Title: "The Get Down"
Fandom: The Magicians (TV)
Pairing: Margo Hanson*Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh/OFC
Rating: ...Mature? [explicit (on-screen) discussion of (off-screen) sex]
Length: ~1.3k
Content notes: Warning for consent issues. I keep my warning policy in my AO3 profile and am always willing to answer private DW messages or emails asking for elaboration or clarification on my warnings for a particular story.
Author notes: For both the "Reflect" challenge and the "Ball" square on my bingo card. Regarding the pairing: I've been using the "*" lately as notation to indicate relationships that don't fit nicely into "&" and "/" categorization; Margo and Eliot's (canonically queer, canonically passionate) friendship is sort of my lead gong-banger for wanting this new notation, and I think their dynamic in this story is a great example of why. Do they screw? Yes, both canonically and in (well—before) this story; but I continue to feel like the question, "Is their relationship sexual?" needs a like ten thousand word essay to adequately answer. In lieu of that: the asterisk, and this story. ETA 2019.01.20: If you are looking for an ebook or an accessible version, this fic is also now cross-posted to AO3.

Summary: The Wrecking Ball is a weapon of peace—now, at least.

"The Get Down"

"God damn it, Eliot!" Margo had shouted: several times, no matter how frantically Eliot'd waved his hands at her: quiet, quiet, quiet: his head was a fucking war zone, after the night they'd had; and they'd both always found Davina Walker unbearable—gorgeous, but unbearable. Psychics always were, weren't they. "I swear to God, the next time you promise me oh, but it'll be fine, Margo, I've got it working, now, it's motherfucking clockwork, I'm going to wear your balls for earrings—"

"I thought you hated that fucking tassel trend," Eliot mumbles, and drags a pillow over his head; but Margo promptly snatches it away again.

"Oh, but I'd make an exception," Margo tells him, "just for your hairy nutsack, if it'd finally get me the last word in this fucking argument."

"Could the two of you keep it down," Davina mumbles; which at least unifies them long enough to snarl, "Fuck off!"

So Davina jerks herself out of bed and into her clothes and fucks off, with the usual volume of Psychical scarves and judgemental staring. Par for the fucking course: honestly, Eliot doesn't know why he bothers.

"I don't care how hot you think she is," Eliot tells Margo, as he waves a hand to flick the blinds tighter shut, "if there's one thing we should've learned by now, it's that Psychics are never, ever worth it."

"I know that," Margo says, flat, "I do, actually, have some self-restraint, when you're not enchanting the entire cottage into grinding on each other for hours—I swear to God, though, Eliot, it'd take a stronger woman than I am to spend half the night with that ass rubbing up all over me, and not need to slap it after."

"I know, Bambi, I know." Eliot strokes her hair. "It's a nice ass."

"It's a fucking transcendant ass and you know it, don't even start with me, Waugh. Even you would slap that ass."

"As I recall, I did slap that ass," Eliot observes. He had: Davina had twitched, moaned for it; but when Margo'd shoved her face into her Davina had fucking cried. "Several times."

"Well, of course you did, who fucking wouldn't," Margo says, flat, and then sighs, sinking back down to burrow her face in against Eliot's chest. Muffled, she asks, "God, did it have to be Davina, though?"

"Well, it is her ass," Eliot points out.

"You know what I mean," Margo mumbles; and then sighs again. "You know what she's going to be like after this, all, Oh, my mindfulness group meets on Thursdays, and, Did you see that purple streak in Sunderland's aura? That means that advanced comet conjunctions will be on the final, all that kind of bullshit, like just because I let her put her fist up my cunt it means I want to talk to her."

"Heaven forfend," Eliot says, and then kisses her forehead. "I'm sorry, Bambi. You know it's not exactly how I'd hoped the evening would work out, either."

"No," she agrees, and then props her head up on her chin, squinting up at him. "I'm sorry your boy didn't come, you know," she says, gentle.

"Ohhhhh, whatever." He waves a hand. "It's not like I'm pining. I gave up pining for New Year's. Or—Lent? Maybe I mean Lent." He squints. "I don't know, maybe I did give it up for New Year's," he says, uncertain. New Year's was—that rooftop party in the City; and then silence, focus, snow, fur, nails: fucking Brakebills South. He swallows. "Did I pine after New Year's?" he asks.

"You pined a little bit after New Year's," she admits. She's smiling a little, not meanly; she'd been there. She knows how hard it was. "Though, I mean—you also fucked like six undergrads when we got back, so—"

"Liam wasn't an undergrad," Eliot says. "And—I don't think the blond in London was, either."

Her eyes widen. "I forgot about the blond in London! No, you're right, he was thirty, at least. So—probably not an undergrad."

"Yeah, well, he also wasn't worth the bar bill, so." Eliot sighs; and Margo cuddles in closer, tightening her warm soft arm around his prickling waist.

He strokes her hair back, eyes closed. Quiet, after a moment, he admits, "I don't want to pine"; and she hums. Warm. Non-judgemental. Eliot swallows. "I didn't—honestly, I thought it would help. The spell. Ball. Disco thingie."

"With your penchant for doe-eyed boys with dumb names?"

Eliot doesn't know how to answer. He'd thought—oh, the usual; he'd get drunk, get laid, get over it. But. "Part of me feels like I ought to object to the implication that Skye is a dumb name," he says, and then laughs, a very little. "But you're right, it is a stupid name, so—I don't know, maybe that means I'm growing as a person?"

"But you'd still fuck him," Margo observes.

Eliot shrugs, back prickling. Yeah, he'd still fuck Skye Martel, after nine months at Brakebills, but— "I mean, you fucked Davina Walker, so—"

"Yeah, I sure did," she says, and then sighs; and then runs her palm down Eliot's chest and his arm, to tangle her fingers up with his. "You've really got to tone that spell down, hon. Livening up our parties is one thing, but if every time we're going to spit-roast a Psychic, after—"

His stomach jumps. "No, I know, I know," Eliot squeezes, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Think of the social cost alone," he manages, light.

"It's true," she says, in mournful tones; and then lifts up her head, wide-eyed. "I mean, Davina Walker's one thing, but if we were to go after, oh, say Skye Martel—"

"Hey, now," Eliot protests.

"—because everyone on campus wants to slap Davina Walker's ass, because that's just common sense," she says, "but—what would you even do with Skye Martel? Have deep, involved discussions about misunderstandings of the metaphysical implications of full lotus versus half lotus as perpetuated by popular media? Admire his collection of Game of Thrones-themed crystal energy focuses? Polish his Dungeons and Dragons cards?"

"Dungeons and Dragons doesn't have cards," Eliot says; "And it worries me that you know that," counters Margo; and then immediately starts giggling, as Eliot rolls her onto her side, tickling ferociously.

The room is shadowy, with the curtains drawn. Close and warm.

"I think I should probably just pull out the modernizations I made to Purnell's Gavottesque," Eliot says quietly. Later. "Or—some of them, at least."

Margo makes a thoughtful noise. "So we'll all wind up twirling around in—what, like, Pride and Prejudice country dances?"

"I didn't say I'd pull out all of them," Eliot says, "but—yeah. Something more like that." He shrugs, back prickling. "It'd probably end up being—silly, mostly, honestly. But—fun, I think? I don't know, maybe it'd wreck it." He sighs. "But it seems like it might—fix some parts of it, maybe."

Margo reaches over to cup his cheek. "Since it's the serious bits that get you into trouble?" she asks, soft; and Eliot shrugs again. He feels—exposed, in that way he always feels so exposed with her: there in the shadowy space between them on his pillow, with her warm familiar body tucked up close to his, still smelling—safe. Like sweat. Like Margo.

"It seems that way, sometimes," he admits, very quietly; and she leans in, and kisses him gently on the mouth.