drop your weapons, drop your guard [harlan]

early september 2003

“You’re meant to knead it, not flatten it,” she told him over the glug-glug of wine being poured into glasses, smirking. Bérénice had happily obliged when Harlan had offered to get his hands dirty -- something about watching him work the dough, sleeves rolled up, had made her quick to accept -- so she was taking care of keeping them hydrated. She put the bottle back on the counter and brought the glasses over, holding one out to him.

She wasn’t living at the palace anymore, and if she didn’t have Thursdays off she might’ve thought longer about taking a late (Wednesday) night portkey to London so soon into the term, but she hadn’t planned to start working at the Clinic until October (which maybe she had planned quite intentionally), and so still had a few Thursdays to herself before something like this would be much more of a logistical nightmare. Summer had been exactly what she’d needed; lazy days spent on beaches and or by a pool, with good wine, good food, and good company.

Harlan lowered his glass and Bérénice laughed lightly. He’d somehow -- from the way he'd taken the glass by the bulb rather than the stem, she imagined -- managed to get flour on his nose. She licked her thumb quickly and reached up to wipe it for him, her gaze drifting to the grey hairs behind his ear, the soft lines on his face. She turned away and had a sip of wine, setting her glass on the bench and tying her hair up in a low, messy bun.

She pulled the bowl of mussels closer to run them under cold water, debearding them. "When is your first game back?" She knew he had started training again -- tonight was a deviation from his usual meal plan -- but hadn’t gotten so far ahead of herself as to memorise his entire schedule.


@Harlan Bellamy

Knead it? Harlan looked down exasperatedly at his hands that were covered in flour then to the flattened dough that splayed over his once clean marble countertop. That summer had been the most that counter had seen since he moved in, for a number of reasons. "Thought that's what I was doing..." He glanced up at Bérénice as she approached with wine glasses in hand, a hint of disappointment in his voice to go with a wry smile. What did that even mean, anyway, knead?

The whole night was the kind of thing that should have made him sick in all of its domestication— cooking together, the quiet swell of Sinatra from the living room record player, good wine, Nice wiping the flour from his nose for fucks sake. Even more concerning, though, was that he was actually enjoying himself.

They had settled into an innate sense of comfort over the last months, he and Bérénice, though they had miraculously (not that he'd noticed) avoided serious topics of conversation. The main one around what it was that they were doing, exactly. Harlan liked to believe there was no sense in ruining a good thing by questioning it but deep down he knew there was much more to the hesitation. Instead of dwelling on it, though, he took the hand that just wiped flour from his face and kissed the inside of her palm, his way of saying thank you.

"October," It was hard to believe that the season had crept up so fast. "A lot of training, still," It was strange to think that at the start of the summer he'd had such a hard time just relaxing, and then there he was, wishing for more of it. "I'm afraid all this pasta and wine you've forced won't help the season..." He teased, rolling the dough onto the cutting board and looking for the right sized knife. It was hard not to get swept away as far as she was concerned, indulge too much.

Bérénice smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners and the apples of her cheeks glowing. Gestures like that were familiar enough that she barely noticed them at all until she realised who was kissing her palm -- and that it wasn’t the man she’d spent almost a year in a relationship with, it was Harlan -- and then her stomach started doing somersaults.

October. “Mm,” Nice hummed softly, reminded of the impending reality of their situation -- whatever it was or wasn’t, it would become more difficult after tonight. They might get one more night like this, but then he would be busy and so would she and it would all hang on their ability to plan -- and over the last couple of months her pedanticism had gone out the window in favour of this, whatever this was.

“Oh,” she pulled a face somewhere between indignation and amusement, “you make it sound like I tied you up under duress.” She smirked, hoping his mind went the same place hers did. “Besides,” she continued, her eyes (mostly) back on her task, “pasta can help build muscle.” Her gaze drifted to him again and lingered on his arms for a moment, trailing up his shoulders and down his back.

She finished with the mussels (those ones) and rinsed her hands, patting them dry with a towel as she moved closer to him again and picking up her wine on the way. “And rest is good for you too,” she told him, “a chance for everything to recover.” Her hand slid up his bicep, then fell away as she had another sip of her wine. “And you’ve hardly been idle,” she smirked.

He could tell without looking based her voice the face Bérénice had pulled— confirmed when he glanced again over his shoulder away from his arduous work of cutting the pasta into thin, but not too thin lines. "This one's all right?" Harlan held it up for her scrutiny, hoping it might distract her. He was getting better about the width but still was too stubborn to rely on magic for any kind of help. With cooking, it felt like cheating.

Distraction, it seemed, to be on her agenda as well. Harlan let out a laugh but held his tongue to stop himself from making too crude a comment before they'd even had dinner. "Wow," He scoffed jokingly as she ran her hand up to his arm and down his back, his eyes briefly closing despite himself. It felt a bit like being sweet-talked into to do chores— though, this kind of chore he didn't exactly mind. "I better keep it up then," He shrugged. "Need all the help I can get this season..." He lowered his voice slightly, meaning it. The last thing they needed was to rest on their laurels after winning.

"Seems you've just been a bad influence on me this summer altogether, then," He clicked his tongue, having returned to cutting. "Think we need more?" He wondered out loud. With dough, it was always hard to gauge, and they almost always made too much. "How are the kids this year?" Harlan glanced to Nice, raising an eyebrow. From all that she'd told him it was always a hit or a miss with students, not that she would put it so bluntly. He was constantly amazed that she could put up with them at all.

Bérénice narrowed her eyes at him, the soft smirk on her lips hiding her inner thoughts: she knew it was just a bit of teasing, nothing serious, but his tactics worked all the same -- and though this wasn’t anything serious either it still served to raise a little warning flag, just in case it ever did become. Harlan was too charming for his own good.

The brunette smirked again, though the expression grew into a grin. “You better,” she replied, hoping to sound casual about it rather than desperate. She wasn’t stupid -- she knew this bubble they were in was going to pop at some point, but she’d rather it be later than sooner. Harlan’s tone shifted and Nice’s brow pulled together in concern. She knew success was important to him -- he’d chased it long enough -- and there was no use in trying to convince him that he didn’t need to keep chasing it.

Harlan changed the topic -- or, really, just pivoted it -- to get them back on track. Bérénice decided to go along with it, not that she needed much convincing (there was a time to be there for him and when it came, she would be). "Me? A bad influence?” She pretended to be offended, her efforts somewhat ruined by the smile only half-hidden by her wine glass as she drank again. "If one of us is a bad influence it isn't me," she told him smartly, peering around his shoulder to assess the pasta situation. “That’s probably enough."

He surprised her then, asking about the kids -- Harlan was hardly the paternal type. She suspected he would settle down one day, children of his own, but before she got too far into that daydream she moved around the bench to pick up a pot and take it to the sink to fill it. "They're fine," she answered, her voice sounding oddly distant as she turned the tap on. “Actually,” she frowned gently -- was this overstepping? They were friends before, well, whatever this was, she could still ask a favour -- if this even counted as a favour.

"There’s one student.” Bérénice knew she shouldn’t pick favourites, but she argued (to herself) that she would do the same for any of the students in her House (and she would). “She’s interested in going professional. Quidditch.” She turned the tap off and carried the pot over to the stove. Bérénice was able to advise her seventh years (and forward-thinking fifth and sixth years) about pursuing a career in Healing or even in Ministry work, but Quidditch wasn’t her realm of expertise. “She’s a Beater.”

Harlan stopped the slow precision of cutting the dough once confirmed that they had enough. It never looked like it until it was cooked, but he’d learned to trust in Bérénice’s better judgment.

“Suppose if you say so…” He teased as he roughly wiped the loose flour from his hands with the nearest dishtowel, brushing his forearms that somehow also been affected. As he discarded the towel, he sucked in a breath of air as Nice spoke— actually. It sounded almost ominous, though he knew better than that.

“Yeah?” He half leaned back on the counter and planted his palms flat on either side, watching as she moved to the stove, closer to him. “Trying to recruit my replacement, then?” He knew she wasn’t but he had to break whatever tension he’d created in his mind either way.

What was it that Bérénice wanted— Harlan, some kind of fucking mentor— surely not. Distractedly he dipped a finger into the sauce they’d already made, bringing it to his mouth to taste.

“Ought to steer her in a more reliable career path…” Harlan let out a breath, touching two fingers to her waist and tucking around her hip, grinning. He was well aware of just how lucky he had been to go professional at such a young age, and to have made it so far. For so many others, that wasn’t the case. Really, when he'd asked about her students, he'd been hoping to hear about the bad ones. He finally took a sip of the wine with his eyes still on her.

Bérénice turned the heat on and turned to face Harlan, not being shy about letting her gaze trail over him. She rolled her eyes. "I'm not silly enough to think you'll retire any time soon," she argued softly -- not that she wanted to jinx him, but she imagined he would need to be forced into it; too old, too slow. Harlan didn't seem the type to step down while he still felt he had something to give.

She watched him dip his finger into the sauce and bring it to his lips -- had a weird tension (not the good kind) not have descended over them she might’ve smacked his hand away, but maybe it was for the best -- she needed the distraction.

Nice met his eyes before focusing back on their dinner-in-progress. "I think Beaters must all be bred the same, she's incredibly stubborn." She glanced sidelong at him, attempting a smirk, turned the heat up a little higher and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "She's got a good head on her shoulders, though -- not putting all of her eggs in one basket." She swallowed softly, keeping her head down for a moment before turning back to him with a frown.

"I don't know I just— It's not my area. I don’t even know the first thing about how you get recruited." They had lost touch before then -- she had probably been told when Harlan had been signed but she couldn’t remember it, too busy in her own life at the time to worry about his, especially after—

The brunette moved out of his grasp and reached for the pasta he'd sliced up. She brought it over to the pot, the water now boiling, and dumped it in. She moved to rest on the opposite counter, echoing his earlier pose and gripping the edges of the bench. Bérénice met his eyes and held his gaze. “Would you change any of it?” she asked him quietly.

Harlan raised an eyebrow. Sure, Bérénice was too smart to think it then, but if she had known where his head was at at the start of the last season she might think twice— he had been on the verge of calling it quits for quite some time. Pushing those thoughts aside, Harlan ran a hand over his jaw, savoring the taste of the sauce he snuck. His facial hair was longer than usual, less stubbled and harsh, and he reminded himself that he should get a proper shave given the season was back on. He couldn’t live like someone else forever.

“It’s good,” He commented with a nod of approval, eyebrow raised when she didn’t immediately knock his hand away from the pot. Before that summer he enjoyed cooking, but it was more fulfilling to make something for someone else, and have the same.

Thankfully he couldn’t dwell on his own sentimentality which often made his stomach turn, because Nice had changed the topic to one of her students, a fellow Beater, no less.

“You think?” He scoffed, quickly followed by a grin. “Well, that’s wise of her…” Harlan took a step over to the cutting board to mince the garlic, dropping it into the saucepan as he went, mingling with the oil already laid down, waiting for heat. “Not many people make it,” Ever the realist. It wasn’t that he was talking himself up— he just knew way too many people who had their dreams slashed before they even got a chance to make them happen. It wasn’t luck, either, it all came down to determination.

“I’m sure Beauxbatons has programs,” He glanced over to Nice. That’s how he’d been discovered all those years ago. Coaches often came to Hogwarts games to pluck out the talent before they were released into the real world, with options.

At her question, Harlan paused mincing for a moment, then quietly resumed. It was never easy for him to talk about things like that— his feelings, regrets, wishes— but Nice had always made it seem so effortless. He remembered when they were kids all of the hours spent doing just that. “No, I—“ There were things he regretted, but on the whole, “No,” He repeated more definitively. "I can't imagine anything else, really," He flicked on the burner without realising how close his fingers were to the flame.

"Shit," He pulled his hand back and flexed his fingers into his palm, feeling the familiar burn. It was what he got for getting so distracted by what ifs.

Bérénice watched Harlan work with the knife, listening more attentively than her expression let on. He was right; she didn’t have to single-handedly ensure this girl’s (or any of her students’) future.

Nice folded her arms across her chest and watched his face for a reaction -- she got it, she supposed. No, he said. Then said it again, more assuredly. The Frenchwoman opened her mouth -- not yet sure if she was about to agree or disagree with him, not that he’d asked -- but she was abruptly distracted by his sudden movement.

“Are you alright?” she asked, knowing that it would be almost nothing, but she stepped closer anyway and reached out to take his wrist gently. It was -- almost nothing. Still, she met his eyes before dragging him to the sink and turning the tap on. The Healer held his hand firmly under the stream of cold water before he could object, then let go of him to find a clean teatowel -- by now knowing which drawer he kept them in -- and paused as her eyes fell on a folded piece of parchment on the bench, tucked away in a corner, the emblem of the British and Irish Quidditch League embossed on the front in gold leaf, catching the light.

Bérénice swallowed softly and continued with her task, opening the drawer and withdrawing a fresh towel. She held it out for him to take. “Do you have a kit?” she asked, then followed where he’d gestured to and reached into a cupboard to withdraw a box, placing it on the bench beside them.

The brunette took his hand back in hers, coming closer again, and turned it over, trying to ignore the way his rough callouses felt on her skin. She glanced up at Harlan’s face, then looked away to see what he had in his arsenal. She bit her lip softly as she multitasked; “Are you going?” she asked in what she hoped was a conversational tone. “To the Gala?”

At least he still had his fingertips, Harlan was relieved to confirm after he'd reluctantly glanced down at the injured hand. For a man so used to serious injuries— he had his shoulder manually relocated more times than he could remember— something as minor as a surface burn had really done a number on him. He groaned as Nice pulled him to the sink and ran his hand under the cold tap. It sent a shiver running up his spine. Sure, the cold was meant to be relieving but somehow the sting worse.

"Just there," Harlan wrapped the tea towel tightly around his hand with a wince and nodded to the cupboard where he kept a small array of medical supplies. It was mostly topical potions, remedies for any lingering quidditch related injuries, but he figured she would be able to make something work.

"Ow," He tried to retract his hand at the initial application of something that smelled a bit like sour milk. In an uncharacteristically playful turn of events, Harlan swatted her hand away before eventually letting her get back to work. It had been an attempt to buy time answering her question. Honestly, he’d forgotten about the gala— until she served as a reminder that he'd double booked himself.

“No, no, it’s—“ He was about to say pointless, but he remembered he may or may not have been contractually obliged to show face. “I know I had planned to be there that weekend, anyway," Visiting her in France. “I’ll just say I’m sick,” He offered a nonchalant shrug. It wouldn't be that simple, but that felt like a problem for another time. Current Harlan was much more concerned with the state of his hand.

“Fuck, you nearly finished?” He teased, letting out another decidedly dramatic groan. "You know, I need these so don't muck up," He wiggled his fingers between them with his free hand.

She found the bottle with ‘Murtlap Essence’ scrawled on it and eyed it suspiciously; the label was peeling at the corners -- how long had it been hidden away? -- but reasoned that it wouldn’t do him any harm if it was a bit beyond its use-by date. She opened the bottle with a soft pop and nodded to herself -- it smelled fine, in that it smelled terrible and therefore was still good (ironically, if it had smelled pleasant it would have been ineffective as a treatment).

Bérénice took Harlan’s hand in hers and applied a few drops over the already-blistering  skin. Ow. She glanced up at him and grabbed back at his wrist. “Stop being a baby,” she told him, her lips curling at the corners. He’d been just the same when he’d been thrown from his horse -- she’d looked at his shoulder, and then the chain of events that had brought them to here had unfurled back in that damn library of his.

Not that she’d ever expected this, whatever this was. At least he’d remembered his plans with her, she supposed. She wondered if she was intended to be the excuse to avoid the Gala, or if the Gala was the excuse to avoid her. She knew which one he had to be at, if not which one he wanted. Nice pulled the first aid kit closer and withdrew a dressing, trying to work out the best way to wrap his fingers -- it would have been easier if he’d burned the side of his palm or something (or nothing at all) -- but she was grateful for something to focus on, something to blame the gentle furrow of her brow on. She knew she had no right to expect anything of him, but she couldn’t deny the sinking feeling in her gut at the idea of him taking somebody else.

The brunette shot him a soft (playful, mostly) glare and swatted at his good hand. “Keep still or I’ll muck up on purpose,” she threatened him, the English term sounding foreign on her tongue.

Nice exhaled through her nose calmly. “You should go,” she told him, wrapping the fingers of his bad hand more carefully. “I can always see you before or after,” she offered. “Or both.” If Harlan couldn’t (wouldn’t) take her perhaps she could at the very least make an enticing enough offer that he’d fly solo for the night, come home to her instead of finding a replacement. Nice pinned the bandage and let go of his hand, avoiding his gaze as she started putting things away. “That should heal overnight,” she said quietly, moving back to the stove to check nothing had burnt -- other than Harlan.

"I'm not," He was. Being a baby, that was. He grinned despite himself. In the back of his mind, Harlan knew the way that he was acting had more to do with the particular healer who was in his kitchen and currently draping a bandage over his fingers, lip in her teeth and brow furrowed. He wouldn't dream of doing the same on the pitch. And, quite frankly, he never felt the need to. Injuries sustained there were different— necessary. Instead of dwelling on whatever all of that meant for him, he chose to watch the way her face moved while she worked, her focus evident.

There was something about watching someone do the thing that really made them tick.

Harlan's smile flickered for a moment but his eyes didn’t move from Bérénice. She said he should go. He shifted under her hands to lean against the counter, steady himself, give himself a moment to think. If there were anything his decades of dating had informed, he absolutely should not go. He raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to speak, but then she suggested he could see her before, or after, or both. The prospect was enough to give him pause again.

“Oh yeah?” He couldn’t help where his mind had gone but the lingering question in the back of his mind returned just as quickly. Nice was better suited for that kind of thing— events, galas, the charity bullshit that he usually wrote off. She was good with people, and she knew how to use that. “I mean—“ Harlan began, but she had started packing up his kit at the counter opposite and he was left feeling colder than before. "You could come, if you wanted?" He knew she would, but he said it before he dealt with the ramifications. The press, the questions, everything.

She was listening more attentively than she was letting on, her ears pricked to pick up on his tone as she stirred the garlic (which had started to char a little in their absence).

She didn’t want to be the desperate one in this. They were both adults now -- properly -- it had been years. And yet, she was constantly thrown back to being a teenager around him. He was forever the one holding all the cards, wasn’t he? Nice paused at his offer (so casual -- as always). She turned back to face him under the guise of needing the seafood, holding her hand out and waiting for him to pass the bowl to her. She met his eyes and held his gaze. If he saw her as just another one of his floozies he’d tell her one way or another if she could (should) come, but he was asking and she wanted to believe that meant something.

But she was equally aware of falling into the trap of thinking Harlan wanted anything more than what they currently had going. If she thought about it she didn’t really know what she wanted either, yet, given how her last rebound had gone -- but she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t entertained the idea in the past. It was easy to forgive him any wrongdoings when he looked at you like that.

“If you want me to,” she said with a nod, finally, focusing on the bowl of mussels and prawns as he handed it to her. Bérénice turned back to the stove to continue cooking, putting the mussels in the pan first and trying to keep her voice level; “Is it black tie?”

Bérénice didn’t immediately answer, but Harlan also didn’t immediately jump in to fill in the gap of the conversation. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something that felt like tension between them. And it wasn’t the kind of tension that he liked, either. The question he posed hadn’t been well thought out and he wondered if she might be able to sense it as well. He handed over the bowl she gestured toward but kept his eyes on the side of her face as she worked the pan.

“You don’t have to,” A part of him thought she might not given the shortness of her response, but he was surprised to find that he was almost disappointed by the idea. He had regretted it the moment he asked, after all. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with Nice, quite the contrary, but not like that. Not at some event with the press, their inevitable questions.

Harlan couldn’t remember a time he had been so public with someone and it left him feeling more vulnerable than he cared to admit.

Then she asked another question and was torn by wanting her to want to go. There was something gratifying about it, as fucked up as he knew it was. “Something like that,” He scoffed, touching a hand to her lower back as he stepped around her over to the invitation. It'd been sitting on his counter for a month and he hadn’t bothered with the details until then. “Oh, a cocktail reception with hors d'oeuvres…” He read out loud darkly, skimming down the agenda, a sit-down meal to follow, speakers, the whole fucking mess.

"Suppose I should send the response tonight," He lingered over the little box where he needed to tick for a plus one.

She hadn’t hurried to answer him -- if that’s really what she’d done -- but now she was wishing she’d thought a little longer about what she was going to say. What if he said actually, I don’t? Merde.

Bérénice turned her head an inch to the side -- not quite looking at him but still looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She swallowed softly. It wasn’t that -- she did want to, and that scared her as much as it thrilled her. She and Harlan had known each other for what felt like forever and there was that ongoing worry that this time they would spoil it beyond repair.

She saw him coming but the touch of his hand on her back sent a pleasant shiver up her spine all the same, followed by a draining, cold, leeching feeling as he moved past her, like he was taking all the warmth with him. She set the wooden spoon down and turned to look at him, a knot of eels writhing in her chest—

Nice smiled widely at his obvious disdain, particularly enjoying the way he said ‘hors d'oeuvres’ -- like they were threatening to force-feed him something foul. Just like that, he had her pushing aside her doubts. She rolled her lips inwards and turned off the heat before moving closer to him -- her appetite somewhat secondary right now.

She smoothed her hands up his chest slowly -- appreciating the definition beneath his shirt just as much this time as she had the first -- before looping them around his neck and playing with that bit of hair at the base of his skull that was a little longer than the rest. “Suppose so,” she murmured, gazing up at him. One hand slipped to his shoulder and the other to his jaw -- less rough and stubbled than she’d been used to at the beginning of the summer -- as she leaned up to press her lips to his, planting one small kiss then another, more lingering.