thursday [charlie]

20 november 2003

Honey reached up a hand to smooth down her hair, holding out her helmet with the other— he had called her bluff after she’d said something about never getting that ride, the motorbike sort. (He’d had an advantage, standing there all greased up, working in the garage.) She had imagined it would have been pretty similar to that rollercoaster she’d been on once--also with Charlie--but it was actually sort of fun; never mind there was a built in excuse to put her arms around him without worrying about being seen with him.

Still, it got in the way of her primary reason for being there-- or, the secondary reason because they both knew what the primary one was. It wasn’t a big deal; she just needed to uninvite him from the quidditch match she’d stupidly (drunkenly) invited him to. It was a Portree match--that much was obvious by now, wasn’t it?--against the Griffins. Honey had no idea if Charlie knew that when he agreed to it, assumed he didn’t, but the gin had convinced her it would be a good idea to invite him because the Captain of the Griffins had personally invited her.

Maybe it was a big deal--she’d figured Charlie would cause the most issue, not with everyone else, just Harlan, and what did it say about her that she thought Charlie would be the best option--but it was more of a laugh than anything else. He’d see what a bad idea it was once she filled him in on (most of) the details. And it certainly wasn’t urgent.

Honey handed off the helmet and pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands--the sun had set while they were out and it had been cold in the garage to begin with--as she gave him another once over. She had suggested ‘lunch, etc.’ and Charlie had agreed to ‘etc.’ so she had shown up a bit later; as it was, it was far too late for a friendly lunch, but perfect timing for a drink, she figured. Inviting herself in, she moved toward the door that led back to his flat. “Buy you a drink?”

@Charlie Baker

Charlie set his helmet down, then turned around to take the one he’d lent Honey, offering her a small lopsided smile as he did so. The last time they’d done something like that--intentionally hung out during the day, not (immediately) had sex--was probably that day at the theme park, however many years ago. This had gone a little better -- Honey looked flushed (he’d accept from the wind and the rush of speeding through the streets rather than his mere presence) instead of pale, as she had then. He was still grinning--remembering her ‘time out’ on the bench--when he turned back to face her, one hand on the garage door button to lower it and close them inside.

“Hm?” He wiped the expression from his face quickly, eyebrows raised as it took him a moment to process her offer. He half-smirked, half-nodded. “Yeah, go on.”

He followed her through the internal-access door, emerging in the small hallway before making his way through to the kitchen. It occurred to him at this point--hand on the cupboard door to pull out some glasses--that she might have meant it literally--buy him a drink--but no, that was stupid. They didn’t do that.

Honey had meandered around the corner, just out of sight, as he retrieved her pink gin from the cupboard above the fridge, and poured a sizeable amount into one of the glasses. “You still drink this shit straight?” he asked, calling into the living space ahead of himself as he carried her drink and his empty (for now) glass through. He handed Honey’s off to her, then crouched to pull a bottle of Jameson out of the liquor cabinet. He rose up straight again and poured himself a serve, leaving the bottle on the top ready for a refill.

Charlie gulped down a large swallow -- then another, upon realising how thirsty he was (not that whiskey was really the best cure for that). He was still a little sweaty despite the cool November air, and he thought about suggesting a shower. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and topped up his glass, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “You want something on?” he smirked, waiting for her to turn and look at him before nodding at the records she’d been staring at (or more likely, staring into space).

It took her a second to get her bearings--she’d never been in through that door and she was a little turned around--but she figured it out and headed toward the lounge, half-heartedly looking for the bottle of pink gin she knew he didn’t keep out where anyone could see it. (She’d offered the drinks but he could fix them as long as he hid the gin, she figured.) She sat on the arm of the sofa, her fingers working at her laces when Charlie called to her from the kitchen. “It’s already flavored,” she countered; they must have had this conversation a few times by now and it hadn’t been that long since she’d been there.

Honey rolled her eyes as she took her glass from him, refocusing on him once his back was turned--especially once he was looking in the liquor cabinet--and taking her chance to get a good look in. She remembered her boots after a couple more seconds and managed to get one off before having a big sip of her drink, eyes still on Charlie’s back(side). She had another sip as she worked her second shoe off with her other foot.

She figured Charlie could see her now so she stopped looking at him, glancing around the room to find something else to pretend to be focusing on. Her eyes landed on his record collection, which reminded her of her less-than-sober idea to ask about him signing one as a gift for her dad--from Honey, mind--which was only fair because she was making--and had made--chocolates for his mum. She was still working through how to ask him--or if she should, even--when he said something.

“What?” Honey looked at him, had another sip. “No, just--” she had one more sip, deciding the last one hadn’t really been that big. She figured she should ask before she put it off anymore because then she might never ask (because she knew this was a step weirder than him buying chocolates from her legitimate business even if she didn’t want to admit it).

But Fergie had been Charlie’s friend for how long and he’d never thought to ask? Her poor dad, missing out. That, and it’d annoy Fergie to no end to know exactly how Honey acquired an autographed anything. “Can you sign one of yours for my dad?” She shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal to ask. Still, she went on in some sort of attempt to make it a little less weird. “He’s obsessed with you. Banshee.” She thought she’d mentioned it before, but she hadn’t really done it justice. 

He raised an eyebrow at her, had a sip when she did -- partly to keep up and partly to show he was going to wait for an answer, not give her the out. Whatever it was, she was obviously struggling, which set his mind whirring as he tried to guess, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the possibility of it being something serious.

She got it out, eventually, and both of Charlie’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Did she just— She did. Honey had never made a habit out of acknowledging what he did for a living (except when it suited her and her ego -- not that he blamed her for that), but she had as good as just admitted she did know how popular Banshee were, how he wasn’t just any other bloke. He was no international Quidditch player, but he was an international something. Worthy of an autograph, apparently.

He held back from grinning too soon--just in case she was joking--and had another sip of whiskey. “Really?” he asked, setting his glass down on the cabinet when she didn’t immediately withdraw her request, say she was having him on. “Yeah, alright,” he said, still too blindsided by the request to be a dick about it (yet). He didn’t have a stash of spare records anywhere so he moved to pluck his own copy out from his collection -- he assumed Mr Flume wouldn’t mind, if it was really for him.

Charlie backtracked to the kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer, fishing around for a pen that would actually work, as Honey followed him over to the counter. He was trying not to overthink this -- or wind her up, because it was kind of nice, right? He was used to playing down his disappointment by this point; music just wasn’t her thing--which they’d confirmed when she’d asked him who Dolly Parton was--but it’d be fucking nice to move past having to ignore his success altogether. Besides, he could hold this over her later if he was nice about it now.

Charlie found a felt pen and scribbled it on a rogue receipt to make sure it still worked. He pulled the record close, glad he’d had a whole tour to get his signature practice in— and paused, hand poised ready to sign. He flicked his attention up to Honey. “You want it to 'Mr Flume' or…?" he smirked.

She returned his look, raising both eyebrows when he questioned her. It was too late to take it back, anyway; as if he’d believe her (or let her live it down) if she said she’d been joking. He didn’t give her any grief about it—surprisingly enough—and she nodded, just barely. Really.

Honey didn’t move from her perch on the arm of the sofa, having another sip of her drink as she watched him move toward the records. She hadn’t meant for him to give her his own—never mind she hadn’t asked for any specific one—but she wasn’t about to tell him how to do it. (Plus, she doubted her dad was going to frame it so it wasn’t like she needed to demand a new one, some mint condition thing.)

She took another drink before she pushed herself up off the sofa and followed him into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. Charlie needed in the drawer she was up against and she took a step to the side after a beat, smirking softly before she had another sip. She set her drink down and crossed her arms across her chest. “It’s not for me,” she said, rolling her eyes when he asked if he should make it out to ‘Mr Flume’. That would sound too— she couldn’t think of what it’d be too much of but it wasn’t right.

“His name’s Ambrosius.” He didn’t start writing right away, probably giving her time to come clean and say it really was for her but maybe because— she plucked the pen from his hand and turned to write on his test piece of paper, spelling her dad’s name out for him, just in case. She handed the pen back, not making a big deal about it because they were being nice, for once.

She turned to lean back against the counter again, closer now, just barely not crowding him so much he couldn’t write. She got a good look at which album he’d picked—the newest one, Fergie was going to love her gifting it after he already had—and she smirked, bringing her gaze back up to his face. “We never talked about how your song worked.” The one wishing for her breakup, released just days before the breakup had actually happened. He’d told her about it after the fact and she’d been distracted about too many other things to talk about it then.

She said it wasn’t for her and Charlie gave Honey a look that made it clear he didn’t believe her; “Alright.”

Ambrosius. Charlie choked out a laugh, before seeing her expression–she wasn’t joking about this either–and coughing it down sharpish. Had he known that was her Dad’s name? You’d think after knowing Ferg as long as he had he would, but Christ -- no wonder they had names like Duke and Beatrix (even if, personally, he was beginning to grow a little fond of her birth name in his ironic usage of it).

Honey handed the pen back to him and Charlie almost succeeded at hiding a lop-sided smile when it popped into his head to give her shit about being able to use one, no quills in this house. He glanced at how Ambrosius was spelled just to double-check (didn’t want to inadvertently address it to a dessert), and bent over at the hip, arm resting on the counter, to sign his autograph – trying not to be hyperaware of her presence, just to his side.

Charlie looked at Honey with widened eyes. He opened his mouth, half a grin on his lips, then reconsidered his approach – he could be a smug prick, or he could keep being nice, especially considering the circumstances. He bit his lip softly and lowered his gaze, standing up straight and putting the lid back on the pen. He tapped it on the bench a couple of times. “I wouldn’t’ve picked for it to happen like that,” he offered quietly, flicking his eyes back to meet hers and coming as close to another apology as he was willing to get -- not sorry about her breaking up with Harlan, but sorry she had had to be treated like that (and he wasn’t missing the irony in this, either).

Honey didn’t want to think about how she had Harlan’s autograph—that photo she had squirreled away somewhere—or one from the quidditch player before him—a poster she’d shrunk to a less obsessive size and stuck in the back of a drawer—but that’s exactly where her mind went. This was different; this autograph wasn’t for her; it was like that at all. This was just another version of ‘asking for a friend’.

It was hard to drag her mind away from Harlan, even if Charlie was usually a great distraction from that. That had to be the reason for bringing up the song—it was about her and Harlan, anyway (even if, really, it was more about her and Charlie, wasn’t it?)—more than just trying to make conversation. It hadn’t been the reason for her breakup, couldn’t have been.

But Charlie’s expression changed and he moved away from the smug look she had been expecting. Shit— she hadn’t been fishing for an apology, or whatever was happening now. Especially not.. that, if he was saying what Honey thought he was. She had more or less told him why they’d broken up when trying to explain that whole Will ordeal, but he hadn’t said anything about it then and she figured they wouldn’t need to talk about it later. (And she was too taken aback to make a joke about it all because isn’t that how he kickstarted his divorce?)

“Neither,” she said after a few seconds, matching his expression and volume. It was more like she wouldn’t have picked for it to happen at all, but— Charlie wasn’t the right audience for that. He was hardly the one she should be talking to about her break up in general, but needs must. “Thanks.” She meant it more about what he’d said, but she put her hand on the record and slid it toward her.

She flicked her gaze up to meet his again. “So—“ she shrugged. “About Saturday.” She needed to uninvite him still and this seemed as good a segue as ever.

As soon as Charlie realised what he had just said he froze, his eyes still on Honey’s because looking away would be like he was admitting something, and he wasn’t admitting to wanting them to break up--and even if maybe he had wanted them to, it wasn’t for his benefit. If he had wanted that he would have made a move by now--a different kind of move to the ones they had been making--and he hadn’t--but if he had to admit anything, he knew that this was easier than having a real girlfriend (or, you know, wife). Why was he thinking about her in that context anyway? Fucking Sam.

“Neither,” she said, and after a moment Charlie nodded softly in reply. He didn’t think there was much more he could say about it -- not without coming off worse for it, at least. Honey pulled the record towards herself and he pressed his lips together. He had a large sip of his whiskey. That was that then.

Charlie rested his hip against the counter, facing her, and lowered his glass back to the bench as she met his gaze. Saturday. Shit. He needed to tell her that he couldn't go, but maybe he could wait and owl her tomorrow so he didn't ruin tonight -- it wasn't like he didn't want to go (mostly), but she might not believe him even if he was in the mood to try and convince her. And she’d only just acknowledged he was a real musician so saying he had an awards show to go to sounded very convenient, didn’t it?

There was only one thing for it: distraction. Charlie moved closer and nudged her gin up towards her mouth with his index finger, still holding his own glass with the rest of his digits. "We can work out who's picking up who later," he smirked, draining the rest of his drink before setting it down on the bench, his free hand wrapping around her waist to draw her closer.

He didn’t say anything after she thanked him, and that was that.

Honey mentioned Saturday—the lead up to the uninvitation—and Charlie took a step closer, crowding her space (pleasantly) and not helping anything. He nudged her glass up and she took a drink, rolling her eyes as she listened to him. Friends would just meet at the match, never mind whatever she was trying to accomplish by inviting him to this specific match, but she didn’t want to interrupt him now, not once he’d pulled her even closer. He left his arm wrapped around her waist and she set her glass down because him finishing his drink was as good a sign as any.

She looked at him for maybe half a second before she tilted her chin up to kiss him, bringing the hand from her glass up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer if at all possible. She grabbed at his waist with her other hand, happy for the distraction from their conversation (both the one they’d had a minute ago—Harlan—and the one they needed to be having—also sort of Harlan). She took a step back as she turned, sandwiching herself between the cabinets and Charlie, letting herself get carried away for a moment before she pulled back, her hand on his backside, his hand under her jumper.

“No, Saturday—“ she needed to do this before she forgot; she didn’t want to get through the whole night without getting it settled, just to have to owl him as soon as she got home. Still, she didn’t want to put any more space between them than she had to; she didn’t move either hand. “Fergie can go to the match now—“ there was never a point in time when Fergie couldn’t go, but that wasn’t what she had told Charlie originally— “so I don’t think we should…” She trailed off, hoping Charlie could see the reasoning behind what she was saying, the excuse she was deciding to use. (She could only hope Charlie wouldn’t discuss this with her brother later, but she felt pretty good about her chances.)

She kissed him quickly then pulled back again. “I can always feel you up some other time.” That’d been his condition for attending, apparently.

They gazed at one another for a moment before Honey gave into him and Charlie mentally congratulated himself (for a job well done, for being a good enough distraction from whatever else was going on between them). He kept his arm around her and brought his other hand to her hip, sliding his fingers up under her jumper and against her skin as she pulled him closer. He wasn’t drunk enough (or at all) to be able to shut out the other thoughts running through his mind concurrently alongside what he was presently focused on doing; what did Saturday--more going out in the daylight--mean to her? Irregardless of that, what did it mean to him?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss as he felt Honey's hand on his backside, preparing to lift her onto the counter and put all of his attention on her—

She pulled back and brought up Saturday again. Charlie was staring at her mouth, pink and swollen from kissing him. Fergie. His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, the mood shifting immediately despite Fergie having been an issue for however long, despite him knowing about them now anyway. Charlie’s grip on Honey loosened a little as his mind worked through whether he could--should--be offended by her wanting to hide him from someone who already knew they were shagging (even if that someone was her brother, and said brother had reacted to the news so well that he'd shown up here and apparently taken a leaf out of Fflur’s book). It crossed Charlie’s mind to tell Honey about Fergie’s line of questioning, how he’d needed to hear from Charlie that Honey had had nothing to do with the divorce, but he also thought she probably didn't need to know that—

Honey’s lips brushed against his; Charlie’s eyes closed slowly and then opened again, just as slow, when she drew back again. She seemed to be trying to make it up to him, wasn’t just telling him to fuck off. He wet his lips and nodded, he understood. "Hold you to that," he told her, somehow making it sound like a threat. He had the opportunity to let her feel bad about this all on her own, but she would find out eventually if she still bothered to read the Prophet (which he assumed she must), and he didn’t want to be on the back foot again. Charlie held Honey’s gaze, then glanced away. "I've got a thing I forgot about, anyway," he said, shrugging half-heartedly. "Music awards." Nevermind that he had just pretended to be semi-interested in figuring out the logistics of going to her Quidditch game.

He’d hold her to that; she smirked softly, despite whatever tone that was. He’d hold her otherwise, if she had anything to say about it, never mind that he’d loosened his grip on her already. She leaned in the tiniest bit, fully intending to pick up where they’d left off, but Charlie looked away the second she did. He wasn’t actually disappointed they weren’t going to the match together, was he? Fuck. She supposed she could ask Fergie to—

Oh; he wasn’t disappointed. He couldn’t go anyway. Honey doubted things were at the same time—what awards happened at eleven in the morning?—but beside that, when had he been planning to tell her? She was almost offended, as if she really had been facing the prospect of going alone. But she could let him save face, if that’s what he needed. Just this once. It probably wasn’t the most awkward conversation she’d had with someone’s hand up her shirt.

Her hand was still on his bum—where else was she going to put it?—and she scratched her cheek with her one, trying not to overthink where to let it rest because for whatever reason, they weren’t diving back in to things immediately. (She ended up gripping his bicep lightly after running her hand over his shoulder; anything more felt off.)

He didn’t have to look so relieved though; if he was being ‘honest’ about why he couldn’t go (apparently) she might as well be ‘honest’, too. “For the best, really.” She hated that phrase, for the best; what did that even mean? Whose best? At least she was the one who got to cancel. “It’s a Griffins match, anyway.” She was casual about it, but hopefully not too casual.

Both of them were just standing there, in a weird sort of embrace, not really able to stop completely or to pick up from where they had left off without it being awkward -- it was already awkward, and Charlie wasn’t sure how to make it less so. They weren’t looking each other in the eye, either, and he was entirely too sober for this. Honey moved first -- scratched at her face, touched her hand on his shoulder, trailed her fingers down to his upper arm. Charlie breathed finally, wet his lips, was about to try and see if they’d done enough talking—

For the best, really. He blinked. Whose best? Charlie knew Honey better than to think she was being self deprecating. She said it was a Griffins match, anyway, and Charlie switched gears--maybe she was looking out for him, giving him an out to avoid bumping into Alannah Dupont, given that the only domestic games he’d ever been to had been Griffins matches, for her--Alannah, not Honey--and he nodded, close to being appreciative, and leant in to press his lps back to hers as a silent thanks, of sorts.

His hand--the one under her jumper--resumed play, and he pushed her back against the cupboards again, glad they had successfully navigated that, whatever it was, without—

Charlie pulled back, staring at Honey. Alannah wasn’t the only person they knew who played for the Griffins, and for the best made a hell of a lot more sense when it was Honey’s best, not his. Charlie’s hand slipped from under her jumper to rest limply at the waistband of her jeans as he pieced two and two together. “Is that why you don’t want me to come?” he asked in a low tone, frowning to avoid any other expression betraying how he felt -- how he would feel if--when--she confirmed he was being ditched for Harlan fucking Bellamy.

It must have been the perfect amount of casual, her Griffins reason, because Charlie didn’t waste much time before kissing her again. He wasn’t thinking too hard about why she’d brought them up at all, was leaning more towards Alannah reasons than Harlan ones if this was anything to judge on. She was happy they’d got that out of the way; now she wouldn’t be thinking about it all night. (It was still afternoon but she was being realistic about how long she’d be there.) And she hadn’t needed any other excuses. This was nice, easy.

They had barely started getting into it when Charlie pulled back. Honey sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, figuring he must have thought about it, and he wasn’t finding it as humorous as she was. Shit. She offered a quick, “No,” to his question, assuming he’d put it altogether; in hindsight, she should have asked him to clarify, to spell it all out, before she went and put her foot in it. “If anything, that’s why I invited you in the first place.”

It wasn’t that she thought Harlan would actually see them together but if somehow word got back to him… she wouldn’t be opposed to it. She might have been using Charlie but she hadn’t put enough thought into it to figure that out. And she was very opposed to the idea now, having had a (sober) chance to think about what she had been trying to achieve.

Would it be too much to say something about how if they did go to a quidditch match together, she wanted it to be for a better reason? Being friends now and all. It was probably too much. Definitely. Honey swallowed and moved her hands to grasp the edges of the counter. “Harlan sent me tickets and I thought—“ she stopped, realizing that trying to explain her train of thought wouldn’t help.

Honey didn’t need to answer him -- her face said it all quite plainly. No definitely meant iyes in this instance. Charlie’s scowl deepened, before his features twisted in confusion; “What?” What did she mean that was why? What was why?

Of fucking course it was Harlan. Charlie let go of Honey before she even finished her sentence, stepping back and away from her, affronted. For once, he was glad he was sober -- he might not have put two and two together so quickly if they’d been a few more drinks in before this had come up. “You thought what, you’d use me to make him jealous?” he asked, gesturing in the vague direction Harlan might be at this moment in time, his voice rising despite himself. He didn’t want to be a jealous prat--they weren’t exclusive, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that she wouldn’t be sleeping with anyone else, it was Honey for fuck’s sake, and he remembered quite clearly what had happened last time he’d been stupid enough to think they could be anything more--but the knowledge of there being another stung differently when it was Harlan, for some reason.

Charlie wasn’t looking at Honey, glaring into the middle-distance off to the side somewhere, his arms hanging limply at his sides where they’d been wrapped around her only a moment ago. He breathed out through his nostrils, hands balling into soft fists. He liked to think he shouldn’t care--what did it matter, so long as she was still fucking him too?--but after what Harlan had done to her, and how it had clearly upset her, and then he’d been told about that stupid Witch Weekly article where Kate had been seen with him, the slimy git, and—

“Are you still fucking him?” Charlie asked in a low voice, lifting his chin and staring hard at her. He almost didn’t want to know, had asked the question before he’d thought through the consequences of her answer, but he needed to know.

Charlie looked far too offended for something like this, when they were only just-- or maybe he was properly offended, since he’d apparently figured her out, ‘using’ him to make Harlan jealous. For fuck’s sake. “Not jealous, more--” annoyed. Or upset. Sorry for messing things up with her. (She wasn’t picky.) Was that trying to make Harlan jealous? Maybe, but not necessarily. It absolutely wasn’t her trying to make Charlie jealous, anyway. “He sent me tickets, as if we’re--” She paused; there was no ‘we’ and she didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t think she really needed to.

She wasn’t given the chance to explain it. “No,” she said quickly, almost too quickly to sound truthful. “That’s not--” She wasn’t fucking Harlan, though not due to a  lack of trying. She wasn’t actively trying, at least, had made some significant progress in not thinking about him until two days ago, when he had sent her the tickets. Fuck Harlan, and fuck Charlie, too.

Honey stepped around him, leaving her drink behind taking the record with her. (She’d stooped so low as to ask for it, she’d be damned if she left it behind.) She wasn’t technically storming off, but she wasn’t going to waste any time collecting her things, either. She was almost out of the kitchen when she remembered she hadn’t brought her bag in from the garage. She spun around, avoiding Charlie’s eye as she headed out the other way.

It was rich, all of this coming from Charlie. Once he was safely behind her, she told him as much: “Wasn’t it you who fucked your ex-wife?” And hadn’t he had a very public thing with Alannah Dupont? What was that, if to not make Kate jealous? Honey pushed into the garage and grabbed her bag, turning on the spot to apparate home and avoid any further conversation with Charlie. But she went nowhere--those fucking wards--and was confronted with Charlie, standing smugly in the doorway, when she opened her eyes again.