[geneva] absolute beginners [honey]

saturday 30 august 2003

Charlie had another sip of his cocktail (when in Rome...) and glanced up at Honey, across the small table separating them; the lull in their conversation giving him the opportunity to finally ask: “Meant to ask you, the B in Honey B—” he’d never once called her that, he didn’t think, but was growing more attached to Beatrix, mostly because she hated it, “— is that bee as in bzz—” he made the noise, “— or Bea as in Beatrix? Because I only just realised that like, telling the boys— Not that I told them I was coming to see you but—” he wet his lips and shrugged, figuring he’d said enough to make his point. Was the point that he was an idiot?

He wasn’t the only idiot in Banshee, at least. He wasn’t sure if the boys were particularly interested in his ‘plans’ because they were just nosy or because tomorrow happened to be the first anniversary of his failed marriage. He imagined for Liam it was the former, Sam perhaps the latter. Still, the only hint of an inquisition had been Sam asking who the fuck Charlie knew in Geneva, of all places. Friend of a friend hadn’t quite satiated the Irishman (nor Liam, judging by the way he had peered over Sam’s shoulder) and the only name that had popped into Charlie’s head (other than the actual answer) had been Beatrix – fortunately, he’d been quick (or slow) enough to use ‘Beatrice’ instead. Charlie had thought that would be the end of that secret, but he was either a better liar than he’d realised, they were idiots, or they didn’t care – or all of the above. The more he thought about it, it probably helped that they didn't know Honey wasn't her real first name.

He’d come off stage, headed back to the hotel for a quick shower (redone his hair the other way) and met her at the bar – restaurant? Was it a restaurant if they only did fondue? – and they were still here. Honey had let slip that she knew her way around Geneva, so he’d let her pick where they were going. Hence, some late night fondue place that did cocktails – which Charlie didn’t mind. They could have gone straight to his hotel but it seemed shitty even by his standards to invite her all the way to Switzerland and only see the inside of his room.

“Anyway,” he said, as if the conversation had been about this all along, “thought tomorrow you could show me around, personal tour guide." He smirked and had another sip of his drink. He didn't want to make this a thing but she'd come all this way and if he was going to distract himself from who he should have been spending tomorrow with, Honey was bound to be better at it than the boys – which was nothing against them, they just didn't have the same apparatus available (tits, etc.).

The waitress came to take their next order – Honey had been periodically picking new concoctions from the menu for them to try – and Charlie tried not to obviously look at her backside as she walked off towards the bar to fulfil it.


@Honey Bea Flume

She had asked him to remind her about this, as if she could forget agreeing to leaving the UK with someone she was sleeping with. There was some precedence, sort of; and like she had done before when she and Charlie had gone to Paris, Honey had considered inviting Grace to come along so that maybe this wouldn’t be as much a thing as it felt like it was. Inviting Grace would have required telling Grace about it in the first place, and she hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing or sleeping with Charlie since her birthday party. And there’d been a few times since, though Honey had stopped counting, deciding instead to not give a shit and accept that maybe it was sort of a thing now. She didn’t have a plan to stop anytime soon, anyway.

Thankfully, she’d had enough drinks by this point in the evening that she could blame her wild train of thought (and confusing conclusions) on the alcohol. She sipped at the latest – gin, blackberry, mint – and smiled, cocktail straw still in her mouth. She’d answered the question plenty of times and she was close to cutting him off but she let him finish, setting her glass down with a laugh as he bzzed, watching him with successively higher eyebrows as he continued rambling. He’d told them without telling them, or something, but instead of dwelling on how many people they were actively – or passively, in Honey’s case – lying to, she shrugged.

“Like Beatrix,” she conceded, lightly rolling her eyes. Normally she’d say ‘bee’ but again, the alcohol. He had called her Beatrix earlier that night and she had hated it enough then that it didn’t strike her as odd that she wasn’t hating it as much now. Or maybe it was Geneva. She was comfortable there. That was probably it.

“Anyway,” she repeated, crossing her arms in front of her and resting them on the table, leaning forward a little. Tomorrow. They had discussed her staying when they had (very briefly) made plans a month ago – hadn’t that been why they had settled on ‘night of’ the show instead of ‘night before’? – but it hadn’t been really discussed, or brought up again. She hadn’t realized what date she had agreed to, hadn’t wanted to pick a different date once she did realize because that would only prove she’d been thinking about him, hadn’t wanted to skip seeing him altogether because it had already been a month–

The waitress had returned before she could say anything. Honey leaned back and picked up the drink menu, ordering the first thing she set her eyes on, just like she’d been doing all night. She followed Charlie’s gaze as the waitress walked away; she took a couple seconds to admire the view before she glanced back to Charlie with a small smirk. It took her a second to remember what they had been talking about before the interruption.

“I’ve got to leave.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a second before adding: “In the morning.” She grimaced, equally aware that it was a shitty move and that she had still come all this way just for the night. “Sorry, just– I’ve got to get everything ready for the trolley.” She’d had a brief hope that she’d be able to get everything finished before she left for Geneva but it hadn’t quite worked out. “The train to school.”

Like Beatrix. He smirked; it was definitely growing on him. He tried to imagine her as Beatrix – rather than Honey – figured it actually suited her just fine, when he thought about the knitted jumpers and sleepy village lifestyle she was so comfortable with. She wasn’t wearing a knitted jumper now, though; he flicked his eyes down (just to be sure). “Must’ve always just thought you really liked bees,” he said, glancing back up and shooting her another soft smirk.

Anyway. He leaned in to meet her, resting his crossed arms on his side of the table. He’d barely done so when the waitress turned up – and he’d been too engrossed in her backside to pay attention to what Honey had ordered. He glanced back at the redhead and grinned guiltily with a soft shrug – there were no rules about looking. No rules about anything, actually, which was probably why this was so easy—

Spoke too soon. His immediate thought was that she was leaving right now – he stared at her, nonplussed, that she could be offended by that when they were just— before she added in the morning. “Oh.” He frowned softly and glanced away and down, keeping his forearms on the table so he didn’t look too affected. He was, of course, but he didn’t want her to know that. He didn’t want her to think he’d been looking forward to it or anything – he wasn’t, hadn’t been – it was just going to be something to keep him occupied, given what tomorrow was.

“Right, yeah.” He shrugged and sat back in his seat, trying to give off an air of not-caring (not really succeeding all that well). He chewed on his lip, trying to think what the hell he was going to do tomorrow now – hang out with the boys, he supposed. But, he was wasting what time he did have with Honey worrying about tomorrow. He brought his attention back to her and gave her another small smirk; “Got a few hours ‘til the morning.”

The same waitress returned with their fresh cocktails. Charlie grabbed his current one and finished what was left, handing the glass back to her with a funny little smile on his lips. She left them again and he looked at their delivery properly; it was some very fruity looking concoction, darker at the top and lighter at the bottom. He tried not to think about how all these cocktails were mixing with the fondue in his stomach. He brought it to his mouth – foregoing the straw – and had a sip, licking his lips as he raised his eyebrows. "Not bad."

Honey glanced away as Charlie did -- though she rolled her eyes instead of frowning -- and leaned back in her chair, pulling her drink toward her again. She sipped at her drink; it was meant to discreet, something to do instead of acknowledge the awkward silence stretching between them; her straw was at the bottom of her empty glass, making that sound that only added more ‘awkward’ to the awkward silence. She glanced at him again as she abandoned her glass.

“Yeah.” She didn’t know why she had brought it up now. She could have just gone along with his suggestion -- personal tour guide -- and kept him distracted until morning and then mention it, when there wouldn’t be time for.. whatever. She exhaled through pursed lips, catching his eye and fixing her expression into something more personable when he spoke again. “Portkey’s not until ten,” she agreed, returning his smirk. Honey had no idea what time it was now but she could worry about that later.

She didn’t have the chance to ask if he had any thoughts about what they could do tonight before the waitress had returned with their drinks. Honey traded her empty glass for the new one, happily taking a few large sips before Charlie had even put hands on his new one. Her gaze lingered on the waitress for a few seconds, looked back to Charlie only after someone else had blocked her view. “Not bad,” she agreed, realizing belatedly he was talking about the cocktail. “That too.” She had another sip and set her glass down, but she kept it close.

She crossed her arms and rested them on the table, leaning forward again, her drink just that much closer. (Charlie that much closer.) “Charlie, I--” She held his gaze for a couple seconds before glancing sideways, eyeing up the waitress that had passed through her peripheral vision again. “I bet I can get her number first.” She looked forward again, keen to distract him without falling back on her default distraction: inviting him back to his own hotel; there was plenty of time for that, still.

Honey dipped her chin and sipped at her drink again, her arms still crossed in front of her. Drink more than halfway gone -- it was mostly juice, right? -- she straightened up in her chair, lifting her glass a little as she caught the waitress’s eye again.

Charlie checked his fictional watch; “Plenty of time then.” Enough, at any rate. He wouldn’t have objected to more, but then how were they meant to fill a whole day when they could barely manage enough conversation to last a meal (if some fondue and cocktails counted as a meal)? He supposed there was no requirement that they talk, they could have occupied themselves without idle chitchat.

He grinned and pulled his bottom lip in, leaned back in to rest chin on his fist, elbow on the table. At least he could be a bit less subtle (if that were at all possible) about looking at the waitress again as she went to and fro -- an unintended benefit of sitting near the bar.

Honey leaned in and he glanced at her, then looked at her properly when she said his name. He kept looking at her  waiting for whatever was coming next— and he hadn't been expecting that. He blinked, glanced at the waitress (poor love was busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest), then back to Honey. "You serious?” Her expression said yes -- or rather, that she thought she could win. He turned in his seat to give the waitress a proper once-over (not the first of the night). He turned back to Honey. "What does the winner get?” he smirked.

He glanced down at his drink, swirled it, then gulped it down so he could order another. As their waitress passed again Charlie reached out to grab her attention, lightly brushing his fingertips along her forearm. “Excuse me, love,” he looked for a name badge, came up wanting. "Sorry, what was your name?" She glanced from him to Honey, then back. Anna. "Anna," he repeated with a soft smile, "could we get another two drinks? Whatever you’d recommend.”

Was she serious? The look she gave him suggested that he had the option to say no, if he thought he would lose. He got the hint, physically turning to look at the waitress (again); Honey rolled her eyes, unsure if there was any way he could be any more obvious about it. She caught his eye when he looked at her again, rolling her eyes again at his question. “Her phone number.” She smirked after another second, though, unable to keep her mind from wandering to other things the winner -- Honey -- could get.

Charlie was game, finishing his drink as soon as Honey had attempted to finish hers. He was a step ahead of her already grabbing the waitress’s attention. She rolled her eyes again -- this time complementing her smirk -- at how smooth he was attempting to be, ignoring that it must have worked on her at least once. She met the waitress’s gaze with a shrug, lips pressed together as if she was at as much of a loss as she was, this sleazy git asking for her name right in front of Honey.

He ordered more drinks -- and if she didn’t recommend the most expensive cocktail Honey wasn’t sure she wanted her number -- and the waitress turned to leave; she had managed to get half a step away before Honey asked her back. (Her best French was related to drinking so it didn’t take too much extra effort to add the next bit in French). “Can you make mine a double? This date--” she said it to make a point, if only to make Anna feel bad for her. She grimaced, glanced at Charlie for a beat, then looked back to the waitress with a forced smile. “It’s not going well.”

She waited until the waitress was gone (and again watching her leave) before she faced forward again, ignoring the look on Charlie’s face. “Excuse me, love,” she repeated, laughing as she picked her glass up to finish the rest of her drink with a loud slurp. “So suave.” She emphasized the last word, hinting he could do better than that.

Her phone number. Charlie pushed his bottom lip out and his eyebrows up in acknowledgement. “Alright,” he nodded. Wasn’t really the prize he had in mind but he was sure they could negotiate later, after he won.

Honey said something in French as Anna was about to leave them; Charlie tried to catch it -- thought he heard double and bien but that was all he recognised (how he had ever thought living in France was going to work, he didn’t know). He tipped his empty glass towards himself, wishing he’d perhaps left himself a mouthful. “You’ve never complained before,” he smirked. He didn’t know how well this hitting on the waitress whilst sat with someone else he was trying to (did he still need to try?) hit on thing was going to work, but he supposed -- a few years ago -- it had worked well enough when Fflur had been his wingwoman (though, he told himself, he hadn’t been trying to hit on Fflur then).

“Anyway, no French -- that’s cheating,” he said, wagging an accusing finger at her. Honey had explained that she’d gone to school here, after they’d been shown to a table by a woman who seemed very familiar with the redhead, but he hadn’t realised she had the local language (or one of them, anyway) up her sleeve before they’d made their bet.

“What did you say to her?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the bar (and Anna).

“First time for everything.” Honey smirked, shrugged, leaned forward to rest her arms on the table. She glanced to the side -- something about holding eye contact for too long -- and sought Anna out again, though she was only able to hold Honey’s attention for a couple seconds before she was looking at Charlie again.

He wagged his finger at her and she leaned back again, biting her bottom lip to keep herself from laughing. “Fine.” He could tell he was already losing. “Is that what cheating is now?” She laughed this time -- she always thought she was funny but alcohol gave her a boost -- and leaned forward again, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on the table.

She shrugged again -- she seemed to be alternating between smirks and shrugs that night -- and answered him without hesitation. “I just ordered a strong drink because my date wasn’t going well.” It took her a second to catch up to what she had just said; her eyes went a little wide when she realized how much worse it sounded in English. It wasn’t a date; they’d established they didn’t really do that; they probably should have thought this through a little better. She straightened up, her eyes scanning the bar again. “Wonder what’s taking her so long.” It’d been a minute, tops.

But she did return -- thank Merlin -- and that was enough to distract Honey for a few seconds. Honey tugged at the hem of her blouse as Anna set their drinks down; she glanced at Charlie to see if he was going to make another attempt, decided after half a second that she didn’t care if he was.

“Can I get your opinion?” She said it in French, only looking at the waitress halfway through her question. She looked at Charlie again and frowned before she leaned forward, bringing her hand up to his hair to hover half an inch from it. “He likes his hair like this--” she continued in English, didn’t want him to miss anything as she turned her face toward Anna-- “Thinks it makes him look like a rockstar.” She had to pause, collect herself for a second to keep herself from laughing again. “But I think it should be like--” she didn’t look at Charlie as she pushed his hair back with her hand-- “Will you please tell him his hair looks sexy pushed back?”

She looked at him then, smirking, not removing her hand for another second (and not bothering to help fix his hair). It occurred to her that maybe she had gone about it the wrong way, that maybe she was only helping Charlie win but-- she didn’t have too long to worry about it before Anna left without saying anything. Honey laughed and wiped her hand on her napkin before pulling her new drink toward her.

Charlie blinked, the grin that had been on his lips slipping just long enough to be noticeable. They might’ve had that conversation (if that’s what it was) about cheating when he’d thought she was still with Harlan, when he’d thought he needed to convince her it wasn’t -- especially if he didn’t find out -- but they’d swiftly moved past that upon finding out they were in fact both single (or, he’d been close enough to it). Either way, Honey was laughing -- not getting on his case -- so he shrugged, nonchalantly, in an effort to recover and offered her another lazy grin in reply. Not answering seemed the safest option.

Thank Christ it was Honey's turn to fuck up next, because if he wasn't mistaken she'd just referred to this as a date. Charlie kept his eyes on her, raising one eyebrow tellingly. “Oh, is this a date?"  he asked, fingertip on the table separating them to emphasise his point. A smirk spread across his lips as he leant forward on the table. "Should've said -- I would've made more of an effort.” As if he hadn't. At least it had been Honey who'd said it, though he didn't really think she'd meant it like that. They didn't date, had no plans to. They were allowed to -- as friends -- have a drink, weren't they? Whatever this was, they'd be back to normal once they were home. Wasn’t like they could pop down to the Three Broomsticks for a pint together. Was it?

Anna returned before he could get into actually working out in his head whether or not this was a date (they hadn’t talked about what this was -- other than a mutual desire to not get involved in emotions for the foreseeable future -- but he’d assumed it was going to be the same as last time) and Honey tugged her blouse down, distracting him further. He wasn’t under any illusions, she’d done it for Anna (maybe a little bit for him) but he could (and would) look too.

Honey started speaking in French again and Charlie scowled softly at her across the table (he could hardly call her out for it with Anna right there) but he was distracted -- again -- when Honey brought her hand up to his face quickly; he flinched, minorly, still a bit precious about hands near his face. False alarm, but he kept his eyes on her, half-listening to what she was asking Anna and half-focusing on what she was doing with her hand. He scowled again when she said rockstar— then blinked in surprise when she pushed his hair back against his head. He was too busy staring at Honey to see Anna’s reaction before she scuttled off, leaving them with their new drinks.

Honey removed her hand and Charlie immediately reached up to try and fix whatever she’d done to it; without a mirror he probably had to commit to just pushing it back (the other other way). “Make your bloody mind up,” he told her gruffly, giving the top of his head another smooth over with his hand and hoping it wasn’t sticking up at weird angles. He wiped his hand on his jean leg, and pulled his drink closer to have a sip. He glanced at her, sat there smirking at him. “Sexy, is it?”

He didn’t skip over ‘date’ like she’d been hoping he would. Honey shrugged; what was a ‘date’ anyway? Seeing someone at a specific time, place— for them it was more like what was the difference between a date and a date date and as long as she paid for her half—never mind the assumption (from both of them) that she’d be staying with him at his hotel—and also kept things low on emotions— There was a lot to keep track of for something that was supposed to be so uncomplicated.

She matched his smirk, ignoring the clarification for now. Charlie claimed he would have made more of an effort if she’d been up front about the date and that might have been believable—that what he did prior to meeting her there didn’t count as effort—if she hadn’t made a bit of an effort for him, too (less than her birthday but more than if it had been just another Thursday). “You shouldn’t overdo it,” she said, avoiding the date question altogether now. “I’ve got low standards.”

Honey sipped at her drink—it was smoother than the last few had been, which probably meant it was more expensive, too—and watched him fix his hair. He was very touchy about it but then again, she had been, too, literally; she’d had her hand in his hair and normally he didn’t mind when she did that. She rolled her eyes—she’d been about to offer to help him get his hair back to how it was before she had tried to score points with the waitress but not anymore—as if to say ‘of course but don’t make me say it again’. She’d already told him she liked his hair, she’d had sex with him; it was a fair conclusion his hair was sexy but it’d sound weird if she repeated herself.

Instead she deflected, again: “Make up my mind about what?” Honey assumed she knew what he was talking about—which way she liked his hair best, this way or the other way—but she wanted to hear him say it. She could recall those four minutes on the tube platform vividly (mostly with regret for not telling him about her breakup any earlier) but if he’d been thinking about it, too—

She took another big sip of her drink and looked back at Charlie with a soft smirk. “I only told her it was a date—a bad date—so she’d take pity on me but—“ She glanced to the bar, where Anna was clearly not giving Honey the look that might indicate there was something more, spoke again without taking her eyes off of her. “I think we’re both striking out.” She looked back to Charlie with a more purposeful smirk. “Mostly.”

She didn’t take the bait, which was a shame because maybe then he would have been a little clearer on what this was to her so he could decide what it was to him; not a date, because they weren’t dating -- how many times had he been for a drink with someone and not followed up the morning after? It was the same. Except they had that standing invitation now, but it wasn’t like they did anything else. None of the hand-holding or— it was just a bit of fun, easier than chatting up someone new every time he fancied a shag.   

He smirked. “I know, I’ve seen your last boyfriend.” From a distance, and honestly that wasn’t a low standard at all but whatever dig he could get in about Harlan Bellamy he’d take.

Charlie bit his lip, grinning as she rolled her eyes. “Mhm,” he hummed, bringing his glass to his mouth and having a long drink -- whatever this was, it was nicer than anything Honey had ordered so far, so maybe he was winning after all, no French necessary.

“What?” he coughed lightly, almost choking but not quite. Shit. She’d been the one to comment on his hair in the first place -- twice, now, at least -- so why was he the one on the spot? He shrugged and had another sip of his cocktail to clear his throat properly (and to give himself time to figure out a response), then decided if she wasn’t going to answer his questions he didn’t have to answer hers. Except, for some reason (probably all the alcohol) he changed his mind about that within about ten seconds of deciding it in favour of trying to put this back on her; “How sexy you think my hair is.”

Charlie grinned more easily as she changed the topic back to their non-date. “Well, in my defence you picked this place.” He followed Honey’s gaze -- a little slow, after searching her face for a moment -- to their waitress. “Yeah,” he agreed, “think you’re right.” Pity. He glanced back at Honey and caught her expression; he smirked right back at her.

Their conversation -- the fact they were having one at all was a feat in itself -- was heading for another lull; Charlie lifted his glass and almost got it to his lips -- he wasn’t opposed to downing it in favour of getting back to the hotel, if they were calling it quits on the bet -- when he flicked his attention back to Honey. “If this is a bad date— date," he clarified with a smirk, "— what would make a good one?" He had a sip, licked his lips. "Hypothetically speaking.”

"Just in case Emma gives me her number, you know," he grinned.

Charlie shrugged, didn’t answer her question; Honey rolled her eyes (again) and had another drink. She’d been doing the same thing—avoiding things—but she didn’t want him to return the favor. At least they were talking, even if they weren’t talking. He couldn’t stop himself from saying something though, and it took everything to keep herself from laughing (even though she’d said ‘sexy’ first). “So sexy, I can’t stand it.” She fanned her face with her hand, hoping it was clear she was exaggerating how hot and bothered she was.

She waved off his jab at her pick of the place, taking another drink. She was right about the waitress and he admitted as much; they were on the same page, anyway.

She was mid-sip when he said it again. Date. She caught his eye, curious where he was going with that thought, hopeful he wasn’t about to make an arse of himself and give her a reason to try a little more earnestly to go home with the waitress. But he smirked, and Honey smirked, and she might have been worried if she didn’t think he was joking. It was easy to tell him to fuck off—there was no reason to discuss good dates or bad dates if this wasn’t either of those—but she didn’t get the chance before he proved he was already an arse.

“You mean Anna?” Honey leaned forward with a laugh, resting her cheek on her fist, her other hand wrapped around her glass. “Might be worth remembering.” She rolled her eyes again and sat back with a smirk.

“Alright, for starters—“ she had another sip of her drink, stalling for a couple seconds— “If it was a good date you wouldn’t be here.” She had no idea what she did consider a good date, but she had a fair idea that it wouldn’t have involved Charlie. (What did it say about her past relationships that she didn’t even have a pretend good date idea to tell him? Fuck.)

She gave herself a couple seconds to laugh, smirk, ignore why she was stalling before she went on: “Hypothetically speaking—a bacon sandwich and then immediately to bed.” She smirked again, mostly at her impossibly low standards. Deflection was her best option, as usual. “Or just—“ Honey made a crude gesture with both hands, holding Charlie’s gaze— until Anna returned and Honey paused without dropping her hands. It didn’t matter much, anyway; she dropped the bill and retreated to the bar before Honey could ask to pay separately. “Er—“ she dropped her hands then, finding her bag. “I’ve got Francs.”

Charlie laughed and readjusted in his seat, glancing away. “Try and keep your knickers on, alright?” He flicked his eyes back to her and smirked.

“Anna, right,” he shrugged, not really bothering to look apologetic about getting the waitress’s name wrong (he’d been close enough). “Might be,” he conceded, not very convincingly. He’d never really been great at names, and it had never really hindered him -- he figured it said more about the women who slept with him than it did about him.

Charlie had thought Honey might avoid answering -- again -- but she surprised him when she came back to the conversation. He should have not been surprised when she took the opportunity to make it clear (as if it wasn’t already) that he wasn’t good date material. Charlie made a quiet pained noise, sat back in his chair and clutched at his chest dramatically (well, by his standards anyway). “You’re breaking my heart, Beatrix,” he drawled, grinning slowly at her. He sat forward again and picked up his drink for a sip.

But she kept going; Charlie grinned wider as she continued. He’d been about to offer a bacon sandwich while -- hand gesturing -- when Emma— Anna came with their bill. Charlie leant forward, elbow on the table, half-covering his grin with his fist. “Think you scared her off.”

While Honey was distracted with her bag Charlie grabbed the receipt in one hand and reached into his back pocket with the other, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll get it,” he offered, thumbing past his euros to get to his francs and pulling out enough to cover the full bill (only raised his eyebrows a fraction when he saw the total). He glanced back at Honey; “Seeing as it was a date,” he smirked, not about to let that go.

He got to his feet and grabbed her hand before she could keep rummaging for her money. “Come on,” he tugged her along towards the exit, only realising now that they were two of the last customers. They exited onto the street and Charlie let go of her hand the minute they were outside and he became conscious of it. Honey obviously knew where they were going and had stepped in a direction down the street; Charlie followed after her, glad he hadn’t had to ask which way to the hotel and admit he’d lost his bearings.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, figuring that made it less weird. “So if we both lost,” he said, after a moment of walking in silence, “what’s the forfeit on that? Stuck with me?” he smirked.

Charlie clutched at his chest, called her Beatrix (again); Honey rolled her eyes, mostly because she hated it even less than the last time he’d done it. Plus, it wasn’t like she had anything good to come back with—Charles was hardly an insult and it’d hurt her more than him to call him Kipling. She didn’t want to shag people named Kipling.

She glanced up from her bag, looking at Charlie before looking toward the bar again, nearly smirking. “Her loss.” She let her gaze trail south for half a second—and admire her loss—before she turned back to her bag. Charlie offered to pay and she looked at him again, shaking her head twice. “No, that’s alright—” hadn’t she just been telling herself that as long as she paid for her half then it couldn’t count as a date? She’d probably benefit from organizing her bag; she had thrown a handful of notes in her bag and it was a mess of sterling and francs and there was one with a melted chocolate on it— Honey decided to give up and was on the verge of accepting the offer gracefully, even offer to get the next one and even things out so it wasn’t as much of a— date. She almost snorted; “Fuck off.” She’d taken a risk calling it a date for the phone number and it had definitely not paid off.

He was on his feet and pulling her with him before she could make any more progress toward paying her half. She smoothed her skirt down awkwardly with her other hand—the one not holding Charlie’s—still holding her bag and followed him out of the restaurant. He was really overdoing it on this ‘date’ thing and Honey let herself be distracted for a couple seconds—it was second nature to lace her fingers with his—before remembering that she should probably say something to her friend who’d got them a table in the first place-- she had a quick glance at Charlie’s bum, her first chance since they’d been sitting all night, and quickly forgot about her friend.

Honey dropped his hand once they were outside—he dropped hers first but she was sticking to her story because she might have let it continue if he hadn’t—and she set off down the street. She had no idea where he was staying, figured he could correct her if she had picked the wrong direction; failing that, they could walk until they found a taxi. Neither of them needed to say they were too drunk to apparate now.

“Seems that way,” she answered with a shrug and half a smirk. She glanced sideways at him. “Dunno if I’d call that ‘losing’ though. There’s still—” again she made the hand gesture from a few minutes before. “How long’s this walk?” Not that she was eager to get back to the hotel or anything like that. The street they were on wasn’t particularly crowded; most of the restaurants had closed before the one they had just left. “May be some taxis closer to some of the clubs,” she added, pointing vaguely in the direction they were headed.

Charlie grinned lopsidedly at Honey – there was still that. And, he supposed, he ought to be grateful that she didn’t consider him a consolation prize. He gave her a head-to-toe out of the corner of his eye; she wasn’t one either. Emma— Anna, whatever— had been alright to look at but the last thing he needed was something like that getting out and copping it from Alan (again).

How long was this walk? “Erm.” Charlie pulled a face, not wanting to admit he had no idea but not really seeing any way around it. “Good question – I caught a taxi here.” He had been running late (doing his hair the other way). He realised now as they meandered side-by-side down the street that they didn’t usually have this problem – the walk from dinner or drinks back to whomever’s bed. They were always already in one of the other’s flats. Minus that one walk the other week after Fergie’s, but that had been before they’d started fucking again. “Can probably catch one back.”

What did it say that they couldn’t get a drink out in Britain like this? Charlie chewed on his lip, lost in thought, hands in pockets; he almost wanted to ask if this still needed to be a secret, not because he wanted to make a song and dance about it or because he wanted to tell anyone, specifically, but because it was just a pain in the arse slinking around and worrying about getting caught (doing what? Getting a pint?) when they weren’t doing anything wrong. But he didn’t really need – or want – to ask and if he were being honest with himself he knew that keeping this under wraps worked better for him anyway. Worked better for both of them, didn’t it?

Charlie glanced at Honey, belatedly processing her words. “Yeah, probably,” he agreed with a nod. They walked a little further, got a little closer to the bars and clubs. He could hear heavy drum and bass from one, europop from another – no live music, at any rate. Honey had sort of slowed down and was looking at the clubs across the street – longingly? He couldn’t tell. Then he remembered she didn’t get out of her wee bubble much.

He wanted to get back to the hotel – get on with the hand gesturing – but one more drink wouldn’t hurt. “You want a whisky or summat?” he asked, nodding his head over the road.