A/N_ My goodness, you guys are so patient. And I love you all. I swear. I promise, I'm already ½ way through writing the next few chapters, so they should be more timely? But I make no promises.
She's a Liability
Now I've Seen Everything
"Holy monkey balls, Katie, you take forever," Red whined, as I, once again, struggled to secure my arm bracers. He sighed and tapped his toes on the locker room floor in an animated sort of way, rolling his eyes. He consulted his watch again. It was hot pink. I think he chose it himself.
"'Holy monkey balls?" I repeated dubiously. I scoffed. He rolled his eyes as I somehow managed to secure the first clasps on my arm bracers. "Besides," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Since when are you so keen on doing actual work?" He mulled my words over, then shrugged as if he couldn't argue with my logic. For a professional quidditch player, Red Barten has a very shoddy work ethic. Which is why we're friends. He understands the value of ice cream and naps.
"Since when are you so slow?" He slid down the lockers until he sat on the floor, and stared up at me. I shrugged, and furtively checked my watch again. I wasn't just slow- I was waiting. Wood still hadn't shown up for practice. He was late. Not really late, just late for Wood. Because Oliver Wood rises at the butt crack of dawn and is at the pitch precisely 5 minutes later. That is if he sleeps at all. During my years at Hogwarts I was operating under the assumption that he doesn't.
Oliver Wood is never late. Which must mean that he's either dead, maimed or in the process of dying. Which is bad. And as strange as it sounds, I felt like it was my responsibility to make sure he was okay.
I should probably go get him. I moved to begin applying my second bracer, while Red began whistling- quite terribly, I might add. The shrill notes were worthy of echolocation and cleverly designed to move my ass along. He's probably still passed out. Red hit a note that could probably, if applied correctly, shatter glass. I flinched. Why the hell did I leave him there alone? I could've stayed on the couch.
The door opened behind me, and Wood staggered in. He was a little disheveled, with his shades pulled down dark and tight, but otherwise alive. Thank god. It seemed he'd ditched the feminine sunglasses from the night before. Wherever they came from. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then nodding at me, shuffled over to flop onto the bench.
"Morning sunshine," Red greeted him cheerily. His voice was loud, and probably grated against Wood's super sensitive alcohol heightened ears. The keeper grimaced. Red frowned. "What's wrong with you?" the beater demanded, pretending to sulk. "Forget to take your happy pills?"
"I'm hung over," Wood replied hoarsely, collapsing into the bench. Red laughed.
"No, really," Red didn't believe him- and for good reason. Like I said, Oliver Wood doesn't drink, let alone have wild parties. Oliver Wood's body is a temple. Alcohol hath never touched his lips. Wood eyed him warily, and pulled out his arm guards. That was about all the answer Red was going to get.
"Hey, Bell," Oliver muttered, looking like he wanted to sink into the bench and never, ever, move. HE looked up and attempted half a smile.
"Hey," I said, dropping to a low voice. The smallest sounds are murder when you're hung over. Trust me. The day after my coming of age party I woke up disoriented, in a swimsuit, in the middle of March, because the clock was ticking. It was so deafening. But let's not go into that, shall we? "How do you feel?" I asked. He groaned, head resting on his knees.
"Like shit," he growled, burrowing his forehead in, eyes clamped shut. "I hate parties," he moaned, before sitting up and beginning to slap his leg bracers on. The first time he tried the left it was backwards.
"Glad to know you're back to normal," I smirked.
"Yeah, if normal is feeling like your head's going to explode," Wood grumbled, rubbing his temples moodily.
"Wait, he went to a party?' Red sounded flabbergasted. "What the hell." He stared at the haggard keeper slumped on the bench, double knotting his shoes.
"He had a party," I explained quickly, watching Wood loll somewhat dangerously. How he intended to play keeper was beyond me."Last night."
"Oliver Wood," Red said uncertainly, pointing to the keeper who was slowly beating his head against the bench. I nodded slowly. "This Oliver Wood?" I nodded again. "Had a party," I nodded again. "Last night?"
"Yes."
"Now I've seen everything," Red declared, throwing his hands up. "Good on you, man," he ruffled Wood's hair. Wood growled and clumsily chucked a shoe at the beater, who dodged. Saluting, he darted out of the room.
"Finally," Wood snarled.
I chuckled, and patted him on the shoulder. He continued to struggle with his leg guards, fingers still a little awkward, and he slipped over the clasps quite easily. I watched this process for a moment, eyebrows raised. The role reversal was quite hilarious. Usually I'm the one stumbling around from lack of sleep and cookie comas.
"You need a little help there, chief?" I asked, amused. It was only the memories of myself hung over that bit back a laugh as he glared at the clasps. He usually reserved that look for unruly quidditch players and the opposing team. He shook his head, and managed to secure one of them.
"Nah," he said, tongue between his teeth. "I got this." I nodded. He gave the clips his complete attention, staring at them like they were a puzzle of universal proportions. I knew better than to ask again.
"Don't hurt yourself," I said. He swatted my leg with the back of his hand. But I think I detected the slightest of smiles on his scruffy, unshaven cheek. Then he continued to scrabble with the straps until, miraculously, they came together. I checked my watch. We had five minutes to be on the pitch. The locker room was silent, and empty. Everyone was outside. He began working on his arms, and I stayed quiet. I wondered how much he remembered of the night before. He finished the arm bracers, and removed his sunglasses to reveal dark smudges from lack of sleep. He blinked in the new light, and then yawned. He stood. I handed him his bag, shouldering my own.
"Thanks," he said, staring the walk to the pitch. Our steps echoed in the tunnel. Blinking, we walked into the sun.
"Bloody hell," he grumbled, shielding his face. "Damn sun f-" he continued to gripe in a low undertone until coach called practice to order. I bit the shit out of my lips trying not to laugh. But I ended up snorting and giggling a bit anyway. Coach blew his whistle, and the stream of swears was stemmed.
"We've got three weeks until the tournament," Coach Selman told us bracingly. "Which means between now and then you're going to put more mileage on your shoes than the muggles have highways." Coach Fleal usually lets Selman give the inspiring pre-training speeches. When Selman's giving the speeches, it's pretty much a dead giveaway that practice is going to suck. Big time. Selman tends to glorify things. More miles than highways? I don't even know what the hell a 'highway' is. But it doesn't sound good.
"We're going to run these plays until you see them in your sleep," he continued, pounding a fist into his hand. "Run them until you dream of hawks heads and quaffles and bludgers." He paused then, letting that sink in. "We're going to work so hard defeat is not an option."He sounds like Oliver Wood: House Cup Chase, the Sequel. I glanced over at the keeper next to me. Despite the headache, he was paying rapt attention.
"I'm not saying it's going to be easy," Selman said, looking around at all of us. Red made a face at me over Coach's shoulder. Wood shot him a death glare. Red meekly shut his mouth. "At some point, you're all going to hate me for this." Then coach let a small smile leak onto the corner of his mouth. "But I'm hoping when we've got that trophy, all will be forgiven." There was a deep silence then, a rift after his words. Red broke it with the first clap, which then broke into an impromptu applause. Selman smiled, flashing bright, white teeth. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you." The applause died down, and for one awkward moment, we all sat there staring at each other.
"Well," Coach Fleal stood up, grinning like a madman. "What are you waiting for, then? Take a lap!" So, naturally we threw our crap in a pile and trotted out for a lap. Or, you know, twenty laps. Because, really, what's the difference? And even though he was hung over, and his head probably hurt like hell, Wood still kept pace. He strode along next to me, head bobbing from side to side. But he didn't say much.
"Watch the bench," I muttered, first lap in as we came up to a narrow pass between a bench and a rubbish bin. He made a sound of recognition in his throat, and I let him go first. He made it through, depth perception still intact.
I didn't.
My shoes made a horrible squelching nose as they skidded across the dew, and I flipped.
"Oof," I said. Because, other than profanities, what is there left to say? Wood turned around at the thud, and I could tell he was debating whether pointing and laughing was worth losing his fingers. I guess he decided to be mature, because he appeared above me. I blinked up at him. "Jesus, Bell," he said, smirking only a little bit, to his credit. I made a face, and struggled to a sitting position."Are you alright there, grace?" He offered a hand.
"Just great," I grumbled, briefly considering ignoring his hand and struggling to my feet by myself. He sighed, and waited as I dusted a few blades of grass from my knees. It occurred to me that I'd simply trip and fall again if I tried to stand on my own. So I sheepishly reached up, and clutched his hand. Grinning a bit too broadly, he dragged me to my feet with a little too much enthusiasm, and I nearly fell over again. I steadied myself, and he snorted at me.
"Nice legs." The mud on them dripped beautifully. If your definition of beautiful is mud soaked socks and legs that look like they've been tie-dyed in earth tones. I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Nice face."
"Glad you think so," he said dryly. I tried to slough some of the mud off my legs, but just ended up smearing it around. He raised his eyebrows, waiting. I shook off a good deal of the mud, and then sprang forward into our run again. A second later, he caught up to me. Damn his long legs. Damn genetics. Damn Wednesdays. Damn. Damn. Damn.
"You know," he said, philosophically, "I thought I was the one that was supposed to be hung over." He shot me a sidelong glance. I thwacked him, hard, with the back of my hand. "Oof," he said, as if I'd dealt him a mortal blow. "You're so abusive," he whined. I rolled my eyes, then turned. I shot him the sweetest smile I could muster.
And then I showed him what all those wind sprints have done to my speed.
Selman's voice boomed with praise as I roared across the finish line, a good ten feet ahead of Wood who was still valiantly trying to catch up. Well, sort of. I think he might have eased up at the end. He waved the stopwatch madly, and Fleal just smirked. The whole Katie-Oliver rivalry thing has really worked out to his advantage. Wood's quidditch-obsessed and I don't have the good sense to back down. "That's more like it! That's more like it!" I just smiled at Wood, who snorted, and chucked my broomstick to me. Or at me. I'm not sure which. So I'll just say he chucked it in my general direction. I caught it, too. He rolled his eyes.
"What were you doing, mud wrestling?" Red crossed the line and jogged over to stand next to me. He touched a bit of the mud drying on my calf with a finger. He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and brushed a streak across my cheek. I peered around to see my backside was caked with the stuff. Fantastic.
"Of course," I replied, touching the mud on my face. I rubbed it off my fingers on my shorts, which would have to be cleaned. It was Wednesday, laundry night, anyway."My favorite pastime."
"And you didn't invite me?" He pouted, russet eyes glinting. "I thought we were friends." I pouted right back and patted him on the head, roughing up his hair. It stuck up in disheveled points, like a disgruntled porcupine. He shook like a dog into my hands. I laughed.
"I'm terribly sorry," I said, pulling together a somewhat remorseful expression. He tugged on my pony tail.
"You should be," Red replied."But I forgive you." He grinned broadly. Wood, standing a few feet away, leaning on his broomstick, just shook his head. He had the air of a scientist out on safari, observing some eccentric wildlife.
"I'm getting the feeling I will never understand you two."
"We're complex creatures," Red solemnly reminded him. "Like the ocean." He paused for a moment, to savor the punch line, then- "We're deep." He howled and slapped his knees. I shook my head, watching with a bemused sort of expression.
"Of course," Wood replied sagely. His eyes, which I thought were brown, were actually green as they stared up at the sky. The way he said it makes me think he's used to this sort of behavior. He raised his eyebrows at me from a sideways glance. He's used to weird.
Which might be my fault.
The ladies locker room was deserted when I finally got a chance to sit down. Josclind was in and out within five minutes, because apparently she has other things to do. I don't. When I get home I have laundry to do. So I sat for a moment, staring blankly into my locker. My feet throbbed dully, while my calves were not so complacent. They screamed. Groaning, I eased off my sneakers, to reveal my poor, poor feet, which now twinged sharply- telling me in no uncertain terms what they thought of the new 'improved' workout regime. I flung my sneakers unceremoniously into the locker I had so painstakingly reorganized just that morning. I was dying for a shower. I peeled my shirt off, revealing more soon-to be bruises from Red and Ed. I muttered to myself about real jobs with spinning chairs and fluffy cushions.
"Bell?" Wood. What the hell is he doing here? Doesn't he know this is the girl's locker room? Damn -I froze in the middle of poking a deep burgundy mark on my ribs. It was the exact shape of a very angry bludger, and stung at my touch. Startled, my pulse raced. I dropped below the bench, as if that would somehow save me from Oliver.
I never said I was the brightest.
"Get lost, Wood?" I called, finding the ground quite comfortable after all. In fact, it might be a good place for an impromptu nap. "Or is there something you'd like to confess?" I stretched my legs out, and the muscles pulled agreeably. My pulse began to return to normal.
"Oh, har har," he said sarcastically, appearing at the end of the row of lockers, I instinctively flashed my arms up to cover my sports bra. But his eyes were covered by one hand, clamped on tight, while the other hand felt along the wall of lockers. How sweet. I squinted at his hand to distinguish any cracks between which he could be watching me. He paused. "Please tell me you have clothes on."I glanced down at my sports bra and shorts. He'd seen me in less, back at Hogwarts.
That was really fun. Not.
He'd accidentally walked into the girl's locker room, while I was clad only in my underpants and bra. Of course it was the day I was wearing my quidditch underpants, wouldn't you know? (As in quaffles and bludgers on my underwear. Yeah. Thanks Mom.) I don't know who was more embarrassed, him or me, because he was back behind that closed door in less than a second, bright red and apologizing like he'd somehow compromised my virtue. Me? I went bat-shit crazy, and shrieked like a goddamn girl. We haven't mentioned the incident since.
"Actually, I'm standing here completely naked," I informed him matter-of-factly. A I just know he was thinking about that incident at Hogwarts, because he turned maroon and stumbled backwards and nearly over the bench. Mention naked girls around Wood and he turns into a bumbling idiot. Go figure.
"Oh," he said quickly."Oh, I'll –" he spluttered, and began skidding backwards along the lockers. "I'm-I-I mean" He coughed awkwardly, and turned away. "I'll just come back later," he said in a low voice. Then he made for the door, eyes still covered. He bumped into the locker, but was in such a rush, he scrambled and kept going. I stood, and threw a shirt on. I stopped him at the door with a hand on his shoulder. I stared up at the ceiling pointedly, and, to his credit, didn't look.
"Wood," I said, but had to stop because I was literally howling with laughter. "Wood," I wheezed, clutching my stomach, where bruises throbbed slightly. "I'm just kidding." He paused, and then slowly removed his hand.
"I knew that," he told me then, trying to regain some of his dignity.
"Peeking, were you?" I arched an eyebrow. Goodness, he turned magenta. It was wonderful.
"Of course not."
"Not even a little bit?" He shook his head fervently, eyes wider than quaffles. He looked horrified at the very idea. Like a good little dragon scout. You know the kind- helps crotchety old grammas across the road, sells cookies, that sort of thing. I was feeling evil. "I'm a wee bit insulted, Oliver." I regarded him seriously. He stared at me, flabbergasted. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed hollowed out and carved. I cracked a grin, and he relaxed.
"I just can't win with you, can I?"
"Nope," I informed him cheerily. I sat down on the bench with a sigh. My feet felt like they might explode. Damn blisters. "Girls are mean."He pushed his shoulder against mine. Somehow, his eyes didn't seem so dull anymore. Maybe he felt better- endorphins, exercise and all that.
"All girls?" he cracked a grin, and cocked an eyebrow. "Or just you?" I stuck my tongue out at him. He wrinkled his nose back. I turned to the locker and began packing my stuff in. The tired pair of shoes I set in the base. I'd have to get a new pair. Which sucked, really, because it meant I'd have to go shopping.
Don't tell Alicia.
"Especially me," I revised, pairing socks and tossing them in the bag. He tracked their path with tired eyes.
"Sadist," he flicked his eyes back to me.
"Masochist," I shot back, grinning. And he shrugged, chuckling because he is a masochist and I'm right and he's hung over and really not in a position to argue. Plus he's been loads nicer lately. Just in general. I think. "So," I said.
"So."
"Besides trying to see me naked," I smirked, and he turned burgundy. I bet I could have fried an egg on his ears if I tried. "And missing the melodious sound of my voice," he chuckled.
"Why am I here?"
"Yes," I shut my locker. He laced his fingers together and eyes the bruised knuckles. He had a habit of punching the quaffles- and no matter how good the gloves, after several hours, you're going to get bruises. He ran a finger over one of them experimentally. The skin was broken above the middle joint.
"I-uh, wanted to thank you," he said, looking up sheepishly. Oliver Wood had never thanked me for anything before. I was responsible for making his life harder. "I woke up this morning, in my own bed, fully clothed, and my flat was clean." He rubbed his knuckle once more, and then set his hand down on the bench. "It was you, wasn't it?" To my disgust, I was blushing.
"Well I couldn't just leave you there," I reasoned aloud, staring up at the ceiling. He gave me an amused look. "You were pretty plastered."
"I believe it," he groaned. "My head is killing me." He massaged his temples moodily. I sat down next to him. "and I can't remember…" He thought. "Most of it." I stiffened. Luckily, he was busily staring at the floor, and didn't notice.
"Do you remember anything?"I asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. With the amount of alcohol in his system I was deeply impressed that he was even awake, let alone cognitive. He clenched his eyes and buried himself in his palms.
"Poker," he said, inhaling deeply. "Lots of poker," he grunted. "And lots of drinking."
"That sounds about right."I grinned. "You're kind of a horrible bluffer."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged."Is there anything else I'm forgetting?" He sat up and fixed me with a stare, "Anything... monumentally stupid?" I thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to repeat his words.
"You mean besides streaking?"I said, in an off-hand sort of way. I think I heard his heart stop. Goodness, I'm mean. And he puts up with it so well. Perhaps that's why I tolerate his neurotic-ness.
"I didn't." His eyes were as wide as the sun, horrified.
"No," I said simply, "you didn't." I grinned. "But you should have seen your face just now."He bumped my shoulder, rolling his eyes.
"Remind me again why I put up with you."
"Because I'm awesome."
"That's debatable."He nudged me again then. "Seriously"' he pushed. "Anything I should know about?" And I seriously thought about it. I thought about the words he'd so brazenly uttered. You're so beautiful. He'd been drunk. The only thing that comes easier than words when you're drunk, unfortunately, is your lunch.
Remind me to tell you some time when I'm not drunk.
"No," I said finally. "Nothing abnormally stupid."
