[brussels] sequins in their eyes [charlie]

how can they see with sequins in their eyes?
16 August 2003
Brussels, Belgium

They were doing an encore. Of course. Cordelia, pressed up against the black curtains, rolled her eyes. The teenyboppers screaming in the audience were grating on her - she wish she had earplugs like the rest of the people backstage. She almost blended in with them, she thought, in her black dress with the sleeves rolled up. The technicians in their sweat-stained black shirts would probably welcome the comparison. There was a little bit of sweat forming along the underwire of her bra, though. It was hot back here.

They walked off again eventually; first the drummer, then the bassist (Cordy shot him an evil look, though he seemed not to spot her in the shadows of the theatre) then the man himself. Charlie Baker. The notorious Charlie Baker. She had followed the gossip about him, of course, but hadn’t expected to have to, you know, interact with him, in any way shape or form. It had been enough to see him sulking at Liam Thompson’s birthday party, where he hadn’t seemed all that impressive. And with what Ollie had told her, Banshee was currently not in Cordelia’s top five listens.

But she had been on the Continent for the gin festival anyway, and maybe she had oversold how close she got with Banshee to the folks at work, so maybe Craig had demanded a little interview on touring life, and maybe Lonnie had accused her of bullshitting, so of course she had to get the interview, didn’t she? This was a poisoned bed of her own making.

The guys at the door hadn’t as much glanced at her media badge, attached by Extendable Wire to her belt. This had struck her as odd, but it was a better bet than trying to hunt down Charlie Baker at a party.

Cordelia slipped from her spot in the wings, waiting for the three men to split up for a moment. There was a brief chance - she walked up to him, tapped the rock star on the shoulder, and tried to pretend she was supposed to be there. “Hi,” she said brightly, sticking out her hand and smiling, suddenly worries her lipstick had smudged in the heat. “Cordelia Leighton, Daily Prophet, I’m told I have ten minutes with you for an interview now, yes?” A blatant lie - but one that worked, historically.


@Charlie Baker

Charlie turned sharply when he felt the tap on his shoulder, half a grin on his lips expecting to see a familiar face. His brow furrowed and his dark eyes flicked down to the outstretched hand. He took it, perhaps dumbly, giving it a soft squeeze and a brief shake after swapping the towel he’d been holding to his left. He withdrew his right a little more quickly when she announced her employer. Given the talk he’d been given by the label and by Alan, he highly doubted he had a one-on-one interview scheduled, let alone with the Prophet. He raised a sceptical eyebrow at her; he was in even more doubt that their security would let her backstage if she really did work for the tabloid, which meant...

Charlie let his gaze drift lazily down to the woman’s feet and back up to her face; that dress was doing nothing for her but cover everything up -- fortunately he had a decent imagination and she had a pretty face. “Ten minutes?” He smirked softly. “Alright, come with me,” he drawled. The musician turned and nodded his head to encourage her to follow as he led her down the hallway in silence, opening his dressing room door and letting her enter first.

He closed the door behind him and flicked the lock, lest they be interrupted. “Make yourself comfortable. You want something to drink?” he asked, rubbing at the back of his neck with the small towel he’d been carrying before discarding it on a chair. His dark t-shirt was clinging to him and he was keen to jump in the shower, but he supposed he could wait. “I’ve got beer or wine, they don’t let me have spirits at the venue,” he flashed her a quick smile, not making it exactly clear whether he was joking (he wasn’t).

“What did you say your name was?” he asked her as he poured two glasses of red, handing the first to her. Charlie remained standing as he had his first sip (gulp), then bent at the hip to set the glass down on the low table. Without batting an eyelid, he pulled his t-shirt from the hem up, stripping it off. A fresh, folded shirt was draped over the arm of the sofa; he reached to grab it and pull it over his head, tugging it down with one hand and pushing his hair back with the other.

Charlie sat down across from her and picked up his wine. “I’m not wearing a watch so you’ll have to time yourself,” he smirked.

Oh, Cordelia thought as Charlie Baker gave her a once over. One of these types. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes or button up another button around her breasts, choosing instead to clutch her press badge a little more tightly while giving the singer a tight smile. She walked behind him with purpose, just giving him a quick nod of acknowledgement when he let her into his dressing room. "Wine's fine, thanks," Cordy said at last, making sure not to glance toward the locked door. Her wand bounced reassuringly against her thigh as she perched on the arm of an armchair.

Her notebook was open immediately, Quick-notes quill moving to get a description of the room. It was an assault of smells - fresh laundry, body spray, cologne, sweat. Now wine, heady and rich, as Charlie handed her the glass of red. "Cordelia," she repeated. "Cordelia Leighton." Not that he seemed to be paying attention. Her eyes went wide despite herself when the shirt came off. "A lesser woman would have wolf-whistled," she mumbled, to her quill as much as to herself. Thank Merlin for a new shirt - she wasn't sure if it was the warmth of the room or her own cheeks just flushing.

She chose to ignore the timing comment, taking a sip of the wine finally. "It's good," Cordelia says after a moment. "But I'm more of a liquor person, myself." In her lap, the notebook turned a page by itself. "Is that a venue policy, or from the label after your breakup?" She took another sip, watching Charlie over the rim of the glass.

“Cordelia,” he repeated, holding her gaze as he attempted to commit her name to memory (for the next ten minutes, at least). Charlie didn’t miss the look she shot him--relished in it, if anything--but did a half-decent attempt at keeping his expression neutral. His eyes flicked to her quill, scribbling across her notepad furiously despite the fact neither of them had said so much to jot down. Perhaps she had been telling the truth about working for the Prophet after all -- he ought to turf her out now, before it was too late, but—

He smirked. “You and I both.” He just settled into a more comfortable position--relaxed, shoulders loosened--when she changed tack -- or at least made her tack more obvious, if ambushing him backstage hadn’t been an obvious enough sign of her intent.

When Charlie had joked about not being allowed spirits he hadn’t been expecting a line of questioning on it -- which was another red flag in its own right before she brought up his split. Charlie shifted slightly, fingers gripping the glass tighter. He drank at the same time Cordelia did, keeping eye contact, then licked his lips. “It’s not a venue policy,” he answered plainly, hoping not to give her the satisfaction of appearing rattled.

Charlie had another (large) sip of wine, then cradled the glass between both hands, leant forward with his elbows on his knees. He considered her for a moment--her green-grey eyes, high cheekbones, full lips--before speaking again; “That really what you want to write about?” he asked, sounding closer to bored than angry. “Or was that just an attempt to unsettle me?”

She didn't like the way Charlie Baker was looking at her. Well, okay, maybe she did like how Charlie Baker was looking at her - but she didn't like that it was Charlie Baker doing the looking. There was something exhilarating about catching eyes, yes, across a dance floor or a living room, about a handsome man running his tongue across his lips like that, and a year ago Cordelia would have really relished in it. But now it just made her - what, feel uncomfortable?

Unsafe. Her eyes betrayed her with a quick, darting glance to the lock on the door. She dropped one hand, her right hand, to her dress pocket, the other hand still holding onto the glass of wine. She didn't need to hold it, but knowing her wand was in reach and hidden was a reassurance.

She took another sip, smaller than the one Charlie was throwing down his throat, while the quill worked. Not Venue Policy, hm? She wondered if there was something to that angle that was new. Charlie Baker the alcoholic. Would run better if he was on drugs, but you couldn't get everything you wanted in a single interview. "I'll write about whatever the story is," she provided, meeting his eyes over the rim of her own glass and quirking up an eyebrow. "Why, did it unsettle you?" She kept her tone light, airy. Underestimate me, Charlie Baker, she thought. See where that gets you. Where that gets Cordelia.

It would be good if he was unsettled, though. Unsettled subjects often revealed more than they thought they were revealing. Though his tone indicated otherwise. Ah well. Even getting in the room, getting this little snippet, would be worth something to Craig. "I'm sure your fans would love to know why Charlie Baker has sworn off spirits. Health reasons?" Another smile. If he changed the subject, that would be fine - the Quick Notes Quill was wonderful for jotting down notes on body language.

Charlie smirked. “So you haven’t already picked out your headline?” he asked, then pulled a mock impressed face. “Thought that was how you lot worked,” he explained, gesturing at her and her ilk. “Come up with something that’ll sell and just fit the story to it.”

Did it unsettle him? “No,” he lied, attempting to keep that bored tone he’d adopted a moment ago and at least partially succeeding. The large gulp of wine he drank next probably didn’t do much to support his words, but for all Cordelia Leighton knew, the drinking was a correlation, not causation. (Was that better or worse?)

Charlie barked out a laugh and met her eyes, grinning. “Did I say I’d sworn off them?” he answered her, not very cryptically. Charlie reached forward for the bottle and topped himself up, nudged the bottle closer to Cordelia when he set it back on the table. “Wine’s kinder on the vocal chords,” he smirked, using a practiced falsehood -- even if, perhaps, there might’ve been a shred of truth in it.

He relaxed back into his chair, surveying her as he sipped. She was definitely his type -- brunette, pretty, petite if she lost the heels (though, honestly, he thought he might prefer she kept them on). Charlie dragged his focus back up to her eyes. “Shall we cut the bullshit?” he asked, not unkindly. “Why are you here?“

"Mmm," Cordelia demurred. "Many of 'my lot' work backwards, yes." A twitch at the corner of her lip was all that betrayed her irritation at the comment. It was a constant frustration to her, the reputation of - maybe not the profession (okay, definitely of the profession) but also of the Daily Prophet itself. It was absolutely true of her colleagues (Gibbs! Gibbs was a constant reminder of the benefit of working the Other Way) in all departments of Somehow the Prophet was at once a sordid rag with Rita Skeeter's stains all over the pages, and also the only big paper of Wizarding Britain. Cordelia looked with envy at the reporting work done in the non-magical world - copies of the Altantic and TIME poured over in coffee shops. Oh, to work on something big, with resources to investigate, in a world that was less claustrophobic. To Charlie, Cordelia just raised her glass slightly. "I like to think I am a reporter, not a fiction writer."

"No," Charlie Baker said, immediately throwing back a gulp of wine. Cordelia's eyes narrowed, a slight twitch of her pinkie finger stopping the quill and adding a little note next to that line in her pad - liar. She didn't quite allow herself a grin, but the next sound out of her throat was a pleased hum. The harsh squawk from the man across from her wasn't enough to cut it off entirely. "Just a guess," she replied, sing-song-like. Wrong. Maybe. That line seemed practiced - could be true, could not be. A tap of the thumb on the stem of the glass. The quill on her lap added a small question mark.

Cut the -- Cordelia's eyebrow shot upward. Now she was a little unsteady, her eyes flicking to the door (still locked) as her face fell into a confused frown. "I thought I made that well clear already, Mr. Baker." A small shrug. "I didn't have an appointment - my editor thought there might be something to bypassing the PR team." A lie. Not her best. One hand dipped into her pocket, not wrapped around her wand but brushing against the wood, growing more and more worried.

A smug expression slid onto Charlie’s lips as he recognised the twitch in Cordelia’s. Still, it said something that that had rattled her -- perhaps she would be different to the others. “Well, we’ll see.”

She said it was just a guess and he wet his lips, smirk firmly back in place. “Thought you were a reporter?” he teased and had another sip of wine. She hadn’t topped herself up yet, so Charlie decided to be a gentleman and help: he got to his feet and picked up the bottle on his way to linger next to her -- it didn’t escape him that she’d perched herself on the arm of the one single-occupancy chair in the room, rather than share a settee with him, or leave herself open to him perching on the arm of the chair with her in the seat.

“Charlie, please,” he requested, frowning softly at Mr. Baker -- he wasn’t trying to be more familiar (or, not entirely), he just didn’t want to feel old. He poured into Cordelia’s glass before she could block the opening with her hand or move it out of his reach. “And he--or she,” he corrected himself, “--sent you in alone?” the musician asked curiously, finishing his pour and meeting her gaze -- holding it for a moment too long before he moved out of her space again and set the bottle back on the table. He turned to face her again, a few paces away and holding his glass low at his side, his other hand in his pocket. Approachable, maybe. “Sure that wasn’t your idea?”

The man across from her was smirking. Cordelia kept her face carefully and pleasantly neutral. "I'm also modest," she quipped back, burying the mild surge of irritation under another sip of wine. She held the glass out for the pour, watching Charlie's hands for tells as he poured. He was quick - she had hardly gotten her grip around the stem before he poured. And he lingered, pulling the bottle up slower than was altogether wise. Cordelia looked up - straight into Baker's eyes. Well, it wouldn't do to look away like a blushing schoolgirl. Cordelia held the gaze as it stretched into something uncomfortable. There was a faint flush in her cheeks when he finally went to set the bottle down. Shit.

"Charlie, then," she repeated, taking another sip and crossing one ankle demurring behind the other from her perch. It was not a comfortable position for long - if they were friends Cordelia would have slid into the center of the seat about now. But the discomfort kept her alert.

“And he--or she, --sent you in alone?” Charlie asked. Cordelia's expression lost a touch of the pleasantness. "That may have been my idea," she said after a moment, watching the bottle thud lightly against the table. "A partner would have seemed too hostile, I thought." And I didn't bring backup, like an idiot.

“Makes one of us,” he said, smirk still in place.

Charlie considered her curiously. She really must have been desperate for a story to use such a bold-faced lie to slip into his dressing room -- or maybe she just knew him better than he cared to admit. It wasn’t like it was hard to get back here if you were pretty enough -- and she was, underneath that look of contempt she couldn’t quite hide every time he hit on a nerve. He was confident now that she was, in fact, a genuine reporter and not some groupie getting creative.

The musician smiled, a little more genuinely this time. “May have been,” he repeated, in a tone that said he believed it had one-hundred per cent been her idea. Still, kudos where it was due: she was smart. He would have been less inclined to permit two reporters in his room -- unless they were both as fit as she was, and what were the chances of that? There was always one ugly one or a bloke.

Charlie had another sip of his wine before running his tongue along his teeth. “So did I live up to your expectations?” he asked casually, glancing behind himself to find the arm of the settee and rest his backside on it, mirroring her across the small room. “Cheater, alcoholic, charming conversationalist.” He had another drink, keeping his eyes on her over the rim of his glass.

Cheater, alcoholic, charming conversationalist. Cordelia hummed, posing as if she wanted to think about it. She didn't need to think about it, but this was just too tense. Baker - Charlie - was settling into some sort of ease now, but it was slow and the clock was ticking and Cordelia had absolutely no idea when they would both be evicted from the venue. Perhaps it was time to change tactics. "Well, if you must know."

Consider cheater first. "I had half-hoped for more of a..." Cordelia tilted her head, letting the hint of a smile pull at her lips, "bitter divorcé, grass widower impression from you. Just for the fun of it." She leaned forward just a touch, wine swirling in hand. "I love to see expectations subverted." A small shrug. "How many girls are you juggling these days? Three? Four? A half-dozen?"

Her eyes flickered briefly over his arm. From this distance, it was easy to make out the word impressed upon Charlie Baker's skin. She had seen it closer already this evening, but now she had the space to jot it down - ex-wife nm nt yt rmv arm. Cordelia let go of the quill and let it stand on its own again, the shorthand expanding itself on the page as soon as her hand uncurled. She considered dropping it down to her wand again. Didn't.

Alcoholic, next -- "I didn't spot you at the gin festival last weekend." Another shrug -- but also, damn! She should have brought some, venue policy notwithstanding. "Is the tour keeping you too busy, or did you just slip in and out quickly?"

Charming conversationalist, finally - just a shrug. "Perhaps for others, but you're keeping your cards much closer to your chest than I would like." Cordy tried for honesty, now - he knew why she was here, already, no sense in trying to maintain some part of the surprise element. Let's try straightforward, see where that gets us. "Do you mind if I smoke?" Muggle lighter and packet of cigarettes slipped from her other pocket to her hand, the top of the carton popped open and tilted in Charlie's direction.

Charlie’s lips twisted into a slow grin -- if he must know. He wasn’t sure if Cordelia was trying to win him over with her apparent disinterest in him as a person rather than her interest in him as a story, but it was somehow working -- intentional or not.

“Should’ve come to see me a few months ago if you wanted bitter,” he told her honestly -- though, really, he was still plenty sour about the whole thing. Perhaps because he’d just come off stage and was still riding on the adrenaline and ego of having hundreds of faces screaming up at him he was in a lighter mood than normal -- it was a good distraction from how he felt about everything. So was present company, ironically. Charlie shrugged, mimicking her. “You want me to add you into the rotation?” he smirked, waited a beat for a reaction, then said “If you must know,” adopting a holier-than-thou tone much like he felt she had, “I’m not seeing anyone.” Having sex with someone didn’t count, obviously.

Charlie caught Cordelia glancing over his arm, and at first he thought she was just checking him out--deciding if she did want to be added to the rotation--but as his own line of sight dropped he was reminded of the permanent (for now, at least) reminder on his skin of the woman he’d vowed to be with till death do us part. When he brought his attention back up Cordelia was letting go of her quill, evidently having written something. Charlie frowned and had another gulp of his wine.

“There was a gin festival?” he asked, his tone a little less light. There was a joke there somewhere about slipping in and out quickly but he couldn’t bring himself to make it, too busy ruminating on his past mistakes.

Charlie lowered his (almost empty) glass to his hip and offered her a small, almost sympathetic, smile -- he supposed he had @Piper Morel to thank for a recent refresher course in dealing with journalists. “Don’t worry,” he told her, “I’m always coy on the first date,” he smirked.

Cordelia asked if she could smoke and Charlie softly jerked his head in a reverse-nod. His eyes fell to her outstretched hand. He smirked (again) and stood slowly, closing the gap between them again as long fingers withdrew a cigarette. The witch held out the lighter for him to take. Charlie grabbed her wrist instead and lifted it to the cigarette propped between his lips, his eyes focused on hers. It took her a moment, but she lit it for him. Charlie let go of her wrist and with the same hand pulled the cigarette from his mouth to exhale steadily, taking care to aim the smoke away from her face, his eyes still on her.

"Think your ten minutes might be up," he said in a low tone, holding her gaze, "but if you're not done with me…"

I’m always coy on the first date,” Charlie said. "I shall have to hope for a second, then," said Cordelia. This was going slow, but well. Not seeing anyone, clearly not aware of the gin festival - that seemed like genuine confusion, or something, in his voice right there. If she could get a second interview, maybe she could squeeze out a little more.

Charlie indicated his assent, and Cordelia shook out one for herself in a swift, practiced motion. It was already between her lips when Charlie approached to take one of his own. She let herself feel smug for a moment, holding out the lighter for Charlie with a smirk of her own forming.

Then Charlie Baker grabbed her by the wrist.

There was a sick lurching feeling in her stomach, eyes going wide with alarm. Her heart started beating faster, drumming out a sickeningly fast beat in her chest. Her wand was still in her right pocket, but the lighter was in her right hand, she had moved it there when she had gotten her own cigarette between her lips. He was looking at her so intently. The hair on the back of her neck was up, and she felt an itch at the top of her forehead, where the scar from so long ago was hidden behind her hair.

She took a moment to breathe, long trembly breaths, then lit the cigarette.

Charlie let go of her hand, finally, though he did not move. She quickly lit her own cigarette and tucked the lighter back into her left pocket. When she exhaled, the cigarette went into her left hand, while her right went casually into her pocket. She blew the smoke in the opposite direction from Charlie's, surrounding the two of them in the haze of nicotine and tar.

"Think so," Cordelia agreed, keeping her tone as level as she could (which wasn't very). The door was still locked, that fact had not escaped her notice, and she didn't have enough for even a two paragrapher page filler as it was. Her hand twisted around her wand. "Well, it's not as if I have another appointment this evening. Do you?"

The pretty brunette stashed her lighter away in her opposite pocket--her left--then slipped her hand into her right -- something Charlie didn’t miss as he watched her from his closer vantage point. She didn’t bring it back out, and if she was anything like most of the wizarding populace, she was right-handed and it was her wand in there.  Cordelia exhaled and Charlie took another drag, wondering how best to play this. He didn’t think he was being nearly as lecherous as he could be, if he wanted to -- and if this was spooking her, maybe he was her first big interview. Wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to use him to climb another rung on the career ladder.

He had given her a good out, if that was what she had wanted -- but she didn’t take it. He took that to mean she wanted to stay. "No,” Charlie answered Cordelia amiably. “I'm all yours.”

If his aim was to put her at ease he could offer to relocate this conversation to somewhere a little more public -- a bar, or a restaurant if he was being really nice, but -- did he want to put her at ease?

"Shall we keep subverting your expectations, then?" Charlie took half a step back, perching his cigarette between his lips to free his hand and top his wine glass up; the bottle came up nearly empty by the time he was done, so he elected to top Cordelia up again, too, avoiding her gaze this time. He set the bottle down with a soft clunk, then moved slowly in to crowd her space again.

He sat in the seat beside her, crossing his leg over and relaxing back, eyes forward as he had a sip of wine and a draw on his cigarette. He waited a moment before reaching to pluck her notepad from her lap -- not being too careful not to brush her thigh; “What’ve you got so far then?” he asked around his cigarette--wagging precariously between his lips--holding the pad out to her far side out of reach— but it was illegible. Shorthand and— the words that were real words quickly reassembled themselves before his eyes, creating line upon line of gibberish. Charlie grinned, impressed. “That bad?”

I'm all yours. A chill ran up Cordelia's spine. Hell, was that - she should have taken the out. Maybe. There was something kind of.. fun about this cat and mouse game they were playing, him trying to seduce her or whatever the hell, her trying to squeeze more and more tidbits of information from him. Unfortunately, Cordelia was pretty sure she was the mouse.

Charlie stepped back - Cordelia took a deep drag of her cigarette, trying to imagine the smell of pine trees and fresh laundry. "Why not," she said as casually as she could. Cordelia pressed the cigarette to the corner of her mouth with her tongue, holding it there while lifting her wine glass up from the side table for another top-up. It was good wine, at least. Her right hand did have to come out to hold the cigarette so she could take another sip. Maybe she should finish this faster, she thought, blowing smoking into the room again.

Charlie squeezed past her hips to sit in the armchair's plush seat. His head was - uncomfortably level with her chest now. She should jot down the name on the bottle, the muggle cigarette lighting, that would be a good character piece. Cordelia went to nudge the quill, but the moment she did it was snatched away. "Hey!," she exclaimed, alarmed but not so alarmed. It gave her an excuse to move, though. She pushed herself off the arm and spun around to face Charlie again, hand out expectantly. "The longer you try to look at it, the worse it gets," she warned, letting herself smile slightly with pride in her enchantment.

She took another drag of her cigarette and decided to abandon it - Cordelia glanced around for a moment before spotting an ashtray by the mirror. She walked, slow, pushed the cigarette down into the ceramic dish, thinking. She could just call it here, but she wanted something with a scoop, something nobody else knew. But she was too rattled to think of a damn question. Cordelia spun around, leaning against the counter with a questioning look at Charlie. Well, this wasn't anything she could use, really, but it could get a reaction, And Cordelia was curious. "I was at the party this summer, you know. In California." She let that sit for a moment before actually asking. "Off the record, how did you take it?" The quill lay down flat against the page.