learning to lie here in the quiet light | charlie

Kate heard from a friend at the record label that Charlie had a broken leg, by way of short, sweet scribbled owl, and she appreciated the gesture. She wasn’t sure how she kept managing to find things out about him even as she wasn’t somebody he called up on a regular basis, but everything happened for a reason, she supposed. That’s what she was trying to tell herself about the time they’d seen each other at an awards show in November, anyway, and that couldn’t be a repeat incident.

Each time she thought she was doing well, that she was close to hurdling over the hulking hump that were her feelings for her ex-husband, he appeared and she backslid several milestones. Perhaps her propensity to make mountains out of molehills had something to do with that, or perhaps it was that she’d just written an entire poetry book about him, or perhaps it was because she was almost certain after a whole year that there could be no such thing as scrubbing him from her blood.

Kate hadn’t told anybody about their encounter that night and she intended to keep it as such, both to avoid judgment and so as not to tarnish it. Right now, her intentions were completely pure--to set him up with some easy groceries and prepared meals. If he was immobile, then it couldn’t hurt to make his life a little easier. She considered whether or not it would be overstepping to offer to tidy his house for him and decided it probably was, but that she would ask nonetheless because when didn’t they overstep?

“Hi,” She said sharply into the receiver, which she’d really only kept in her house for one reason, and realized she hadn’t rehearsed her message well enough. Too late now. “Uhh. I got an owl, about your leg, heard that you… broke it. Can you call me back so I can talk to you? I’d like to bring you some things, you know, groceries, and whatever else you need. I can clean up for you too if it’s. Too hard for you to get up and get around. Let me know. Bye.”

There was a faint ring when she crashed the phone back into its cradle and she ran a hand through her hair, electing to slouch into the chair by the phone to wait for a call back. For all she knew, he hadn’t answered because he was too pathetically crippled to get to the phone before it stopped ringing and it could be, then, that it wasn’t because he didn’t want to speak to her.

Charlie’s eyes opened wide as he realised what that noise was in the same moment Honey seemed to register hearing it, pulling back and giving him a look as if to say do you need to answer that? He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his loudly vibrating phone, fumbling to turn the screen the right way up— Shit. His face fell before he silenced it and let the call go to voicemail (if she made it that far). He swallowed and discarded the phone on the table again, forcing a smirk as he turned back to Honey, “Just Mum, I’ll call her back later.”

…

It took until Charlie was gazing boredly into the fridge--a little low on groceries--to remember Kate had called him. He poked his head around the door and looked to where he knew his phone to be, on the coffee table from when he’d come downstairs. He closed the fridge and hobbled over to the sofa, sitting on the edge and picking up his mobile. He stared at it for another minute before dialling his voicemail and holding it to his ear.

As soon as her voice hit his ears his chest grew tight. He listened, angry at first--who the fuck had told her? Obviously not his mum, at least, if it was by owl, unless that was a lie--then his expression softened, marginally; he was still mad, but it was hard to feel righteous about being annoyed with someone who wanted to help you.

Charlie cradled his phone limply in his hand as he stared down at it, debating over whether he should or shouldn’t call her back. If he did call, was he just opening the wound over again? They’d gone the longest so far without any contact, and wasn’t that a good thing? But if he didn’t call he knew that would be just as difficult for Kate (and himself, if he was being honest). His eyes drifted slowly to the liquor cabinet—

No. He swallowed and pressed dial. It rang, and rang, and he was about to hang up, thinking better of it— Hello? Charlie’s breath caught in his throat and he hesitated. “Hi,” he replied finally. “Sorry I missed your call.”

Well, it was becoming clear that he wasn’t going to call back immediately and it wasn’t because he’d just had trouble hobbling his way to the telephone. Kate’s teeth gritted and she sighed with her eyes squinted shut; of course she didn’t want to know what else he could possibly be doing. If he dodged her calls, it wasn’t usually for a reason she wanted a detailed account of.

Simon hopped up into her lap with a concerned little trill and Kate couldn’t help but to smile at her friend, without whom the pit of loneliness would be far more vast. She lifted her hand to stroke down her back, repeating motions that would lull her to sleep for another indeterminate amount of time.

-

Kate’s blurry dreaming, full of soft shapes, sounds, and voices, was interrupted by the much more aggressive sound of the phone ringing, metallic and hollow, right next to her. The urgency of her scrambling upright knocked poor Simon right out of her lap and Kate took a deep breath before she fumbled the phone into her hand, no doubt causing some scuffle on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” She rasped, rubbing her brown eyes, full of sleep, with her free hand. Hi, he responded, and she heard his breath hitch before he went on. Sorry I missed your call. Kate pressed her lips together. You don’t sound sorry, she wanted to comment, but that was unnecessarily spiteful and after all, it was only a suspicion he’d been with somebody else.

“That’s okay,” She settled for something much more neutral. “So I… was going to ask if you wanted me to run by some groceries for you. Didn’t want to just drop in on you and I also… haven’t been to your place. And the cleaning is--secondary, I mean. Only if you want.” If someone else hasn’t been doing it.

Charlie pressed his lips together. This had been a bad idea.

Kate started talking (at a hundred miles an hour -- nothing new there) and Charlie stayed silent, just listening, trying to work out what was going on here. She pointed out that she hadn’t been to his new place and he breathed in through his nose slowly -- no, she hadn’t been, and that was very much intentional.

And was she really getting on his case about housework? As if he hadn’t been able to cope before— He exhaled in an attempt to release some of the pent up whatever in his chest. “I’ve got a cleaner,” he lied. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to find out his ex-wife had come over and cleaned for him.

“But—” He looked up at the ceiling, beyond, as if asking for some sort of guidance on what he was supposed to do. He shouldn’t let her come over, under any guise -- it was just inviting further complications—

"Are you sure?" He figured that gave her the out; maybe she was just checking he wasn’t seriously injured (as opposed to whatever this was) -- not that she’d actually asked about his leg, or how serious it was (yet). Which brought him back around to wondering how she had found out in the first place, or rather: “Who told you?”

I’ve got a cleaner, he practically scoffed down the line, and Kate knew he couldn’t see it to complain or defend himself, but her honey-brown eyes narrowed to slits nonetheless. Very suspicious he would hire a housekeeper when Charlie had grown up relatively poor and scrutinized any display of wealth, really, whether it was extravagant or not. He was also stubborn enough she could easily visualize him limping around the house with his useless leg to attempt to complete chores himself.

Charlie had never been a particularly filthy man (though he shared plenty of horror stories from having lived with Liam before he had his own place) like so many others, but she couldn’t imagine that cleaning a large house was easy with a broken leg. And why hadn’t he just gone to St. Mungo’s to get it magically fixed? He wouldn’t be in this predicament. She knew he didn’t like magic and had even kept many of the same habits with regards to her own home, but this was ridiculous. Kate thought she would go insane stuck on her ass all day with nothing to do but watch the boob tube.

“Uh huh,” She settled on that. He hadn’t given her his address yet and she didn’t want to piss him off to the point of no return, because she really did want to help. He had to know without her explaining anything that she still cared immensely for him.

“I’m sure,” Kate assured him, tone gentler than before, and hoped that would be the end of the conversation. Of course not. “Uhh,” She was reluctant to disclose that information, so as not to get the receptionist at the label in trouble, but while she’d worked for Banshee they’d been very friendly, so it made sense to her. Charlie could have a different, much less amicable perspective, but then he spun things he didn’t like into “things that didn’t make sense” when it suited him.

“I don’t want her to get in trouble. Can we discuss this when I get there?”

She didn’t sound convinced, and he wasn’t truly surprised -- when Kate had vaguely hinted at getting a maid for the townhouse he had flat out declined (they didn’t need a fucking maid -- nevermind the ensuing debacle it would have been of finding one who was both old and ugly enough to not give Kate pause). He wasn’t going to embellish the lie, though -- he didn’t have to prove anything to her anymore.

Charlie ran his pinky finger (or what he could fit of it) along the inside of his cast (which, by now, had acquired several signatures and explicit doodles). She was sure -- but she wouldn’t tell him who had told her. Then she said she and Charlie hated himself for immediately thinking to blame Fflur -- but that was stupid, because Fflur was his mate, not Kate’s, and she wouldn’t meddle like that. His mum was next on the list, and he hoped she wouldn’t meddle, but he knew better -- if she had really thought he was talking to Kate at Christmas, too…

Christ, she hadn’t told Kate about that call too, had she? Because— No, surely not. Kate wouldn’t be offering to help him if she knew he was calling other girls. Would she?

There was only one way to find out.

“Yeah,” he nodded once, not that she could see it. “I’m at Elgin Mews South,” he told her, slowly. “Number eight.” He hung up before he could say anything else, stared at the screen for a second, then chucked his phone on the table and slouched back into the sofa, hands dragging down his face.

He kicked down and told her the address finally, and Kate heard the faint click signifying the call had ended on the other line. She set her phone down and brushed the residual cat hair off her pants before she stood up. Should she try to look decent? Maybe she’d take a shower, curl her hair, wear something--not hideous nor covered in feline fuzz. Kate knew he didn’t mind her in sweats, but she couldn’t well show up to his house like that for the first time without raising an eyebrow, could she?

Simon in tow, Kate traipsed up the stairs to begin the second existential crisis she’d had that day, both surrounding one person, and made herself look much more put together than she really felt. A shower managed to clear her head, and a nice pair of jeans, boots and a black turtleneck wouldn’t be too much, would they? She hung the gold pendant in the shape of the letter “C” around her neck and curled her hair, forgoing most makeup apart from a spot of mascara. A last look in the mirror promised her this is as good as it’s gonna get, at least, with this amount of effort, it was.

For the groceries, she considered several things as she jotted down her list: would she buy items that were actually nourishing and risk him not eating them, things he liked but that wouldn’t help his healing accelerate whatsoever, or something else? Kate settled mercifully (mercifully for both of them) on a combination, and after coming back home to stick a few prepared meals (the roast she’d put in the oven earlier, and other things she knew he liked) in tupperware, she called a taxi.

The screech of the brakes pulling up to Charlie’s house made Kate frantically rethink everything. She looked too made up, she bought too many groceries, he’d think she was--

It didn’t matter now, though, she was here with bags and bags of groceries and she needed to just grow a pair and follow through. Kate thanked the driver and tipped generously, asking him to wait for a minute. She didn’t have keys (obviously, but still weird) and so she rapped at the door with her hand, loudly enough for him to hear, and then hurried back to the taxi to lug the bags from the trunk up to the step.

“Hi,” She greeted him distractedly when he showed up to let her in, avoiding eye contact just yet, “Don’t worry about getting anything, I’ll bring it all in in a sec.”

Once he’d finished having his mental breakdown about inviting her over, Charlie realised he hadn’t actually told Kate what he needed -- just some milk, bread, and a few other essentials would have been all he’d have felt comfortable accepting from her. So when he heard the knock on the door and opened it to see Kate with a waiting taxi--boot full of shopping bags--he grimaced.

She turned away to get the next load and Charlie closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to be nice despite every inclination not to be. He grabbed the handles of the bags she’d left on the stoop and carried them into the kitchen, hobbling on one crutch.

By the time he’d deposited the bags on the counter and turned back to come and help with the rest (the rest), Kate had already brought them in and was standing in the doorway between the hall and kitchen. Charlie swallowed softly. “Who’ve you invited for dinner?” he joked lamely -- then wished he hadn’t, averting his gaze and staring at the kettle with intense focus.

He had made the effort to put shorts on, rather than greet her in his boxers (nobody else who had visited had cared, or not enough to say so), and was wearing a t-shirt under his hoodie. Kate looked much more put-together, he thought, as his attention drifted back to her. “Thanks, for...” he trailed off, wetting his lips. “Think you might’ve over-catered a bit,” he smiled weakly.

“What?” Kate asked breathlessly, a funny little frown flickering across her pretty features. Who had she invited for dinner? Oh, because of the amount of bags. When they’d lived together, this was a pretty normal grocery haul if it was for the entire week, but she supposed she could see how it would be a little much for one person.

“Well,” She started, “There’re enough ingredients here, I could make us some dinner, if you wanted. And you should be good for a week or two now, not need to go out for groceries again.” Kate had no clue where the boldness to suggest that or where the idea itself had come from, but it seemed like a sane response to his question, even if he’d been joking. With all the bags in the kitchen, she set to work putting the food away, and she was rather pleased that as she opened the cabinets the layout was very similar to how it had always been.

Kate slid the tupperware containers into the fridge last, stacking them on top of each other and narrating, “I made you some of your favorite meals already, so all you need to do is heat them up in the microwave or the oven, whichever you prefer.” Wringing her hands at her sides to attempt to dispel some of the anxiety, Kate stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

“So were you uh… gonna tell me what happened?” Her hand gestured toward his cast-up leg. “You didn’t go to St. Mungo’s, or what? Looks like muggle stuff.” She cleared her throat. They’d always commented on their differences in vernacular while living together, but she supposed since home base was London now, there might be fewer. Or maybe she just understood better, instead of having to ask every ten seconds what the slang meant.

“Would you be more comfortable sitting down in the lounge? I don’t. Care. If you’re hungry I can just make something and bring it in to you,”

The joke went straight over Kate’s head (not for the first time) and Charlie pressed his lips together in a sort of half-smile (half-grimace).

Then his face fell at her offer. He rubbed at the side of his neck. “Erm, you don’t… have to do that,” he said, in what he hoped was a polite but firm tone (it definitely leaned more polite than firm). He didn’t bother correcting her to say that he hadn’t ventured to the supermarket since before Christmas -- between his Mum, Fflur, and the neighbour over the way, he was doing pretty well, he thought. The milk would have lasted longer if he wasn’t replacing fag breaks with cups of tea.

He watched Kate as she made herself at home in his kitchen, opening cupboards and unpacking everything. Charlie recognised most of it -- either because it was something he actually ate, or because it was something she’d tried to get him to eat when they’d been together; he frowned softly. She opened the fridge next--he held his breath, remembering the leftover takeaways from last night in there--and more bags were unpacked; he exhaled, because she’d either not noticed or chosen not to. It concerned him that she’d gone to the effort of actually cooking things for him -- and then Liam’s voice popped into his head: ”What’d you say to Kate, when people were—” Charlie shoved the thought aside. “Thanks, yeah,” he mumbled.

He followed her gesture and glanced down at his own leg, as if he’d forgotten it was in a cast up to the knee. He looked back at Kate. “I’ve not sent out an announcement about it, no,” he said snidely, then forced himself to take a breath. “I was unconscious,” he explained with a shrug, the hand not holding his crutch leaning on the edge of the counter. “When I woke up I was already in a hospital bed.”

Charlie wet his lips and breathed in and out slowly. It would probably be easier to just let her make something so she could stop offering. “Yeah, alright. Just some toast’ll be fine,” he said, lingering for a second before turning to make his way over to the settee. “Help yourself if you want something,” he said, waving a hand at the tea and coffee on the bench. 

Of course she didn't have to do it; she didn't have to do anything if she was going to be literal about it, but that wasn't how things were supposed to work. Not how she wanted them to work. Doing things with an expectation of an equal (or any) return bred resentment--that was something she'd learnt the hard way, and if the rest of her life was going to be any different, she would just do without thinking about what would happen after.

Charlie was her ex, but she still cared for him very much, and as she saw it, he was in need. He had a broken leg, for Pete's sake, and he obviously hadn't told her on purpose. She wasn't sure if that meant he didn't want to see her or if it meant something else, but he'd said yes when she called, so that was a good sign, right? Kate exhaled heavily to release all the tension in her shoulders when Charlie sauntered (as best he could) out of the kitchen. Left her to her own devices in here, as he usually did. The familiarity tugged at the corners of her mouth, caused a warm surge in her belly that rapidly dissipated as soon as Kate remembered the circumstances.

The weight of things, of reality, the confronting reality that this was the first time she'd been to his house in a year was almost enough to make her tremble as she gripped the edge of the counter. After her moment of bleak and arguably pathetic contemplation, Kate set to work to make herself a cup of coffee and considered what they'd have for dinner--not toast, that was for sure. How could she make just toast? Surely he knew her better than that.

She rubbed her pressed lips together and looked again in his newly-stocked cupboards, settling on whipping up a stir fry in the pan on the stove. Chicken, of course, not beef--he preferred chicken most of the time in dishes like this, but she'd been able to convince him a few times that Mexican carne asada was worth the shot. Kate left the ingredients sizzling on low for a minute and shuffled over to the spice rack, fingers brushing a stack of papers that were almost certainly letters--and one that was, more than certainly, addressed to him from Hogsmeade.

Kate froze in place, paralyzed by what had been a mere suspicion becoming reality, and then remembered it... wasn't technically her business. It felt like her business, but he hadn't wanted her in his life anymore, obviously not if he couldn't have waited three days while she'd been on a business trip to fuck her instead of whoever he'd been with. The thought it could've been her seeped like black smoke into the crevices of her brain, and she closed her eyes with a deep breath in to let it go. If she ruined this visit that could mean something bad. Her shoulders let down and she went back to cooking their food, reminding herself that when she clenched her jaw and ground her teeth too much it caused migraines. Work right now would not be forgiving enough to allow those.

When the food was done (didn't take much more than ten minutes), she used a wooden spoon to put the jasmine rice and the fry on plates and brought his out to him first, fork and napkin in her other hand, "I'll um. Be right back. Don't wait if you're hungry. You want something to drink?"

Charlie heard the kettle flick on and start to boil as he made his way to the sofa.

He glanced over his shoulder before he sat, not able to believe that she really was just making the toast he’d suggested— The fact she hadn’t pulled the bread and spreads out after making herself a hot drink told him he was right. He rolled his eyes and sat down on the sofa, making himself comfortable -- or as comfortable as he could be with his ex pottering about in his kitchen.

Charlie heard the fridge open and close next and fought the urge to look over again -- a downside to this open plan living situation he had opted for, even if the kitchen was at least a few feet beyond his peripheral vision. He was grateful, too, that the television was in the opposite direction, so he picked up the remote and turned the volume up in an effort to make it obvious he wasn’t focusing on her (he was -- it took him a solid two minutes of half-paying attention to realise he was ‘watching’ a children’s after school program before turning it over to the news).

Despite the number of times Kate had prepared him a meal this felt immeasurably foreign -- this wasn’t normal, it was the furthest thing from it. He shouldn’t have let her come over, let alone bring all that food. He needed to give her some money for it so she couldn’t hold it over him--his mind went to Fflur and her joke about owing him a tenner for the milk and bread (as if he hadn’t given her a twenty the last time she’d come over)—

He turned his head sharply to look up at the kitchen--check if Kate had decided to snoop through his mail the way Honey had done (not that he’d called her out on it either)--and found her standing at the end of the sofa holding a plate for him. His eyes went wide before returning to a more normal dilation. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking the plate from her as she handed it over. “Erm, can you grab me a coke out the fridge?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

He waited until she’d left to start prodding at his meal with his fork, the steam coming off of it enough to warn him not to begin eating it yet. She came back with his requested can of Coca-Cola and he took it from her, his fingers brushing hers accidentally. Charlie cleared his throat softly as she sat beside him and set his loaded fork down on his plate to crack open the can, the noise seeming that much louder in the awkward quiet between them. “Did you bring the receipt?” he asked, slowly bringing his eyes up to meet hers.

She remembered having obliged that request plenty of times before, even if he hadn’t had a broken leg. Charlie didn’t really seem like he’d expected her to do everything when they lived together, but she felt like it was usually appreciated when she did nice things for him, even if a little unnoticed later on.

On the other hand, she wondered if things might have been different at the end if she’d loosened her fingers, relaxed her grip a bit and let him come to her. Maybe her help and love felt like demands to him. It made her sad to think he probably resented her acts of service and her unquestioning devotion, but the things he said to her and the way he acted made that scenario seem possible.

The third idea, which was almost too painful to directly acknowledge, was that nothing she could have possibly done or said would’ve mattered at that point in time. After all, Charlie uncompromisingly liked his life the way he wanted it to be. Any encouragement to change might have been seen as a requirement to. That wasn’t true on Kate’s part, but he’d be prone to think that if he wanted someone else to blame for things derailing.

The only hope left for that predicament was that he’d understand eventually she’d only wanted the best for him, and secondarily, them together. That sounded so trite and cheeseball in her head.

The fridge clicked shut the same time she sighed and she returned to the living room at too quick a pace, robotically handing him the can to sit down next to him (again). Kate was glad her long sleeves were there to hide the goosebumps even the tiny skin-to-skin contact caused.

She felt unusually to be next to him sober (and so close) without any expectation that something might happen—as a matter of fact, she sort of hoped it wouldn’t. Kate would have liked to prove to him she could look pretty and do something nice for him whilst still being able to resist his... charms. 

His big brown eyes were lingering on her and she registered the sentence he’d uttered too many seconds later, probably making herself look like a complete dope. “Uhh,” Kate shook her head and looked down at the floor to escape the intimacy of the eye contact, “no, I’m not. Gonna tell you how much it was. You don’t need to give me any money, that’s weird,” she told him. “Was my pleasure.”

Kate scooped a heaping bite onto her fork for something to do and put it in her mouth without considering the temperature of the food, promptly scalding her tongue in the process. “Hot,” she flailed, with her lips open in a big O to let some of the heat out, “be careful,” she commanded belatedly, swallowing.

Charlie didn’t immediately bring the can up to his lips, waiting until Kate started speaking -- then held it short and lowered it back to his lap without drinking when she rejected his request. “Buying me a month’s worth of food and not taking anything for it is weird,” he argued, though not with enough ferocity to be insisting -- he didn’t think he would get anywhere if he did. He had a drink of his coke finally.

He set the can down on the table beside the sofa--which didn’t usually live there, but it had been moved into place to accommodate his reduced mobility--and picked his fork back up. It looked good--Kate’s cooking had (almost) always been good--but it also looked fucking—

Hot—

Charlie lifted his head up to look at her, biting his bottom lip to hide any expression threatening to take over his features in response to the look on hers. He averted his gaze and scooped up a mouthful, blowing (almost pointedly) on it before popping it in his mouth. It was still fucking hot. He inhaled through the side of his mouth to try and help cool it as he chewed, then swallowed. “S’good,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t really ready for another bite, preferring to let the food on his plate assume a more edible temperature before continuing. The news was still on the television in the background but it wasn’t doing much to fill the awkward quiet between them. Charlie wet his lips. “So who told you, then?”

A tiny smile was curling the corner of her lip as he started sparring (not seriously) with her about the money and grew further as he went on. She smothered it as quickly as she could by pressing her lips together and chewing. It was still close to molten hot, but that was how she liked her food; searing hot was the best temperature and it gave her more time to enjoy her food before it was cold and gross.

Kate really liked being paid attention to and spoiled, but despite that she tended to think that her views on relationships were less zeroed-in on transactions than Charlie’s. Harsh would be to call that inclination of his immature, but not necessarily untrue, either. Kate did things for him because she wanted to, not because she expected anything in return, and she hoped by now he’d know that. They hadn’t spoken properly in months (even longer if you didn’t count the last interaction, since they hadn’t done much speaking per se, but she was counting it), how else could she have shown up here and given him groceries and her time in good conscience?

Surely a more businesslike relationship with more of an expectation for exchanged goods would be more consistent. Kate pushed a bite of the stir fry into the side of her mouth as she chewed on this thought that that was probably the type of arrangement he had with --

“You’re welcome.” Kate smiled at him again, faltering faster than before when she’d had to work to conceal it. The suffocation from her racing thoughts was quite enough to dismiss it this time without any additional aid.

“Who told me?” She repeated, chirping in a higher tone and considering exactly how to respond to him without getting the girl at the label who’d told her in knee-deep shit. “If I tell you, you really need to promise you aren’t going to jeopardize things for her. Like, I would prefer if it didn’t get back to her at all, that you found out she told me.” Kate’s brows were knitted together in concern as she ended her spiel. “You promise?” She prompted.