[brussels] sequins in their eyes [charlie]

“Clever,” he said appreciatively, handing the notepad back after another quick scan -- not letting go immediately, just to make her tug on it a little now that she’d vacated his vicinity again. He took his cigarette between his fingers and exhaled in a steady stream. “That so I can’t see what you really think about me?” he smirked.

Charlie watched her as she looked for the ashtray, curious, and frowned softly as she stubbed her cigarette out prematurely. He tsk’d softly. “Waste,” he mumbled, wetting his lips before having another drag of his own. She must be a social smoker, or perhaps she’d only brought them as a tool for this interview -- if that were the case, she really was rather premeditated. Then again, she clearly wasn’t Flemish so even being here was a form of premeditation, wasn’t it?

The party this summer. It took Charlie a minute to figure out which party she was referring to, then, of course, he realised she meant Liam’s, and his eyes went a little round in surprise. Off the record, she said, and he saw her quill lay down out of the corner of his vision -- he knew that was no guarantee, but it felt like a legitimate offer. Charlie kept his eyes on Cordelia as sipped his wine to stall for time, try to puzzle out what exactly she was asking him (how did he take what?).

“I didn’t see you,” he said first, in response to her being there. He had been a little preoccupied that night -- mentally, if not physically. “Did you sneak your way in there and all?” he asked accusingly, though his tone was still pleasant enough.

He uncrossed his legs and leant forward, forearms on his knees. “Sorry, what exactly are you asking me?”

"Normal precaution," Cordelia demurred on the subject of her notebook, tugging it with a little additional effort back into her hands. "So many people demand edits when they can see. Artist to artist, you must know how irritating that is." Artist was pushing it, maybe, but Cordelia took a certain pride in her turns of phrase. Writing was an art, whether lyrics or reporting, right? "How many people want you to write songs about them, for instance? How many women do you actually write songs about?" She raised her eyebrows, genuinely curious.

Waste, mumbled Charlie, and Cordelia wasn't sure if he meant the cigarette or her. She tensed, slightly, pushing the cigarette a little more forcefully into the ashtray.

“Did you sneak your way in there and all?” Cordelia's bottom lip popped out into a pout. She wasn't really upset -- given how she had gotten back here, it was a reasonable assumption. But she felt compelled to defend herself. "I had an invite," she said, only a hint of indignation creeping into her tone. "On the list and everything. Check yourself, if you'd like." She shrugged, small -- unreasonable to think that the guest list still existed.

Her arms crossed in front of her, under her breasts -- she meant it to show her hands were away from the wand, away from the quill. It occurred to her too late that the motion accentuated her body, in a way she was all too aware that Charlie Baker would notice.

Well, maybe not. He seemed to a little dense here, needing her to spell it out for him. "The news, of course. Liam being --" She stumbled, unsure of the right word to use. Oliver had never been one for labels himself, so while Cordelia was not particularly closed-minded, she didn't have all the right language. "-- gay." Was that the right usage? Should it be a gay, or homosexual, or something else? Cordelia dismissed the thought, focusing instead on Charlie's reaction.

Artist to artist, she said, and Charlie smirked in reply (he could accept that she was a wordsmith too, he supposed -- not that he’d read anything by her, or even known her name before today). “I don’t show anyone the works in progress,” he told her truthfully -- which meant, of course, that by the time a song was out in the world it was too late to edit, or have edits requested. He had also only ever written two (released) songs that were without-a-doubt about a particular person (or persons, as it were). All of the others were more vague, more interchangeable -- less likely to invite a confident assumption from the subject.

Charlie wet his lips and grinned. “Can’t answer that first one, love.” He had a drag of his cigarette, holding it in his chest for a moment before exhaling and clouding them in smoke. As to the second part of her question: “Less than people probably think.” This was more of a shan’t than a can’t; interviewers had tried for years--from the very beginning--to get that scoop. “You want names and addresses?” he joked.

“Oh, an invite?” he repeated back at her with eyebrows raised. “Rare as hen’s teeth, them,” he teased. When Liam threw a party, the whole bloody city was invited. Still, she looked just indignant enough for him to believe her.

His eyes fell below Cordelia’s neck as she folded her arms, and he lingered there for a moment too long before dragging his attention back up to her face (which wasn’t bad to look at either, if he was being honest).

Liam being— Ah. Charlie had a final sip of his wine before reaching forward to set the empty glass down on the low table, conveniently shielding his face from her in the process. He reclined back in his seat and crossed his leg over, ankle-to-knee, surveying Cordelia where she was leant against the counter. When he arrived at her eyes he held her gaze before shrugging. “Still Liam,” he said in answer. His free hand came up to push his hair back from his forehead. “To be honest, I wasn’t—” He pressed his lips together. “I was going through my own shit when I found out,” he admitted, no longer looking at her -- it was bad enough to come to this realisation, he could do without the reminder that a stranger was bringing him to it. “So, I suppose I took it as a shitty friend,” he smiled wanly and glanced back up.

Charlie's lip twitched upward in a small smirk, at artist. Cordelia managed to keep herself from overtly frowning at that, but only just. Was that so hard to believe? That reporters were artists too, creating a window into a story that was clear and evocative despite how complex the situation might actually be? She felt defensive of her chosen profession, of her work, of her goddamn invitation to that party in California that Charlie was now taking a moment to also mock. Cordelia might not care for Kate Baker, but with the woman's ex-husband in front of her, the divorce made more and more sense. "And yet you pull my work in progress out of my hands," Cordelia settled on commenting dryily, ignoring the rest except to commit responses to memory.

You want names and addresses? A joke - the smirk made it clear. "If you're handing them out. Your Gringotts account, too, while we're asking for impossible things." A touch of frustration crept into her voice, but it wasn't like Charlie was going to respect her any more if she managed to keep her tone level. Every successive moment seemed to bring her a little lower, in his eyes.

He was burning holes into her dress with those same eyes, which made her feel uneasy, mostly. A touch flattered, despite herself. A short-lived therapist said that was a trauma response, once, during what quickly became their last session. Her mouth felt dry, but in her haste to put some distance between then Cordelia had abandoned her glass near Charlie. Her eyes flickered over to it -- well, it wasn't as if she had really left it unattended, right? 

Charlie set his glass down. Was he rattled? Cordelia stilled the urge to reach for the quill. She could remember this much without notes, at least. Still Liam, Charlie said, after a pause far too long for that to be his own thought on the matter. I suppose I took it as a shitty friend. At this Charlie Baker smiled at her, thinly, in perhaps the most honesty his face had shown this whole while. "It's a hard thing to reckon with, even when you don't have other things flying at you," Cordelia said, half comforts spilling from her tongue easily. She hadn't been particularly supportive with Ollie, now had she? Though she couldn't remember Oliver ever coming out -- he had just been, well, Ollie, the whole time, with easy kisses flying in any direction regardless of who the lips were attached to.

Not that she would have noticed, if Ollie had come out to her sometime in 1999. She had been, in the words of the man in front of her, going through her own shit.

The urge to write this down and the urge to drink were at war within her; after a moment the wine won. She scooped up the notebook, just to have it in hand, before making her way back to the abandoned glass on the low table, besides Charlie once again. She raised her glass slightly, her own smile thin and wane. "To failing our friends, then," she said, dark as anything, and took a huge gulp.

The corners of Charlie’s mouth pulled down in the same moment his eyebrows rose; “Touché.”

He laughed then, when she asked for his Gringotts account. “You’d be the first bird to be upfront about it,” he commented with a grin still on his lips -- which promptly faded when he realised how that might be used in print. He met Cordelia’s eyes before looking away sharply, clearing his throat. He hadn’t been insinuating Kate--not really--but it wasn’t like the media to attribute anything to anyone other than the best selling option, nevermind that it looked like Cordelia had still been in school when Charlie had actually dated anyone else (hadn’t Kate, too?).

Charlie’s thin smile widened just a little in response to the reporter’s comment. “You almost make it sound like it wasn’t my fault.” Kate might have officially requested the divorce, but he knew it was his actions that had led them both there. Charlie’s focus drifted to his empty wine glass and he wished he hadn’t finished it already, though he supposed he could always open a fresh bottle.

Cordelia moved before he could, and he thought perhaps she’d had enough of his company when she retrieved her notebook -- but she collected her glass, too, and Charlie kept his eyes on her curiously. He smiled again, still wanly but with a fraction more warmth, at her toast, and had a short drag of his cigarette in reply before getting to his feet. He stepped closer, almost face-to-face but for the slight height difference, and turned his head to the side a little to exhale smoke whilst keeping his dark eyes on hers.

“How did you fail yours?” he asked quietly, holding her gaze for a long second before softly brushing past her and stubbing his cigarette out in the provided ashtray. Charlie strode over to the rider to collect a second bottle of malbec, twisting the cap off on his way back to the brunette. He poured for himself first, then silently offered her a top-up.

You’d be the first bird to be upfront about it, Charlie laughed, and Cordelia lifted one eyebrow. That was nothing without more context — She opened her mouth to quip something back, but Charlie was already looking away. Must have realized how that sounded. Charlie was too media savvy for a junior writer to really get her hooks in him, but Cordelia was pleased that she had gotten even that small admission.

She wondered who he might mean — what little she knew about Kate through the two women’s mutual friends, it didn’t quite seem like her M.O. Kate was her age, which was too young for that sort of cynicism, in Cordelia's estimation. Well, too young for an American, anyway. Living through the 1997 school year at Hogwarts earned one some degree of cynicism. “I’m no expert on divorce, but it does seem better than remaining in an unhappy marriage. For both parties.” She shrugged, an errant curl falling over her shoulder. "And it seems overwhelmingly distracting." Divorce and death -- One of Michael's friends, the skinny one, had mentioned something about coming out twice because Michael had been too overwhelmed to care. He had mentioned loads of shite though, and Cordelia could hardly remember most of it.
 
Charlie stepped to her, then tobacco on his breath blowing past her cheek. The thin smile was shifting, a glimmer more genuine in Cordy’s estimation. They were close, too close now, but Cordelia refused the urge to step back. Her heartbeat went faster without her permission as she tilted her chin up to see him.

How did you fail yours? Charlie asked, and Cordelia froze for a moment. It was too vulnerable, where they were now — but Cordelia had lead them here. She was quiet as she held his gaze, not moving her shoulders as he brushed past her. “Absence, mostly,” she said after a moment, putting her glass forward for the offered wine. “And silence.” She didn’t want to talk about the war, how her emotional catatonia ruined friendships in the two years she had left at Hogwarts. But the air felt empty, so she put out something more— “One of my mates went through the worst time of his life, and I was too selfish to help.” She wondered if the guilt of that was more or less likely to clock her as a Hufflepuff.

Better than remaining in an unhappy marriage, she said, and Charlie stared at her a little vacantly. Was that what it had been? Yes, he supposed -- depending on the mood he was in he looked back on his marriage (the word alone felt uncomfortable) with either a sense of nostalgia or of forced contempt. He didn’t harbour any true ill-will towards Kate, other than for how he felt now. He was still convinced that this was better, and tended to try and suppress the fact that it had happened at all. He nodded, belatedly -- it was distracting, the reporter was right about that much.

As he stood in front of her, Cordelia didn’t try to move away again -- in fact, she didn’t move at all, which was even more satisfying; he wondered how committed to getting her story she was.

Charlie considered the brunette’s one-word (well, two, technically) answer before pouring into her glass. He twisted his wrist up to stem the flow from the bottle as she added to her initial response. He raised an enquiring eyebrow; he wasn’t about to push her into talking about something she didn’t want to (no desire to dampen the mood, that wasn’t what he was going for), but past experience told him that if he was patient she’d keep going -- and if she kept going, it meant he didn’t have to. Beyond that, he was genuinely curious now.

Charlie set the bottle down--cap still off--and turned back to face her, stepping close again with one hand in his pocket and the other lifting his glass to his mouth. He sipped, then licked his lips as he studied her; she had to be younger than him by a couple of years at least, which meant she had probably borne the brunt of the war. Was that what she was referring to? “You can’t be that selfish if you regret it,” he offered in a borderline-comforting tone, trying to ignore the voice in his head reminding him of the difference between regret and remorse. “I know a little about being selfish,” he smiled wryly again, and had another sip of wine.

“Do you?” he asked softly. “Regret it?”

Charlie looked a little distant at that, at unhappy marriage. Another moment she wished for her quill, or at least a better grasp at wandless magic. She didn't need a word to set her notes quill back upright, but she did need her wand, and Charlie was altogether too close for her to do that subtly. She wanted to sketch out his expression here with words -- strong lines surrounding vacant eyes, as if he were somewhere else entirely. That would be good, now if she could only write it down.

She watched Charlie fill her glass, wine pouring without any errant drops. They still weren't evenly matched in this verbal game of chess, but Cordelia had some of her footing back. This was deflection. An attempt to make her talk about her own past instead of digging into his. Unfortunately for Charlie, he had no idea how practiced Cordelia was at repressing these things. She had only just become able to talk about her trauma with her boyfriend. A stranger, famous or no, was shit out of luck here.

They stood in silence then, Charlie clearly waiting for her to go on, Cordelia waiting for him to realize she wouldn't prattle on unprompted. Her eyes remained open and trained on him as she took a long, slow drink of wine. He tried to comfort her -- interested tactic, she had just done the same thing. I know a little about being selfish, the rock star said, and Cordelia's lips twitched up into a half smile. "I'm sure you do," she said, voice low.

Do you? Regret it?

Cordelia took another sip of her wine, feeling rather like she was being played like a fiddle. Despite all her resolve, it seemed so easy to open up now, if only a hair, about Camm or perhaps Lydia. This must be part of Banshee's secret to success, this way Charlie Baker had of needling his way into your soul through the ears. "Of course," she said, looking into his eyes and refusing to look away first. "I regret a lot of things. What do you regret?"

He didn’t miss the half-smile she gave him.

Charlie watched as Cordelia had another sip of wine, and he matched her -- not that he particularly needed more--he was already most of a bottle ahead--but he’d wager that she wouldn’t be outdrinking him in a hurry regardless.

Of course she regretted it, and a lot of other things. He wasn’t afforded an opportunity to wonder what, because she had already turned the question back on him. He smiled slowly -- wouldn’t she like to know (her and every other reporter, no doubt). Charlie copied her delaying tactic: having another sip of wine, his dark eyes still fixed on hers, before answering. "I regret a lot of things," he said, echoing the brunette; giving her something while simultaneously giving her nothing.

His gaze flickered over her face for a moment, trying to read her expression -- and unabashedly assess her features (pretty eyes, high cheekbones, a full pout). Her earlier admission--That might have been my idea--replayed at the forefront of his thoughts. Charlie stepped closer, effectively removing all of the space between them; in the same movement he lowered his wine glass to hip height--and to the side, out of the way--while his free hand found her waist with light pressure.

He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to Cordelia’s, his eyes closing softly and lips parting almost immediately.

I regret a lot of things, Charlie said, his voice a low rumble. He was gazing at her face now with a heavy, obvious stare, much like that look he had given her before escorting Cordelia to the dressing room. It had disgusted her before, that look, the way it had lingered her on the top of chest. Now, though, Charlie's eyes didn't wander, flickered from hair to eyes to her lips. She took a breath, a little shakier than before, one heel lifting to step away.

Charlie's hand caught on her waist as he closed the gap between them, lips catching hers as she lost her balance.

It shouldn't have taken her off guard, but it did. Her mouth was already open slightly as she stumbled, enough of an opening for Charlie's tongue to slip into her mouth. Muscle memory betrayed her -- Cordelia's eyes fluttered closed, reciprocating the kiss for a few moments. He tasted like wine and smoke, rich and warm and incessant in his kissing. It was nice, certainly, but a bit much, a bit wet, a bit too much teeth catching her lower lip, a bit too unlike Michael.

Her lifted heel found footing again. Cordelia opened her eyes wide, blinked, watching Charlie's face. She had never had her eyes open while being kissed before -- it was a bizarre angle, all nose and eyelashes. Her mouth relaxed, lips closing and not opening for Charlie again. Cordelia reached for his chest, resting her right hand just below Charlie's collarbone.

She smiled when Charlie pulled away, amusement in her eyes. "Mmm," she hummed, gently lifting Charlie's hand off her waist. "Certainly I'm flattered..." She trailed off, took one last sip of wine before setting her glass down. "Thank you, but no thank you." She watched his expression carefully. "I do believe it's been ten minutes."

Her mouth was open and waiting for him, and Charlie took that as encouragement — too drunk (and too ignorant) to recognise it for anything else. He leant a little more into the kiss, his brow furrowing softly as his tongue slid eagerly over Cordelia’s; the hand on her waist gently pulled her closer.

It took him longer than it probably should have to realise she wasn’t kissing him back — though he was certain she had been, at the start. She sealed him out and Charlie pulled back, confused— but she was smiling when he opened his eyes, frowning softly back at her and the hand on his collarbone. Did she just want to set some ground rules first? Or did she think herself above fucking in a dressing room?

Charlie’s gaze fell to where Cordelia’s cool fingers had wrapped over his hand and he watched dumbly as she extracated herself from him. The musician’s eyes flicked back up to the brunette’s face. “What?” he murmured, still not processing. The reporter stepped back enough to set her glass of wine down — Charlie thought to do the same, but before he could act on it she was thanking him—

No, she was rejecting him — wasn’t she? Or at the very least pretending to — convincingly, if so. Charlie put his glass down now, hastily, and straightened back up in front of her. His hand hovered just off her waist, where it had been moments before, but he kept his head dipped imploringly. “Come on, love,” he drawled with a brittle (unconfident) smirk, “we both know you didn’t have an appointment.” He wet his lips quickly. He wasn’t desperate but there was something about her. “Come back to the hotel and you can ask me whatever you want,” he offered.

He wasn't going to need hexing off of her, at least -- after her lips closed and her hand pushed gently on his collar, Charlie figured it out and pulled away. What? mumbled Charlie Baker, staring at her like she was suddenly a very complicated Arithmancy equation. Cordelia tried to resist the urge to smirk. She utterly failed, cheeks dimpling as she did so.

Whether he meant to or not, Charlie was fanning her ego, here. No appointment? "True," she said, shrugging, voice still light. "Got my interview though, didn't I? Ipso facto, I made an appointment, just last minute." Merlin, she was enjoying this a bit more than she ought to.

Tempting, she almost said. It was true, in an abstract sort of sense. It wasn't like she had a strictly rule about sleeping with her sources, after all. There was an investigator's desire to see what a famous playboy was like in bed, to declare once and for all whether it was the fame or the face or the skills that kept anyone coming back for more. And he was fit, like any pop star must be to make it. Not not her type -- Cordelia did like a tall, dark-haired bloke with big ears and a penchant for pomade.

Luckily, Cordelia had a bloke fitting that description already. He was in County Durham, and he was a better kisser.

The hotel? And here Cordelia thought he meant to shag in on the chaise. "And where are you staying?" Cordelia asked, eyebrows raised, giving him space to answer before adding "Hm, thank you, but I'd rather not." She took a step back, still smiling. "I appreciate the effort, but if I were here to shag the infamous Charlie Baker, I would have been much more intentional." She was glad, in a way, that Charlie had kissed her -- it sucked all of the tension out of the room. Everything felt so much more relaxed now.

But the interview was clearly over. Cordelia closed her eyes, feeling the room for magic and sensing the heavy threads of spells and wards in the air. She opened her eyes and gave Charlie a softer smile. "Perhaps you can show me out, if we're quite finished?"

“Half an interview,” he countered, still hoping to use that—the promise of more—to reel her in, get her back to his room (in his experience, it generally worked).

Charlie wet his lips again, habitually, and tried to gauge her reaction to that offer. He couldn’t work out if it was journalistic curiosity or genuine interest that led Cordelia to ask where he was staying, and there was a part of him that thought he ought not to tell her unless she was going to be staying with him but— “The Marriott,” he said, not bothering to explain away their decision to stay in a muggle hotel over a wizarding one (it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out, and he’d be disappointed if she needed it laid out for her).

At her rebuffal, he almost suggested they just get a drink (first) instead—give himself time to convince her, maybe he was getting a little desperate now—but before he got the chance she was making her position that bit clearer. Infamous. Charlie stared at Cordelia, stunned, for a moment, before he laughed -- not menacingly. He realised absently that he was embarrassed.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to see her own way out—the door was only a few feet away—but he pushed his bottom lip out in acknowledgement (and respect, somewhere, for having the integrity to decline him) and stepped back, turning as he did so to lead her over to it. Hand on the knob, he paused, half-glancing over his shoulder. He took a step backwards and swung the door open in the same motion.

He let his eyes drag up over her one more time. “Let me know when you want the other half,” he said, letting his fingers slip from the cool metal and striding slowly back over to his abandoned glass of wine.


[  out  ]

Cordelia shrugged. "Half an interview isn't half bad, is it?" The corner of her mouth dimpled into a cheeky half-smile. Did that usually work? It was quite a trite line. As was his choice of muggle hotel - The Marriott. Not entirely unsurprising, not entirely impressive. Cordelia nodded, acknowledging the location without giving any indication that she would be going there herself.

Oh, he was – he was laughing. Cordelia's mouth opened, slightly, not quite a full jaw-drop. What, had she said something funny? Was there something funny about him being rejected? Certainly it was amusing to her, but Charlie also laughing sucked some of the fun out of it. She couldn't really read his expression – she had been drinking, she was realizing – and it was maddening. Somehow, this was the most inscrutable Charlie Baker had been all evening.

Charlie saw her just to the door, which, she realized, unlocked automatically when turned without having to fiddle with the mechanism. Of course. She stepped past him, turned so her profile was facing the door. Let me know when you want the other half, Charlie said, hand dropping from the doorknob. She caught a glimpse of him taking another long drink of wine before the door swung all shut.

Cordelia stared at the dressing room door for a moment, lower lip curled inward and caught on her teeth. Other half. It was almost like he wanted to see her again. Huh. Funny, that. There wasn't much of a story here, yet. Perhaps she would let him know. One day.

Her heels clicked together once, followed by a soft pop. The hallway was empty, the night was quiet.

[  out  ]