[majorca] hotline bling [charlie]

25 december 03 // majorca

Mr Flume had spent most of his time after Christmas dinner alternating between that Banshee album and the radio, usually just in time for them to play that fucking Santa Baby song (and not that hot lady version, either). Half of that was her fault; Honey had given him the album for Christmas because she’d gone through the incredible hassle of getting it signed for him--and the alternative was keeping it for herself, which was the last thing she wanted to do now—but she wasn’t about to shoulder any of the blame for her dad’s decisions.

But Mr Flume had gone to bed and Fergie had returned to their shared bedroom and while Honey was pleased that she had correctly assumed that he’d be annoyed by it all--the album gifting--she didn’t want to be alone with him to hear his lecture; she’d decided to continue her Christmas drinking instead. The kitchen was quiet save for the sound of the pleasant glug glug of the brandy into her glass.

She was a little overeager in her pour and Honey reached into the pocket of her housecoat for her wand to clean up the spill, her fingers finding that little slip of paper instead. She’d been caught staring at it when Fergie had come back to their bedroom and she’d forgotten about it in the five minutes since; she had been in the process of moving things from her old purse to her new one (thanks Mum). It wasn’t like she’d been desperately clinging to it for months with any intentions of actually calling him, especially not after his little episode a few weeks ago.

She set the paper aside, glancing at it for a second before she picked up the bottle again, pouring herself just a little bit more. She set the bottle down and glanced at the paper again, then to the phone, then to the digital display on the stove that said it was nearly midnight. It wasn’t that late, and they were an hour ahead of the UK-- it probably wasn’t even his actual phone number. He had no reason to give it to her, seeing as she didn’t own a phone save for one week a year. This week.

Honey finally reached into her other pocket for her wand and cleaned up the brandy she’d spilled. She paused for a second, her wand tip hovering over the paper, intent to clean that up, too; she was mad at him, wasn’t she? (Never mind he was mad at her, too.) She’d been up front about things and he’d gone and got offended (again) but the phone was right there. It could have been a number of things pushing her towards actually giving it a try: 1) it was proof she knew how to use a phone, 2) the other Flumes had been discussing country codes before calling her grandparents earlier that day and by some miracle Honey remembered the important one, or 3) she’d had a day’s worth of sangria, gin, and brandy, in the eleven hours she’d been awake.

She took a large sip of her drink before she moved to the phone, glass in one hand, piece of paper in the other; the phone was mounted on the wall, about eye-level, and she looked at it for a few more seconds as she took another sip. Honey set her glass down and picked the receiver up, only remembering to hold it to her ear a few seconds after she had finished dialing. There was a hullo and Honey pulled it away from her face again with an, “Oh, fuck.” She didn’t know what she’d been expecting and she was too caught off guard to try to figure out if it was a confused, tired, drunk, whatever sort of greeting. But it was definitely Charlie.

“Shit.” She brought the receiver back to its proper place. “Hi.”

@Charlie Baker

25 december 03 | sheffield

Charlie’s mum elbowed his dad for the fifth time since the film had started, causing him to jolt his head forwards and snort loudly as he claimed he was still awake, still watching. Charlie glanced at the clock on the wall--almost eleven--and had another sip of bucks fizz, where the ratio of orange juice to champagne had gradually tipped in favour of more fizz as the day had gone on. He paused mid-sip, feeling a vibrating in his pocket. It took him a second to register it as his phone, another to remember why he had it on his person (nevermind -- he didn’t want to think about that), and another to start getting up, trying not to dislodge his nan.

In the hallway, he stared at the screen for another few seconds--it wasn’t a stored number, nor an American dialing code--before answering it with a confused “Hullo?” He closed his eyes briefly and he swayed on the spot -- he was several hours into drinking, eating, and had probably stood up a little too quickly and now it was all coming back to haunt him. He frowned, looked up at the ceiling as if that might help him work out who was calling him at this time on Christmas—

Hi. Charlie blinked, then smiled to himself. “Honey?” he questioned, moving into the kitchen to grab himself one of the leftover pigs in blankets -- then another, because it was Christmas. “Calling to wish me a happy Christmas?” he smirked around chewing, the expression no doubt obvious in his tone. He turned on the spot, was halfway to reaching for the handle of the back door before realising his jacket--with his cigarettes in--was upstairs in his room. He spun around and strode back into the hall, started climbing the stairs, peering through the doorway to the lounge to make sure nobody (mum) was following.

He ascended slowly, gripping the bannister with his free hand and creaking up the steps. “How did—” he started, before remembering he had given her his number back in Geneva. He reached the landing and crossed to his room, closing the door behind him. “You in Spain?” he asked, the international number suddenly making sense -- this must be her parents’ phone.

Charlie said her name and Honey said, “Hi,” again, as if it was the only word she remembered. She couldn’t tell what she was hearing but before she could ask if she was interrupting anything—how could she not be? it was Christmas—he was asking her a question. She rolled her eyes, almost sorry he couldn’t see her do it; she was stalling, trying to figure out why she thought this was a good idea. (Alcohol.) “Something like that.” The sound of her voice in the kitchen was loud. Too loud? Honey took a step back and peered around the corner to get a look at the door to her parents’ bedroom, waiting for the light to flick on and one (or both) of them to question what she was doing.

She decided to go sit on the patio instead of stand there, paranoid, but she couldn’t even reach the door before she had pulled the phone cord taut. “What?” She’d missed the question or maybe she was hearing things (or not) and she had no idea how to tell if it was a good connection.

Honey turned to look around the room for somewhere else to settle and not alert anyone to anyone—the open floor plan wasn’t helping her at all—coming up short just as Charlie asked if she was in Spain. Her eyebrows went up (and went back down when she realized he couldn’t see her), surprised he remembered; it took her a second to remember Fergie existed and had probably told him as much. “Yeah,” she said, quieter, heading into the bathroom because where else was there? She pulled the cord in as much as possible before shutting the door, only spilling a small splash of brandy over her hand.

“Aye, got in early this morning.” She spoke louder now; normal, she thought. He hadn’t asked and he probably didn’t care but it wasn’t like she had planned out any sort of conversation. Talking had never been their strong suit.

She hadn’t thought this through. At all. “Are you—“ She had no idea what his plans for Christmas were; they hadn’t talked in a month and she hadn’t been asking about his holiday plans several weeks in advance. She stepped into the empty bathtub and settled down, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I found your number in my bag.” She wanted to make it known that she hadn’t memorized it or anything. “Told you I knew how to use a phone.”

Charlie moved to his bed and sat on it, turning the bedside lamp on so that he wasn’t sitting in the absolute dark. “It still Christmas there?” he asked, glancing at the digital clock glowing beside him -- and knowing full well that Spain was only an hour ahead but wanting to make a point all the same: she was calling him pretty late. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think that meant something.

He shifted to lay down, spare arm folded behind his head on the pillow, still fully clothed. Over his own rustling he could hear Honey doing something similar. She didn’t finish her question and he was curious -- not just about it but about why she was calling him at all. “Am I…?” he prompted— but she changed the subject.

Charlie cast his memory back to Geneva--sure that he had written his number on her arm, so wondering how it had transferred itself to her bag if she hadn’t intentionally kept it--then grinned, though she couldn’t see it. He supposed he could be nice, given it was Christmas. “You did,” he conceded, still grinning. “You dial me all on your own?” he asked condescendingly, adjusting to get more comfortable -- but not too comfortable, he’d had a lot of food and booze and he didn’t want to fall asleep now.

Trying to think of something to talk about he remembered the last time he’d seen her; at his place, uninviting him from some stupid Quidditch game he hadn’t even really wanted to go to, but it had smarted his ego all the same because she was choosing Harlan over him, again -- and then she’d really rubbed salt in the wound, putting the image of Kate and Harlan in his head, as if it hadn’t crossed mind before then.

Charlie still had the phone to his ear, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Honey breathing down the line. He didn’t want to be mad at her. She had (jokingly? He wasn’t so sure now) said they could be friends and he hadn’t really believed it at the time, but the last few months--minus the other week--had worked well enough, for both of them, he thought. Wouldn’t it be easier to go back to that?

Neither of them had spoken, presumably she was doing the same as him -- trying to work out what they could talk about. He cleared his throat softly. “What’re you wearing?”

“I did,” she said, and after another few seconds: “I did.” (The second one had a bit more of an edge to it, as she rolled her eyes.) She didn’t mention how it would have taken her a while to figure it out—more likely would have given up after one failed attempt—if they hadn’t placed that call to her grandparents earlier.

He didn’t have any follow up to that, and neither did she; this was a mistake, calling him. Clearly, they had no idea what to talk about. They weren’t friends, and their usual exit from a conversation—sex—wasn’t exactly an option. But he wasn’t trying to end the call, and neither was she. That had to count for something.

He asked what she was wearing and Honey laughed; that was certainly a topic of conversation.  She looked down at herself, her housecoat, wool socks, and new pajamas that matched the set Fergie was wearing. It crossed her mind to just tell him she was wearing nothing, but— “That’s not why I called.” She was smirking though she still had no idea why she had called. He hadn’t been wrong about it being pretty late; she hadn’t thought it through. She had another sip of her drink. “Am in the tub, though,” she added, because that was kind of close to wearing nothing.

She had another sip of her drink, though it made more of a slurping sound this time around. She set her glass on the edge of the tub and sunk down a little more, bending her knees as she went. “Did you have a good Christmas?” She had just decided she had no idea if he even had Christmas plans, but she was genuinely curious. He’d been a topic of conversation enough that day that she had thought about him more than a couple times already, through no fault of her own.

Honey laughed and Charlie grinned as he heard her down the line. He hadn’t exactly been joking but that was a better response than hanging up on him (and she wouldn’t be the first woman to). Her tone when she told him that wasn’t why she had called gave him the impression that it might not have been, but she could be convinced otherwise. There was a brief pause. Charlie’s eyebrows rose at her next admission; he lifted his head from his pillow to check that his bedroom door was definitely closed, then rested back again. “Bathtub or hot tub?” he smirked, letting his mind wander.

He heard her drink and wished at that moment that he’d thought to bring a glass (or bottle) of something upstairs with him -- unfortunately, he wasn’t about to risk going back down to the kitchen in case he got interrogated about who he was talking to at this time of night, on Christmas Day.

But, did he have a good Christmas? “Er,” Charlie hesitated, caught off guard by the question -- or rather, by it coming from Honey. Like they were having a real conversation. “Yeah,” he nodded, remembered again that she couldn’t see him nodding. Dickhead. “Quiet one this year,” he volunteered, trying to make light of things but halfway through realised it sounded like he was fishing for her sympathy.

“You?” he asked quickly in an attempt to cover his tracks, scratching the arm he was holding the phone with. “Get anything good?” He bit his lip, wondering if he was meant to have gotten her anything now that they were friends -- then reasoned that she hadn’t gotten him anything so he was off the hook, surely, nevermind how they’d left things when they’d last seen each other.

Honey smirked, had another sip of brandy to prolong the wait for her answer. He was so predictable. “Bathtub.” She let him have that one; it was Christmas and she was embracing the spirit of giving (never mind she’d been baiting him when she said she was in the tub, anyway). She had another drink, then frowned as she looked at her glass. She should have brought the bottle with her.

She didn’t catch his hesitation about Christmas, but she nodded when he confirmed it’d been good. Quiet, he said— Merlin, of course. Honey was at a bit of a loss at what to say to that—wasn’t like she could honestly say anything positive about his failed marriage situation, if that’s what he was getting at—but he saved her from having to think too much about it.

“Aye.” Hers had been good enough. The drinks had started as early as the presents, but so had the bickering. It’d been her and Fergie mostly, but she’d had a turn with her mum, too; Charlie didn’t need to know about any of that (because he was Fergie’s friend, too, and not because some of the remarks had been about Charlie). She gotten a couple jumpers, the pajamas she was wearing, an apron, and more books than she knew what to do with—she certainly wasn’t going to read them—and she was just about to complain when there was a knock at the door.

She heard Fergie’s voice before she had time to worry about it being her mum on the other side of the door. She had plenty of time to worry about him needing in the room—there was one toilet in the house—after he said her name and before he questioned her being on the phone (Honey hadn’t exactly thought through how obvious she was being, having the phone cord stuck in the door). She didn’t think to cover the phone so Charlie couldn’t hear, didn’t think of a better lie when Fergie asked who she was talking to: “Janice.”

It was believable enough; Honey had borrowed Fergie’s phone to call Janice twice before, seeing as that was the muggle woman Honey had been trying to date, but that had fizzled out over a week ago. Fergie was either tired enough or drunk enough to buy it, and Honey waited a beat to make sure he was gone before she purposefully spoke into the phone again. “Charlie?” It took her a minute for her brain to catch up, to remember that she had formally cancelled her and Charlie’s Thursday because that was the only night Janice had been available—and because Honey had wanted a reason to officially cancel whatever her and Charlie had been doing—and she let another second go by before she spoke again.

“Not seeing her anymore, y’know.”

Bathtub, she said, and Charlie’s smirk widened.

He was half-listening, half trying to work out what he would buy Honey for a present, if he had to. Well, he’d already gotten her something, he supposed. It crossed his mind to ask if she’d packed it to take to Spain, but he thought better of it.

Charlie barely heard the knock on Honey’s end of the phone, but he could tell there was someone there by the sudden lack of conversation (and they’d been doing so well). He strained his ear to try and work out what was going on— His brow furrowed. Who the fuck was Janice? Charlie kept quiet, just in case, perhaps Fergie or Mrs Flume were smart enough to listen in on the other line--staring up at the ceiling, waiting patiently--until Honey said his name again. “Yeah?” he answered, letting her know he was still there. Presumably she was alone again, if he wasn’t Janice anymore.

Not seeing her anymore, y’know. The penny dropped. That was who Janice was -- a real person. Charlie had thought Honey’s ‘date’ had been code for Yeah, I am still fucking Harlan. Secondary to the relief he felt upon realising that, came the revelation that Honey was actually into women, not just ‘into’ them, if she was going on dates. Considering that wasn’t the reason she’d called, she was doing a good fucking job of keeping his mind in the gutter. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah? What happened?” he asked, almost as though he cared (he didn’t, except for the fact that Thursdays might be back on the table, if Janice had really been the reason). But what sort of name was Janice? “She have to go into a home?” he smirked down the line, unable to picture someone their age called Janice.

But if Fergie--or Mrs Flume, whoever it had been--had accepted Honey was on the phone to Janice, she must be a muggleborn -- or a muggle. Charlie rolled his lips inwards; maybe he and Honey had more in common than he cared to admit; since his last moment of weakness--thanks to her impeccably-timed owl--he’d been sticking to sleeping with muggle women. It was less complicated -- especially when they lived two doors down and had a husband to keep the emotions out of it.

“Why you telling me?” His tone wasn’t rude, if anything there was a hint of hopefulness in it.

Honey closed her eyes in a prolonged blink; Charlie wasn’t saying anything, which meant she’d said too much. She shouldn’t have said anything to let on that Janice wasn’t just someone she’d made up to get Fergie to leave. Talking to him about Will that one time had been weird and she shouldn’t have tried it again.

Or, Charlie was just a little slow on the uptake. Honey opened her eyes, glancing up at the ceiling to convince herself to focus. (She couldn’t have been paying attention to the conversation because she smiled when he asked her what happened, and that wasn’t necessary.) She had her glass halfway to her lips so she finished that instead of answering him, allowing him enough time to get another question in as she swallowed a large mouthful of brandy. She snorted lightly into her glass, figuring he’d been thinking along the same lines as when she’d first learned Janice’s name.

“Day after her birthday, actually. Eighty-two.” Janice was thirty-six and looked twenty-six, but that was beside the point. It was easier to go along with what he was saying instead of letting on the real reason for not calling her for a fourth date: the absolute horrible sex.

Why was she telling him, though? It was almost close to an apology, wasn’t it? Apologizing for cancelling Thursday for a much worse option. Sure, she hated Charlie for a bit after leaving his flat, but worse things had been said last year and they’d gotten past that well enough. But she didn’t want to actually apologize. “Dunno,” she said instead, shrugging, forgetting he couldn’t see it. She set her glass on the edge of the tub and slid down a little more, stretching her legs and sliding her feet up to rest on the faucet.

“Bad sex is almost as bad as a dry spell.” She smirked, recalling the high point of that conversation in her shop. “Figured you could relate.”

Charlie let out a light laugh when he heard Honey snort on the other end of the phone, the noise somewhat distorted and amplified by what he presumed was a glass of gin -- or maybe she really pushed the boat out at Christmas and had a whisky. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, playing along.

He scratched at the side of his nose absently, awaiting her explanation. Dunno. Charlie nodded, then remembered again that she couldn’t see; “Right,” he responded quietly. He thought he could hear her shifting, found it strange that he couldn’t hear the water move around her. He adjusted his own position on his bed--the same one he’d had growing up; a king single that seemed even more poignant this holiday--and rubbed his thumb over the metal button of his jeans. After another second he began to undo it one-handed, intending to release some of the pressure on his full stomach—

Charlie’s eyebrows shot up as a grin spread across his lips. “Really?—” he asked, before stopping abruptly, then laughing again. “Hey, no need for that," he told her, wetting his lips (still grinning despite himself). He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Fixed that problem, didn’t I?" Had potentially overcompensated somewhat, but balance in all things. There was a dirty joke about her being neither bad at sex nor dry, but they were doing pretty well at having a normal conversation, all things considered. Sort of normal, anyway.

He sighed softly. “Well, in that case I’m really sorry for your loss,” he smirked.

Honey laughed when he did, pleased he could see the humor in his dry spell because there was always the chance for him to get offended about something he shouldn’t. She grinned as he went on, almost relieved she didn’t need to explain the bad sex-- her parents were just on the other side of the wall.

But he certainly had fixed that problem, hadn’t he? That date with that quidditch player. She didn’t want to take it personally--surely there were other women he wanted to upset with his existence--but it’d been that Thursday, the one she cancelled to have her own date, and she was French. He didn’t know about her personal vendetta against French women, but still. She laughed again to cover what she’d been thinking, clearly missing that he’d been talking about fixing his problem by being with her.

She was quiet for a minute; what else was there to say? She finished off her drink and balanced the glass on her stomach.

Charlie was sorry for her loss and Honey smirked again. “Cheers.” She rolled her eyes, well aware he wasn’t genuinely sorry, but after another couple of seconds she was back to thinking about his date, her smirk falling into a small frown. She shouldn’t ask but again, what else did they have to talk about? (That, and the alcohol was clouding whatever judgement she had left when it came to Charlie.) “You found yourself a new quidditch player awfully quick,” she said, her voice quiet again.

Cheers, she said, and Charlie didn’t bother nodding -- too comfortable where he was and now a little more cognizant that she couldn’t see him do so. A silence fell over them again and Charlie resumed undoing his jeans, leaving them open for his food-and-drink-filled belly to barely protrude from.

Honey spoke first; Charlie’s eyebrows rose, then furrowed in confusion--were they really back on Alannah? He hadn’t thought she was that jealous of the other woman, but then again she had encouraged him to break things off with her, hadn’t she?--rose again in comprehension when he realised she meant-- "Isabelle," he said, the roll of his eyes probably audible.

Charlie wet his lips. He wasn’t sure what Honey was getting at, and if she’d called him she obviously had something on her mind because neither of them were within apparating distance of one another -- maybe she, like him, didn't have anyone else to talk to right now. "Wasn’t as bad as your date, probably," he smirked -- the sex hadn’t been the best but it also hadn’t been bad enough to tell anyone about.

After a pause he sighed and ran his hand through his hair, keeping it there and tugging lightly. "She did make me take her out for dinner first though," he told Honey, obviously unhappy about it. At the time he had thought it was a reasonable request, given he'd tried two other women in his metaphorical phonebook before Isabelle Laurent had agreed to go out with him. "You heard of Céleste?" he asked, before realising she almost certainly hadn't. "French snobs," he explained, as if that was sufficient to describe why he hadn’t quite fit in with the pastel decor and silver service.

“She were alright once I didn’t have to talk to her," Charlie continued, keen now to downplay his date if it made Honey feel better (towards him, specifically).

He brought his feet up and reached to take his socks off one after the other; "What was so bad about yours?"

Isabelle, he said; Honey rolled her eyes. He didn’t offer anything else and she had half a mind to change the subject, figuring he might be staying silent for her benefit, which was the last thing she wanted. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again before she came up with anything. She shouldn’t have brought it up; Charlie didn’t read her mind, didn’t change the subject, telling her it probably wasn’t as bad as her date had been. Honey laughed. “Aye.” She’d seen a photo of his date and--not that Janice was tragic looking--she could see how that would help.

But Charlie sighed and Honey tried hard to read into it. Maybe it was a bad date. (Here’s hoping.) She almost suggested he thank her for never making him take her to dinner before--her impaired judgement wasn’t stopping her from suggesting anything they had done together counted as dating--but he spoke up before she got the chance. Honey had never heard of Celeste, and it didn’t sit well with her, though she quickly wrote that off as being a side effect of mixing her liquors. She was probably some other French woman, since they were on the topic already, and she couldn’t tell if it made her feel better or worse about Isabelle, or if she even really believed him because he was probably just trying to make a point. Honey had been on one date (that he knew of) so he had to have been on two.

She could agree about French snobs though. Honey laughed again, just barely catching her empty glass as it slipped to her side. “Aye.” It took her a second to realize that after everything he’d said, she had managed two words, or one word, twice. She glanced at her glass again; this was a weird brand of drunk, too deep in her thoughts, or something.

She were alright, though, Isabelle or Celeste, and Honey rolled her eyes, not missing what Charlie was getting at. “She sounds great.” And convenient, seeing as she was available on that Thursday Honey had cancelled. She didn’t think she sounded jealous, though if she really thought about it (and she would, later) she might have been jealous of Charlie. Honey had decided she was taking a break from quidditch players, though. Pity.

Honey shrugged--awkwardly, considering how she was slouching in the tub--when Charlie asked what had been so bad about her date. “They were fine,” she said, hopefully making it clear that there had been more than one date (in case he was also keeping score). “She just— I didn’t—“ It was weird talking to Charlie about sex when she oculdn’t act on anything. She was already predicting another sorry for your loss and she tried to get ahead of it. “What is it about French women?” Janice wasn’t French but Isabelle and Celeste (and coincidentally, Bérénice) were. “You and—“ she caught herself before she brought up Harlan. “What’s all the fuss? Seems like everyone’s got a French hen.”

Honey laughed at French snobs and Charlie giggled along with her, relieved -- for a moment there he thought he might have lost her.

She sounds great. Well, she (Honey) sounded jealous, didn't she? Charlie was torn between being smug about it and feeling a bit bad for her -- was almost definitely more on the smug side of things, but he could try and be charitable on Christmas, couldn’t he?

But they were fine -- plural. Plural dates with Janice or plural as in she was dating someone else too? (And was it more telling that he was bothered by there being a someone else who wasn't him rather than the fact she was dating two people at once?) She just— Oh, so just Janice (why was he so relieved?). I— Charlie's brow furrowed. What the bloody hell was she finding so hard to say?

He blinked, hesitated, then opened his mouth to defend himself (it had just been the one, this time)—

Charlie frowned. “Me and who?” He thought he already knew the answer to that -- she almost certainly didn't mean Fergie, he didn’t have the je ne sais quoi (Fuck, why was he too annoyed to be able to say that right now?). He didn’t really need her to confirm it, but she did: Harlan.

This was fucking awkward. Charlie breathed out through his nostrils and glared up at the ceiling. It took him a minute to remember they were now on the topic of Harlan cheating on Honey, not Honey choosing Harlan over him -- and she hadn’t, anyway, it had been Janice.

There was a knock on his bedroom door followed by his mum immediately opening it and poking her head in. Who are you talking to? she asked, more accusingly than anything else. Charlie scrambled up and held the phone to his chest. “Mum, get out—” He pushed the door closed and stayed leant up against it, as though she had any chance of forcing it open. After a second he brought the phone back to his ear. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Where were they? Oh, Harlan cheating on her. “Was she French and all?”

Him and who— “Harlan,” she said quickly, getting it out of the way. She felt a little caught out; he must have known—who else was there?—but he had asked her anyway. And that was why he was being quiet, too. She was close to a ‘am not fucking him’ disclaimer but how believable was that? Never mind it was none of Charlie’s business, anyway.

She swallowed and sat up a little, moving her glass to the edge of the tub.

It almost sounded like the knocking was on her end—Fergie returning to challenge what she had said a few minutes ago—but it became clear after a few seconds that this was Charlie’s problem. It was a woman’s voice and Honey nearly called him out for answering the phone when he was with someone but it was just his mum and she didn’t need to make that joke again. She smiled to herself until she realized what she was doing; she made a conscious effort to frown as she sat up a little bit more.

Charlie apologized, a little louder so Honey figured it was for her. “S’fine.” He didn’t give her much of a chance to ask about his mum—what she was going to ask, she had no idea—before he brought things back around to Harlan. Honey sighed (even though she had brought it up first). “Very French.” Was it possible to be too French—her time in Switzerland suggested that it was—because that would fit.

But really, she was appreciating the distraction more. (Charlie was good for distractions even if this wasn’t the usual sort.) “Sorry, are your parents there?” That was nice of him, having his parents over for Christmas, but she couldn’t dwell on that for too long. “You didn’t answer her question,” she said with a soft smirk.