i drove all night [honey]

sunday 15th february 2004

Charlie apparated into Hogsmeade and inhaled deeply, unused to the uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a space that was too tight to fit after having not done it in six weeks (minus the much less ambitious test he’d attempted in an alleyway near his house before embarking on the longer journey north).

He stepped out of the lane and onto the high street, shoving his hands in his pockets and using them to wrap his jacket--new, and obviously so, but he had to start wearing it in at some point--tighter around himself against the elements; it had been brisk in London but it was a good few degrees colder up here, and sleeting too.

His cast had been removed yesterday but he wasn’t so stupid as to come here immediately -- and especially not on Valentine’s Day. He wasn’t sure if Honey had any plans today, now that the ‘holiday’ was over, but he’d also not wanted to owl and ask; his plan, therefore, was to turn up just before Honeydukes closed and hope she didn’t have anything in her diary.

Charlie paused to check his reflection in the dark window next to the sweetshop, and ran one hand over his slicked-back hair (it was his first real venture out of the house, he had to make an effort -- for himself, not for Honey). Content with his appearance, he proceeded to the bright pink door and pushed in through it with an accompanying tinkle from the bell overhead.

He spotted the top of her head before she popped it around the corner of an aisle; in his peripheral vision it was apparent that they were the only two in the shop (that he could see, he supposed). He smirked at her expression and mentally congratulated himself for not owling ahead. “Evening,” he drawled, lingering just inside the doorway for a moment. He made a half-hearted attempt to peer over the rest of the aisles before turning back to flip the sign on the door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ for her (it was ten to seven, or just after by now).

Honey blinked slowly, zoning out after staring at the same box of Pepper Imps too long. She was taking her time straightening the products on the shelves, making note of what she else needed to reorder or remake or-- she was moving slowly in an effort to run down the clock, close the shop and have dinner, make it an early night. She had spent the better part of the day in the kitchen, and she had sent her employees home even before the customers stopped showing up. The day after a holiday was always rather slow, but today seemed exceptionally so, probably with the weather keeping most of the village home.

She blinked a few more times as the bell above the front door jingled, snapping her back to ‘working’ mode, though she still held out a little hope that they wouldn’t need to much help or attention, knew exactly what they wanted, wouldn’t be complicating her plans-- complicating was certainly one word for it, she realized, spotting Charlie as she rounded the corner of the aisle.

There was a lot to focus on and she couldn’t figure out where to let her gaze settle first: he wasn’t using crutches (and wasn’t falling over as a result), he was properly dressed (shoes included), he had done his hair (the other way)-- all of that and he was standing in her shop after what felt like ages of her making trips to London. “Hi,” she said after a second, rearranging her (somewhat surprised) expression into something more of a smirk.

Neither of them moved--Honey was deciding on her best course of action, considering he was here now but she wasn’t closing for another hour--until Charlie flipped the ‘closed’ sign over and effectively made that decision easier. She especially didn’t want to tell him that she didn’t mind, closing early for him, so she didn’t say anything, instead just glancing out the window as if she were checking for witnesses to anything salacious that might be about to happen. Him walking--and standing up without aid--certainly opened up a few more possibilities for them, anyway.

A few wisps of hair had escaped her bun and she tucked them behind her ears as she looked him over again. “Want a drink?” There was a bottle of whisky in the downstairs kitchen, which was good because as untidy as that kitchen was, the flat upstairs was much worse. She tilted her head toward the back before she moved in that direction, going around the till to reach the kitchen, wasting no time grabbing glasses and clearing enough counter space to pour a couple drinks.

“Hi,” he repeated, smirk widening.

Charlie kept his attention on Honey as she looked out of the shop window, taking the opportunity to give her a slow once-over in her work apron; his mouth twitched into a small smile. Did he want a drink? “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” he asked in reply, stepping forward to follow her around the counter and through the back door.

He paused just inside, eyes widening a fraction at the state of the kitchen. It wasn’t the worst he’d seen it, nor did it offend him any -- if anything, it gave him a sense of scale of just what Valentine’s Day was for her (professionally, not personally -- though he thought he knew that, too). “I’m not giving you a hand with this too,” he said, referencing the limited assistance he’d given her with writing the personalised cards (and what had come after).

Charlie strode over to meet Honey and picked up the glass she was sliding along the bench towards him, his cold (from outside) fingers half-closing over hers in his haste. His eyes flicked up to meet hers and he smirked again, before taking both half a step back and a sip of whisky. “Was hoping you weren’t busy,” he commented.

Honey poured some whisky--a little more than what she would normally start with--into their glasses, sliding one along the bench toward Charlie. He reached for the glass before she could let go of it; his fingers were cold and she looked up from their drinks with a small smile before returning his smirk.

He was hoping she wasn’t busy, and she shrugged as if the only reason she was entertaining him was because she truly wasn’t otherwise occupied. Still: “I should be.” She lifted herself onto the one clear spot of the countertop before tilting her head toward the mess of the kitchen, letting him figure it out for himself. She also wasn’t meant to close for another hour but even then, she was meant to have plans with Janice-- before Janice had told her to fuck off. Honey didn’t want to get into that now, though. “But if you’re not here to help…” She trailed off and smirked again, having another drink.

He could help in other ways, of course, standing there in front of her. And speaking of standing: “So your leg’s all fixed,” she said, assuming as much. It was fixed enough, anyway. There was something else that was still off but she couldn’t place it.

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, because that was more than enough talking. She let go of her glass and slid her hands around Charlie’s waist, underneath his jacket, still wary of not making any sudden movements-- she wanted to get out of the mindset she’d been in for the past six weeks but if she wanted to be any fun that night--

Honey pulled back just enough to give her space to talk. “I’ve got to have dinner before…” She smirked, letting him think she needed to get her energy up, if that’s what he wanted. She wasn’t cooking dinner for herself, either. “Can I buy you a drink?” She had said it before but she meant it this time, tilting her head toward where she knew the pub to be, before she could overthink what it might look like if they went somewhere together. “Or you can stay here. I won’t be long.”

Charlie watched Honey push herself up onto the counter and had another sip of whisky. He supposed he technically was here to help, just not the doing-the-dishes kind of help. He smirked and slotted in between her knees, lifting his chin just a little to look up at her.

Charlie looked down at his leg as she addressed it, felt like an idiot immediately for having done so, then looked back up at her. “Yeah,” he affirmed, then tilted his head and pulled a face; “Mostly.” It was probably best not to get too carried away -- last night he’d at least had a nurse (the fit nurse) on hand had anything gone wrong. He didn’t think Honey would be quite so prepared if he buckled carrying her up the stairs.

But before he could think about it too much she was kissing him, and he leaned in to meet her; his free hand caressing up the outside of her thigh to her backside -- maybe he could get a little carried away—

Honey pulled back and Charlie blinked softly, only really able to look right back in her eyes at this proximity but unable to miss the crinkles at the corners from her smirk. He smirked back and wet his lips— then followed the direction she’d nodded her head in. His expression faltered for half a second as he realised she meant really buy him a drink. “Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an attempt to cover his hesitation (had it been hesitation or something else?).

Charlie looked at Honey again. “No, I’ll come with you. Haven’t been out for a pint in fucking ages.” Excluding last night, but she didn’t need to know about that -- and it hadn’t strictly been a pint, rather a glass of wine from a shared bottle. He stepped back just enough to let Honey down. He finished his whisky--with effort, the serve was larger than he was used to (lately)--and set the empty glass down, turning back to her with his hands in his pockets. “Where d’you fancy?”

She was regretting needing (and wanting) to eat something, not with Charlie not giving her space, licking his lips like that. All of that, and his rather unconvincing yeah-- she offered him the out, even though he had literally just got there.

Honey had asked Charlie to go with her, but she didn’t know if she had expected him to agree. It wasn’t something they really did, go out-- especially not after the last six weeks, like he said, but also not since they were in Geneva, right? “Poor you,” she said, trying to keep things on the lighter side instead of worrying about how weird this was going to be.

She slid off the counter and they were still close, almost close enough to help her change her mind. But Charlie finished his drink, and Honey reached for hers to do the same, pushing her towards wanting another one, and one she didn’t have to fix for herself.

Hogsmeade didn’t have too many options for pubs--they needed to stay in the village, stay close to her flat--and it didn’t take more than a second for Honey to pick one. “The Thistle?” She didn’t consider the Hog’s Head and compared to the Three Broomsticks: “Better whisky there.” Plus, the Unicorn and Thistle was usually less crowded this time of night on a Sunday--presumably, as she was meant to be working at this time of night on a Sunday, but she could see the pub from her front door well enough to take a guess--and she had never run into Fflur and Robin there. And Elspeth was less of a gossip than Rosmerta and-- she was coming up with a lot of reasons for a decision she wasn’t about to explain.

She took his hand in hers to turn him around, directing him to follow her out before she got a grasp on what she was doing; she let go of his hand and they left the shop in silence. Honey locked the door behind them as Charlie kept moving, probably eager to get back out of the rain, and she joined him at the door to the pub a handful of seconds later. They were inside--and already warming back up--before she realized she hadn’t taken her apron off; she untied her apron strings as she walked past the bar to a table near the back--even though the crowd really was sparse--removing her apron the rest of the way and draping it over the back of a chair before she sat down. “This alright?” she asked belatedly, grabbing a menu she didn’t need to look at.

His lips twisted into a smirk. “Yeah, shite company,” he said. Then realised he hadn’t made that specific enough. Twat.

As soon as he’d put his hands in his pockets, Charlie was withdrawing them again to try and seem less awkward (it wasn’t really working). Honey suggested The Thistle and he nodded -- better whisky, apparently, nevermind his throat was still faintly burning from the glass he’d just downed (he vaguely wondered how long that would be a novel sensation for). “Right, yeah.”

Honey took his hand in hers and pulled him back through the door from whence they’d just came, and Charlie almost walked into the doorframe because he was too busy focusing on the fact she was holding his hand, properly, without alcohol as an excuse— And this was why he preferred to turn up with at least one (large) glass (or three) in his system, but he was trying to be better about not drinking and apparating -- the fact that this was the first night he was able to put this new resolution into practice--and was already doubting its merits--was irrelevant.

She let go of him and Charlie met Honey’s eye briefly, before walking out of the front door ahead of her. It was still sleeting so he didn’t linger, crossing the street in a few long strides and waiting in the pub’s alcove. As Honey approached his eyes fell to her apron. He pressed his lips together, choosing not to comment on it in favour of opening the door for her and following her inside.

It was warmer in here than in Honeydukes, and Charlie had always assumed that was something to do with keeping the sweets and chocolate from melting. Or just Honey being Scottish. He followed her (again) through the quiet pub, realising that she’d probably chosen this one because it would be less troublesome (with him, specifically) than the Three Broomsticks.

Charlie shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over his chair before sitting. He took the opportunity now to look around. He’d never been in here -- once, almost, with Fflur, but had done an about-turn upon seeing Honey and her brother, back when they hadn’t been on quite as good terms. Charlie picked up a menu to distract himself from thinking about how they were on good terms, now— It was very Scottish: cock-a-leekie this and haggis that. His brow furrowed as he realised he recognised half the menu from meals he’d been brought over the last six weeks, and he flicked his eyes up to look at Honey, a small smile creeping onto his lips.

She either sensed him looking, or genuinely cared if he was happy with her selection. He straightened his expression quickly and nodded; “Yeah. Probably just get the bangers and mash,” he said, rubbing at the side of his neck; then narrowed his eyes at the print as if it was tricking him. “It’s just normal sausage, ain’t it?” he asked, glancing back at her.

Honey knew the menu back and forth but she looked it over for something else to do, rather than stare at Charlie anymore. Her gaze slid over her usual order--for this month, anyway, because she at least changed her diet with the seasons if nothing else--and she wondered if maybe she ought to avoid haggis breath. She glanced up at Charlie for a second and decided whisky breath could compensate well enough.

She had brought him a meal here and there while he was recovering and more often than not, they were from The Thistle--she needed to eat, too, and he couldn’t travel and they were friends--so the pub should have been an alright choice-- but he agreed and she closed her mouth, surprised (and somewhat disappointed, maybe) that she didn’t have to argue with him about it.

There it was: it’s just normal sausage, ain’t it?. Honey rolled her eyes--good-naturedly, mostly--and nodded. “Isnae haggis,” she said, laying it on thick, and doubly deciding that was what she was going to order. She rolled her eyes one more time and dropped her gaze back to the menu but not without glancing at his uncrossed arms first; she had found herself in the habit of that, now, and she hadn’t yet connected it back to him getting that one tattoo removed (and her enjoying not seeing it).

Their waitress--her name was Isla and Honey only remembered it because that was her mum’s name, too--came over and Honey offered her a smile, though it drooped a bit when Isla asked if she had closed early-- after Honey had decided to not tell Charlie about it. She had definitely used that line--I don’t close early for just anyone--on him (and not only him, but she didn’t think that was what Charlie would be focusing on now). “Nobody needs sweets after yesterday,” she said with a shrug. And that was mostly the truth.

She ordered ‘the usual’ and stifled a yawn as Charlie ordered, surprised he wasn’t also quizzing Isla on the sausage origins. Honey reconsidered and asked, “Can I get a coffee, too?” She nodded as Isla followed up-- “Separate from the Talisker, aye.” She smiled one more time as they were left alone, stashing her menu away before looking at Charlie, who was looking at her with a smug smirk. Honey narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Isnae haggis. Charlie half-suppressed a grin and glanced back down at his menu one more time before settling with his decision (he certainly wasn't about to order haggis -- and, was pleasantly surprised to realise that Honey hadn't brought him some when she'd been making her house calls, given how otherwise limited the menu was now that he was reading it).

The waitress came to take their order and Charlie flicked his eyes up quickly when she asked Honey if she had closed early. He glanced at Honey, the flash of pink apron hanging over the back of her chair, and then back to Honey's face, smirking smugly as it dawned upon him -- she didn’t close early for just anyone, after all. She was avoiding looking at him, which was even more telling than if she had just owned it. If he wasn't convinced that he owed her for the last five weeks, he might’ve said something.

Honey ordered 'the usual' and Charlie was left to wonder what that might be. He glanced up at the waitress when it was his turn and ordered "The bangers and mash, please." Then hesitated over whether he could get away with ordering a Jameson's. Honey interjected with her own drink order and he decided that it was safer to stick with scotch, in Scotland, nevermind that he couldn't see anything else on the drinks list, and he'd had one back in the kitchen that hadn’t been awful-- "The same, thanks love. Whisky, not coffee."

She left them alone with another smile (one that Charlie recognised for what it was, and hadn't realised how much he would miss it in his housebound six weeks), and he relaxed back in his chair, looking at Honey smugly -- had already changed his mind about not saying anything about closing early. He could owe her a little more.

Charlie shrugged and reached forward to put his own menu away, still smirking. "Do you always close early the day after a holiday?"

Honey glanced at the table before she looked at Charlie again. He was biding his time before answering her, which was answer enough-- it was going to be something about her closing early, not about her ordering whisky and coffee, and she tried to figure out a good response, or an excuse, or something. He came out with it and she narrowed her eyes again; he could guess the actual answer, and it wasn’t the one she offered. “Yes,” she said, keeping a straight face for a couple of seconds before offering a small smirk.

She leaned forward and set her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her fist. “You’ve been here how many times and haven’t read the hours on the sign?” She asked with another smirk; they were both idiots, when it came down to it.

Isla returned with their drinks--and milk and sugar for Honey’s coffee--and a look for Charlie; Honey raised her eyebrows and looked between the two of them before trying to be more interested in spooning sugar into her coffee. Isla was pretty but she shared her name with Honey’s mum and that was weird enough to stop her from finding her attractive. (And Charlie was.. Charlie. And clearly here with Honey, if not with her.)

She sipped her whisky, that glass in one hand, as she fixed her coffee with the other. She waited until they were alone before speaking again. “If you’d told me you were coming, it might have been intentional.” Closing the shop, she meant.

Charlie’s smirk widened. They both knew she didn’t -- and if he hadn’t known, that little smirk of hers would have told him.

Honey leaned forward and Charlie wet his lips before mirroring her. He lowered his voice, out of consideration; “They don’t really apply to me, do they?” He was being a prick but he felt like he could be, now that he was capable of getting around by himself -- wasn’t at her mercy. And he had been, and he’d known it, too; he hadn’t exactly been on eggshells around her, but things had definitely been different.

Their drinks were brought over and Charlie sat back in his chair, glancing up and making eye contact with the waitress. Under normal circumstances--not dining with Honey--he might’ve made the most of that look he was getting, but that nagging reminder that he owed Honey was convincing enough to avert his gaze back to the redhead. The waitress took the hint (or finished delivering their drinks, more likely) and left them alone again.

Charlie had a sip of his whisky, watching Honey’s hands as she added sugar to her coffee. When she spoke his eyes flicked up to meet hers, the corners crinkling when he smirked, again. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise, did I?” And it had been a good one -- he wasn’t about to forget the look that had been on her face in a hurry.

He had another sip of whisky, then set the glass down -- he hadn’t eaten dinner yet either (poor planning on his part -- or was it?) and he hadn’t been drinking much, if at all, whilst on the muggle pain medication he’d been prescribed, and he’d just necked a triple (quadruple?) that Honey had poured him five minutes ago, and his head was already starting to feel a little lighter.

He folded his arms on the table. “I’ll be sure to owl ahead next time.” He paused. “Well, probably not. You can have him back.” Habitually, he picked his glass up again for another drink. “And I can have my garage back.”

Charlie said the hours didn’t apply to him and Honey scoffed. They didn’t, clearly, but that didn’t mean she had to admit it. None of her rules seemed to apply to him, either— they had spent far more (sober) time together than she should have been comfortable with, they were out together and their ‘friends’ excuse could only go so far, they— he was still looking smug and she was still into it, so there really wasn’t any point in arguing now. Honey smirked again as she shrugged one shoulder.

She sipped her whisky as she finished fixing her coffee. “I hate surprises,” she said, trying to sound serious but her ongoing smirk probably gave her away. She wasn’t kidding—she really did hate surprises, almost always especially when they interfered with work—but this particular surprise was alright (and she had been about to close the shop, anyway). She might have appreciated a warning, though, could have fixed her hair, put some lipstick on, or at the very least attempted to match his level of effort. She swapped her whisky for her coffee and took a large sip.

There would be no surprises next time, though next time sounded like they weren’t going to go right back to Thursdays. Honey switched back to her whisky; there had been special circumstances that warranted them getting a little off schedule, but now that things could go back to normal— but poor Potato. She’d bought two new owls since lending Potato to Charlie so she didn’t particularly need him back but that was beside the point. “Sure,” she said, shrugging again and leaning in a little bit, not really noticing what she was doing.

Honey had another sip of her whisky, grateful she didn’t have to ask for the double she was poured. She smirked softly as she set her glass down, looking at it briefly before she flicked her gaze back up to Charlie with a soft smirk. “You owe me a lot of not-London Thursdays—“ because Thursdays needed mentioning. And not-London reminded her they were in Hogsmeade, so she straightened up in her seat (without bothering to fix her expression).

She might’ve scoffed but she didn’t deny it, did she? If it were possible, Charlie’s expression grew more smug. He lifted his whisky to his mouth again, flashing Honey a quick grin before drinking.

“Me and all,” he agreed amiably, but this wasn’t that sort of surprise -- and she didn’t look like she was hating it. This. Him. He held her gaze for a moment and wet his lips. She smirked and it prompted him to smirk back. Charlie knew that surprising each other wasn’t really how they operated best -- everything had worked as well as it had, last time--and the first time, and the last six weeks--because they’d either fallen into or actually worked out a schedule, as fucking boring as that sounded (he refused to acknowledge that he was planning sex -- it wasn’t like he couldn’t shag someone else if he’d wanted to, this was just easier). And, key: they hadn’t overlapped any appointments by showing up unexpectedly (except that one time, but by some fluke he’d already been broken up with by Kate).

But he was overthinking things. They had plenty of time to work it all out again.

Charlie glanced up from where he was watching her hands swap between coffee and whisky, and nodded. It’d be nice not having to be responsible for something other than himself again -- although it turned out owls were pretty low maintenance minus cleaning up after them. Charlie might’ve bonded more with it if he hadn’t kept him shut away in the garage -- out of sight, out of mind, and out of reach of his things (he’d learned within a day not to leave anything valuable in the garage with the owl). But he wanted the space back now that he was no longer housebound and could get his bike back from being repaired. He’d work out later how he was going to turn up in Hogsmeade without surprising Honey with no way to initiate communication with her.

Right on cue she pointed out that he did in fact owe her a lot of not-London Thursdays. Charlie grinned and nodded -- at least he had been expecting it. "Do they have to be Hogsmeade Thursdays?" he asked with a sort of teasing grimace, as if the place disagreed with him -- in truth he’d almost been missing it; it was probably the place he visited most, he realised suddenly, though it was more who he was visiting than where. But, while they were on the topic; he hesitated before asking: “Do they have to be Thursdays?” a little more seriously (still with a hint of a smirk). They’d gotten out of that rotation through necessity, and Honey had perhaps unintentionally proven that she had more free time (sort of) than just Thursdays, and Charlie had become glaringly aware that he had nothing but free time, most of the time.

He didn’t argue with her--must have realized for himself that he owed her--but that look wasn’t quite the smirk she had been expecting. But he nodded, and she took that well enough-- that is, until he asked if they needed to be Hogsmeade Thursdays, either. Not here, not London; it caught her off guard and she wasn’t sure if she was offended or worried or maybe a bit of both. Or maybe a bit more in the worried camp, once she answered him: “Suppose they don’t have to be.”

Because where were they going with this? Literally, figuratively, whatever. Her not here, not London request (ages ago) had been just to get them on neutral ground, have lunch without temptation, as if being in public could damper it. In truth it had been more about not being seen, considering the circumstances surrounding them trying to figure things out last year: Charlie freshly divorced, Honey happily coupled. Things were different now.

Besides, she had left London or Hogsmeade with Harlan. With Will. But this wasn’t that, either. Things weren’t that different. This was more about keeping to themselves; they were out now and things would be fine as long as she remembered where they were. She didn’t want to have to think, though.

“Suppose not,” she said again, once Charlie asked if they needed to be Thursdays. That wasn’t new, either, because they had been doing that for weeks now, Honey anticipating a night off, offering to bring him a takeaway. He wasn’t exactly housebound anymore, but they were good enough at coming up with excuses to see each other when they wanted to.

Honey sipped her whisky, laughing a second after setting her glass down as she tried to think through her schedule. “I don’t think I’ll be having Fergie dinners Wednesdays.” It’d been their traditional night, having dinner, maybe some drinks if a quiet night didn’t suit their mood, but he’d been otherwise occupied lately. “He’s got a new hen,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice, as if it were some sort of trade secret instead of gossip about her brother.

They didn’t have to be Hogsmeade Thursdays -- though she didn’t sound exactly thrilled by the prospect. He hadn’t actually thought any further ahead than ‘not Hogsmeade’ and now that he was— But it wasn’t like this would be their first time not meeting up at one of their places -- they’d done Geneva, most recently, and that had been alright, he thought.

For a moment his mind went on a tangent--he’d had plans for that nightclub bathroom--but then he didn’t want to think about that too much because wasn’t apparating her out of there the cause of her little hissy fit on his birthday?

But they didn’t need to be Thursdays, either, and that was more promising. He nodded— Promising for what? What was he doing? He’d been cooped up for six weeks, that was what. But it was fine. They were mates, now, and— and that was why he wanted to be able to spend time with her not confined to her bedroom in the flat above Honeydukes, but not with the added worry of being seen out together -- like they were doing right now. Charlie scanned the pub (casually, he thought) and tried to figure out if it was better or worse that it was so quiet (less people to be seen by, but also less of a crowd to try and blend into). He glanced down at his drink and brought it to his lips for a slightly larger gulp.

He brought his attention back up--still mid-gulp--and blinked -- Wednesdays, so did that mean two days in a row or—?

Charlie turned his head sharply and coughed into his shoulder. “What?” he asked, grinning, as he turned back to Honey. He could be distracted by this, at least. He leant in a little to mirror her subconsciously. “Who? Since when?” Charlie hadn’t seen Fergie since his second week of being stuck at home; he hadn’t turned up to their standing pub catch up (postponed over Christmas, as always) and that had prompted the other man to check in. It must have been since then, if he hadn’t mentioned it at the time. “Is she fit?”