redux [harlan]

Harlan didn't match her smirk. Just— win the next one— as if it were that simple.

As much as he once enjoyed Honey's affinity for flitting over all things deemed too serious, had expected nothing less, there was a lingering feeling, a nagging need for something more. Maybe he'd just gotten used to it the past few weeks? Real conversations between the two of them, though, were rare, poignant (was it because they were so few and far between?), and he recalled them now more as she sat close enough for him to touch.

"I don't let people win," Harlan countered. He hadn't meant it in the cocky, no one could beat him kind of way either— it was more the principle of it all— he gave all of himself in a match, regardless of who it was against. And she knew that too. He glossed over her double entendre and tried not to notice as she leaned closer.

Then, in a flash, there Honey was again. She let some kind of wall down, if even minimal. "I know..." Harlan almost smiled over his drink. She could hardly take a day off of work. The idea was beyond him because he couldn't imagine what that kind of pressure felt like, it was easy to breeze over— fuelling the entirety of Hogwarts' sweet tooth for your whole life— but he knew better.

Harlan let out a breath. "Right," He hated that he'd indulged in this kind of self-serving pity-party. He had the world at his fingertips, and yet, here he was, lacking. "What a buzzkill...." He laughed dryly. "I'm just a bit lost in my thoughts tonight," All of the beer, those god damn shots, were doing the talking. "...I'm sorry, you know," He was talking about something different now, out of habit he reached his fingers to brush the inside of her forearm.

Honey rolled her eyes; he didn’t let people win. She’d known that. They were similar (almost too much) in a lot of ways and doing whatever possible to not come second best was one of them. Still, it’d been a joke; maybe poorly made but it would have been easier to discuss all of this if they hadn’t gone without speaking for a month, during all of this, if she didn’t need to catch up.

But she tried to catch up, get up to speed with everything he’d been dealing with (work-wise) since she’d seen him last. He’d had a semi-final against Portree (that she had skipped because of him) and the final (that she hadn’t bought tickets to before it sold out because she had gone into the playoff season with a boyfriend who could get her some) and it took her a few seconds to try to make this not about her.

She shrugged again; he knew how she was about work and had often been on the less-than-pleasant end of that but she didn’t think he was looking for an apology (not that she’d offer one now, anyway).

Harlan laughed and Honey couldn’t find it in herself to disagree with him. “Such a buzzkill.” She smirked, had another drink. He hadn’t killed her buzz; if anything it was coming back and she should probably stop or she’d run into the same problem as before when Harlan ditched her, too. “I get it,” she said, deciding not to think about how much she was drinking (again). “With this lot.” She tilted her head to the side, toward all the quidditch players at the tables. Honey found it hard to not think about work at the best of times, never mind if she was sitting around in the shop, surrounded by it.

She looked back at him when he apologized. They weren’t talking about quidditch any more, if the light touch he was applying to her arm was any indication (and she thought it was, having had more constant practice interpreting his body language). Her arm was resting on the bar, her hand around her glass; if she breezed past this by having a drink, he’d have to move his hand and she didn’t want that now that it had happened. They’d kept to themselves up until now and for good reason: it was easy to forget what they should be talking about when they were close. The stakes weren’t as high — there was no relationship to ruin without good communication — now but—

“It’d be easier if you weren’t,” she said honestly, belatedly hoping they were talking about what she thought they were. If he wasn’t sorry then she’d have a good reason to be mad at him, to stay mad. She moved her other hand to rest on his, to keep it more firmly on her arm than it had been a second before, her thumb making a small circle on his slin out of habit. It didn’t take long; there were a few seconds of her thinking that a reconciliation of sorts could be easy and uncomplicated and everything they weren’t before she moved her hand, picking up her glass to take a drink as she moved her other arm — the one that felt different under his touch — off the bar to rest in her lap.

He'd taken a risk in reaching to Honey, metaphorically almost as much as he had physically. The familiar feeling over her fingers wrapping over the top of his hand brought him back to a different time, not here, and not them. It had dawned on him earlier in the conversation that had hadn't actually apologized— in that moment. Of course, he had been sorry then, just as much as he was now, but it was harder to see when blinded by the insults they were slinging at each other. This Honey was much easier to concede to, as terrible as it was to admit.

But she moved her hand to her lap. It wasn't that he thought they might sit there for an hour staring at each other,  like some kind of fucking movie, but it still gave him pause. Harlan, in his heart, knew that it was a selfish way to be thinking— a dangerous way to be thinking even— but he couldn't help it.

Finally registering what she'd said, that it would be easier if he wasn't— sorry— Harlan frowned slightly, setting his jaw and facing more forward. He took a drink. If he were being honest, and he wanted desperately to be, she wasn't wrong, but he wasn't going to apologize again, this time for potentially overstepping whatever invisible barrier between them.

Touch had been so deeply ingrained in the way that they communicated with each other that he was having a hard time keeping his hands off of her— if only to someway explain how he was feeling.

After pursing his lips in thought, Harlan finally opened his mouth to speak again, glancing sideways to Honey, his own hands now to himself. "Surprised you're still sitting here, if I'm honest," The because of me was implied. The last time he'd seen her she was slamming the door in his face so this was an unexpected amount of conversation. He wondered if enough time had passed for them to just be civil. Not friends, and not fucking, but something before that.

 Acquaintances?

It was quiet, despite all the noise behind them, as they sat there for a minute, avoiding one another’s eye. She had mirrored him when he faced forward again, again looking at the bottles behind the bar instead of at Harlan. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, no facial cues, no touches, no words; she had another drink, hoping that would keep her mind from wandering. It didn’t, and she glanced sideways at him, figuring maybe she should stop drinking, head back toward sobering up— She was still looking at him when he glanced at her and she swallowed, not looking away.

She shrugged one shoulder. “You’re still sitting here, too.” She tapped her fingers on her glass, still looking at him and trying to avoid thinking about how she wasn’t all that surprised she was still there, if she was being honest. He had that way about him, or something; sure, he made it easy to walk away sometimes but maybe she had to have far less to drink for that to be effective.

Honey looked at her glass; it was nearly empty. She ought to excuse herself — he had more or less given her the out but where would she go? to the other end of the bar to sober up — or find some sort of middleground conversation with him, avoid anything too feelings or too no-feelings. But they weren’t friends; they were either sleeping together or they weren’t, with the ill thought out of dating at the end. Without work or themselves to talk about… they weren’t good at small talk.

She circled back to herself, kind of. “I don’t think I’d have come if I knew you’d be here,” she said, glancing away long enough to look across the room where her date had been sat, though she (and the other witch) were now gone. “She said it was a Scottish thing.” It should have been more obvious it wasn’t, considering they’d gone to England for said Scottish thing but she’d worry about her oversight later. “I want to say I’m glad I did, now,” she gave Harlan a very quick once over. “But I did still get ditched, so..” She trailed off and shrugged again before tipping her head back to drain what was left in her glass.

"Well— " Harlan paused. She was right, he supposed. He was there too. But then again he was the one who had the making up to do. "—yeah," For once he simply agreed without rebuttal if only to avoid the rabbit hole of divulging again just what he had to be sorry for. The one time was enough. Honey knew everything she needed to know and he was almost certain she wouldn't enjoy hearing the finer details belabored again.

But then again, maybe he was just being selfish.

"You don't think?" He raised an eyebrow, breaking away from the bottles he'd been so intently staring at since the conversation had shifted to something more serious. It came as no surprise that she had been avoiding him just as he had her (not that steering clear of Honeydukes was all that particularly difficult, or anything). "Bit harsh, no?" Harlan teased, breaking whatever invisible tension had built up between them, that had made it hard to clear his thoughts.

In some sick kind of way, he enjoyed knowing that she still thought about him at all, even if it was in the context of trying to stay away from him. If her experience in avoidance tactics had been anything like his, she too would be scanning places just that bit slower in the hopes of catching a familiar hue of hair, despite herself.

"Can't have been the first time?" Harlan took a drink as casually as possible before turning to look at her, finally breaking into a smile. It was decidedly not the time, and they didn't have that kind of relationship anymore, but he couldn't help but fall back into old habits. Honey knew better than to look for sympathy from him, not that he thought that's what she was actually doing. "If it helps, I'm fairly certain she's a reserve, for the reserves..." He leaned forward a bit, voice lower.

"You're welcome, though," The wizard sat back again more comfortably now, resting a hand atop the black denim on his leg, marked with what he assumed dried beer or something from one of the drinking games. "For saving the night and all..." He clarified after a moment, tilting his head at her as though it should have just been that obvious.

“Bit harsh, no?” Honey repeated, rolling her eyes, looking back at him with a cheeky grin. Whatever mood they’d just been in had passed and she was eager to get further away from it, even if it might not have been the best idea. They weren’t supposed to be on good terms. It should have stayed like that, in that more defined headspace.

The obvious answer was that it wasn’t the first time — they’d ditched each other at New Year’s and if he’d managed to forget that she’d like to know how — but she liked this safe middle ground they’d stumbled into. “Didn’t think I had any ‘firsts’ left.” She smirked — maybe it was a little left of middle ground — and held his gaze, holding her breath as soon as he leaned in.

Honey didn’t think she’d been expecting him to say (or do) something else and she was disappointed, against her better judgement. She leaned in anyway, dropping her voice to match his volume. “A reserve’s reserve for Scotland’s still better than main string for England.” She sat back with a shrug. “Hotter, too.” She wasn’t but that was just a minor detail.

She took another sip of her drink — or tried to but her glass was empty — and nodded exaggeratedly as she set it back down on the bar. “Oh, right, how can I ever thank you?” That wasn’t what she meant to say, probably. Or, it was, but she hadn’t meant it like that, like where her mind had jumped. She cleared her throat softly and tapped the edge of her glass on the bar a couple times, gaze flicking from Harlan to the bartender for just a second. “Buy you another free drink?” She looked at him again, her smirk somewhat softened into a smile.

There was a palpable change in the air between the two of them and Harlan felt the strain between his shoulders release, as if all of the alcohol hadn't already done the trick already. At her smirk, he caught the glimmer in her eye but averted his gaze. They weren't in the business of things like that anymore while maintaining eye contact for too long.

It only took so little.

"Think we crossed the last of those off the list..." A few specific memories had come to mind, and his face said as much.

"Do you mean— the very Scottish team that the English team beat last season? Or— right, you must mean a different one?" Harlan leaned back in thought, his leg bumping into Honey's a bit more roughly than intended, his arm casually draped over the back of the barstool. He knew better than to be so cocky out in the open— that always backfired— but it was fun to tease her. Even harmlessly.

"You aren't wrong..." Harlan admired the dark-haired witch for a moment before his gaze flicked back. That, he was perfectly capable of admitting, whether Honey was being serious or not. She was a smoke show.

Harlan couldn't help but notice the sound of Honey's fingertips atop the rim of her empty glass— shit, she had beat him to finish a drink. For someone who was meant to be sobering up... He wiped the smirk from his face and tried not to think of the various ways he imagined she could (and probably had, before) thanked him. The better part of him knew that this was the perfect time to slip away. Yet...

Taking the last mouthful of his drink, he nodded a thank you to the bartender as she approached. "If only as to fulfill your means of thanking me," Harlan conceded with a more sincere smile to mirror the one on Honey's mouth that he'd all but successfully avoided until then. For a moment, sentimentality swirled in his chest— then again, he figured he was probably just a bit drunk. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Harlan let out a breath, sinking into the strange pause.

He didn’t avoid her hint — list of firsts — this time like he had earlier — one and done — and she smirked, hoping his mind had jumped to some of the places hers had.

“Oh, fuck off.” Honey grinned, nudging his leg with the back of her hand. She was a good sport, sometimes; Scotland not even qualifying for the group stages last year wasn’t one of those times. She was on the happier side of drinking, though, so it evened out. “The other one. Must be.” She rolled her eyes and withdrew her hand to her lap. Scotland may not have fared well in the cup but she imagined they wouldn’t be having this conversation if she’d shown up with one of the English players.

Both their drinks done, Honey waved her fingers at the bartender before he’d even agreed to another. “Only for that,” she agreed, sitting back in her barstool, keeping her hands to herself for what felt like the millionth time.

Honey eyed her refill for a couple seconds, doubting her choice to have another, then glanced up at Harlan, not doubting herself at all. She had a sip of her drink, giving her glass a few turns after setting it back on the bar.

“How long were you thinking of staying?” She tilted her head back toward the crowd, not taking her eyes off of him. “I just—“ she leaned back toward the bar— “So I can leave first. Avoid being ditched twice in one night.” She smirked, lifting her glass to her lips, nearly sure that if there was a third option — something other than ditch or be ditched — she would take it. At least she knew that she was right before; this would have been easier to navigate if he hadn’t apologized.

As they settled back into their banter, a slight pause for drinks, Harlan rested his elbow on the counter and dropped his chin to his palm to face her more openly. His gaze lingered on Honey for a moment, is if he were reacquainting himself with the way that the corners of her eyes pulled up when she smiled (especially when she was trying not to), and the way that her lips pulled up over her teeth. But he wasn't about to get any sort of sentimental now. They had been doing so well, treading just at the surface level.

"Well, you certainly don't appear to be leaving anytime soon..." Harlan raised an eyebrow, nodding to the fresh drink in her hand. When he found her here, she had been sobering up so that she could leave, and now— well, now he wasn't sure what she was doing. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing either, now that he was in the business of second thoughts and a troublesome wandering imagination.

"I'm morally obliged to make sure some of these kids don't drink themselves to death playing Never Ever— that game..." The older wizard gestured to the table of people who were now shouting, one of the Irish team up from his chair and running around like a madman. Whatever someone had, or hadn't done, had clearly been a shock. Harlan rolled his eyes, only half-annoyed, but more because he felt out of touch.
 
Then again, did he really want to be in touch?

"Suppose that means we're at a standstill, then?" Harlan faced Honey again with a little grin, not really willing to admit that he wasn't quite ready for their time together to come to an end, whatever the fuck that meant. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he owed it to her to finish his drink and get out of her way, not complicate things any more than they needed to be, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it.

Honey rolled her eyes, not bothering to point out that he was the reason she didn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon, taking another sip of her drink instead. She glanced toward where he was gesturing, lingering long enough to try to appear more interested in what was going on over there rather than here and-- she looked back to Harlan with a smirk, unable to be very interested in much else than him.

She didn’t know what she was doing -- he was still here, too -- but as she had another drink she decided she didn’t exactly care. “Forgot about your morals.” She smirked again, nudging his leg with her own, eyes flicking to his for a second before she let her gaze slide over him again. He seemed more relaxed; she wasn’t delusional enough to think it was because of her -- until she remembered that it very well could have been because their relationship wasn’t stressing him out anymore but no, it was because of the off season. And the alcohol.

“Suppose so.” She was grateful that he’d said something else, stopped her from trying to overanalyze things that were better left in the past. She returned his grin, added a small shrug. “Are you…” She met his gaze again, giving herself one more chance to shut the fuck up; it didn’t work. “Morally obliged to see I get home safe?” She had a sip of her drink, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

She put her glass back down, her finger tracing circles on the rim. She was nearly convinced she’d be alright either way: he could say yes and take her home, stay or not stay; she didn’t think he’d say no. Hoped he wouldn’t, anyway, for whatever bad reasoning she had.

Forgot about your morals.

Harlan wasn't clear on if she was making a point in saying that, on his lack thereof. He chose to think so if only to drive the strangely gratifying feeling it gave him to put himself down a bit. Honey nudged his leg and he found himself leaning back, like muscle memory, before sitting back in the barstool more upright.

At her question, the wizard felt his chest tighten and he let out a breath of air, buying a moment to think through just what she meant. There were a few options, and almost every single one of them ended in trouble. Running a hand through his hair, longer and blonder from his holiday, he held his gaze on Honey over the rim of her glass. His eyes canvassed her face in some attempt to try and figure her out.

The last he'd seen Honey she was yelling about him being a dobber and slamming the door in his face. And now this, whatever it was— even with the time between the two— felt like whiplash.

Harlan smirked though, running his hand over his jaw as his eyes shot to the ceiling in thought, mulling it over— an offer was it? "Damn morals..." He shook his head, running a palm over his shoulder that hadn't quite healed fully after the finals, half of an involuntary sigh. "You're a big girl, I think you can make it on your own," Harlan teased, knowing how much she would love his use of the disparaging phrase that he absolutely, annoyingly, didn't mean.

There was silence and Honey doubted herself; there was a smirk and she thought that maybe, she’d been right about him. She watched him go through the motions — that’s what this was, wasn’t it? — and postpone his response, the inevitable. Damn morals... and a head shake. Honey looked away, removing her hand from her glass to tap out a couple beats oh the bartop.

“You’re right,” she said — for once — ignoring his use of ‘big girl’; he was doing that on purpose. He was right, but she didn’t want him to be. She was done trying with him, and even now trying to get him to jump on the opportunity to take her home felt like too much. “Of course I can,” she said, pushing her glass away with a nudge of her hand. She’d have to move back to water, suck enough down before these new glasses of whisky hit her, or something.

But still. She looked at him again, glancing from that silver patch of hair he was hiding, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the general appeal of his face. The last time she had seen him hadn’t felt final, despite everything he did and everything she’d said, but maybe they could just slip back into it; she had managed that with—

It was probably better this way — the clean break, nothing to muddy the waters — but she’d had how many chances to walk away in the past however-long-it-had-been-tonight and she was still there. They’d always managed to find their way back to each other and even though she’d had a month to think about it, she didn’t think she was ready to accept that this time was different.

She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “If you want my splinching on your conscience, then,” she paused to shrug. “Fine.” She smirked softly, a last ditch effort for anything, really.

Harlan under most circumstances might have been smug. She had told him that he was right, for once, but he was left with the hollow feeling of something that he couldn't quite place. It wasn't that he felt sorry for Honey— she would always be just fine— but the looming guilt that he'd been avoiding had crept in and darkened the triumph that would have been.

Blue eyes cool and bright under the fluorescents of the bar studied Honey with interest but characteristically didn't give way to his thoughts. Even when they had been together, she had been a mystery, this perpetual person that he was trying to make sense of in his logical brain. They had both held so much of themselves to their own chests. Out of fear? Protectiveness, maybe? He wasn't sure. But now it seemed even harder to work her out.

On his conscience. He pulled a face, an almost scoff that softened in his eyes the moment they met hers.

Despite himself, Harlan felt obliged, even though he'd forgone that right the moment he'd fucked most things up between them. Not that it wouldn't have happened either way. He let out a sigh, wetting his lips to allow himself the time to think through his next move.

"What would you have done if I hadn't been here..." The question, rhetorical, lingered, as he pulled his wand from the front pocket of his black denim jeans.

The Honeydukes storefront was familiar, though dark and uninhabited at the hour. He deliberately, albeit messily, apparated them to the outside as opposed to where he had so many times before— her living room, or shower, or kitchen, to the counter.

The relaxed linen of his forest green button-down, a far cry the crispt in-season attire, rippled in the early Summer night-wind of Scotland and he involuntarily shivered. There was a chill in the air that wasn't like that of Croatia. He leaned against the frame of the door, stopping short of checking to see if the door was unlocked, for whoever she was leaving it open for these days. "You're welcome," His eyes scanned the sky before landing on her with a grin.

She didn’t have a Plan B, nothing other than sitting there to sober up if he didn’t give in. She held his eye — as if that might help him decide — careful not to roll them as he sighed; he was as dramatic as she was. What would she have done if he hadn’t been there? “Probably be home already,” she answered with another smirk and a slight shrug, dropping her gaze as he worked his wand out of his pocket (and smirked again).

They landed outside Honeydukes, squarely in front of the shop door. It must have been late; the sun was firmly down; only the light spilling out of the Three Broomsticks offered any real illumination on the street. Honey didn’t want to read into it — being outside, rather than in — and she decided to worry about that later, tomorrow, or never. One of those. (She had finished off her drink before they had apparated and it had definitely caught up to her.)

Honey matched him, leaning against the other side of the door frame, her body turned toward him, gaze trailing down him until he spoke. “Oh, right.” She returned his grin, eyes back on his. “Thanks.” That was twice now that he’d saved her night; he brought it back from being a total waste after she’d been ditched and now got her home safely— Merlin, she hoped at least one person saw her leave with Harlan, could let the message get back to her date because Honey wouldn’t mind if there was maybe a twinge of jealousy and—

Or maybe she should focus on how she’d left with Harlan, forget what’s-her-face; Honey swallowed softly and glanced over his face for a few seconds, too many of the thoughts she’d had the past month coming back to her. A small part of her thought that maybe she’d overreacted about it all, about him. Them. A bigger part was telling her that it was still Harlan, despite it all; they had been good once.

That last drink must have been much stronger than she had realized.

“Do you want to—“ She tilted her head toward the door. “Will you come in?” She’d been about to say she’d missed him, thought that might have been too much or maybe just too far from the truth. She hadn’t expected to be confused about where they stood; she’d been so sure of everything the last time they’d been here, her yelling at his back as he walked through this same door.

A couple fell out of the door of the Three Broomsticks and Harlan looked in their direction, watching as they stumbled up the cobblestones to wherever their night was going to take them. It wasn't lost on him that at one point that was he and the person who was leaned against the doorframe opposite, studying him just as he had her. If it had been them, they'd probably only make a few blocks before finding some tucked away alley.

Harlan bit the side of his cheek in thought. Did he want to come in? Of-fucking-course, but then—

Running a hand over his jaw, across his grown-out facial hair that was white at the ends (definitely not silver), his eyes landed on Honey. Her skin and features were soft in the night, illuminated only from the bar. Involuntarily he let out a chuckle, more an exhaled breath, though it wasn't particularly funny when she changed the question to a will you— the emphasis on her asking, not whether he wanted to or not.

"Might be better if I don't..." Harlan began, his head tilted against the wooden from of the door, not breaking his eye contact. This would be the time to apologize, properly, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words that he hadn't the last time he'd been here. Instead, he fruitlessly hoped that she could just tell.