inside friend [charlie]

Charlie was only half-listening when Honey joked about Will being pregnant -- which was probably pretty obvious because he’d normally at least smirk at her. His mind was elsewhere, only brought back to the here and now when he felt her move closer. He turned his face slowly to look at her.

His brow furrowed softly. When was he supposed to have told her? They were just sex, with the occasional cup of tea (and now middle-of-the-night omelette). Still, he nodded -- Geneva -- trying to keep up with the conversation while he was still trying to push out thoughts of Amsterdam and then before, when she’d— Wait—

Charlie looked to Honey, then followed her gaze down to the eggs. “Fuck—” he swore sharply. He grabbed the spatula and flipped the eggs, grimacing at the slightly blackened underside that was now glaring up at them; a sign he’d not been paying attention. 'Thought you were a Baker.' He glanced at her, sidelong at first, before half-smiling, half-smirking. “Hilarious.”

Charlie inhaled deeply through his nostrils and moved the omelette around a little more to make sure it wasn’t sticking, before setting the spatula down; his arm brushing against hers. He glanced at Honey again, backtracking to before the eggs were burning -- before Geneva, he could have told her. He supposed he could have told her in Geneva because they’d spent enough time not having sex that night (not that they hadn’t made up for it), but what sort of mood would that have put them in?

He swallowed softly, then wet his lips. “It’s not like we’re really friends,” he said, trying to sound casual and nonchalant about it -- he didn’t need any more friends -- but that didn’t mean he would be opposed. He glanced away and tipped the omelette on top of the remains of the first one, then hesitated as he tried to work out how to turn the heat off.

It was more and more obvious that she didn’t know how to have a conversation with him, his long pause, the only sound the eggs cooking--burning. They’d tried the near- and nearer-serious topics--and when had either of them decided that was a good idea?--and now the joke thing wasn’t really working either. It was good they had a backup plan; she seriously doubted she’d ruined that mood, too.

And now they weren’t friends. “Aye, right.” She didn’t think he really believed that but she had another chance to think about it as she watched him turn out the omelette--he hadn’t added any cheese--onto their shared plate. Maybe he had a point; they’d played at being friends when they needed a reason (other than sex) to see each other and it hadn’t really panned out then, either.

She reached around him to stop the charm on the stove, crowding his space a little more than she needed to. “So how do--” It was different this time around; they could be friends without raising any suspicions. “What’d bring the ‘friend’ thing into ‘friends with benefits’ then?” She didn’t bother with the air quotes, too focused on not trying to look too panicked that she’d just slapped a label on this, even if that was clearly what it was. That, and she was probably standing too close to seriously be asking him how to be his friend.

Charlie looked at her for a second--oops-- before posing his follow up question: Hypothetically speaking? She never really understood what that word meant, but she took a gamble on it not being what she was after. “Or not.” This was definitely the longest conversation they’d ever had, even with the pauses not included and once their state of undress was taken into account. Plus she’d already put the question out there; it was worth a shot.

He didn’t know what he was expecting -- they’d always been very good at avoiding these sorts of conversations, always much better at non-conversations -- but now he was trying to place the odd feeling in his gut; it wasn’t quite disappointment, but—

She was in his space -- in just his t-shirt -- and he couldn’t lean out of it (even if he wanted to, which he didn’t) because the hot stovetop was behind him. He stared down at her, surprised by her question -- by that label. He hadn’t ever been brave enough to ask what they were -- before, or now -- but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried to work it out himself. He’d just said they weren’t friends but he wasn’t sure he’d meant it (in hindsight, definitely hadn’t). They weren’t nothing -- but nor were they something. Maybe this was safer, to give it that label: friends.

He still couldn’t take that leap -- not confidently. He never knew where he stood with Honey, and he didn’t want to be that guy, assuming they were talking about them when she was just discussing the concept in general. He wet his lips and met her eyes -- omelette momentarily forgotten. “Hypothetically speaking?”

Or not.

Shit. "Erm." A great start, but he’d argue that he wasn’t prepared for this. Talking about her exes (plural, apparently) was one thing -- asking him how to be friends was something else. Did people ever plan becoming friends? (Did she not have any friends she hadn’t slept with?) He’d only ever just slipped into it -- friendship. He tried to think about what would make this friendly, what he did with his actual friends. Charlie’s attention drifted to their abandoned omelette. Eating together was friendly, as long as it wasn’t dinner -- ‘dinner’ was a date, if it was one-on-one.

“Lunch,” he said, looking back at her with the hint of a smirk in his weak smile; he hadn’t forgotten about their ‘friendly’ lunch date (not a date) that she’d skipped out on.

It was a fair question, considering they didn’t spend any time together outside this and she didn’t exactly know anything about him; never mind the whole stalker thing; she didn’t think she knew something as basic as his favorite color. But all he had was erm. Lovely. He glanced away but she kept her focus on him, eyes narrowing slightly--this would be fine if they carried on not being friends, right?

Honey raised her eyebrows a tad as Charlie looked back at her. “Lunch,” she repeated, almost sure she hadn’t made it sound like a question. She rarely ate lunch--a big, late breakfast to last her until dinner, yes--but she’d nearly made an exception for him before, with their Edinburgh plans. She still felt a bit bad about the nearly part and she was probably misremembering why she’d cancelled on him but she was pretty sure it was to prove a point to Harlan. Or to herself. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter anymore.

“Does it have to be in public?” Never mind that just minutes ago she had convinced herself they could be friends without raising any suspicions; the more realistic outcome was someone seeing them without having all the facts--the ‘not involved’ facts--and she didn’t need that backfiring on her. Or Honeydukes. Again. This was getting almost too complicated for something that was supposed to be uncomplicated (which felt like a familiar thought, one which Honey promptly ignored).

She took a turn to glance knowingly at the omelette sans fromage. “Not suggesting one of us cooks, mind.”

“Lunch,” he said, a second time. “You know, the meal in the middle of the day? After breakfast, before dinner.” He didn’t think suggesting lunch -- a safe, daytime meal -- was really asking so much. They’d had breakfast before, unintentionally (and not after sleeping together, surprisingly); had late-night meals that didn’t count as dinner (omelette included). They’d had fondue. If they couldn’t handle eating lunch together they had no hope of being friends. Friendly. Whatever.

Charlie was initially (more than) mildly offended at her next question, opening his mouth but not entirely sure what was going to come out of it— But the more he thought about it, it probably wasn’t a bad idea to avoid all of that. He didn’t really care what people thought (he did), but it would just be easier, wouldn’t it? He closed his mouth then opened it again; “Not in public or not in Hogsmeade or London?” he asked in a low drawl, aware that had been her stipulation last time. In a way, not-in-public left room for the other half of this new label (with benefits), but that hadn’t exactly stopped them in Geneva either.

He followed Honey’s glance at the omelette, then looked at her with his eyebrows raised. “Well if you had more in your fridge—” he began to argue, then gave up. Omelette wasn’t hard, but he didn’t want to explain he’d fucked that up because he was too busy thinking, like he couldn’t multitask -- or risk her thinking it was to do with what (or who) they’d been talking about.

He drummed his fingertips on the counter, at a loss of what they were supposed to do now that they’d agreed to be friends -- go to bed? He brought his attention back to Honey and waited for her to look at him.

Honey was close to agreeing with the second choice, not Hogsmeade, not London; going out in Geneva had been fun; getting caught in Geneva had been fun. But they knew more people here, even in Edinburgh. All she needed was to run into a cousin—at least one of the Craigs lived there—with questions she’d have to dodge and it’d get back to her mother. Or Fergie. She hadn’t thought it all through the last time, more concerned with her boyfriend being out of the UK at the time.

“Not in public,” she said after a couple seconds. She didn’t think she needed to explain herself.

He started to argue and gave up after seeing the evidence plain on the plate; the first attempt—Charlie’s first, not hers—had been better. “Well if you want chocolate on your eggs, help yourself to what’s downstairs.” She rolled her eyes before she met his eye again, a soft smirk on her lips.

“Friends, then.” It seemed like a weird thing to say, standing so close, just barely not touching. It was almost funny; Harlan had doubted she and Charlie could be friends. If only he could see— Harlan was on her list of men she really didn’t want to keep thinking about (but couldn’t help doing so) and thank Merlin there was a perfectly acceptable distraction standing in front of her, friendships aside.

Honey closed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his, pulling him to her with both hands on his backside. They could figure out lunch details later.

[[ out ]]

’Not in public.’ Charlie considered that for a moment, then nodded once -- made sense, he supposed.

He narrowed his eyes at her, frowning disapprovingly -- he wasn’t the healthiest eater, but he at least had vegetables in the house (nowadays). And they might go off before he got around to eating them all, but the intent was there. And if not vegetables, he at least had bacon. She smirked though and it was too easy to return it, rolling his eyes right back at her.

“Friends,” he agreed at a murmur. Charlie met Honey’s eyes and wet his lips, letting his gaze trail down to her mouth, then lower -- thinking about all the friendly things they could be doing instead of standing here. Honey either read his mind -- this wasn’t the first time he’d felt like she could -- or they really did have at least one thing in common (like friends might), because in the next moment her mouth was on his and she was pulling him closer by his backside.

Charlie returned the favour, one hand on her bum -- giving it a good squeeze -- and the other wrapping up around the back of her neck, threading through her hair and holding her face to his before sliding down over her front, getting a handful on the way to slide up under her (his) shirt in sync with his other hand, smoothing around her waist and encouraging her backwards toward the kitchen table.


[ end ]