wandering limbs [harlan]

Present company? Harlan leisurely scanned the room, briefly over the shoulder, before turning back to Bérénice (coincidentally by way of legs). There was a hint of a question in the blues of his eyes, but it lasted only a moment before his furrowed brow gave way to a grin. "Give me a bit of credit," He tutted.

He was perfectly capable of behaving himself, thank you very much.

Shifting again as she took a step forward, he tried to focus on her question instead of her proximity, or the way that she was looking at him, but that was easier said than done. It felt almost as if she was she was asking questions that she already knew the answer to, testing him in some way. He had nothing to feel guilty about, he'd done nothing wrong— so why did he? Harlan shook away his thoughts and cleared his throat, sitting back with an elbow atop the back of the armchair.

"It is," He began. Well, sort of— though he got the feeling it was more of a rhetorical question, so he left it at that. Clearly he struggled still with talking about it— his relationship. Any relationship, really. Since Arya, he'd gotten so used to people avoiding the topic, and in turn him doing the same, that it became a foreign subject now. He didn't know where to even begin. How did people just casually bring this sort of thing up? And when was the right time?

"Surely because of the whole Portree-jumper-in-the-Griffins-box bit?" Harlan shook his head. "I've heard she wasn't quiet about it, either," He couldn't help but grin now. He hadn't expected anything different— at least she was consistent in her loyalty to her team. "And you didn't take her up on it?" His raised brow insinuated surprise given their earlier conversation.

"And you? Did the librarian make it along?" Harlan hadn't meant it in a demeaning way, either, he just didn't know the bloke's name. He wasn't sure why exactly but bringing up her own relationship, in turn, felt like the safest option. Two friends talking about their significant others. He had almost bought into too before he held her gaze for just a moment too long. At once, his grin didn't quite meet his eye.

“I am,” she replied, holding his gaze.

He reclined on his good arm and Bérénice let her eyes drift down over him unreservedly. As her focus came back up to his face, she lifted her glass to her mouth and had a long, measured drink. She could look. Looking wasn't doing anything.

It was her real name. How strange. Bérénice thought it sounded more like something one would call a pet, rather than their child – maybe it was a Scottish thing. The Frenchwoman gave a soft shrug. “That was part of it,” Bérénice replied honestly, making a mental note to tread carefully. “Not particularly.” Harlan grinned and Nice let a smile stretch across her full lips; she wasn’t sure if he was proud of his girlfriends behaviour or amused by it, but it was safer to play along than to display an obvious dislike of the other woman.

“I didn’t,” the brunette admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear. She sipped a little more whisky. “Didn’t take her up on the offer of her brother, either,” Nice said, her brows rising.

Harlan wasn’t stupid, and if she had brought up his girlfriend it was only fair for him to do the same. The librarian. “No, he didn’t,” Bérénice replied simply – intentionally vague – her voice lower now. Harlan didn’t need to know more, and she got the distinct feeling he didn’t really care to. They hadn’t broken eye contact in too long, and Bérénice had forgotten all about being mad at him. She moved half a step closer, his crossed over leg the only barrier keeping her from slinking between his knees. “I came alone.” She finished her glass.

It worked in his favor that Bérénice seemed to want to keep the conversation about his relationship as brief as he did— her responses short, reaction visibly metered. Harlan couldn't quite work out why she had reason to, but he had a few ideas in mind. Personally, he was just happy for the subject of conversation to move away from his private life, that he very much like to keep just that— private.

"Fergie?" Harlan let out a laugh, the question rhetorical given she only had the one brother to pawn off. Honey had long been on the quest to get her brother laid, and said as much, so it didn't come as a surprise. With Nice, though...

"Not your type," He remarked thoughtfully over his drink before taking a sip through a smirk. Truthfully, he had no idea if she even had a "type" at all. He only knew her to be in the one long term relationship.

Was this librarian character— the one she was actually dating— like Henri, he wondered? Her ex-fiancé was brave, an Auror, naturally, and impossibly charming. Both of their families loved him. Even Harlan had admittedly enjoyed the man's company at the odd event that they were thrown together. Then he cheated, and that was that.

Apart from the books, and his understandably lacking interest in Griffin's quidditch, this new one was a mystery. "What, not a fan?" Harlan asked, trying again to think about anything but from the next step forward she took. He shifted to accommodate the smaller gap between them and uncrossed his leg. There was a part of him that wanted to find out more about the bloke, but at the moment he was forgetting just why that was.

"Either way, I hope you enjoyed yourself," Harlan cleared his throat, opting to not comment on the fact that she had finished her drink before him and instead followed suit, draining his own glass of its contents. He meant it as well. "You should come to all our games if you keep bringing that kind of luck," If they could win like that every game, The Griffins would be well on their way.

“I didn’t get his name,” Bérénice confessed, not overly interested in talking about Harlan’s girlfriend’s brother—

Unless... “Oh?” she raised an eyebrow at him, an amused smirk on her lips. “And what’s my type?” she questioned him quietly, curious what her type was according to him. Bérénice knew what her type was, for the most part, and from the brief glances at Honey’s brother, he wasn’t quite it – pleasant enough to look at, but a little timid. She wouldn’t say no to him being a couple of inches taller, either.

She had hoped in dropping the conversation about his girlfriend quickly that Harlan would do her the same courtesy – apparently not. The former healer shrugged softly again, rather than answer him. She didn’t know if Will was a fan, only that his father had spoken to ‘someone’ who worked for the Griffins – presumably management – for that charity auction. Weren’t most witches and wizards at least loose fans of quidditch though? Nice hadn’t invited Will because she hadn’t wanted to complicate things – and maybe because she hadn’t wanted Harlan to meet him, and vice-versa.

Harlan lowered the leg blocking her path and Bérénice lifted her eyes to meet his again. She watched him finish his drink, a small smile playing across her lips. “I did,” she half-lied. It had been enjoyable up until the point she had met his Scottish woman, at least. Minus the cold weather, as well, but she could blame that on Scotland too. She glanced at Harlan’s empty glass and wondered if that had been Scottish whisky (most likely, it was the best, wasn’t it?). She supposed she could concede to one good thing coming out of Scotland.

Then he suggested she keep attending his games and Bérénice gazed at him; he had attributed his good luck to her, not his girlfriend. Whether he meant it or not was irrelevant – he’d said it, and that was enough for her to read into. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before stepping into the space between his legs. “If you want me to,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on his.

Harlan could have guessed that she would ask, what was her type, according to him? He paused to think. A certain trope came to mind. "The hero," the mischievous grin that pulled at his mouth betrayed his attempt at nonchalance. He didn't want to bring up Henri directly, but he fit quite nicely into what Harlan had in mind. "You know—" he ventured, uncertain if she actually did, or if this was all in his head. "—prince charming out to save the world—" he put on his best theatrical voice but quickly sat back. "—with just a bit of the villain in there, too..." he teased, more quietly now.

He tried, and failed, not to compare himself. He identified more with the villain these days.

If Bérénice really had enjoyed the match she sure as hell was playing it down. Harlan tried to keep his frown internalized, and instead studied her as she took a step, then another. At once, he couldn't quite remember why it even mattered at all. "I'm glad," he managed, dropping his gaze to the empty glass and wishing he hadn't finished it in such haste. He could have really used the distraction.

There were a few things that Harlan could think of that he wanted, but only a few pertained to Quidditch now. Again, what was real and what was in his head blurred together in a dizzying and fantastic amalgamation. Was he just being selfish, greedy, even? Almost definitely.

Now that she was right in front of him, as close as she could be without actually being in his lap, Harlan looked up at Bérénice. It was strange to see from that position— he wasn't sure that he ever had before. It was like he was looking at someone else entirely. Almost as a reflex, Harlan's free hand touched to her side, gliding over the fabric of her dress before flexing, feeling it move atop her body.

Bad idea.

Clearing his throat, Harlan started to stand, to remove himself before he went too far down a path that there would be no coming back from. "Another drink?" his voice was heavy. He paused in front of her, unable to make himself take that next step. "I— sorry," He started, then stopped, attempting to side-step so that they weren't so face on. His hand fell to her side to direct her as such. Most of him wanted to get out of there before he did something that he couldn't take back, but another part of him couldn't help it.

The hero. Bérénice smirked softly – appreciating his dramatics. “Just a bit,” she echoed back at him, her tone somewhere between questioning and agreeing. He was right, though, and she wasn’t sure if that pleased her or annoyed her. Or indeed, if the Prince Charming part of his assessment irked her too. She wasn’t the same naive romantic she had been as a younger woman and she wanted Harlan to know that.

He lifted his chin to look at her and Bérénice felt a surge of current flow from her core out to her extremities, right to her fingertips and her toes. It drew back in and pulsed in her chest as his hand reached out and gripped her side in a mirror of their last encounter. This had always been the way, hadn’t it? Lingering gazes, not quite platonic touches. She could understand – their timing had always been a little off, just as it was now, but at what point did they disregard all of that?

Harlan cleared his throat, effectively breaking their contact as he got to his feet. Bérénice only stepped back enough to allow him room to stand and no further. She was too close – figuratively and literally – to give up now.

Another drink could be a distraction, or it could be an invitation, and she couldn’t quite work out which way he was leaning but she thought she could pull him where she wanted with little effort. The hypnotist stood her ground and Harlan came over uncharacteristically flustered – it was usually her apologising over nothing. Something about his shift in demeanour egged her on.

His hand fell upon her waist again and the brunette quickly moved hers – the one not holding her empty glass – atop his to anchor it there, reassure him that this was what she wanted, and to stop him from removing it again. Her warm brown eyes remained fixed on his light blue gaze. “Harlan,” she murmured, sliding her hand up over the back of his wrist, trailing up his forearm before skipping his bicep, her fingers threading into the hair at the base of his neck to encourage him down to her level. Bérénice pressed her lips to his.

Time was moving too swiftly. One moment, he had his hands to himself and the next he was doing everything in his power to keep them as such. His action in nature had been innocent, to move her out of the way so that he could avoid a misstep— anything that he might regret— but it had ended up giving him more pause than he cared to admit, his hand clung to her waist. It didn't help, of course, that she was seemingly allowing him, pulling him in.

Then she said his name.

Harlan may as well have fallen into the floor. This was unlike any time in the thousands that she had, said his name, that she had said it in that way. He had little time to dwell on the matter, though, because in another instant she was pressed against him, her lips being the least of his identifiable concern. It wasn't a new thing, being so close to her, but had been quite some time. In fact, he only just remembered it then, their time together when they were younger.

His free hand moved all too easily around her waist, reacting to having been pulled closer, doing the same in return. The touch lingered atop the small of her back for a moment before venturing lower as he dipped into her kiss. Harlan allowed himself only a fraction of a second of indulgence before pulling back, his hand taking longer to coincide, holding to her backside for a moment too long.

The sound of people in the house, the caterers most likely, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Fuck, sorry—" He repeated pressing himself into the side of her neck for a breath. He was sorry for more than one reason, too. Harlan finally stepped aside to break them apart and made his way to dry bar, pouring himself more than a standard drink.

Despite wanting to melt immediately into him Bérénice remained tense up until the moment she felt him respond -- anxious that he would reject her -- but his hand smoothed from her back down to her backside and he leaned into the kiss, and she allowed herself to press against him for what simultaneously felt like minutes and seconds -- before he broke them apart.

The brunette gazed up at him, unmoving, then stared past him as he curled his head into her neck. The hand on the back of his slid up, threading her fingers into his hair and gripping softly. What was she doing? They had literally both just acknowledged their other halves. She shook her head gently and he pulled away.

Bérénice turned, half-sitting on the arm he’d just vacated. “Harlan, I’m—” She focused on the back of his head as he poured himself a drink, her fingers tightening around the crystal glass in her hand. “I’m sorry,” she apologised quietly. “I shouldn’t have—” Shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have ambushed him in the stables, or followed him up to the house to linger while he showered. Shouldn’t have said yes to a drink (not that one on its own had done anything to uninhibit her). Shouldn’t have cornered him, or kissed him.

She could hear voices from beyond the doorway and it reminded her that they weren’t as alone as she had thought they were. “I should go,” she said, mostly to herself. The witch stood, went to leave before stopping. She set her empty glass on a side table and lifted her chin to glance at him one last time -- met his gaze, and hesitated.

Bérénice's hand that pulled his hair where it met the back of his neck sent a shiver involuntarily down his spine— again almost prompting Harlan to push himself against her, closer. But he couldn't. And they couldn't. He pulled himself away with each limb taking longer than the next to untangle.

He wished that he could blame it on a healing potion, or the whiskey, but he hadn't enough of either to even be a consideration. If he were being honest with himself, and that would take some time, he knew where it was going the moment they stepped inside his family home. Had he wanted it to, go that way? The thought plagued him. The two of them had been treading a very thin line as of late.

"Fuck—" Harlan repeated under his breath as he stepped away from her. With his free hand, he pushed his hair back but immediately regretted doing so so soon after she had touched him there. Was everything going to serve as a reminder now? He tried to tune out her voice with the sound of the drink pouring, but it only became louder in his head. It wasn't her fault. None of it was. He knew what he was doing, even if he wasn't going to admit it.

"It's alright," He finally turned back, she was closer than she had been just moments before, and his face softened. The weight of what they'd done hit him again when he thought of Honey, of her partner. Harlan had been doing so well for so long (well long, for him) that he almost believed he might not fuck this one up.

Apparently not.

"We'll just— " Forget it happened? He began, then stopped to let out a sigh, shaking his head. That wasn't possible, not anymore. This was about more than just that moment, and he was beginning to come to terms with that. "— right, then," He looked to the door briefly and pictured the caterers inside. Under any other circumstances, he would have offered to walk her out, but that wasn't a good idea now.

Harlan swore again and it hit Bérénice more like he’d shouted it than muttered it. She stood, planted to the spot, her hands awkwardly folded together in front of her lap.

It wasn’t alright and they both knew it. She could see in his face the same expression she was sure she was wearing. It hadn’t felt wrong, but it was. Wasn’t it? How had she gone from being heartbroken by Henri cheating on her, to doing the very same thing to Will? Well, perhaps not the very same thing -- it was just a kiss. But it didn’t feel like just a kiss.

Bérénice wanted to ask what they would just – but as much as she wanted to know, she was scared too. She didn't want to be rejected and embarrassed by Harlan. Better that they left this alone before one of them did something to really regret.

The brunette witch nodded softly and dropped her gaze. “I’ll see myself out,” she said quietly, turning to leave -- again -- before stopping -- again --  at the door to meet his eyes one last time, her hand on the frame as she paused. “Ice your shoulder,” she instructed softly, then disappeared through the hall, out of the grand entrance, and across the gravel path.


END