it's hard to do these things alone [honey]

20 june 2003

Charlie had arrived forty-five minutes or so ago, spent the first fifteen of those talking to Fergie -- the birthday boy -- then spent the next thirty making small talk with a woman who was a big fan. He had considered not coming for two reasons; one was because of the propensity for this to happen (and that wasn’t his ego talking) and the other was because of Honey. But Honey had asked if he was coming, and then he couldn’t help himself.

He escaped, finally, with the excuse that he needed to use the bathroom (had half expected his new friend to follow him). Charlie entered the small corridor that led to the toilet, and with his attention still over his shoulder walked straight into--

“Honey--” he breathed, grabbing her upper arms automatically to stabilise her from where he’d nearly bowled her over. “Sorry,” he mumbled, letting go after a moment and taking a step back. He had seen her milling around, her bright red hair acting like a beacon (when you were avoiding something it just drew you in more, didn’t it?), but had made a point of not approaching her to try and keep the whole ‘friends’ thing going (it worked best from a respectable distance). He hadn’t missed that her boyfriend wasn’t here though; Charlie had either arrived after Harlan’s bedtime, or the other man hadn’t come at all (wishful thinking was that he hadn’t been invited, or -- even better -- had been uninvited).

“Where’s--” He stopped himself before he could finish the question. He didn’t want to talk about Harlan, or Kate, or Alannah, or anyone else. His eyes drifted down over her; he was unused to seeing Honey out of boxy knitted jumpers lately, much less in a dress. He wet his lips. “Drink?” he said instead of opening a dialogue on their respective others, forcing his eyes up to meet hers.


@Honey Bea Flume

Honey had cleared the ‘be responsible’ part of the night; she had made the cake -- it had physically pained her to put carrots into cake but it was his birthday -- and seen to Fergie getting the first piece. Grace had needed to leave early, get back to work, but not without properly fussing over Honey first, despite her insistence that she was fine. She’d had a drink (or three) since.

Flying solo was nothing new for her; she and Harlan had broken up -- mutually, she claimed now -- but she wasn’t to the point of being desperate (or sad) enough to shag any of this lot and Fergie had offered his couch to her -- though really she hoped he’d have a different sort of guest hanging back for the night -- so she didn’t need to apparate (or, more likely, find out she was desperate enough). Regardless, she’d finished two drinks since she had spotted Charlie across the room; she’d been chatting up a (boring but attractive) ministry bloke for the past half hour, passing time ‘til her next refill.

She excused herself after another few minutes (his looks couldn’t quite compensate for his unending interest in competitive gobstones; where did Fergie find these people?) to grab a drink, changed course to go freshen up her lipstick when he said he needed a refill, too. Her lipstick was perfectly fine but Honey made a beeline for Fergie’s bedroom (closed doors weren’t exactly ‘no trespassing’ warnings for sisters) and stalled for a couple minutes, snooping around as one does to pass the time.

Honey gave it another minute or two -- couldn’t be too careful -- before heading back to the hall, closing the door behind her with a glance back over her shoulder to make sure it was closed all the-- her head snapped back to front and center as she walked right into someone, clearly not paying attention to where they were going (or that Honey was also not paying any attention). “Watch it—“ she moved automatically to guard her drink but found her hands empty; she didn’t have time to figure out where she had left it, too preoccupied with the realization of who she had run into. “Charlie, I—“ she paused as he took a step back. “S’fine.”

Where’s-- She nearly wanted him to finish that question, to ask her where Harold was so she could tell him what had happened and that she didn’t know where he was but she sure knew where he wasn’t. But not asking worked, too. She watched him look at her; she tried to smooth down the fabric of her skirt on the side of her thigh without being too obvious about it, give her hands something to do; failing that -- being sly -- she moved her hands to tuck her hair behind her ears.

“Yeah,” she said without hesitation, adding a nod. “I’ve lost mine.” Neither of them moved right away and after a beat, Honey pointed over her shoulder toward Fergie’s bedroom. “I know where he keeps the good stuff.” She’d just seen it a couple minutes ago in his wardrobe, clearly hidden away so the partygoers couldn’t partake. She turned after another second and headed back through the closed door, pulling open the wardrobe and grabbing a bottle of whisky without much ceremony.

Honey smoothed her skirt and Charlie wasn’t well-trained enough to not follow the movement of her hand with his eyes. He glanced back up as she tucked her hair away. “Same,” he said, though he hadn’t even managed to get one yet. That other girl had accosted him the moment he’d left Fergie’s side and he hadn’t dared mention wanting a drink in case she had taken it as an invitation (he wasn’t that desperate, yet).

His eyebrows rose when she pointed to the door behind her -- a door which, he assumed, led to a bedroom. “Er, yeah.” He nodded belatedly, with a little added enthusiasm to make up for the lack of it in his answer. He and Honey and bedrooms weren’t a good recipe for behaving -- being friends -- but he’d been doing alright so far, hadn’t he?

Charlie followed the redhead into what he (correctly) assumed to be Fergie’s bedroom and closed the door behind them -- in hindsight, the moment he did it he realised that was probably a bad idea too, but he didn’t want anyone joining them on their way to the toilet, especially not if his new friend came looking to see where he’d gotten to.

Honey was already pulling the whisky from inside Fergie’s wardrobe when he turned to face her -- wedged between what looked like some very cute jumpers (maybe Mrs Flume knitted) and another that was the same bright pink Honey had been wearing at that Quidditch game last month. “Erm.” Charlie gestured something that was vaguely meant to resemble glasses but really didn’t come even close. “Cups or straight from the bottle?” He clarified after a moment; he knew which he’d rather, and he also knew the likelihood of Fergie bringing anyone into his bedroom while he had guests was low-- but there he was, again, taking this from friendly territory. Or, giving Honey the option at least.

Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to suggest they rejoin the party now that they had the good stuff. He wet his lips and withdrew one hand from his pocket to scratch at the side of his nose, trying to subtly give Honey a once-over before she got too close and it would be more obvious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her dressed-- well, undressed. Technically she was in a dress, but it didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination -- not that he needed to use his when it came to Honey. The bubblegum hue almost had him asking how her Quidditch team were doing, but again, something was stopping him from bringing up anything even remotely related to her boyfriend.

“How’s things?” he settled on, taking the drink offered to him and trying not to read into how tipsy she already appeared, without her boyfriend here to mind her.

Charlie closed the door behind them; they were just friends but the door started out closed, should end closed, would only draw more attention if it was open. It was better that Fergie couldn’t -- wouldn’t know to -- ask questions, even if nothing was happening.

She raised her eyebrows as he mimed something -- he was just as good with his hands as she was -- to no avail. “Oh, er--” he clarified it was cups he was after. Honey took her eyes off him long enough to scan the room as if by some miracle Fergie would keep a stash of cups back here (any charms work she could attempt now would be subpar and she didn’t want to rejoin the party so soon) and found something almost as good: her abandoned drink from a few minutes earlier. She moved around to the other side of the bed -- she’d made the full circuit while snooping -- and picked up the glass from the little side table. It was mostly melted ice at this point so she drained what was left and presented the empty glass with a flourish. “We can share this one.”

Honey set the glass back down to work the cork out of the bottle. She managed after a few more seconds, too focused on pouring enough for the two of them to try and start a conversation. Charlie wasn’t much better at it -- the conversation -- but given what they’d talked about last time it wasn’t that much of a surprise. Honey set the bottle down and picked up the glass, which was maybe a little full; whisky sloshed over the rim and Honey switched hands, taking a large sip and wiping her other hand on her dress. 

Her fingers brushed his only briefly as she handed him the glass; she figured it was all the alcohol she had already had (and not the loss of any underlying motivation) that it didn’t distract her as much as usual. “Things are great.” She tried to play it down, probably drew more attention to it than if she hadn’t bothered. “I—“ she started again, but stopped, thinking better of it.

He didn’t need to know about Harlan; they were friends but most of her actual friends didn’t know; that, and Honey assumed she knew what would happen if (or when) Charlie found out. It’d be so easy for them to fall back into things and that’d just be proving Harlan (among others) right about her, which was the last thing she wanted. “Things are great,” she said again, with less sarcasm (she thought). “Work’s been busy,” she added, taking a seat on the edge of Fergie’s bed, holding out her hand for their shared drink. “End of the school year, all that.” That ought to be enough explanation, she thought.

”You?” she thought she would have heard if he was sleeping with his ex-wife again but she asked anyway;  morbid curiosity, or something.

In the past Honey had always been a dab hand with her wand and conjuring anything alcohol-related -- such as glasses, ice, and so on -- but she was either too drunk to trust herself to perform magic, or too drunk to remember that she could. Whichever it was, Charlie was happy to go along with sharing -- not that they really needed the excuse to touch, but…

He watched her pour; his dark eyes roaming over her in the warm glow offered by Fergie’s bedside lamp. If he was really trying to behave, he would have turned the big light on, but when had behaving ever been a habit for him? Besides, light seeping out under the door would just draw attention to them being in here. Honey handed him the glass -- almost overflowing -- and Charlie took it carefully in both hands. His eyes flicked up to meet hers as she answered him. His expression was neutral (he thought), but it was hard not to feel an unfamiliar pang of concern in the way she said great.

She seemed to cotton on, because she repeated herself -- with a little more conviction. “Good,” he replied, nodding into the glass as he took a sizeable sip. He had a long way to go to catch up with her, but he wasn’t against trying. “Right, yeah.” Shit, it was almost July. It hit him suddenly that so much had happened in the space of a year, and it took him a minute to hand the glass back to Honey where she was now sat on the edge of the bed.

In a light daze, he sat beside her as he passed the whisky over. He smoothed his hands down over his jeans. “Er, yeah. Better, I think.” Better than the last time he’d seen her, at least. Not that that was hard to do. He glanced sidelong at her, realised how close they were, and decided to busy himself with looking around Fergie’s room instead.

There wasn’t a whole lot to see, so his tour quickly came back around to her. “Sorry about, you know.”

“Yeah.” Honey took the offered -- after she had silently demanded it -- drink and took a sip, not returning the glass right away. She held it in her lap, hands on either side, as he sat next to her; she glanced sideways at him for a second before facing forward again, staring at no particular book on the shelf on the wall opposite her.

She took another drink, glancing down (and not being too obvious about it, she thought) at his hands as he smoothed them down his thighs. She caught herself staring after another second and took another sip before moving the glass toward Charlie, hand still low toward her lap. “Better is good.” She didn’t ask for details, didn’t want them; she accepted the ‘better’ with a nod and awkward silence.

Charlie apologized and Honey turned to look at him, knee touching his. She glanced down for a second -- skin touching denim wasn’t a novel experience, by any means -- and back up, searching his face for a hint. He had nothing to be sorry for, she thought; she ran through possible reasons and the reasons why they weren’t the reason why. She didn’t know if he was seeing Alannah -- Fergie hadn’t mentioned seeing him at the semifinal and Honey hadn’t asked -- or his ex-wife but neither would be a reason to apologize; she wasn’t some forlorn, jilted lover he had to make excuses for.

And he couldn’t know about Harlan; Alannah didn’t seem too gossipy (from the brief encounter she had with her) but even if she was that would mean Harlan would have had to talk to his teammate about his personal life and Honey had only told Grace and Fergie and she didn’t think either of them would have had a chat with Charlie about it.

She realized belatedly she hadn’t said anything, either to accept or question his apology, so she fixed that with the latter option. “About what?” It was safer, anyway. She nudged the back of his hand -- the one holding their drink -- with the back of hers to initiate the drink hand-off.

Honey offered him the whisky back and Charlie took it, holding the glass in his hand for a second before lifting it to his lips. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed, having a sip. Then another, for good measure (and maybe to adjust his palate to Scotch). She twisted towards him, her knee softly pressing against his, and Charlie kept his body and shoulders still, turning only his head to meet her eye. She was just sort of staring at him, so he just stared back, unsure what was going through her mind and trying not to let anything wayward go through his – he hadn’t broken things off with Alannah yet, and (more importantly) she was with Harlan. He almost suggested they go back into the living room—

About what?

His brow furrowed. “Erm,” he adjusted his fingers on the glass to allow her room to take it from him, then rubbed at the side of his neck with the arm furthest from her. “Showing up first thing on a Sunday asking for relationship advice?” he grinned awkwardly, letting out a light laugh. “Well, not… relationship.” He cleared his throat and dropped his focus to his lap. His relationship with Kate was over, and he was planning to put an end to whatever it was he had with Alannah after tomorrow – hadn’t done it yet so as not to risk being culpable should her (and Honey’s boyfriend’s) team not win.

“I just— wasn’t sure who else...” He wet his lips and plucked the glass from her hands again, hoping she didn’t notice how clammy his skin was becoming as their fingers brushed. He took a larger gulp this time before passing it back. “Didn’t think I’d ever be coming to you for it, anyway,” he smirked lazily. “No offence.” Each of them was less likely than the other to ever be requesting or dishing out any such advice, but here they were.

He kept his eyes on the glass in her hand for a moment (bar a quick glance at her chest). “I haven’t… nobody else knows,” he admitted, flicking his eyes up to hers and hoping that that was sufficient to request she didn’t tell anyone he’d shagged Kate since the divorce. He couldn’t recall Honey ever spending much time around any of his friends – except Fergie – so he supposed she might be wondering why he hadn’t gone to one of them for ‘help’, but he thought Honey at least knew how Fergie would react to such information and hoped that would be enough to avoid needing to explain.

“Oh, right,” she agreed with a laugh before taking a larger-than-wise swallow of whisky. “More of a Tuesday kind of conversation.” That conversation should have been the most obvious reason he had to apologize, really, and she didn’t love that her mind had jumped to (what felt like) a million other reasons. She glanced down when he did, eyes focusing on his hands again. “Sure, yeah.” She still didn’t know how she felt about being his sounding board for that; it’d been three weeks and while a lot had happened since then, she still hadn’t worked it out. It’d been easier not to think about it, to find other distractions.

He reached for the glass and she passed it off as her gaze shifted back to his face.

Honey rolled her eyes and took the glass back, pausing  with it an inch from her lips. “Not what I thought you’d be coming to me for,” she said, smirking for a second before taking another drink. “No offense.” It wasn’t the best joke she could make when she was trying to keep things… not this; she had another swallow of whisky and held the glass in her lap again, eyes still on his and sort of hoping he was looking at what she thought he was.

She raised her eyebrows quickly, working out what he’d just said. He hadn’t told anyone else what they’d talked about and if anything, that just made things a bit muddier, harder to figure out. She didn’t want to figure it out, anyway, not now; maybe this was just what being friends with Charlie Baker was all about. She distracted herself from her thoughts with another drink before passing the glass back.

“No one’d believe me anyway,” she said, figuring (hoping) that was the reason they were still talking about it. “Y’know… three months.” She smirked and turned back to face the wall. She wasn’t nudging him with her knee anymore but she had managed to inch closer; there was skin-to-skin contact (and a bit of added warmth) along their upper arms. She glanced sidelong at him after a few more seconds, watching him take a sip of their drink. “Y’know you almost can’t tell anything’s happened to your nose.”

He let out a breathy sort of laugh. “I’ll hold off for a couple days next time,” he acquiesced, privately grateful that she was making light of the whole thing. Christ, he hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. If anything, at least Kate seemed to be residing back in California full-time now, and he had no more reasons to go over there -- at least until Liam’s birthday next year, which was plenty of time to try and put everything to bed. Unless those murmurings of a North American tour came to fruition -- but she wouldn’t be coming to their shows, and he wouldn’t be stepping foot in their home. It would be fine as long as he didn’t see her.

Honey was staring at him again and Charlie couldn’t help but stare back -- for some unknown reason it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was something else and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He smirked back automatically. “Don’t tempt me,” he drawled before catching himself. “—Sorry,” he mumbled, glancing away and at the bookstand across from them -- FIX IT YOURSELF jumped out at him among a plethora of other DIY books (Fergie...). He chanced looking back at her out of the corner of his eye and offered her a small smile, his ears twitching in tandem.

Charlie lowered his gaze and let himself zone out a little, staring into the middle-distance -- which just happened to also be her tits. Of all things she had to wear tonight, she had to go for something low-cut? Whatever higher power there was was truly testing him.

Charlie flicked his dark eyes back up to meet hers— “Oh fuck off,” he grinned, halfway to shoving at her before redirecting his hand to swap the whisky from left to right, then drinking quickly. “It’s not like I couldn’t— if I’d wanted to,” he told her. Minus that time he had turned up at Honeydukes in the middle of the night and Honey had politely declined his company. But really, if he had wanted to, he could have -- not Honey, but someone -- but he had genuinely been trying to be better, and maybe prove something to himself, if not everyone else.

He lifted the glass up to see how much they had left. Had she moved closer? He tipped his head back a little to finish what they had, peeking at her in his peripheral vision, trying not to be quite so aware of their bare skin touching, and not to think about what they could get up to in this room, alone, because she was still with her Quidditch player—

He almost choked, hunching over a little as he coughed into his far elbow, away from her, before turning back to face her. “What? Who told you?” Not Fflur, surely. He remembered how well the two of them had gotten along, but he supposed it had been a few years -- still, not long enough. His second thought was Rosmerta peeking through the windows of The Three Broomsticks, and he knew Honey was friendly with her, at least—

“What do you mean almost?”

Honey held onto her smirk despite his apology, which she shrugged off with her shoulder closest to him. “I wouldn’t dream of tempting you,” she said, her eyes still on him after he had looked away. After another few seconds she glanced down to her lap, tugging at the hem of her dress to pull it down just a hair, as if to make a point.

She grinned as he told her to fuck off, only glancing over as he was mid-swallow. She nodded along as he made his excuse of choosing celibacy-- “Right--” and added one more nod for good measure when he had stopped. “Just saying I won’t tell,” she claimed with a shrug, though that had more truth to it than whatever he was saying. Honey didn’t really have to answer to anyone now or hide that she’d had a conversation with Charlie but-- Charlie had been through enough, going three months.

There’d probably been a better time to mention what she’d heard about him (and his nose) but she stood by it, even as he turned away to cough; she was smirking when he looked at her. “My mum.” She shrugged, as if everyone hadn’t been wondering about the truth of it all; it had never showed up in the papers, anyway. “Think she heard it third hand, at least.” At least-- from what Honey had heard, someone had seen it out the window, told Rosmerta, on and on, until an owl delivered the news to her mum and finally, to her. “I picked the wrong morning to be in London,” she said, reaching over to take their drink, frowning a second later when she realized it was empty.

What do you mean almost?

Honey raised her eyebrows and looked at him, twisting toward him just a bit, not enough to put too much space between them. She didn’t remember saying almost and she didn’t actually think there was anything wrong with it -- it looked like what she could remember, made him as interesting as ever -- but she leaned in with narrowing eyes as if to pick out the almost. “Just here--” She reached up with her farthest hand but stopped, hand hovering in the air between them, as Honey’s brain caught up to what she was doing. More of this when trying to do.. not this.

She dropped her hand to her lap and wrapped it around the glass; it was still empty; she should have already moved to pour them a refill, maybe stayed on the other side of the room after she had. “Ah, trick of the light,” she said, nodding toward the bedside lamp. “Did it hurt?”

She wouldn’t dream of it -- yet here he was, feeling tempted. His eyes were drawn -- against his will, he’d protest -- to her hand adjusting her hem. He glanced away before she could see him looking.

Charlie rolled his eyes -- the politest way he could manage to communicate that he didn’t care if she didn’t believe him (he did). “Thanks,” he muttered, glad to have that out of the way at least. He supposed he didn’t really expect her to tell anyone anyway (except maybe Grace, who had never liked him as far as he could tell), but he didn’t want to risk Fergie finding out, in case Fergie told Sam, or something. Obviously, the solution would have been not to fuck Kate in the first place, but hindsight was a wonderful thing.

“Your mum?” he repeated. “Jesus, does the whole of Hogsmeade know?” he groaned and dragged his free hand over his face, a poor attempt at hiding his embarrassment. He turned back to face her when she mentioned London— but, oh, of course: Harlan. He grimaced before he could control his features, then didn’t bother to try and cover up his tracks -- with any luck she’d assume he was still upset about the village rumour mill rather than imagining her staying overnight with her Quidditch player boyfriend.

Honey had taken the empty glass from him, so he glanced at that before lifting his chin to meet her gaze as she twisted a little towards him. Charlie’s eyes widened slowly as she leaned in, his cheeks warming under her scrutiny. She was closer than she’d been to him in quite some time -- excluding that time she’d shoved him up against a pillar at the Quidditch, or their terrible excuse for a hug a couple of weeks ago, which he kept finding himself thinking about because Christ—

Her fingers were an inch away from his nose and his attention flicked from her hand to her face in the same moment hers drifted from his nose to his eyes—

Honey dropped her hand and Charlie let out a breath he’d been holding hostage. Trick of the light. He brought his own hand up to slide his forefingers along the slope of his nose because he was less reassured than he had been about Fflur’s handiwork (the fixing, rather than the breaking -- she’d been more than competent at the latter) now.

Did it hurt? Charlie stared at her. “Er, yeah,” he admitted quietly. His cheeks weren’t reverting to a less pink shade with any urgency so plucked the glass from her lap, he got to his feet and retrieved the bottle of whisky she’d left on the dresser. He topped them up generously -- he’d brought Ferg a bottle with him for his birthday so he didn’t feel too guilty about it -- and set the bottle down. Turning to face Honey again, he sipped at their drink before handing it to her and sitting back beside her. “Yeah,” he repeated, frowning softly at the memory while gazing at the carpet, “my nose was pissing blood everywhere. Had to throw my shirt out."

Sitting close was a bad idea, shifting closer was worse— never mind her trying to feel up his face. Honey reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears and resettled herself so their arms weren’t flush against each other, but if anything, the barely touching was so much more noticeable. She stared straight ahead, her gaze landing on Fergie’s small collection of Swiss army knives, which she had (unknowingly) started when she lived in Geneva. Charlie moved in her periphery and she glanced at him without moving her head; his fingers were on his nose and she smirked, despite trying not to think about how there was still nothing wrong with it.

She posed her question — did it hurt? — and kept her eyes forward as he answered. She didn’t say anything; he said it had hurt and she had expected to think that he had probably deserved it, given everything she’d heard but her immediate thought was something of the opposite. She wasn’t sympathetic to his cause or anything like that but she also didn’t have time to figure out why.

Honey looked at him as he took the glass from her and got up; for a split second she thought he was leaving — she had managed to see him how many times since March without mentioning his nose? — before it was obvious he was just getting them a refill. Her gaze drifted south and (because his back toward her) she raised her eyebrows appreciatively.

She didn’t notice when the glug glug of the whisky stopped and it took her a second to meet Charlie’s eye when he turned back around. She attempted to relax her face as he drank, held out her hand for the glass once he was done. He sat just as close as they’d been before she tried to add a little space and Honey nodded automatically before she realized he was still talking about his nose. She laughed — she thought it was hardly noticeable but it was closer to a snort — and sloshed more than a sip of whisky over the rim of the glass.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, talking more about wasting whisky than laughing at his blood-spurting nose. Honey glanced at him quickly as she switched hands holding the glass and moved to wipe her spilt-whisky-hand on her jeans, only to remember she wasn’t wearing any after glancing down. She hesitated half a second before deciding Charlie’s jeans would provide an acceptable alternative; she raked her fingers up his thigh and it took her another second to realize where she had left her hand to rest.

Honey removed her hand -- casually, she thought, but she was on the far side of tipsy -- and passed the glass back over (after taking another large sip). “I think I’m gonna go for chips,” she said, picking the first food that had come to mind, more an excuse to get out of the moodily-lit room -- it’d be so easy -- than for any hunger-satisfying reason. She stood up quickly and quickly realized that had been a poor choice considering how much whisky she’d had while sitting; she moved toward the door like she didn’t think she’d wobble herself over.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob -- buying herself a few more seconds before needing to (briefly) rejoin the party -- and turned back to look at Charlie, who was still sitting where she’d left him. “Are you coming?” The ‘or not’ part of the question died on her lips, her last second decision to not give him any option to let her go alone.

Honey snorted and Charlie turned to look at her, surprised by the noise, in time to see her spill some of their drink. He grinned, unable to help himself; he hadn’t been trying to make her laugh but he’d take it (would tell himself it was him and not the whisky). “It’s fine,” he replied quietly, glancing around their immediate vicinity for something to wipe her hands with—

She had designated his jeans as appropriate, and he while he didn’t mind sacrificing them to the cause, it was the way her fingers raked up his thigh that quickly demanded his attention. She didn’t remove her hand straight away, either, and it took every bit of willpower he had (which wasn’t much to begin with) not to place his hand atop hers and keep it there. Nobody knew they were in here, it would just be a bit of fun. Wasn’t like he wasn’t planning to formally break things off with Alannah after the match tomorrow -- it wouldn’t count as cheating on his part, at least, but Honey was trying.

She withdrew her hand and effectively removed whatever unadulterated tension there had been with it. She offered the glass -- he took it -- and announced her desire for chips. Charlie stared at her as she rose to her feet; he knew she was putting distance between them and he wished she wouldn’t. It was stroking his ego, though, just a little, that she felt the need to.

Still, he’d prefer that she stay here with him. At least if they’d reentered the party he’d have someone to talk to that wasn’t the woman from earlier.

“What?” He processed what she said immediately after asking ‘what’. She was inviting him along -- had she been intending to the whole time? Was chips a euphemism for something else? “Er, yeah, let me—” He stood and skulled the whisky -- or as much of it as he could manage. He’d possibly overestimated how much was still in the glass, even after the spillage. Honey held out her hand to him and he passed the glass over, not quite as embarrassed as he possibly should be about needing her help to finish it.

Whisky gone, Honey opened the door and Charlie followed her out into the hallway -- only realising after the fact how that would have looked had there been any witnesses. Fortunately for them, there weren’t any. Still, emerging into the living room together had to look suspicious too -- thank Christ Fergie was busy with a pretty blonde (get in).

Honey wasted no time weaving through the room to the front door, and Charlie did his best to inconspicuously follow her. They slipped out the front and into the street, Honey teetering down the footpath a step ahead of him. Charlie lengthened his strides to catch up, putting his hands in his pockets rather than do anything else with them. He glanced sidelong at her. “You know where you’re going?”

Honey kept her hand on the doorknob without making a move to actually open the door, offering Charlie nothing more than a look -- both eyebrows raised because she knew he had heard her -- when he asked for clarification on her invitation. She didn’t know how long she could stand there waiting, or how long she could stretch the walk from here to the front door, or if she should just give up on him altogether and see if Gobstones Guy was any more receptive. Charlie really only took a second or two to catch up, catch her before she could move on without him.

“Sure,” she said, watching him stand and (attempt to) finish their drink. “Let me.” Honey held out her hand as she took a couple steps forward; it was clear Charlie couldn’t finish the whisky himself but she was happy to help. She tilted her head back and finished it off in a couple of large swallows, which she couldn’t taste until she had finished the glass. “Fuck.” She swore under her breath -- it was definitely a sipping Scotch (as they all were, she’d been told) -- and set the glass down next to the bottle, not worrying about Fergie finding either, later.

The hallway was empty and the rest of the party was easy to navigate; Fergie was talking to a girl and hopefully fully distracted with her because Honey hadn’t bothered to make sure there was any space between her and Charlie as they walked.

She paused for a second once they were outside before heading toward the right. Fergie hadn’t moved very far from his last flat but it was enough streets over that she had to relearn where everything was (and she hadn’t been staying at Fergie’s much, considering she’d had other options in London until recently). “What?” It was her turn to pretend like she hadn’t heard him, turning her head to look at him as he caught up to her; she shrugged before he could repeat his question. “It can’t be hard to find chips.” London was supposed to have everything.

“Don’t think Fergie saw us,” she said, turning down a more main-looking street, realizing she must be worry about that a little since she kept wondering if he had. “I haven’t written you in like two months but he’s convinced--” She attempted to explain her train of thought, why it would matter if he’d seen them, without mentioning that Fergie thought it all had something to do with her breakup; but then she remembered that she still hadn’t asked Charlie why he had told Fergie in the first place, too busy dealing with everything else that Charlie wasn’t involved in. “What else did you tell him?” She asked, more curious why she’d come up in his and Fergie’s conversation at all.

Charlie’s lips twisted into a funny little smile -- couldn’t be that hard to find chips -- and he focused on keeping pace with her. Chips clearly wasn’t a euphemism, then, or they would have cut the crap by now and already be heading to his place. He knew Honey liked sweets -- that was pretty much all he knew about her -- but he supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that junk food in general would be her thing. It had been several years since they’d shared a late night McDonalds, but the memory came rushing back like it had been last week. It hadn’t been far from here, in fact, he realised as he looked at the streets around them.

He snapped his head to look at her, falling a step behind as she turned the corner and then double-stepping to catch up again. “Er,” he hesitated, trying to think what had he told Fergie? He thought he knew what Fergie was convinced of, at any rate. Charlie scratched at the side of his nose before shoving his hand back in his pocket. “He were asking about the divorce,” he said awkwardly, head hanging a little and his eyes on the pavement rather than on Honey.

“I told him like, how Kate walked in,” he cleared his throat, ”and said about how she found the owls, but I told him we were just talking, you know, friendly,” he smirked at her, a little weakly. “Anyway, I told him it weren’t anything, you know, you weren’t involved in all of that.” Which was the truth -- the owls were hardly as innocent as he’d played them off as being to Fergie, but it had just been banter at that point. It was only after Kate had asked for a divorce that Charlie had gone and seen Honey -- and even then, she’d kept him at bay.

Charlie glanced at Honey again, ready to add more to his defence should he need to, but she had slowed and so did he. He looked up at the takeaway shop and at the Closed sign on the door, then turned to Honey. “Looks like you’re shit out of luck,” he told her, twisting his torso to look up and down the street. What time was it, anyway? Shame he had stopped -- never really started, except for going out -- wearing that watch Kate had bought him for his birthday two years ago.

He turned back to Honey. “I can make you a bacon sandwich, if you want.”