[majorca] hotline bling [charlie]

Charlie said her name and she smiled, watching her finger as she ran it along where tub met wall. “Hmm?” Based on where the conversation was headed, she wouldn’t be surprised if he officially requested Thursdays start up again (and she wouldn’t mind, either). She belatedly realized today was Thursday, which meant she wouldn’t be back in the UK for next Thursday either but--

He interrupted her thoughts and she blinked. She wasn’t following but she didn’t ask for clarification; his tone wasn’t really the sort that invited questions. But there it was: Kate, when she walked in. It took her a second to connect that back with what he had just said and Honey frowned. He had kind of mentioned this before, hadn’t he? So why tell her now?

To add that he never corrected her, apparently. Honey swallowed and tapped her finger on the lip of the tub a couple times, trying to remember exactly what their exchange had been when he’d told her before. If she were home she could go look; she hadn’t thrown away any of their letters--which was a bad idea for so many reasons--but she couldn’t remember the exacts now, certainly couldn’t remember that he’d asked about her boyfriend in the same note so clearly he had a very self-serving reason to tell her.

This wasn’t a great look for her. Charlie wasn’t the first married man she’d slept with--it took her a second to remind herself that she’d never slept with him while he was married--but she’d never actually homewrecked before. Not that she had now mind, but someone thought she had. And if it ever got out… never mind it would probably be bad for business, Harlan would think he’d been right about her all along.

And Fergie, too, fuck. She was pretty sure her brother didn’t believe she’d ruined Charlie’s marriage anymore but he knew they’d been wee penpals and that was enough to accuse her of it before. (And she couldn’t very well go ask if he still thought that.) She didn’t (want to) care what Harlan thought, and she and Charlie knew it wasn’t true and-- she’d been silent for a minute and she swallowed again before she opened her mouth to speak: “You d--” don’t have to, she was going to say, but that sounded too much like she was asking him not to and she didn’t know what sort of message that would send. “Do you want to tell her?”

Again, Honey didn’t react (audibly) straight away and, again, Charlie thought to realise this sort of admission might have an adverse effect on the conversation—

He was about to break the silence, which had stretched on uncomfortably long--or maybe he was just drunk, and it felt longer than it was--when she finally said something. Not a lot, but it was certainly something.

Charlie gaped, open mouthed, staring straight ahead at his dim reflection in the kitchen window. He frowned then, and said “No,” in a rather hurried, defensive sort of tone. “I don’t—” He inhaled, closed his eyes, and attempted to compose himself (that extra bit of champagne was making itself known now -- making his thoughts fuzzy, flashing memories to the forefront of his consciousness). “I don’t wanna see her,” he said firmly to the kitchen-at-large, then opened his eyes when he started to feel nauseous from keeping them closed too long.

But that wasn’t why he’d brought this up. He’d done it to come clean to Honey, and to find out if she wanted him to come clean to Kate -- or, to clear Honey’s name, at least. “That’s not—” he started, exhaling slowly through his nostrils as another wave hit him. He picked up the mug and gulped down a large swallow, then set it down on the bench. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll tell her if you want me to,” he said, eyes closed again. His hand slipped to the edge of the counter and gripped it tightly to stop himself from swaying lightly on the spot (it sort of worked).

She regretted asking it almost as soon as she had. Charlie wanting to tell her would be like wanting to reconcile, right? Why else would it matter who he’d fucked-- he said no pretty quickly and Honey’s shoulders relaxed, though she didn’t notice.

He didn’t— finish his sentence, but Honey said, “Okay,” regardless. She sat up again, wrapping one arm around her knees. Charlie had paused again and Honey nodded despite herself, trying not to read into the silence. She unwrapped her arm from around herself and reached for the bottle of brandy and took a large sip, shifting to wipe at the stray drop on her chin with the hand holding onto the bottle. He said he didn’t want to see her—Kate—and Honey offered another, “Okay.” Seeing her and telling her weren’t mutually exclusive, apparently; was this not something that could be put in a letter? Honey frowned as she thought too much about it.

She thought by asking if he wanted to she could avoid telling him she didn’t want him to but he found a way right around that, flat out asking her. “I don’t want you to,” she said, scratching her cheek. Honey wasn’t desperate for him to clear her name with her—never mind any reasoning she might have come to a minute ago for him to not talk to his ex-wife—and she blinked as she tried to figure out if she needed to say anything else. Fergie must not have (still) thought she had ruined Charlie’s marriage; he wouldn’t have been able to keep that secret after an entire day of drinking with their parents.

Merlin, telling her would make this all the more serious, wouldn’t it? What reason would he have for telling her if not trying to clear a path for— if Honey hadn’t already told him not to tell her, she would have now. Unless he was like Honey and wanted to make Kate jealous—

Honey cleared her throat softly. “Since we’re apologizing—“ she couldn’t remember if he’d actually said sorry or if she was making that up so she could have an excuse to say she was sorry— “Sorry for the quidditch match.” She didn’t want to be specific or tell him that she had thought about it, that it more or less boiled down to her using Charlie to make Harlan jealous. “The whole thing.”

Charlie immediately began reading into that: did she not want him to because she didn’t want him to talk to Kate in general--to see her, and potentially slip up (again)--or because it was better this way--Kate thinking he’d left her for Honey, the way he’d stopped seeing Honey for Kate--because Honey did want to see him--what else was sleeping with each other once a week?--or—

Since we’re apologising— Charlie grew still again in an effort to focus. What did she have to apologise for?— Oh, that. He frowned softly, chewing on his lip, and then she said the whole thing, so he thought she must have actually worked out why he’d been mad at her in the first place -- and if she was bringing it up out of nowhere (sort of, they were both using this phone call like a confessional booth), maybe she meant it. Charlie wet his lips. “S’alright,” he said quietly.

But it was still bugging him. She wasn’t apologising because she was over Harlan -- it was obvious that she wasn’t, going on about his new French bird. Charlie exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “What—” Christ, why did he care? Did he even want to know? But then, the situation wasn’t so dissimilar to his own, was it? And wasn’t this the closest he was going to get to finding out why Kate had come back? “Why are you still— after what he did?”

It was alright, and that was that. Honey swallowed, nodded, and decided they never had to talk about it again. Neither side would need to apologize because they wouldn’t let it get to the point of having anything to apologize about. Something like that; she’d figure it out when her thoughts made a little more sense to her.

Honey yawned, stifling it with the back of her hand, before she took another swig of the brandy, straight from the bottle.

She must have missed how he said s’alright because she wasn’t expecting him to ask her that. She knew what he meant by his question, though she stalled before she said anything. Why was she so hung up on Harlan? There was the answer she had given Grace—or that Grace had helped her arrive at--which pretty much amounted to Honey being in love with him, or whatever. Of course, she’d only realized it months after the fact and she would need another bottle of brandy before she told any of that to Charlie.

“I dunno,” she said, frowning. “I--” she paused. “Was different.” Honey hadn’t chanced into the relationship like she’d done with Will, only after he’d called her his girlfriend and she just happened to not be sleeping with anyone else at the time. There was the undeniable chemistry between her and Harlan, and the inexplicable honesty, and all the other reasons why she hadn’t figured out. Wasn’t not knowing supposed to be the romantic part of it all? Honey had no idea how any of it worked. Again, it was nothing to mention to Charlie.

Besides, Grace had correctly surmised that she was so hung up on Harlan because she had never been dumped before, but Charlie had only just corrected her about that; he had ditched her years ago and she wasn’t still hung up on that. She took a breath before launching into the next explanation: “I think I’m--” starting to get over him, she was going to say, when the door to the bathroom opened suddenly with Mrs Flume looking more ornery than usual. “Mum-- What?” Honey stood up, the phone in one hand, the bottle of brandy in the other, bright spots clouding her vision as the alcohol rushed to her head.

Honey wasn't able to get a word in--still trying to stand up straight--before her mum was telling her off. “Half past one--” she summoned the phone from Honey’s hand with her wand. “Nothing good happening this late,” was directed at Honey before she spoke into the phone: “Who is this?” Honey closed her eyes, hoping Charlie wasn’t dumb enough to answer; she knew full well that her mum wasn’t looking for an answer from her, either, so she kept her mouth shut as she stepped out of the tub. “You better not wake your brother up,” she said, and Honey at least had enough wits left about her to not point out that if anyone was waking Fergie up, it’d be Mrs Flume.

“Alright, Mum.” Honey glanced at the phone before she stepped around her mum, opening and slamming her (and Fergie’s) bedroom door shut before her mother had replaced the phone on the hook.

[[ out ]]

Charlie bit back a bitter retort--he didn’t know what she saw in him either (except he did, he had seen Harlan Bellamy in countless publications and, at least once, from a distance)--in favour of letting her get it all out. They weren’t so different in that way -- they could be honest, if only given the opportunity to do so.

But he was different -- or it was. Whatever she meant by that. Charlie supposed he knew, though, because he’d had something different for a while there too, and he still couldn’t really put into words what had made him act the way he had with Kate -- songs about her notwithstanding.

Honey started to say something else, but what it was, Charlie might never find out; Mum, Honey said, then, nothing— Charlie frowned at mid-air--nothing good happening this late--before blinking, eyes wide when he was addressed through the telephone. He opened his mouth, but managed to put together that now wasn’t the time to affect a feminine tone and pretend to be Janice (as if that would fly). So he said nothing, and listened instead. He heard Mrs Flume tell Honey off like a naughty schoolgirl up past her bedtime and grinned to himself, the seriousness of their conversation from a few moments before forgotten.

The other end of the line went dead and Charlie lowered his phone, staring at the screen--grinning like an idiot--until—

”Think you’ve had enough,” his Mum told him, and it took Charlie a minute to realise she meant booze, not— “Right, yeah,” he nodded, clearing his throat and looking around for a bottle-stopper. ”Why are your trousers undone?” Charlie glanced down, at his open fly. “Er, ate too much,” he answered quickly, shoving his mobile in his pocket and making as if to do his zip up— His mother gave him a knowing look and he stepped around her, beelining straight for the stairs.


[ end ]