let the alcohol do the talking,

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

It was late at night and the room was dimly lit – the only light coming from the kitchen at the other end of the apartment. Leaning back in the office chair at his old oak desk Vincent Lancaster found himself one-bottle-in (the empty bottle of rum sitting open on his desk) as he sipped on a tall glass of straight black label bourbon whiskey that he had just poured. Vince looked up at his desk, papers, articles both written by him and others to be edited, outlines for other articles or his own work and books, pens and quills were strewn across it – a laptop off to the corner of the desk sat open with a blank word document open. There was absolutely zero chance of productivity tonight – there was so much he could have been getting done that evening, but instead he found himself so fired up and angry that all he could do was down glass after glass of anything alcoholic, hoping it would somehow make him feel better.

Everything had started with the post owl delivering his morning copy of the Prophet – after only a quick scan of the front page he noticed that a headline had been drastically changed from what he had approved before leaving, late the night before. Angry and irritated before he even got dressed, he found himself skipping breakfast and heading straight into the office without looking at the rest of the days paper – it was getting insulting to see so much of his hard work changed, and for what? To sell more papers. Wouldn’t the truth, even as tragic as some of it was, sell better in the first place? What had happened to honest journalism – getting the real story out and letting the truth be told?

Trying not to think too much on it – after all, there was little he could really do about it until the day his father handed over the business to him – he decided to go about his day as usual, editing, asking for revisions, checking on other’s progress and the like. By lunch he had almost forgotten how frustrated and angry he had been at the start of the day – that was until after he returned from his break, only to find a note on his desk requesting his presence in his father’s office. Rolling his eyes, Vincent crumpled the note and tossed it in the waste basket under his desk before promptly ignoring the note and getting back to work – whatever his dad wanted, it could wait until he was done for the day at least.

Not even an hour later and someone was knocking at his door – a coworker telling him that his father was asking for him as soon as possible, apparently what they needed to talk about couldn’t wait. Frustrated, Vincent slammed his pen on his desk and pushed his chair back then standing almost all in one quick movement. Grumbling under his breath about his dad wasting his time when he had actual work he could be doing – after all, this was more than likely a summons for some event that his mother was throwing on or something else ridiculous that they always seemed to drag him into – he left his office and made his way down to his fathers office upstairs.

What started off as his father criticizing what he was letting go through to print eventually turned into a full-blown screaming match between father and son that could be heard through the entire third floor of the building. It was the same thing all over again – his father telling him how things should be done, what should and shouldn’t be published, what was acceptable content and what he thought was far too liberal for their conservative paper; all the while Vincent argued that varying points of view and opinions matter, that facts and telling the truth matter, that being a reliable source of information to the public mattered above all – otherwise they were just another tabloid like the Quibbler.

In the end, there was no winning with Atticus Lancaster, and he knew that going into this – but that didn’t mean that he left there without putting up a fight. However, it only left him feeling bitter, angry and defeated when it amounted to nothing as it always did – and after leaving his fathers office, slamming the door behind him, he made his way back to his own office. He didn’t sit back down to work though, instead he gathered up his things, threw on his coat and apparated home, where he promptly tossed his work on his desk and poured himself his first drink – rum and coke, more rum than coke. A few hours later, he was halfway through the bottle and pacing his living room, still feeling heated over the argument with his father – why did it have to bother him so damn much? Why couldn’t his father just open his mind – even a little bit – to his point of view?

Now, as he sat there staring at all the work, he hadn’t gotten done that night and the bottle he had polished off sitting beside the one he was currently nursing, he still couldn’t get his mind off it. As he took a sip of his drink, he heard a knock at his door – and it caught him off guard as he very rarely had any visitors. Only his parents knew where he lived, he thought to himself, ignoring the knock at the door for the moment – whatever it was, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with his parents tonight. A long minute passed and he hadn’t moved an inch other than to bring the glass of bourbon to his lips once again when there was a second knock at the door – and an unmistakable voice following it.

“Vincent?” his ex-girlfriend Opehlia Vane sounded irritated that he hadn’t opened the door for her – and then it hit him hard like a ton of bricks. It had been so long since she had come to his apartment that he had entirely forgotten that she knew where he lived at all. She had been meeting with their source finally and was supposed to come over afterward to fill him in – let him know how legitimate this lead was so they could brainstorm on exactly where to go with it. With the rest of his day having been consumed by frustration and anger toward his father – not to mention the bottle and then some of alcohol – he had completely forgotten that was tonight.

Sighing, Vincent downed more than half his glass of whiskey like it was a shot before getting up for the first time in a little while – realizing from the headrush as he stood that the alcohol was finally getting to him. After finding his balance again – while hearing Ophelia muttering outside the door about how he better have not forgotten she was coming over – he made his way over to the front door to his apartment, flipped the lock and opened it to let her inside without saying a word.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Three months ago, Vincent had come by Ophelia’s office after one of their fights and, shockingly, given her a lead and asked her to work on a story. They had ended up working on it together, sort of, and Fee had presented it flawlessly on the WWN, with Vincent watching from home. She hadn’t known how pleased he was, had hardly known how pleased she was, and really didn’t know how to handle the fact that she and her ex-boyfriend had just been civil to each other for weeks after two years of a very acrimonious post-break up situation. Well, relatively civil.

Maybe even more surprising than that night in her office was that they ended up working on two more stories after the first one. He’d reappeared in her office only days later and asked, nearly as reluctantly as the first time, “What if I had another story?” while she narrowed her eyes at him. She told him he had to stop coming to the WWN, people would talk, and he knew better than to associate himself with her, for the sake of them both. But she had also sighed and stretched out her hand for the folder he was holding and let him sit down to talk about it.

They’re on their third story now, one focusing on a corrupt official Fee would love to take down, a justified fall from grace she'll savor so much it's going to be worth the arguments and hours with Vincent.

(The thing was that Ophelia was spending quite a bit of time with Vincent. They fought and they glared at each other and she was generally pretty difficult, but she also was getting used to him again, even if she would never own up to it, even if she didn’t realize it. It was odd, having him take up space in her new life that wasn’t just a place of arguments and bitterness. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, so she ignored it in favor of the arguments and bitterness.)

They hadn’t met up to work in two weeks, though; she had been sending updates when she had them, and arranging a meeting with a nervous but important source, but she had also left the country for four days, going to Beijing for her actual, official work. She’d returned late last night and had a meeting tonight with that source at last, with a stop at Vincent’s planned for afterwards so she could recap the interview and they could look at next steps. She hadn’t had to come over to his apartment since early on, only a handful of weeks into this weird sort of partnership they had struck up, and it was very strange to stand at his door.

Fee knocked on the door, waited long enough, and then knocked again, more insistent. “Vincent?” she called through the door, irritation clear in her voice. “Vincent, let me in.” She had been in Beijing for enough days to adjust to the time difference and had had such a busy day back in London on top of some jetlag that she was very much not in the mood to be kept waiting. “You better not have forgotten I was coming over,” she added, a bit more quietly but no less annoyed, and possibly swore at him in Chinese. “Don’t you want to hear about the source?” She had told him she was coming over tonight, last week before she left, and again in a message last night when she’d let him know the interview was definitely happening.

Vincent finally opened the door and let her in without a word. She didn’t storm in, because she was Ophelia Vane and that’s not what she did, but she strode in with obvious aggravation. “I told you I was coming over tonight,” she said, exasperated, while she reached into her bag for her notebook. Meanwhile, Vincent took a few steps deeper into the apartment, and she spotted the way he was unsteady on his feet, not looking at her, not quite as straight and tall as usual. Vincent was nothing if not steady - put together, serious, restrained, unwavering - and they both kept forgetting just how well they knew each other. She paused for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then - “Vincent,” she said, sharp and observant in that way of hers, never letting things go, but maybe, maybe not mean, “are you drunk?”

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

There was solace in the fact that he was never able to get through to his father and his own work was turned into something it wasn’t supposed to be at every turn – and that was the newfound, odd, somewhat reluctant partnership of sorts between him and his ex-girlfriend. Months ago, when Vincent had been faced with a source that wanted a story corrected, he knew it wasn’t something he could handle himself – a retraction would never make it past his father’s last-minute editing by his father – so instead, with Ophelia’s words from earlier that same day ringing in his ears, he brought the story to her. They had somehow been able to put aside their differences, their long and bitter feud, long enough to work on this story together – which he watched as she presented the story on the WWN, sitting on his couch and feeling rather smug about the fact that one way or another, the story got out – even if it was the start to tarnishing the entire reputation of the Daily Prophet.

In the coming week he had been approached with another story that he knew would never be given the justice it deserved at the paper – so just as he had before, he grudgingly took the file to Ophelia – who told him that he needed to stop coming by her office at the WWN, but took the case none-the-less. It had worked much the same way – the met up in obscure coffee shops and places where they could work undisturbed and unnoticed by the people who might recognize her from her WWN broadcasts or him from the various events his parents drug him along to. Somehow, the two of them continued to look past their own problems – even if they still bickered, debated, and were generally difficult with one another, it was in a way that was familiar and almost reminiscent of the earliest days of them working together at the prophet – back when things seemed so much simpler.

They were working on a third piece together – he was more than happy to keep bringing her these leads, doing what he could to help the process, and allowing her to present the story in whatever medium she deemed best for the story – but most often as a WWN broadcast that reached thousands each day. Each time, there was something satisfying about working against his father in secret – especially when his father explosively ranted throughout the office about her calling out the paper on occasion. It had been a few weeks since they had started working on this case – though Vincent wasn’t one to lose track of his schedule, and it had been even more unlikely considering Fee was always very good at reminding him when they were supposed to meet – her free time to work on this stuff was sparing, and she was a very efficient person.

The realization that being lost to his own frustration and anger all day had led him to forget their meeting – and on top of it now she was in his apartment and he was far more drunk than he had been in ages – had him feeling uncertain. Should he tell her to come back another night? Or should he just try and fake his way through the night, offering what input he was able and doing his best to act as though he hadn’t forgotten she was coming over entirely? As he let her in, Ophelia passed him, looking as though she couldn’t believe he would forget she was coming over – the truth was, neither could he – and she said, “I told you I was coming over tonight,”as she started to unpack her notes to go over the meeting she had just left.

All the while, Vincent hadn’t said a word, shutting the door behind her, rolling his eyes as she reminded him that she did in fact, tell him she was coming over. Stepping further out of the entry way and into the dimly lit living room he wobbled slightly – his balance off and his head certainly feeling the effects of the excessive alcohol finally. Vincent hadn’t even met her gaze yet when she looked at him and with a sharp tone said, “Vincent,” before a slight pause before asking, “Are you drunk?” To which he found himself caught off guard – was it that obvious? How long had he been drinking again? With a glance at her, then down at the glass of bourbon still clutched in his hand, Vincent said, “I might, yes, be slightly intoxicated…” he admitted, the alcohol bringing out an honesty he didn’t normally offer so quickly.

Taking a few steps further into the apartment he managed to get himself slightly more under control – but only making his way over to the office chair he had been in before, nearly falling into it, but not spilling the glass in his hand as he spun in the chair to face her. “Sorry for making you wait at the door, it’s been a long day… I thought it was my parents here to bother me and I wasn’t about to deal with Atticus twice today,” he muttered, referring to his father by his first name as he often did when he was pissed off. Vincent glanced over at Ophelia as he took another sip of his drink. “Now, you said something about that source? I definitely do want to hear this,” he said, determined to keep himself on target and as focused as he could be at the moment now that Fee was here.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

“I might, yes, be slightly intoxicated…” Vincent said as she looked him over. He had a drink in hand but was clearly surprised she had noticed; Ophelia knew he was so used to being all put together, and he wasn’t used to having her around, able to catch his slips, small as they might be. But they had known each other for nearly a decade now, including dating for four years, so Fee knew how Vincent was not always put together and restrained, just like how he knew that she wasn’t always so polished and impressive. Years of late night conversations, close friendship as two people who didn’t really have other close friendships, and then living together did that to a pair. Their break up and the two years since couldn’t erase that knowledge, as much as they might both wish to get rid of it. Once it had been a comfort, a point of pride, a lovely familiarity she hadn’t exactly acknowledged; now it was an unsettling but inevitable memory that she couldn’t escape. But the point was that Fee could tell when something was off with him, both drunk and upset, because she had gotten drunk with him many times and because she knew him. “Slightly?" was all she returned, eyebrows raised.

Fee followed him over to his desk, which was far more of a mess than usual. There was an empty bottle and a newly opened bottle there too, amongst the many papers. He nearly fell into his chair and spun it around, and she barely managed to not snort, but she did look at him with a calm, almost mocking look. After flipping on a lamp - because fuck, Vincent, it’s dark in here - she pulled up a chair and sat, dropping her bag on the floor and flipping through her notepad.

“Sorry for making you wait at the door, it’s been a long day… I thought it was my parents here to bother me and I wasn’t about to deal with Atticus twice today,” he muttered. Fairly understandable, she admitted to herself, as someone with her own difficult parents, who had spent her own time dealing with the man himself. "Oh, Atticus. Of course. I’ll never understand how you deal with him even once a day," Fee said, rather mildly for her. It was a comment that perhaps wasn't very polite to say about someone's father, but this was Atticus Lancaster they were talking about, and Ophelia didn't really hold back about him. It was a sort of surprisingly cool and restrained statement, for her, but maybe she was taking pity of him for what must have been a shitty day. It wasn't really nice, but it wasn't really to start a fight, either.

“Now, you said something about that source? I definitely do want to hear this,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject. Fee gave him a look - one that said I see what you’re doing, and I’m not letting this go - but she let him change the subject for now. It was actually important to talk about her meeting, after all. “Right, yes.” Her voice turned into that sort of businesslike tone she often got with him, the result of trying to be civil and professional instead of just fighting with him. It was brisk and composed and efficient, and for the moment it was also ignoring his drunkenness. Mostly.

“It was a good meeting, actually, and I’m glad it finally happened. She’s still nervous, but I don’t think she’ll pull out of this. It’s nothing groundbreaking, unfortunately, but we weren’t expecting that. Some nice confirmation and direction, though. She told me she has some files before they were altered, and some memos. I’m going to get them from her later this week, so we’ll need to meet to take a look at them - they’ve got to be our way forward.” She drummed her fingers on her leg and recited some of the notes, simultaneously thinking over ideas and trying to fit it all together as she went. Then she turned back before they could spin out too far.

“I got a pretty detailed personal account from her too,” she said, waving her notes. “I couldn’t get many names out of her this time, but she definitely skirted around other people who know things - maybe we can track them down if we can’t get her to say.” She pushed the notepad across the desk and said, more lightly than seriously warning, “No peeking at the rest of it, Lancaster.”

Fee gave him a moment to flip through it. Meanwhile her eyes wandered around the room, which was still too dim, really. It was strange to be in his apartment, and she wasn’t sure she could get used to it. It was different than their old apartment, but familiar enough, because it still felt like Vincent. From her seat at his desk, she could already spot a few things that had been in their old place. He absolutely had not been to her new apartment; that was too weird for her, a line she wasn’t ready for him to cross. And yet she was comfortable enough, somehow, to be here.

Shaking off this line of thought, she looked over at him again. “We can go over it again when you’re sober,” she added, smirking, because she couldn’t help herself, as he lifted his glass to drink again. Then Ophelia decided to flip it back on him, away from the work conversation, again unable to stop herself. "What did Atticus do to drive you to drink alone in the dark?" she asked, sounding sarcastic even though she was also genuinely a bit curious.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

It was obvious by the way she said, “Slightly?” paired with the look on her face that she knew he was far more drunk than he was prepared to admit. In all honesty, Vincent didn’t drink like this very often – usually a couple of glasses of rum and coke as he worked away, or more than a few glasses of wine or champagne at one of his mothers various events to make it more tolerable, was about the extent of his drinking. Though he certainly drank regularly, going past a warm buzz – but to be to the point he was at now, where he was unsteady on his feet, his words slightly slurred together, was a rarity. However, it was a rarity that Ophelia had seen more than a handful of times over the course of their relationship and the friendship that had preceded it – so it shouldn’t surprise him that she had caught on quickly, especially as he still had his drink in hand.

After getting himself settled into his chair and spun around to face her he saw the look on her face – and he realized that this was certainly not what she had expected; when he was drunk there was a more relaxed, looseness to him from his movements down to his words, and she hadn’t seen him anything but restrained, observant, and holding back, in a least a few years. Then she flipped on a light as she settled in and grabbed her notepad – Vincent leaned forward to turn the lamp more toward her and away from himself after explaining why he hadn’t answered the door initially. Surprisingly, she was rather understanding – commenting on how she didn’t know how he could deal with Atticus Lancaster even once a day. “Really, I do my best to not have to…” he said as he took another sip of his drink, shortly after that changing the subject, saying he was very interested in hearing what their source had to say.

Ophelia was better with people than he was – she just had that charm about her, she was great at being social and being gentle when needed and pressing further when warranted – it was one of the many things that made her such an amazing journalist. Vincent on the other hand had a quiet, almost off-putting nature that wasn’t nearly as inviting – so even though the source had initially reached out to him, he had contacted them saying Ophelia would follow up with them. They were far more likely to get the information they were looking for – or at least a lead on how to get it – that way than they would be if he had been the one to conduct the interview.

“Right, yes,” she said, her tone switching from a somewhat casual and almost friendly tone (because even though some might have considered her comments about his father rude, Vincent wasn’t one of those people, rather he found it fair and honest) to a tone that was much more business oriented and focused. She explained that the source was nervous, that they hadn’t gotten a ton of information – neither of them had expected to in a first meeting anyway – but that they had gotten plenty of useful information. She also mentioned that she would have to get some files and memos and that they would have to meet up again later in the week to go over it all – he made a mental note to not be drunk that night.

Just as he thought she had to have been about done, she went on to tell him that she had gotten a detailed personal account from the source – that was always one of the best things you could have when reporting a story like this one, that would expose someone so high up, who was also so corrupt. She also mentioned that the woman had given a few names, but not many and suggested that those were people perhaps they could track down – something that Vincent would likely do, he might not be the best at talking to people, but finding out how to get in contact with those people, that he could do with relative ease most of the time.

Then she went on to set the notepad on the desk, pushing it across to him, with a somewhat joking, somewhat serious tone saying, “No peeking at the rest of it, Lancaster,” to which he couldn’t help but roll his eyes, the moment almost making him feel like they had traveled back at least six years or more. “Even if I did, you know I can’t do anything with any of it. Anything you have that’s worth reporting Atticus would shoot down before I had a headline figured out,” he said bitterly, still not being able to shake his frustration from earlier in the day no matter how focused he had managed to stay through her synopsis of the meeting. Vincent flipped through her notes, knowing he wouldn’t remember half of what he was reading by morning - then as though reading his mind she said, “We can go over it again when you’re sober.”

When he looked up from the notes with a slight look of annoyance he was met with a smirk on her face – and in his drunken state he couldn’t help but smile a little and shake his head before taking another sip of his drink. It was then that things went a direction he hadn’t expected – she turned the conversation back to him, which he had hoped she would get distracted enough not to do, though he knew better from the look she had given him earlier when he had transitioned them into talking about their latest story. “What did Atticus do to drive you to drink alone in the dark?” she asked, and though the sarcasm was thick in her tone, he noticed that she almost seemed to genuinely want to know what was going on to make him act so out of character.

“Well, first of all, it’s dark because the light was giving me a headache,” Vincent explained as he took a sip of his drink, not even beginning to consider the alcohol could be the cause of the headache. “Second, I’m drinking by myself because who am I going to drink with? Honestly?” he said, and they both knew it was true – he didn’t exactly have friends and he was an only child with no cousins so no family besides his parents, for years, Fee was his not only his girlfriend, but his best friend, and the only real friend he had had since he was very young. “As for what could Atticus have possibly done,” he continued on – his normal reserved, observant and short spoken self was gone, the alcohol had brought the more confident, more forceful and much more talkative version of him out for the moment.

“The list is pretty long, so I don’t know how much time you have,” he started off, finishing off the bourbon in his glass like it was a shot, reaching for the bottle and refilling the glass to the brim. “Apparently, everything I do needs further revisions and I need to get “on-board” with the way he’s running things,” he said, his tone both mocking and bitter. “Even the most objective, least leaning one way or the other pieces I write get redacted or outright not published,” he continued, taking a long sip of his drink. “I’m sure you’re starting to get the idea… It’s more of the same… things just keep getting better around there, don’t they?”

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

“Really, I do my best to not have to…” Vincent said about his father, a feeling she completely understood, before he changed the subject and brought the conversation back to work for the time being. After her recounting of the meeting with her new source, he took her notebook and said bitterly, after what she meant as a joke or something like it, “Even if I did, you know I can’t do anything with any of it. Anything you have that’s worth reporting Atticus would shoot down before I had a headline figured out.” He flipped through her notes then, while she said, mildly enough, “Yes, I do know that.” When he looked up from her notes at her comment about his intoxication and saw her smirk, he surprisingly smiled back at her, small as it was. Her smirk hung on stubbornly for another moment, amused at his current state but also pleased, if further unbalanced, by the reaction.

Then Fee flipped the conversation back on him, back to Atticus. “Well, first of all, it’s dark because the light was giving me a headache,” he said, and she cut in, with a lofty musing tone, “I wonder why that is,” before he continued, “Second, I’m drinking by myself because who am I going to drink with? Honestly?” Fee kept her eyes on him after that follow up, even as he kept focusing on his drink and she could the conflicting desire to avoid that line of thought and to boldly pursue that. She could probably find something witty and even mean to stay to that, but she simply didn’t say anything. For years, she had been the person he would drink with, but it was more than drinking together. She was more of a social drinker than he was, but she could still recognize both the loneliness and the larger fact that he didn’t exactly have friends, because after all, she didn’t really either, even though she was more social than he was.

It felt odd to watch him just then, less than composed, not so reserved, walls not up to her so much. It wasn’t like before, before the breakup and everything else happened, but this was also a side of Vincent she had seen before. Composure slipping away, his straight back and direct gaze relaxed, frustration doing more than showing through. She’d known this Vincent, had plenty of nights of drinking with him over many years, but it had been a while, and she wasn’t allowed to see this side of him anymore. She wasn’t supposed to see this. There was more of an edge to him now, maybe a mix of the cause of this frustration and her presence.

If Fee knew herself better, she’d realize that maybe this was comfortability and sympathy and returning or even lingering feelings for him. But she didn’t, or refused to, so she just studied him with a raised eyebrow and a strange feeling settling in.

“As for what could Atticus have possibly done,” Vincent went on, becoming more talkative and bold, “the list is pretty long, so I don’t know how much time you have.” He finished off his glass and refilled it, giving her a moment to respond, whether or not he wanted her to. ”I’ve got all the time in the world,” Fee said, half joking, half honest. She led a busy life, but she didn't have anywhere to be just then but home or here in Vincent's apartment. There was nobody else for her to talk to tonight, and although she was tired and looking forward to being in bed sooner rather than later, there was something natural still about talking to Vincent. Then she added, to lean into the sarcasm, ”For complaints about the illustrious Atticus Lancaster? Always.”

Mocking and bitter, the way Ophelia so frequently felt toward him and his father and his paper, he explained some of what his father had said. ”I’m sure you’re starting to get the idea… It’s more of the same… things just keep getting better around there, don’t they?” She looked at him over the desk for another long beat, considering him, considering her responses for once, if she was going to pursue this, turn it into a fight. He was irritable enough for the both of them tonight, an unusual reversal these days. He was also the only one of them who was drinking. They obviously weren’t going to get work done that night.

“If you’re going to drink, I’m going to drink too,” she finally said abruptly. “Where’s your alcohol?” Barely waiting for him to point in the right direction, Fee strode over to a cabinet and threw open the door, then stood there eyeing the somewhat varied bottles inside. He already had an empty bottle and the new one he’d moved on to on his desk, but there were a couple of other bottles, including a gin she liked. She ended up pulling a bottle of red wine, a lone bottle of wine - there had always been wine when they’d lived together - and considered the label. She was a bit of a snob (a bit? the old Vincent would have scoffed at her, while smiling anyways) when it came to alcohol (just to alcohol? her little brother would say, not incorrectly, just to be annoying), particularly wine and cocktails, and she had a more extensive array of alcohol at her own apartment. This bottle wasn’t really up to her standards, but in that moment, wine was wine. She stepped away to rummage in his kitchen for a wineglass and ended up with a ordinary glass, and was back in front of his desk a moment later. She poured more than a healthy measure and set the bottle on his desk in easy reach, then settled back in her seat. “Okay,” Fee said, after a long drink of her wine. “So Atticus is his usual terrible self. What’s new?”