after the gold rush [harlan]

london / 1 may 2003

Honey shifted her two coffees -- one with an unholy amount of sugar (for her) and the other black (her peace offering) -- awkwardly, a good grasp on one and the other precariously held between chest and forearm, freeing up her other hand to knock on the door. She didn’t show up unannounced all that often (not lately, anyway; there had been more or less a standing invitation) and the unknown part of it all -- would he let her in or not -- was enough to turn her stomach, if she ignored her lack of sleep or very healthy breakfast of two pain au chocolates being possible causes.

This was unlike her, apologizing. It was the perfect out, really; she’d always been so good at finding those. If it wasn’t work is so busy or you deserve better it was this: an argument that realistically could be resolved but wasn’t worth the time or effort to do so.

She didn’t want the out, though.

It had been a long night. Harlan didn’t stick around to have a chat after she told him to fuck off -- not surprising -- and Honey had been relieved. She would have said something she would regret, more than what she had already said (and regretted now). She had busied herself with work -- creating more to do than really needed to be done but she couldn’t have idle hands -- after he had left and shirked sleep longer than she really should have but it had at least given her opportunity to replay and rethink and realize that she was being stupid.

The whole thing was stupid, really. She’d made it a big deal after claiming it wasn’t one -- lunch with a mate, with Charlie. They were working up to being friendly, if she was being honest (and she often wasn’t) and if she laid it all out -- she imagined trying to explain herself to her brother, who knew more about her and Charlie than she really cared for him to, and could only see his judgemental face getting worse and worse  -- it didn’t seem like the best plan. Not London, not Hogsmeade, a day when both of their significant others were meant to be on a different continent, after months of questionable letters and more than one solid invitation. It’d been leading somewhere, as much as Honey wanted to deny it.

She had decided early that morning to not see Charlie but had waited until a slightly more acceptable time to pop down to London and tell Harlan as much. It wasn’t worth it, lunch; she liked what she had with Harlan, as impossible as it was to admit; there were too many feelings to wade through.

Honey gave it a minute and knocked again. She knew it was early but she also knew Harlan wasn’t much for sleeping in. He was either in and ignoring her or out and-- she didn’t want to think about what else he could be doing to ignore her in a more active fashion. This wasn’t the sort of thing she could leave a note about, right? Something tucked into the sleeve on the paper cup-- she was giving up and setting the coffee down in front of the door as it opened; Honey straightened up and cleared her throat. “I--” She didn’t hand over the coffee right away; she couldn’t tell if she had woken him up but he didn’t look thoroughly pleased to see her and she decided to tread lightly. “Can I come in?”

Sleep had been rough.

It wasn't that he was so used to being next to Honey that he couldn't otherwise— in fact, they were quite accustomed to not actually sleeping together— but he'd allowed himself to think that they might be capable. In fact, he'd come home early for it, to spend time with her. Sex, of course, played its role, a vital one, but more than anything he found he was also in search of another kind of closeness. The worst part of him, though, had taken over, and he left at the first sign of distress.

It seemed that the very things that drew them together also tore them apart.

Dawn peeked over the top of the London cityscape, morning sun crawling from floor to ceiling into his bedroom, naked under walled windows. Had he slept at all?

Harlan groaned, pulling the dark satin sheet over him in an attempt to avoid the inevitable, to block it out. The new day was looming, and there was no turning back. Sitting up, he took a moment to watch the golden hues overtake the misty early morning sky. He had to face it, he supposed.

"Alright, alright, fucks sake," He sidestepped Aslan who circled his legs the moment he stood up, impatiently waiting for his breakfast. Harlan grabbed his wand from the dresser and with a flick of his wrist filled the bowl in the adjacent kitchen. You'd swear that the damn cat hadn't a meal in his life the way that he was acting. Running a hand over his bare abdomen, stretching back,, Harlan made it halfway to grab a pair of joggers when the sound of a knock at the door stopped him.

Who in the hell? He most certainly wasn't expecting anyone— though the thought had crossed his mind the night before that he could have been, if he wanted. He swiftly pulled the sweatpants over him, brushing the thought aside. Aslan looked up expectantly, but Harlan didn't make a move. Whoever it was, this mystery guest, they would soon bugger off, surely.

But then again—

Before he knew it, Harlan was opening the door to a familiar hue of red hair. Honey. This was what he had been hoping for, yet he still couldn't bring himself to be relieved. "Right— sure," His voice was still groggy, but he made no attempt to sugarcoat the reaction otherwise. Holding open the door, he eyed her as she stood from her half-crouched position. He was all too happy to let her lead given she was the one who told him to fuck off in the first place.

“Right,” she repeated, hesitating before moving from her spot on the landing. She stepped around him — this probably wasn’t the time to comment on his state of undress or point out that she was making a conscious effort not to ogle him — and into the apartment, taking another breath before turning to face him. Honey hadn’t planned this out, hadn’t exactly made a habit of apologizing to significant others, but even if she had— she would have forgotten everything anyway. “I—“ She had half expected him to not let her in, save her the trouble.

She backtracked instead. She’d lost track of which coffee was which but she made a gamble and held one out to him anyway, stopping short of calling it an apology coffee.

“I just,” she started again, more sure of herself but stopping and starting all the same. “I’m sorry.” She had been focusing on a photo on the wall — avoiding eye contact — but she brought her gaze back to him as she apologized.

She switched her coffee from hand to hand, stalling — she’d congratulate herself later for maintaining eye contact and personal space — for another second. “I was wrong. That was wrong.” She stopped, swallowed, added: “Of me.” She had let herself blow up at him over nothing (except she knew what he had been implying by mentioning Charlie’s other women) but it wasn’t worth it. He only wanted to be her friend now that his life was falling apart and once he got it back together again — they hadn’t been friends the last time, during his last relationship — she couldn’t see it being sustainable.

“And I’m sorry I told you to fuck off.” She was less sorry about that one — things probably would have ended much worse if he hadn’t left when he had — but she didn’t think it could hurt to say.

It wasn't as satisfying as Harlan imagined— watching Honey falter— but he did so intently as he turned to face her, leaning against the counter. He was stubborn, impossibly so, and that made it hard for him to concede, say that it was okay. "Thanks," He tipped the cup in her direction. He had never been one for coffee, but it was at least a step above tea. Honey, he assumed, just hadn't wanted to turn up empty-handed, with no distraction but herself.

Finally, she met his eye and Harlan held her gaze. He hated to admit it but the question that had kept him up for most of the night was top of mind again— would she have come to that conclusion, that she shouldn't go, if he hadn't come home unannounced? Harlan opened his mouth but swiftly stopped himself to let her finish. It was a rare thing for Honey to be apologetic, and he wanted to hold onto it a bit longer.

Harlan didn't immediately fill the silence after the second apology but he didn't look away from her either. It seemed that they shared an inability to speak their feelings, particularly when they needed to most.

"Honey, it's just—" He let out a breath. Fuck it. "If I hadn't come home early?" The question was going to come out eventually, may as well get it over with early on in the conversation. "Would you have decided that it was a bad idea then?" He was fairly certain he knew the answer. His voice wasn't laced in anger though, he was genuinely curious, perhaps morbidly. It had to have crossed her mind as well.

"This is yours," He pulled a face, nearly spitting out the sickenly sweet coffee as he handed it over to her.

Harlan didn’t reply right away; Honey couldn’t blame him, but it would have been nice to hear something, even if it was him turning it back on her and telling her to fuck off. It was excruciating, the eye contact, the silence, the combination of the two. She’d done a big thing -- an I-can-apologize-like-a-mature-adult thing -- for him, for them. She’d thought so, anyway.

She sucked in a breath as he let one out, not keen to find out what he was going to say now that he’d started. (She could tell it wasn’t going to be an immediate forgive-and-forget sort of situation, at least).

If Harlan hadn’t come home early, she’d have gone to lunch; it was pretty simple. She didn’t answer right away, knowing full well that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. What would have happened during lunch -- after? He clarified exactly what he was getting at a second later; she’d been expecting the question, but not his tone, not exactly.

She didn’t think she had called it a bad idea, not expressly, but Harlan wasn’t wrong to call it one now. She and Charlie had history -- both separately and shared -- of poor decision making and the possibility was certainly there for it to happen again. She still wanted to deny it; it was easier with Harlan standing in front of her to claim (at least to herself) that nothing would have happened, but she had made the plans while he was away for while he was still gone and she didn’t think that he would give her any credit for planning to wear her frumpiest jumper (just in case).

“I--” Honey wasn’t able to get much farther than that, blanching as Harlan discovered her coffee mix up. “Merlin, sorry,” she said quickly, taking two steps forward to trade drinks, not taking any steps back once she had done so. “No sugar in that one,” she added, realizing (and not caring) that she was stalling before the rest of the real conversation.

He looked at her and she swallowed, waiting another second before continuing. “If you hadn’t come home early, I--” She stopped, grimaced slightly. “I don’t know.” She held his gaze. “Honestly.” She could elaborate but she didn’t know how honest they were getting here, but it was Harlan she was talking to; if not him, then who? Grace knew bits and pieces but Honey hadn’t sat her down and talked her through why she did everything she did, what ultimately motivated her decisions.

Honey ploughed ahead: “I think I would have. Decided it was a bad idea, I mean.” She was speaking more quietly, as if the truth was better suited for lower volumes. “Maybe not right away, but--” She brought up her free hand to touch lightly on Harlan’s elbow, but reconsidered after another second and let it drop back to her side, deciding that was overdoing it. “I’m trying here.”

The coffee wasn't a huge concern, but Harlan allowed himself the moment to live in the shift as they traded takeaway cups. It was nice, albeit brief, to distract his wandering mind with something so mundane, so seemingly every day for the two of them. It was comforting— to think that everything could just be that simple, to think that at one point it had. He tried to hold onto the feeling but the moment he did, it slipped through his fingers again.

He just couldn't this whole thing go.

Stopping short of actually saying thank you, he nodded in her direction. If a clear head was what he was after, physically being any closer was not going to help. Instead of following suit to bridge their gap any more, Harlan remained still apart from pulling the drink to his mouth. At least it kept his hands busy.

"Right," He said, not unkindly, though not convinced either. If he were being honest, and most of the time he was, she wasn't exactly instilling confidence in him. In them. Not right away, anyway. He let out a dry chuckle though his smile didn't meet his eyes. In her non-answer, there was an answer after all.

"Look— " Harlan half-paused at her hand on his elbow, watching with interest as she pulled it away, both thankful that she had and wishing that she hadn't. If she was trying here, he supposed that he had to as well. But it wasn't all that simple for him. "I won't— can't tell you what you can and cannot do," He began, absently brushing her hip with his fingertips as a means of reassurance. He couldn't, but god damn did he want to.

"Just think about things, okay?" He met her eye, hoping he made himself clear. He didn't want to even say next time. Sometimes it felt like she was on auto-pilot, with no regard for the implication of her actions. He recognized it because he had been that same way before— and he was sure that he would be again.

"I don't enjoy feeling like a stranger in your life, you know," Harlan decided on, aware of how problematic it was. Instead of dwelling on that though, he drew a hand to her neck and draped his thumb over her jaw affectionately. She was trying. "All I ask," He agreed, despite himself. This conversation would have been a lot easier to have if he wasn't so god damned deprived of contact.

She nodded once and paused. His right didn’t exactly instill confidence in her or convince her that he believed she truly didn’t know what would have — versus what could have — happened but— hadn’t they had this same sort of conversation a month ago when all he wanted was for her to believe him? This wasn’t about his fuck ups, though; not now; she didn’t want to admit that she had to convince herself not to bring up anything he may or may not have done to make herself look better. But she was trying.

“I know,” she admitted, not taking her eyes off of his as she felt his hand on her hip. He wasn’t going to tell her what to do — not in this regard, anyway — and she thought she believed him. He hadn’t told her not to see Charlie but he hadn’t exactly been very supportive of it; she hadn’t missed his thinly veiled hints last night, hints toward what they were addressing more directly this morning. His hand was distracting, though, and she nodded as he continued talking, just mostly listening. “I will,” she agreed, not too focused on what sort of things she needed to think about.

“I know,” she said again, quieter. “I’m—“ She paused as Harlan moved his hand, closed her eyes in a prolonged blink before looking back up at him. It was good he had distracted her again; he kept her from claiming she hadn’t been trying to exclude him, when she had clearly planned something for when Harlan had been away, didn’t always mind when they were too busy to see each other every night. But she genuinely had missed him, actually enjoyed talking to him — she could count on one hand the amount of people she could say that about — and then there were all the obvious things she liked about him, everything that had drawn her to him in the first place.

Fuck, she really did need to try not to ruin this.

“I’ll be better.” She said it with assurance, she thought, like she really thought she could be. She hadn’t ever wanted to, though, be better; came close once or twice, maybe, but this felt different. Worth it. “I’m sorry,” she said one more time, taking a small step forward to close more of the space between them. “Can I—“ she paused, brought her hand up to find its place on his waist, dropping her gaze for a second before returning it to his face. “What can I do? To make it up to you.” She thought that sounded a little less forward than where she was originally headed with that thought, hoped it wasn’t too obvious how eager she was to put this behind them.

This was the way it always seemed to go.

Harlan, in the back of his mind, knew that they were going circles. They had a habit of avoiding the very real things that they needed to talk about with the more physical things taking precedent. Either way, he couldn't stop the train now— not now that it was on the track with his thumb looped over her hip in a way that felt both familiar and new. It had been a while, after all.

Again, he found himself wishing that they could have this conversation once it was out him— the physical—  but if history was an indication, that wouldn't have made a difference.

She was?— for a moment, Harlan paused, taking in the breath that she let out, standing more upright. He knew better than to expect an apology, and in truth, she didn't owe him one, yet, the tightness in his chest was a reminder of the stake he had in this. The stake he had in them. As much as he struggled to admit it, there was more here than something physical. There was more to her.

One of these days one of them was bound to break. They had to, hadn't they?

Finally, she spoke again, and Harlan let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Oh yeah?" He tilted his head as she took a step closer, and he forgot again all of the things he'd only just been thinking. Honey had that way about her. Reaching a hand to her temple, he pulled his hand through the tufts of red hair (more roughly than intended), before landing to rest on the nape of her neck.

"Have you got something in mind?" Harlan grinned, despite himself, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Yeah.” She nodded slightly to emphasize her point: she’d be better. She’d try to, anyway. Harlan reached for her and Honey dropped the hand holding her coffee — it was only getting in the way now — to her side. She smirked, softy at first; this was more in her wheelhouse, anyway.

She should have wanted to talk more, to save this for later once they had properly worked everything out, after she had apologized a couple more times, made it very clear she was committed to this, here, but— Honey supposed there were other ways to prove that. “I do,” she said with a nod, sliding the hand on his waist down a little and slightly farther back, hooking her thumb under his waistband. This was easier, better than talking.

Honey stretched up to kiss him, stopping just short of making contact; she hesitated for a second, almost wanting to give him a chance to change his mind and keep them talking, but they had the whole day ahead of them for that. She pressed her lips to his and pulled him closer to her with the hand on his waist, her fingertips applying not-so-subtle pressure.

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