NOTES:
In the last chapter, we had Cass getting trashed. Now... to conclude that interesting little episode...
DEDICATION:
A shout-out to Morrigun, my dear fellow SOBette... happy birthday to you!!
DISCLAIMER:
I won't relinquish my death-grip on Warrington just yet. Be patient. Be very patient.
*~*~*~*
By the time that Oliver had arrived at his flat with the drunk young woman in his arms, Cass was holding her hands over her mouth, the blanched look on her pale face telling him that she was feeling very sick indeed.
Sighing, he'd conjured up a basin, and awkwardly supported her upper body with one hand, the other holding back her hair that was coming down from the bun at the top of her head, as she threw up. And then, he had plopped her down on a nearby chair, and gone to dispose of the basin, as well as get her a glass of water.
He'd come back to find her curled up in a little ball on the chair, wrinkling the fine, obviously expensive dress robes that she wore, crying like a child.
"Er... Flint? Here, drink some water... you're going to be dehydrated," he said uncomfortably. He bent over, lifting her head with one hand, putting the glass of water to her lips with the other.
"It's Cass..." her voice was doleful, like that of a disappointed child, "I'm Cass... don't call me Cassandra, and don't call me Flint... I'm Cass..."
"All right, then. Cass... drink some water," Oliver looked at her questioningly, nudging her lips with the rim of the glass. She parted her lips, and he tilted the glass so that she could take a sip. One sip, two sips, three... Cass drank about half a glass, then shook her head. He set the glass down on the coffee table, and blinked in surprise as her tears started again.
"Ah... what's the matter with you, Cass?"
"Sad... mad..."
"Er... sorry to hear. Who at? And what happened?"
She shook her head, and cried silently, "Hate... dressy robes... hate... fancy dinners... hate....." One hand went to the sleeve of her robe, making as if to tear it off. Oliver blinked.
"Er... here, how about I get you something more comfortable to wear? Umm..." He walked quickly to his bedroom, and emerged a moment later with an old set of Quidditch robes. Red and gold. His Gryffindor uniform. The first thing that he'd gotten his hands on. He held them out to her rather tentatively, reflecting that perhaps giving a Slytherin a set of Gryffindor robes might not be the best of ideas, but she smiled blearily and ingenuously at him, and snatched the robes.
"Pretty!"
"Yes... yes. Very pretty. Red and gold. Prettiest colors there are, eh?" Oliver grinned somewhat, "Here... er... the loo is that way. You can go and change into them in there." He helped her up and gently pushed her into the loo, shutting the door behind her.
She emerged a little while later, the oversized robes buttoned askew and almost slipping off one shoulder, but decent. She tripped over the bottom hem of the robe and stumbled, and her eyes were still glassy with alcohol. Oliver stepped forward, and once again deposited her in a chair.
"So... ah... what happened? Why were you in the Leaky Cauldron all dolled up and getting drunk out of your mind?"
She pouted at that, and her head drooped forward, her messy hair falling to hide her face from view.
"Er... you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, of course... I'm just wondering what you're doing here. You know... so when you wake up tomorrow morning with a hangover you don't start screaming that I kidnapped you or something..." Oliver said quickly.
She looked at him, and her eyes swam with tears. In Vino Veritas. Without warning, she stumbled up from her chair and threw herself into his arms, like a little girl who wanted to be held and petted. Oliver's eyes widened, and blinking in surprise, he walked backwards until he was sitting on a couch, and set her down next to him, with her still clinging to his arm.
Awkwardly, he patted her on the top of her head, and looked at her. "Er... so... tell me what happened."
Between sighs and tears, she managed to recount a disjointed version of the night's events, with the boredom, the peremptory, patronizingly dictatorial behavior of Edmund Baddock, and how he had insulted and humiliated her, and concluded that no one loved her and that everyone wished her dead.
"Ah... I think you're exaggerating it a little bit, Fl—er, Cass. I don't think that everyone wants you to die. And I'm sure that your family loves you."
"But they don't!" she wailed, "They wan-me-to be a laaady... and I don-wanna-be one! And they don-wan-me to play Quidditch... and it makes me saaad..."
"Yes, I'm sure... and they're miserable sods if they do that," Oliver said firmly and vehemently, "But that's still no reason for you to get drunk. I mean... you don't have to care what they think! Do whatever you want, I always say. And you are doing what you want... you're playing for the Harpies, and a damn fine Chaser if I ever saw one. So you don't have to give a hippogriff's flying arse about what they think. And you know that! So no more getting drunk because of some arrogant bugger's stupidity, hmm?"
She shrugged and shook her head numbly, and he sighed again.
"Look, why don't you drink some more water, then go to bed? You're really sloshed... and you're probably in no state to think clearly. Here..." he put an arm around her shoulders, and led her towards his bedroom. Honestly, the things he did for people... although, to be sure... she had had a rough evening. He'd make an exception.
He opened the door to his bedroom, and led her to the bed. Gently, he pushed her down into a reclining position, with her head on the pillows, and was just about to pull the comforter over her body when she grabbed his hand with hers in a surprisingly strong grip, and pulled him down. He fell on top of her with an "Oof", and immediately rolled aside, startled.
"Er, what're you doing, Cass?"
In the dim light of the room, he saw her smile hazily at him, and she twined her arms around his waist, the soft, worn material of his old Quidditch robes against his shirt, her fingers rubbing lazy, irregular circles at the small of his back.
"You're nice to me..." she giggled, and gave him a tight hug, snuggling against him and burrowing her head in the crook of his neck. The hair on the top of her head tickled his chin.
"Cass... let go of me."
She moved away slightly, but didn't relinquish her hold on him. Wrapping her fingers around handfuls of his shirt, she leaned her head back and pouted at him, her dark eyes liquid and wide.
"Don't you like me?"
"Er... I don't think you know what you're talking about," Oliver muttered, trying (and not succeeding) to disengage himself from her clutches.
"You don't like me?" she wailed, sniffling slightly. He sighed, and patted her head again.
"Oh, of course I like you. But you need to sleep. Stop this, and let go of me," he said hurriedly.
"Am I not beautiful enough? I'm sorry I'm not pretty..." He stared.
Since when did she care about being pretty? And... she wasn't bad-looking. She'd looked elegant, almost like a lady, when he had found her at the Leaky Cauldron. Although, to be sure... she looked better and more in her element with her hair whipping behind her, zooming about on the Quidditch pitch on her broomstick. Then, she was really beautiful.
"Oh, you're very beautiful," he said quickly, "But you should sleep. Really. You're acting daft... you're entirely sloshed. Go to sleep, Cass."
"Give me a goodnight kiss," she ordered. Oliver scooted back, eyes wide. All right, really... enough of this. But with every inch he scooted backwards, she leaned forward, her hair falling forward to brush against the sides of his face, her eyes bright and glassy as they looked down onto his face. But only for a moment. She closed them a second later, and leaned down to kiss him. And at the last moment, he moved his face, and the kiss landed on the corner of his mouth rather than his lips.
And then, she was still. Cautiously, eyes still wide after that extremely odd bout of behavior from her, he shifted so that he could look at her and see what was going on.
She was fast asleep.
Sighing heavily, he moved off the bed and covered her as best as he could with the comforter. Just in case, he transfigured a nearby cup into a basin and placed it by her bed, before snatching a blanket from his closet and walking out of the room to spend a restless night on the couch.
* * *
Cass awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and an intense feeling of nausea. Noticing a basin by her bed, she bent her head over it and retched, praying for the nausea to clear so she could figure out what the hell was going on.
After a few minutes of waiting for the room to stop spinning, she gingerly crawled out of the unfamiliar bed and stepped out of the room, trying to figure out where she was and how she had gotten there. And how in the bloody hell she had managed to deck herself in Gryffindor Quidditch robes in the meantime.
It was an unfamiliar flat. That was full to overflowing with Quidditch and Quidditch-related paraphernalia. She looked curiously at a small model of a broomstick on a shelf, and then her eyes fell on the couch.
Lying curled in a fetal position and wrapped in a fuzzy red and gold blanket was… Oliver Wood?!
She stepped back, her eyes wide… and her elbow collided with a bookshelf. And Oliver Wood's eyes snapped open.
"Ah… good morning, you're awake…"
She nodded mutely…
And then, she remembered.
Oh… bloody…
He was looking at her rather uncomfortably. And she knew that he must have remembered.
Oh GOD… what had she… she had practically tried to seduce him last night! And… why?
Oh… because he had taken care of her and not patronized her and treated her like she wanted to be treated and moreover she was drunk and upset and wanted companionship of a sort and…
And she barely knew him. And what he must think of her now. And… she wouldn't care about that… but…
He awkwardly stepped past her and opened a door. And then, a moment later, emerged with the forest green dress robes that she had worn to that catastrophic date with Edmund Baddock.
"Er… are you feeling all right now?"
He had better not get any ideas…… she might have been trashed off her rocker and drunker than a wheelbarrow last night… but no more.
Putting on her best freezing scowl, she snatched the robes out of his hands and Disapparated out of the flat before he could bat an eye. Never mind the fact that she knew that Disapparating with a hangover was very unpleasant and she would end up with a wrenching headache for the rest of the day…
And Oliver Wood stood, rooted to the ground, staring at the spot where she had just stood a moment ago.
"Well… all right," he thought to himself, "Let's review…"
First impression of girl: Damn good Chaser.
Second impression of girl: Snarky, antisocial bint.
Third impression of girl: Snarky, antisocial bint.
Fourth impression of girl: Witty, snarky, antisocial… not quite a bint, but pretty close. Good conversationalist on Quidditch. Argumentative.
Fifth impression of girl: Odd. Estranged from family.
Sixth impression of girl: Strange, curious. Close to teammates. Friends with… Warrington? Odd…
Seventh impression of girl: Hampered by family. Strong, determined. Interesting.
Eighth impression of girl: Snarky, antisocial bint.
Ninth impression of girl: Sad, drunk, almost-elegant… forlorn, lonely, capable of very human feelings, lovely… LOVELY?!
Tenth and final impression of girl to date: … He had no idea whatsoever.
*~*~*~*
And yes… now that they're successfully confuddled… more to come soon!