaking?”

“Infinitely better than working in the improper use of magic office.” Dexter returned.

“It’s a good job. Seducing any more female-bankers?”

“Saving myself for you, Mols.” Dexter quipped in return; the rhythm of the usual conversation falling back into place. Talking to Dexter was always so damn easy. Molly thought she could probably talk to him for hours and she wouldn’t run out of things to say.

“No one interested then?”

“I’m much too lazy to date.”

“Well that’s a yes.”

“Shut up, Weasley.”

“Using my last name? Cold. Is that where all this bloody flirting is coming from?”

“Hate to break it to you, Molly, this is how we always talk.” Dexter returned, cocking his head at her slightly as he waited to gauge her response: always bloody reading her like a book. Worse than that, as if she was a book that was slightly interesting in some way – as if the woes of Molly Weasley were actually important to him.

“I’m sure I normally call you fowl names quite a bit more.”

Admittedly, Dexter’s form of interest in the book of her life was largely a critic’s view. Bit of psychological analysis. Probably using some of the transferable skills the curse breaking provided (Molly had read Dexter’s resume and had been in unstoppable hysterics for a good fifteen minutes).

“So you’re the one flirting then?”

Still, though, Dexter was a bit bloody irksome. All the contradictions and annoyance, but then they’d always had a... complex relationship.

“Honestly, Dexter, it’s me. The fowl names probably are me flirting.”

A love hate relationship, she’d always called it: but where the hate was just a facade for them to both enjoy verbally ripping at each other and the love was a sort of deep routed affection of enjoying each other’s company.

“You’ve always been original.”

They did care about each other. Probably always had, actually.

“Original? It’s practically pre-teen stuff.” Molly shrugged.

And damn, Dexter had gone it made their nice simple relationship a little less simple, except he’d have let things fester in the nice simple relationship way believing that Molly was ignorant.

“I’ve often said you’re emotionally stunted.”

“You talk a lot of crap, Dexter, so that doesn’t really help your argument. Urgh, why can’t Erin just deal with unemployment? I haven’t seen her for months.”

“Not enjoying my company?”

“Do I ever?”

Always. I’m not buying you another drink, by the way. I don’t crap out money. If you want more alcohol, you’ll have to buy it yourself. Or...” Dexter trailed off, sending a cursory look in Molly’s direction that just invited for her to clap him on the shoulder and go home.

“Or?” Molly suggested hopefully.

“I have alcohol at my place.”

“Lead the way, then.” Molly said cheerfully, because Molly Weasley might be ignorant but she certainly wasn’t idiotic.

“Not scared I’m going to attempt to seduce you then?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been attempting all night?” Molly asked, rolling her eyes as she grabbed her bag and sent a mournful glass at her empty pint glass.

“You know, Molly. If I wanted you, I’d have had you by now.” Dexter grinned, a tad too close to apply to the usual unspoken regulations of personal space, but not close enough that he was overtly violating it.

“We’ve had this discussion before and the fact that we have a near miss under our belts completely destroys that argument, but I’m not one to judge.”

“Yes you are,” Dexter countered, pulling on his jacket over his shoulders and holding out an arm, “shall we?”

“Most definitely.”


“You’re crap at listening,” Molly commented as she hovered in Dexter’s kitchen as he pulled out two more beers from the drinks fridge, “really, Dexter, I’ve never whined to someone so useless.”


Greg. Dear Merlin, Molly liked to pretend the chapter of her life where she introduced Greg Davis has her boyfriend as spectacularly over.

“Okay,” Molly said, smiling slightly, “Greg was significantly more useless.”

“I’m great, Molls. You need to learn to appreciate it more.”

“You’re my least favourite person ever.”

“Complete lie,” Dexter counted, “you’re very good at getting rid of people you don’t like, Mols. Your remarkable history of having dumped every boyfriend you’ve ever managed to produce shows this quite admirably.”

Ah, there it was. The psychology. The fact that Dexter had seen her grow up and, somehow, knew everything about her. Dissected her. Deciphered her. As all good friends should.

“The amount of psychoanalysis you’ve been dishing out today. You know it makes me want to strangle myself. I know who I am, Dex, I’m not an idiot. You’re a strangely loveable arse, but I still hate you.”

“How long have we hated each other?”

“A decade at least,” Molly commented, taking the beer and taking a long drink, “long lasting and eternal hatred. Very consistent.”

“Until you tried to jump me.” Dexter said, taking a long drink.

“You started it.”

“I never start anything.”

“Really?” Molly asked. “What about ‘oh I’ve seen you naked, Molly’, what about ‘you’ve got to admit, you’ve missed this’ and ‘oh, Molly, you’re going to have to come back to my flat.”

“That’s a terrible impression of me,” Dexter grinned, “so, you think I’m trying it on?”

“Aren’t you?” Molly returned, clinking her beer against Dexter’s before drinking it. “You’re an awful flirt. Really. You should get treatment for it. “

“You love it.”

“Well that’s an ascertain and a half.”

“You’re a nutter,” Dexter said appreciatively, “you’re an absolute nutter. So, you think I’m hitting on you and now you’re just... going along with it? Whilst chastising me about hitting on you? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You have met me, haven’t you?” Molly asked, “I’m not renowned for being entirely logical.”

“So what the hell are you saying?”

“Well what the hell are you saying?” Molly returned.

“I legitimately have no idea what’s happening in this conversation.”

“That’s because you keep denying that you’re hitting on me. If you were just honest, then we might actually get somewhere.”

“We’re going to get somewhere?” Dexter asked, taking a step back and reassessing her. It seemed that he hadn’t quite been predicting this, after all.

Are you hitting on me? Because, that’s generally the idea when you try and hit on someone. I know I’m rather romantically challenged, but I did think the general purpose of trying it on with someone was to get it on with someone. But, you know, I’ve been wrong before.”

“You talk a lot,” Dexter said, frowning slightly, “you need to learn when to shut your mouth.”

“You don’t always complain about that.”

“Was that an innuendo?” Dexter asked, tilting his head at her slightly before taking another drink of his beer.

“What would I know,” Molly shrugged, “I’m incapable of flirting, so...”

“Are you trying?”

“Isn’t this how we always talk?” Molly countered.

“Well, yes.”

“Well then.”

“Hold on. Let’s just slow down so I can get my head round this. Are you making a pass at me, now?”

“No, Dexter. You’re hitting on me and I’m just watching you squirm. Look,” Molly said, leaning on the kitchen counter and rolling her eyes, “we nearly slept together. Then I met Phil and then there was that disastrous five month relationship when he tricked me into agreeing to let him move in my flat. Then you told Phil that we had that thing. I dumped Phil. Then everyone decided to organise a get together, then subsequently cancelled – except me and you. You brought me a couple of drinks, brought up the incident twice and invited me back to your flat. Those are the facts. You feel free to make any deductions you see fit.”

“Merlin,” Dexter said, narrowing his eyes at her, “you’re beyond romantically challenged. How the hell did you manage to get Phil to date you?”

“With my dazzling charm and intellect.”

“What are you saying, Molly?”

“I’m saying,” Molly said, hand on hip, “that I knew Erin couldn’t come.”

“So you’re passively trying to hit on me? Somehow mind-fucking me into thinking that this was all my idea?”

“What can I say; I’m talented in all the ways of these things,” Molly shrugged, “emotionally healthy and functional, that’s me. In my defence, these sorts of things are a bit awkward. Especially when people like you always decide you want to talk about it.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yes, but, it’s definitely better my way. Don’t you see?”

“So, are we...?” Dexter asked, shaking his head slightly. “You’re actually insane. You’ve managed to imply a million different things without saying anything at all.”

“Isn’t that what you did when you tried to make my boyfriend jealous?” Molly suggested.

“So, you’re saying you like me?”

“No, Dexter. I hate you. I’m just opening up the floor of you to try and hit on me again, if you so wish.”

“Did Erin put you up to this?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why, Molly?”

“We’re epistemic modal auxiliaries, Dexter.”

“Is that a different language?”

“Sodding hell,” Molly muttered, “we’re going to be crap together. Epistemic modal auxiliary verbs – constructions that express degrees of possibility, probability or certainty. That’s us. Roxanne pointed out to me – no, not in those words – but, well... you know, just throwing it out there.”

“That was almost romantic.”

“I know, I’m sickened,” Molly muttered, “but Erin said you’ve been pinning, and I can’t take any increased levels of patheticness from you – it’s too much already.”

“You seem pretty confident in a positive response to all of this.”

“Dexter, you arse, I’ve been trying to figure you out all evening. Really, the invite back to your flat was far too telling. Anyway, you dropped a certain abstract noun on me that other time. You’re the one too drunk to remember – as you well know – otherwise you’d have had plenty to say before this point, I’m sure.”

“A certain –“

“The L bomb.” Molly said pointedly.


“Yeah,” Molly muttered with an eyebrow raise, “so, there we go. Cards on the table. Feel free to hit on me whenever, but if you’re going to just stand around looking more stupid and confused than normal I’m going to take off home.”

“Don’t go home,” Dexter said firmly, “I’ll get you another drink.”

“God, you’re incompetent,” Molly muttered, “I don’t want another drink and your beer selection is terrible, anyway.”

“Typical Molly,” Dexter grinned, “using grammar as a chat up line.”

“Better than blurting out that you love someone when you’re drunkenly snogging.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dexter said, narrowing his eyes slightly, “the love thing.”

“Of course not,” Molly agreed, “I think you’re an arrogant bastard and you think I’m a stuck up bitch.”

“Yeah,” Dexter agreed, “but, other than that, you’re not so bad. You’ve got some positive points.”

“Two sides to every argument.” Molly nodded.

“I’m going to kiss you round about now.” Dexter said, taking a half step forward as if convinced that any second Molly was about to throw her beer over him (tempting) or apparate away from the spot, leaving him blinking at his kitchen counter and considering the possibility that this was all just a very strange dream.

“Oh no, really, take your time with it. I’ll just stand here talking about random shit and making myself look like an idiot, its fine.

“You do realise that, by your logic, if you remember and I don’t... then I was drunker and thus you were the one taking advantage.”

“Just shut up, Dexter.” Molly muttered, reached forwards and kissed him.

Oh hello! I've finished writing this, so I'm entirely sure it doesn't count as a WIP, right? Heh, I was down to eight - I probably needed a new one anyway. Sequel to Abstract Nouns. Set about ten years in the future (from the last chapter of Abstract Nouns). Without reverse chronology but with MOLLY/DEXTER SHIPPING YAY.  Hope you guys enjoyed it :)

Reviews are, always, lovely :)

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