learning to lie here in the quiet light | charlie

Charlie kept his eyes on Kate, immediately recognising the lilt in her voice. He wasn’t sure how to feel about inciting that sort of hesitation -- not good, mostly.

But the grip he had on his fork tightened as Kate pleaded with him. It had to be Fflur or his mum, if she was this worked up about it -- and that fucked him off because he hadn’t truly thought either of them would betray him to that level, still talking to her behind his back. He knew Kate wasn’t the ‘bad guy’ in their divorce (that title deservedly sat with him, and he had no delusions otherwise), but his best friend and his mother were supposed to be on his side, surely.

His expression was obviously stony, because she had to prompt him. Charlie speared some chicken onto his fork and shrugged, nonchalantly. “I won’t tell her you told me,” he promised, already trying to work out who was the more likely culprit, and how he would deal with it, depending on who it was. (He wasn’t promising not to tell them he knew, just not how he knew.)

Kate was quiet for a moment. Charlie flicked his eyes up to hers and raised his eyebrows at her. Allison, she said. His brow furrowed, then. “Who?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Who?”  He asked right after she admitted her source. Was he serious? She really shouldn’t be surprised--Charlie wasn’t the greatest at remembering things that weren’t useful or considering anything that didn’t necessarily pertain to him to be important information. “Uh,” Kate exhaled, struggling to find a way to explain politely that Allison worked for him without sounding like an ass, “She works.. For you, kind of. She works at the label.”

Kate waited a moment longer only to be met with more vacancy in his expression, like, lights are on but nobody’s home level--so she sighed and went on to elaborate further, hoping something would click in his brain. “She works as a receptionist part time, she took a lot of owls for me and did filing when people who didn’t have my direct contact were reaching out.”

She didn’t know if it was better or worse that Charlie hadn’t a clue who Allison was. On one hand, it might not have felt like a personal insult, but on another it was harder to humanize and empathize with people you didn’t know personally. Seemed like it could go either way.

“She’s a really nice girl. She gave me a heads up and let me know what was going on the other day. I don’t think that she knows much, probably just bits and pieces she picked up through the grapevine and… probably knows we weren’t. Speaking much.” Kate cleared her throat uncomfortably and shifted an inch closer to him on the couch unintentionally, looking up and down his plastered leg with keen eyes.

“You could still just. Go to the hospital and get that fixed, I bet.”

Must have been a reason he didn’t want to, right? An excuse for a break, or for someone else (obviously not her) to take care of him. Men did weird stuff like that a lot. “Guess it gives you a nice reason not to have to see people, though, right?” Her sheepish smile was a cheesy attempt to hide her concern that he was really being too isolationist for his own good, but that was a presumption she didn’t want to air verbally because she didn’t know know, only suspected something was… off, and if he felt cornered he’d lash out like usual.

She worked for him? Charlie’s brow furrowed, then smoothed as Kate went on -- at the label, a receptionist. ”Oh,” he said as it clicked. “I thought her name was Alexandra,” he commented casually. He’d been warned off getting ‘intimate’ with anyone else at the label by their new manager within a day of him starting in the role, not that Charlie would have necessarily gotten the receptionist’s name right even if he had been given Alan’s blessing.

Kate was babbling on about Alexandra’s--Allison’s--virtues or some shite but Charlie wasn’t listening; he was mostly just glad that it hadn’t been Fflur or his mother who had passed the message along, because it meant he didn’t have to reconsider what he told them going forwards or worry about what he’d said previously. He caught the end of her spiel, however. “We haven’t been speaking at all,” he told her bluntly, then caught the look she gave him and withered a little, lowering his gaze back to the plate of food in his lap.

Charlie flicked his eyes back up quickly, then to his leg, then back to Kate, scowling softly. “No, I can’t.” If he really wanted to, he probably could -- but he would need to involve the Ministry, wouldn’t he? To make sure his follow-up appointments were cleared and his patient record was wiped and that nurse who’d done his cast wouldn’t remember him (because he definitely remembered her).

All that to say, it was more hassle than Charlie was willing to initiate. And part of him wanted the excuse to avoid everyone and everything for a bit -- well, mostly everyone. But he didn’t need Kate to tell him that. “Didn’t quite work, did it?” he snapped pointedly without raising his voice -- but he didn’t need to raise it at this proximity.

He sighed through his nose. “Sorry,” he mumbled to his dinner, pushing it around on the plate with his fork before setting the utensil down. “I haven’t seen many people, no,” he admitted, as if that was an excuse for his social ineptitude.

We haven’t been speaking at all,  he commented, rather rudely if she was interpreting correctly, and she shot him a look that warned him not to progress further down that… path. She’d done all of this to be kind to him and didn’t want to leave on a sour note, so if things went that way, she’d have no problem getting up and leaving. After all, his leg was broken, he wouldn’t exactly have the easiest time getting up and chasing after her and----

That thought hadn’t gone anywhere, he didn’t know she’d thought it, but she pressed her lips together and felt bad for even allowing that. Him having a broken leg was a bad thing. “You could act slightly interested,” Kate sighed, setting her plate with a half-eaten portion (more than she’d been eating as of late anyway) on the coffee table in front of them, “You were the one who wanted to know who my source was, if you remember.” If he’d wanted to know whether or not it was someone specific, he could have just asked that and she would have confirmed or denied, but she sort of understood him wanting all the information too. Chiefly, it pertained to him, so she couldn’t fault him too much for that.

She wondered what exactly she’d done to incite all the scowling and snapping that was going on, but perhaps she was being too friendly, or asking too many questions. Certain men felt like too many questions (or questions at all) were nagging, caring about them was inherently overbearing, and that explaining anything was equivalent to pulling teeth. Charlie wasn’t always like that--depended whether or not he was in a high or low functioning phase, so to speak, and she knew that. It made sense he wouldn’t be feeling his best with one of his legs being dysfunctional.

“If you want me to go I can,” She offered, trying to keep her tone even and neutral. “All your stuff’s. Ready to go in there when you need something else. I don’t really want to get snapped at any more.”

She didn’t normally tell him things so bluntly like that; she knew he was fragile and sort of volatile when feeling frustrated, but Kate didn’t want anything devolving into an argument or something even worse. None of that was why she’d come here.

“Probably best, anyway,” Her words were mumbled, not as convicted as the last ones because she’d latched onto his words and was turning them over in her head, what they meant. Hadn’t seen that many people. “Wouldn’t want the wrong people finding out about it. Not easy to hide in a bush from paparazzi with a broken leg.”

Charlie watched Kate set her meal aside and glanced back at her, his lips tight together in a weak scowl. “I was more concerned it was someone who actually knew me,” he told her, which she surely knew would be a primary concern. “Though I’d rather people who didn’t know me weren’t getting themselves involved, either.” He meant the receptionist, but if Kate wanted to take that personally that was up to her. Note to self to tell Alan that if he wanted to know who was feeding the press with stories, they ought to look internally.

Charlie looked away before rolling his eyes, to make sure that Kate couldn’t see him do it. But, maybe she had a point -- he was being a prick. “I didn’t say that,” he said, quieter, picking up his can of coke and drinking from it -- as if that had been why he’d turned away in the first place.

He faced Kate again and raised an eyebrow at her and her sudden change in demeanour. “They’re not camped outside,” he gestured to the street-side of the room. “I haven’t been stupid enough to let them work out where I live,” he said, before adding a telling “yet.” His attention drifted to the curtained windows, wondering if his cover might finally be blown. “Unless you’ve brought some with you, I think we’re fine,” he said in a more metered tone, doing his best to not sound accusatory (even if he felt it). The musician picked up his fork again and shoved some chicken into his mouth -- their discourse had at least given it time to cool down.

“Maybe they’ll’ve forgotten all about me by the time I’m up and about again,” he said wistfully.

Kate understood his reasons for hoping it wasn’t somebody in his inner circle--after all, betrayal hurt much worse coming from the people one trusted, knew and loved. It was a special kind of pain to feel that fear become reality. Wasn’t really a betrayal if the perpetrator was someone you barely knew, and who couldn’t be expected to behave, but trusting anybody seemed like a tedious task for Kate as of late. She would anyway, as was in her nature, but she felt particularly wary that something bad might happen the closer she got to somebody--more than usual. It wasn’t a good feeling.

She wished desperately each time she tried to riddle out how someone might wrong her that it would go away and she could continue assuming the best of others, but it seemed that the last time around there might have been some more permanent changes than she’d anticipated. Maybe her recovery rate was just slower than it used to be with that. Kate hoped that was all it was, because all this weird trepidation had changed was putting a pit of anxiety in her belly any time she had to trust; it wasn’t enough to make her change her actions in attempt to guard herself(then it would have at least been useful).

Her tense posture and expression both immediately softened. I didn’t say that. Being stuck on your ass for weeks would make anybody grumpy, she supposed, and it was way easier to be grumpy with familiar people who wouldn’t lash right back out.

“I doubt it,” Kate said curtly, and got up from her position on the couch to go and offload the food she hadn’t eaten into the kitchen. She washed her dishes for a minute of peace and so Charlie didn’t have to do them later, and after staring up at the ceiling for several long moments, returned to sit down again on what he called his settee.

“They haven’t even forgotten me, and it’s been. Months.” She laughed humorlessly and rested stretched-out palms on her thighs just to grasp at something, attempting to continue the conversation they’d been having before she’d made a brief exit. “They’re like cockroaches. Needs to be a paparazzi exterminator, but, maybe one that doesn’t actually kill them because, that seems… inhumane, at the least.”

He must have said something wrong, because Kate almost immediately vacated her spot on the settee beside him. Charlie watched her wander off--his fork held halfway to his mouth for another bite--unsure if he ought to call her back and apologise (for what?) or just let her go.

Letting her go won out (not for the first time), and he sat pouting for a long few seconds before continuing to eat (because it was better than the leftover takeaways he’d been planning to microwave). He wasn’t so rude as to turn the television back up -- he wasn’t even capable of watching it guiltlessly, not with her clattering around in the kitchen doing the dishes. The speed at which he was eating slowed, as if that showed some sort of remorse.

Kate returned and plonked down next to him again, just when Charlie thought she might have been tidying up in preparation of making an exit. He had finished his plate in the time she’d been gone, and he balanced it on his (good) thigh. He looked at the petite brunette and then dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he mumbled -- and he was, sorry, that she still had to put up with that (if she still did, a small voice piped up).

The corner of his lips tugged up smally, amused by the awkwardness of her comment more than anything else. “Maybe a giant fly swat’d put them off for a bit,” he offered, meeting her gaze belatedly and pressing his lips together in an apologetic line.

Charlie relaxed back a little into the couch and kept his attention on her out of the corner of his eyes. “Come on,” he said through an exasperated sounding sigh, “you must be fucking bursting to ask questions about it.”

Her necklace shifted to hang as Kate dipped her head and smiled. Fly swat. Fly swatter, they’d call it in the US, but that was only one of many subtle (or stark) differences between American English and British English. “Maybe,” She swallowed and nodded a couple of times, straightening up to look him in the eye. The vulnerability of that small act had meant she’d been avoiding doing it almost the entire time she’d been here, and even if doing so introduced a little more weight, it also cut away some of the even more painful awkwardness lingering in the air.

Charlie leaned back and Kate mirrored the opposite, scooting forward so her ass was perched right on the end of the couch. Was safer to keep distance, really, especially with the book release coming up. She didn’t want him knowing anything about it, and she certainly couldn’t cave to any sort of physical contact at the moment--it would complicate things, to say the least.

“Bursting?” She turned her whole body in her seat and raised her eyebrows at him, surprised he’d come at her so bluntly like that, but not unpleasantly. “You mean about your leg?” Kate rolled her lips together and scanned the cast on it carefully, noticing several things written on it, even a penis. “Why is there a penis on your leg, first of all?” One eyebrow stayed high while the other twisted into an inquisitive frown. “Doesn’t matter--I’m just glad you’re okay, really.”

And genuinely, she was. “You weren’t… drunk, were you?” Kate asked cautiously. “I heard that you were on your motorcycle. I hope you were being safe.” She was sounding too much like his mom or his wife, so that seemed a good place to stop with the barrage until he could answer everything she’d already asked.

That worked, he noted smugly. She was immediately reeled in -- and that was what he’d wanted; to get the inevitable inquisition out of the way, and to do it on his terms for a change. Charlie stayed where he was, pressed back into the sofa where it had all but moulded around him in the last few weeks, but his dark eyes followed Kate’s to his leg before flicking back to her face to watch her expression with interest.

He fought off a grin and landed somewhere in between: a strange twisted sort of smirk on his lips. “S’more than one,” he pointed out, half-exasperated, half-proud--tilting his leg carefully--before remembering one of those had been drawn by Honey and he didn’t need to be trying to hide that, not when there was other supporting evidence of her presence here (takeaway leftovers, their last receipt-exchange up on the bench somewhere -- shit).

But it didn’t matter, she was just glad he was okay. Charlie pressed his lips together and nodded once, staring down at his empty plate still balancing on his thigh.

He frowned and glared up at her. “No, I wasn’t drunk,” he snapped irritably. “I’m not a fucking idiot,” he continued, nevermind that he’d convinced himself years ago that drinking and apparating was somehow more acceptable than drinking and driving -- and he’d not long had a dressing down about that, too. He had barely drunk at all since the accident, actually, and he was close to admitting to himself that he’d been drinking too much before -- but he wasn’t about to admit it to anyone else, and especially not to Kate.

 â€œIt wasn’t my fault. He came out of the T-junction and hit me,” Charlie explained, his tone still gruff.

More than one penis. How endearing. Kate wondered how many times they’d each wished, if only in passing, that Charlie had had more than one appendage. The thought brought a smile to her face and she tried to quickly smother it by scratching at the corner of her mouth, making it seem (badly acted) like she’d only had an itch or a piece of dust.

She hoped only the guys had drawn on Charlie’s cast, but based on the other small details she’d picked up on around the house in just the few minutes she’d been here, it would’ve been naive to feel secure in that sort of pipe dream. There was no way somebody as restless and insatiable as Charlie could’ve been by himself for six entire weeks. He could be a pretty solitary individual too, but even those types didn’t like to be completely alone--they liked to have their options.

“I never meant to insinuate that you were an idiot,” Kate countered calmly, and she hadn’t. She’d be in agreeance with him that he did stupid things sometimes, but she couldn’t get on board with any kind of assertion that he was a stupid person, despite many opinions from friends and family that were presented like facts. “I was just asking. So I had a… full picture.” Even though she hadn’t completely assumed he’d been drunk, she also didn’t think it would have been entirely far-fetched either because almost every time she’d seen him in the last year (except for the grocery store that one time) he’d been intoxicated.

“Did it hurt?” She frowned. “Do you remember what it felt like?”

Kate had gone from enquiring—in a borderline prudish manner—about the vulgar doodles on his leg to smiling (albeit strangely) whilst gazing at them. Charlie decided to attribute her change in demeanour to his charm.

He was still scowling at her, though the expression softened as she half-apologised. A full picture. Charlie wondered if she would have immediately asked anyone else if they’d been drinking, and stopped wondering when he realised he already knew the answer. Unsurprisingly, this was making him want a drink— Not that he was about to ask her to fetch him one, even if he was allowed (hadn’t strictly been sticking to that anyway), for more than the obvious reason.

Charlie’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, surprised by the question. He looked (pointedly) at his cast leg, but didn’t snipe at her; he supposed that technically it didn’t hurt at the time because he couldn’t really remember— which just so happened to be her follow up query. “Not really,” he admitted and lowered his gaze. “One minute was on my bike, the next I was in a hospital bed.” He frowned softly. “Think I remember being put on the stretcher but—” he shrugged, “—not sure if I’m just making that up to fill in the gaps.”

He rubbed at the side of his neck, fidgeting. “Only hurts now if I bang it or summat.” The most painful part of his recovery so far was the ache in his hips from keeping his leg up off the ground, and the palms of his hands were threatening to become as calloused as his fingertips through using the crutches to get around. He’d tried venturing out of the house on his own to the cornershop once, early on, and not bothered since.

Charlie lifted his gaze again, taking his time to look over her from knee-to-head (he couldn’t see to her feet from this angle without making it obvious). He didn’t want to ask why she was here—he was pretty confident that he knew the answer—so instead he said, gently: “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I could bang it for you,” Kate decided things were comfortable enough now to banter a little, and she felt the corners of her mouth tug up into a funny smile again, as they often did around him. She relaxed her position and settled back into the couch, but she kept her head tilted skyward for a moment, staring at the ceiling to let him know she wasn’t inviting any more contact than that--

All shot to hell, though, when she noticed something awry on the inside of his palm out of the corner of her eye. Kate jerked toward him and grabbed his fingers, turning his hand over in her own tiny, frigid ones until his palm was facing up. “What’s this?” The pads of her fingertips smoothed, carefully, over half-blister looking callouses that were beginning to form. She was frowning deeply while she concentrated.

“Are they from those things?” Her head twitched toward the metal poles lying down on the ground next to him. She wasn’t sure what they were called or how they worked, but they had to be some sort of tool to alleviate this problem. Kate had been swayed toward the convenience of some Muggle appliances and habits, but this was horrible compared to the magical way of mending bones. Seemed to be much more trouble than it was worth.

“Do you have something for this? These look painful.” She was even more uneasy than before about this method of treatment. She wondered if there was some kind of remedy, like a potion or a salve, that would at least fix this near-immediately.

“I--” Kate stopped herself barrelling down this rabbit trail; he’d asked her a question and she’d completely neglected to answer it amidst her tunnel vision. “I know that. I’m sure there are plenty of people helping you out, I just.” She shrugged and kept her eyes trained on his irritated skin. “Mmm…”

Charlie searched Kate’s face, trying to work out if she was hysterically threatening him or if she was—as it appeared—trying to make a joke. He glanced back down at his lap rather than respond, wary of it being the former and tipping her over the edge by saying or doing the wrong thing (he had plenty of experience with that, after all).

When she grabbed at his hand he thought that perhaps not responding had had the same effect, and he instinctively tried to flinch out of her grasp at first before relaxing— or, freezing, rather. His dark eyes flicked from their hands to watch her face intently. Charlie wet his lips and tried not to focus on her apparently not being familiar with crutches— but he also couldn't help let his natural desire to be superior slip out; "The crutches, yeah."

He was anticipating another why don’t you just go to St Mungo’s (and preparing himself to not snap back), but she surprised him. Charlie swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve got a cream for them.” It was an ointment, technically, and was in fact magical (from a potion shop in Hogsmeade), but he’d been referring to it as a cream if only to be prepared should anyone muggle question it — nevermind that he hadn’t had any muggle visitors other than his mum. “Up on the bench,” he said, in case she didn’t believe him that said cream didn’t really exist and he was just fobbing her off.

Kate seemed to remember she’d essentially interrupted their own conversation and backpedalled. Charlie tried to subtly withdraw his hand from her (it was starting to get clammy), but gave up when she looked back down at it. She wasn’t answering him — if anything it sounded like she was fishing. He wasn’t sure what for — he clearly didn’t have a girlfriend, or surely Angela would have mentioned that to Kate, too. He decided he could safely assume that she didn’t have a boyfriend yet, because what boyfriend would be okay with her showing up to her ex’s house (alone), laden with home-prepared meals?

He didn’t really want to get into all of that now, either. There was only so much he could calmly deny.

But he did want to distract her and recover his hand. “How’s the cat?”

She lamented to herself, deciding not to air her grievances aloud again for fear of causing an argument, that all of this seemed much more trouble than it was worth. Surely he could have told the Ministry what had happened and they’d have had Obliviators on the spot, and he wouldn’t have to be crippled or using cream to keep his hands from blistering. “Crutches.” She repeated to him. “Must be where that… figure of speech comes from. You know, about using someone as a crutch.” Kate frowned another time, feeling a little slow on the uptake. Sometimes she thought she wasn’t as smart as other people tried to tell her she was; she was just efficient and good with administrative skills.

“You want me to get it for you?” She asked, up and out of her seat on the couch to retrieve the tube off the bench like he’d said before he could finish answering. Charlie had seemed moderately skittish and cautious since her arrival; even if he needed something (and she was offering) he seemed wont to accept it. Because of pride, not wanting to send the “wrong” message, feeling badly for accepting any help to begin with--all seemed like plausible cases, but none of that really mattered.

Kate knelt to the floor at an angle and popped the top of the tube off, unceremoniously grabbing his hand (again) to rub the ointment into the sore spots--carefully, of course. Her head was bowed for dual purpose; one was to avoid eye contact with him and the second was to concentrate. “The cat?” Kate parroted sharply, surprised by the question. Simon had been particularly fond of Charlie, but those feelings hadn’t always been returned. “She’s…. Good,” Kate hedged and tried not to sound overtly suspicious.

“Think she misses you sometimes.” That part was quieter, tacked on a few seconds later. The statement was really too large to be an afterthought, but maybe she would get lucky and he’d treat it like one. Kate often felt like Charlie put too much emphasis on details that didn’t really matter and chose to ignore the things that had brought them together to begin with, years ago.

Wordlessly, she switched his hands and repeated the treatment, closing the tube and setting it on the coffee table when she was done.

Charlie had forced himself to look somewhere else—at the floor—rather than keep staring at Kate, this close, but he glanced back at her when she mused on the origin of using someone as a crutch. Charlie nodded vaguely, less eager to be mean about her intelligence when confronted with her being so near; “Yeah, I imagine so.”

“No, it’s— alright,” he faded out, as Kate got to her feet and was already over in the kitchen before he realised she had let go of him. He watched her, from the sofa, and felt a guilty relief when she didn’t pause to scrutinise his mail. Another small wave—gentle lap, really—of relief when she didn’t sit back next to him, taking a position on the floor instead— but it was short lived, as she reached for his hand again.

Charlie pressed his lips together, not wincing but not not — it didn’t hurt, but there was a soft sort of grimace on his sharp features at the intimacy of the situation, compounded by the knowledge that she had gone out of her own way to bring him food, make sure he was alright. As Kate applied the cream and worked it into the blisters Charlie felt sick, suddenly, and there was a violent lurch in his gut; he felt warm and his t-shirt clung to his back—

The cat. “Right, good.” Focus on the cat— Think she misses you sometimes. Christ, don’t focus on the cat (it wasn’t really the cat they were talking about, was it?). “Well,” he said thickly, and that was as far as he got. Kate swapped his hands and repeated the process. Charlie looked up at the ceiling and scrunched his eyes shut, breathing steadily through his nose. He needed her to go, but the minute she left he was going to feel awful anyway.

Kate’s fingers left his and he heard her set the tube on the coffee table. He let his chin drop but kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, before blinking them open; his line of sight was on his broken leg. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “For the food and…” He flicked his eyes to meet hers; she was still kneeling beside him, in the little corner where the settee stretched out into an L-shape. He swallowed. “You probably need to…” he trailed off again, not sure if he was asking her to stay or to leave.