Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-eight: reading [the fine print I] (September 1995.)

It was, Percy mused, an ordinary day in their little household. He was eating his breakfast - toast, as it happened, with marmalade - and Oliver would wake, bustling through the house in a whirl (shower, shave, clothes), he'd grab something to eat (often the piece of toast Percy hadn't eaten yet) cry "Bye, Perce!" and bustle out the door on the way to morning training. It always astounded Percy how Oliver could dress and get himself ready in such a short time - just to get to some muddy field a short while later, and fly around in ways that made Percy's stomach distinctly uncomfortable when thought of Oliver doing such things.

He'd even known Oliver to skip the other parts (shower, shave, breakfast) as long as he was in his Quidditch robes and out the door at seven a.m. It was quite, quite ridiculous, but it did seem to be doing Oliver a world of good. It gave him something to concentrate on in the aftermath, and he usually flew and trained himself so hard he'd come home and collapse on the bed - as the flat had one double bed, they had a standing arrangement that Oliver took the bed and Percy the couch until Percy got so irritated he started sniping at his roommate over dinner, which was usually a good sign he should get the bed for a short while.

Oliver even suggested he take the couch permanently as it didn't seem to be doing him any harm - no, indeed, come hail, rain or shine Oliver was always as annoyingly upbeat as ever. Only two things had ever bothered Oliver, as far as Percy could see: something happening to his precious Qudditch, and what had happened to Marcus. Although the two seemed incontrovertibly entwined, at least in Oliver's mind. He still kept Marcus' old Comet in the linen cupboard, and once or twice he'd come home to Oliver sitting on the couch with the broom over his knees, and sobbing.

Largely though, Oliver was better. Not fine, but better. If his hyperactivity and cheeriness was that kind of on-the-edge disturbing kind, Percy didn't know how to deal with it. It was bad enough having to deal with what was, not what could be. He'd had to convince Oliver out of taking Marcus' broom to training, because even as athletically challenged as Percy was he knew that if Oliver turned up at Puddlemere, clutching a Comet and declaring he was going to ride it, the team's management would decide he was insane and promptly cancel his contract.

Finishing off his toast - thankful Oliver had left him with all of it - Percy sipped his coffee and went through the Daily Prophet, or as many of his Ministry co-workers called it, 'that old rag'. Luckily, there was no mention of the three Aurors who'd abandoned their posts three days ago and gone rogue. A small number of Aurors had, following Dumbledore's absurd claims that Voldemort was back. Percy had the greatest respect for his old Headmaster, but it was clear that Minister Fudge had everything under hand, and it did not do at all to be spreading unfounded rumours that undermined the authority of the Minister and the Ministry (especially in an election year.) A small number of Aurors had decided the claims bore investigating, and rebelling against their oaths of allegiance and loyalty, they went 'rogue': disappearing in small bands to search out any sign of Voldemort's existence. Invariably they returned, sheepish, to their normal positions, apologised, and accepted the disciplinary action that was meted out to them for their insubordination. This was not the first band, and would not be the last, unfortunately.

Doing the washing up before he left - Percy did like things in order, after all - he could shake out the niggling doubt that existed at the back of his head, and had for several weeks. In many ways, his and Oliver's friendship had taken a worse turn since Percy had moved in. Between Oliver's Quidditch commitments and Percy's Ministry work, they didn't have the time to do much together, or even apart. Percy got the impression he was caring for a patient who distinctly didn't want to be looked after, although Oliver never said that. They simply never talked anymore, and breakfast was just another example of that.

What did you think it would be like?, a sarcastic little voice inside him asked. You'd cook for him, he'd kiss you goodbye, it'd be heaven in two and a half rooms? He'll never want you, Percy. He's too busy dreaming of the bastard who left the broom behind in the linen cupboard.

Pulling out the plug in a sink a tad more violently than he had meant to, Percy dried his hands and grabbed his satchel, slamming the door behind him as he left.