one for the road. [tag; charlie]

I've been wondering later when you tell everyone to go
will you pour me one for the road?

Suspended.

The room was silent, only the slow and calming tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway made any sound in the entire house. The letter was sitting perched perilously on the edge of the mantlepiece, the gold of the embossed Ministry letterhead glinting in the low light, mocking her. Sitting on the floor, Perdita's bright blue eyes were in a glassy stare. She couldn't believe it. The Ministry didn't even have the decency to tell her in person. They'd mailed her and let her work her full shift, only sending it after she'd clocked off so it would be waiting for her at home. Talk about twisted.

Rhythmically and anxiously, Perdita tapped her two forefingers against her lower lip in the quiet. She didn't really get it. She'd done what she'd been asked to; find the drugs, get the drugs off the street. Okay, so, she'd let the person go but the person wasn't someone who could really be kept behind bars. Perdy was a strong woman but no woman could fend off the Banshee fanbase. Mary was going to be so mad at her.

An error had earned her a two week suspension and it hit her hard. Perdita hadn't failed at anything before. She'd passed all her classes, everything she'd turned her hand to, she'd excelled. She'd only tanked something if she chose to, so having the decision made for her was really uncomfortable. She couldn't face her parents. The Blooms, unlike other families, were not sympathetic. She and her brother weren't mollycoddled. Her mother and father would refrain from saying I told you so but it would written all over their faces. It would be the perfect time for her father to coerce her into joining the family business. The last thread of freedom had been severed. She was a failure.

London was being pelted by rain on a particularly dark and cold spring evening. Christmas seemed so long ago now that the capital had been stripped of all its red and green finery. The fireplace logs were crackling and casting shadows but Perdita's mind was whirring. She sat on the plush carpet, her back resting against the sofa and a half-empty bottle of wine dangling from her fingers. There was a clear and present danger; Perdita was drinking screw-top wine.

The doorbell rang and she looked up, alarmed. Anyone who visited usually just walked through the door but it was impossible to determine if it was a friend or foe. She frowned as she swigged from the bottle, ruffling her hair so it stuck up like a newborn chick's. It rang again and she sighed, too content in her little bubble of self pity. Dressed in an oversized navy jumper and leggings, she was too comfortable (and too tipsy) to walk all the way to the front door. It rang for a third time and that was enough.

"Get lost! I'm not home!" Perdita roared through the empty townhouse. It was probably one of her neighbours' strange little children playing knock and run again. With a grunt of effort, she got to her feet clumsily and stomped through the house, swaying like she was on the gangway of a listing ship. 

She looked a mess. Her face was red and blotchy, her normally flawless eyeliner was smudged, giving her panda eyes. She was dressed in leisurewear, for Christ's sake. Her slim fingers unlatched the door and she recoiled at the blast of icy cold air that hit her. And there he was, the conductor of her waking nightmare. It made her feel better that he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, too. The streetlight really brought out his sunken eyes. It was all too much to deal with at 5PM on a Tuesday evening.

Charlie Baker had no idea the damage he'd done. Then again, he never did. He just skipped through life without a care in the world. No one had clearly told him about cause and effect. Guzzling from her wine bottle once more, she stood back and opened the door for him to enter. He knew the way very well by now.



@Charlie Baker

Charlie had never been to Perdita’s home during daylight hours, though he wasn’t sure this exactly counted as daylight -- the rain was heavy and the cloud cover was casting a dark shadow over the capital. Typical for him, he’d chosen fashion over function and elected not to bring an umbrella, thinking he’d apparate close enough to her door that it wouldn’t matter -- but he couldn’t literally appear on her doorstep lest a neighbour spot him materialise out of thin air, so he’d turned his collar up, hands in his pockets, and walked from the nearest alley to her porch, his hair sticking down to his skull as it grew more and more saturated.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say to her, but a thank you seemed a good starting point -- for letting him go. He’d been off his face at the time but that didn’t mean he couldn’t now understand what she’d done for him. Maybe an apology, too, for all the shit he’d put her through.

He’d never been here sober, either, and he was pretty much that right now (give or take). Ben’s little come to Jesus hadn’t exactly put Charlie on the straight and narrow but he was trying to be at least a bit less of a dick -- hence showing up here at an acceptable hour, rather than late at night, a bottle of something deep in his thoughts.

The musician hugged in tight against her front door, trying to get as much out of the rain as possible. He ran a hand through his thick -- now soaking wet -- hair and quickly decided it was a lost cause. He rang the doorbell. The weather worsened, the rain lashing sideways at him as the wind picked up, drenching his jeans and making him wonder why the fuck he’d grown a conscience today of all days. He pushed the buzzer again, waited barely twenty seconds before pushing it a third time, and if she didn’t answer he’d just go home-- He heard some indiscernible yelling from within the house, but he recognised the voice: it was her, she was home.

The door opened and Charlie stared at Perdita wide-eyed. She looked like shit. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so bad about his own appearance -- though he’d at least had the decency to dress himself properly. He’d never seen her in anything that wasn’t a dress, lingerie, or nothing. He watched, a little perturbed, as she drank straight from the bottle of wine in her hand. He glanced at her judgingly -- which was saying something given his habits.  She made room for him to enter, though, so he stepped inside gratefully before she changed her mind.

He would normally open with Duchess, but she didn’t look like she was in the mood. He shrugged out of his jacket and boots, hanging the former over the bannister and grimacing as it dripped, revealing a plain white t-shirt beneath, more wet than dry and sticking to his skin. Charlie hesitated, unsure if he should head for the living room or the kitchen, but to save him from having to ask he spotted the warm glow of the fire creeping across the hallway floor. He moved into the lounge and looked around, gravitated towards the fireplace in an attempt to try and dry himself off a bit.

He glanced up at his host when she joined him and he immediately forgot his initial reason for being here. This wasn’t the Perdita Bloom he knew. “Perdy I--” He wet his lips, half-inclined to step towards her but still acutely aware of his decision to keep a safe distance from her. His voice was soft, quiet in the otherwise silent room. “Are you alright?” he asked gently.

She caught his look and anger began to stir. "What?" She asked Charlie sharply, nettled. It was perfectly fine for him to show up here at two in the morning, full of whiskey, but she couldn't have a glass of wine in her own home on a Tuesday afternoon? She blinked at him and frowned, closing the door on the icy wind before she realised it was actually him. "Oh, it's raining," Perdita mentioned in faint surprise as he left puddles on her hardwood floor.

Usually, the sight of him in a wet tee shirt would be enough to stop her in her tracks but she only gave him a passing glance. "You should have brought an umbrella," she added unhelpfully as she drank from the bottle again, gesturing him in to the townhouse and following in his wake, barely registering that her bare feet were now wet.

Perdita was all legs as she sat back down on the floor, looking like a newly born deer as she folded her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on top of them. The dancing flames were hypnotic as she watched them flicker and move, like exotic belly dancers. The hairs on the back of her arms stood up as the warmth spread across her skin, only dimly aware that she had a visitor. Charlie knew she didn't do small talk. She wasn't a sparkling conversationalist when she was sober, so he had no luck now that she was drinking.

She reached behind her and pulled the heavy throw off the sofa, carelessly tossing it towards him because she didn't have the energy to climb the stairs and fetch him a towel. She also didn't trust herself with wand-work because Heaven forbid she accidentally made him worse.

It wasn't Charlie's question that got her attention but rather the tone; he was pitying her. She turned her head to look at him, resting her chin on her shoulder as she did so. "Tickety-boo. You?" She asked brightly as she took another swig, both alarmed and dismayed to find the bottle almost empty. She scratched her eye, spreading the mascara further before she wiped her nose on her sleeve and turned away. Of all the people in the entire world to see her vulnerable, Charlie had to be the one she hoped would never have the chance.

It was no big deal. Everyone drank wine, right? Maybe sitting on the floor in the dark might be unusual but she was fine. "Did you leave something here?" Perdy asked Charlie because she couldn't think why else he'd be here at tea time. Her tone wasn't dismissive but she also wasn't in the mood to play hostess. She was lethargic and spacey, lacking in any real get up and go, weak and drained. A burglar could burst through the door at that moment and she'd happily curl up in a ball and let him get on with it.

She didn't really know what to tell Charlie or what he wanted her to say. They didn't do "feelings". She remembered the phrase he used; but we don't do that. It clanged around her head like a pinball machine, bouncing off the corners of her brain as it used to do when it kept her up at night. Swiftly, Perdita offered him a brittle smile. "I'm fine," she repeated but without conviction as she held the bottle out to him, wiggling it as the wine sloshed in an invitation for him to join her in her misery.

Charlie just shook his head apologetically, eyes still a little wide, rather than say what he was thinking -- he thought they were both well aware she looked a right state, he didn’t need to spell it out and work her up any more than she already seemed to be. He had half a mind to put his jacket back on and walk right back out the door he’d just come through, clearly he’d timed this visit poorly.

“I should have,” he acquiesced, shooting her a wary glance.

If he stood any closer to the fire he thought he might catch, but his jeans were soaked up to his thighs and his shirt was sticking to his shoulder blades and his stomach and he was all around uncomfortable. He watched Perdita sit out of the corner of his eye, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Something was definitely wrong, but it was a dangerous guessing game so he’d have to wait for her to enlighten him.

He lifted his head as he heard her move-- in time to catch the throw as she threw it at him. He looked from it -- bundled in his hands -- to her and back again before he put two and two together. Perdy answered him before he could move to do anything however, so he simply held onto it awkwardly, trying not to get it wet. Charlie stared at her, his brow furrowing in concern (if she didn’t look so awful he might have smirked at her upper crust response). He chose not to respond because he didn’t think his state of wellbeing was terribly important right now.

Perdita still wasn’t looking at him when she asked a follow-up question. Charlie frowned softly. “No,” he replied firmly, knowing that he hadn’t been here in months -- over a year? -- and if he’d left anything here it was surely long gone by now (his decency, maybe). His eyes drifted to the bottle in her hands as she held it out to him. He nodded once, to show his acceptance of her offer.

A chill ran up his spine and he figured they’d been quiet long enough that it was safe to move. He dropped the blanket to the floor to free his hands, pulling his shirt up over his head and grimacing as it clung to his skin. Charlie avoided looking in her direction as he picked the throw back up, draping it over his shoulders like some sort of cape. His hands went to his waistband next-- he paused, turned slightly away as though shy about letting her see him. He wasn’t used to having to undress himself in her presence but that wasn’t the reason this felt wrong; how was he meant to have a proper conversation with her in his underwear? He closed his eyes briefly. He could do this -- he could behave.

His jeans proved just as reluctant to be removed; he struggled to get them down over his thighs, almost toppling over in his haste to get what had to be the least sexy strip tease he’d ever participated in over and done with. Finally free, he lay them flat on the rug next to the hearth, removed his damp socks and ran one hand through his (still very wet) hair, breathing just a little harder for the struggle of undressing himself. He sighed, looked back to her finally.

Reminded of his state of undress, Charlie drew the throw around his frame tighter, unusually self-conscious. He cleared his throat and looked at her almost-empty bottle. “Let me get you a refill,” he offered, not waiting for her to reply before taking the opportunity to leave her midst. He padded down the hall to the kitchen, grabbed the first bottle he saw (and two glasses, christ), and returned. She was still sat on the floor, so he sat beside her, setting the bottle and glasses on the coffee table in front of them and adjusting his modesty-blanket. “So, what’s the occasion?” he asked, his voice creeping closer to its usual teasing tone as he cracked the fresh bottle open.

Her attention was caught when she heard a rustle and turned just in time to see a tee shirt being removed. She froze. Even in her tipsy state, this felt rather intrusive. There was a palpable shift since the last time he'd done this in her living room and she couldn't look away.

Perdita drank from the bottle again, head tilted curiously to the side as her bright blue eyes trailed across his torso to that tattoo on his arm that he never let her touch. She didn't even think about getting up to help him as he struggled, she simply watched in silence. Charlie was a very good looking man. They hadn't done this in over a year and she didn't want to mention the new hint of muscle across his back - had he been working out? - she'd always liked that part of him. Firelight was so flattering.

Off came the jeans and Perdita shifted, placing her forefinger and thumb together under her tongue to wolf whistle rudely. "Take them off!" She called as she wobbled on the floor, her wine bottle swinging merrily as she laughed. Sniggering into her wine, she drank again and blinked at him and his new cape. "You can put them in the tumble dryer," Perdy offered unhelpfully but didn't stop him when he took the bottle from her, leaving her feeling oddly bereft in its absence.

With Charlie gone, she frowned, absently adjusting his jeans on the rug as she poked them with her toes so they'd dry a little faster in the fire's warm glow. She was developing a headache, dull and throbbing at the base of her skull. She drank gin and whiskey, she'd forgotten how quickly wine seemed to bite her on the arse. She couldn't figure out why he was here, now, of all times. London was his home, she couldn't blame it on him being lost any more.

Perdita was dimly aware of Charlie's presence as he sat down next to her, close enough so she could feel the residual heat clinging to his blanket. As soon as the wine was opened, she tugged the bottle from his hands and filled up one of the glasses before drinking straight from the bottle again, neglecting her own. She was no longer drinking for pleasure, she was drinking to get drunk. Fast.

The occasion? "Oh." She snapped back into it. "I've been suspended," Perdita replied candidly with what she assumed was a careless shrug but was basically just a flinch. "From the Ministry," she added for clarification without being prompted. "They said for two weeks but eh," she wrinkled her nose as she drank again, staring straight ahead as the warmth seeped through the soles of her feet. "I dunno why," she tacked on as she rested against the sofa, tilting her head back to rest her head on the cushions as she blinked at the ceiling that was starting to spin.

"Like, they got the drugs, you know?" Perdita ploughed on as though Charlie wasn't implicated in this. "I told them you weren't dealing. You'd never deal," she said softly. "Apparently it wasn't good enough so fuck them," she added tersely, flinging her arms wide as wine sloshed into the carpet beneath them. Suddenly, she sat up and clumsily rested on her knees, snatching the letter she'd been sent from the Ministry from the mantlepiece. Without a second thought, she tossed it into the flames and took pleasure in the way the golden letterhead shrivelled and curled in the heat. Perdita flopped backwards heavily, refilling Charlie's glass without being asked.

She turned to look at him - properly look at him. Her full lips frowned in concern and confusion as she studied him in the flickering light. It was funny, she thought. She didn't notice how his dark eyes had flecks of gold in them around the irises. Or that he looked bright, like he'd slept for a change. Maybe that was just because he was sober. "Can I ask you something?" Perdita asked in a stage whisper. "Woman to rockstar?" She turned to face him, her cheek resting on the sofa cushion.

"Did you ever like me?" Perdita queried gently. "I don't mean romantically," because he obviously didn't and she drank again. "I mean like as a person." She blinked. "Did you ever find me funny or witty or charming or exciting or was I just a posh girl who doesn't know the cost of a pint of milk?" She frowned at him before she hiccuped.

Charlie took the glass Perdita offered him, his eyes narrowing as she forewent her own in favour of continuing to drink straight from the bottle. It wasn’t like he’d never done it before, but this was dire. He parted his lips to say something but she immediately launched into the reason for her drinking.

Suspended. Charlie paused, glass at his lips, listening carefully as she babbled on. He wasn’t stupid -- the moment she mentioned drugs she knew it was him -- that this was his fault -- but she confirmed it a second later anyway. He remained still and quiet, gauging her stability before speaking. “Perd, I--” he started, stopping abruptly when some of her wine jumped out of her glass and onto the plush carpet beneath them. At least he hadn’t grabbed a red.

He watched her kneel up and grab something from the mantle -- a letter, by the looks -- his eyes for once not drifting to her backside nor anywhere else untoward; he’d never seen her like this and if he was more of a prick, he’d have already bolted. Charlie had felt guilty enough to turn up here in the first place, but now knowing that his behaviour had gotten her in trouble at work he felt a whole new level of remorse. It wasn’t like she was hurting for the money, but that wasn’t the point, was it? She’d gone out on a limb for him and taken the punishment in his place -- and though he’d claim not to know why she’d done that for him, he had an inkling.

Charlie hadn’t even had a sip from his glass yet and Perdita was already topping it up, almost to the brim. He drank now, if only to reduce the likelihood of spilling any, and grimaced at the taste (he’d never been a white wine person unless it was bubbles). He cleared his throat. “Perd, I meant to… I came to say thanks,” he said quietly, “for not… for letting me go.” He chewed on his bottom lip softly. “Why did you do it?” he asked, looking at her finally.

She was staring at him and Charlie looked away awkwardly, sipping at his wine again and immediately wishing he hadn’t bothered. Can I ask you something? The musician tensed, he’d never experienced those words being followed by some trivial query and he didn’t think he was likely to do so now. He turned to face her slowly, nodding almost imperceptibly and falling into a lazy half-smirk at woman to rockstar.

He wished she hadn’t asked that. Wished more that she hadn’t felt the need to add the word romantically into the mix. Charlie focused his attention on the fireplace, the flames dancing in the reflection of his irises as he avoided looking at the woman beside him. “I don’t think that,” he said gently, sipping at his wine and wrinkling his nose again. He frowned, still not meeting her eye, curling his toes into the carpet and drawing he blanket around himself tighter from where it had slipped. “Yeah,” he settled on, unsure how to have this conversation with her -- she was probably at the point she wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway, but he was sober enough to be overthinking the whole thing. Why did she care if he liked her as a person? Was his opinion really worth anything to anyone?

But it wasn’t about him. It was about her -- and what she needed to hear. “I like you,” Charlie offered, meaning only to glance at her but getting caught in her big blue gaze. “You are,” he said, “all those things.” He wet his lips. “Funny, charming, posh,” he smiled smally at her before looking away again, forcing himself to have another swallow of wine if only to lessen how much of it she could drink.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said after a moment, realising slowly that they’d drifted from his original course -- turn up, apologise, leave -- but unable to just abandon her when she was like this.

"Oh."

For a brief second, she thought she'd sobered up as he thanked her. She didn't think Charlie had thanked her for anything in the entire time she'd known him and he she'd done him plenty of favours. Perdita had kept quiet, she hadn't told anyone about their previous tryst, she hadn't crashed his wedding, she hadn't even made a scene when her name was mentioned in the newspaper. Maybe she should have, but it wouldn't have lessened how embarrassed she felt. Imagine being added to the long list of women Charlie Baker had conquered. It was bloody dire.

"Sure," she managed to say with what she hoped was a casual shrug as she drank her wine again, getting to the point now where it didn't really taste of anything any more. "No problem." Charlie then asked why and she turned to look at him, her hair sticking up at funny angles as she clumsily swept her fringe over her one eye.

"We're friends, right?" She asked, knowing that wasn't really the case. With a gentle sigh, she watched the fire flicker. "I didn't think you deserved to be vilified," she added as she absently began to peel the label off the bottle. "I know you've been going through some stuff," she added, tactful even in her drunken state. She looked at him quickly, thankful that he hadn't met her gaze before she swallowed another mouthful of wine. "And you asked me to let you go," she replied. "When it came down to it, I couldn't do it," she nodded as she wiggled her toes. "The look of shock on your face kind of made up for most of the shitty things you did to me," she grinned.

Perdita was properly wine-drunk now. Her body felt comfortable and fizzy, heavy and warm as she posed her question. She'd never been able to ask it before. It was pathetic, really, a woman like her, desperately seeking Charlie's validation. She hadn't thought about him in months since that party and now tonight.

"Ha!" Perdy exclaimed triumphantly as he admitted that he liked her. " Knew it," she grinned, giving him a wink and finger gunning him with the hand not holding her wine glass before she giggled. "Super posh," she agreed, her eyes wide. "Someone said I spoke like I was chewing a giant toffee," she complained into her wine bottle as she babbled on. She wasn't stupid. Well, she had been for a while but things were different now. "You think I'm charming," she added in a sing-song tone as she grinned, snuggling down into her jumper as though he'd said the cutest thing in the entire world. She was going to regret this in the morning.

She caught Charlie's eye quickly and she tried to think, wading through her dizzy brain as she forced herself to try and have a grown up conversation. "I don't want anything from you," Perdy told him truthfully as she tilted her head. She thought she was being honest. "I don't want to date you," she ploughed on. "I don't want to get tangled up in whatever this is," she added, waving a hand at him as though trying to encompass everything that was Charlie Baker with the movement.

"I just wanted clarification," Perdita went on as she drank and then hiccuped, frowning at the response. "I wanted to see if you liked me or just liked having sex with me. It happens," she shrugged, her eyes wide and clear as she admitted her own reputation. "It happens a lot," she went on, shaking her head quickly. She knew he wouldn't leave his wife for her - and she didn't want him to. She forgave a lot of the things he did; leaving without saying goodbye, getting in her head, clouding her judgement, making her develop feelings for him and then blaming her when she did.

She sighed quickly. "It hurt, you know," she admitted as she watched the flames dance and crackle. "You didn't even have the balls to tell me you were getting married. What did you think I was gonna go? Turn up and push her into the pool?" She joked, grinning at him quickly. In her previous daydreams, she'd actually thrown coconuts at his wife while screeching the lyrics to It Should Have Been Me. But he didn't understand. He didn't understand any of this mess they'd created or the millions of memories she no longer wanted to have.

"You could have written, you know," she added softly, in response to him coming over in the rain. Then again, he'd probably realise his letter would have gone unopened. But she didn't feel anything for him now and that was the truth. "I'm totally fine," she insisted. "I didn't even like my job anyway. The coffee was terrible."

It unnerved him how casually she glossed over his thanks. He wasn’t naive enough to believe it had really been so little an imposition for her, especially if she’d been suspended as a result of her actions -- but also wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it if Perdy wasn’t. She could have lorded it over him and she hadn’t, so he’d take it and run.

Friends. Charlie was making as many friends as he was losing, lately -- the only problem was his new friends were all women he’d slept with (or was about to). He kept his expression as neutral as possible, wary of looking disappointed or indeed pleased that she’d termed them as such. “Yeah, we’re friends,” he confirmed quietly after a pause, his eyes drawn to where she was peeling at the wine label. He chose not to respond to the rest of her statement -- didn’t think there was really much he could add, nor wanted to. He didn’t want to talk to Perdita about Kate.

“You don’t always give me what I want,” he smirked weakly, trying to inject some much needed levity back into the conversation, unsure if he was accomplishing that or not. “Well, at least you got something out of it,” he said, a little more brusquely, not meeting her eye and frowning at the shitty things you did to me. If he was in a more argumentative mood he’d ask her what those things were, but he thought he knew what she was referring to -- even if he disagreed with her opinion -- and he didn’t have any desire to deal with Perdita in the state she was in.

She appeared to be recovering somewhat, at least. Charlie grinned and rolled his eyes. “I dunno about a giant toffee,” he said, smirking suggestively (it seemed safe enough to be able to joke about, even if he was half naked). He rolled his eyes, trying not to grin; “Alright, alright, don’t get carried away,” he said, nudging her with his elbow. He gazed down at her softly, unused to this Perdita. Had she changed so much since they’d last spoken or had she always been like this, beneath the sass and the sex?

The brunette met his eyes and he held her gaze. He scowled, offended despite himself -- despite not wanting to date her either. Perdita didn’t know it, but she was the third woman to turn him down within the space of a week or so -- again, not that he was asking to date anyone, but it was almost like women felt the need to tell him to back down before he’d even started barking up their tree. His expression only deepened when she gestured vaguely at him (whatever this is). “Good,” he said, his tone rather unforgiving, “I wasn’t asking you to.”

She hiccoughed and he regretted getting short with her -- she was being honest (almost brutally so) because she was drunk, not because she was trying to insult him. He sighed deeply, “Sorry,” he mumbled, forcing another large swallow of wine down his throat. “Both,” he admitted, glancing at her out the corner of his eye, before realising that might not be what she wanted to hear. He cleared his throat and wet his lips. “Hard though it may be to believe,” he started, more conversationally, “it happens to me too,” he smiled wryly at her. Not that he altogether minded as much; having sex with women who didn’t want anything more from him worked just fine for Charlie. It was when feelings got involved that problems arose.

The musician had another sip of his wine, slowly making progress on it and hoping she didn’t top him up again. Charlie looked at Perdita, glad she wasn’t looking at him. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t think she’d care and he definitely didn’t want her getting it in her head that he was trying to make her jealous. “I didn’t tell any of my exes,” he said, before adding “either,” quickly to cover up that Perdita wasn’t an ex. But it was the truth -- he hadn’t told any of his former lovers, girlfriend or otherwise (except Fflur, but there was no way in hell he was lumping her in with the rest of them and he was still trying to pretend neither of them remembered that night). He frowned again, more in exasperation than any form of anger. “What would you have had me say, Perd? Hey Duchess, I know we haven’t talked in months but I’m getting married so let’s keep that going?” Women. He sighed again and looked up and away from her, willing himself to stop biting at her.

It took him a moment to recognise that she meant he could have written today, not then (or both, probably). He pressed his lips together in a hard line, not wanting to think too hard about why he’d wanted to come here today -- why he hadn’t just written, or kept his distance. It was a selfish visit, really, to clear his conscience (it remained to be seen if it would work). “Didn’t know if you had a boyfriend who reads your mail, did I?” he offered as a shoddy excuse. He’d like to assume she didn’t have a boyfriend because if she did where the fuck was he? It wasn’t Charlie’s job to console her. And yet here he was.

And she was clearly not fine. Charlie reached over automatically, placing his hand on the arm closest to him and squeezing gently, the throw slipping from his shoulder slowly. “Hey, you haven’t… you weren’t fired, right? Just suspended?” he said reassuringly, trying to be nice. “Will it--” he chewed on his lip. “Is there anything I can do?”

"You should be thankful that I don't," she was quick to reply, her eyes wide in surprise. Crikey. If Charlie did get what he wanted all the time, his ego would be even bigger. A beat of silence passed over them, punctuated only by the crackling fire as she drank her wine. Even though she'd said they were friends and he'd agreed, they weren't really and they couldn't be. Perdita wasn't sure if they suffered from having too many things in common or too little which made them act the way they did.

Perdita couldn't play the I'm not like other girls card because Charlie didn't care and she was exactly like everyone else he knew. What differentiated her from any other woman he'd slept with? Nothing came to mind. She wasn't special. "Felt nice," she agreed with his statement about her getting something out of it. The feeling was short-lived as guilt eclipsed it soon after but for that brief shining moment, it had all been worth it.

Despite her circling a whirlpool of despair, she shot Charlie a wide eyed look as he continued. "How dare you," she whispered, clutching a string of imaginary pearls. "I'm a lady! But yeah," she nodded as she drank. "The latter does seem more likely."

His teasing was turning painful and she felt herself frowning. It didn't matter that she told Charlie she didn't want to date him because having him agree nettled her. Perdita's back was up as she interpreted his tone. Normally she wouldn't mind but she was in a weird state and she didn't like being told off. "Good," she finally agreed as she echoed his words, her accent slipping just a little to sound like something further north than the Home Counties. Well, that was that, then. Neither of them had any intention of taking anything further. Shouldn't that be better?

Perdita ignored his apology as she shredded the bottle label, leaving a near pile on the thick carpet, her big blue eyes glassy and unfocused. "Ah." She nodded as he gave a diplomatic answer that didn't make things any clearer. She didn't like the word "like". It was a blah word, a filler word, the type people used when undermining something. Either Charlie lacked a backbone or he had a very good way with words. Perdita drank again but it wasn't helping her wade through his words. If anything, things were getting murkier.

"Shut the front door," Perdita exclaimed suddenly as she boggled at Charlie. "Nah," she shook her head. "You have a hundred percent success rate," she told him as she blinked quickly. "There's no way Charlie Baker strikes out," she added as though she couldn't believe it. Her eyes narrowed quickly before she sighed. "You're trying to make me feel better. I get it," she nodded as she understood, toasting him with her half empty wine bottle. "Very nice."

The wine headache was now setting in, taking the form of a dull ache at the base of her skull and she frowned. She hadn't meant to mention his wedding but it seemed important that he knew. She didn't tell him that she'd cried. It wasn't because she was in love with him, it was more that he'd gotten engaged soon after they'd been together and then married a mere few weeks later. It was all a bit...sudden. If she knew he had intentions of marrying that American, she would have stopped, contrary to what he might have thought. Sleeping with a man in a relationship was bad but sleeping with a married man was unforgivable.

She sighed heavily, her messy fringe fluttering. "Maybe?" She answered vaguely, unhappy with how Charlie laid it out bare for her. He was right, of course. Him letting her know just seemed stupid. "I think a small part of me wanted you to write to me," she drank her wine, her head tilted. "Maybe grovel," she blinked. "Purely so I could tell you to go and fuck yourself." Then the voice came back, round and round, in a sing-song mocking tone; he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care. She'd seen a picture. Her dress was beautiful. They looked happy. She scrunched it up and tossed it into the bin.

A boyfriend? Hilarious! She snorted. "Oh come off it," she shook her head. "Who in the right mind would want to date this?" She complained, gesturing to herself quickly as she picked an eyelash off her cheek. "If he was going through my mail, he'd die of boredom," she joked weakly. "Just bank statements and Witch Weekly subscriptions," she mused, her eyes glancing to him quickly as she continued to drink. Charlie wasn't here for her, he was here to salve his wounds and she respected it.

The hand on her arm made her jump as she turned to face him. "Not yet," she admitted, automatically reaching out to adjust his blanket by draping it over his shoulder. "But I think it's coming." That knot of anxiety and uncertainty lurched in her stomach again. She smiled quickly with a shake of her head. "I'm beyond redemption," she joked, using her grandmother's words. Even with all his money and connections, Charlie couldn't help her out of this debacle. "I think there's a meeting to "discuss my future"," Perdita explained as she made sarcastic air quotes with her two forefingers. "So, I'm looking forward to being told I don't have one."

Finishing her bottle of wine, she pointed at his barely touched glass. "Do you want that?" Perdita asked, hinting to take it from him before she rubbed her eyes and flopped against his side, resting her head on his shoulder as she yawned.

Good. They both weren’t interested in dating the other -- in truth, Charlie wasn’t interested in dating anyone for the foreseeable future, so it might not have been exactly personal, but that was that settled and they no longer needed to let it hang between them undiscussed. If anything, he knew he should be relieved.

He laughed, a little humourlessly, at her disbelief. “It’s definitely not that high,” he said, stretching his legs out on the carpet. Just this week he’d gone two-for-two -- misses, that was. It was probably for the best, though he hadn’t necessarily thought so at the time. “Not everyone finds me as irresistible as you do,” he smirked. It said something that he hadn’t come here with the intention to break his dry spell, though he wasn’t sure exactly what the message was just yet. “But we were talking about fucking people who didn’t want anything else from us,” he said, turning his head to look at her properly and holding her gaze for a moment too long before suddenly finding a portrait on the wall incredibly fascinating.

Perdita drew his attention back easily with her admission and he tried not to let his expression betray his thoughts. She wanted him to write to her? They had never done that. They might have said they were friends just mere minutes ago, but they were mostly just being nice -- or setting the tone for the future, perhaps -- but they hadn’t been friends in the past. Friends with benefits, at most, but even then Charlie didn’t think that was really the most appropriate term. They were fuck buddies at best and a booty call at worst. He had a sip of wine and licked his lips. “Doesn’t it feel better to be able to tell me in person?” he asked jokingly, smiling weakly at her. 

Charlie grinned, shrugging. “I dunno, gotta be someone out there who likes a posh bird.” He knew the appeal, at least. Problem was, as much as it was novel, it wasn’t him. Perdita belonged with someone who liked going for afternoon tea at The Ritz, not for a round of darts down the pub. “Maybe you should wear those out more often,” he smirked, nodding at her leggings. He rolled his eyes. “I should cancel that subscription for you,” he sighed.

His dark eyes watched her warily as she adjusted the throw, conscious of her cool fingers brushing against the skin of his shoulder as he tried not to shiver at the chill that ran up his spine. He frowned sympathetically, keeping his voice lowered; “Do you?” The musician chewed on his lip, filled -- not for the first time that night -- with an overwhelming sensation of guilt. Absently, he let Perdita take the glass he’d been nursing from him. He felt her head rest against his shoulder and froze, shunted back to being someone else’s drunken pillow only a few days before.

He couldn’t be a lot of things for Perdita, but he could save her from being fired -- or he could try, at least. What was the worst that the Ministry would do? Hand him a fine? It wasn’t an imprisonable offence to have party drugs on his person. “Just tell them the truth,” he offered quietly, “well, most of it,” he added. They didn’t need to know that Perdy had let him walk, or that they had a history of sorts. “Tell them it was me, I’ll come in if I have to.”

"Crikey," Perdita whispered, her eyes wide in surprise as Charlie refuted her claim. So, he wasn't having much luck with the ladies. Had she been sober, now would be the time to attack; he gave her shit, she gave it back. The fire crackled merrily, casting weird and elongated shadows on the walls as they sat comfortably. Should she apologise? It wasn't her problem, of course. He was probably just in his own head. Performance anxiety, maybe.

Swiftly, she offered him a lazy grin. "What can I say? You're my kryptonite," she joked as she drank, feeling fuzzy and warm but things took a turn. He kept reminding her that she'd "ruined" their affair - because that was what it had ended up being. They could call it any number of things; a tryst, a hook up, a dalliance, it still didn't change anything. "Whoops," she said brightly. "My bad," she added casually, as though that wasn't the sticking point of the entire thing. She shrugged quickly. "Sorry I mistook sex for affection," she admitted with honesty. "They're interchangeable at times." She tapped the side of her head. "Daddy issues," she offered by way of an explanation.

Perdy absently rubbed at her legging-clad knee, scratching, harder than was necessary in a wayward bid to keep herself focused. She reacted to pain and Charlie knew that. Did it feel better to tell him face to face? He smiled and she smiled back. "Not really," she confessed. "I had a whole speech planned out. I was going to throw my drink at you like I was in Eastenders," she nodded. She could feel Charlie's dark eyes on her and she turned to face him. She'd bottled it. She was struggling to focus and Charlie looked a bit fuzzy around the edges now. "Feels a bit rubbish, if I'm honest," she drank more wine. "I'm not getting any satisfaction out of telling you to sling your hook. It's wildly disappointing."

In the years they'd known each other, Perdita had never been so truthful. "I'm not posh," she hiccuped and ruffled her hair, the dark strands messy and unkempt. "It's all smoke and mirrors," she told him, waving the fingers of the hand not holding her bottle like a magician. Perdita was born in the next borough over from Charlie - maybe he'd forgotten or maybe he didn't want any strings holding them together.

Perdita pulled a face at the mention of her clothing. "I'm throwing these into a sacrificial bonfire," she nodded to show she was serious. "They're comfy, though. I honestly wonder why I keep forcing myself into dresses when I could be slobbing in these bad boys," she twanged the elastic for added effect before she let out a strangled noise of exasperation. "If you cancel, how am I supposed to know which socialite to avoid that week?"

As sanctimonious as Perdita was, she loved a chippy tea and salacious gossip as much as the next girl. He offered the glass and she took it, draining most of the wine as she scratched her nose. Charlie stiffened at her touch but she was unperturbed. She moved, lifting her head and tilting it so she was close to his face, slightly cross-eyed as she tried to focus on him in their close proximity. She sniffed the air around his head curiously. He smelled nice.

She nodded as she scooted away to a respectful distance now that she'd stolen his wine. She either jumped or she'd get pushed out. She could tell the truth. She laughed. "Ooh I'd rather go down with the ship," she quipped cheerfully. If she said she knew Charlie, people would ask how she knew Charlie. She agreed not to mention anything to the papers and she hadn't. It didn't matter what had transpired but she wasn't going to squeeze the trigger. Perdita couldn't tell the truth. In her wine-drunk state, it still seemed pathetic; she'd let Charlie go because he was still in her head. She was looking out for herself.

"I broke protocol, not you," she reminded him gently. "I did the stupid thing. I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time." She turned to look at him before away, just as quickly. She didn't even like her job. It was stuffy and boring and she wasn't even that good at it. She didn't have any friends, except Mary. She wiggled her bare toes as the fire warmed them up before the wine sloshed in her empty stomach. In the grand scheme of things, Charlie might have actually done her a favour.

"It's just that I got that job on my own, you know?" She asked to no one in particular, her voice soft as she stared into space. "No help. All me. It gave me a routine every day." She frowned. "I'm not used to failing," her voice was steady, if not a little mocking. "I could have easily gone down the party girl route like everyone else does." The circles she moved in, drugs and alcohol were abundant because no one dared to tell people like her no.

Despite that, she offered Charlie a tipsy smile. "I like this," she told the taller man, tapping the shoulder closer to her twice. "The knight in shining armour." She tilted her head. "It won't fix things and you don't need to be tabloid fodder." She'd seen the girl he was with in the paper and she was beautiful. She couldn't remember her name - Annie? Alexandra? Abelina? Perdita wanted to ask her what shampoo she used. Resting her chin on her knee again, she offered Charlie another smile. "Though," she added quickly, "Of all the people to defend my honour, I never thought it would be you."

Charlie kept his eyes on Perdita, mostly out of some strange inclination that if he looked away now he’d be giving something away. He couldn’t see how anyone would take what they had done for genuine affection; he would turn up in the dead of night, have sex with her, and leave. Yes, there was the friendly banter in the lead-up, but he would hardly call it a substitute for real romance -- it was verbal foreplay and nothing more. He glanced away now, now that she had attributed her issues to her father (he couldn’t say he understood that whole thing either), unwilling to say anything that could incriminate him further.

“You can throw it at me if you want,” he offered with a lazy smile and a half-shrug, “already wet enough. I’ll even stand in the kitchen so it doesn’t get all over your carpet,” He turned his focus to pick at a thread on the blanket, then laughed lightly at her assessment. “Sorry,” he mumbled with a grin.

“Pff, alright,” he scoffed. “You might’ve been born up north but you’re still fucking posh,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “And you shouldn’t try not to be,” he added, a little more gently. “When has any bloke waxed lyrical about the girl from Hull who sounds like a fishmonger’s wife?” he joked, adjusting in his blanket and drawing one leg up with a bent knee. “You suit all of this,” he gestured at the room around them, his eyes casting about it.

Charlie laughed again. “Your decision,” he said, “but I think you should keep them.” He smirked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sure you’d manage.”

He kept his head facing forward as he felt Perdita sniff (literally) around him like some big cat playing with its dinner. She had been drunk in his presence before (more than once), but she was absolutely trollied now. His eyes flicked to the wine he’d given her and he wondered if he ought to have let her have it. She drew back and he cleared his throat softly, shifting his position on the carpet.

“Am I the ‘stupid thing’?” he smirked at her teasingly, before his face fell a bit more serious. “You weren’t, I was, but--” he sighed, “Have a sleep on it, see how you feel in the morning,” he offered. If she even remembered him being here at all it would be a small miracle, but maybe she would, and maybe she would choose to hand him over to save her job -- didn’t he owe her at least that much?

Charlie nodded, if only to keep her happy that he was listening. He wasn’t a shoulder to lean on (except in the physical sense), so he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Well done for getting a job like the rest of us? Except, Charlie wasn’t the rest of us either, much as he liked to stand on his high horse about it around people like Perdita. He’d had one real job in his life and had he not gotten lucky with the band, he’d probably still be serving people pints and mopping up sticky floors at the end of the night.

I like this. Charlie turned to look at her, his eyes a little wide. He let out an amused noise and looked away, his cheeks warming just slightly. “Didn’t you call me a twat in tinfoil not long ago?” he asked, turning back to meet her. “I’m already tabloid fodder, what’s one more headline gonna hurt?” he said with a wry smile. “Maybe the drugs’ll take the attention off the divorce for a few days.” He sighed and ran his hand through his drying hair. He glanced at her again. “Well, that’s--” he coughed into his shoulder, “Don’t go telling everyone. Got a reputation to maintain haven’t I?”

She smiled quickly at his comment. "I would," she ruffled her hair. "But I've drank all my wine," she admitted, nodding to the now-empty bottle and the glass. A small part of Perdita really did want to get mad at him, like any of it was his fault to begin with. She didn't like the word closure - it was vulgar and American - but tonight had been a rollercoaster and she was tired. Distractedly, she watched Charlie's fingers pull at a thread and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stop because it was an expensive blanket. See? She was showing restraint.

Her full lips parted to fight him on her upbringing but she closed them, defeated. Despite being drunk, she had a shock of clarity. She downplayed her privilege simply to draw parallels with him because if they were similar, he might be more inclined to want to spend more time with her. "Stupid," she blurted out quickly. "Me, not you," she was hasty to clarify. She snorted sharply. "Hull is lovely," she added delicately, catching Charlie's drift but it sat uncomfortably on her shoulders.

She nodded in agreement as he spoke, his eyes drifting to the crown moldings and plush furnishings. "Might as well embrace it," Perdita acquiesced with a lazy shrug. "I can't outrun it. My reputation precedes me," she added gently with wide, unfocused eyes. The disparity between them was growing with every second he sat next to her. But Christ. How many girls had altered themselves to catch his attention? Perdita was completely lost. She didn't really know who she was any more.

"You're not stupid," she smiled back at Charlie, appreciating him making light of a pretty dire situation. "But maybe," she mused, her lips down turning in a frown. Perdita didn't like to admit that she was wrong but they did do a stupid thing. "Yeah." She finally admitted. She didn't think he'd be offended. The mention of sleep made her recline against the sofa, the warmth of the flames lulling her as she nodded. Sleep on it. Think about it. She really was tired, she noticed as a wave of sleepiness washed over her. She wasn't sure any amount of wine would untangle what was going on inside her head.

She looked at him sharply, eyebrows arched as she set the empty bottle down between them. "Did I?" Perdy asked in mild surprise. "Well, that doesn't sound like me at all," she purred with a smile as she rolled her eyes.

Charlie looked at her and her smile dropped, looking more sympathetic. That was the rule, though; don't mention his girlfriend. Wife. Ex wife. "So it's really going through, then?" Her voice was soft. She couldn't really sympathise with him. She'd never been in love before, let alone having that union broken. She was supposed to do something. Comfort him, call his ex-wife a bitch, pat his head, do something but she just sat there. She cleared her throat as she shifted. "Well. If you ever need someone to talk to," the offer hung in the air before she smiled. "I'm not the person for the job," she joked. What a mess.

In a very un-Perdita like turn of events, she took no pleasure in his hurt. Once upon a time, she might have delighted in it, she may have found a sick sort of glee in seeing Charlie's relationship crumble around him. He didn't care about her wellbeing so it was like a giant two fingers up at him but she couldn't find it in her to gloat. Slowly and cautiously, she reached out a hand to gently pat his shoulder.

The moment passed as quickly as it arrived and she let out a sigh of relief. She made the motion of locking her lips and tossing the key over her shoulder, offering Charlie a salute. "Your secret's safe with me," she replied lightly. His profile was fuzzy now, soft and warm, the usual planes of his jaw rounded. She squinted. "One more drink?" It was more of a question to herself than him. She shifted, one hand on the sofa behind his head as she struggled to stand upright. She wobbled. "Which way is the kitchen? Ah." She pointed to the doorway but stopped suddenly. "I don't think I feel very well."

Charlie looked from Perdita’s face to the empty glass that had been his (and nearly full) a few moments ago and his eyes went wide. Shit, he hadn’t even noticed her guzzle that down. How was she still coherent?

Perhaps he had spoken too soon. He looked at her sharply at her small outburst, then relaxed into a lopsided smile. Hull was lovely, apparently. “Were you this drunk when you visited?” That was the only explanation for thinking so. Then again, he wasn’t passing judgement on Hull itself, just the women that came out of it. “You should,” he agreed. “I like it,” he offered quietly, a tiny smirk playing across his lips. “‘Specially the way ‘naughty' sounds in Queen’s English,” he teased.

Charlie laughed. “Thanks.” He let his head hang a little, avoiding her gaze. Neither of them were an innocent party, but Charlie knew he should bear the majority of the blame -- he’d been the one in a relationship, and he hadn’t been fully explicit about that the first time they’d slept together, so no wonder he’d managed to convince her it was fine to continue. What the girlfriend didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her -- except he should have known it would come out eventually.

“You did,” he smiled wryly. “Very out of character.”

Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to bring up Kate, even if it was now, when he was no longer with her, and when he was no longer sleeping with Perdita. “I-- yeah.” He cleared his throat softly, looking down at the rug under his toes. “Already gone through,” he said; what would it hurt to tell her the truth? She probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning anyway, hopefully. Charlie lifted his head to look at her with another teasing smirk. “Your notice must’ve got lost in the post."

She offered to not talk to him about it and he laughed again, breathily. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiled, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead. He froze as her fingers patted his shoulder gently; his dark eyes flicked to meet hers curiously. She had every right to slap him, and here she was drunkenly attempting to comfort him. The brunette witch mimed locking his ‘secret’ away, all but confirming his theory that she was likely too inebriated to have a reliable memory about anything from tonight. His lips stretched into a crooked grin. “Great, knew I could count on you,” he joked.

She moved then, and Charlie thought for a split second that she was going to lean over him and he wasn't sure how good of a job he could do at resisting temptation. When he realised she was trying to get to her feet he got up on his knees quickly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he carefully put his arms around her to help -- she looked like she was about to topple over. “I don’t think--” His eyes grew wide. “You gonna be sick?” he asked, a little more used to helping out with this sort of thing since being in a committed (for a time) relationship. He bit his lip as he watched her face, searching for the telltale signs of someone about to vomit without warning. “Come on,” he coaxed her gently, leading her into the hallway with small steps. He paused, glanced down the corridor to the kitchen, then to the stairwell. “D’you wanna go to bed?”

The brief trip down memory lane made Perdita wrinkle her nose delicately. "Probably," she answered Charlie honestly with a shrug. She didn't remember a lot. It was a port city, there was an aquarium. It had been wet and the pavement was slippy. "I didn't understand what anyone was saying," she admitted with wide eyes. She liked Charlie's accent. Though similar, it wasn't the same. His was softer, more rounded and gentle. "There was so much real ale up there," she pulled a face. "I had really bad heartburn. Fish and chips were tip-top though," she added she added in a chef's kiss to prove her point.

Looking at Charlie quickly, she grinned before shaking her head. "Naughty," she echoed, forcing the inappropriate and wayward fizzle in the pit of her stomach down at his comment. She couldn't tell if it was the warmth of the fire, the alcohol or his presence that made her cheeks feel warm.
 
They were joking but it wasn't the same. Sadness prickled at the edges of her consciousness but she smiled again because it wasn't bad - it was just...different. They flirted all of the time because it was easy but it provided Perdita with a barrier. If she was playful, he'd play along. If there was the faintest whiff of seriousness between them, they both cut it short. She nodded in response. "Must schedule that lobotomy," she mused. She was drunk and tired and too prone to falling back into her old ways.

Her smile was still in place but it dulled slightly as Charlie confirmed his divorce was finalised. Anxiously, she pulled at her top lip, just at the Cupid's bow, an action she hadn't done since she was very small. Perdita wanted to be there for him - truly, she did - but she could only offer him the physical. He had a mountain to climb. They'd have to split assets like the house and their earnings and his band would be without a manager. God, he was so silly to get things so tangled.

"Congratulations?" She offered in a soft voice, her dark blue eyes sparkling in jest in what she hoped he'd take as a genuine effort to be nice. He was fragile and anything she did wouldn't help. "I'd smack some sense into you but you'd like that too much," she smiled again, looking away from him as she heaved a sigh. They made quite a pair.

Laughter bubbled up without warning. "Bloody Hell, Charlie," she whispered softly, half in amazement and half in frustration. This was too easy. It had always been too easy. Here he was in his underwear in her townhouse and again, it was easy. He was hurting and she was full of wine but she'd be lying to herself if she said she wasn't tempted. One for old time's sake or something equally as damaging.

Perdita felt the heat from his arms as they wrapped around her waist to support her and she laughed before she frowned. "Noooo," she assured Charlie gently as he asked if she was about to vom. She'd done a lot of embarrassing things before but throwing up in front of an international rockstar was definitely a step too far. Her pride wouldn't allow her.

"Just a bit woozy," she explained with a nod of her head that made her stomach lurch. "Room's spinning," she decided to tell Charlie and she blamed him for that, too. His next comment, however, made the room promptly stop. Looking down at him, she grinned slowly. "Why Mr. Baker, I do declare!" She replied in her best old-timey-Hollywood-actress voice. But yes, she did want to go to bed. She was all over the shop and as he moved her, she toddled along.

"Take me to bed," Perdita demanded as they walked, him treating her like an elderly lady and her completely off her face as she flung an arm in the direction of the staircase .She placed one foot on the bottom stair and it gave the familiar creak beneath her weight, her hand clumsily feeling for the bannister or one of his limbs before she missed her footing. "Motherfuc--" Perdita groaned as she stumped her toe, balling her hands into fists as she swallowed the swear word with effort. "I'm usually much sexier than this," she told Charlie matter-of-factly. "You know," she added as she flapped a hand around in the air as though dismissing the last six months of her life.