one for the road. [tag; charlie]

“Woozy,” he repeated, tightening his hold around her gently and looking more concerned than he could recall ever being about her.

Perdita got something of a second wind and Charlie realised what he’d said and backtracked quickly; “Not-- like that,” he said, acting every inch the prude he wasn’t. In any other circumstances he’d be more than willing to slip back into their old arrangement, but if his separation had done one thing it had made him realise how many bad habits he needed to kick. “Tuck you in,” he explained, then; “not a euphemism.” Christ. It would almost be easier to just give in, but that wasn’t why he’d come here.

He wasn’t confident that what he was saying was registering, but she at least wasn’t trying to convince him to let her have more wine. He nodded, Perdy attempted to be funny, or sexy, or dramatic, he wasn’t sure, but only succeeded in proving how incapable she was of getting herself upstairs alone. Unfortunately, Charlie didn’t have the time nor the patience to guide her matronly up the staircase holding her hand. “Yeah, I know,” he agreed distractedly, figuring out the best way to get this over and done with efficiently.

Without any warning -- no opportunity to protest -- he crouched and pressed his shoulder to her hips, picking her up in a fireman’s lift because he wasn’t bloody well going to carry her over the threshold. He wasn’t sure if it was genuinely the first thing for her to grab onto or if it was a calculated attack, but Perdy’s long fingers dug into the flesh of his backside as he rose to his full height again. “Oi,” he called over his shoulder -- and her backside, right at eye-level -- at her. The temptation was there to return the favour, but that would only encourage her and she was far too drunk to know what she really wanted from him.

As he climbed the stairs, his arms wrapped around her thighs to hold her securely, he could feel her hands roaming across his skin -- subtly, she probably thought, but it was anything but. “Why do you need three fucking floors?” he complained as he reached the first landing, striding to the next set of stairs. It was a miracle her dog hadn’t come bounding after him yet, and Charlie chose to believe that the dalmatian must be locked outside in the rain -- what a shame.

Not as unfit as he once was, but clearly with room to improve, Charlie reached the top floor and walked straight to her bedroom, trying not to overthink how familiar the path was despite how long it had been. He nudged the door all the way open with his foot and made his way to the bed, setting her down on it with zero finesse.

“You got glasses up here?” he asked, immediately going to the ensuite to look. There was one in which her toothbrush was standing, so he plucked it out, gave the glass a quick rinse and then filled it with water from the tap. About to head back into the room he spotted the bin and picked that up too.

“Here, drink,” he told her, handing the glass to her and putting the bin next to the bed -- just in case.

With a wiggle of her eyebrows, Perdita smirked. "Sure," she replied, nodding along insincerely and absolutely thrilled he was practically cringing in her presence. "Tuck me in," she repeated, her hands on her waist as she cocked her left hip in a vain attempt to give her baggy jumper some shape. "I don't believe you~" Perdy ploughed on in a sing-song voice. Charlie Baker had the willpower of a rabbit on heat and he was saying no to her? She flip-flopped from happy to absolutely devastated.

"Charlie!"

Perdita's squawk echoed around the otherwise silent house as she let out a grunt when she was hoisted. "Put me down!" She demanded as she tried to flail but only hurt herself more when her hipbone smacked against his sternum. Rudely, she pinched him with more force than necessary as she was carted upstairs. "Stop," she moaned as she closed her eyes, all the blood (and wine) rushing to her head as her cheeks flushed and her stomach turned. Even the incessant poking of his lower back wasn't working.

It was wildly unfair. She had him, half naked in her home, and she couldn't even see the best part of him - his back. Her fingers were cool to the touch as she pressed them against his lower back and she frowned in confusion. He must have been working out. They felt firmer than the last time she'd touched them or maybe she'd just forgotten how he felt.

"I needed my own wing," she snapped back at Charlie as he complained about the stairs as though that was something everyone had. Perdita felt like a ragdoll as she was bounced up the stairs, watching the pattern on the carpet beneath Charlie's feet until she began to turn cross-eyed. "Just dump me in the guest bedroom," she moaned as she resigned herself to her fate. She went limp, making Charlie's endeavour that much more difficult. "Your arse looks great in these," she added unhelpfully as she twanged at the waistband of his boxers. "Are these new?"

All of the twists and turns left her completely disoriented and she realised where she was too late to stop herself. Charlie dropped her and she bounced halfway down her bed, causing her to grip onto the sides of the mattress with a scowl. "Ow," she complained, as though Charlie could have released her any differently from her previous position. "Who said romance was dead?" She muttered, forcing herself up on to her elbows with a struggle. Glasses? "Flutes or coupes?" Perdita answered, leaning forward curiously to peer around the bathroom door.

Scratching her head, Perdita heard the tap run as she looked around her room as though seeing it with fresh eyes. Had it always been…teal? She frowned as the sudden urge to decorate invaded her mind. She loved jewel tones, she looked great in them, but what about a little bit of powder blue instead?

"Ooh, wine?" She asked as her bathroom tumbler swept into view and she plucked it out of Charlie's hand and swallowed. "Eugh," she complained as she screwed her pretty face up in disgust at the taste of water. "No thank you," she offered politely as she attempted to hand the cup back to him with a smile. Her bathroom bin was next to her and she rolled her eyes. "Ladies do not chunder," she told Charlie with a nod of her head as she flopped backwards onto her sumptuous pillows once more as a sudden panicking thought struck her. "You're leaving?" It came out in a voice that was very unlike her own, all cracked and shrill and uncharacteristically pleading.

“A Psychiatric Wing,” he mumbled under his breath, shifting his hold on her. Charlie ignored her suggestion to put her in the guest room, mainly because he didn’t know which room that was – unless they were all guest rooms? – and he didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with her hitched over his shoulder.

In normal circumstances he would have appreciated the compliment on his backside, but as it was it was only serving to make him feel weirder about all of this – he was trying to behave, and he was acutely aware of her hands on his bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Charlie grunted softly through his lips when she snapped the elastic, gripping her thighs tighter in an attempt to shut her up. “Yeah, got them for Christmas,” he deadpanned, focusing on where his feet were placing on the carpeted stairs; they were new, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t always worn this style. He also hadn’t seen her for God knew how long, so he could forgive her if she was now used to whatever it was rich purebloods wore under their robes. (Bloomers?)

“It’s dead to me,” he commented honestly on his way back from the bathroom. Wine? Charlie’s dark eyes lowered to the glass of water in his hand. “Who do you think I am? Jesus Christ?” He realised after he’d said it that it probably wouldn’t register – for two reasons: she was a pureblooded witch, and she was hammered – he watched her drink; one mouthful before she decided tap water was beneath her or whatever the problem was. Ladies do not chunder. He sighed. “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging before he turned and made for the door – he was getting out of here before she sobered up enough to be a real threat—

You’re leaving?

Charlie paused, hand outstretched. He lowered it back to his side and spun slowly to face her, his shoulders turning before the rest of his body followed. “I’m not staying for a sleepover, am I?” he asked, an unkind, exasperated edge creeping into his tone. He met her gaze and softened immediately under her big blue stare. “Perdy, we’re…” He wet his lips. “We’re not friends. Not really,” he said gently. “If you weren’t plastered you’d have told me to fuck off the minute you opened the door.”

"Who?" Perdita asked, frowning in confusion. "I hear his name a lot," she continued as he sipped at her water and pulled another face when she remembered what it was. "He's famous, right?" This Jesus fellow. He seemed to be blamed a lot of the time - he was usually mentioned in frustration, shock, surprise and pain. Oh, and sex. "He's some sort of magician?" She drank, realising a bit too late now that there was a whole load of liquid sloshing around in her empty stomach.

Much like Charlie's mate turning water into wine, his expression also changed.

Gone was the warmness and tentative camaraderie they'd shared downstairs and her full lips down turned into a frown. "That's not what I said," Perdita replied, watching him with reproachful eyes. They had a rule - no sleepovers. No one stayed the night. She didn't want him to stay the night but Charlie's tone made her flinch as though she'd been slapped. Like flicking off a light switch, he changed.

She knew that part of him existed, she just wasn't that familiar with it. In her fuzzy state, she couldn't decide if he was being purposefully hurtful or not. She held her tongue. He was going through a lot. Whatever he had going on, he shouldn't have come to see her so soon. She must have said the wrong thing.

An uncomfortable silence hung between them and Perdy filled it with a brief smile. "This is a pretty shitty apology," she added, bringing him back around to what he'd said was the real reason he'd come all this way in the rain. It was impossible not to feel upset. Oh sure, she was a terrible person but even she had feelings, albeit wonky ones.

"I can still tell you to fuck off if you want," Perdita joked, her voice soft above the sound of the rain lashing hard against the windows. She shifted and sat cross-legged, looking oddly small and young in the middle of the bed that was too large for her anyway. She had the sudden urge to seek out Mr. Woofington, her childhood stuffed toy shaped like a dog, and give him a squeeze. Screw therapy, the toy had helped her through a lot of things.

Looking down, she heaved a sigh. "I know." Charlie was right. Friendship was built on common interests, trust and loyalty, none of which they felt for each other. It really didn't matter that he'd said that they were friends not so long ago. "Can I ask you why you don't want to be my friend, though?" She watched him closely as he lingeried by the door, expecting him to say it was her accent or her friends or her habit of eating toast with half raspberry, half strawberry jam (because neither were sweet enough and eating the flavours by themselves were too sweet). It had been a deal breaker with a lot of potential boyfriends in the past.

He seemed to be struggling and she couldn't work out why. Clearing her throat delicately, she shifted backwards and patted the end of the bed in an invitation for him to sit.  "Sit down," Perdita began, tossing him a pillow for support. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her eyes were attentive as she watched him decide whether to stay or leave. They weren't anything, of course, but he seemed to be having an issue with something that involved her.  "I don't mean about your divorce," she continued, despite that still being an important subject to breach. "I mean about you and I." She'd rather shit in her hands and clap than use the word us.

Charlie immediately felt guilty as Perdy’s face fell, but he kept his expression hard in the vain hope it would bolster his resolve. He couldn’t stay. He had never stayed over (past a quick kip, if he was really knackered, but he was always gone before it got anywhere close to daylight), he wasn’t going to start now just because he was single. Divorced, whatever.

She spoke again and reminded him that he’d come here to apologise. Charlie softened, his mouth curling up at one corner wryly. “I never claimed to be good at them,” he replied, his tone a little lighter than a moment ago – if quiet stll. He sighed softly and ran a hand through his hair – almost dry now. “I’m sorry,” he offered, not meeting her eyes until after he’d said it. “I didn’t mean it like…” he trailed off, unsure where he had been heading with that statement.

He had thought they were at their limit of awkwardness, and then she asked him why he didn’t want to be friends. Charlie gazed at her, flummoxed. It wasn’t that he didn’t specifically want to be her friend, just that they didn’t have anything in common outside of sex. They had touched on this minutes ago, downstairs in her plush living room, before he’d climbed three floors of her grand townhouse to get her to her bedroom. It occurred to him now, as he was trying to tell himself they were too different to be friends, that up until a couple of weeks ago he had lived in a house like this. Admittedly, it didn’t have the same history in it as this place – Kate had been in charge of décor and inflected her own more modern, American styling – and he hadn’t been born to privilege like Perdita, but he had acquired it now, hadn’t he? To some degree?

“It’s not—” He stopped and wet his lips. “What would we do?” he said instead, skirting around a proper answer because he didn’t have one. “Go for tea at The Ritz?” he smiled sadly. “They wouldn’t bloody let me in,” he said, gesturing down at his current state of dress, hoping to cheer her up a bit, somehow. “Anyway, it’s—” not you, it’s me. He managed to catch himself before he let that one slip – the last thing he needed was this sounding like another breakup.

Do you want to talk about it?

Charlie caught the pillow thrown at him and stared at her. He hesitated. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about— let alone Perdy— but—

Oh. And then another mental oh. “You and I?” he repeated dumbly. His curiosity peaked, morbidly. She continued to gaze at him and he sort of jolted awkwardly from his spot near the door, striding to sit on the edge of the bed, an arm’s length away from her. “What—” He cleared his throat, focused on his hands in his lap, pillow still in his arms acting like some sort of shield. “What about us?”

"No shit," came the cheery response because he really was bad at apologies. Charlie apologised again and rather than replying, Perdita simply gave a brief nod. He sounded sincere enough but she didn't know where she stood with him, despite him being crystal clear about where he stood, every time they met. She'd wanted him to say sorry. She thought it might "fix" things inside her head but now she'd received a couple of them, it was oddly...formal for them. Stuffy and uncomfortable. Maybe she'd achieved that loathsome American word; closure.

Anxious energy was coming off Charlie in waves as he struggled, her not moving a muscle to help and just watching him. It was a fairly innocuous question, or so she assumed. They couldn't be friends and they couldn't date - so where did that leave them? Acquaintances? Perdita blanched at the thought. They got along pretty well and Charlie had become somewhat of a staple in her life and when faced with the chance that he might no longer be in it, she felt her bereft in his absence.

He smiled and she returned it. "It's overpriced anyway," she conceded. "I much prefer the rooftop bar of The Savoy." The words slipped out before she could think too much about it as she mentioned the night they'd first met. She flicked her eyes up to his, hoping he wouldn't think she was emotionally invested in the memory. The details were a bit fuzzy - they'd flirted, they'd drank, she was wearing a scandalous dress and she remember being charmed by his no-frills personality. But that was a lie, though, because she remembered everything about that night.

Charlie joked about his state of undress and she rewarded him with a brief snort of laughter. She rubbed at her eye absently, picking off an eyelash from her cheek and held it on her index finger, wondering if she should indulge in the magical childhood action of making a wish on it.


"Point taken." Her tone wasn't harsh and he was right because what would they do? She didn't like the same music he did and she couldn't imagine him enjoying high tea. She'd hate his friends and he would hate hers. He liked the city and she liked the beach. With these differences laid out in front of her, they didn't seem so big but the space between them was positively cavernous because they seemed important. Charlie stopped mid-sentence and Perdita waved her hand through the air casually. "I get it," she agreed. "You needn't tell me that again."

The mattress dipped beneath his weight and she hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath until he sat down. Perdita nodded. It was easier that he was looking at her hands and not her face because she was filled with an inner strength that she was frightened might desert her. "I just need to figure out if this is all in my head or not," the tall witch began as she crossed her legs. "Whenever we get close," she ploughed on, speaking quickly as though trying to get it all out. "Like properly close, like about to touch or something," she blabbered.

"Like in that Ministry cell," she continued as she watched Charlie's face closely. "You look at me." That sounded stupid. "Not in a normal way." That sounded even stupider.  Here, she let out a frustrated sigh because she was struggling to find the right words. "You keep censoring yourself and I can't figure out if you're trying to protect yourself or protect me." She chewed on her lower lip, the wine fuelling her honesty in a way she wouldn't be able to cope with usually. "You go to say something and then you stop." Her bright blue eyes gaze was clear as she stared at him, realising she was causing him pain and putting him on the spot. "You never tell me what you want to say. Why is that?"

It happened in the past and but it had become more frequent towards the end of their deal. She hadn't thought about it because she hadn't seen him so long but that night at that bloody stupid party, it invaded her dreams. It probably was all in her head and she was expecting him to tell her so. If that was the case, then she imagined she'd just get on with it. Perdy gave a quick sigh before she  blinked at him placidly and she sketched a smile. "Or you can tell me I've got the wrong end of the stick and we leave it at that."

The Savoy. Charlie’s eyes met Perdita’s and he couldn’t tell if she really did just prefer it, or if she was trying to make some sort of point about them. He remembered meeting her; she’d been performing at some club, he’d cornered her afterwards -- even been polite enough to go for a drink or two, at The Savoy. He’d thought the posh business was all a part of the act until she’d brought him back here to her ancestral townhouse.

He had managed to get a chuckle out of her, at least. “I’m not trying to be a prick, Perd.” And he wasn’t. One might say it was just his natural state of being, and he’d be inclined to agree at this point in time, but he was still working out his divorce -- he didn’t need to bring his ex-mistress into the fold as well.

Charlie kept his eyes on his hands, picking at his fingernails as she talked, trying not to react to anything she was saying until she was finished. He wasn’t sure who he was protecting either, but most likely it was himself, wasn’t it? Perdita got her question out finally and Charlie lifted his head to look at her, to acknowledge that he had heard. He didn’t answer straight away because he didn’t want to do exactly what she’d just said he always did -- start and stop, change topic, not finish -- and because he didn’t have an answer for her.

It would be easy to let her think this meant more than it did. He was about to be officially single again, it would be easy to have something on tap -- especially as Alannah was holding out and Honey had apparently acquired some morals. The risk, though, was that it sounded an awful lot like Perdita had acquired something else, and Charlie was trying this be a better person thing. He liked Perdita, they clicked on some level, but whether he was still too hung up on Kate or it was just too soon to be considering anything else, he didn’t want this and he couldn’t bring himself to lead her on for his own benefit.

“I don’t know,” he replied, as honestly as he could. “I don’t always--” He rolled his lips and then wet them. He was doing it again. He focused down on his lap, hoping it might make it easier than it was looking in her big blue eyes. “I know I like, write songs for a living and shit but,” he cleared his throat, “talking about… anything--” he frowned softly, “anything serious or--” feelings “--  I’m not good at it.”

He was answering one part of her question and avoiding the other, because that suited him and because she hadn’t actually asked him what he wanted to say. “I operate better when I can just...” he trailed off, smirking half-heartedly at her.

"You're awfully good at it," Perdita was quick to reply with a smile that showed she was tired but also happy to humour him. Try as he might to not be a prick, it just sort of happened. Charlie probably wasn't vindictive, he was more than likely too carefree to see what he had left in his wake. Or he just didn't care. Either way, it was very rockstar of him.

As her speech hung in the air, she shifted. She kept her distance but pulled her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee as she wrapped her arms around them to keep herself in a little, comfortable ball. This was hard for him and she didn't really know why. She couldn't have been the only woman in the world who had tried to have "The Talk" or a version of it with Charlie Baker.

As he faltered, she let herself smile. He looked so vulnerable when he panicked with his soft hair and his lack of trousers, it was difficult not to feel a bit sorry for him but therein lay the problem - everyone else did the same. She nodded in understanding despite not really understanding anything he was trying to tell her.

"You're real bad at it," Perdita offered unhelpfully, nodding along in his assessment of himself. It was just so bizarre. She didn't really listen to Charlie's music, it wasn't her cup of tea, but his lyrics had been lauded by the press. There was a reason why his band had a legion of fans and it wasn't all to do with the shape of his arse in a pair of well fitting trews. "You can write another song about me if you want," she added in jest with a slow smile. If it meant that she got any sort of clarity from this, she'd take it.

"But we weren't serious," Perdita said as she filled in the silence between them. "I can understand you having a bit of trouble if I meant anything but like --" trailing off, she pulled a face, halfway between a blase expression and a confused one. So, he wasn't good at talking about feelings like the rest of the men in the entire Greater London area. Breaking her gaze, her eyes slid to rest on the softly lit lamp instead. "That's a cop out," she said quickly. "True or otherwise, it's a shithouse excuse and you know it."

It was the traditional it's not you, it's me but in Charlie's case, that was the truth. While he hadn't broken her heart, he'd severely pissed her off and caused her a lot of annoyance. Maybe he didn't know that he had been keeping her in limbo. All he had to say was jump and she would have asked him how high. She really wanted to believe that he was simply oblivious and not malicious in his intent.

He smiled and she smiled back. "Booty call?" Perdita offered pleasantly, flicking her eyes back to his again. He was the modern day Marie Antoinette, eating all that cake. "It's okay," she replied softly after a minute or two. "It's no big deal. I know you're going through stuff and this isn't a good time." She didn't think there would ever be a good time. She heaved a heavy sigh as she scooted forward a little and extended her hand out to him. "Handshake?" At least they could end on okay terms.

He laughed lightly, then nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He sighed and pushed his hair back from his forehead. God, he really was rubbish at talking about anything that required a degree of seriousness or sensitivity. That was one place where Kate came in, teasing things out of him with careful questioning -- and yet even she would push him too far, too fast, and he’d clam up or snap at her.

Charlie blinked at Perdita. “I…” he stammered again, unsure how to break the news that he’d only ever really written one song ‘about’ her, and it hadn’t exactly been a ballad (more of a horny lament). “Yeah,” he said instead. He turned away and looked around her room -- had never sat in here and had time to take it in before.

He was quickly regretting not having a couple of drinks before coming over though; Perdita was clearly out of her tree. “I didn’t say we were serious,” he said, a little firmly, before meeting her gaze and softening under it. “I just meant,” he wet his lips, “I meant I don’t want...” a relationship, or anything that resembled one. Her didn’t want this, he didn’t want any of it.

His attention had drifted to a rug on the floor, but he quickly lifted his head to look at her again. That wasn’t exactly what he’d meant either, but he supposed it wasn’t far off base. He averted his gaze instead of confirming or denying. “I didn’t come over here for that,” he said quietly. His state of undress didn’t exactly support his defence, but if he’d wanted to shag her he’d be doing so by now.

”Handshake?”

Charlie let out a breathy exhale -- not quite enough to classify as a chuckle or a laugh -- and grinned lopsidedly at her. “Sure,” he shrugged, taking Perdita’s hand in his. He didn’t exactly shake her hand, just gripped it with a soft squeeze before letting go and taking that as his cue to leave. He got to his feet and pulled gently at the right leg of his boxers. “I, erm—” He stepped backwards toward the door. “I’ll see you,” he mumbled as he took the doorknob in his hand. “Have some water,” he smirked, before slipping out of the room and down the stairs to recover his clothes and apparate home.


END

Perdita carried on smiling but not unkindly. Charlie wasn't saying a lot but she was fairly certain she could read between the lines. For all of his stumbling through the conversation, one thing was clear - he just didn't want her. If she was going to be honest, she wasn't really sure what she wanted, either. Relationship "best bits", maybe; the intimacy, the dinners, the sex but none of the commitment, feelings, arguments or hard work.

Despite not saying much, he'd always been truthful and she did believe him when he insisted he hadn't come here to hook up. She hadn't meant to check him out but he was right there. Her big blue eyes gave him a once over as she let out a wistful sigh.

Tiredness washed over her like a wave and her mouth was dry from all of the wine. Charlie's hand was warm as he took hers and squeezed, letting her watch him closely for a second. Perdy ran her thumb across the back of his knuckles very briefly before they let go. Quickly, she nodded as she pulled her knees up to her chest again and rested her chin on top of them. "I'll see you," she echoed, wondering why they never actually used the word "goodbye" but she was too smashed to think about it.

The comment about the water made her snort as he left. "The only water I have is a drop in my whiskey!" Perdita called after Charlie through the gap he'd left in her bedroom door. She held her breath until she heard the door finally close and she exhaled, wondering what had gone on in the past hour. She didn't think her headache was all down to the wine she'd guzzled. She frowned as all the sounds of the room came rushing back in. There was the slow tick of the clock and the lashing rain on the windows outside and she was mildly panicked in case he got all wet again and caught a cold.

Turning her head, she spied the tumbler Charlie had left for her on her bedside table and she reached out to heed his advice and she drank the contents, letting it fall to the floor and roll under her bed as she flopped backwards. "You could have turned out the light," she mumbled to Charlie's ghost as she blew at her hair and shifted on the plump pillows until the shapes her lamp made on the ceiling blurred into one. Perdita rolled over, wrapping the sheets around her like a comfy burrito and she was out for the count almost instantly.



[done!]