mulder and scully [fflur]

tuesday 7 oct, 2003

Charlie discarded his not-quite finished cigarette in the last bin before they reached The Three Broomsticks. “Saw Michel the night before you came out,” he said, continuing their conversation about Paris -- the last time they’d seen each other. He grinned back at Fflur as he reached for the door, “Liam—” he stopped suddenly, his hand not meeting the door where he had anticipated it because it had been opened inwards in the same moment he’d gone to push. His eyes went to the person holding it and he blanched. Fuck.

Honey seemed just as surprised to see him -- or, perhaps a little less, ironically, given that she was the one who actually lived here. Acutely aware that Fflur was behind him, Charlie wasn’t sure whether he ought to smile politely (a smirk was the usual go-to but he couldn’t risk that right now) or if he should just ignore her, but he’d already made eye contact— Honey rolled hers at him and Charlie attempted to pull an apologetic expression whilst also trying to keep his face impassive, and ended up with something between the two (thank Christ Fflur couldn’t see).

He moved out of the doorway quickly, averting his gaze in search of their usual table. He’d picked Tuesdays with Fflur specifically to avoid—

So she still hates you.

Charlie laughed (nervously, though he was hoping Fflur couldn’t tell) and sat down quickly. “Yeah,” he attempted a casual grin -- as if it were true and as if that wouldn’t faze him if it was. “How did Robin like Paris, then?” he asked, just to have something to talk about that wasn’t Honey because while he was good at lying sometimes he was less good at it when it was Fflur.


@Fflur Blevins

The last drag (or two) of her cigarette took longer than Charlie’s, and she had to step lively to catch up after stopping at the bin. He’d seen Michel--so had she, but Michel hadn’t said anything that would have made her think there was more to tell--and Liam-- Liam what? She didn’t find out, too busy catching up again, this time with whatever situation was unfolding at the door to the Three Broomsticks.

Fflur was half a step behind and a little to the side and it didn’t take more than a glance to figure out what was going on. She raised her eyebrows but no one was paying attention to her. She rolled her eyes (to herself, apparently), about to push Charlie through the doorway--Honey didn’t own the space around them--so at least someone would move, not getting the chance before room was made for them to scoot on through to the pub.

Finally inside, Fflur followed Charlie to their table, taking a seat across from him and leaning back into the cushion of the booth. “So… she still hates you.” As if he just wasn’t going to address whatever had just happened. Maybe she didn’t hate him but it had to be close, not even bothering to really acknowledge his presence. She needed to get over herself--Honey, not Fflur--but Charlie agreed and they moved on. She was happy enough to not talk about that anymore.

She shrugged. “Not bad.” Fflur was a shit tour guide because she didn’t know where to go without having a drink in mind, but it hadn’t been bad. She stuck her hands in her jacket pockets, considering Charlie for a second. She’d already given him shit about his stage presence, but-- “Who can really remember Paris when they’ve seen--” she waved vaguely at him, her hand still in her pocket-- “On stage.” She could have done with a little less hip motions, anyway.

One of the new waitresses popped over and Fflur ordered herself tea and a sandwich, waiting until she’d left again before moving on. “How was the rest of it?” The tour. “Oktoberfest?” At least one of them still got to enjoy it; there was no point going just for the pretzels.

Charlie turned his head--subtly, he thought--to watch Honey through the window as she crossed the street and made the short walk back to Honeydukes. He glanced back at Fflur and stared at her blankly for a second--still thinking about Honey--before he caught up with what she’d just said. He rolled his eyes and reclined in his chair. “If I didn’t know better I’d take that as a compliment.” He looked at her again and had the decency to flush under her scrutiny. "Can't deprive 'em, can I?" he mumbled in a weak attempt at being cocksure, hoping it was obvious he was joking. Sort of, anyway.

Charlie let Fflur order first, changed his mind midway through her order about what he wanted; went with fish and chips and a lager.

Charlie recognised that now might be the moment to tell Fflur about bumping into his stalker in Amsterdam, or maybe admitting to inviting Honey out for a night in Switzerland, but that all seemed like more hassle than it was worth--plus, he was supposed to be being discreet and he was hoping not to have a repeat performance of her breaking his nose (now, or ever), which was probably what would happen when she found out--and then she provided him with a topic he could safely focus on instead: Oktoberfest.

"It was right good," he grinned, scratching at the side of his nose. He wasn’t trying to rub it in, but it had been probably the best way they could have ended the tour, given everything that had happened since their last one. "Was good to have something to look forward to," he admitted. "Shame you couldn't, you know…" he teased; a night out in Paris was one thing, a week of beer tents and oompah bands was something quite different for a recovering alcoholic. As a functioning one, however, he'd had no issues.

Charlie sat up when their drinks arrived, wasted no time in picking his pint up for a sip. "Could probably do with a detox," he smirked.

“Oh, good.” Fflur rolled her shoulders and sat back again with a little nod. She hoped he’d been able to turn off for the week, after two months of being constantly on-- never mind the months before, here, with all his shitty personal problems. She wasn’t his mum, though--it felt like she was, at times--so she kept that particular musing to herself.

She laughed, shrugged. “I could--” she shrugged again-- “Just chose not to.” And today was one of those days she was feeling good about it--hadn’t thought twice about Charlie ordering a pint--though those sort of days came and went with a pretty high frequency; she wasn’t focused on that now.

The waitress returned with their drinks and Fflur smiled at their waitress before rolling her eyes at Charlie. “You think?” She hoped he didn’t think he was detoxing just because it wasn’t a dark beer or something. She rolled her eyes one more time for good measure before she poured out some milk, letting her tea steep a little longer.

Fflur leaned forward, her arms folded on the table in front of her. “What were you saying about Michel earlier?”  He’d been about to say something about Liam, really, but she didn’t want to appear too interested. Still, she didn’t have a lot going on and there was only so much gossip about students she could handle.

She could, and if he were being honest he was a little disappointed she hadn’t--more and more lately he was convinced he missed the old days--but Rob had been with her too, and Charlie supposed it wasn’t worth it. He wondered, now that the thought had crossed his mind, if he’d ever choose not to. Unlikely. He could, of course, if he really wanted to. But he didn’t want to, so why bother depriving himself?

Charlie caught Fflur’s eye roll and narrowed his eyes in return. He couldn’t quite tell if she was having a go or not, but by the second roll he was pretty certain she was. Charlie pulled his beer closer and had another sip defiantly.

His brow furrowed— “Michel?” Then— “Oh, right.” He sniggered and glanced away. It occurred to him at this point that perhaps he shouldn’t be telling Fflur about Liam but -- fuck it, he needed something to distract her with, and he needed somebody to tell other than Sam (there was only so much he could talk about one band member in front of the other). Charlie sighed and folded his arms on the table, leaned in and lowered his voice. “Liam and him, er…” he bit his lip and waggled his eyebrows, grinning through it.

He picked up his beer again and had another sip.

Fflur sipped her tea to match Charlie sipping his beer, though she regretted it immediately; it still needed another minute to steep.

But Michel? Fflur nodded, about to remind him he’d said ‘Liam’, too, but he remembered quickly enough. She raised her eyebrows when he laughed, clearly wanting to be let in on the joke. “C’mon.” He couldn’t hold out on her now, not now that she really did want to know, damn it. She mirrored him as he shifted, folding her arms on the table and leaning in.

It took her a second to connect ‘Liam and him’ with the way Charlie was moving his eyebrows, but as soon as she jumped to that conclusion, her eyebrows shot up again as she leaned back. “Oh, that…” She grinned, quickly flipping through as many memories of Liam--it was already an established fact about Michel, of course--as she could and she nodded once. “Explains a lot.”

Fflur tilted her head side to side, trying not to really think about it. She shook her head and had another sip of tea, nearly choking when she remembered something vaguely related. She coughed and set her cup down, her cough turning into a laugh after a few seconds. “Michel figured that about you for as long as we didn’t…” She trailed off, leaving it there, and smirked before she had another sip of tea.

It was rare that Charlie had gossip to bestow upon Fflur that wasn’t of his own making, so of course he was going to milk it a little bit -- that, and how did one reveal that their bandmate--up until now believed to be straight as an arrow and a mild homophobe to boot--was bumming a mutual friend who was, if it could be said, a quintessentially camp homosexual?

Charlie could see the metaphorical penny drop by Fflur’s change in expression and he laughed again. “What?” he asked, offended on behalf of one of his oldest friends. “It’s not like it were obvious,” he said, though the grin on his lips sort of weakened his defence somewhat.

He could tell Fflur was doing what he--and Sam, once he’d found out--had done next: let her imagination run wild for all of thirty seconds before deciding it wasn’t necessary (nor desired). Charlie was still smirking, smug little prick he was about it all, and had a sip of his beer as Fflur had some of her tea. His eyebrows rose inquiringly when she started spluttering—

“What?” Charlie stared at her. “Fuck off,” he said, grinning nervously -- this was a joke, she was having him on— And Michel didn’t have a leg to stand on, mincing about his Parisian loft with a Carmen Miranda headdress. “No he didn’t,” Charlie argued, almost convincingly. He frowned, then, backtracking. “Did you tell him?” 

He said it wasn’t obvious and Fflur had to agree but more than anything, she liked to pretend like she knew things, wasn’t out of the loop. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her. “Fine. It’s not obvious, but what it is, is--” she cut herself off as she thought about it. Did Michel just have that sort of effect on straight men or-- “Now I’m thinkin’ about it too much.” She made a face, nose scrunched, and waved it all away.

She hadn’t originally been saving face by changing the subject to Charlie--or Charlie and Michel--but he (they) was certainly easier to talk about. Like that.

Fflur grinned as Charlie told her to fuck off. “Sure he did.” As if that was the only reason they hadn’t-- Michel had been convinced for a while (up until she’d introduced him to Robin) they ‘made sense’, as he put it, but Michel was still friends with Fflur, so clearly he was a horrible judge of character. “Tell him what?” She knew what he was asking about but she couldn’t pass up the chance to egg him on a little. “That  I scared you off with how horrible that night was?” She didn’t think they had ever addressed it so directly but… no time like the present. Besides, Robin already knew and there weren’t any feelings to protect in Charlie’s life.

“Honestly,” she started again after another small sip of her tea, “I’m surprised he agreed to dinner with you after what I told him.” She grinned, her hands still around her teacup. There hadn’t been anything nice to say after that last time seeing him anyway, and add to it that she had been a drunk arsehole who didn’t owe Charlie anything once he stopped visiting-- “Though maybe that makes sense, if Liam…” She had meant it more that Liam had come to dinner, too, but again she was thinking about it too much. She had a large gulp of her tea, as if burning her throat could burn those images from her mind, too.

If Michel--an actual gay man--thought Charlie was also secretly gay (or at least that way inclined), was he giving off that sort of aura? Charlie had a large gulp of his lager.

Tell him what? Fflur asked, and Charlie shot her a look that said you know what. They were still sort of not-talking about it, despite both having admitted it had happened now. He almost wished they weren’t, however, when she said how horrible it had been. Charlie glowered at her, offended. “It wasn’t—” He stopped sharply, because Christ, why was it that those memories seemed stronger now than they had at the time? He had had the chance to embellish them in the years since, he supposed. “It was pretty awful,” he conceded, but was gentlemanly enough to not point the finger at her (not so much of a gentleman as to fully take the blame either though -- it took two to tango).

Charlie flicked his eyes up from her tea to her face. “What did you tell him?” he asked, curious now that she’d dangled this in front of him. He blinked at her. Was she suggesting Michel was hoping Charlie would bum him? “Fuck off,” he snipped. Even if he was going to admit anything to Fflur, Michel really wasn’t his type.

He spun his pint glass slowly on the table between them, figuring now was as good a time as any to finally deal with this. “I never told anyone, you know,” he said quietly. “Kate—” he pressed his lips together before continuing, “—she asked and I just,” he shrugged, “said I didn’t remember.” He exhaled deeply. “Thought it was better if she didn’t see you as a threat or whatever,” he let out a light laugh, as if Fflur being a threat to Kate was funny, then straightened his expression when he realised that was a dick move. “I mean like, you’ve got Robin and that.”

Fflur nodded, grimaced--jokingly, she thought--because yes, it sure was awful.

She scrunched up her face in thought, as if she had to try hard to remember what she had told Michel about it all. The truth was she had told him the truth, or what she could remember of it at the time-- she had since recalled more about it, she thought, but it wasn’t like she had revisited the subject every time a memory popped into her brain. She might have embellished the truth a little; she wasn’t telling Michel that she was so bad to warrant being ditched like that, for the long haul; Charlie had plans to be in Paris before that happened and then after… whatever she said to Michel was totally warranted.

Fflur shrugged, her hands back in the pockets of her jacket. “Just that I was sorry I didn’t give you more than a black eye.” She smiled as sweetly as she could. “Took a while, but--” She dropped her gaze pointedly to his nose and smiled more smugly.

She watched him spin his glass, a bit mesmerized, only glancing up when he said he never told anyone. Kate-- they’d gone how long without talking about her? The only way this could work--Fflur being both Charlie’s and Kate’s friend--would be not talking about either of them with the other-- she relaxed a second later as he went on, telling her he hadn’t told Kate. “I figured,” she said honestly, because Fflur had been Charlie’s best man and she didn’t think Kate was that kind of cool. She laughed a little at the idea of being a threat, waved him off as he looked apologetic about it. “No, yeah.” She got it.

But she had told Robin, and she grimaced again when Charlie mentioned him by name. She blew out air through pursed lips, glancing out the window and back. “I might’ve told him about it. Us. Then.” She stammered a little, trying to find the best phrasing. “Some background after the minigolf thing,” she said, raising her eyebrows. They really needed better landmarks in their friendship besides Fflur punching Charlie and Charlie being a sleazy git.

Charlie narrowed his eyes at Fflur, just a fraction, as he observed her response to his query. It was morbid curiosity, now -- wanting to know exactly what she’d thought of him. Then he thought over what she’d said just a moment before--that she’d scared him off--and he had to remind himself that even if his opportunity hadn’t waved him by years ago, he didn’t feel that way anymore. But— Did that mean what he thought it meant?

Charlie’s eyes narrowed again, a little more obviously. No way was that all she had told the Frenchman, but did he really want the details? He picked up his pint and sipped at it, trying not to (obviously) look down at his own nose.

Fflur figured. Charlie started to nod--once--then stopped, in case that could be misinterpreted, too. She didn’t seem mad at his unintentional insult though. And he hadn’t meant it like that, not really. Just that— No, he supposed he had. Fflur had been his type once, but they’d both have to be fucking blind to not see that Kate was younger and prettier. His interest in Fflur had been different -- leave it at that.

What was that grimace for on her part though? Oh. Oh. Charlie stared at her, lost for something to say. He shouldn’t be mad, but he’d done her the decency of not telling anybody— because their performance that night was definitely not entirely his fault—

Background. Minigolf. Charlie’s souring expression faltered. “Right, yeah.” He had another drink of his lager. He’d already (drunkenly) apologised to Robin (multiple times) for that particular incident, but knowing now that Rob knew about the other time made everything make a little more sense -- Charlie certainly would’ve struggled to get past it had the tables been turned.

“You know I was just—” drunk, he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t the whole truth of it. There’d been a cocktail of emotions coursing through him that day, not least the memory of the last time he’d seen the woman across from him. “You’re just my mate.” Or she was now. He couldn’t really say she had been his mate then, nor were they the mates-who-snog type -- except for that one New Years. He was almost definitely admitting to more, without directly saying so, but he’d come to realise that he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was, and it was probably better if it was all out in the open, finally. He wasn’t trying to get in her knickers now, anyway.

Charlie looked upset, or maybe offended, but she was just being honest with him, with Robin; basically, he needed to watch himself because if she needed to defend her decision to tell Robin anything, she wasn’t sure she could keep herself from turning it back on him and his tendency to lie his way through his relationships-- but he figured it out. “Yeah,” she said, echoing him. She grimaced again, watching him drink for half a second before she picked up her own drink to sip.

He was just-- Fflur cut him off. “I know.” Whatever he was getting at, she supposed she could figure it out for herself. It had been a bad idea meeting up with him in the first place. Her (first attempt) at sobriety was still fresh then and she had known what Charlie (and their friendship) was about. And then they did meet up, and Charlie was sad and drunk and she still didn’t leave. She couldn’t blame herself for any of it, but there she was, blaming herself and her poor decision making skills.

Fflur was just his mate. She hadn’t doubted that, but she nodded as she sat up a little straighter. “Yeah.” She nodded again. “You’re my mate.” She wanted to make that perfectly clear, though she didn’t think they had come close to another mini-golf incident since then, never mind a repeat of that night in Paris. (Credit to Fflur breaking Charlie’s nose, probably.) “That was--” not her finest moment, she was going to say, but movement in her peripheral distracted her and she made brief eye contact with the waitress who was bringing their food over.

Fflur picked up her sandwich before she figured she ought to complete her though from a moment before. “I don’t remember a lot.” Was that just a kind way of saying that she had been at her rock bottom for years? “Of Paris, of…” she waved her hand (and sandwich) through the air, using the motion to elaborate on her words. It hadn’t been a six year blur, but it had been close, and it was more than a minor miracle that they were still mates.

He was her mate too. Great, that's that sorted then, he thought. He didn’t say anything else for fear of making this weirder than it already was — if that was possible, at this point. (Stupid thought, of course it was — look what had happened last time.) Charlie flicked his eyes up to Fflur’s face when she spoke again — not that she finished her thought. He couldn’t ask what was what without looking like a dick though, could he? Desperate to make this less weird, he briefly considered admitting that he was fucking Honey again—that was sure to distract Fflur sufficiently—but then he wondered if that might come across as if he was trying to make her jealous and—

Charlie visibly relaxed when their food came, glad for a distraction he wasn’t required to provide. He asked for another pint and pulled some cutlery out of the holder.

It took Charlie a second to realise Fflur was continuing their conversation — that they were actually going to talk about this. That night. Oh, she meant Paris as a whole — which was kind of their friendship (pre-minigolf) as a whole. “Yeah,” he said quietly, still holding his knife and fork at the ready.

He remembered at least some of it. He remembered more than he cared to admit of that — particularly, how critical she had been. In hindsight, it had been constructive criticism, he supposed. Had everyone he’d shagged before that thought the same and just not told him? He preferred to think he’d just been so thrown off by being given directions that he’d been overthinking everything.

But he really ought to stop thinking about that, here, now. He cut into his fish finally and almost got a bite into his mouth before stopping short. "I shouldn't have fucked off like that," he apologised (barely). "It was just— you know." Did she? He wasn’t even entirely sure what it was. He looked down at his meal and ate, just to shut himself up.

Fflur held onto her sandwich with both hands, taking a bite and chewing, watching Charlie as he started to do the same. But he paused and so did she, resuming chewing with less enthusiasm as he spoke. She thought that saying she couldn’t really remember the details of sleeping with him meant that they could move past it, that saying she was at a rather low point for all of Paris would be a clear indication that she wasn’t holding a grudge or anything.

And she wasn’t about to ask for the details now.

She swallowed, nodded. “Yeah.” She did know, knew all about fucking off like that. It had happened to her a few times, but she had been the one fucking off more than that. Had they talked about how she had left Wales? Telling no one and effectively disappearing into the night. Here’s hoping they had because she wasn’t about to elaborate now.

This was too depressing for a Tuesday. Fflur cleared her throat and picked up her tea. “But  now I’ve clawed my way back into your life.” She offered him a crooked smile before sipping her tea. It was less a clawing and more a coincidence; Robin mentioned meeting up with Charlie, telling him they were dating; Fflur figured it would look worse (or more desperate) to not send him an owl. She shrugged, went back to her sandwich.

Charlie chewed, his eyes darting to Fflur every few seconds to try and gauge her reaction to his half-arsed apology: it appeared to go over alright.

Fflur smiled, and Charlie paused long enough before putting another forkful of fish into his mouth to grin awkwardly (but gratefully) back. “Yeah.” He swallowed his food, and the waitress delivered his new lager just as he was finishing off his old one; he handed the empty glass to her.

Charlie cut up more of his fish and glanced at Fflur again. “Just a shame about the sobriety thing,” he joked with a lopsided smile — in a tone he hoped she could see right through. “I know it was—” he pressed his lips together, trying to work out how to sympathise without incriminating himself, decided to just not finish that thought and skip ahead to the next one; “Had some good nights, though.”

He picked up a chip, forgoing his fork. “How’s that all going?” he asked, mostly to be supportive but partially out of curiosity, too.