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

“Oh.” Fergie knew how to have a fun conversation, harping on about Charlie’s divorce. She glanced sidelong but didn’t let it linger, moving her gaze back in front of her (and continuing the search for a chippy). He said Kate -- was that weird? or was he avoiding ex-wife? or was she reading far too into his word choice -- and Honey nodded, as much as she could do to show she was following along with everything. “Friendly,” she repeated, almost believing it herself.

She remembered how he’d told her about the owls being found -- she thinks we’re fucking so we might as well -- and felt pretty safe assuming he hadn’t mentioned that part to her brother, at least.

The realistic part of her (admittedly a small part) knew that there had to have been more problems if something so simple as a couple of letters had caused his relationship to implode, taken in the wrong context or not. But really, if she had had anything to do with the divorce and was still talking to him months later, Fergie ought to look on the bright side, that she’d found something sustainable -- never mind that she had been in something she’d thought sustainable with Harlan -- but who was Fergie to have opinions on relationships? Not that Honey thought this was a relationship, or even a very sustainable friendship at that, but still.

Honey’d been about to say something along the lines of well now he thinks we’re fucking but was distracted as she spotted a brightly lit sign just ahead. She slowed as they drew up next to it, taking a second to figure out that the chippy was closed. Glancing at the hours -- until 00:00 -- Honey realized she had no idea what time it was, or how long she’d been talking with Charlie before they had left the party, or--

Charlie said something and Honey looked at him. “Looks like it.” He wasn’t paying any attention to her so she took a second to give him a good once over, head to toe, seizing what was probably the first opportunity she’d had since she’d first spotted him at Fergie’s; they’d been too close for her to get a good look and his t-shirt was taut in all the right places-- he turned back to her and she met his eye, reluctantly.

“You what?” She had heard him perfectly -- bacon sandwich -- but she needed to buy a few seconds, remind herself why she hadn’t immediately sought Charlie out after her breakup: he’d just slept with his ex-wife so there was clearly some grey area between casual and serious for him and she didn’t want to have to wade through that. Then again-- “I’m only saying ‘yes’ to the sandwich,” she said with a smirk, eyeing him for a second before turning to continue walking in their original direction; she slowed after another second and turned back. “I don’t know where you live.”

Honey seemed content with his explanation and he was glad not to have to dwell on it -- any time his divorce was brought up it sort of made conversation awkward, regardless of who it was with. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever not get brought up -- though he supposed it had only been three months ago, though it sometimes felt more like a lifetime. Maybe a year from now, if he was lucky, he’d be able to forget it had ever happened at all. “Friendly,” he repeated, again, as though it would be true if they just kept saying it.

He had mostly been joking about the bacon sandwich but it felt weird to retract the offer now, or to suggest they go get McDonalds or something, instead, which might have drawn more attention to the problem (the problem being them alone in his house).  She accepted, though, and he tried not to read into that smirk. “Was only offering the sandwich,” he replied after her, letting her walk a few steps in the now-wrong direction before she stopped to face him again.

It was his turn to smirk. “What, you didn’t commit it to memory?” He was a little offended but would blame it on her not knowing her way around London, little country bumpkin that she was. He smiled to himself and inclined his head in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets. Honey had chosen their initial trajectory and he hadn’t felt any need to correct her on the search for chips, but for the sake of not walking in a big circle to get back to Paddington station, he’d rather just walk back the way they’d come.

It only took them a few minutes to be passing the street down which Fergie now lived, then the Pride of Paddington, where he and Honey’s brother met up for a pint, on occasion. “Did he say anything else?” Charlie asked, prompted by the thought. He knew Fergie wasn’t wrong to suspect them, but in this instance they really hadn’t done anything wrong. They passed a few more shops that were closed at this time of night, then they were at the station entrance.

They delved underground and Charlie noticed Honey looking around, taking the stairs at an achingly slow pace to the level with the ticket machines. He raised an eyebrow at her inquisitively. “You not been on the tube before?” he asked, amusement evident in his tone. Admittedly, it wasn’t something he’d utilised much until recently, but Alannah’s comment about making it home in one piece had certainly seemed something worth looking into, and turning up at St. Mungo’s splinched after a big night out wasn’t exactly keeping a low profile.

Honey rolled her eyes, not returning his smirk. “Why would I?” She hadn’t been planning to travel on foot the last time she had asked where his new flat was. Besides, apparating didn’t require directions (and never mind that she had convinced herself she had never asked for directions in the first place). She caught up to him as she shrugged again, making her point, but maybe walking with a little less space between them than there’d been a minute before.

They walked in silence for a couple minutes, but it was nice to not have to be constantly on the defensive, or the offensive, or whatever she had recently decided to be; she was still figuring it out and the alcohol wasn’t helping, or it was; she was still figuring out that, too.

“Who, Fergie?” She shrugged. “He says a lot of things.” Honey knew that wasn’t what he meant and that her brother was one of their only ‘safe’ topics of conversation, but for once she wasn’t trying to linger in their safe space. “His ‘he’s married’ argument doesn’t really work these days.” She shrugged again, hoping that might prove to be a distracting thought (and that it might be the last Fergie mention for a while), but then again: she couldn’t remember if she had mentioned that particular argument to Charlie before, realizing a second later that she definitely hadn’t. It’d really only crossed Fergie’s mind when she had needed to explain away the Charlie mentions in that article.

This probably wasn’t the best time to mention that Fergie knew about her seeing Charlie (once) while he was kind of — though not technically — dating his now ex-wife, which had also led to her telling Fergie not to go to his stag party — something told her that no, she hadn’t mentioned it, any of it -- and Honey shrugged again, brushing all of it off. “He has really high opinions of us,” she said with a glance his way. “Your new album helped,” she added with a smirk before looking forward again, effectively moving any (and all) blame for Fergie’s opinions to Charlie.

Charlie motioned to some stairs and Honey started down them without hesitation, surprised he’d moved into a basement flat; maybe the divorce had gone worse than the papers made it out to be, which, admittedly, was already pretty bad. She made it down the stairs -- slowly, hand gripping the handrail tightly -- and blinked a few times when she realized this was the tube. And not just because Charlie implied she’d never been on it before. “Sure I have.” Once, when she was eight, and she and Fergie had tagged along with their aunt and uncle on what was supposed to be an ‘educational adventure’ but was really just a boring three days at museums.

She hadn’t had to do anything then, though, was more or less just shepherded along with her cousins. “I’ll just—“ she looked around, spotted a sign that said TICKETS, and tilted her head toward it. Charlie raised his eyebrows and she took that to mean, ‘Yes, obviously buy a ticket’. She waited for him to move toward the machines so she could copy whatever he did but he beat her to it: After you. She rolled her eyes and walked over to the nearest one, staring at it blankly for a second before turning back around and seeking Charlie out, hoping her (very real) excuse would keep her from making it clear she had no idea what she was doing. “Yeah, I don’t have any money.”

“No, John Lennon,” Charlie deadpanned, “Yes, Fergie.” Who else? He says a lot of things wasn’t filling Charlie with any great confidence, but the fact that there was a ‘he’s married argument’ at all (nevermind that it didn’t work these days) was doing the opposite of helping not to think about what they could be doing if Honey wasn’t still wasting her time on Harlan Bellamy. Why would Fergie need to remind Honey of that if not to deter her from him? Fergie’s notable absence from his stag night was just as suspicious now as it had been last June, but in favour of not dwelling on anything marriage-related, Charlie kept his mouth shut.

He barked out a laugh at her next comment. “I bet he does,” Charlie grinned -- though the expression was short-lived when Honey brought up the new record. He continued to stare at her as she focused ahead, then glanced away -- thankful that they’d arrived at the station.

Charlie barely held back a scoff. Sure she had. He watched her, amused, as she looked around the tiled-in room and spotted the tickets sign. She inclined her head in the general direction of the machines and Charlie raised his eyebrows, smirking again. “After you,” he said with a flourish of his hand. He’d never seen Honey this out of her element and he was enjoying it far too much. He followed behind her, trying not to grin too widely in case she turned around and caught him. Luckily it was late, so there weren’t many other people about and those that did seemed to have the top-up cards, beeping themselves through the turnstiles to get down to the platform without needing to pay them any attention.

Honey spun back around and admitted to a lack of funds. Charlie looked at her accusingly. “How were you gonna buy chips?” He nodded his head to encourage her out of the way and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He contemplated just handing her the money and prolonging her suffering, but he did want to get home at some point. He paid for two singles to Maida Vale, doing his best to ignore Honey peering over his shoulder with all the subtlety of a brick as he pressed buttons.

The machine spat out two little orange and yellow plasticky bits of card and Charlie handed Honey’s to her. “Here you go.” He waited again, letting her lead them to the turnstiles and standing behind her, patiently. Honey at least had help here, because she could see some other people moving through beside them. Charlie was just glad it was after midnight so they just looked drunk, rather than stupid, when Honey tried tapping her ticket on the card-pad.

“You have to put it in the slot,” he whispered behind her ear, grabbing her wrist softly and helping her feed her ticket into the machine. She let out a little ooh of surprise as it snatched it from her and spat it back out at the top, and Charlie bit his lip to avoid laughing. She was just standing there expectantly, so after moment he nudged her forward with a pat on the bum and followed her through with his own ticket.

“Bakerloo line,” he offered, pointing up at the platform signs.

Honey rolled her eyes as Charlie questioned her money problems. “Why else would I invite you?” She caught his eye and smirked, lightly shrugging one shoulder. She moved aside at the last second, not exactly giving him space to figure out the tickets himself; she was still interested in how the thing worked -- though it’d been thirty years and she’d never needed to know so the chances were low it’d come up again -- and maybe also a little interested in how nice he smelled, or how nice compared to the general odor of the Underground.

She looked at her ticket instead of thanking him, turning it over as if it’d tell her what to do next. It -- and Charlie -- wasn’t helpful, so she spun around to follow the general flow of traffic; she watched the few people ahead of them to pick up any tips -- because again, she didn’t expect Charlie to be particularly helpful, never mind her insistence she’d taken the tube before -- and nodded; she’d need to tap her ticket and go through. Easy.

Her confidence was short-lived; she tapped her ticket to that pad just like everyone else; nothing happened. She could feel Charlie watching her but she had gauged his distance completely wrong. He corrected her and instead of commenting on how he must be an expert at slotting things in, she continued her insistence that she wasn’t new to this. “I knew th-- ooh.” Her ticket was gone and Charlie dropped her hand.

The turnstile didn’t move like she had expected and Honey was this close to finally asking for help when she got something better -- not better, but more direct. More appreciated. She was glad he couldn’t see her face, anyway.

He followed her through with ease and she slowed to ease him into taking the lead through the station. She looked up as he pointed to the signage; Bakerloo. She smirked, mostly at the Baker part but a little bit at the loo part, too. They got to a left-right choice and Honey headed toward the one with Baker Street on the sign; she managed to get two steps away before he grabbed her wrist -- again -- to pull her in the right direction.

There was no train on the platform and Honey glanced around, trying to figure out what they were supposed to do while they waited; did people really wait around like this? All day? Always? The silence was awkward but they were standing sort of close but it was also better lit down on the platform than it had been outside-- Honey glanced away from Charlie, found the sign that said the next train was in four minutes. Merlin. There’d been a point when he and Fergie had lived within walking distance -- she smirked softly recalling the advantages that had presented -- so how far away did he live now? She turned back to him, poised to ask if they were really too drunk to apparate, reconsidered after another second, not wanting to hint at any previous excuses they might have made with each other.

She was in this for the sandwich, the replacement for the chips she couldn’t get (but also never really wanted in the first place). She didn’t want to think about why she felt she needed reminding, needed to get out of her head; she gave into the silence. “I like your hair like this.” She glanced at him, chewing on her thumbnail for a second. She’d seen it -- his hair but also him -- like that a few times now, maybe four times in as many months. “Like it the other way more, but--” She shrugged, letting her hands fall to her side.

He thought giving her the right line might have been enough to go on -- and a fifty-fifty chance, at that -- but—

Charlie rolled his eyes and reached out to grab Honey’s wrist, tugging her back in the right direction. “Maida Vale,” he reminded her quietly, only a little bit offended that she really hadn’t paid any attention to where he lived even though he’d literally sent her the address. It was that, or she was playing along with her whole trying thing and he supposed he could give her that.

The platform was mostly empty, but they managed to stand unnecessarily close to one another all the same. Charlie had his hands in his pockets and made a point of looking anywhere but at Honey, though he could feel the warmth of her skin against his with their arms brushing. This had all been fine up until right now, when he’d realised just how many lines they were toeing. Different things he could say kept popping up in his head, only to be pushed out when he decided it was too lame or too weird or too risky or too anything. He glanced at the board -- two more minutes.

I like your hair like this.

Charlie’s eyes went a little round in surprise. He turned his head to look at Honey, then flicked his eyes up -- as if he could see his own hair without the help of a mirror -- then glanced back at her, trying to recall if she had ever given him an outright compliment before that wasn’t during or immediately preceding sex. He didn’t think she had. Was this more of her being friendly or was this the whisky clouding her judgement? Like it the other way more. He smirked; ah, there it was. Backhanded compliment. “Do you?” He pushed his bottom lip out as he considered that -- that she liked it one way more than the other at all.

He gave her a once over -- not the first of the night, nor likely to be the last -- and tried to think of something he could say in return. That was the way, wasn’t it? Tit for tat. Still, what could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound like he was coming onto her? He opened his mouth, about to say how much better her tits looked in this than those hideous knitted jumpers she’d been wearing the last few times he’d seen her, when he heard the unmistakable rumble of the train approaching from within the tunnel. He felt Honey move a little closer into him and stood his ground, biting his lip softly to try and hide his amusement. “Train’s here,” he announced unnecessarily, in the same moment the lady on the tannoy warned them to mind the gap.

The train came to a screeching halt and the doors opened, one a few steps to their left. Charlie led the way and then gestured for her to get on first, like the gentleman he was(n’t).

She looked at him for a second longer, realizing why she liked his hair like that, all soft; it was close to how Harlan wore his; fuck, how Will wore his, too. Did London have just the one hair stylist? She shrugged, brushing off any weird turns her thoughts might have taken, doubling down on liking his hair the other way -- she tried not to think of it as the way that set him apart from the others -- more. “Yeah.” She shrugged again, erring close to overdoing it. “I do.”

He was looking at her and saying nothing; she looked away -- still a minute until the next train -- and back and he was still looking, still saying nothing. She raised both eyebrows slightly, still looking at him because that seemed like the thing to do. It was a long minute.

There was a low rumble at the end of the platform and Honey leaned away from it, in the general direction of Charlie. it was just the train arriving -- she’d finally taken her eyes off of him to confirm as much -- and she nodded when he said as much. She’d been able to figure out that much by herself, at least. “So it is.” She missed the announcement, heard only the tail end of it, and didn’t have any time to ask if it had been important before Charlie had stepped away. She followed him -- was this the first time she’d walked behind him because it was only obvious how much she hadn’t been eyeing his backside once she could do it again -- but boarded first.

The car was mostly empty and Honey considered asking if they could sit anywhere they liked, deciding instead that the risk of taking someone else’s seat was pretty low. She headed toward the back of the car -- the front, really; she already forgot which way the train was headed -- and picked a pair of seats furthest from the car’s other occupants, hesitating half a second before scooting all the way across so Charlie could sit next to her.

It was warm and there seemed to be plenty of room that physical contact wasn’t needed or unavoidable but Honey didn’t move as Charlie sat; she stared ahead of them but tried to glance down. She was still trying to prove something to herself, not sleeping with him immediately after breaking things off with Harlan, but a casual hand on a leg between friends was-- the train started to move and the posters sliding past her window was enough to distract her. She was able to make out an advertisement for gin before the train had gathered too much speed; she nudged Charlie’s leg with her hand -- already forgetting if she’d decided what to do about personal space -- and glanced sideways at him. “You still have any of that pink gin?” The last time he had invited her over it’d be for ‘gin’ and this time it was for a ‘sandwich’ but she didn’t have the sobriety required to draw any conclusions from it.

“Or did you drink it all?” She smirked and looked forward again, moving to tuck her hair behind her ears; she crossed her arms across her chest and tried to get a little more comfortable on the hard seat, which mostly just meant leaning into Charlie a little more, letting her fingertips graze his arm.

Honey stepped onto the train and Charlie followed her on and into the carriage -- intentionally a stride behind so he could get a good look at her bum in this dress (he could look). Her compliment about his hair (he was choosing to take it as a compliment) was still playing in his mind -- initial thoughts of her just trying to be friendly were slowly being edged out by the possibility that she was trying something else. Why else would she agree to something as stupid as a bacon sandwich?

Honey picked a seat and Charlie watched her slide in further before sitting next to her -- a little too close; he’d misjudged exactly how much space he had intended to leave between them (not a lot) but he wasn’t about to scoot away and admit defeat. They were only going two stops -- five minutes -- which was probably for the best, any longer and—

He felt her nudge his thigh and his attention was drawn down, before he brought it back up to meet her gaze. He hesitated, just long enough for her to look away and add a follow-up. He grinned lopsidedly. “No, haven’t been that desperate—” He stopped and cleared his throat, realising how that sounded. “I mean— I’ve still got it, yeah.” He glanced away and out the window on the opposite side of the carriage -- pitch black in the underground -- as his cheeks flushed slightly. “Didn’t meet up for lunch, so...” he trailed off, hoping he sounded more teasing than depressed about it.

Honey shifted beside him -- crossing her arms, her fingertips tickling his upper arm -- and he wondered if she was cold. He wasn’t, but he rarely was. He didn’t have his jacket (something about wearing it to a house party) but even if he did he couldn’t imagine offering it to her.

The train slowed as the woman overhead announced their arrival at Warwick Avenue, next stop: Maida Vale. Charlie sat up a little straighter. “We’re next.” The doors closed again and they lurched forward. Charlie got to his feet slowly and glanced back to check Honey was coming with him. He stopped by the door and held onto the pole with one hand, the other stretched out halfheartedly to encourage Honey to him -- he didn’t need her toppling over when the train stopped. She looked at him suspiciously before silently acquiescing and he wrapped his free arm around her just in time for the deceleration, which only served to bring her in closer.

The doors opened and it took Honey a second to right herself. Charlie cleared his throat and led them off the train, hands back in his pockets as they headed for the stairs. They emerged into a quiet crossroads and Charlie turned left, checking in his peripheral vision that Honey was still in tow. He slipped down the little alley that opened out into two rows of mews properties facing each other, and withdrew his keys from his pocket as he approached his house. Honey came up behind him and he opened the door, nodding his head to silently invite her in.

Honey rolled her eyes and said nothing; Charlie hadn’t been desperate; first time for everything. He said he still had it and — after glancing at him and finding him looking elsewhere — she smiled. She had been surprised (and pleased) when he had first mentioned it, more (surprised and pleased) now that he’d actually bought it. “Right—“ she grinned and looked at him again. She’d already apologized once for not showing but it sound like he was fishing for another one. “Were you gonna bring your own bottle to a pub?”

Charlie shifted away from her touch and she uncrossed her arms, shifting as the train slowed to lean more toward the window. She glanced at the poster on the wall — she had no idea what it was advertising but didn’t feel like asking, either — and back to Charlie with a nod. “Alright.” They were next but she’d still expected him to settle back into her once the train was moving again, which was exactly what he didn’t do.

She followed him after a second, once she realized what was happening. He stopped in front of the door and she paused, looking from his hand to his face, one eyebrow raised; she considered him and smirked softly before she stepped into his personal space. She didn’t touch him — where’s an acceptable place for a friend’s hands — but that almost seemed more inappropriate, what with such close-proximity-looking. Maybe he’d thought the same thing, or maybe he anticipated the train slowing, but whatever the reason: he pulled her to him, hand on her waist. She hadn’t expected that or the train slowing, but she wasn’t complaining, leaning into him more at more of a not-friendly angle.

It took her a second to realize the train had stopped, only taking a step back once Charlie cleared his throat. She exited first but let him lead the way out, all hands to themselves. They took the stairs and Honey smirked when she found his bum at eye level.

They made quick work of the walk; it was close, anyway. The neighborhood looked so.. normal. Compared to his last. Or Fergie’s. Less London-y. Suited him more, maybe. Still, one flat looked like the next and she was glad she’d come with Charlie instead of having to find it herself.

She smirked softly as he pulled out a set of keys, glancing either way down the alley while he unlocked the door. She followed him in, confirming what she’d assumed from her first peek around his shoulder: it was clean. Homey enough, but clean. She slipped her shoes off inside the door and let Charlie lead them into the kitchen, having decided on their walk down the alley that she’d let him make the first move because that would still count as proving something to herself, not initiating the easy thing. Technically. If that’s where this was heading. (It was.)  She thought she saw him hesitate— before stepping around her to pull out a frying pan.

Honey let out a breath and turned to watch him for a second, stopping short of helping herself to a drink. He was a step ahead of her, though, setting the bottle of gin out after putting the pan on the hob. “Can I assume you don’t want one of these?” She had a finger on the bottle’s cap, offering to not make him a pink drink.

Charlie closed the door behind him and slipped out of his shoes, awkwardly shuffling around Honey in the hallway to lead her into the kitchen, turning the lights on as he entered. He scanned the room quickly, looking for anything that he didn’t want Honey to see -- and came up wanting. He’d gone through a bit of a slobbish phase when he’d been living in that hotel room immediately after separating from Kate, but whether it was Ben’s little ‘chat’ or just having a place that was his own again, he’d gotten back into the habit of being clean and tidy. Still, there were other things for him to worry about Honey seeing and passing judgement on, but he’d just have to hope she was too out of the loop to know what Star Wars or Batman was.

He turned to face her and their eyes met. He hesitated for a second -- what were they doing? Whatever it was, he was going to let Honey do it first because she was the one here in a ‘committed’ relationship. He’d already fucked up whatever it was he’d been doing with Alannah, and after tomorrow he could end it properly, so if Honey wanted to fuck up what she had with Harlan then that was up to her.

Bacon sandwich.

Charlie brushed past Honey and reached into a drawer to get a frying pan out, setting it on the stove and turning the gas on. He was trying not to think about anything past what they’d already agreed on -- what was friendly -- focusing on the task(s) at hand. He reached into a high cupboard and pulled out her pink gin (had to keep it away from the rest of the booze in case the boys came around), setting it on the counter for her to help herself to. He went to the fridge next, pulling out the bacon and butter.

He looked at her when she spoke, his eyes drifting down to her finger then back to her face. He smirked. “I’ll have a whiskey.” He opened the packet of bacon with a sharp knife and nodded his head in the direction of the living room; “It’s in the bar cabinet, with the fancy glasses if you want one.” He was (intentionally) preoccupied with putting the bacon in the pan, but Honey had obviously wandered off and found the light switch in the next room because the living area lights flicked on bright, then oscillated between that and barely illuminated as she played with the dimmer. Charlie tried not to think about the fact she’d settled on what could only be described as mood lighting.

He peeked around the open plan space, just enough to see she’d found the liquor cabinet, then went back to his station. Never in his life had bacon taken so long to cook. Honey didn’t come back to the kitchen, which meant one of two things (probably): she’d fallen asleep or she was snooping. As Charlie buttered the bread he tried to think about what she could possibly be looking at, hoped that maybe it was the former and she was conked out on the sofa but—

He brought the plate -- a sandwich each, one plate to save on washing up -- into the lounge and spotted a gin on the coffee table. Honey was standing near his vinyl collection, bent over and head tilted to read the titles, with another gin in her hand. He waited for a second (it was a good angle) before clearing his throat and sitting down. “Funny colour whiskey.”

He wanted whisky and she was expecting him to show her another bottle but he turned back around, back to the bacon. She nodded, watching him work for a few seconds. “Oh, right.” The bar cabinet; she didn’t think anything of her bottle being anywhere else. Charlie was very focused on cooking — she didn’t bother mentioning that even she could make bacon and she could barely boil water — so she headed in the direction he’d indicated, bottle of gin in hand.

She fumbled around for a light switch, found it after a few seconds. It was immediately too bright — what was he trying to see in here? — but it looked like one of those slidey switches so she turned them down, overcompensating by dimming them too much. She figured it out after a couple more attempts, rolling her eyes at the effort it had required.

The bar cabinet was easy enough to find and her drink was easy enough to make; she set the bottle of gin aside (after adding one more splash to her drink) and looked for the whisky but she didn’t see any Scotch. There was Irish whiskey but— she hesitated for a second before making a second drink just like the first.

She didn’t go back to the kitchen — she could hear the bacon sizzling and she didn’t want to force him to multitask with something so difficult at hand — and sat on the couch for a minute before abandoning that idea, too. Leaving one drink behind, Honey made a lap around the room, still marveling at how tidy it was. She skipped over the books — why did everyone love reading so much? — and the photos of people she didn’t recognize, looking at the vinyl instead.

It took her a second to realize everything was alpahbetized; fuck, he was organized on top of being neat. She tried to remember if he’d ever seen the inside of her pantry — not a euphemism — because that was really the only organized part of her life; he hadn’t; why would he have? She leaned a bit closer to read some of the titles, on the off chance she recognized anything. Her gaze immediately fell on Banshee and she smirked, rolling her eyes before moving down the list. Beach Boys, Beatles— she skipped ahead to look for Elvis because her mum (and Honey, too) liked him. She pulled an Elvis album at random, straightening up to look it over and take another drink. Her liking Charlie’s hair made sense now, she guessed.

She set the record on top of the others (sorry, Charlie) and continued down the list, recognizing nothing else. How had she never done this before? She could remember a collection like this from before but— Honey had never lingered long enough to need to look, had never shown up with any need to pass the time other than in one very specific way. And now he was making her a sandwich.

Honey turned at the sound of Charlie’s voice, shrugging as she took another drink. “I didn’t find any whisky.” She smirked and sat next to him, not quite as close as they’d been on the train but it looked like they were sharing a plate so she still needed to be close. “Very domestic of you,” she said, picking up one of the sandwiches, hoping a second too late that he didn’t read into that too much.

Charlie looked from Honey to the cabinet disbelievingly; he knew for a fact there was at least one (mostly) full bottle of Jameson in there. “Mustn’t’ve looked very hard,” he said as she sat beside him. He nudged the plate closer to her and picked up his sandwich -- he hadn't been hungry until he'd started cooking. She commented on his domesticity and he paused, sandwich a few inches from his mouth; he wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a dig at his (no longer quite as fresh) divorcee status, or if it was something else (another compliment?), but he decided right now wasn't the time to find out and bit into his food instead.

They sat there and ate in silence for a minute, which he'd been told was a compliment (another one?) because it meant the food was good but this was only a sandwich so it was almost certainly just because they were both drunk -- eyeing her, he thought maybe Honey was a little further along. Charlie reached for his gin and took a sip—

"Christ," he grimaced, stretching his tongue out of his open mouth to display his distaste at just how sweet it was. Strong, too. He eyed his drink accusingly. "Did you put any mixer in?" he asked, taking a bite of his sandwich because the only solution here was more bacon— wait, no. He looked at both options, one in each hand: he was better to finish the gin and end on bacon. He steeled himself before tipping his head right back, ice hitting his nose as he necked the whole drink.

Job done, he looked worse for it; eyes scrunched up as he ate the last of his sandwich and wiped his hand on his jeans. Still chewing, he opened his eyes again and glanced around the room. In his peripheral vision he could see Honey was still working through her late night (early hours) snack and her gin, and Charlie considered perhaps he should have lingered over his a bit more because now he had to sit with her while she did.

He stood and went to the cabinet, easily locating his whiskey and bringing that out to pour a serve in his glass. In hindsight, he could have given his gin to Honey but he hadn't wanted to admit defeat and -- he glanced at her again -- he didn't really think she needed more alcohol at this point. Neither did he, probably, but it would be easier to blame anything on, wouldn't it? If there was going to be anything.

Charlie sat back down, bottle on the table for easy refill purposes, and rubbed at his jaw. He had a (smaller) sip of his drink as his head was already feeling the rush from his gin efforts. As he tried to think of something to say, his eyes were drawn back to the vinyl she'd been peering at and he was reminded of her earlier mention of the new album. "The new record, I should've—" He wet his lips. "I know it's not got your name on it this time but…" he trailed off. "I still could've given you a heads up." He met her gaze. "Sorry."

Honey smiled as she bit into her sandwich, figured that must have looked insane, tried to tone it down a little. But it was a good sandwich; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten — she definitely hadn’t any of that carrot cake at the party — and she’d lost count of how many drinks she’d had so she might have just been completely pissed but still. Her mum would make bacon sandwiches but she’d stopped using butter in another tempt to ‘help’ Fergie so— she took another bite, ignoring the direction her thoughts had gone. She wasn’t sober enough for thinking.

She hadn’t expected Charlie to actually drink the pink drink— if anything, she’d drink it and he could make his own — and expected even less that he would have liked it. She laughed, shrugging a shoulder and taking a swallow of her own. “It doesn’t need a lot of mixer.” The gin was sweet and flavorful on its own and probably should have more soda than she had put in it but— she shrugged again. “That’s why I like it.” Technically, she wasn’t drinking it straight.

He hesitated; Honey slowed on her sandwich to watch him, both eyebrows raised. First he actually tried the drink and then he had finished it? She considered finishing hers to keep up but she was that close to being sleepy drunk and maybe she shouldn’t, just in case— she yawned, moved her hand (holding her sandwich) to cover her mouth.

She kept her gaze fixed on him as he got up, let it drift south for a second. She glanced down at herself and quickly brushed her sandwich crumbs onto the floor.

Honey was pretty sure he sat closer to her than before but she didn’t want to pay it too much attention; she wasn’t eager or anything. He’d brought his whiskey and Honey rolled her eyes after seeing the bottle again but she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Charlie spoke again — the silence from before hadn’t been obvious until now — and she looked at him, properly. Her eyebrows shot up again and it took her a second to catch up to what he was saying. There really had been a song about her; she’d insisted to her brother that there had been no reason for one because they were just friends. But— fuck, which song was it? Her dad had played the album a couple times last week and then that one song had been on the radio but… Honey grimaced softly. “Don’t take this the wrong way but, which one?” She kept her gaze on him as she tried to find some better explanation than just assuming they were all about her. Or: “Only just Fergie thinks it’s all of them.”

Honey had yawned and Charlie stifled one of his own -- trying not to seem insincere, or whatever it was. He was watching Honey and her reaction wasn’t exactly one of smug realisation, more panicked surprise -- or unpleasant smell, it was hard to tell.

“Er—” He had thought it obvious, but he supposed he’d literally just reiterated that he hadn’t gone and plastered her name all over it this time. She spoke again before he had a chance to actually answer, and his face flushed pink. “No, I’m not obsessed,” he said quickly, trying to be funny -- blasé -- but only really succeeding in drawing more attention to the fact he’d penned more than one song about her— Well, maybe not, if she wasn’t assuming they were all about her, but the fact remained: there was more than one.

“The second—” had she really memorised the tracklisting? no, “—Forever Isn’t For Everyone,” he clarified, having another sip of whiskey. “I… It’s not as desperate as it sounds,” he explained, hoping she’d let him attribute the dramatics to creative liberties. He realised now why he never did this -- never spoke to his ‘subjects’ about what he’d written. “Bad taste, I suppose, writing about you breaking up with him,” Charlie admitted awkwardly, scratching at the side of his nose. “Sorry, I just—” He wet his lips. “I just didn't wanna sing about me divorce," he offered her a wry smile.

He wasn’t obsessed. Honey smirked; for once she hadn’t thought that he was, except for maybe considering it a couple times when arguing with Fergie about the new album.

The second? Which was the second one? He clarified, kind of; Honey couldn’t remember which one that was; she hadn’t memorized them all like her dad had. She mirrored him when he took a sip, trying to stop herself for asking for more clarification, hide her confusion. She didn’t want him to think she was completely ignorant of him because they were friends, right?

She nodded when he said it wasn’t desperate, realizing a second later which one he must have been talking about; oh. He was right, anyway, because it certainly was bad taste but conveniently for Charlie— except that sort of sounded like he already knew she’d broken up with Harlan (or it just sounded like he wasn’t still wanting it to happen) and they’d been alone how long already and he hadn’t made a move? She tipped her head back to take a large swallow of her drink as he finished his thoughts: his fucking divorce again.

But as she looked at him again she smiled sadly, trying to play the part of the friend again instead of the part of a woman tired of talking about his shitty relationship problems. “I can definitely see why I’d be more interesting.” More interesting, sell more albums, whatever she could think of to keep things far away from the last conversation they’d had.

Honey tilted her head back one more time and finished her drink. She considered her empty glass for a second, wavering between having another or calling it quits. Maybe one more, have to stay a little longer; he hadn’t made a move (she reminded herself, again) so maybe she should cut her losses; or— Honey was already drunk so she could just— “I don’t think I should apparate right now.” She glanced up from her glass and caught Charlie’s eye. “Are you on the Floo yet?”