x marks the spot [honey]

6 april 2003

Charlie took another sip of wine — a malbec from the room service menu; he still hadn’t made an earnest attempt to find somewhere to live, but he’d got the townhouse on the market, so he supposed he ought to start looking now. Not right now, though; it was the early hours of the morning and he knew, really, he should be trying to sleep. Maybe it was because this bed wasn’t his, maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the fact he was getting a divorce less than a year into marriage — whatever it was, he wasn’t sleeping at night, and when he did finally drift off it wasn’t restful.

So: wine.

There was a tapping, scratching noise at the window. Charlie set his glass down on the bedside table and got out of bed as quickly as he could untangle himself from the sheets. He opened the sliding door and let the bird in, snatching the folded piece of paper from its beak and striding back over to the bed — and the lamp — to read it.

that would depend

i’m not drinking xx

He reread over her words, then his lips stretched into a grin. She was replying — at one o’clock (or thereabouts) in the morning — and she was most definitely flirting with him. He reread it again, choosing to read between the lines: she was alone. Charlie chewed on his bottom lip softly. Was it a pity-fuck if she was only responding this way after finding out he was getting divorced? Did he care, even if it was? He glanced back over the rest of their correspondence — or this chapter, anyway; she had the last one, where he’d told her he’d been caught out, and she’d told him she was still attempting to make an honest woman out of herself (he’d believe it when he saw it). He was choosing to forget about that one, anyway, in favour of this much more optimistic exchange.

He started from the top, reading it all from a new, more favourable angle. Maybe she didn’t need his relationship advice because she wasn’t in a relationship anymore? Had it fizzled out already (it can’t have gone with a bang, it would have been in the papers surely)? Was it wrong that that prospect pleased him? He didn’t really mind if he had to be the other man for her, but it would be easier if they were both unattached, like before.

Maths had never been his strong suit, but Charlie attempted to work out how long it would have taken the bird to fly here, what time she would have sent this versus what time it was now. Would she still be up? If she wasn’t, chances were he could wake her up. He dropped the slip of paper to the bed and set about finding some clothes, deciding it was worth a shot.

He hadn’t done laundry in a week, so the cleanest pants he had were the ones he was wearing around the hotel room: sweatpants. He wrestled himself into a plain white t-shirt and grabbed a hoodie, ran his hands through his (clean, fluffy) hair and slipped into a pair of vans. It didn’t occur to him that Honey had probably only ever seen him like this once before, the last time they’d slept together -- more than a year ago.

A few minutes later Charlie was in Hogsmeade’s high street, a few steps away from Honeydukes. Drunkenly, he weaved to the door and paused, hand on the brass. He tested it, and found the door unlocked — as always. He smirked to himself. He entered silently (or, as silently as an inebriated man could) — up until the bell above the door chimed softly. Charlie closed the door behind him with a soft click. It was dark in the shop, but it was lit from outside by streetlamp and moonlight, and inside from a yellow glow coming from the downstairs kitchen — along with the sound of a wireless radio. Charlie’s brow furrowed. On the plus side, it appeared that she was still awake. Convenient.

He came around the counter, passed the stairs and went straight to the back room, pushing the door open slowly and leaning on the frame, wine bottle in his other hand; hanging by his side. He adopted his usual smirk upon seeing her. “Evening.”

Easter was still a couple weeks away but the orders had been coming in for days so Honey was well into her holiday preparations. Nearly every surface was covered in some step of the process of making chocolate eggs; mostly that meant empty molds that still needed to be filled but there were others that were setting and still others that were much closer to being finished. Honey might have been stressed out about it all if it hadn’t been for the gin. One drink at first — that’s how it always started — helped her warm up a little, but it was still cold in the kitchen; putting on another sweater wasn’t an option if she wanted to retain use of her arms. So, another gin.

The third drink was because she liked the first two so much.

It was probably all muscle memory at this point, that she could work and drink and still be pretty impressed with her results. Of course, she might not think the same in the morning but that was a problem for another day; or, rather, it was a problem for later that day considering she had been working past midnight for a few hours now. She bent low over the counter, painting the inside of some future eggs with gold leaf — she hadn’t finalized what sort of nougat or potion or whatever would also be going inside — while holding her breath, somewhat steadying her hand.

She heard the bell — the one over the perpetually unlocked door to the shop — and she straightened up, paintbrush in one hand, gin in the other, trying to remember if Harlan had said anything about dropping by, pleased that she had already started on the gin by the time he had decided to show up. She leaned back down over her work to finish one more chocolate — and to offer a better view when he came in the kitchen — before more or less quitting for the night.

Evening. Honey set her brush and her glass down before straightening up and turning, still half expecting to see her boyfriend — he, at least, had an open invitation for the middle of the night — even though she knew exactly who that voice belonged to. It took her brain an extra second or two to catch up to what — who — she was seeing. “Charlie.” It was nearly a question; she had written to him a couple of times that day (and countless other times in the weeks before) but that was all it was: words. She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t seriously considered seeing him, hadn’t done anything remotely close to inviting him north, and now there he was, standing in her kitchen.

She hated herself for thinking about what she must look like, fuzzy sweater and fuzzier socks, jeans she had wiped her hands on because she had foregone an apron against better judgment, hair up out of her face and probably not doing her any favors; but Charlie looked like that, comfy, clean. She would have done well with a warning to put on a clean shirt (or a lower cut one), she supposed, and it took her another second or two before she realized she could have used a warning for so many other reasons than her appearance; her gaze drifted to the bottle of wine in his hand and moved back up quickly— she couldn’t remember what she had written in her last note but this seemed like the wrong time to ask.

“Charlie,” she said again, thankful that he had chosen to show up when the late night oldies radio hour was on; the radio filled the otherwise-silence between them with not-Banshee music for the few seconds before she got her thoughts together. Playing dumb was her best bet; she knew exactly why he was there; he had been writing to her on hotel stationery, which was practically an invitation in and of itself, though it was an easy one to ignore. “Why— what are you doing here?”

She said his name and his smirk deepened. He followed her line of sight down to the wine in his hand and he took a more scenic route back up to her face, lingering where he knew her curves to be and not being shy about it. She looked very normal, effortless but in the kind of way that it actually looked like you’d put no effort in — and he found he didn’t mind the baggy jumper, or the old jeans, or the way her red hair was tied up on the top of her head.

She said his name again and it occurred to him at this point that she didn’t seem thrilled to see him. Didn’t seem like she’d been expecting him at all, in fact, which was concerning for two reasons; first, that he’d misinterpreted her message — which suggested she hadn’t invited him, which was awkward — and second, that he’d thought she’d be happy to see him — but now he realised there might have been someone else she would have been happier to see, which was more humiliating than awkward.

He was unable to hide the slight scowl that passed over his features as he lowered his gaze, his bottom lip betraying him by protruding out in a soft pout. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked, trying to sound like he was just teasing but in actuality it came out closer to bitter. He pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen properly, setting the bottle down with a loud clunk — thanks to his alcohol-induced impairment — on the bench between them. He glanced at her again, closer now, meeting her eyes and breathing slowly through his nose with his lips pressed together in a line.

After a silence, broken only by the radio in the background, he said: “You said you weren’t drinking, alone,” by way of an explanation as to why he was here, in the early hours of the morning, with a bottle of wine. He touched the tip of his index finger to the top of cap with some pressure and held it there. “You got any glasses?” His hand slipped down the neck and he stepped away from the bench with a slight wobble. He circled around her to snoop at her creations, bumping into her softly (and unintentionally).

“So what does it depend on?” he asked airily, referencing her last note to him.

“No,” she said quickly, almost harshly. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, really; she supposed it had been wishful thinking that her boyfriend would have been the man to surprise her in the middle of the night, though she was slow to remember he was in France, anyway. He hadn’t answered her question, which was answer enough. Honey watched him as he stepped farther into the kitchen — and into the warm light — and she managed a better look at him; she wasn’t sure what it said about them that he wasn’t dressed to impress, but it probably wasn’t anything good.

This was how she had showed up to his place the last time: not properly put together, bottle in hand, one word greeting. That move had a one-and-done success rate for them, though. She wasn’t as starved for attention now as he had been then, clearly.

He set the wine down; Honey took a step closer to inspect her work — the chocolates needed to set, didn’t need to be jostled — but she didn’t step back once she had taken a look; she would have to look closer at the chocolates in the morning, anyway. She glanced up and caught Charlie staring right back at her. She was regretting her decision now to look at him at all, but she didn’t hurry to do anything about it.

It wasn’t lost on her that the last time he was here, she had been on the verge of asking him to stay, to hell with his girlfriend. He’d only told her a few days ago he was getting divorced; she assumed that meant he was still currently married, could go back to her any day now, would still be as available as he ever was when she wasn’t otherwise so attached— no, that was the gin thinking. She wasn’t going to be planning for that possibility; she hadn’t yet left that phase of her relationship, the one where she was thinking in terms of ‘if’ this doesn’t work out, rather than ‘when’.

“I lied.” She remembered then what she had written; her handwriting was messy but legible (obviously, now) and she had added an x or two (or did she go for three?) only to make fun of him for doing it. She didn’t answer his next question, too focused on his movements, not moving out of his way even though she ought to. He brushed up against her and she stayed put, not focusing on how their arms were touching or how she could have sworn she could feel his body heat even through their sleeves or how— “What?” Charlie spoke and (thankfully) distracted her.

Honey took a couple steps back to lean against the other workbench — and put some much needed space back between them — and crossed her arms across her chest. She knew what he was asking about, but she was buying herself some more time. Them being friends and having conversations in person (and Harlan being okay with it all factored into it somewhat) depended on a few things, and when she had written to him she had figured it depended on how much clothing they were wearing, what time of day it was, if she was intentionally not going to mention seeing him to anyone. Saying that now, however, seemed like a pretty horrible idea. “Depends on you showing up unannounced,” she said instead, looking from Charlie to the wine. “And bringing alcohol I don’t like.”

He held her gaze for a moment. “Good.” He wasn’t sure if he believed her -- that she hadn’t been expecting anyone -- but it was easier to drop it if it meant she might forget there was someone else who could be here instead, if it meant she’d settle (settle was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?) for Charlie. He was second-guessing his decision to turn up in sweats now, but maybe she was used to that -- unless quidditch players swanned around their homes in their robes day and night. The thought made him grin -- he bit his lip to stifle a giggle.

His eyes flicked from Honey to the bottle of gin, nestled between a mixing bowl and a stack of measuring cups. His mouth twitched into a smirk. “Clearly.” he agreed, pretending to be thoroughly interested in her egg craftmanship (had he been a little more sober, and a little less focused on sleeping with her, his interest would have been a little more genuine). He could feel her beside him, their arms touching through their respective outer layers, knew she’d be able to feel him too, and very briefly considered just forgoing the pleasantries entirely--

Charlie turned his face to meet Honey’s, followed by his shoulders and then his whole body as she stepped away from him. He frowned softly and moved as if to lean back against the counter with the eggs, then thought better about it -- didn’t want to mess up any of her hard work, didn’t want to piss her off if he was trying to get invited upstairs. His gaze fell to her folded arms and he tried not to read into her body language too much, maybe she was just playing hard to get -- wouldn’t be the first time. He kept his arms by his sides, hands gripping the bench behind him for a bit of stability.

His eyebrows rose. Then he wet his lips and grinned slowly, following her eyes to the bottle he’d brought with him; he shrugged. “Selection was limited.” The hotel had elected not to deliver full size bottles of spirits to him, and he didn’t have the patience to work his way through handfuls of miniatures -- and he had been hoping the wine would help him sleep. She didn’t need to know any of this, however. She could chalk it up to him not knowing her well enough, or something. “Well,” he pushed off from the counter towards her, “didn’t want to show up empty-handed, wouldn’t be very friendly of me,” he smirked as he ended up standing rather closer than he really had to; his eyes searched her face. “I’ll try and bring something more your taste next time.”

“Working late?”

She would have liked to give herself some credit, that she didn’t instantly run to him with arms (among other things) wide open, even if it was the least she could do. She hadn’t invited him, she reminded herself, as if that should make this okay. It was good that she had taken a step back, anyway; Charlie wasn’t the sort to ask permission before lunging at her.

Honey watched him carefully, more concerned he destroy her whole night’s worth of work than anything else, though she supposed she liked looking at him, too. Maybe. A little. But that was probably the gin talking again. The potential for ruined chocolate was almost enough for her to suggest they move their conversation upstairs but there was no way around making that sound suggestive, even if she insisted it was for Honeydukes’ sake, so she stayed put.

She took her eyes off the wine — back to Charlie — and shrugged. “Right.” He had a limited selection at his hotel, where she assumed he was living now, unless he’d taken a holiday to the city center and swiped a stationery set solely to use for their correspondence; she didn’t think even Charlie was that desperate for her to pretend he was getting divorced.

“Well,” she repeated, not moving as he took a step toward her. She nodded, silent for a few seconds, reading between his words to try and see if he really was there because they were friends now — were they? — or if this was all exactly what it looked like, the late night drop-by that might have worked on her a few months ago. It was the latter, she decided, judging by how close he was, how she was already as far back as the table would allow. They didn’t get this close last month; the last time must have been that time. She wasn’t sure what counted as friendly with them, but she didn’t think this was it.

Honey laughed; he was nothing if not bold. “If there’s a next time.” She returned his smirk after a beat. Maybe there would be, if they were actually friends. This though, this seemed risky. But a gin-free next time? Maybe.

Was she working late? “Obviously, Charlie.” She rolled her eyes and stepped around him, back to where she was working when she had been interrupted. “Easter’s in a couple weeks,” she added as she looked at the chocolates. Her eyes landed on her wand and she tucked it into her pocket, hoping she wouldn’t need to help Charlie find the door but just in case. She turned back to him, leaning against the other bench now, effectively swapping spots. “And are you heading to or from a sleepover?” She raised an eyebrow, adding, “Down the street, I mean.” Merlin forbid he think she was inviting him to one here.

Honey was being uncharacteristically quiet -- and uncharacteristically restrained. Not like he was so handsome and so suave that she should pounce on him every time they were within touching distance, but it felt like she wasn’t even making an effort -- it was almost like she wasn’t here.

“If?” he asked, parodying their letter exchange and relieved that she was finally using more than one word at a time -- though not quite convinced she was fully present with him, yet. The smirk was helping, he supposed. “I thought we were friends?” he replied innocently, the sentiment marred somewhat by the way his lips curled up at one end.

Charlie stepped lightly aside as Honey skirted around him -- she was certainly keeping a responsible amount of space between them. He couldn’t comfortably determine if that was because of her boyfriend (if they were still together) or because she was just so used to being a tease. ”Oh, is that what the eggs are for?” he asked mockingly, turning to face her again. She was focusing on her chocolates, so he chose to focus on her backside while she couldn’t catch him in the act.

He lifted his gaze as she turned back to him, meeting her eyes. Charlie grinned lazily, rolling his eyes. “You don’t think I’d come here just to see you?” he asked in a (drunk) flirty tone, placing one hand on the counter beside him -- and catching the edge of a shallow bowl, causing it to flip and spill its contents over the bench, and him. “Shit,” he murmured, turning quickly to right the bowl, his offending hand now covered in cooled, melted chocolate. “Sorry,” he said, (surprisingly) concerned for her work before himself, eyes still on the mess he’d made.

He grimaced at the chocolate splattered up his sleeve and dripping from his fingers. Instinctively, he lifted his hand to his mouth and began to lick the worst of it off -- before catching Honey’s eye. He was soberingly aware that this was not anywhere near as sexy as he thought it potentially could be (probably if Honey was the one doing the licking, not him). He cleared his throat and dropped his hand, moving to the sink and turning the tap to rinse his hand. He used his still-clean one to pull his sleeve up, only succeeding in spreading more chocolate from his wrist up his forearm. “For fucks sake,” he swore under his breath.

Hands mostly clean, Charlie decided to extricate himself from his hoodie, now that it was soiled. He grabbed at the fabric by the shoulders over his head roughly; his t-shirt caught and rode up his torso with it, exposing his stomach and separating only when he pulled his arms through the jersey. He bundled it, inside out to stop further contamination, in his hand before remembering that Honey was still there. He lifted his head to look at her. “Sorry, I can--” he paused, apparently thinking twice about using his wand in his current state and so close to the rest of Honey’s livelihood. “I can clean it up the old fashioned way?” he offered, watching as the pool of chocolate made its way to the edge of the counter and over.

Honey raised her other eyebrow to match the first. Of course he would come here just to see her; he had done it before and she had hoped he had done it for the last time but she could hear that voice he was using on her. Things with Harlan were good and she didn’t need any interference, especially from— It happened in a bleary, drunken sort of slow motion: Charlie’s hand, the bowl, the bench, the chocolates.

She took a step forward but paused as Charlie righted the bowl. Her work was plainly visible from where she was standing, a few paces away; the chocolates had been recently poured and had been setting when they were effectively ruined; it’d be easier to start over tomorrow than attempt to save them now (never mind she couldn’t think straight to figure out how to save them as quickly as she needed to). “Er—“ she wasn’t about to accept his apology or say it was alright that he had set her back but she hadn’t thought to tell him to leave, either. She glanced up, stared for a second too long at Charlie licking his fingers. He cleared his throat, she cleared hers, looked away before he did.

She only watched him move across the kitchen to make sure he didn’t ruin anything else, of course.

Rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand, Honey stepped toward the mess; she moved the bowl out of the way, stacked a few of the chocolate molds, one on top of the other, and pushed those to the side, glanced over in time to catch more than a glimpse of Charlie’s bare (and getting barer) top half. He pulled his t-shirt down — it was a weird mixture of relief and something else she couldn’t (wouldn’t) place — and Honey looked back down to her work, pulling her wand out to get the bulk of the mess out of the way. “What?” She glanced back at him — and thought she did a good job at pretending she was glancing over for the first time — and he clarified. “Can’t imagine you won’t make it worse, honestly.” She smirked, moving farther away from being mad; she tended not to regret things until morning, anyway.

She pointed her wand at the chocolate spreading across the table and cleared it off, bent down to tend to the growing spot on the floor. It was a fairly easy task, far from the worst mess she’d made. She straightened up, looking from Charlie’s face to his hand, fabric bundled up. “You want me to—“ she was about to offer to launder his hoodie for him because she was nice or something, stopped herself when she realized that would be too nice for him. “I’m having another drink,” she said instead, finding her glass quickly and draining it before reaching for the bottle of gin.

“I don’t have a—“ she set the bottle down so she could try to demonstrate with her hands the motions of opening a bottle of wine with a corkscrew but it came out something less innocent— “Y’know.” She poured herself a refill and held the gin out for him instead, vaguely looking around for the bottle of tonic but wondering if she could forget about it now.

Honey had moved in and started tidying up the moulds, clearing away the chocolate that was oozing across the counter and onto the floor. Charlie met her gaze nervously -- he knew how unimpressed he would be if someone ruined his hard work -- and was pleasantly surprised to find her being, if not nice, at least making light of it. He smiled back somewhat sheepishly, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Probably, yeah,” he agreed, his smile stretching into a grin.

As she rose to her full height again Charlie followed her gaze down to his hoodie, then back to her face. “What?” he asked before he could help himself. Another drink. “Oh, right, yeah,” he said, putting two and two together and assuming she was offering him a drink. Or, his own drink. Whichever it was, it was a yes.

Charlie took a step after her, setting his hoodie down on the (now clean) counter in a pile. Honey spoke again and he glanced at her, then again as she started miming something. His imagination ran wild for all of about fifteen seconds before he realised she meant a bottle opener. His lips curled into a familiar smirk. “A what?” he asked, mimicking her gestures with a much less innocent version, grinning at her teasingly.

He took the gin from her, still grinning -- on the verge of tipsy giggles -- and poured himself a measure. He didn’t mind drinking what she was drinking (he could always take the wine with him, if she wasn’t going to drink it -- or, even better, she could bring it back to him). Charlie spotted the tonic before Honey did and reached for it, cracking it open and pouring a splash (just a splash, he wanted to stay drunk if not get moreso) into each of their glasses. “Ran out of the pink stuff?” he asked, nodding at the bottle of gin -- or what was left of it.

He stayed close this time, partly because he hadn’t been the one creating space between them in the first place, and partly because he didn’t want to knock anything else over -- he didn't think she would be quite so forgiving a second time. He picked his glass up and drank, nose scrunching lightly at the contrast of the bubbles against the velvety red he’d been drinking back in bed in London. “So, why did you lie?” he asked casually, as if asking about the weather.

“Fuck off.” She didn’t know what it was called, whatever she had genuinely been trying to demonstrate and she wasn’t about to a) let on that she couldn’t remember or b) give him the satisfaction that that had been where  her mind had drifted for a second or two. “Not that,” she clarified, rolling her eyes as he finally took the gin from her. She took a sip of hers as he poured his own, not entirely missing the tonic but well aware she needed to not be drinking straight gin; never mind that she still had so much work to do (and more now thanks to Charlie); gin took her worst qualities (relationship-wise) and dialed them up ten notches.

He found the tonic before Honey could look for it seriously. She held her glass out for a pour, very aware that their hands didn’t touch; there were no sly finger brushes and it disappointed her more than it should have. “Pink gin doesn’t last long here,” she said, relieved for the distraction from wherever her thoughts had been unwisely heading. “I’m sure I could grab some from Rosmerta if you want  some.” She didn’t think he would, considering what he had said — both about the gin and Rosmerta — but that was beside the point.

It was quiet for a minute, both of them drinking, standing too close to each other. “What?” She had heard him properly but she needed a second to figure out the why. Not the real one— that she was past tipsy and writing somewhat flirty notes to a dumb boy— but the family-friendly reason that wouldn’t get her into any trouble. It took her another second before she shrugged. “Just that I don’t need people to know I drink and work and I can’t trust you not to leave my letters lying around.” That last part was true anyway, considering what Charlie had said a few weeks ago about his wife finding one.

If Kate thinks we're fucking we may as well, right? That had taken her a few days to respond to, after a day or two of telling herself she wouldn’t write back because she didn’t want to make things worse (for herself more than for him). Then she got drunk and wrote back anyway; she glanced at her glass before she took another drink; ‘drunk’ and ‘Charlie’ seemed to come as a package deal for her.

She glanced down again, more at Charlie this time, more fit outside the confines of his hoodie. No— she blinked to clear her thoughts more than anything else, shifted her gaze closer to his hand, stopped just a little past the crook of his arm. She had been doing so well, keeping her distance and not doing things she would normally, but she forgot to be quite so restrained when she read the tattoo she was fairly sure wasn’t there the last time she had helped him out of his clothes. “That’s unfortunate,” she said, reaching for his arm and tracing the word ‘Catherine’ with her thumb. She glanced up, held his gaze — and his arm — for a second too long before dropping her hand and taking another drink, a little step back out of his immediate personal space.

“I got one,” she said with a little nod and a smaller smirk. “A tattoo, I mean.”

Fuck off. Charlie’s grin widened as he shrugged playfully.

“What a surprise,” he commented, remembering how quickly she’d skulled a glass of pink gin and tonic the first time they’d sat down for a drink together -- and all the times he’d witnessed since then. “Oh, no,” he waved her off, playing along, “no need to go to any trouble for me.” That, and he didn’t want anything from Rosmerta. He might have survived his last couple of visits but he was still putting that down to having a local at his table (Honey, Fflur -- take your pick).

She’d heard him -- he knew she had. Knew she knew what he meant, too. Charlie managed to keep the smirk off his lips for a brief moment before she spoke up and wiped it off for him. He stared at Honey, mid-way between being offended and… something else, he wasn’t sure what. Not a good feeling, at any rate. Maybe it was the word trust, specifically, that had rubbed him the wrong way. He wanted to correct her, point out that he hadn’t left the receipt-letter just lying around -- it had been in the pocket of some jeans, the jeans had been put in laundry… and so it went. It wouldn’t make anything better to point out Kate had been doing his washing for him when she’d found it (or so she said, anyway). He frowned -- to himself -- he knew that the letter hadn’t made any difference, anyway. He’d still be here, here, getting divorced even if Kate hadn’t found it. He drank, kept his voice lowered; “No one to find them now, you know that.”

He didn’t miss her eyes grazing over him. Charlie watched Honey’s face with interest; her warm brown eyes, the freckles on her nose, the way her face looked somewhat solemn when she was distracted. He wondered what she saw, did she still like it -- him? He wasn’t stupid, he knew he was no beefy Quidditch player with rippling muscles and biceps the girth of a small tree--

That’s unfortunate. Charlie followed her focus to the tattoo on his forearm, just below the elbow. Honey stroking her thumb over his wife-- ex-wife’s name might have once given him a thrill -- now it was just a faint sort of lurch in his chest, like a car struggling to start. He was back to looking at her face, wishing once more that he could read her mind, work out what she really thought about all of this and him (that he was a twat, probably).

Honey lifted her head and met his gaze, they held the eye contact for a moment before she let go of him and glanced away. “I’ll get it covered eventually,” he said quietly, unable to prevent it sounding like some sort of commitment in itself. “Or removed, I dunno.” He hadn’t quite gotten so far in his divorce proceedings that going to a tattoo parlour didn’t look too eager to be done with it all. He was eager, of course, to get it all done. Draw a line under it. He thought Kate must be too because everything was -- by all accounts -- progressing quickly. He had been stuck in a sort of limbo until now -- not homeless but unwilling to go back to the home he’d defiled. At least he could look for his own place now. Tomorrow. Maybe today -- whatever time it was, he’d lost track.

“Did you?” He lifted his head and found himself smiling back at her, grateful that she was leading the conversation. He wet his lips. “Hope it’s not ‘Harvey’ on your arse or summat,” he said, having another generous sip of gin.

Honey didn’t want to say anything -- no one to find them now -- or draw attention to the fact that she did know. He had made it perfectly clear, really, though he was impulsive and she wasn’t going to be so quick to believe the divorce would stick. She didn’t know what she was waiting for to genuinely consider him permanently untethered but then again it didn’t much matter because there wasn’t a them and she had no intention to change that. There’d be someone to find the letters eventually, anyway. She shrugged instead and took another sip of her drink, avoiding circling back around to her real reason for telling him she wasn’t drinking.

She had taken a step back (after running her thumb over the tattoo one more time) in an effort to clear up her mind a little but if anything, it only made her thoughts more jumbled. “Just find another hen named Catherine,” she offered quietly, holding her drink with both hands now so she wouldn’t be tempted to trace the outline of anything else. “Easy.” It was better than pointing out that there were some names that weren’t so obviously names, could easily be misconstrued as a lovely word or favorite food, some names like ‘Honey’.

Honey cleared her throat, took another drink. “I did.” She laughed, almost reluctantly. “Think you know his name is Harlan.” He must have done some minor research, anyway, considering she hadn’t said anything about him (more than his name) when they had breakfast but Charlie had seemed somewhat knowledgeable about him in one of his letters, knowledgeable enough to know he was older — that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? She supposed she had to go for the older end of the dating pool someday; her brother only had so many friends she could (or wanted) to shag.

“But no,” she added with a shrug. “it’s on my boob,” she finished casually, anticipating his gaze dropping from her face, unable to stop herself from smirking. “The side of it, technically.” She and Grace had gone for matching ones — tattoos, not boobs — last year for Valentine’s Day. “Think you might have just missed it when—“ she had shown up uninvited with a bottle of tequila— “Y’know.” She knew. “Last year.”

Honey didn't say anything in response to his thinly-veiled 'I'm single' announcement (not that that had ever stopped her before), so he chose not to push it – yet. It bothered him, though, that she had seemingly found someone worth behaving for right as he’d become available to misbehave. What made Harlan so special? Or was she just trying to prove something? Hadn’t she seen how well that had gone for him? They weren’t those kind of people and he wanted to tell her so, but it would only come off desperate and he was but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

He hated himself for the way he wanted to step back into her touch – because he wanted comforting, and because he stupidly thought he could get something akin to that from Honey. They had never been particularly affectionate, unless it was a lead-in to sex or some accidental thing they’d slipped into before realising their mistake. He understood now that they hadn’t ever been a proper couple, really. They’d had an arrangement at best.

Charlie laughed mirthlessly at her suggestion. "Know someone, do you?" he replied, still not looking her in the eye. He took a drink of his gin. “Easy,” he repeated with a weak smile, finally glancing at her.

A smug little smirk spread across Charlie’s lips when Honey laughed, pleased that he could still make her – even more pleased that it was at the expense of the competition, sort of. He shrugged. "Do I?" He did. He knew altogether too much about Honey’s boyfriend— Christ, she had a boyfriend. He was hardly a boy, either – a good few years on him, and her. “Can’t blame me for mixing up my pensioners names,” he teased, well aware that his own (full) name was hardly young sounding.

Her boob. Charlie’s eyes went straight to Honey’s chest, his imagination good enough to remember exactly what was beneath that fuzzy jumper and wishing it was a little warmer down here so she didn’t feel the need to wear one in the first place. He cleared his throat and sipped at his gin. "Well, that's a relief," he said, circling back to it not being Harlan's name (hopefully – he supposed she’d only denied that it was on her bum).

"The side?" he repeated, knowing he shouldn't be focusing so much on that but unable to help himself – nor keep his eyes at eye-level. Maybe he was trying to convince her to show him, too, but he still hadn’t ruled out convincing her of more than that. Last year. His eyes flicked back up to meet hers and he wet his lips. He knew exactly when she meant and she really was doing a terrible job of putting him off the scent, if that was what she wanted. "Did you get it after?" he asked, then, smirking; “Not my name is it?” he joked. If it was anything to do with him he was sure it wouldn’t be complimentary after what he’d said to her. At least he’d apologised for that, now.

He leant on the counter (careful to check for any chocolate before doing so) and had another swig of his gin, almost finishing it. "So, what is it?"

Honey raised an eyebrow at his deflection; he must know about Harlan and he more or less confirmed it after another minute. She was tempted to ask how much he knew, but if he got everything from the last few articles about him, it probably wasn’t anything great. She didn’t want to think about that now; she took another drink instead.

She rolled her eyes, stifled a laugh at the so old dig. Harlan did have that little patch of greys right behind his ear and she did call him a silver fox from time to time but that was all beside the point (and nothing that Charlie needed to hear because that might remind him that she was older and she didn’t want him remembering that for some unknown reason). “Right,” she said, raising her glass to her lips and murmuring one more word before taking another swallow: “Kipling.” She sipped quickly, lowering her glass with a small grin. His middle name — the whole thing, not the shortened Kip she had used in the past — was no less amusing now than the first time she heard it.

His gaze dropped to her chest and she smirked, for once not straightening up her posture to make the view any better. “Is it?” She wasn’t sure if he was talking about her boob or the lack of name but she didn’t mind keeping his thoughts on the where of the tattoo. “Don’t think you could have missed it.” His head was in the area enough, anyway. She smirked again and took another drink, slipping right past worrying that she was drinking too much or too quickly or with the wrong person.

Honey mirrored him, leaning against the table behind her, keeping a proper amount of space between them. She was mid-sip — her drink was going fast — when he asked his next question and she shrugged. “Sheep.” She shook her head after a second. “Just the one sheep.” She nodded. “A little one.” The sheep, not her boob, but she supposed he knew that. “I—“ she stopped, about to explain the significance of the sheep and how it matched Grace’s and probably get sidetracked asking if he remembered Grace and— she didn’t want to talk to him, not about that. That was more of a conversation for friends and they weren’t really friends friends.

She finished her drink instead, setting her glass down and taking a step forward, her hands already at the hem of her jumper. She didn’t pull it up all the way, just enough so she could hook her bra strap with her thumb and lift it just enough to still be technically appropriate.

Charlie smirked, pretending to glare at her use of his middle name – and doing a shoddy job of it. “Beatrix,” he retorted in the same hushed tone, drinking to match her. Two could play at that game, and at least Kipling wasn’t his real name.

He limited his response to a soft “Mm,” followed by another smirk and a shrug. He wasn’t about to be offended by the insinuation he gave her tits too much attention. “You’ve never complained before,“ he said over the rim of his glass, holding her gaze and silently egging her on. She was keeping her distance and he was itching to corner her, but the longer they kept up this standoff the more she (and he) was drinking, which could only work in his favour, surely.

“A sheep?” He laughed lightly, remembering the pyjamas she’d been wearing the last time he’d seen her. As his laughter petered out he raised an eyebrow at her. “Obsessed,” he murmured with yet another smirk, finishing his gin.

Charlie kept his eyes on Honey as she set her glass down – that had always been an unintentional unspoken signal between them – and wasn’t disappointed when she pulled her jumper up. He managed to focus on her face for a good few seconds before allowing his gaze to drop. He walked towards her slowly, a small smile playing on his lips at the sheep doodle at the top of her ribs. Within touching distance now, he tilted his head and reached out, his fingers wrapping around her side and his thumb stroking over the image with soft pressure. “Cute,” he said, righting his head and flicking his eyes back to meet hers.