Knightsbridge, London. 1045 hours.


The dogs were barking. Oh, lords, the dogs were barking.

Balfour groaned loudly as the sounds penetrated his hangover like piercing light through a thick fog. He instantly knew that he was in the bathtub, as it was a unique and quite unmistakable sensation. Its hard base slept like bruises against his back and the faucet was dripping on to his forehead in a pattern not dissimilar to headaches.

"Whiskey-" croaked the wizard while he grabbed the sides of the tub- it took him two tries to sit up. The reprimand was not against liquor but his dog, appropriately named. "Boy, stop it." Unfortunately the black husky was nowhere to be seen and the barks were only beginning to grow louder.

It was unbearable and he struggled to pull himself out of the tub- this was in no way helped by the fact that someone had managed to anchor his right foot down with a jade vase and a length of rope. Then the doorbell rang. The scene became clear.

"Gods." Balfour kicked off the loose knot, not pausing to give his appearance a glance in the mirror, and limped into the bedroom. It was a big space with a wooden floor and a large, sturdy bed."Whiskey, hold on a minu--" astonishment cut him off quite rudely.

There were humans in the flat. More importantly, there was a woman in his bed. Last night was coming back to him too slowly and he did not move, even when the doorbell rang again.[1] Who knew who it could be? Muggle police?

The barking cut off abruptly and he heard padded footsteps as Whiskey came trotting into the room, tongue wagging. The dog jumped onto the bed - front paws landing across the witch's legs - and then looked up at his owner expectantly. A kitten popped up by the teal pillows. Outside in the living room, one could still hear two other dogs whining at the front door.[2]

Balfour wished he was still in the bathtub.

1.	This is Izola Bellamane to drop something off for Rick! Feel free to answer the door, anyone.
2.	A pair of white huskies, belonging to Ira Almasy, are here. There is also another kitten, three lizards and floating jellyfish on the ceiling elsewhere in the flat.

Charlotte was a sound sleeper, but the combination of the doorbell, the barking, and someone calling from the bathroom had roused the woman a few sweet minutes before the voice’s (and coincidentally, the bed’s) owner appeared, a vision in spectacularly patterned briefs.

Balfour, not Balfy: the humorous emphasis of their initial introduction echoed in her mind. He did not, apparently, layer up for bed. Whatever the intensity of her hangover, Charlotte grinned. “Good morning. Your bed is fantastic.” She was propped upon wonderfully comfortable pillows, wearing a robe that was too big, too masculine, and most certainly not hers. The black lingerie that poked through the very loosely tied garment, however, was all Charlotte. “I’d offer to buy it from you if I didn’t love mine even more.” She didn’t miss it much, not presently. The view was priceless. If Balfour looked overwhelmed to find her there, Charlotte appeared not to notice. Her eyes had caught his warmly as she spoke, but now made their way down, settling on the festive pants of the castle’s keeper.

Before she could comment, the majestic black dog whom she’d met the night before leaped up to join her, landing on her legs in what had to be a comical repeat of a certain great fall. Her breath caught for a moment; it was early and she was not accustomed to massive animals joining her in bed. Of the four-legged variety. But here, too, Charlotte had cushioning, and even Whiskey’s big paws weren’t particularly threatening as he positioned himself to best capture his master’s attention. Charlotte found him beautiful. Sitting up a bit further, she ran a hand through his fur. “Your master doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” she said, in an understated version of that slightly sing-songy, octave-higher voice one used when conversing with animals.

“And yet I can’t figure out—” She said, now looking up at Balfour again, a sparkle of intrigue in her eye, her voice returning to normal. “What you were doing in there all night…” Or had he been? Charlotte’s grin made it obvious that the mystery was pleasurable. If she had been there when the man’s foot had been tied to the vase, well, hangover. She had a perfectly reasonable excuse for prodding him for details she might or might not have known.

And it had been quite the night, fueled by Scottish whiskey which, as promised, had felt rather like like dragon flames. And handcuffs. There were handcuffs, too. Charlotte looked around as if she might discover them, but gave up her search quickly enough with one more scratch to Whiskey’s chin. Sitting back with a sigh, she swiped a hand delicately over her brow, and then scooped up the kitten who had stolen closer. “Do you have coffee in your castle?” Her eyes darted to the door, behind which any number of barking, ringing riddles waited impatiently.

That was not a pleasant feeling.

Margo usually slept like the dead, but this morning – there was barking.  It was the most obscene sound one could have heard upon waking, and Margo wasn’t sure if the echo was coming from the throb in her head or the presence of more than one creature that barked.  And something was ringing – was that her or was it something else? 

On top of the barking and ringing that rattled the inside of her brain like an irate dragon in an enclosure, Margo’s body hurt.  She shifted her shoulders and felt a cold, hard surface under her – directly under her: it could only be the floor... and where was her shirt?  Her good let was propped up on something else hard (she didn’t dare open her eyes to check, even if she rolled her head with a nauseated moan), and she’d never removed her prosthetic.  She could feel the plastic digging into her thigh.

Both of her arms were positioned above her head, as though she’d been stricken and fell over the table.  She figured that wasn’t true, unless, of course, the whiskey hit her in the face and that was the end of that.  But, she needed to take care of her prosthetic, first and foremost: blisters inevitable at this point.  She struggled to even lift her arm a fraction of a centimeter off the ground. 

Margo moved to pull her hands back and… finally, opening her eyes and tipping her head back, she blinked – first to adjust to the light, and second to adjust to what she saw.  A pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs – the same exact pair from the evening before – were on her wrists, and she was tethered around the leg of a side table.  Practically whimpering, Margo pulled as much as she could against it and whined: the furniture was heavy and she was so sore!

She rolled her head against the floor again, looking up at the ceiling.  She blinked twice.  She had to still be drunk: why was there a floating jellyfish?  Snapping her eyes shut, she grimaced, still tasting whiskey in her mouth – and in desperate need of water. 

When the bell rang again, she could have screamed.  A high pitched sort of protest rose in her throat and she withdrew her leg from the coffee table, pressing her foot to the ground and lifted her back just a little to stretch, elongating her words as she called out, “Someone get the bloody door!” It was as much of a whine as anyone would hear Margo use, and she lowered her arched back down again, tugging at the table leg again, jingling the little metal chain links.  “And the keys for these bloody things!” 

Hopefully, the lump on the couch (that she suspected was human from the brief glance) would wake up and help her.  Or someone else in the apartment would take pity, was it just a strewn blanket with what looked like her leather jacket laying on top of it. 

“Someone get the bloody door!”

This was anything but pretty. As Elixa raised her head from her position under the dinner table she could see the carnage of an evening through hazy vision and a pounding head. Merlin, if she had been at home, it would have been straight to the bathroom to find her hangover potions. Instead, she squinted round the room and tried to remember where she was.

Thankfully her wand was tucked down the front of her dress between her bosoms, but goodness knows where her shoes were. She crawled out, still squinting and pulled down her dress when the doorbell rang again, and she saw a body on the floor wriggling about. At the sight of Margo it all came flooding back.

She'd made it back to Balfour's on Rick's back. Then they'd further destroyed their livers with more alcohol, only Elixa hadn't made it too far. Onto the floor, and had begged for some water. Her mass less than the men, and having drunk a good bit of wine before them, she had staggered from Balfour's bathroom, back to join them, and then given up under a table. If it was any consolation, she hadn't therefore drunk quite as much overall.

"I'll geddit." She uttered in sleepy English, "back in a mo..." and stumbled towards the door, tripping over her own feet once in the hallway and lurching away at a sudden arrival of a pet. "Go away, no not you at the door, you... beast..."

She half-heartedly shooed Balfour's pets away and began to wrestle with his front door. Dexterity when hungover, was not her best.

"Hello?" She asked, covering her eyes and peeking out between her fingers as outside there was light and Merlin damn it. That hurt!

While those who drank excessively stirred within, Izola checked that she had got the right house – but she must have, Rick’s instructions were reasonable and the description, while it had been minimal, definitely fitted the house. The worst that could happen was having the wrong one after all, so she rang the bell, waiting impatiently for the door to open and shifting the bag from shoulder to shoulder at regular intervals.

It was taking far too long to gain access, so she rang the doorbell again, this time more forcefully. It was bad enough being told to fetch clothes, like she was a personal assistant, she didn’t want to have to hang around waiting to hand them over.

There was sound from within the house, and Izola paused, but it was just dogs barking – yuck, fur – and she reached for the doorbell again. Rick was far too much effort, and she hadn’t even been able to participate in the drinking – that was just unfair. Admittedly, it did mean she wouldn’t have to deal with a hangover, and she was sure that in a vulnerable state, although he had sounded revoltingly chipper, she could get something out of Rick.

She was about to try again when the door finally opened, and Izola beamed, only to realise that it wasn’t Rick who had opened the door. Oh dear. She didn’t recognise the woman, partly because she couldn’t see her face, and setting aside her irritation for when she had to deal with Rick she made a sympathetic noise (she could sympathise, thanks to tequila) and gently moved her aside, opening the door properly so that she could cross the threshold. She had been invited, albeit not by the owner.

She’d stupidly forgotten about the dogs, and they huddled around her as she shut the door firmly behind her. It wouldn’t do to let them escape, after all, and she had to hand over the clothes in person so that she could see the look on Rick’s face. Excuse lined up, she turned to the lady who had opened the door, speaking quietly, “sweetie, do you want hangover tonic?” She had some in her bag, which was supposed to be for Rick, but since he was in a better state she was sure he would be fine if it went to the lady instead.

“Is Rick here?” she asked, after a pause. It would be terribly awkward if she’d just barged her way in only to find that her excuse he’d already left. Although that would mean he’d left without clean clothes, which seemed unlike him.

Elsewhere in the flat, there was the distinct squeaking sound of a shower knob being twisted, the spray dying to a trickle. Below, water splashed – gently swirled into the drain – and steam rose, spilling out of the stall in clouds as the door slid open.

Black hair flat with water and skin flushed from more than the heat of it, Rick stepped out of the stall and onto the mat, dripping, sopping wet and more relaxed than… he probably should have been, all things considered—not that he let that bother him. Shoulders loose with ease and a newfound swagger to his hips, the werewolf made his way to the sink, where he dragged the hand towel off the rack and held it up, measuring.

And then put it back, when it proved too small.

And then hunkered down, peering inside for something that might actually… y’know. Cover. All in all, it was all very routine, and certainly wouldn’t have been out of place in his own bathroom.

Towel found and secured– barely, the thing threatening to slip at even the slightest bend, like picking up last night’s clothes– Rick kept a practiced grip on them as he began to open the door with the other, casting one last, searching look over a shoulder. “Hey, Balfour!” he hollered, (revoltingly) chipper enough to raise his voice despite the lingering vestiges of his own hangover. He took a step back; the door cracked open an inch. “You got any bigger towels? This one’s kinda… small…”

Out in the hallway, was Izola. And Elixa, looking brilliantly hungover. Eyes lighting upon the bag in the hairdresser’s hand, an equally insufferable smile bloomed across his face, one broad and blinding and rudely at odds with the ones of his friends. Friends? Friends. “Never mind, Balfy,” he yelled cheerfully over a shoulder– coincidentally in the direction of the master bedroom– because he was a nice person like that.

Shuffling closer (and tracking wet footprints on the floor, like any decent guest should), he leaned in, trying to get a good look into the bag without reaching for it (what with having full hands, and all). “What’d you bring?” he asked, shifting his grip on the bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. The towel hung low - but taut - at his hips.


Drip.

---

He felt cornered for some reason, although the door leading out into the corridor was right behind him.

The surreality of someone else in his bed (or at least someone else without him) added to the hangover- a murky haze of the mind that did not hurt so much as it obscured. Balfour tried not to stare at Charlotte, at the glimpses of skin beneath his  robe, the tired but playful features of her face. He didn't have to try hard when she mentioned his own state of undress.

"Oh!" The wizard flushed, with a hint of a smile at how ridiculous this entire scenario felt, and he snapped out of the daze quickly. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize-" the polite apologies came tumbling out while he moved around to a tall dresser, grabbing the grey hoodie folded neatly atop. "- it's all that firewhiskey."

He slung it on like a cardigan - missing the robe quite a bit already - but stopped short of finding a pair of trousers when she mentioned his little siesta in the bathroom. Right. All night. How much did she remember? How much did he remember?

"I ah, I believe that I wanted to sail the tub." Balfour turned to give her a hapless look as he ran a hand through his bedhead (bathtub head?). "Or something... something to do with pirates. There was an anchor," he added in thoughtful bewilderment. A jade vase anchor, which he was certain somebody else had tied as his knots were considerably more difficult to undo.

The ruckus outside had quietened enough to be noticeable. Without warning, Rick's voice came in barely parted successions and made him wince. Somehow it came as a relief to know the others were also here and Balfour met Charlotte in the eye- the gaze dropped a little lower, barely not lingering on bordered cleavage, at the calico kitten.

"If you would follow me through to the kitchen-" he made a gesture that caused the dog to leap off the bed, bounding towards him. "- there is coffee for all. Unless you need help...?" Balfour tilted his head in inquiry.

Somehow he managed to sound both polite and brassy.

“Don’t be sorry,” Charlotte insisted, doll eyes latching on to Balfour’s flushed face. They might have flickered down, once more, briefly. In consideration of his apology. Her stare said what her lips did not: she was not sorry. Firewhiskey was Merlin sent, a gift that kept on giving. As evidenced by Balfour’s attire. “I like to think it just brings out what’s already there.” There seemed to be almost a wink in her tone, and her mouth spread wide in a smile.

She followed his movements idly. She was sorry to see the hungover homeowner find a hoodie without much trouble. The only consolation was that Charlotte had probably taken his most convenient shroud. Hoodies were not quite so roomy as bathrobes. More looks were stolen before he turned back to explain his grand venture in the bath tub.

“Without a sail or a compass," she mused aloud, sounding humored and mildly impressed. She raised both brows, looking up from the brood of pets to fasten her eyes once more on the wizard. Pesky anchors, her face seemed to say. “I hope you found your treasure. You wouldn’t look bad with an eye patch.” It might have been her imagination, but she thought the purring kitten agreed. Charlotte sat up a little— or, rather, pressed back into the pillows. It had been a long night, a late morning, and there were potions and caffeine to be had.

Rick’s all-important bellow, a question of towels, interrupted the amusing awkwardness. The kitten’s ears jittered at the sound. Charlotte laughed silently, but visibly, appearing not to notice— or not to mind— Balfour’s slightly drifting gaze. She sat up further as he mentioned the kitchen and caused the dog to bolt toward him. His offer for help surprised her a little; she recalled the previous night’s stylish and more than precarious ride home— to his home, anyway. It had been a journey no doubt fueled by liquid courage. But here he was, offering more assistance in all of his hungover glory, probably exhausted and much more sore than she. “I think I’ll manage,” she said after moment, still smiling.

She shifted gracefully enough to the edge of the bed, slipping onto solid ground with at least a clearer head than she’d had when she had crawled into the bed. She reached up to pull loose hair that had been trapped between the soft collar of the robe and the nape of her neck before turning to retrieve the kitten.

A few unhurried steps and she was beside him, almost ready to greet the rest of their party. Charlotte deposited the kitten into Balfour's hands, and stood back just a fraction to look up at him, as if inspecting her nephew’s school uniform before his first day at Hogwarts. Mr. Spectre was much taller, less of a child, though he possessed a similarly endearing quality. Charlotte reached up on tip toes, extending a peachy, pale arm to smooth out a bit of hair for him. “There. You look perfectly appropriate.”

Finally, without even glancing down, her hands moved deftly but languidly to the tie of the robe she’d stolen, adjusting it. “Sailors first,” she said, gesturing toward the door, waiting to follow.

There was a lot of action going on in the apartment and none of it was related to Margo.  That was a problem. 

Elixa crawled out from wherever she had been… and there was still nonsense going on at the door that she could not see, which made things that much worse.  Sure, her presence had been acknowledged when she whined to have someone get the door, but now things were happening and she was still on the floor, handcuffed to the end table with her stomach churning and head pounding. 

“I want potion!” Margo called out helplessly, overhearing the conversation between Elixa and whoever was at the door.  “Help meeeee,” she whined immediately after, rattling the chain of the handcuffs against the wood.  Part of her hoped that it would drag all of their attention to her. 

Normally, Margo would want attention for more flattering things – but right now she would have taken anything she could get – meaning a glass of water and release from this… It didn’t matter though, when Rick bellowed it felt like Margo’s head was going to split down the middle and she managed to twist her body so she was laying on her side, curling her legs up toward her chest – compressing her cramping stomach – and moaned. 

With Rick in a towel (an impossibly small one at that, from his yell) it was unlikely anyone was going to spare her sad self even a passing glance.  As if it couldn’t get any worse on the floor, hungover as all get out, without any hope of escape – it finally happened.  She heard the shuffling and snuffling of a dog.  The white mass approached and nudged at her with its nose, cold and wet against her side and back and neck – all of which were, unfortunately quite ticklish.  Margo whimpered pitifully, “Stop!” she wiggled in her spot, hoping to get the dog away, but apparently the wriggling mass on the floor was far too interesting and the dog continued to use his head and nose to push at her.  “I need some bloody help!” Her cry for help came out as a half-sob, half-laugh as the husky pressed his nose into her ribs again. 

"Sweetie, do you want hangover tonic?"

What an excellent time for a potions salesperson to arrive on the doorstep. Elixa squinted at her from between her fingers and made a face.

"Why, are you selling?" She mumbled incoherently and backed away from the doorway slightly, not wishing to engage too cerebrally in her state.

"I want potion! Help meee!" Margo's calls were too much to take in at that very moment, and with luck the woman on the doorstep continued.

"Is Rick here?" The woman the other side of the door spoke far too loudly for Elixa's head.

"Hey, Balfour! You got any bigger towels…"

The call from within the place (house? Flat? She'd not yet had a chance to see more than two rooms, and could barely remember whose it was until that call suggested it was Balfour's) sort of confirmed that Rick was in.

Still wincing at the noise, Elixa gestured inwards with a half-hearted shrug and was met with a vision of a dripping Rick. Who was this? His sister? Not his girlfriend surely? Someone sucker enough to bring him clothes, well, perhaps for favours.

It was hard not to stare at Rick's glistening body fresh from the shower, and wish she looked a little better herself. Damn him!

Realising she was gaping, and a third wheel to this clothes exchange, she made her way out from between them, mumbling apologies, and stumbled into the room where Margo was tethered, and it appeared, being eaten by a dog.

"No no no no… bad dog." She fumbled towards the witch, shooing the dog away which seemed less than impressed with being asked to stop tickling Margo.

"Let me find my wand." Elixa patted herself down, and pulled her wand from somewhere in her dress, almost falling over the dog in the process. She looked anything but the proficient spellcaster who could unlock the handcuffs as she pointed her wand at Margo's head and then moved the tip upwards to her hands.

"There we go." Rather than undoing them, she'd instead sliced the chain between the two hands.

"Hey, I'm hungover, you really don't want me trying to fiddle with metalwork around your wrists until I've drunk three cups of coffee and can walk straight." She protested to Margo, and promptly fell backwards over the dog onto the sofa.

"Sweetie, do you want hangover tonic?"

Fortunately for the lady in question, Izola had better things to do than be offended by her comment. Well, maybe a little offended, because what she was wearing? Was not the clothing of a door to door salesperson. Refusing her hangover potion would be retribution enough – judging by the yells, there were several people present.
How… interesting.

"Hey, Balfour! You got any bigger towels…"

Disinclined to offer her services, she instead turned to Rick, eyes widening slightly at the revelation that she was trespassing on Balfour’s hospitality. As was Rick, the rude hungover lady, and the lady in need of help. Quite the gathering – Izola expected details.

If she weren’t busy enjoying the view herself, she would be scornful of the other woman’s reaction, but instead she spent her time more profitably, staring at Rick with a view to assessment. Really, anyone would be foolish not to admire all of that. While she didn’t understand the appeal, all of that exercise definitely paid off. And since she got to admire the results without having to put in the work, she was all for it. More fool her for leaving early, especially since she was about to wipe the smile of Rick’s face.

Serve him right for getting her up to deliver his clothes. Or… not his clothes. He could consider them a generous gift from her.

“What’d you bring?”

“Hello darling, it’s so lovely to see you, how are you? Arianne would weep at your terrible manners,” Izola replied, a little irritated that Rick couldn’t even manage the basic niceties of conversation. It wasn’t like it was so difficult to pretend that you cared about someone, especially if you wanted something from them.

While it would be best if she didn’t say anything, muteness had never been Izola’s forte, and she the chance to make a warning shot, “You should be nicer to me, darling, I’m doing you a favour.” Any possible guilt that Izola might have felt (none, based on experience) thus absolved, she pulled her bag off her shoulder, searching through it for a moment before producing the requested clothing out, tossing it to Rick and only barely managing to keep a straight face while doing so.

She couldn’t resist making a comment, and she smiled as Rick began to shake them loose, “Don’t worry, they’re your size,” though it would be a very snug fit. But that was how they were supposed to be worn.

Pausing just long enough to greet Elixa a “hey” with that same, horrible smile, Rick faced Izola again, features fixing themselves into something wide-eyed and contrite(ish). “Hi,” he immediately corrected himself– not that Izola seemed to notice– and, “don’t tell Arianne,” because if Izola was bad enough by herself then she was just awful with the aforementioned Frenchwoman, who had once been Beauxbatons’ etiquette professor. There wouldn’t be tears– though if there were, Rick was pretty sure they’d have a higher alcohol content than the most plastered of bar crawlers –but the passive aggressive ribbing would be hell. Rick, whose life was already neck-deep in annoyances, wasn’t interested in inviting another one.

As the second dog lingered – poked and snuffled at Rick’s legs and towel with a cold, curious nose – the werewolf tightened his grip on the too-small towel. With Elixa and Margo well-occupied with the handcuffs, Balfour and Charlotte still in the bedroom, and Izola, brewer of Wolfsbane Potions, the only other person in the hall, Rick glanced down at the husky and– made a sound, a not-quite rumble in his chest almost too low for human ears that, thankfully, ceased a perilous inspection of his towel. “I’m always nice,” he protested charmingly, readjusting it.

And nearly dropped it, when he caught sight of the thing she pulled out of the bag, because a doctorate-worthy background in clubs and leather meant he could spot an article of said fabric a mile away, and just. What. It was coming out of the bag that was supposed to contain his clothes—his clothes—why.

What the fu- his eyebrows began to knit. And the thing nearly hit him smack in the face—nearly, because he caught it. And god did he regret it.

For in Rick’s hand was the skimpiest, flimsiest pair of honest to god booty shorts he had ever seen.


“Don’t worry, they’re your size.”


“Don’t worry,” he choked, staring at them. They looked like they might actually be his size– if he were fifty pounds lighter. “Don’t worry.” The shorts crumpled in his fist, squeezed to death by swift, abject mortification.

“I am going to murder you,” he told Izola.

---

Balfour had accepted the kitten with both hands, looking blankly from Charlotte's teasing expression to the kittens somewhat nonplussed one as it stared up with large and limpid green eyes. It always seemed like a sensible number of pets to have, until other people became involved.

"Sailor's first," his guest gestured and the wizard blushed for no reason in particular.

He was going to be doing a lot of that today- in the privacy of his room, while trying to remember the night before. The kitten mewled and Balfour placed it precarious only his shoulder as he turned into the corridor.

"But of course. This way, Milady..." he smiled politely back at Charlotte, allowing the husky to lead them out through the corridor that opened up into his living room and entrance. It was obvious by then that the rest of the flat had become quite unravelled.

Lopsided portrait frames, tipped-over vases, shattered glass from gods-knew-what, the odd piece of clothing. And then there was Rick at the front door, who on sight alone was making Balfour feel modestly dressed. Izola, too, just arrived. One of them did not look happy.

"I don't want to know, do I?" he said this directly to the pair, partly to Charlotte, and then walked right past into the living room. "My wardrobe's in the bedroom, Rick." Whatever the other man appeared to be seething about did not look any better than the guest towels.

If the passageway had been in dissaray, the den was something else altogether. The two white huskies - one pestering poor Elixa on the couch - turned their heads in his direction. Margo was on the floor in almost as bare a state as Rick. Balfour made a gesture with his hand, habitually, and the dogs were immediately sat together on the floor. Quiet, attentive in the same style as their owner. Good.

"Right then." Balfour drew his breath in, as if though to make a most significant announcement in the middle of all this chaos, but suddenly stopped himself short. "Coffee. I'll make coffee for everyone."

The gracious host disappeared into the kitchen.[1]

1.	This is very much just Balfour's turtle shell/Ostrich response to everything, he's not run away!

Despite the kitten’s distracting movements, the color in Balfour’s face was obvious enough to be distinguished from run-of-the-mill hangover symptoms. Charlotte took private pleasure in it— or not so private, by her expression— and followed him down the corridor and into the living room, where the ship’s wreckage had left the rest of the castaways.

If the previous night’s events were somewhat foggy, the scene they walked in on was no less entertaining. Margo was on the floor with a cuff on each wrist, combating a dog's affection. Elixa toppled over the dog (rather than off of a bar stool) just as Charlotte and Balfour appeared. And was that… “Mesh?” Charlotte asked, her curiosity piqued as she stared at the ball of clothing in Rick’s hands. The material was so scarce that she was almost surprised she could see it. But the look on his face… she saw that. Her eyes moved on to the newcomer. “Izola. It’s lovely to see you.” If Rick looked murderous, Charlotte looked as if someone had gifted her front-row tickets to the ballet. The prima ballerina was 6’3” and scruffy.

But Balfour offered a more modest costume change before any of them had the chance to see what might have been. Charlotte was about to scold him, when his voice became that of an announcer’s. Coffee. Of course. As he disappeared into the kitchen, though, it seemed somehow like an escape plan. If he was overwhelmed by his company… Charlotte alone could not be blamed.

The huskies impressed with their obedience— and thus demanded the witch’s attention. She bent down, fingers grazing the soft fur of one dog’s jaws, and then scratched the head of the one who had jumped on her several minutes ago. They were stunning creatures, the opposite of yippy little dogs carried in women’s purses. “See, Margo, they’re harmless.” Charlotte looked over her shoulder, turning her grin on the topless, sweatpants-clad woman who had lost the bet.

She straightened up, her hand brushing her wand in the pocket of the robe, which smelled faintly of smoke and soap.

Elixa, not in broken handcuffs, nevertheless looked as if she needed someone to spoon-feed her the caffeine. Charlotte took residence in one of the armchairs near the sofa and smiled calmly at her. “Where did you happen to fall asleep?” She couldn’t remember as she thought back on the trail of people and clothes and whiskey glasses from the night before.

Yep, she should just stay here on the sofa. It was comfortable. The dog slid out from beneath her feet, leaving her draped off the sofa onto the floor of Balfour's living room.

"Coffee. I'll make coffee for everyone." Balfour had a fine suggestion and Elixa raised a meek hand to give a thumbs up at it.

"Where did you happen to fall asleep?" She opened her eyes and blinked, seeing Charlotte poised on a nearby armchair. She envied the other woman's ability to look so with it after a heavy night's drinking. Personally she felt like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards and across a desert.

"Under the table." She replied with a bit of a croak to her voice, pushing herself up to sit a little straighter on the sofa for better conversation and more ladylike positioning. Her dress kept hitching up.

"What about you? You look a whole lot better than I must given how I'm feeling."