Looking at the cuffs that were now split in two, Margo frowned.  They were a perfectly good pair, but Elixa had a point.  “Yeh,” she snorted, “wouldn’t want to lose anything else,” she said vaguely – waving her hands dismissively as she did.

It could have been a reference to her very sore and aching leg, or the fact that she was not quite dressed.  Either way, her head was pounding and she didn’t really want to deal with it.  Lifting one of her hands up (felt so heavy) the little metal chain jingled in front of her face and she rubbed her eyes. 

She was glad she refocused her vision when she caught sight of the very much same boat as her Rick.  She pushed herself to adjust her leg, whimpering slightly as she felt where she’d been rubbed raw and hissed out a breath of air as she pushed herself up.  “Coffee,” she practically droned like a zombie while her legs shook. 

She imagined her hair must have been a terrible tangled web and she probably had dark circles under her eyes – not necessarily unlike a zombie in those ways either.  “I need coffee,” she repeated, limping toward where Balfy had disappeared to get the elixir that would help her survive the rest of the day.  Unfortunately, she was also completely unaware of anything other than her dragon tattoo on her very bare back.*

*I figured there’s probably something there… feel free to react!

There were times when it made sense to try and keep a straight face, and there were times when there was no point and laughing was the only option. Now, of course, with Rick looking like he would happily kill someone (probably her), very fetching shorts clenched in one hand, was the latter, and although Izola didn’t fall over – she had far too much style for that – she did double up in a way she hadn’t, without the aid of drink, for quite a while.

Possibly not the most sensible response to a threat of murder, but Rick’s face was priceless. She regretted not having a camera on her, because it was such a waste that only she would ever see this, but perhaps some way of copying memories could be developed – if Izola had a penseive, she would certainly use it to re-watch this. Many, many times.

“With all this witnesses around, darling?” she managed, although she wasn’t sure any of them would be very good witnesses, still giggling, and wasn’t that embarrassing (although not as embarrassing as what was happening to Rick), “and, of course, you messaged me by floo, so really – being in Azzie for life isn’t worth it.”

Somehow, she stopped laughing enough to straighten, stifling a few residual splutters, “I thought you might like them more than the pink ones.” There had been no pink ones, but dying them wasn’t difficult at all, so Rick should be grateful for the small mercies, “And you’ve always had an excessive attachment to leather.” Which clearly meant that what she was offering was exactly what Rick would love to wear. Logic was such a beautiful thing. “Darling, you have to wear them.” She wasn’t lying – the only way he would get clothes that wouldn’t display him to his best advantage would be to put the shorts on.

Sometimes, her ideas were genius.

It was a nice thought, Balfour’s offer, and one that Rick appreciated, he really did. Unfortunately, being the same height didn’t necessarily translate into sharing the same measurements, and while Balfour was no stick Rick was… large, to say the least. Roughly two hundred-ten pounds with shoulders broad enough to heft a body sack of potatoes each – easily – Rick was a chiseled man who filled out his clothes. To obscenity. Any loan of Balfour’s might be a kindness, but inflicting Rick on them would on them would be a punishment. To the clothes.

“Pink-” he snarled, the thin veneer of calm swiftly cracking like volcanic crust. It wasn’t that he hated pink– it was just a color (–though, okay, yeah, some were just nasty compared to others)– and Merlin knew he had enough of it in his closet (thanks to her), but knowing Izola, it was more likely she meant some searing, hellish, eye-bleeding… thing, instead of a normal, sane hue. The stylist was alarmingly fond of color, and regularly criticized the werewolf for his regular inadequacy.

And that wasn’t the end of it, oh no.

Rick’s first instinct was to flare his nostrils, which he did in a more-than-likely futile attempt for that ever-elusive calm. Because there was something in her tone… “What,” he began carefully, his usual drawl tight and clipped– well, more clipped than usual, “the hell do you mean by…”

As realization dawned, the words trailed off like the air of a dying balloon. It took a while, because it was just too horrible to contemplate, but eventually it did, and dread gave way to a mix of feelings flickering across his face—fury, of course, being neither all nor the least of it. One could practically hear his eyebrows snapping together. If glares had any real, physical power, one could melt rocks with his. “That was a secret,” Rick hissed, angrily shaking the shorts in front of Izola’s face. “For a reason.”

And then he took a step back, because he still had to find his wand, dammit, and– you know what? He didn’t care. He was 101% done with everything. “I hate you a lot,” he informed her, and, turning around, bitchily dropped his towel.

It was a fucking war, getting them on, because they were exactly as ill-fitting as he’d thought they’d be, and it did not help even a little bit that it had been nowhere near as much as it could have been thanks to months of experience he’d never, ever admit to. Again. With an angry (but careful) hand, Rick shoved a hand down his front and… adjusted, and for one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad second he couldn’t breathe, like the thing wasn’t glued so much as painted onto his ass, the cloth clinging to him like black, evil tar–

And then everything eased, loosening, and suddenly it he could breathe again, the familiar feel of denim snug against his skin but not constricting; it was definitely one of his. Relieved, Rick let his shoulders drop, and sighed with relief before carefully tugging up the zipper. “That was shitty of you,” he grumbled, petulant, eyes still trained on his front– the button– as he turned around. He glared at her as he headed for the kitchen.