[mp] walls [harlan]

saturday 15th september

’Just going to get a drink.’

Bérénice looked up at Harlan as he left his seat, his hand squeezing her shoulder in what she presumed was supposed to be a reassuring way. She didn’t get the opportunity to ask him to stay, wait, whatever— he was gone, weaving his way between tables -- passing a server who would have been only too happy to take a drinks order from them at their table -- towards the bar.

The Frenchwoman turned her attention back to the current speaker, catching a look from the woman sat across from her on the way and offering a prim smile in reply. It was both a blessing and a curse to not have been seated with the rest of Harlan’s team -- she didn’t know any of them either, but she didn’t feel any need for approval from this particular group of strangers in the way she might have among his teammates, at least. She wondered if she might’ve held a better conversation with them though.

Bérénice did her best to pay attention to the man speaking, but he’d been going on for quite some time and her attention was elsewhere; what was Harlan doing? It didn’t take this long to get a couple of drinks. The worst scenario came to mind first, naturally; that he was busy with someone else. But why bring her here at all if that was what he wanted? He could have come alone, saved himself the trouble. And they still hadn’t even really talked about any of this -- and she knew why: it was easier not to.

Finally, the speech ended and they were set free. Nice excused herself from the table and went to go find Harlan. She didn’t have to look hard -- he was walking towards her with a glass in each hand. Aware of their surroundings, she simply smiled as they drew closer, taking one glass from him and wrapping her other arm around his waist. “Where were you?” she asked through gritted teeth—

’Harlan! Over here!’

They both turned to look and were met with the blinding light and puff of smoke that came with the use of a magical camera.


@Harlan Bellamy

“Shit,” Harlan realized only as the crowd got up from their tables once the speeches had ended and they were free to mingle again that he hadn’t gotten Bérénice’s drink. What was she drinking again— champagne, or was it prosecco? His own drink, which he confirmed with a glance down to his hand, was three-fourths finished and light amber against the crystal glass. That had been the whole excuse for leaving the table in the first place, their drinks, and even half-drunk he knew better than to return empty-handed.

“Shit,” He repeated as turned on his heels to the bar to quickly order and impatiently look over his shoulder as the crowd grew. If he could find her before she found him he figured he might be able to play off the fact that he’d been absent for, well, however long he’d been hiding at the bar with Sam. If Graeme’s speech-giving propensity was any indication, it really could have been any amount of time.

Just when he thought he’d made it in the clear, both drinks in hand and on the way to the table, he spotted Bérénice. At first, he grinned, stupidly he learned when he recognized the vaguely concerning way that she was smiling at him. It wasn’t the kind of smile that indicated anything positive.

“Sorry, I—“ They spoke over each other and he paused to let her finish when the sound of his name caught his attention. Then came the flash, a puff of disorienting smoke. Harlan instinctively stepped toward the photographer, the heat in his chest rising. “You print that and you won't be coming back to another event—“ He had a hand nearly to the poor kid's chest when someone from the Griffins pulled him back and into reality once again.

“Can we go,” He said to Bérénice roughly, not looking over his shoulder at the crowd and not thinking what she might read into his reaction. It hadn’t been phrased as a question but he had meant to ask.

Harlan pushed past her, muscling in on the photographer who’d just made the mistake of taking their picture; Bérénice felt concern (for Harlan, not so much the other man) for all of three seconds before remembering this was Harlan --  this wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed him like this, and -- quietly -- she’d always rather enjoyed these kind of displays.

One of his teammates -- or support staff, she wasn’t sure who was who yet -- stepped in to end things before they could really start. A silence descended over the people nearest before they began tittering away again. Bérénice simply blinked at Harlan, not that he really saw her -- he was still too riled up. She moved in to take the place his colleague had left, snaking her arm around his waist in an attempt to distract him.

Can we go. It wasn’t a question. Nice frowned but nodded; her heels clacking on the floor as she pulled him along towards the exit. She palmed her untouched drink off to one of the wait staff on the way.

Once out in the foyer Bérénice automatically turned towards the grand staircase that led to the hotel rooms, but Harlan had diverged in the opposite direction. The brunette paused, then followed after him -- that concern she’d brushed aside moments before coming back in a flood; she wasn’t the biggest fan of having her photo taken -- not at these sorts of things, especially -- but Harlan’s reaction didn’t seem rational, even for someone who was camera shy (was he even?). She understood what that photo out in the world would do, but she hadn’t anticipated him being that offended by it all and it was only the knowledge that they were still close enough to all of those people in that ballroom that kept her from asking exactly what his problem was and getting everything out on the table right now.

He’d barreled his way out the front door and gotten a slight headstart on the front steps. Bérénice reached to grab at his arm, pulling him back to her in such a way that it was (hopefully) obvious that she wasn’t trying to stop him, rather just get him to slow down -- her heels and the gravel drive didn’t mix quite so well as the marble floors inside. Once he’d calmed himself enough to provide her an arm to lean on she cuddled in closer despite herself -- the night was cool and crisp and she hadn’t exactly had time to fetch a coat.

“Where are we going?” she asked calmly, careful to use the plural pronoun rather than single him out.

Harlan’s limbs were hot with tension. The blood coursing through his veins was making it hard for him to think about anything else.. A therapist— he'd been forced one when things had gotten bad and Griffins management had to step in— advised that Harlan needed to identify his triggers before stepping away, taking a few minutes to breathe. Bullshit, he once thought, but had found that as he got older he used the practice more and more. That particular night the trigger was the press and nothing good would come of staying around them any longer than he had to.

He hardly noticed the cool night air as it hit him through the open doors of the hotel but he was aware of Bérénice’s hand on his arm that pulled him back a few paces so that he wasn’t stomping so noticeably across the gravel drive. It bothered him less than he thought it might, having someone follow after him.

"I—" He opened his mouth as if he were seeing the night drenched greenery around them for the first time; the two-lane road was almost invisible in front of him him but a footpath on the opposite side was almost salvageable. "—don't know," He finally turned to look at her, sounding a bit like a kid and immediately feeling the sting of regret seeing her so close. He hadn't intended his comment as a slight to Nice. "I'm still hungry," He grumbled. The apology he could handle later.

"Looks like there might be something up the road..." He squinted at the lights in the distance but looked both ways before crossing. Muggle cars. "Here," He shrugged off his suit jacket, noticing the skin of Bérénice's shoulders under the moonlight.

He didn’t know. She wasn’t surprised by his answer, which made it easier not to give him that look -- the one that would just put his walls up higher -- even with a couple of wines in her system. Instead, she held his gaze and nodded softly after a moment. “Alright.” She looked around in vain, as if expecting an à la carte to materialise out of thin air in the English countryside.

Harlan set off again after checking the road; Bérénice followed him blindly, not thinking to check for traffic herself until she was already halfway across it -- but they were on the outskirts of the city, where the hustle and bustle gave way to smaller settlements, and the only light other than the moon came from the lamps either side of the hotel’s gate -- they’d see car headlights coming some way off.

Safely on the footpath, she strode in her heels to catch up with Harlan -- but he had slowed. He slipped out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders; Bérénice pulled it closer around her appreciatively. “Thank you.”

They walked in the direction Harlan had set them in, towards the lights of the nearest village. Bérénice was torn between starting the conversation and stubbornly refusing to indulge him -- and then neither really won out because she was focusing on where she was walking and didn’t have the brainspace to do both right now (how many times had her flute of champagne been topped up during those speeches?).

The light they’d seen in the distance turned out to be a small grouping of buildings: a post office, groceries (both closed at this time), and a pub. Harlan held the door open for her and Bérénice entered—

A few men at the bar turned to look -- one nudging his friend in the side to make sure he didn’t miss out -- and Bérénice blanched, not sure whether they might be better to turn around and just order some room service. Harlan overtook her in the entryway and led them to a table in the corner, ducking under the low beams.

Bérénice sat, keeping Harlan’s jacket wrapped around her in a futile attempt to hide just how overdressed they were. She cleared her throat softly and plucked two laminated (sticky) menus from the little holder, handing one over to him with a small grimace. She gave it a cursory glance. “Don’t think you’ll get any oysters here.”

"Thankfully not," Harlan edged. A place like that really had no business serving oysters, anyway, tucked away from the sea. "If I wanted those I would have stayed at the gala..." He added matter-of-factly as he scanned the menu—  it had the usual suite of pub options which was exactly what he was looking for. The lingering thought that he shouldn't let his bad mood affect Bérénice was present but he couldn't stop himself. It felt as though once he went too far down the path, his temper, it was impossible to claw his way back out. But he wanted to, he thought.

The blues of his eyes were darker under the dim lighting of the establishment but became less so as they flicked up to her. It was a strange sight, seeing her there. Not only was it generally just not her scene, she was in a in a gown with his tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders. He realized then that he would have looked just as sore— hair slicked back, stupid bowtie up at his neck, shoes shined.

He pulled the bowtie down as casually as he could muster.

"Burger sounds nice..." Nice made a face and Harlan raised an eyebrow in return. Challenge accepted. The waitress had approached right on time and Harlan took the liberty. He wasn't sure what he was paying Nice back for, but either way it was lightening his mood. "Two burgers... medium rare, with the chips," He tucked the menus back into the wooden holder pressed up against the wall with a grin. "And two beers, thanks," He sat back against the booth smugly. "Actually," He corrected himself. "Just go with the pitcher," He grinned.

"Think we ought to wash the pompous off, anyway..." He ran his hand over the corner of the table, looking to Bérénice once more.

Nice eyed Harlan over the top of her menu but kept her lips sealed; she was aware (and appreciative) that he wasn’t yet cloying to get away from her -- despite having wanted to leave the gala without so much as a backwards glance he’d bothered to invite her along for the ride at least. There was still a chance that she was part of it all, of course, but the romantic optimist in her wanted to believe there was something more to Harlan’s bad mood.

She glanced back down at her menu before he glanced up -- half to avoid eye contact, scared of what she might see there, and half genuinely trying to find something on this menu she might dare to eat. Her attention was drawn up against her will as she caught him undoing his bowtie in her peripheral vision; he looked so good in a tuxedo, but he looked even better as he shed the layers of it and she was wishing more and more that they’d just gone upstairs—

Bérénice wrinkled her nose at his suggestion -- a burger? After they’d just been dining on some of the best food Britain (supposedly) had to offer? Nice opened her mouth to object when a woman appeared to take their order. At first Bérénice thought Harlan was just that hungry (two burgers) before she caught his expression -- that one she couldn’t be mad at, no matter how hard she tried (in her defence, she wasn’t trying now).

The Frenchwoman raised a finger to interject -- she would much prefer a wine, thank you -- but the waitress didn’t linger. Nice glared softly at Harlan. “With a pitcher of beer?” she asked, then sighed somewhat dramatically as she sat back in her seat, resigned to her fate. “Well, I hope you know I went to Oktoberfest last year, so,” she smirked.

"Been to Oktoberfest once..." Harlan exaggerated, a grin despite his otherwise sour countenance. His eyes met hers, sparked mischief, and holding onto that feeling for a moment before shifting into something else. Bérénice despite all of her pedigreed prim and proper could take a bit of banter, and in fact gave it back even better. It had been why they made such good friends for all of those years, he figured, and no doubt contributed to their chemistry outside of that— the same chemistry that he had been trying to grapple with for the last two months, to make sense of in a way that his impossibly logical brain could comprehend.

The jug of beer came first, it was dark in color, thick with foam on the top— even better. "You sure?" He offered as courtesy despite already pouring her glass first. "How do you think an ale pairs with Veuve?" He quirked an eyebrow, then entirely aware that she had been drinking champagne and not prosecco.

It had served as a reminder of his actions not half an hour before— what she was drinking at the gala— how he had been so quick to anger. Harlan wanted to avoid it altogether, but he was trying be better about that kind of thing. "Sorry," Despite the casual nature of his tone, the look in his eye and the sound of his voice shifted. Both felt unfamiliar. He shifted in the booth. "About earlier. It's just—" He ran a hand over his mouth before taking a drink. "Gibbs is not a good guy..." Who was, though? "He'll dig shit up on you," Not that he imagined Nice had anything to dig up.

Either way, it hadn't sat right with him, selfishly or otherwise. Harlan touched the tip of his immaculately-fucking-pretentious dress shoe to her ankle under the table— a gesture of something. He was looking out for him as much as he was for her, but the latter felt more pertinent given the circumstances.

It wasn’t really all that surprising that he didn’t remember, he’d had a lot to drink that night (and tonight, judging by the look in his eyes -- but hadn’t she, too?), and it had been a long time ago -- over ten years (merde, they were getting old) -- but it was still an unpleasant little twist of the knife all the same. “Twice,” she corrected him calmly, smoothing the fabric of her gown over her knee before glancing back up at him, her full lips twitching at the corners despite herself.

Their pitcher arrived and Nice glanced from it to Harlan lazily. “Do I have a choice?” she asked back of him, sitting up to take the glass as he held it out to her. The brunette smirked and rolled her eyes softly -- she could definitely go for another Veuve right now -- and had a sip of the beer whilst Harlan watched her. She licked her lips delicately. “Not too badly.”

Sorry. Bérénice glanced up and held his gaze, even after he looked away. She had known before he’d even apologised that she was going to forgive him (whether he’d said it aloud or conveyed it through other means), but— Her shoulders relaxed instantly when he revealed his issue to have been with the photographer, not her. Her attention fell to the glass of beer she was cradling in her lap and she brought it to her lips for another sip, frowning softly at the way it tasted after the champagne. Did Harlan think there was something to be found? (Was there?)

She lifted her head to look at him again when he nudged her ankle. “I understand,” she said after a moment, by way of accepting his apology -- and whatever else he was trying to say without actually saying it. She set her beer down on the table to slip her arms through the sleeves of his jacket properly, then picked the glass back up and had another drink. “You know I—” She stopped, caught in his gaze. She inhaled slowly, reconsidered her options. “Thank you,” she nudged him back beneath the table, “for looking out for me.”

Twice? It took Harlan a fraction of a second for the realization to hit, the booze in his system doing no favors as far as that was concerned. “Oh— right,” He agreed and was preoccupied with the memory of another life, one that seemed to not have ever belonged to him. He’d run into Bérénice at Oktoberfest, what was it, a decade prior? Harlan was in the midst of the start of his career and was decidedly not a great person to be around. The thought of both time past and who had been was nauseating.

She didn’t have a choice, no, and he shook his head to say as much. He hadn’t gone out of his way to be so bossy but it usually crept in.

After his apology, Harlan shifted in his seat as he attempted to watch her as subtly as he could. Half of him needed to see her reaction and the other half couldn’t have wanted to be any farther from it. He allowed himself the indulgence of a distraction by way of the motion of her licking her lips after drinking from the pint—even though he didn’t deserve to.

Harlan was relieved to feel a kick to his shin, he leaned into it. She understood. Well, that was unexpected. Harlan couldn’t hide it on his features, either. “That's all right,” He began, mirroring Nice and taking a drink of his own. “What are friends for?” He grinned. Just then, the burgers arrived. “Cheers, thanks,” He nodded to the waitress before settling even further into the smugness. Nice had handled the beer, but a burger was sure to be a different story if he knew her at all.

“Looks good…” Harlan pulled two napkins and handed one to her, his other hand propping a chip into his mouth. That would work wonders for the inevitable hangover to come. “Need help?” He watched as Nice eyed her burger, running a hand over his mouth.

Bérénice felt the gentle pressure of Harlan’s shin; she curled her foot around his calf to maintain the contact. They’d been sitting side-by-side at the gala, easier to lean into him when his arm was resting on the back of her seat -- here they were separated by the table between them. “What are friends for,” she repeated as she held his gaze, less of a question and more of a statement. It was impossible not to smile back at him when he was grinning at her like that, and she didn’t bother trying not to.

Their eye contact was broken by the arrival of their food. Nice set her glass down on a watermarked beermat and surveyed the burger with interest. “Mm,” she responded mutedly, unsure if it did look good -- she had never ordered a burger in her life. She took the napkin from him and unfolded it to place across her lap -- it was so thin she didn’t think it would really provide any sort of protection for her gown, but old habits...

Nice’s warm brown eyes flicked up to meet Harlan’s cool blue. “No,” she replied stubbornly, recognising that tone he was using. She reached into the little box on the table that held the cutlery to withdraw a knife and fork. She spun her plate around a little on the spot to try and find a better angle of attack.

She was skeptical, and Harlan wasn't all surprised. Bérénice had never really been the type for pub food or beer from a jug— that he knew of, anyway. There had been those years in their early twenties when they had lost touch to an extent, only running into each other at family events. She could have been anyone during that time. He certainly had been a different person. Harlan remembered why they'd stopped talking but it seemed like such a distant memory sat across from her in the present.

"Loosen up," He joked. He knew she would hate that. Harlan pulled out a paper napkin for himself, then another, just in case. Carefully he began uncuffing his sleeves and methodically rolling them up to avoid the inevitable mess. The burger itself was nearly toppling over.

It wasn't hard to see that they weren't all that different.

Harlan caught her eye as she reached toward the cutlery. "No— no," He leaned forward to block her from the little tower of butter knives and old looking forks with a grin. "You're not using cutlery to eat a burger, Nice," She'd taken it too far and Harlan was already bossy by nature. He sat back and picked up his with both hands, nodding to her smugly. It would be refreshing, he thought, to see her out of her usually impeccably mannered comfort zone.

[fin]

Harlan told her to loosen up and Bérénice glared softly at him, lips pursing. The irony wasn’t lost on her that if she had said the same thing to him back at the gala he wouldn’t have been such a good sport— Her attention fell to his hands rolling up his sleeves -- it really wasn’t fair that something so simple could distract her so easily.

As she reached for the cutlery Harlan stopped her, placing his hand in the way of the utensils. The French witch glanced from his face down to her plate, then back to his face. She exhaled through her nose. “Fine,” she said, calmly, grabbing another napkin out for the inevitable mess and flashing a forced smile.

He picked up his burger with practiced ease. Nice attempted to wrap her hands around hers, found it a little more difficult -- not because she was so inept at eating with her hands (though that might have been part of it), but because her dainty digits couldn’t grip it as comfortably. The next hurdle was fitting the thing in her mouth -- it was stacked so high she didn’t think there was any demure way to go about it.

She caught Harlan’s eye -- he was grinning at her like a Cheshire cat, enjoying this far too much. She rolled her eyes at him and bit into her burger.

[end]