come thru [charlie]

31 october 2003

It wasn’t too late—still before midnight, anyway—by the time the kitchen was (mostly) tidy; she’d closed the shop just before eleven after the last straggler had wandered away and she’d nearly left the cleaning for the next day but it went quickly enough. Honey pulled her apron off as she headed up to her flat, hanging it over the banister instead of doing anything with it properly.

She should have sent his gift along with the sweets she’d sent on Monday but she wanted to see his face when he opened it; she was regifting the present he’d given her for her birthday because how could she not? They (Honey) had cancelled their past two Thursdays so she figured she could at least change her jumper—even if she didn’t plan on wearing it long—but she was already late so what was a few more minutes to grab a shower? (At least she wasn’t wearing a costume like she had been last halloween, when Harlan had dropped by unexpectedly and uneventfully, but she didn’t want to think about that now.) She was already upstairs to find the wrapped box, anyway.

It helped wake her up a little bit, at least. Honey yawned as she got redressed, putting on a little makeup before pulling on her shoes. She nearly forgot the gift—the whole reason she’d come upstairs in the first place—but she grabbed it at the last minute before apparating to London, directly to Charlie’s front door. This was usually the most awkward part, knocking and waiting and not knowing how exactly to say ‘hi’ without making it weird, but at least this time she had the gift to hand over instead.

Honey hadn’t said when she’d be done that night but he’d said he’d wait up; she knocked and wrapped her arm around her waist, almost regretting not grabbing a coat before she’d left.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie heard the knock at the door and grabbed at the remote with his free hand to mute the television -- Bond had just entered the sauna with Onatopp and he didn’t need anyone hearing what was about to come next. He was holding a glass of whiskey in his other hand -- he’d had intentions of waiting, but— He looked at the clock on the wall, illuminated by the blue-ish light from the TV screen: past midnight. Too late for trick or treaters.

He got to his feet quickly, before realising he didn’t want to seem too eager, then walked slower than usual to the door to even it out. They’d cancelled the last two Thursdays because she was busy in the leadup to tonight -- Halloween, not seeing him -- and as the time had gone on this evening he’d wondered if this was her version of a hint. But she’d shown up for lunch, or ‘lunch’ rather -- they hadn’t quite made it that far; taken her takeaway back to Hogsmeade by the time her break was up.

Charlie ran a hand through his hair and opened the door; he’d left his glass on the kitchen counter as he’d passed through. She smirked, he smirked -- he wasn’t going to complain about how late she was; she’d warned him and they didn’t do complaints -- then glanced down at the box in her hand, smirked again and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her -- she had already sent him sweets on his actual birthday. He stepped back to let the door open wider, then shut it behind her as she came inside.

Honey made a beeline for the settee and Charlie stopped short, lingering in the kitchen. “Drink?” he asked, already turning the under-cabinet lights on so that he could see what he was doing -- he’d been sat in the dark, avoiding any potential trick or treaters. The open plan kitchen-to-living area worked well ninety per cent of the time, but you could see the glow of lights in the lounge from the street and he hadn’t wanted to deal with kids knocking on his door all night.

Yeah. He watched her sit, looking confusedly at the TV as she set the box on the coffee table then nestled into the spot he’d just vacated. Charlie cleared his throat and turned around, busying himself with pulling the pink gin from the cupboard.

They shared a couple of smirks by way of greeting; she didn’t apologize for arriving after midnight; she didn’t hand him the box and he didn’t ask for it. She shrugged as she stepped inside, dropping her hand from her waist to brace herself against the wall as she stepped out of her shoes. She wasn’t sure if she should head through to the lounge or just head upstairs--she was being realistic--but no one (including her) had lunged within the first thirty seconds of laying eyes on each other so lounge (and the pretense of having a drink and a little chat instead of immediately sleeping together) it was.

Drink? “Yeah.” Honey stifled a yawn as she sat, careful not to make herself too comfortable, very aware it was probably the first time she’d sat or even really paused all day. She set the gift on the coffee table and gave the television a look, confused for a few seconds before she remembered they could do that, not make any noise. There was a button for that and everything.

Charlie cleared his throat--was she supposed to be helping with the drinks?--and she looked at him, but he’d already turned his back to her. She almost felt bad he’d (presumably) spent his night in (presumably, again) waiting for her. That was partly why she liked doing Thursdays--she didn’t have a traditional weekend but she knew nearly everyone else did and she didn’t need any reason to overthink her plans. Her gaze drifted a little lower over him when she thought about her plans and she didn’t feel quite as bad.

“What’re you watching?” She looked back to the television and it was hard to tell what sort of something he was watching without any sound; there were a couple different ways it could go. He told her--Bond film--and she nodded. “Oh, right.” She didn’t know what that was but it didn’t matter-- whoever it was was hot. They both were.

Charlie came over with the drinks and Honey took hers with a smile, though that turned into something more of a smirk once he’d sat, considerably close, considering the size of the sofa (though she wasn’t about to tell him to move, either). “Thanks,” she said--meant to be more about the drink--before she took a lengthy sip. She had another before setting her glass on the table and leaning back, pulling her feet up under her, coming into a little more contact with Charlie in the process. “What’s this about, then?” She tilted her head toward the television, her eyes still on him.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder when Honey asked what he was watching. He took a step back from the fridge to get a look at what part they were at -- still on the fucking sauna scene, Christ -- “GoldenEye,” he said, going back to topping up his own glass after having poured her gin and hoping his cheeks weren’t noticeably warmer -- wasn’t like he had anything to be embarrassed about. “Bond film.”

He picked up both glasses and walked over, handing Honey’s to her before sitting -- closer than was probably necessary but neither of them were fooling anyone, she wasn’t here to just watch a film with him. He nodded into his drink by way of a ‘you’re welcome’. His eyes were on the television, but kept being pulled to the box on the table. He wanted to ask about it but he didn’t want to ask about it. Honey moved to set her glass down, then got comfy (closer), providing just enough distraction for now.

He’d been looking at her in his peripheral vision, but turned his head to stare at her incredulously. “You don’t know who James Bond is, do you?” He was half in disappointment, half disbelief. Charlie reached forward to grab the remote from the table to unmute the TV, settling back into the settee and draping his arm along the back of the seat.

“He’s a spy,” he started to explain, unasked. “Works for MI6, which is like, Aurors but the intelligence ones.” He had a sip of his whiskey, eyes back on Xenia Onatopp (nothing against Honey, of course). “It’s a series, so each one is about some world-ending disaster or summat and M sends him in to sort it out.” He wet his lips, hesitated, then let his arm slip around her shoulders. She didn’t shirk him off so he'd take that for a win, but he wasn’t confident enough about it to look at her. He ought to turn the television off and make up for lost time, but he didn’t want to seem desperate -- like he'd been hanging out for her to get here (he had).

Bond pulled his gun and delivered his line ("No more foreplay"), Charlie turned to Honey to smirk—

There was that face again. Charlie blinked before his mouth twisted into an amused grin. He bit his lip and allowed himself a minute to enjoy this -- her sleeping face, not the fact she'd fallen asleep on him. He cleared his throat softly, but that failed to elicit a response, so he prodded her with his finger (whiskey glass still held in the same hand). "Bed time, is it?" he smirked.

Charlie looked at her and Honey raised her eyebrows, as if to ask what he had expected. She shrugged after another second; she had no idea who James Bond was but if he was the hot one then she thought she could be persuaded to learn. He should tell Ferg to cover it in Muggle Studies since it definitely hadn’t been covered before but she wasn’t in the mood to mention her brother so she just made herself a little more comfortable.

He moved an arm behind her and she had to readjust, lean into him a bit--she was just angling herself toward the television--and get a bit more settled with a little smirk because it seemed like he was actually going to explain it to her (never mind that she’d asked) instead of letting her watch the thing. She blinked; it stretched a couple of seconds until she opened them again, and only then because wow that girl--the one on the television--was a screamer. She closed her eyes again instead of saying anything, too tired (and too comfortable) to want to wake herself up any further.

She didn’t open her eyes again when she felt him move his arm around her shoulders, didn’t say anything in case he took that as a cue to continue explaining the film to her; the day, the week, the not sleeping very much was catching up to her and Charlie comfortable enough (and Honey tired enough) that she managed not to overthink things, if this was too much for them.

“Mm?” Honey sat up and blinked a little, more aware that her cheek had been against Charlie’s shoulder, less aware that she had fallen asleep at all. “No I should just--” he’d suggested bed time and she honestly didn’t think she could wake up enough for that, as much as she wanted to--she’d come to London in the first place, hadn’t she?--and she glanced at the clock on the wall; it’d been all of five minutes since she’d left Hogsmeade. “I’ll just head home.” The other option--sleeping with him with zero intention of sleeping with him--wasn’t easy to write off when she wasn’t seriously dating someone else.

Charlie’s grin faded as Honey sat up. He realised too late that he should have just let her sleep for a bit and woken her when the film finished -- a power nap might’ve been all she needed to recharge her batteries -- but now she was talking about going home and he hadn’t waited in all night on his own for a five minute cuddle on the couch.

“You can’t apparate in that state,” he told her with a look, falling back on a failsafe. They were friends now (well, they were trying), and what sort of friend would he be if he let her apparate herself into the North Sea in the middle of the night? “And I’m not going all the way to Hogsmeade to tuck you in,” he added with a soft smirk, to save it from sounding like he cared too much. Then he brought his drink to his lips to add another layer to it all, just in case (he could believably be too drunk to drop her off, right?).

He waited a beat before moving his arm from behind her to stand, (self-serving) decision made. “Come on,” he said, offering her his hand to pull her to her feet. “You can make it up to me in the morning.” He stepped back with a boyish grin as she swatted at him. Charlie strode to the kitchen ahead of her and knocked his whiskey back. He lingered over leaving his glass on the bench so that Honey could pass him into the hall and up the stairs first; he followed a moment behind, enjoying the view on the way up.

Honey automatically veered towards the near-side of the bed and Charlie glanced cautiously at her out the corner of his eye, wondering if she was going to just undress herself and get under the duvet -- genuinely tired -- or if she might get a second wind (or, for all he knew, ‘falling sleep’ was a plot to skip more attempts at being friendly and get them up here -- where they belonged) -- but no, if she had been pretending she would have picked a more attractive fake sleeping face downstairs.

Charlie chewed on his lip, his hands on the hem of his t-shirt. Maybe he should have just taken her home, but it was too late to back out now without making it even weirder. Fortunately, Honey was moving like a fucking zombie so the likelihood of her picking up on his sudden awkwardness was low. Just to be sure, though, he ducked into the ensuite and busied himself with brushing his teeth for a couple of minutes, reemerging to find her already snuggled down. He stripped silently and turned the light off, moving carefully in the dark to his side of the bed and slipping under the covers. She didn’t stir, so he scooted up behind her and slid one arm around her waist, his hand finding a familiar place on her chest.

Charlie told her she couldn’t apparate, pointedly did not offer to take her home. There was a joke there somewhere about not being hooked up to the floo network but he’d pretty effectively ruined all floo jokes with his crazy stalker story a few weeks ago. “Fine,” she agreed after a second, rolling her eyes. If she seemed put out about staying over at least she couldn’t be blamed for making things weird.

She rolled her eyes one more time (for good measure) before letting him help her up. Her smirk about making it up to him in the morning might have gotten lost in her swatting his hand away; she was still perfectly capable of walking. Charlie moved toward the kitchen and she considered (for half a second) following him before moving toward his bedroom upstairs. It was nice he wasn’t making this into more of a thing because she was too tired for the overthinking that would have required. (It was stupid to think she wouldn’t have been tired; she had years of experience with holidays at the shop and the associated erratic sleeping schedules. She was choosing not to think about how this had happened after Easter, too.)

Honey sat on the (closest) edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands for a second before pulling her jeans off. She pulled her jumper off over her head as she stood up and turned to get under the covers. She thought about apologizing--too tired, etc.--but by the time she’d made up her mind about it Charlie was already in the bathroom and she was asleep before he came back.

…

Honey pulled her jumper on and her hair out from under her collar as her stomach made another uncomfortable lurch. She might have thought she was hungover if she’d had more than two sips of gin last night or if she could remember the last time she’d had anything to eat. She mentally ticked through her breakfast options; she could go home but it was her first time being out of Hogsmeade since.. the last time she’d been at Charlie’s, she realized. She decided not to think about that, though, focusing more on how she wasn’t in a hurry to get back. There were more options in London.

She ran her fingers through her hair--still wet from the shower--and glanced at Charlie, who was doing the same thing to his own hair. “Do you want to--” she tilted her head toward the direction of the street, hoping she was being clear enough that she wanted to leave with him, in the daylight. “Am fucking starving.” It wasn’t a friendly lunch but it was close enough.

Charlie pulled his shirt down and ran his hands back through his hair -- it was getting long -- and turned his attention to Honey when she spoke. “What?” He followed her look to the window -- or outside, whatever -- and took a moment to put two and two together (and for Honey to make it crystal clear)— “Oh, yeah,” he nodded, dropping his gaze and searching in a drawer for a pair of socks. “What you want?” he asked casually as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. “Cooked breakfast?” It was a stupid question, really -- who went out for toast? -- but he’d noticed things like oats with wine-poached pears and creme fraiche popping up on brunch menus of late and he thought it best to be sure before he took her to a greasy spoon.

He got back to his feet and decided to leave making the bed for later (he’d pulled the duvet up, at least); he grabbed a denim jacket from the wardrobe and went down the stairs, getting his wallet and keys from the kitchen. As he was slipping his boots on, Honey joined him in the hall and he offered her a small smile that slipped more into smirk territory. Charlie pulled open the front door and they were met with a crisp breeze. He glanced back at Honey and gave her a quick once over from head-to-waist; she was only wearing a thin jumper (by her standards -- had she forgone the chunky cable knits as a birthday treat?). He shifted awkwardly. “Here,” he stepped towards her, reaching past to grab a jacket off the hook and hand it to her -- holding it to her chest so she couldn’t easily decline and make more of a thing of it.

Charlie stepped out of the house and waited for Honey to follow him out so he could lock the door. By the time he turned back around she’d slipped his jacket on and he paused, momentarily distracted. “There’s a café up th’ road,” he said, setting off with his hands in his pockets, “or—” there was a pub a little further, but he realised a moment too late that the pub wouldn’t be open yet, so café it was. He pressed his lips together.

It was quiet, but he supposed that was to be expected this early on a Saturday morning -- and it was fucking early, but he wasn’t about to complain about that either because he could have woken up alone and he much preferred how he had been woken up. They walked in shared silence past the station entrance, around the corner to the group of shops. A few doors up was the café and Charlie opened the door for Honey -- but it was a pokey little place and all the tables were occupied. He looked back at the outdoor tables, empty thanks to the temperature. “You alright outside?” he asked, then disappeared inside to grab a couple of menus.

He handed one to her and took a seat, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes before remembering they were in the jacket Honey was wearing. “Can I—” He gestured vaguely at her person before standing and looming over the small table to reach into her (his) pocket and withdraw the packet and lighter, taking his time about it. He sat back down and pulled a fag out, propping it between his lips. “You want a latte or summat?”

Honey shrugged; she didn’t know what she wanted to eat but she knew she wanted it to be cooked, at least. It was too early to question it, though. “Yeah.” She ran her fingers through her hair a couple more times, waiting for Charlie to stand up before she sat on the edge of the bed to pull her socks on. He left to head downstairs and Honey moved quickly through the rest of getting ready; she had a tube of mascara and some lip balm in her bag; she managed to dry her hair with her wand in a couple minutes, halfway to looking decent (which was good enough for now and she’d just put it up when she got to work, anyway).

She returned his smirk as she reached the hall, moving to put her shoes on, happy they were both stalling for a little more time before they needed to try and hold a conversation. She stood as Charlie opened the door and she glanced over his shoulder for a second before looking back to him, raising one eyebrow because he was looking at her, too. He’d already seen her get dressed in last night’s clothes so-- he got close to reach around her and hand her a jacket. She glanced down as he held it to her chest, waiting a beat before bringing her hand up to hold it there herself. “Thanks.” She didn’t think she needed it but it wasn’t worth arguing about at this point; it’d only make it into more of a thing.

Honey followed him out of the house a second later--it was a good thing she hadn’t said anything about the jacket because it was colder than she thought (and she wasn’t good at eating her words)--and she slipped his jacket on. It only smelled faintly of leather, more like Charlie, and she blinked a couple times to stop herself from getting too distracted by it. She was pulling her hair out from under the collar when Charlie turned to her; the jacket might have been a little big but she didn’t think it could have looked bad enough to draw that sort of look from him. She raised her eyebrows and he set off down the alley.

“Café’s good.” She caught up to him after a few steps, slipping her hands into her (his) pockets as they walked the block to the café. She hesitated when he asked if sitting outside was okay--he lived kind of close to Fergie and what were the chances of him walking by?--but Charlie had already ducked back inside for menus so she had a seat, deciding that Fergie already knew about them, anyway.

Charlie sat across from her and she took a menu from him, hardly getting a chance to look at it before he was motioning at her; she moved her menu to the side so he could rummage in the jacket’s pocket (and feel her up a little, if he wanted). He got what he wanted (needed) and sat back and she was almost disappointed he didn’t decide to return the packet, repeat the process all over again, but there’d be time for that later, she supposed. “Er--” She glanced down at her menu finally. “Mocha, probably.” She glanced at the food options; they had eggs and toast but with spinach or asparagus or all the other vegetables she couldn’t imagine eating.

She ignored the menu for a few seconds, glancing over it to watch Charlie light his cigarette. “We forgot about your gift,” she said, suddenly remembering the box that was still sitting on the coffee table in his lounge. There were other things to do this morning; never mind her early bedtime last night.

“A mocha,” he repeated with a small grin, realising he shouldn’t be surprised. “Can have a hot chocolate if you really want, I won’t tell,” he teased her with a smirk, lighting his cigarette and not thinking through the logistics of having to go inside and order in a minute.

Charlie stared at Honey. He’d forgotten about the box she’d brought with her, too -- but now he was curious. He pulled his cigarette from his lips and exhaled smoke in a concentrated stream to the side, away from her. “Want me to go back and get it?” he asked, obvious that he had no intention of actually doing so. He shifted in his seat, eyes back on Honey for a moment before he picked up his menu and scanned it; he already knew he was going to order a full English -- or their version of it. This place sounded a bit fancier than a Wetherspoons, judging by the rest of the menu (who wanted salmon for breakfast?).

He glanced back up at the redhead, setting his menu down on the table between them. He took another drag of his cigarette to stall before asking: “What is it, then?” Hopefully not more sweets -- the box she’d sent on Monday was likely to last him until his next birthday, or into the new year, at least. But what would she get him? He had bought her something for her birthday -- but that was different. It had been more of a joke than a genuine gift (not sure he’d put it past her, mind).

Honey raised her eyebrows; was she supposed to be embarrassed about drinking hot chocolate? Not that she wanted one (right now) because it was seriously lacking in caffeine—why she didn’t bring any energy potion with her to London to top herself up, she didn’t know—but she rolled her eyes instead of answering (or arguing or offering any excuses).

She smirked softly when he looked at her, rolling her eyes (again) when he offered to go back and get it. “Aye, right.” She was as serious as he was about going back for it; she wasn’t awake enough for conversation. Charlie looked at his menu and Honey looked at hers again, moving on to reading the little descriptions to see what had the least amount of things—vegetables—she’d need to pick off. (If it looked like there was anywhere else close and open besides the café they were seated at, she might have read into how frilly a place Charlie had picked.)

He asked about the gift and she shrugged, smirking when she caught his eye. She was regifting, technically, but it was alright because he’d been the one to gift it to her in the first place for her birthday. There was no way it was meant to be a serious gift, considering. She shrugged again instead of elaborating.

“I’ll order,” she said, glancing from Charlie to his cigarette to her menu before she stood up, looking at him again. “What’re you getting?” The big breakfast and a latte, he said, and Honey grabbed her menu and headed inside before he could try and offer to get it (not that she assumed he would, but still). She returned a few minutes later with their coffees, setting Charlie’s—it was easy to remember which was which because his was the sad looking one with no whipped cream—down in front of him before she sat, using the little provided spoon to clear enough space in her whipped cream to have a sip without getting it up her nose.

She sat back with hands in her jacket pockets, closing it tighter around her, feeling cozy for half a second before she remembered it was Charlie’s jacket she was snuggling into. She leaned forward again, arms folded on the table in front of her. “I— What’re you doing tonight?” She hadn’t expected to ask that—it certainly sounded like she wanted to see him again, and soon—but she had been about to apologize for the night before and she couldn’t think of anything else to pivot to at the last minute.

She smirked at him and Charlie found himself returning the expression, only the slightest hint of trepidation in it -- what the hell had she got him? But she didn’t reveal anything, so he supposed he’d have to wait and find out when he got home -- he wasn’t about to beg -- but it was less than two minutes away and now he was tempted to go and find out just so he could stop thinking about it—

He opened his mouth to argue -- he didn’t mind paying -- but if this was part of his birthday he figured he’d better let her have it. And he’d just lit this cigarette -- in hindsight, maybe that’s all it was: logic. “Big breakfast and a latte,” he said, handing the menu off to her and trying not to think about how weird this was, regardless of who was paying. He shifted in his seat and crossed his foot over his knee, people watching while he waited.

Honey returned with their coffees and Charlie sat up straighter, lowering his foot back to the ground. “Cheers,” he mumbled, then glanced at her drink and let out a light laugh. “There any liquid under that?” he asked, before meeting her gaze and swallowing. He busied himself with having a sip of his own coffee, wetting his lips in the instant before they touched the cup. He set it back down on the table and had another drag of his cigarette—

“What?” he asked (quickly), coughing in his haste to respond. “I— Nothing,” he answered (also quickly) before she had the chance to take back the offer -- or invitation, whichever it was going to be. He assumed she was attempting to reschedule last night, even though she’d technically turned up and they’d made up for it this morning, he wasn’t about to complain about two nights on the trot. It was a Saturday, so he would have found something to do, and it occurred to him now that he didn’t sound terribly in-demand, being free on a Saturday night, but he shrugged. “Was just gonna see what came up,” he drawled, picking up his mug for another sip.

“Barely,” she said, glancing over as she smirked over the rim of her mug before having another sip. She licked her upper lip free of cream. There was a slightly different air about this than their last breakfast together however many months ago at the Three Broomsticks, when Charlie was married and apologetic and Honey didn’t think she’d be seeing him again. She didn’t want to dwell on how nice the change was; she was probably just overly tired, still. This was just them being friends--and being friendly--for once.

Even so, she was leaning hard into making plans for later to appear less… appreciative? She didn’t want to thank him for putting her to bed the night before. That’d be far too much.

He seemed just as surprised she’d asked as she was, but he had nothing planned. Honey smirked, giving him a second to realize how that made him sound. “Right.” He was going to see what came up. “Want to see what comes up in Hogsmeade?” In case it wasn’t obvious before that she was inviting him over--not like she could invite him out anywhere; this breakfast didn’t count--she made it obvious now because that was easier than admitting she hadn’t meant to do it in the first place.

The door to the café opened and Honey looked away from Charlie to see their food being delivered. She picked up her coffee and brought it toward her to make room, taking another sip as she looked at what she’d ordered, the same thing Charlie had. Honey set her coffee down and picked off the couple of garnishes as soon as the server had walked away, just as Charlie did the same thing. They made brief eye contact before she tucked in quickly.

“I’m not done ‘til eight tonight,” she said after a couple bites. “So, maybe ten?” She raised an eyebrow as she looked over at him.

Charlie smirked -- that was as good as a ‘yes’ for them, wasn’t it? He hesitated long enough between that and opening his mouth to verbally accept her invitation that the door opened to interrupt -- their food was being brought out. Charlie met eyes with the waitress and subtly turned to watch her leave once she’d set their plates down, his eyes lingering on her backside as she walked away from them.

He brought his attention back to his food, plucking the garnish from the top of his bacon— His hand hovered over his plate -- the little bit of leaf held between his thumb and forefinger -- as he realised Honey was doing the exact same thing. His eyes met hers, then she looked away and he did as well. Was that weird? Was he just reading into it? He cleared his throat and nodded as he set the garnish down on the edge of his plate.

He smirked at Honey when she gave herself two hours of buffer between finishing work and him showing up. “Do you really put that much effort in?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he grinned, looking at her pointedly and beginning to eat his breakfast. He paused after a moment of chewing and picked up his mug -- knife still held in his hand -- and had a sip of coffee before speaking again; “Ten’s fine. I can always start early then come up,” he smirked again, “you can catch up. Play that game you like.”

That much effort— it took her a second to figure out what he was getting at—the look he gave her was some help—and she rolled her eyes. It wasn’t worth the work to explain her decision making process, that just because the shop was closed didn’t mean she stopped working (and that they usually met on Thursdays and the shop wasn’t open at all on Thursdays so he was missing some more obvious bits for his joke). It was too much explanation, too many details, too much conversation.

Honey smirked when he did it again—that was him accepting the invitation, then—but she didn’t really hear him until he said she could catch up. She nearly sighed but she took another bite instead. Still, she didn’t want that on her conscience—an idiot drinking and apparating—even if that really wasn’t the point of whatever he was saying.

“Or—“ she started, picking up her coffee— “You can come earlier if you’re desperate to drink.” He hadn’t been specific about which game but they all involved drinking and stripping in some fashion. She rolled her eyes again as she took a sip, almost annoyed by him saying he’d apparate after drinking. She hadn’t been bothered at the time—she was distracted—when he’d apparated the both of them in Geneva and she’d forgotten about it when she got home—work was busy—and then she didn’t see him for a month and once she did… distracted again. But remembering it now, maybe she was a little annoyed.

“Thanks for not apparating me home last night,” she started between bites, rather unsure where she was headed with her thought. “Nice not to wake up splinched.” She didn’t think he’d make the choice to not apparate for her sake; more realistically, it had all been about the possibility of morning sex. “Still can’t believe that didn’t happen to us in Geneva.” She smirked softly, trying to dial back the annoyance that was still bubbling up.