TWENTY-FIVE
FLAVORS |
of the
valiant |
DEREK DOYLE
DOBBS |
| happy • angry • sad • concerned • scared • embarrassed • hurt • determined • amused • innocent • betrayed • regret • confused • jealous • traumatized • wary • drunk • flustered • bitchy • content • frustrated • stunned • muggle • family • pyo |
amused
1979 winter
Odette told herself she was only lying in the bed still because she was even now quite a bit drunk and she wasn't entirely sure she could feel her legs. It just would not do to try and stage a breezy exit if there was a question about her legs being able to support her weight.
Younger men, she told herself, mildly aggrieved. Younger men were a mistake. Not that she liked to think of him as a younger man because it was by a scant two years, if that. Still, she thought as her eyes roved over the body sprawled out unconcernedly over the bed, it was a very well filled-out mistake. A mistake with exceptionally creative hands, so—
"Am I going to make you feel awkward if I thank you for realising about a dozen dreams from my teen-aged youth?" Derek Dobbs asked, though his eyes were closed. He was stretched out on the bed in all his admitted glory, arms folded behind his head. Opening them, he grinned winningly. "Because I'm going to do it anyway, I'm just interested in how it makes you feel."
Nope, Odette corrected. Just a mistake.
"Please don't," she said, swinging her legs off the bed and standing. Her hands went up automatically to tie back her hair when the sight of herself in the mirror halted her progress. There was sex hair and then there was sex hair, and this… she fingered a haywire lock that was trying to zig-zag away from her scalp, was definitely jungle sex hair. Efficiently, she twisted most of the kinks out of sight before tying up her hair then briefly wished it was as easy to do with the rest of the knots and tangles in her life.
"You have a point," Derek said, yanking her attention back to the present. Her eyes met his in the mirror, and he gave a contented-sounding sigh. "I probably said that enough during the course of the night—I wager at least five times."
More like nine, she thought, but who was counting? Since she had counted the number of certain other things over the course of the night and "nine" was the number resonating with her, she bent to snag her under-shirt hanging from the side of the wardrobe to not only distract herself but also hide her dully flushed cheeks.
Derek rolled to prop himself up on one elbow and saw her shrug into the thin shirt before she bent to continue the search for one, any, article of clothing on his marginally neat floor, providing him with an excellent view in the meanwhile. "If you're looking for your robes," Derek said lazily, helpfully, "I think I tossed them over the sofa in the living room. You know, about the time when I ripped them off you, and apologized for tearing the sleeve, but you said to shut my mouth (I believe your exact words were "shut that beautiful mouth up," but I wouldn't want to perjure myself), so we just slammed against the door and—"
"Okay!" Odette said, throwing out a hand to stop him. "Thank you for that."
"No, thank you."
Ten times, she corrected herself, closing her eyes. The hint of a smile at her lips would not do, since it would only encourage him, and Derek Dobbs had always been incorrigible beyond measure. When she was certain her face was severe enough, she turned around to look at him and arched an eyebrow. "I don't remember you being quite so mouthy—" Odette began, then narrowed her eyes when Derek waggled his eyebrows. "Stop."
"Well, I will admit that Fawcett not being around to break my face does cramp my style less."
The mention of Drystan, if she ignored the dubious judgment he'd surely bestow upon her should he ever learn of this tryst, did freely bring a smile to her face because it was accompanied by the memory of a fresh-faced Derek sprinting around the Quidditch pitch as their former captain chucked Quaffles at him with deadly precision and rather unfair speed. It was a fond one of hers, not in the least because she was the reason the poor boy had to be sprinting.
"You're bigger than he is," she heard herself pointing out. It was, perhaps, the one thing Derek could hold over Drystan Fawcett's head, almost literally.
The dark look he slanted her was purely that of a disgruntled fifteen-year-old. "And he's meaner."
She really couldn't dispute that.
"Right, then," said Derek briskly. "Any suitors I should be aware of? Boyfriends, paramours, obsessive fans, anything of that nature?"
Odette had thought, vaguely, about trotting into the living room to rescue her clothing, but any steps she might have been taking in that direction froze. "Pardon me?" she asked incredulously.
He pressed one hand to his chest, looking at her earnestly. "That is, I know where your true affections lie, but they might not take the idea of our getting married so soon very well. I'm not worried, of course, but for safety purposes, you know."
Once her eyes could widen no more for fear of rolling straight out of her head, she squeezed them shut and clapped her hands to her forehead, burying her face in them slightly.
"We'll have really beautiful, athletic children," he told her solemnly. "I have the utmost confidence they'll carry on our Hufflepuff legacy and then—" Out of sheer desperation to stop the words from continuing to come out of his mouth, she leaned across the bed and took aggressive hold of his face with one hand, squeezing so his lips puckered out and his words came out mushed, followed by something which sounded suspiciously like a choked laugh.
"And what about you, hmm?" She squeezed into the hollow of his cheeks a little bit tighter and wagged it slightly from side-to-side. "I find it hard to believe this face and its sparkling personality hasn't snagged anyone yet."
She could see his gaze go flinty before it cooled and he attempted a disdainful shrug of one shoulder.
O-ho, she thought, there was a story there. Intrigued and frankly greedy at the idea of other people's drama, she let go of his face and straightened, folding her arms. "There is a girl, you smarmy arse."
He shrugged flippantly. "I am a free man."
"There is absolutely a girl, I recognise that moony look in your eye."
Blowing out a long, heavy breath, Derek absently ruffled his already mussed hair with one hand, looking slightly surly. "There might be a girl."
Eyeing the cover-strewn bed dryly, she asked, "She's not going to care that you just did this?"
He levelled Odette a bland look. "I'm not caring that she hasn't left her boyfriend yet."
Comprehension dawned as her eyebrows nearly grazed her hairline. "Ahh." Other people's problems, she thought.
A moment of silence, not necessarily uncomfortable or endless, hummed between them as they undoubtedly brooded over their own personal dramas.
"Well, if you're insistent upon refusing my proposal, the least you can do is spend the night," he said, re-adjusting himself to a more comfortable position lounging across the bed. His expression grew wicked. "If you come a little bit closer, we can burn up the sheets for the third time."
Fourth, she corrected, but who was counting? Instead, she gave him a skeptical look and put her hands on her unclad hips. "I thought I had already satisfied a dozen of your prurient pubescent fantasies?"
"Oh, you did," he said easily. "But I can think of at least another five to occupy us." He waited a beat, then offered her a charming smile. "I was a boy both sound of body and mind."
Torn between amusement and vague horror, Odette tilted her head to the side. "You're disgusting."
"Entirely," Derek agreed, sitting up slightly and stretching his hand across the bed. He snaked his hand up and around one of her thighs, giving it a gentle yank. "Tell me more about that."
Despite herself, Odette let out a laugh and let herself be tugged down onto the mattress.
concerned
1983 spring
Penelope considered herself to be something of a morning person, having generally attained a state of being bathed, dressed, and breakfasted by seven in the morning. This was particularly fortunate today, when at exactly thirteen past the hour, someone hammered on the door.
Curious and just a bit concerned for the early caller, she opened the door and blinked in surprise when she saw Derek Dobbs with a sack over his shoulder, a small carrier by his feet. "Derek!" she greeted with wide eyes, hurriedly tossing a glance over her shoulder. "Is every—oh." She looked down. "I—is this your kneazle?"
"This is Mr Butler," Derek confirmed, now grasping the carrier and slipping past her as she pushed the door wider. "Can't thank you both enough for this—I'm ashamed I even forgot."
Closing the door, Penelope couldn't quite stop the hiccup in her heart beat, or the dreamy smile she knew must be flitting across her face. He was just so… beautiful to look at. His cloak concealed his frame, but his face was fuller than the last time she'd seen him—and the bottom half was no longer obscured by a beard. She closed the door and followed him into the entry, eying the bag and the hidden animal with interest. "At least you did remember," she graciously offered as a concession.
Derek let out a laugh as he bent to unlatch Rhett Butler, backing deliberately away from the carrier. Taking note of Penelope's alarmed expression, he waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, he won't hurt you. He's just a bit peeved with me at the moment."
Wondering just what she was in for for the next however many months of their European sojourn, she managed a weak smile as her eyes darted back to the open carrier, waiting for some small demon to streak out of it and perhaps claw the draperies, or her, to shreds. As Penelope watched with bated breath, she missed Derek's roving stare about the room.
"Where's Di?" he asked suddenly, breaking her spell of both unease and fascination. Blinking owlishly, she turned to look at him.
The answer was Felix Ackerly's residence, but somehow she felt Derek did not necessarily need to know this information. Penelope, well-versed in the ramifications of lying to family members, but also well-versed in the seemingly natural inclination of older brothers to rage at even the hint of a suitor, chewed the inside of her cheek briefly, and then chirped, "The museum."
"Oh," Derek's expression was thoughtful. "Already? They work her hard."
Looking guilelessly serene, she replied, "They do."
At that moment, Rhett Butler daintily stuck out a paw from his hiding place, as if testing the atmosphere, and Penelope's attention was hopelessly caught, a mixture of thrill and trepidation. The one indulgence her parents had never permitted her was an animal, and Penelope felt herself revert to a six-year-old every time she crossed paths with one.
Derek took the moment of silence to once again examine the pretty little flat, always done up a bit differently from the last time he'd come. The place was airy and light and absolutely feminine, and it gladdened his heart something fierce to see it looking as it did. Running his finger along a little trinket on the bookshelf, he looked back at Penelope. "You doing all right, then?"
Startled once again out of a little reverie, she turned away from the emerging kneazle and cupped one hand around her neck. After a thoughtful moment or two, she nodded, meeting his gaze with a smile. "I am."
"Have you spoken to your—to him, since?" Derek asked, shifting his attention toward a painting on the wall to give her some space.
Penelope shook her head before realizing he couldn't see her. "I haven't, but… I sent him something the day of the last match. Silly, I suppose. I found an old drawing I did—a family portrait. There were the four of us, and then—he must have just made House captain because he was flying above us in black and yellow robes."
Derek remembered this school-aged Drystan well, and no matter of the ten years that had passed since, silently cursed Jonathan Bones for ever passing the torch on to him. "That's nice. What did he do?"
"Wrote a thank-you note, of sorts. That's—I think that's all I can do for now." Crossing her arms, she gave a little sigh. She wasn't angry, hadn't been for a long while, but something kept her from reaching out to him. Now that she was on better terms with Bess, and still saw her niece and nephews, she couldn't deny the pressure to make up with her brother felt stronger. Still, she resisted. Once the N.E.W.T.s were over, Penelope thought. Except she knew it wasn't the scores that she needed—it was the pressing urge to have some sort of career, to be able to feel she could pay them back… and yes, some of the lingering shame that had to be faced down before she could move forward. Shaking off the brood, she clasped her hands behind her and asked, "Is Galvin excited for the trip?"
He smiled at that, because she was such a funny, polite thing. Penelope Fawcett was a mere slip of a girl but managed to carry herself like a gracious little queen, even when crying her eyes out. There was something about her that reminded him of the water-coloured pictures in his mother's old books of fairy stories, which explained the inexplicable fay-ness about her. Something to do with the wild hair or the glass-green eyes, he imagined, and perhaps the diminutive stature. On reflection, he realized her sister, for all her wild temperament, had had that same ethereal quality. The brother, too, had a savage sort of grace to his movement, on the Quidditch pitch and off it (though Derek admitted it very begrudgingly).
Strange family.
"He is," Derek said, shoulders moving a bit restlessly. "We both are. I think it'll be good to get away for a while."
Nodding, Penelope abandoned the conversation to crouch cautiously next to the armchair Rhett Butler was lurking beside, watching the two of them with a sour expression. "I think you're right," she said absently, holding out a curled hand to the skeptical kneazle. "You deserve a vacation."
After a beat, Derek scratched the back of his neck. "Well, all his things are in the bag there," he gestured to the sack leaning against the wall in the small foyer. "He won't use any of them, but Vinny likes to spoil him." Secretly, perhaps, he'd contributed an item or two. "There're… 'care' instructions, but I use the term loosely, because he fends for himself. And thank you. Again."
Rhett Butler was now contenting himself with butting his head against her hand. "Please," she flushed a little, glancing back up at him. "It's the least I—we could do."
Waving the comment aside, Derek glanced at the watch-face turned inside his wrist. "I've got to head back and finish some packing—tell Dianna thanks when she gets home tonight? We'll pay you back in pretty trinkets." He caught the polite nose wrinkle and quickly amended, "Souvenirs ripe with reflected cultural history specific to the area," to which her expression looked coyly pleased.
"Honestly," he muttered with mock annoyance as he opened the door, "who's the Ravenclaw living here?" The peal of laughter made him grin.
"Oh," Penelope called, standing and hurrying to the door, where he turned and waited. "I like the cleanshaven look."
Startled, he ran a hand down his chin, where just a day's old growth rasped against his hand. Hmm. Still wasn't used to that. With a bemused smile, he shrugged. "I give it three countries, at most."
