mardy bum [honey]

february 2003

He’d woken up in worse places. Robin and Fflur’s sofa wasn’t bad at all, actually; he might’ve fit better if he didn’t have Bert where his feet would normally go, and the newest addition -- Ernie -- curled up behind his head for most of the night. When he did wake, sometime mid-morning, the corgi puppy was cuddled against his chest, Charlie’s arm curled around him protectively. He’d never thought himself a dog person, but maybe he could like other people’s dogs.

Charlie groaned and then coughed, spooking Bert into slinking off the end of the settee, and Ernie moved to hop down after him. “Woah, woah--” Charlie grabbed the puppy quickly before he tumbled over the edge, then set him down on the floor. His mouth twitched up at one end, then promptly shifted into a grimace -- his head was pounding. He’d arrived with a pack of Davidson beers and a bottle of Jamesons, unsure what the current situation was with either Fflur or Robin (felt, to him, like it kept changing), but with the intention to share if they wanted to. Fflur hadn’t been home when he’d turned up, but Robin had graciously hosted Charlie for the evening. He wasn’t drinking though, so Charlie had had to drink it all himself. At some point he’d been tucked in on the sofa, though not before Charlie had apologised (over and over) for the events of last February.

He was still laying on his side from where he’d watched the two dogs trot off into the kitchen. He swallowed, then regretted it. He needed some water, and then breakfast, probably, before heading home. He sat up slowly, using one arm to prop himself up and the other holding his stomach as he exhaled slowly. He’d either finished the whiskey or Fflur had squirreled it away for later, because it wasn’t on the coffee table. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and felt his stomach lurch softly. He scooted forward, grabbing a marker from the table -- thinking nothing of there being a permanent marker in a Hogsmeade cottage -- and an opened envelope, turning it over to write a quick message on the back -- he couldn’t hear any noise so he assumed by this time Fflur might be up at the castle, and regardless if she was or wasn’t, he wasn’t going to knock on their bedroom door.

Charlie caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and, for half a second, thought Fflur might’ve given him another black eye -- but the dark shadow on his face was ‘LOSER’ scrawled across his forehead. In permanent marker. Brilliant. He spent the next few minutes scrubbing his skin raw with a combination of toilet paper, soap and water, finally giving in and using one of their towels because Fuck Fflur.

Head now sore both internally and externally, Charlie found his jacket tucked behind the cushion of an armchair and slipped it on before letting himself out. It was a bitterly cold morning, the wind whipping Charlie’s hair into his eyes on his walk to The Three Broomsticks -- enough that he failed to properly notice the redhead going for the doorhandle at the same time as him. Their hands touched and Charlie pulled his back like he’d been electrocuted. “Honey.”

Honey had stood in front of the stove for a few minutes, just staring at it, before making the executive decision to get a coffee somewhere else. It was mid-morning, she thought -- the sun was up, anyway -- and she nodded as she decided to go out. She was still recovering from Valentine’s Day, more or less, and the week leading up to it, which was graciously sponsored by energy potions and zero sleep. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand as she stepped back to her bedroom, pulling on proper footwear and a wooly sweater, not bothering to change out of her pajamas (pink with smiling sheep on them, thanks Mum) first.

She wrapped a scarf around her neck as she took the stairs slowly; she left the door unlocked behind her, figuring she’d only be gone for a few minutes. The Three Broomsticks was close and she usually didn’t have to order anything more than ‘the usual’ and that was exactly the level of effort she was willing to exert this morning.

Mid-yawn, Honey reached for the door of the pub, stopping -- being stopped -- before she could make any real progress. She dropped her hand and took a step back, blinking quickly as she tried to figure out how she hadn’t seen him; he was hard to miss. She hadn’t thought about this in a while -- what she would say to him when she next saw him -- and besides, she wasn’t supposed to run into him here. She had jurisdiction over Hogsmeade. “Charlie, I--” she paused; her brain was still waking up and had to play catch up. “I’m going in here,” she finished, hoping he would get the hint and go somewhere else. It’d be better for the both of them, for him to leave.

She didn’t bother saying anything else -- they weren’t good at proper goodbyes, anyway -- before she pulled the door open. Charlie, twat of the day, stepped in front of her and into the pub; Honey missed what he said, too dumbfounded that he had actually done that. She stepped in after him, keeping plenty of space between them, doing her best not to get upset that she had to change her plans to order everything for takeaway.

Honey didn’t recognize the waitress working, but she anticipated the question she was about to ask, her eyes darting back and forth between Charlie and Honey. ”Are you eating together?” Honey said, “No,” at the same instant Charlie responded with a, “Yes.” She blinked, trying to wrap her head around what, exactly, was happening. If she thought Charlie was any smarter, she might have thought he had planned this, but given prior experience, she decided that he had just been awake longer and had a better grasp on the situation.

The waitress looked at her again, and Honey changed her answer to, “Yes,” figuring that if Charlie wasn’t going to let her have Hogsmeade, she wasn’t going to let him enjoy himself so much. “After you.” She pointed at the waitress walking away, leading them to their table.

She looked like shit. After the initial shock of seeing her wore off (in Hogsmeade, who would have thought?) Charlie looked down at Honey’s outfit of choice, smirking to himself at the childlike design: sheep. He bit back a comment and brought his gaze back up to her face.

Charlie blinked. It had been a year – almost to the day but not quite – since he’d last seen Honey; he was amazed, really, that they’d managed to go that long without having bumped into one another before now. It wasn’t like she ever left her Scottish cocoon, but he’d visited Fflur more than a handful of times since their own reunion.

He caught back up to what she’d said. I’m going in here. Oh, no – not that easy. Honey pulled the door open and Charlie shrugged, almost shoving past her in his eagerness to be first over the threshold – as if being first entitled him to any sort of territory should it come to a dispute; “So am I.”

Charlie was so busy congratulating himself on winning (even small wins were worth celebrating) that he didn’t hear the waitress correctly. “Yes,” he answered confidently, before realising she’d asked if he and Honey would be eating together. His face fell – shit, now it sounded like he wanted to sit with her. He looked down at Honey, who had now pulled up beside him. Yes, she corrected herself, and he returned his focus to the young woman in front of them.

He scowled softly at Honey before following the waitress, a flash of worry crossing his sharp features the minute neither woman could see his face. What were the chances of someone recognising him? Of not recognising Honey?

They reached ‘their’ table and Charlie took the side facing the door – with his back to the bar, in case Rosmerta was in (he hadn’t forgotten that dinner with Fflur right after the Prophet article). He slipped into a seat and crossed his arms defensively on the table, then uncrossed them and sat back when he realised how Honey might read into his body language. Both of them sat in silence until the waitress left them. And then for another minute after that.

“You still not cooking your own breakfast?”

Almost immediately, he looked like he was regretting his decision. She wasn’t even close to being offended; rather, she was pleased. He looked at her and Honey shrugged, as close to you did this to yourself as she was going to get. She followed him to the table, walking past him to the far side of the table before taking a seat; she unwrapped her scarf and held it in her lap, convenient in case she needed to make a quick exit.

She was breathing much more heavily than she meant, and she did what she could -- thoughts of puppies and rainbows, or something -- to calm herself down. Seeing how uncomfortable Charlie was might have helped, too.

Charlie crossed and uncrossed his arms and Honey caught herself staring at his hand -- his left hand. She grimaced as she brought her gaze back up to his face, trying to flatten out her expression after a second. It wasn’t that she cared that he was married but that he was married so soon after whatever that was the last time she saw him. That’s what she was telling herself, anyway.

“No,” she answered simply, glancing away then quickly back to him. She didn’t appreciate him knowing anything about her, even if this detail was pretty obvious to anyone who knew her; she didn’t like that it was Charlie knowing. She glanced out the window -- it had started snowing -- trying to figure out what shops were open this early. Most didn’t open until after lunch, and she didn’t think that even Charlie would be bar hopping this early in the day. She’d only known him to be in Hogsmeade this time of day if he had woken up here.

She looked back to him, silent for another few seconds before she spoke up: “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

They looked quite the pair; he in his clothes from yesterday (he wasn’t completely sure it was obvious, but he felt it might be) and she in her sleepwear. He knew how this would appear to an outsider, and settled for silently hoping that nobody with connections at the Prophet or Witch Weekly spotted them. 

Charlie caught Honey’s expression, then followed her gaze down to his hands – oh. He knew she knew, because even if she had lived under a rock (and he knew she did not) her brother had been to his wedding. He wanted to say something but he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to rub it in or to brush it off, so he settled for neither – for now.

He chewed on his lip softly, delaying his response. She was being so talkative it was difficult for him to get a word in. He thought back – a minute, maybe, tops – to the wayward glance at his wedding band, and smirked, resettling on the option to rub it in, just a little. “Not got anyone to cook it for you yet?” Charlie wasn’t stupid; he knew that Honey wouldn’t be jealous – not of him (or Kate, whichever way around it was) and not of being married in general. If anything, she probably had something to brag about; she was (he assumed) still single.

Charlie frowned. He couldn’t decipher whether she was mad or just bored, and he knew which option he preferred. “Oh, been planning this for months, you’re a hard person to find.” He rolled his eyes, nodded his head in the direction of Honeydukes, across the street. “You’re not the only person I know that lives here, you know.”

Honey raised her eyebrows at his jab, shrugging after another second. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to do; was she supposed to be jealous? She wasn’t searching for domestic bliss -- and Charlie should be well aware of that fact -- and she would be surprised if he had found it for himself. Then again, Harlan did cook, and it hadn’t spooked her at all (after the first couple times, maybe).

But instead of getting into a ‘my life is going better than yours’ sort of debate -- she knew she’d win, anyway -- she shrugged again. “And you came to the Three Broomsticks to avoid your home cooked meal?” She remembered the chocolates he had wanted for his girlfriend once, mango and chili; it was a horrible flavor combination (and not because of anything Honey did) so she let herself assume that pallette extended to the rest of his wife’s cooking.

“Oh, I’m sure.” She matched his eye roll with one of her own. She wasn’t going to point out that he had found her place too many times already and it had never given him trouble before; she’d probably never live down the last time she had shown up at his door.

Her eyebrows shot up again. Fflur Blevins, she assumed. Charlie’s old friend -- and girlfriend, she was convinced, with a timeline overlapping too much with her own with Charlie -- from Paris, now flying professor and absolute bore who never bought any candy. Honey crossed her arms and rested them on the table, leaning in a little bit but keeping her volume at the same level. “Does your wife know about your sleepover?” It felt strange mentioning his wife, though that was mostly because she was asking it of Charlie. It was an important question, anyway.

The waitress was back before Charlie could answer, though his expression was enough to make her smile as she ordered her breakfast: coffee, scrambled eggs, toast. She didn’t care about the answer as much as she did his discomfort.

Charlie glared at Honey. He didn’t need to be reminded that he was avoiding his wife – though he’d argue that he wasn’t avoiding her at all. Wasn’t he allowed to have friends outside of his marriage? (Sometimes he felt like he wasn’t, but he wasn’t telling Honey that). “I was staying over,” he explained, without really explaining. “Not avoiding anything, not that that’s any of your business,” he added agitatedly, unable to stop himself.

Charlie chewed on the inside of his cheek, hunching over slightly on his side of the table.  He flicked his gaze up to meet Honey’s, scowling at the question. “Ye—” he started, voice raised slightly in indignation.

The waitress had returned and he closed his mouth sharply, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest after gesturing for her to take Honey’s order first. He ordered coffee and a full breakfast. While he waited for the young woman to be fully out of earshot he busied himself with shirking himself out of his jacket, the warmth of the pub finally getting to him in his hungover state.

He rubbed at his forehead once more, just to be sure there was no trace of the black marker (though he was sure Honey wouldn’t have been able to refrain from mentioning it for this long if there had been). “That I came up to see Robin, yeah,” he said, picking back up from where they’d been interrupted, in a much calmer voice than he had initially adopted; he was either getting soft in his old age (ha) or the hangover was simply causing him to want to use more muted tones.

Part of him, however, was amazed that Honey still had a thing about Fflur. He assumed that had been her insinuation, anyway – had been in the past. If he thought the fact that he was now married – to neither of them – would resolve that bad blood he’d obviously been wrong. “Why do you care anyway? Run out of Quidditch players to fuck?” That was a low blow, even for him. He regretted saying it the minute it left his lips; he’d like to pretend he’d said it in jest, but that article – when it had come out – had made him irrationally jealous. He hadn’t even been with her, had just got back from his honeymoon with his wife, but it had still brought up old feelings. She obviously wasn’t the only one who could hold onto a grudge.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean…” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back. He kept his voice down, "That Skeeter's a bitch."

Honey leaned back and glanced away as Charlie shrugged off his jacket, not keen to watch him undress in any fashion. She sighed once or twice, rolling her eyes when he spoke again. “Robin, yeah.” She looked at Charlie again, shrugging one shoulder. “Sleepovers with Robin are fun,” she conceded, even though her last had been years and years ago and not particularly memorable -- but also not particularly terrible, minus the little stroke he had in the shop. Still, the ‘too drunk to apparate’ excuse didn’t seem like it should carry over into his marriage. Then again, she didn’t much care how Charlie chose to operate; she wasn’t married to him and had no plans to be; he wasn’t her problem.

She was ready to move on to more stilted silence; she was going to let things lie and she was convinced she really was going to-- Honey laughed, short and sharp. “Fuck you, Charlie.” It was the best she could do so early in the morning before she was properly awake, but she figured it got her point across. She shouldn’t have to defend herself -- not to anyone but certainly not to Charlie -- about how many quidditch players she wanted to sleep with, especially if the current number was at one (and the same one, at that).

The worst part was that she might have actually apologized to him after that article if he had decided to reach out then. She had made the poor decisions for herself and would have felt some sort of misplaced responsibility for any he was dealt because of their shared past. But that was then -- when, for all intents and purposes, she had been put in time-out -- and this was now; she had felt bad about things for long enough. Honeydukes was fine, Honey was fine.

She made a move to leave, but she didn’t get much farther than a couple inches out of her chair before Charlie apologized. She paused to consider her options for a second before sitting back down, her gaze back on him. It wasn’t that she was forgiving him or even accepting his apology, but she nodded. He pushed his hair back and -- it was gone as soon as it happened -- he looked sleepy rather than hungover and she felt what she decided to interpret as nostalgia.

“She needs better sources, anyway,” she replied carefully after a few seconds. The article had been mistaken about half the things written about her, though she had yet to decide if that was the worst option, considering the things that had been left out. She could blame that rush of nostalgia a minute earlier or her shiny new relationship with her one quidditch player, but she managed the tiniest smirk. “Doesn’t change you being an arsehole.”

Charlie stared at Honey like she’d just admitted to first degree murder. “What-- you and Robin?” He didn’t know why that bothered him -- did it bother him? (it did) -- or what leg he had to stand on, given that: firstly, he was not sleeping with (or, worse, in a relationship with) Honey; secondly, was ‘happily’ married to someone else; and, thirdly, had slept with Fflur that one time, making everything sort of even (though he assumed neither Rob nor Honey knew about that, so it was irrelevant).

But he couldn’t help wanting to know more, morbidly; how many times? When? Not recently, he hoped, as much for Fflur’s sake as for his own. He wouldn’t put it past Honey, but Robin? Pot, kettle, black -- but Charlie would be marching right back round to Robin’s house if--

Before he embarrassed himself by asking for a month and year, Charlie realised there was no way it could be a recent thing -- if Honey was even telling the truth and not just saying it to mess with him. Fflur had just moved in with Robin. There was no way Honey was making late night visits. Beyond that, Charlie (unfairly) told himself it was Robin -- what would Honey see in him?

Just like she had managed to do to him, he’d hit a nerve. He felt surprisingly guilty about giving Honey shit about sleeping around -- especially given that he’d generally benefited from it in the past. His shitty apology seemed to have convinced her to stay, for now at least. “When don’t they need better sources?” he asked, trying to focus Honey’s attention (and negative emotions) anywhere but on him. “They get shit wrong all the time.” Not that he really thought they’d gotten much wrong about Honey, other than her being a cause for his arrest in Paris -- but it wouldn’t help him to say so, so he didn’t.

Honey smirked and Charlie found himself automatically returning the expression. “I’ve never denied it.” Had learnt to embrace it -- seemed to work better for him, if he was keeping a tally. The waitress reappeared with their coffees, then left them again. Charlie glanced down at the steaming mug, then twisted in his seat to look at the bar and see if Madam Rosmerta was lurking -- couldn’t see her, so assumed he was in the clear. He turned back to face Honey with a lopsided smirk. “At least eating with you should be safe from food poisoning, you reckon?”

Honey stopped short of telling Charlie that that one thing he liked so much — whether truthful or not, it didn’t matter — she had learned from Robin; she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking about her like that, not now. She shrugged one shoulder instead, also conveniently not mentioning how many years ago it had been, or that Robin was not the man she thought Charlie should be jealous of— not that she wanted Charlie to be jealous of anyone for her sake, mind, but there were better candidates.

She almost regretted staying — apology or not — considering what he was apologizing for; she had been determined to be mad at him for years and it was silly to think that he could change her mind so quickly or easily. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her gaze narrowed as she considered him for a few seconds. This could almost be misconstrued as them getting along, but then again anything short of hexing him into oblivion probably counted as such.

“Sure they do.” She didn’t think they got a lot wrong about Charlie, anyway, but she wasn’t about to bring up any of his media mentions, good or bad (mostly bad). The smirks had a snowball effect: Honey smirked, Charlie smirked, Honey added a little more to hers. “Suppose you haven’t.” It had never really bothered her; or, she had never felt obligated to stick around when it had bothered her.

Honey cupped her coffee with one hand and started spooning sugar into it with the other, happy to have a few seconds to herself when she couldn’t feel Charlie’s eyes on her. She looked up with eyebrows raised, putting a serious look on. “You think so?” There hadn’t been any full-on support of Honey after the article, but she had noticed Rosmerta giving her extra helpings without charging and other things like that in the months since; maybe (hopefully) Charlie was getting that feeling from the village, too, but in a not so pleasant way.

She stirred her coffee for a few seconds, glancing down as she tapped the spoon against the edge of her mug before discarding it on the saucer — on any other day with any other person she might have taken the time to pop the spoon in her mouth and clean it off — with a small shrug. “Poison’s easier to hide in drinks, anyway.” She took a sip and shrugged again. She didn’t really have anything else to talk about; they didn’t do this — small talk — unless it was some sort of lead in to something much more exciting and she thought she could count the number of genuine conversations they had on one hand.

She couldn’t ask about family — the wife — or about work — more songs about lost love for her, probably — which left her to talk about herself, and there was very little she was willing to share with him. “Fergie’s moved back up here.” She nodded, talking about the one person they both (willingly) had in common. “Into the flat.” She didn’t know how much he kept up with her brother — it was too much if it was at all -- but she knew Charlie wouldn’t believe her when she said: “He just missed me too much.”

Honey didn’t answer him about Robin and Charlie couldn’t decide if that was because she was bluffing or because she was telling the truth — and if it was the latter, was she not telling him out of a place of caring (had it been serious?) or out of a desire to let him wonder and hurt his own feelings (it was working).

“You know half of mine was bollocks too, right?” He was assuming — selfishly — that a lot of Honey’s article had been incorrect or exaggerated. Of course, Honey at least had the defence that her article had not been commissioned — Charlie had actively participated in his interview, so they were his words, even if the Prophet had twisted them to sell more copies.

She smirked back at his smirk at her smirk, and he looked away before it could escalate further. Charlie glanced back at her when she addressed him. He shrugged, as if it didn’t bother him (it did). “I… Yeah, don’t think I’m Ros’s favourite customer.” That was an understatement. He must have been so hungover this morning he’d forgotten that he was taking his chances with ordering his breakfast here — he made a mental note to go to the Thistle next time.

Charlie watched Honey stir her coffee, hypnotised by the motion of her teaspoon. He lifted his own coffee to his lips and drank— then lowered his mug and considered it with suspicion. “Ha ha,” he deadpanned, not confidently. Poison, definitely not. Saliva or some other bodily fluid? Possibly.

They drank their respective coffees in silence for a minute before Honey spoke. He was grateful that she had, even if it wasn’t the most thrilling topic of conversation (sorry Ferg). “Yeah?” He probably should have known that one of his closest friends had left the old smoke, but he’d barely had time to catch up with his inner circle (Sam and Liam) since the holidays, let alone the outer circle. “Is that you warning me off?” he smirked, hoping they could at least joke about when they’d sneaked back to ‘the flat’ the last time she’d been sharing the space with her brother. “‘Course,” he agreed without questioning — later he’d realise adult siblings didn’t often just move back in together, unless there was some reason to require it; Charlie was an only child but he’d heard all his life how lucky he was and how insufferable it was to have a sibling, so why would Fergie be living with his sister again? It didn’t occur to him to ask now, however.

Charlie chewed on his lip for a moment. It didn’t escape him that this was how they’d met — or, started sleeping together at least — several years prior. He did the math quickly: almost five years. And he’d been pretty fucking rude the last time he’d seen her, hadn’t he? After all that time benefitting from the very thing he’d insulted her with. It felt prickish to bring it up, but he thought he’d feel worse sitting here eating with her if he didn’t apologise for calling her a— She hadn’t done anything wrong, anyway — and he felt like they both knew that, so what would it hurt to make it official? He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, staring at her coffee cup as he broke their second (third?) silence. “Look, what I said — in February — I didn’t mean it.” He flicked his eyes up to meet hers.

Honey raised an eyebrow, not entirely surprised that his mind had jumped straight to that after she mentioned not living alone. She had been living with Fergie whenever they first properly met and that hadn’t stopped them from— she sipped her coffee to hide her smirk, maybe buy herself a couple of seconds to replay some of the better moments. It was as much a warning as it was just something to fill the silence. “Today, yes,” she said with a small shrug, catching his eye, lingering for a second too long before looking back to her coffee.

They didn’t have anything else to say about her brother; it was probably better that way; it would be more difficult to turn the conversation into something it shouldn’t be if they weren’t speaking at all.

Charlie spoke and Honey looked at him; he was avoiding her eye and she wanted to stop him before he said anything stupid, before he could give her any reason to stop holding her grudge against him. He looked up and she blinked, wondering if he was talking about when he called her a slut moments after fucking her because she didn’t want to date him or when he accused her of pretending to have morals but she wasn’t about to ask him to clarify. It wasn’t a proper apology, not even close; he was probably just trying to make himself feel better because he thought he made an effort.

“You meant it then,” she said quietly, not averting her gaze, not wanting him to feel better about himself quite so soon. What he said had bothered her enough for other people to take notice; eventually she had convinced herself she had been so offended because it had come from Charlie, who had less morals than she did, rather than because she had felt caught out. “But,” she added, coming as close to accepting his non-apology as she was willing, “Not like you were wrong.” There was no point staying upset, she figured; he was married and she very much liked her boyfriend and she would not be trying to start anything with him — she paused when she remembered that they had only arrived at the topic of morality in the first place because she had suggested he have an affair with her. Oops.

“I did mean it — last time — that it would have been fun to continue,” she conceded, though her feelings had changed very quickly (and she was sure he had no problems with finding his own trouble, if his presence in Hogsmeade on a Wednesday morning was any indication). “Won’t be happening again,” she finished with a small laugh, figuring that was as good an apology as she could manage.

Today. He held her gaze, noticing the way she broke eye contact first and wondering if that meant tomorrow was still open for debate.

Obviously not right now.

Charlie’s face had already been solemn but it fell further. He drew his hands back to the edge of the table, gripping it momentarily before letting them drop to his lap. “I didn’t—” he started quietly, stopping not because she had interrupted him so much as because he wasn’t sure if he had in fact meant it (then) and he thought maybe he might try being more honest. He chewed his lip. “Even if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t have said it,” he compromised. “I’m sorry.”

Charlie focused on his coffee, deciding that the risk of ingesting some foreign substance was better than staring awkwardly at Honey after apologising to her. He was mid-sip when she spoke again and he thanked his foggy, hungover brain for not processing quickly enough to have him spit his mouthful all over her. He swallowed hastily, then stared at her wide-eyed despite his desperation not to only a moment before. Was she— No.  He was still staring. She laughed. He blinked.

His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. He thought about it — probably a little more than a married man ought to — and nodded softly, grin fading. “Yeah, it would have.” The waitress chose this moment to deliver their breakfasts. Charlie sat up straighter and smoothed his hands down his thighs, waiting until their plates were set down and she’d left them alone again. Charlie swallowed, searching her face for some clue as to whether she had said that on his behalf or her own -- and he couldn’t very well ask. “Suppose not,” he settled for in the end, picking up his cutlery. He hesitated. “This feels weird,” he admitted, pausing only long enough to flash her another grin before digging into his meal.

She wasn’t fishing for another apology, and she wasn’t sure what to do with the second (third?) one he offered. Honey watched him for a few seconds, then a few seconds more, waiting for him to take the apology back or really anything that seemed a bit more him. She didn’t like not knowing what to expect and all of this, sitting across from him at the Three Broomsticks included, having a conversation with him at all, was falling into that ever expanding category. The one thing worse than offering an apology of her own in return was not knowing what to say at all, but that was exactly where she landed.

Honey decided the second worst thing was better than the worst, at least. She raised her eyebrows after (sort of) apologizing, anticipating a reaction but not this one, specifically. She shrugged one shoulder like it wasn’t a big deal that she be mentioning affairs at all; this was Charlie, after all; she didn’t think it was out of his vocabulary quite yet. She grinned, nodded, matched Charlie’s reactions now that they weren’t anything to worry about. His agreement wasn’t necessary, but she appreciated it all the same. It would have, then, past tense.

The waitress returned and Honey moved her coffee to the side, flicking her gaze back to Charlie a couple times as plates were set between them. She caught his eye; she couldn’t tell if he was waiting for the rest of his apology or thinking of something new that he should apologize for -- existing, maybe -- and she didn’t enjoy the realization that she didn’t know him well enough to predict things outside of the bedroom (or shower, or-- not important). She didn’t think she should be wanting to change that after being around him for ten minutes.

“Definitely not,” she agreed, mirroring him and picking up her own cutlery, glancing down to her food and back up when he added something else. It was weird, having a meal with him -- especially one in the morning after not spending the night together beforehand -- but she didn’t know if she was quite at the point of wanting to find common ground with him by agreeing. “Doesn’t have to be weird.” She speared a bit of egg on her fork but did nothing else with it-- “People can have breakfast together.” She was aware how it must look, but they weren’t hurting anyone; breakfast was harmless.

She chewed, had some more coffee and a thought. “I’m not really at the point in life to go bragging around that I’ve just spent the morning with Charlie Baker, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She smirked and shrugged before moving onto her toast.

He used his knife to move the grilled tomato to one side of his plate, then started cutting up his bacon and black pudding, forcing them onto the fork together before dipping them in his baked beans. Charlie paused before his forkful made it to his mouth. Doesn’t have to be weird. He smiled, amused, nodding silently in agreement before finally putting food in his mouth. He chewed, still listening to her. He supposed she was right -- people could have breakfast together. That was the excuse he’d use, anyway, if Kate or Fflur or anyone else found out. Not that they needed to find out.

Charlie kept working at his breakfast, Honey spoke again -- almost as if she’d read his mind. He swallowed then grinned. “Were you ever?” he asked, feeling fairly certain that the answer was ‘no’, as much as it hurt his ego to think it. He drank some of his coffee, licked his lips and picked his knife back up, opting for a mouthful of sausage and egg this time. When he’d mostly finished chewing he added, belatedly: “I’m not worried.” Honey was many things, but she wasn’t an intentional homewrecker. Charlie knew (from experience) that she benefited more from being discreet -- something he could probably do with learning.

Sitting and eating in silence was fine, he supposed, but whether it was because it was Honey or for some other reason he felt the need to keep talking rather than let their meal descend into full-scale awkwardness. He scooped some egg and beans onto his fork, keeping the utensil low for a moment. He couldn’t talk about them, didn’t really want to talk about himself, so that left her.

“How--” Christ, even pretending to have a normal conversation felt awkward, “How are things, with you?” He shoved his food into his mouth quickly, gaze back on his plate. Still chewing, he figured out a way to make it less awkward, he thought. He flicked his eyes back up to her. “Ferg walked in on you with anyone yet?”