Sometimes Beckett would come to regret things.
His luck, so very unlike his brother, was, of late, something laughable. Myles had at first struggled immensely with his current girlfriend, the ever fiery Emily Faucet, and had repetitively claimed that no, he was fine, and wanted nothing to do with her in the first place, thank you very much. But, being the suave, smoother twin of the two, Beckett had only snickered at this claim and clapped his older brother's back.
"Patience, my ill tempered amigo. I'm tellin' ya, you're going to thank me one day."
Needless to say Myles had never thanked him, but merely graced Beckett with that vague half smile of his, encircling his hand round Emily's waist and chastely grazing the side of her mouth before she swatted him away with a twinkle in her syrupy eyes.
"You're an asshole," Beckett sighed tiredly, shooting his older brother a half-hearted glare. Emily grinned fondly at both of them. "The biggest asshole I'd ever met," she declared, pointedly glancing at Myles, who narrowed his eyes at her. "The two of you will be the death of me," Myles muttered into his latte, resuming his online read on the current affairs boiling in the Middle East. Emily rolled her eyes and headed towards the living room doorway, blue suede shoes ghosting over centuries old polished wood. She turned around at the last minute, pursuing chapped lips at Beckett, who raised fair eyebrows in question.
"Can I help you with something?" he asked, amused.
Emily leaned against the blue-black doorway, and Beckett guessed that she was in the process of making a rash decision, due to the frown wrinkling her brow and the incessant foot tapping hammering the floor. She took a deep breath, made peace with what Beckett assumed was a dangerous resolve, and twirled the knit scarf swathed carelessly around her neck. "Keep me company at Dustan's tonight?"
Myles peered at her from above his MacBook screen, looking pained and utterly miserable at the prospect of wasting his precious time in yet another hipster ethnic restaurant. "I refuse to set foot in that pigsty of an establishment," he protested, shutting the lid of his laptop in firm resolution. Emily quirked her eyebrows at the statement and smirked at Myles' direction. "I didn't say anything about you coming along, heart of mine," she drawled.
Myles huffed in irritation, and Beckett hid his smile behind his coffee cup. How was it that his brother, sullen, impatient, and severely uninterested in anyone who did not own some form of a doctorate degree, find himself irrevocably smitten with a girl as brazen and self righteous as Emily (a tiny factoid Beckett was to promise not to breathe a word of in front of anyone residing outside of Fowl Manor)?
"Pick me up at eight, then," he decided, winking at her.
"I am not driving all the way here, you lazy foot."
Myles suppressed a light chuckle at Beckett's head shake, and, tossing his coffee in the nearest trash bin, walked over to the doorway and slipped his hand in Emily's before walking her to the main foyer, an obvious spring in Myles' step catching Beckett's professionally trained eye.
His grin widened. It was kind of cheesy, but he really was happy for them.
The Strypes blared at full blast from various speakers, flickering LED lights strewn haphazardly in and out of rustic brick walls like metallic vines. Vegan cardboard menus littered compact armies of splintered wooden tabletops, and diners, restless and disheveled, fidgeted in their large brightly colored over coats and drooping beanie caps. Beckett couldn't help but roll his eyes at the scene unfurling before him.
This, he figured, was just the sort of place bohemian poet wannabes and bored university students mostly mulled around in, granting Emily and himself ideal hang out spots that granted them the capability of wallowing away the hours in, undisturbed, comfortable, and, Emily in particular, completely in their element, half submerged in the blinking evening atmosphere as they downed their tasteless organic herbal tea whilst wheedling out the authentic from the hopelessly desperate.
A middle aged waitress in a tie dye skirt fluttered green glittery eyelashes at Beckett behind oversized bedazzled eye spectacles, and Beckett couldn't help but be reminded of that divination (it was divination . . . right?) woman from the Harry Potter movies. Normally, he would have been glad of the attention, but the ring glittering on her left hand made him steer clear out of her way before refocusing his attention back to the tables.
She was late. Again.
Beckett fished his phone from his back pocket and unlocked it with a swipe of his thumb before texting her with a: "late again, emily? real classy place you've picked out :p"
Emily tapped his shoulder from behind and Beckett resisted the primal urge to shriek in surprise (eighteen years of training with the retired Butler aught to have taught him this by now, but Beckett's restless energy was as of yet not tamed in the least). "Jesus, Emily" he muttered under his breath. Emily snorted at his unease and grabbed him by the arm, plunging him straight through a smoky haze so thick it dripped with apple incense as he stumbled across neon colored jungles of darting waitresses and cramped metal stools, chattering teenagers and heavy bass guitars driving Beckett's mind spinning. He coughed loudly just behind Emily's ear, and she whirled around, ink and coppery hair slapping his face.
"Wait here," she instructed in a rush, cutting him off. Beckett furrowed his brow.
"Where the bloody hell are you leaving off to?"
Emily made an impatient noise in the back of her throat and wildly gesticulated that no worries, she'll be back in literally five ticks.
"You're being insufferable again," he whined to no one in particular, following Emily's slim figure until she was swallowed by the iridescent restaurant fog. Bloody insane, that one, he thought to himself, making his way towards an empty booth. A waiter made himself apparent just as Beckett took his seat and asked if he'd be having anything at the moment. Beckett nodded carelessly and ordered a large pitcher of peach iced tea.
It was three minutes before Emily returned, but she didn't show up unaccompanied by. Emily led a tall, willowy woman -barely out of her teens-, sunny ginger hair tangling in the heavy smoke, towards his booth. The woman's glassy gray eyes flicked nervously from Emily to Beckett and back several times, as if she wasn't at all expecting his company.
Beckett raised an eyebrow at Emily. You're kidding me.
Emily narrowed her eyes at him. Give her a chance!
Beckett sighed. Don't need you setting me up on blind dates every Saturday night, Victoria Justice.
Emily's nostrils flared, and Beckett quickly averted his eyes, deciding that keeping on Emily's good side was far wiser than defying her ideas of a weekend well spent. Besides, Beckett reasoned, taking in the woman's flushed cheeks and YSL glasses, she was kind of cute, and his mother raised him well.
"Beckett, this is Jenna, one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in this life time, given your stuffy circumstances," Emily introduced smoothly, sliding in the bench opposite Beckett's. Beckett chose to ignore that last bit and stood up, extending his hand at this Jenna. Jenna, looking as if she'd rather be anywhere but here, took it. Sneaking a murderous glance at Emily, who was skimming through the menu at the moment unperturbed, completely neglecting the pair she'd set up in her meal scouting endeavor, she shifted her focus back to Beckett, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Nice to meet you," she said softly, a Scottish lilt ringing in Beckett's ear. Beckett flashed her his signature hundred watt smile and bought the back of her slender hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss. "Likewise, Miss Jenna."
Instead of giggling or laughing, or squeaking (whatever the girls did these days) at his flirtatious gesture, Jenna drew back her hand sharply and slid beside Emily, looking every bit the portrait of affronted. Beckett blinked several times in confusion but took his seat regardless. . . .
Was she scowling at him?
Emily looked up from the menu and smiled brightly at the pair of them, olive eyes sparkling with a wicked gleam Beckett had long since been familiar with . . . and he didn't like it. The sparkle meant Emily was planning something involving this girl and himself. The sparkle meant she was determined and stubborn and not at all reluctant to abandon her goal. Beckett felt his heart shrink back with a newborn fear.
That particular sparkle meant that he was doomed.
A/N: Seeing as Colfer has not graced us with a lick of the life and times of Myles and Beckett Fowl, I decided to take matters into my own hands. And as for my OCs... well, bear with me here. I swear to you that they aren't bland, or tasteless, and they won't be making a lot of appearances (even if they're my babies and I adore them to death shhhhhhh). Thoughts, comments and critiques are always welcome, and thanks for reading!