(Open to anyone and everyone who would like to join: a bar fight is fairly imminent.)

"Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Seven days.

It had been seven full days since Margo had even stepped her boots near the doorway of a bar. 

This was a personal record, not counting her time in Hogwarts as a seventh year – or the months she was detained in St. Geroge’s in Romania.  Those were not willing excursions into a life that did not include staying up past two AM with stranger’s on a work night, however.   This was.  And because of that, it was an occasion that had to be celebrated to the fullest extent of celebrating possible. 

The thing was, the only way Margo could even fathom to celebrate was going to a bar.

So, she had very carefully planned this out. 

She was going to go to out and listen to a quidditch match, have a pint or two, and call it a night.  It seemed reasonable for a Saturday, really, and far tamer than the plans she might have had like… a week before.  Of course, looking where her plans had gotten her (eight days prior – webbed toes and bad breath – not good), it was evident she couldn’t very well trust her gut instinct to do whatever it was she pleased.   

She was going to scale back.  Quidditch was most assuredly scaling back. 

She’d wear her weld-yellow and red Spanish national team jersey (even if it was short sleeved – it was frigid in England, but in Israel, where they were playing, it was warm – and that suited the team).  They played their best in the warmer weather, and she could be sure to hear a good game.  Besides, the rabble would be out and about: England was up to play as well – wasn’t sure against whom, she realized, but it

Israel played dirty, at least Margo loudly boasted they did, and it was lining up to be a worthwhile listen for any group that wanted a rowdy game on a Saturday evening. 

She made her way out of Dragon Towers (her building mates would not be sad to have her out – one in particular that she had vowed she would not speak to until… well she didn’t know until when, but she certainly didn’t want to talk to him.  Not at all. Not even the littlest bit.  Never.) So, she left and went down Diagon, away from her place of residence – didn’t even leave a note on the door or anything, and tromped out in her dragon-hide pants, her boots, and Spain gear ready to enjoy a night of quidditch.

The atmosphere inside was already bubbling with energy.  Patrons in all different jerseys had shown up to support their teams (even if they weren’t playing) and the distinct sounds of rabble, betting, pouring, and drinking were a comfort to Margo.

It suddenly became clear to her how much of a trial it was to stay away from this kind of environment. 

But, she was just celebrating being an adult and making an adult choice.  So, she’d stick to one… or two…

There was really no time like the present though, and Margo pushed her way through the throng to the bar where she held up her hand in a somewhat universal sigh to call for beer.  She’d even stick to that tonight! 

A truly grown-up decision if there ever was one.   

"How is that --?!  That isn't even --!!"

She hadn't come decked out in her team jersey, and there was nothing about Raizel Cohen's appearance to give away which colors she was cheering for, but even so, there was probably little doubt in the minds of the other patrons as to which side the blonde Cursebreaker was supporting.  Between the angry Hebrew and the emphatic gesticulations, the rash of early foul calls against her side had only served to rile up her temper.

Raizel bared her teeth as Spain was awarded another shot on goal.  Growling, she slammed her beer down on the counter with enough fervor that the liquid inside swayed dangerously, putting any nearby companions in the possible splash zone.  Inviting some friends out to listen to the game had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that she was here and having to listen to the accompanying jibes, the mage was quickly starting to regret it.  It was only a mild consolation that Eretz Israel was still up by ten points, but with the upcoming foul shot, even that was unlikely to last.

"That shouldn't be a foul!  She didn't touch him!" she shouted angrily at the Wireless in English.  Scowling, she gestured angrily at it, nearly impaling her good hand on Bertie's knitting needles.  "The referees are only making those calls because they're European!  This is stupid," she said sourly, glaring daggers at her other drinking companion and coworker, as if the rash of bad calls was his fault.  "How is the game even close?  Spain shouldn't be getting those fouls!"

All he wanted to do was sip on iced tea, listen to the quidditch match, and knit in peace. He wasn’t opposed to sitting next to a beautiful blonde lady, but she liked to yell. He had forgotten how passionate people could get when it came to sports. Bertie eyed her beer nervously, pulling his balls of yarn closer to him. Maybe bringing his projects wasn’t his best idea, but he had to make some more cozies! He had spent his evening hopping from public venue to public venue, knitting cozies. He had already dispersed some to his coworkers earlier, at the engagement party. In his mind, they loved them and were practically begging for more to give to their families.

Bertie was more than happy to oblige.

“Maybe they just need some cozies to set their minds straight.” Bertie nodded confidently. “Like this one.” He held up his pink cozyfied wand with pride. “Nothing can soothe the soul better than a good cozy, as I always say. It really puts your head on straight, y’know.” Bertie pulled out a few cozies—one yellow, one navy blue, and one purple. “Would you like a wand cozy?” He asked, before pulling out a small box full of baubles. “You can pick your baubles too! Ooh look, a little kitten.” He held the cat bauble up to his face and meowed.

“Or are you a goat person? Baa. Take your pick!” He looked at Raizel and the other fellow sitting next to her. “Cozies are quite important you know. They make your wands cuddly and warm.” 

A bottle of vodka was at stake.

Dressed in a Spain jersey he’d purchased specifically for this evening, with a gold scarf knotted around his throat and his arms left bare to withstand the cold weather outside, Adam Turner sat on a stool and felt slightly out of place in the crowd that surrounded him: he was fine with people, but he didn’t quite consider screaming, pound fisting, gesticulating apes to be in the same species as him –unless they were called Raizel Cohen, were blonde, and worked at setting his nerves on end every single time they met. Not quite happy with the dry taste, he swung his pint down on the counter, the smallest and most mischievous smile gracing his face. “You should have known you’d loose, Cohen,” He stated, matter of fact as he nudged at his glass of beer with an absentminded finger. “I just hope you’ve saved up for my vodka.”

When she’d made the off-hand comment that might have been an invitation or might just have been an observation that she’d be going to the Leaky Cauldron that evening to listen to a game of Quidditch, Adam’s reaction had been torn in two: on one side, he wasn’t all too huge of a fan of the sport –blasphemy as that might be in the wizarding world-, while on the other, any chance to torture Cohen was appreciated. It hadn’t taken long before the battle was liberated and the victor rose from the ashes to bet Cohen that her team would be losing, because Spain was simply better on all levels –a fact he couldn’t actually quite prove, considering he wasn’t even certain of the names of any of the players.

“All you achieve with your excuses is to prove how poor a loser you are,” He added with a wink, as he curled a hand around his glass and brought it to his lips once again –just in time to hear the bloke on Raizel’s other side talk about cozies. Adam really didn’t mean to spit a mixture of beer and saliva onto the counter, but he settled for thankful it hadn’t landed on anyone’s face as he turned to stare incredulously at the stranger. Normally, he would have kept quiet and enjoyed the show: if any hardcore Quidditch fans heard his comments, they might be likely to want to shred him to pieces. However, it appeared he was here somehow in the capacity of being a friend of Cohen’s, or at least someone she knew, and were he to find himself in mortal peril, Adam would certainly be called onto the scene to play the hero –which would take much more energy than he was honestly willing to waste on the bloke. “Are you dumb?” His voice was unkind, but he decided that, considering he was possibly saving the stranger’s life, there was no need to be nice about it. “Or just plain crazy? Might as well just start screaming about how Rodriguez is a poor Chaser or Svetliza is a terrible Keeper, if you have a death wish.” He rolled his eyes, and glanced away from the bloke, laying his beer back down and shrugging at Cohen. “Who’s the arse?”

A seat away from the Auror, Rick snorted into his beer.

After an exasperating morning of fielding more’n a dozen owls, keeping the office guano-free, and dealing with one particularly troublesome client for a good three hours over, well, everything (which had whittled away the rest of his morning and made him miss lunch, dammit), Rick thought he was home free at last, this close to flipping the shop sign over and pulling the blinds, before retiring to his bedroom balcony for a smoke. Any chance to clear out his head was a good one, in his opinion.

But before he could so much as push off from the front desk, family had dropped in—CeeCee, to be precise, armed with coffee and a smile that boded nothing but ill. Turns out he’d been right, because even now, hours later, Rick still wasn’t sure what he had signed, or even what had been said– only that he may have, possibly, just agreed to a friggin’ speed date. For charity.

Merlin’s sagging– He had it up to here with charity events.

Which was why, some time later, Rick was at the Leaky Cauldron, waiting with a beer in his hand and for a friend to show—and still very much cranky. Combined with the sort of relaxation most bars (or just being outside the shop) tended to induce in him, the werewolf was at ease enough to take the lid off his temper a bit, when it was highly unlikely anyone who mattered - professionally - was around to see it.

Chuckling under his breath, Rick shook his head. “Forgot your own name, did you?” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard, and took another swig. The grouchy werewolf was the farthest thing from a fan of Hughes– Merlin knew Rick found him annoying, too –but damn. Not half as much as this guy, apparently.

---

For once, perhaps in her entire independent life, Margo was not the first person drunk – or the most disorderly.  She did wave her hand rather obnoxiously with a golden, gleaming galleon in between her fingers. 

That seemed to get someone’s attention and suddenly there was a pint in front of her and all was right with the world again.  The frothy goodness was sloshing in the heavy, clear glass and Margo brought the glass to her lips with a happy sigh.

The first, perfect sip was, of course, ruined by another patron who was waving her arms about like some half-crazed harpy.  “Oi!” Margo waved a hand at the woman who was babbling about something being unfair – damned Israeli fan: wasn’t Spain’s fault they played like rabid dogs and then had to pay the consequence. 

Sheering, she didn’t really know what was worse:  at least the woman was in the game.  Whoever her date was – well, that was a sorry sight, wasn’t it? 

“They’re making those calls because they aren’t blind,” someone in the crowd responded, and Margo raised her glass in celebratory cheer for a shot well taken at a person whose team was already down and took another drink, trying to get away form the boisterous woman with the penchant for Israel and her odd friend with the yarn. 

Really, that was just… Margo had to take another long drink to try and comprehend what he was on about. 

Of course, as she moved away from the bar, she realized: 1) she did not know anyone else in this joint, and 2) they’d just been allowed a shot at the goal – and practically wailed in frustration as the announcer informed the wireless audience they’d missed.  “Oh for Merlin’s sake!” she scowled, “they practically handed us that one!”

She rolled her eyes and took a drink, “Bloody team can’t even keep it together.  Buch of tossers,” exasperation mounted quickly when the game did not move in her team’s favor.  The announcer continued, Israel on the offense, and Margo mentally willing Spain to take it back.

"Not blind?!"  Raizel shouted back at the man in the crowd incredulously.  "If the referee had one more eye, he'd be a cyclops!"

She continued to let out a fluent string of emphatic Hebrew as she settled back unhappily on the bar stool, cradling her hand around her beer.  The fact that Spain missed the penalty -- yet another strike against the officials, as far as she could tell, since clearly the European team's play was not the reason that they were still in the game -- did little to improve her mood.  Too much was riding on this game, and Israel had missed the Quidditch World Cup outright the last two times around.  They had to win tonight to make it into the bout.

Aside from a few near misses with his knitting needles and the occasional animal sound, she'd barely noticed that Bertie Hughes was sitting next to her.[1]  Turner's question drew her momentarily out of the game.  She blinked, and then looked at the Auror, looking momentarily confused as she recalled what he had just said.

"That is not the sound that a goat makes.  That is a sheep," she informed the knitter blandly, before shrugging back at the other Cursebreaker.  "We met at the museum the other night.  And Rodriguez is a poor chaser," she added, with a dangerous gleam in her eye.  Sport had a way of driving her to a death wish.  "They can't even score when they're given a penalty, the whole stupid, tipeshim, ba'arim t'peshonim --"

“Forgot your own name, did you?”

Raizel cut herself off.  She tossed a cool look at the man who'd spoken aloud -- tall and not all that bad looking, with an attractive stubble covering his chiseled jaw -- and then looked back at Turner, cocking an eyebrow at him as she took a sip of her beer.  That was clearly his prompt to respond to, not hers.  She'd save it for the next Spain supporter who dared to insult Svetliza.

1.	Which was unfortunate, because Bertie's Wand Cozies are clearly the next wave in coolness. Get yours today!

Sitting several seats down from the sprawling conversation, Laney was in good company. Or so she thought, because she hadn’t yet laid eyes on the brunette bickering on behalf of the Spanish team. Unlike many of the matches in the British and Irish Quidditch  League, Laney didn’t have a huge personal stake in this international game; still, she kept close tabs on most matches, knew the players well enough. Whatever team won, she was confident Britain’s ability to beat them (whether or not she happened to be recruited by the national team for this season's finals). Rallying against the weaker team— it was hard to tell, the calls seemed to be all over the place— would mean an easy victory. Laney liked a challenge.

What she cared about most, of course, were the seekers. Thus far, they had hardly been mentioned, which wasn’t unusual. She took a sip from a half pint in front of her, her ears sharp, analyzing the commentary. The babbling in the pub's background— cheers, groans, proclamations of injustice— went ignored for a moment. (The words ‘Rodriguez’ and ‘weak chaser’ floated behind her, and though she could talk quidditch for hours, she could hardly argue with that). She turned to her company, grinned. “The ref will call another foul in the next two minutes and no one will be shocked if Rodriguez misses again.” Except maybe the patrons in red and yellow. Israel was earning those fouls in quick succession, though. "Maybe they should trade chasers. Israel can have a less competent one who knows the rules of the game, and maybe Spain will actually make a shot.”

Eyebrows rose at Laney’s words, mouth busy with beer in it as he tipped the mug back further. After a good gulp was in, he set it back down and swallowed, shrugging. Quidditch wasn’t really a game he enjoyed listening to, per say, but as they were making up for lost time... Frank figured it was the least he could do after the apology she leveled on him.

As opposed to how he felt after a full moon, Frank welcomed the soreness he felt in all the right places. There was definitely youth to Laney. An energy that was difficult to match. Luckily the day had been easy going, for Frank at least. He’d enjoyed the day off, having lost himself in a worn book earlier. That she continued on about Quidditch was little bother to him. It kept her occupied. His free arm hung around her waist, fingers lightly playing with the waistband of her trousers. “Can they do that?” Was trading chasers allowed?

The question felt silly as soon as it slipped out, and Frank rolled his eyes at himself before motioning to the bartender for more drinks for Laney and himself. The only saving grace would be if Laney’s hearing was going with her age, or she was too focused on the game.

“Rodriguez just needs to get his head out of his arse and focus on the game instead of that slag he’s been skipping practice for,” Margo added to the conversation.  She liked to intrude, and more than that, she liked to talk about how stupid Rodriguez was being with that debutante or whoever she was.  Honestly, he was a player first – he didn’t need to waste time chasing tail.  Besides, it didn’t do anyone any good to be involved, she felt like she’d learned that. 

But, she looked at the person she didn’t really know, and smiled wide, and somewhat stupid – just like she always did.  The girl looked young, but she seemed to know what she was talking about, and she was less angry than the blonde chick who started babbling in some language that Margo didn’t know was even a language.  Honestly, the woman just thought her counterparts in the bar were absolutely insane. 

Grabbing another drink off the bar, Margo lifted it to her lips and took a long sip, though it did not long remain in her mouth, considering the man who was with the younger girl (yea, there was a distinction there, for sure), and wiped her mouth with her hand.  “Are ye serious?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. 

Looking to the blondeish-brunette with him, Margo shook her head.  “You better teach him a thing or two,” she pointed out, taking another sip and scanned the bar, looking for a comrade in yellow and red to commiserate with as Israel continued to command the pitch. 

Another woman offered up an opinion on Rodriguez, and by now Laney was a little more invested in the conversation. She looked over her shoulder, briefly. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but she wasn’t anyone the young seeker could recall having had an in-depth conversation with (sober). “Because multitasking is hard.” Laney could carry on an exciting personal life just fine and still play brilliantly. The ones who couldn’t didn’t belong on a professional pitch. “If that’s the best they can find, I can’t wait until they play here.” There was sure to be a home victory.

Laney might have laughed someone else out of the room, or rolled her eyes in a way that didn’t invite further comments, but with the book hunter, she almost snorted into her mug and pulled it away grinning. It was an impressed-with-your-ignorance grin, with a wily edge, a promise to educate him. His lack of expertise in quidditch was endearing simply because it was Frank. “In the middle of the game?” Her tone said, ’What, are you serious?’ “If you want to throw out the book and your career.” It was the political equivalent of treason, throwing a game. Quidditch players were traded often enough, but the idea of it happening during a game…

Her eyes shifted momentarily to the other brunette, whose reaction was understandable. But something about the woman’s brazen comment was again familiar— in a vaguely suspicious way. It poked at Laney’s otherwise currently nonchalant attitude and lazy cheekiness, a mood that came easy when sitting around a pub with good company and arguing over quidditch with strangers (well, teams she wasn’t overly invested in). her face said 'I’ve got it, thanks' before her attention returned to him.

“You can only be traded after a season ends and before a new one starts. You sign a contract for x number of seasons with the team you play for.” She couldn’t believe she had to tell him this. Or that she was being so sincere in a pub as another drink was offered up. “Those two are national teams, which is a different league than the British and Irish league— I could get recruited by our national team and still play for the Magpies.” And sweep the pitch with Spain and Israel. She drained her first mug, shook back the shoulder-skimming waves that framed her face, and leaned into Frank as reached across the bar for the second.

Then it clicked. Almost a year ago in another Diagon Alley pub. The woman in leather pants who had insulted her. “We’ll crush both of them,” she said a little more loudly, with unfailing confidence.

Lala entered the Cauldron, long bright red hair blowing behind her, throwing the door open with a fury that may have indicated the four Riders were trailing behind her. She was wobbling only slightly on her six-inch heels. Everything had been fine and dandy, bar hopping and all that, a shot there, a shot here until the little shits she was with had to go save one damsel in drunken distress halfway across London, where Lala would not be going, thank you very much. Heels were pain. And there were drinks waiting for her in at least five more pubs and clubs. Layla Styles could not disappoint the alcohol.

She walked up to the bar, rudely elbowed her way between two people and tapped the wood with long black nails, brows drawn in anger and only a bit of a haze in her expression to indicate the level of alcohol in her blood. Or was it blood in her alcohol? Who even knew. "A Jägerbomb" she said briskly to the bar tend that stared at her in confusion. "Oh don't give me that look, energy drink in a pub glass and a shot of Jäger" she explained rolling her eyes almost out of her skull. Damn wizards and their wizarding pubs and their ignoramus ways on alcohol. "Make that two of 'em, and gimme one more empty pub glass" she muttered quickly. She turned around to eye what was happening around, and scowled realizing it was a game night. Well, balls.

It was only when she turned back to look at the bar that she realized a familiar face right next to her. "Irving! My man—errr woman, ex-housemate—Laney!" she finally settled with a loud snort, shaking her head at her own inability to properly process her mental flux. She completely ignored the dude with his arm around Irving's waist and put a hand around the woman's neck to draw her in a half hug, grinning brightly. She let her go quickly as the ignoramus behind the bar notified her of her babies being ready. She paid the sad excuse of an employer and lined up the two full glasses and the empty one, as to carefully place the shot glasses on the rim of the glass, half on one glass half on the other. She nudged the shot glasses with a flick of her thumb and index finger and grinned dementedly as the bombs were in. "Booyah" she fist pumped in the air. She took a second to admire her handiwork, than quickly downed one glass, took a breath and finished the other as well.

"I have lots of feelings today, but drunk is my favorite" she said apropos to nothing, beaming at Laney. She turned to look at the guy on Irving's other side, seedy old dude, and patted him on the shoulder, glaring him six ways to Sunday, until she actually, literally growled. "Shove over, dude. I have watched CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds and their spin-offs. Plus Dexter. I can kill you fifty ways and still make it look like an accident" she said through clenched teeth voice dangerously low, realizing she was probably speaking gibberish for half the bar. But hey—people feared the unknown. "Do not test me" she finally exhaled, nostrils flaring as the sketchy guy muttered something about crazy people and moved away. She gently sat herself on the stool and grinned at Laney as if she hadn't just threatened to kill a man. She waved at the familiar guy with his hand curled around Laney and attempted to figure where she knew him for. But for the love of all, she just couldn't with it.

"How've you been woman? It's been too bloody long..." she smiled fondly and set her clutch in her lap, looking past the former dorm-mate to the rest of the people lined at the bar until her eyes made out some stubble, and those damn cheekbones and those goddamn magic eyes. Lala was so not missing this opportunity. She half-raised on her stool and placed her hand in a circle around her mouth. "OMG, Donovan" she screeched, incredibly loud even for a bar full of rowdy quidditch fans. "You left the man cave?! Where your wooden club at, you weirdly attractive troglodyte?" she continued yelling, ending in a snort and sitting back down to positively gleam at Laney.

Admittedly, it was probably a poor choice to come to something like this without another person to keep her in line.  But, the only person that would probably even try wasn’t really speaking to her right now – to hell if she knew why, he was just being a baby, he always did this.  Said stupid stuff out of his arse when he was drunk and then decided he wouldn’t talk to her.  Granted, Margo couldn’t care less – she wasn’t one to hang onto things, but Kurby was strange like that.

She just tilted her glass back and took a long draw, sighing as the drink poured back, splashing over her tongue and then gracelessly down her throat. 

As the crowd grew more outspoken and seemed to follower her lead, getting warmer and louder, Margo just laughed out of nowhere to start, and then just looked around at everyone else.  Sometimes there were a few moments of clarity where she realized how crazy and random things were, and then she just shook her head and was back in the moment, taking another drink and moving around the bar, gasping at someone’s assertion that Spain could be crushed.

“Bullocks!” she yelled outright, and laughed looking at the nearest person, “As though Spain could really be beat by a bunch of cold-blooded Englishmen,” she rolled her eyes, “If Israel and Spain have one thing in common,” she elbowed someone she didn’t even know near her and grinned – didn’t matter if they agreed or not, “it’s passion.” 

“You can never win an international competition without the…cojenes!” she laughed obnoxiously, putting her now empty glass on the counter and motioning for another one.  She didn’t really know who was yelling for what, but she rolled her eyes, still enamoured with the idea that, at the very least, you couldn’t be English to win at a competitive sport. 

She waved her hand for the bartender to see her presence and snorted.  “Silly Brits, thinking they have anything on us, eh?” she laughed looking at the blonde next to her.  “I’d like a bit of what they’re drinking if it makes for that kind of dream world, eh?” 

Coming to a pub to listen to the game had clearly been a mistake.  It didn't matter how many times (or how rudely) she shushed the crowd -- the patrons here at the Leaky Cauldron were far more interested in chit-chatting with each other or asking nonsensical questions about the rules of Quidditch than they were in paying attention to the match that was being played.  Raizel glared daggers at the young woman with long red hair who'd started rattling off angry acronyms like she was some sort of just-entered-the-Army hotshot kid, and then started shouting more nonsense over to one of the men at the counter.

"Shhhh!"  Raizel shot the girl an irritated look to go along with the command, leaning her elbows on the counter as she hunched over in an attempt to hear the latest action in the game.  With the foul shot missed, Israel had recovered the quaffle, and its chasers were quickly advancing down the field once more with the hard-headed energy that they were notorious for.

She was far more interested in the game than in any of the discussion that was going on around her, and even with the rising volume, the Cursebreaker would have been content to merely shoot nasty glares at offenders instead of getting personally involved.  But now she was being addressed, and by the witch who was decked out in the eye-numbingly bright colors of Spain.  Raizel clenched her jaw, and then gave the woman an annoyed look, though her attention was only partially focused on her fellow patron; with Israel advancing so quickly down the field, they'd either be taking another shot on the goals soon or the stupid referees would be calling another foul.

"I do not see how it matters, because Spain isn't even going to qualify for the World Cup," she informed her stiffly.  "At least England has enough of a bench that they would not need to play Rodriguez as their starting Chaser."

At the first sight- the first sound– of Layla, Rick squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the all too familiar urge to drop his head in his arms. Or at least, cover his eyes, in that ever futile hope maybe if I can’t see her, she can’t see me, because the woman really was that awful.

Layla Styles. Nineteen, puny, and batshit insane, the woman was crazy, completely, utterly deranged in that her moods swung more frequently than a pendulum, more violently than a heavy hitter– that her mouth was an apparent window to her brain, and for all she was as easily distracted as a child she latched onto things with an obsessiveness rarely seen outside of mental wards. While he conceded that underneath all the crazy, she had feelings same as anyone else.[1] she didn’t seem to process them like normal people, but as bombs did—which was to say, explosively, with no apparent thought or care for those caught in the crossfire. From the inevitable number of times he’d had to pay her attention (which he really, really hadn’t wanted to), she seemed incapable of doing otherwise, and when she couldn’t, she lashed out. Violently. Even on those who had done nothing but the mistake of just being there.

Rick should know, as he was one of those people who were, apparently, unlucky enough to draw her ire for no apparent reason. He knew why he disliked her, of course– she was rude, obnoxious, and noisy enough for it to be self-explanatory. But as for her? He couldn’t remember what he might’ve done to piss her off, except maybe sleep with her, or someone she knew, and forgot about it. He didn’t think it was the latter, since he typically tried to stay away from the ones who looked like they’d have such… protective friends, but he didn’t think it’d be the former, either.

(At least, he hoped to god it wasn’t, or he’d really have to cut back on the drinking. He was pretty sure it wasn’t, though; even if a person could change her looks, she couldn’t change her personality, and not even an entire barrel of Jimkin’s finest[2] could make him drunk enough for that.)

Anyway. Point was, neither liked each other, and Layla’s appearance was even less welcome than the idiot he’d been sneering at. Ninety pounds or nine thousand, she was as unobtrusive as a rampaging herd of erumpents. There were reasons why she was the only person he’d permanently banned from Donovan’s, not least because she was a freaking harpy.

With nothing to do but return her greeting, Rick politely offered her his middle finger. The only silver lining to it was that it brought the Seeker to his attention, too, which he acknowledged with a wry tip of his bottle. Even if she was friends with that (and wasn’t single anymore), Laney would always be a sight for sore eyes-

Annnd, ouch.

Brows twitching up to his hairline, Rick glanced at Margo, who was all riled up for Spain. Between her, Laney and Israel, there was enough tension in the room to string a bow– and that was without counting every other diehard in the room. Minding his own business would be smart thing to do, he knew; it probably wouldn’t take much to set them off.

But…

“Pip pip for Mother England,” the American said mildly, before taking a swig.

1.

Except maybe that creepy shit who sometimes followed Alex to the shop, which, yeah, no.

2.

Jimkin’s Trollblood. Nearly triple distilled to the point of lethality, trollblood is an ale named for the significant impairment it will inevitably cause to one’s brain, i.e. “make ya dumb as a troll!” Do yourself a favor and imbibe with lots of care, lest the nearest chair leg will look like a decent swing… and the next thing you know, your cheek’s kissing cobblestone and you’ve lost your trousers. Morning-afters will leave your mouth with an awful, manky taste, like a nest of weasels crapped in it.