[For Graves]

[posilutely]

Queenie Goldstein loves her sister more than anyone in the whole, wide world; she really, really does. There's nobody who knows her better, nobody who can read her so well without actually poking into her thoughts, no one she'd rather share an apartment or piece of pie or fully-belly laugh with. She's an absolute peach. The best.

It's just that, well, sometimes Queenie really wishes Tina was a tiny, wee bit less uptight.

Take today. It's Valentine's Day -- Hearts and flowers, romance and candy, and they've been fighting about it for an entire week. That's not an exaggeration; Queenie remembers the exact moment it started, because it was the very same day she told Percival she wanted to cook him dinner.

Percival, of course, being Tina's old boss, meaning the boss who demoted her, meaning it's kind of understandable that Tina's a little miffed that he's taken a shine to Queenie. Tina feels betrayed -- It's practically written up in lights in her mind, and Queenie can't help but see it even when she's tried not to because Tina's snapped at her. And she'd feel worse about it if she couldn't also see, just clear as day, that Tina knows it's not really Percival's fault, that Tina'd broken the actual, bona fide law, a really big one, and that there was a whole council of people who gave her the ax because, well, she'd done magic in front of a No-Maj, actually on a No-Maj, and they couldn't exactly let that slide.

But gosh, Queenie's been getting an earful for a week, Tina suddenly a fierce guardian of her sister's chastity, which is pretty silly since Queenie lost track of it at sixteen. Do you know what it'll look like, you alone at his house? she'd insisted, her face going all sour and puckered up when Queenie had replied, That I'm making him dinner?

So now Percival is coming to their place. It doesn't make a lick of sense to Queenie, but she knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it means he's got to sneak past the landlady. She even bought Tina a ticket to a variety show, with an extra so she could take a friend if she wanted, the show with the Cackling Choir and Lady Mim and some acts that are a real gas, and it oughta take at least four hours.

Gosh, she really hopes it takes at least four hours.

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[mund]

Valentine's Day, as far as Graves is concerned, is a pointlessly trite time of the year where couples overcompensate for the other days of vague neglect, reminding their partners (and themselves) that this is what love probably is. He's drawn a strict line at MACUSA, that if any employee considers choirs of singing cupids or all and sundry obnoxious displays of love a great idea, they may permanently excuse themselves from further employment at the agency.

But Queenie likes it, and so Graves finds himself grudgingly tolerating the season. A bouquet of flowers, elegant, simple and obviously expensive, had made its way to her desk first thing in the morning, carefully anonymous. The last thing he needs is for rumors to rear their ugly heads; the grapevine in MACUSA is as prolific as one of his Graves' best Intelligence units, if not moreso, and he's not inclined to send more ammunition their way.

Besides, he has other battles on his hands. Namely, the potentially awkward one where her sister actually knows that Graves is secretly seeing her. She might be reinstated to an Auror now, but there still are complications -- the most glaring one being that he's seeing her sister. Graves is still learning to navigate that minefield, but his strict ban on letting personal issues interfere at work has at least made things easier.

All things considered, he would have much rather they had dinner at his estate, but the rigors of his job and all the work associated with it ensures that he won't have any time to make preparations, much less any sort of acceptable dinner arrangement. She's been decent about it, understanding, and for a man who eschews any sort of theatrics in his personal relationships, Queenie is pretty damn close to perfect.

It also really doesn't hurt that over half of MACUSA are probably smitten with her, too.

He turns up at her door fifteen minutes late (a meeting with his counterpart in Japan had demanded his immediate attention) and holding a bottle of wine, completely bypassing her landlady downstairs. The corridor is cramped, and not for the first time he wonders how anyone can live in such narrow spaces -- especially for Queenie, who would probably be right at home enjoying the finer things in life. He knocks lightly, quietly, manners dictating a need for basic courtesy instead of the more expedient option of him simply apparating right inside her apartment.

[posilutely]

The knock's soft but Queenie startles anyway. Percival is far from the first man she's stepped out with, but there's a delicious novelty to this that still hasn't worn off -- The not knowing of it all, the having to actually guess, the lick of uncertainty when he's fifteen minutes late when she never, ever would have worried about it before.

Her smile's genuine, though, when she opens the door and then hastily pulls him inside, just a quick glance to check for Mrs. Esposito before she snaps the door closed behind them and flicks the lock. Can't be too careful.

"Look at you," she says, fingers smoothing against her thighs, over the fabric of her best dress, pink and shimmery. "Don't you just look dapper. Oh!" She grins and reaches for the wine, her eyes widening at the label.

"Percival, this is so expensive," she breathlessly adds, eyebrows pulling together.

[mund]

"An apology for my tardiness." Graves is usually punctual to a fault, and he demands the same of his subordinates -- that he is late is an aberration he wishes to correct. That said, he hasn't actually paid attention to the price tag that comes with it, only that it suits Queenie. He smiles faintly when the door shuts and locks; she is absolutely radiant in the light, the gold of her hair catching the light and lending truth to longstanding rumor that she could very well captivate a great majority of the men this side of the Atlantic. The Goldstein sisters cannot be any more different in nature and temperament, but Tina remains one of his most promising Aurors, and Queenie, well -- that remains to be seen.

It occurs to Graves that he hasn't been here before, that this is its own kind of intimacy, turning up for dinner in this cozy little apartment and to be afforded a glimpse into her life beyond MACUSA's long working hours. He leans in to brush the softest kiss on her cheek by way of greeting, warmed by her delight and her charm. "Have I kept you waiting long?"

[posilutely]

Queenie's eyes fall closed at the brush of his lips across her cheek, her teeth catching against her bottom lip as she sways gently, instinctively forward, free hand poised against the warm line of his chest. She's recently discovered how much she loves the scent of him, an intoxicating mix of parchment and expensive soap, and she's forever resisting the urge to bury her nose into his hair or the soft little divot behind his ear.

Fingers curling under, she turns her head and gives in to a different impulse, her mouth full and warm over his for a lingering moment -- Closed-mouth but in no way chaste, and then broken abruptly as she spins off into the kitchen, bottle still in one hand and reaching for her wand with the other.

"I'm not fooled; you know how long it was down to the second," she says, her smile warm but knowing as she casts a glance back to him over her shoulder. "Don't worry, I didn't get started without you. It'll be ready in two shakes."

[mund]

"I did." He admits dryly, the faintest smile tugging at the side of his mouth as he watches her go, lovely and sleek and so very graceful. The warm light of the apartment lends it a sensuous sort of welcome, an alcove that keeps the rest of the world out, and her kiss lingers on lips. It's a sweet surprise, one he readily appreciates.

Queenie is full of surprises, he decides, as he pauses in the doorway of the kitchen and unbuttons his sleeves, folding it neatly up to his elbows. Graves might be a man who's used to running things and having most of such things already prepared and ready for him -- but this is not MACUSA. This is a distinctly more intimate setting on a day that means something to Queenie, and right now, she's his date, not his subordinate.

The desire to kiss her again (longer, this time, and perhaps more of a taste) momentarily set aside in favor of more gentlemanly endeavors, he pauses by the table. "May I help?"

[posilutely]

"You could set the table," Queenie suggests with a little motion of her wand toward the china hutch. The lick of insecurity is a new feeling, a rasp of uncertainty that gives her pause and then makes her feel sharply guilty -- It's her mother's nice china in there, but it's nothing nearly so fancy as Percival's got to be used to eating off of everyday, just a set ordered from a catalog, outdated and with one of the bread plates chipped.

She opens her mouth to make excuses -- I know it's nothing special -- but then snaps her mouth shut again, because it is special. Her father saved for months to buy it, and it isn't fair to Percival or her parents to think anything less. If he cared about those sort things, he probably wouldn't be here at all.

The meal she at least knows is top-shelf, more spent on it than half a week's groceries: The most beautiful filet mignon with asparagus and souffleed sweet potatoes, and heart-shaped raspberry tarts to finish. If he turns his nose up at that, there's just something wrong with him, that's all there is to it.

[mund]

Graves might have dined on finer fare, but they're not necessarily better than this. There's something about someone pouring their heart into the meal that they make that outshines one that's done with finesse -- Queenie possesses both traits in great measure and Graves appreciates how much effort she has put into the dinner.

An easy gesture has the china plates and their accouterments delicately lifted from their place in the hutch, glittering and glimmering, so very gently worn on the edges with use. It's fascinating, and Graves spares a few moments, a finger gently tracing over where one is chipped. So much of the items that he possesses is pristine, expensive, and discarded as soon as a flaw reveals itself, however minor it may be -- it's why everything in Graves' home is sleekly polished and new, as impeccable as its owner.

But, he supposes, they lose the meaning of these items -- none of what he has is cherished as much as Queenie obviously cherishes her plates; the pursuit of perfection does not lend itself to sentimental notions.

"There must be a story here." He notes when the table is neatly laid. Queenie has nothing to be ashamed or insecure about; if Graves wanted flawlessly polished, he might as well have dined alone back at home. Ever one with similarly impeccable manners, he continues. "These plates are beautiful."

[posilutely]

And doesn't she just feel silly now, and guilty all over again for thinking anything less of him, her cheeks dusted with pink when she looks back to him, wand delicately lifted as she prepares the meal.

"They were my mother's," she answers, her sudden shyness something new, too; it isn't discomfiting so much as simply strange. She has no idea what to do with being bashful.

"My father gave them to her on one of their anniversaries," she continues as the food finishes and arranges itself neatly, artfully upon the plates he laid out so carefully. "She used to always stop and admire the sets in the shop windows, so he saved up in secret. He was always real sweet to her."

[mund]

He doesn't blame her; Graves is not a man who wears his heart or his intentions on his sleeve -- he's carefully put away, compartmentalized, and anyone would have thought the same, even one as warmly compassionate as Queenie.

Oblivious to her assumptions, his gaze catches on the pink of her cheeks, and her shyness is something that fascinates when she explains it to him, and he looks down at the plates anew, finding a new appreciatinon for them. Things are always better when there are stories behind them.

"I see." There's the smallest tug of a sile at the side of his mouth. It's not difficult to imagine Mr. Goldstein as a romantic, his missus equally so, and he wonders at the hole their absence has made in both the sisters' lives.

Tina has thrived nonetheless, and so has Queenie, and he brushes light fingers over her wrist briefly when she's close enough. "And you're using these plates tonight. I'm flattered."

[posilutely]

"Well of course," Queenie replies with a slight shake of her head, resisting the urge to tuck in her chin. "It's a special occasion, ain't it?"

She glances down, his fingertips just barely on her skin, and turns her hand so that she can give his hand a quick squeeze before nodding to the table. Nice as this all is, in a way she wishes they could simply jump forward to that part of things, to touching and feeling each other out physically. That part she thinks she'd be a bit more sure about.

But it's a little easier, too, once she's settled into her chair with her plate in front of her. Cooking has always been something she's simply had a knack for, but she's proud of it, too.

"When was the last time you actually sat down to a proper meal?" she asks with a little quirk of her mouth as she picks up her fork.