i drove all night [honey]

Charlie didn’t say anything after Honey had offered her very elaborate suppose not; she wasn’t getting any closer to figuring out where he had been going with that thought, wanting to see her on not-a-Thursday, her agreeing to it— today wasn’t Thursday, she remembered, and they were doing alright so far.

But that was enough time spent thinking about that, especially now that she remembered she had other information to spill. She returned his grin after his incredulous what? “I know,” she said, having another sip of her whisky without straightening up, without putting more space between them. “Some hen named Judith. They work together.” Fergie had told her the actual details—Edith, used to work together—but Honey was no use at remembering those sorts of things.

“Christmas, at least.” She crossed her arms and rested them on the table. “Caught him ringing her up.” Her mouth was open to continue, to mention how that was what prompted her to pester him about it. It was that, and not the weird mood he had been in that whole week, that made her think something was up, because that phone call must have meant something. But the phone call she had made to Charlie had meant nothing, so she closed her mouth. Besides, Fergie thought she had been talking to Janice and not—

Is she fit? Honey laughed and sat back; she had asked Fergie the same thing but that had shut him up pretty quickly. She shrugged. “She’s English.” She sipped her whisky again, keeping her eyes on Charlie.

Charlie went to have another drink of whisky and in doing so finished his glass. He set it down, empty, but was sufficiently distracted by Judith for the time being. “You and him both have the same taste in old birds or what?” Charlie teased, remembering Janice.

But Christmas! And he hadn’t told Charlie? “Sly git,” he smirked. Subconsciously, Charlie mirrored Honey; folding his arms on the table, leaning forwards. But if Honey caught Fergie ringing Judith— had she done that before or after calling him? If it was after—

Honey laughed and Charlie grinned softly, mostly pleased with himself that he’d made her laugh. She shrugged and told him Judith was English, as if that was an answer to his question. There was a very brief pause in which Charlie considered what being English was supposed to mean in this context (he knew what it meant in a Braveheart sort of context, at least). He decided that Honey wasn’t suggesting the two were mutually exclusive, because she obviously thought he was fit, and he was obviously English, so— “Well, good for him. About bloody time.”

The waitress reappeared carrying two plates, setting Charlie’s down first. “Can I get another drink please, love?” he asked, picking up his cutlery. She departed and he looked at Honey’s dinner— It took him a few seconds to comprehend, but when he realised what he was looking at his nose wrinkled automatically flicked his eyes up to meet hers. “Is that...?” he trailed off, grimacing upon realising this was ‘her usual’.

Honey rolled her eyes— old birds. Did he think Charles made him sound young and effervescent? But she was more invested in him finishing his drink; she still had a few swallows to go on hers and while she thought she needed to keep up, she knew she needed to have a bit more coffee, too, balance things out a little, because her week leading up to yesterday was mostly full of sleepless nights (and not in a fun way).

Charlie smirked, so Honey smirked, and that was that. She didn’t know what else to tell him about Fergie’s timeline or why she hadn’t told him sooner— she’d only really found out last week.

And Charlie had nothing to say about Judith being English, so Honey continued smirking. But it really was good for Fergie, and certainly about bloody time, and Honey nodded in agreement. “Aye,” she said with another laugh. She wasn’t too keen on Fergie getting serious with anyone—she could hear her mother saying something like If Fergie’s found someone, when will you?—but Merlin, he was in such a better mood these past few weeks. “Was almost getting worried.” Almost. Not really. She didn’t know what this would do to her and Fergie’s dinner schedule, to Fergie cooking up ready meals for her to eat throughout the week— it was too much to focus on in present company.

Their food arrived and Charlie ordered another drink; Honey chimed in with a, “Same, Isla,” but she had already turned away. Maybe she should have called her love, too. 

“Hmm?” Honey looked up from her plate, taking in Charlie’s horrified expression, then glanced back to her plate. “Aye.” She met his eye again with a grin. “D’ye want some?” She laid it on thick because he looked like he’d be ill if he even said the word ‘haggis’. She picked up her cutlery and cut off a bite, spearing it on her fork before she waved it under Charlie’s nose. “It’s goo—“ Isla returned with their drinks then, and Honey sat back, popping her forkful into her mouth, as Isla set their glasses down.

“Have some,” she said, once they were left alone, as she nudged her plate forward an inch, probably enjoying this a little too much.

Honey said she was almost getting worried and Charlie laughed. “What, that he’s gay or something?” Stranger things had happened -- and if it were out of Liam or Fergie to come out of the closet, Charlie knew who his money would’ve been on a year ago (and he would have lost).

She didn’t say what it was but she really didn’t need to. It looked disgusting. “Do I fuck,” he said, leaning back from where he’d been ready to tuck into his own intestine-cased meat dish. Honey waved her loaded fork at him and Charlie held one hand out defensively, trying to grab her wrist without accidentally grabbing haggis—

The waitress returned with their drinks and Charlie promptly dropped his hand to the table, picking up his knife again. He began cutting up some sausage and scooped some mash and gravy up with it, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly because he was still thinking about haggis. His eyes flicked up to meet Honey’s. “Get fucked,” he smiled slowly, glancing down at her plate hesitantly. Realistically, it was probably no different to a sausage, or black pudding maybe, and he liked that.

“Only if you promise to…” he trailed off, smirking; she’d know exactly what he meant without him needing to say it.

Charlie told her to get fucked and Honey smiled, almost laughing. “Your loss,” she said, shrugging as she used her knife to scoop a bit of everything onto her fork.

Honey raised her eyebrows, prompting Charlie to finish her thought, elaborate on what he wanted her to promise her to do-- but judging from his expression (and the few conversations and countless non-conversations they’d had recently) she knew exactly what he was getting at. She grinned, then reconsidered, looking serious after another second. “Not worth it.” She pulled her plate toward herself again and had another bite, smirking as well as she could around chewing-- they both knew she’d do it anyway.

She set her cutlery down with a small sigh—the week was still catching up with her—and picked up her coffee, having a large sip before she traded it for her first glass of whisky. Finishing that, she traded it for her refill, but before she could have another sip, something else—not Charlie—caught her eye. There was writing on the small cocktail napkin that had accompanied her second glass, and she pulled it toward her to get a better look.

If that’s Charlie Baker, can I get his autograph?

Honey set her glass down—next to the napkin—and turned in her seat, spotting Isla behind the bar, clearly trying to look like she hadn’t just been staring in their direction. She was mostly surprised that Isla hadn’t asked Charlie herself, but maybe if she wasn’t sure it was him— she shouldn’t want to draw attention to who she was sitting with, but at the same time—

She swiveled forward again, looking at Charlie with a wide smirk, holding eye contact while she slid the napkin toward him across the table as if it were some highly covert message. She gave him a second to read it before she leaned in over her meal to ask in a stage whisper (and with somewhat more of a smirk): “Are you Charlie Baker?” It was almost strange to think of him like that now, so used to staying in and ignoring everything else.

Not worth it, she said. Charlie kept his eyes on Honey’s, a soft smirk still on his lips -- that was likely. She’d never objected before, didn’t think she was about to start now. But he chose not to push it, lowering his gaze to his plate after a moment and focusing on eating his dinner (he still owed her, didn’t he?).

He was tucking in at a reasonable pace, content to just eat, but picked up on the movement on Honey’s side of the table when she twisted in her seat. He wondered briefly if there was something wrong with her haggis, but what could possibly be right with it.

She turned back to face him smirking and Charlie wasn’t sure if he ought to be worried but-- His eyes flicked down and he tilted his head to read the writing on the napkin she’d slid over to him. He smirked around a mouthful of sausage, chewing as he glanced over Honey’s shoulder to have another look at the waitress. He swallowed and smirked wider (now that he wasn’t concealing half-masticated food) at Honey -- this was unequivocal proof that he wasn’t only famous in his own head, and that he wasn’t out of demand, so to speak.

Still holding his knife, he used one finger to push the napkin back towards her. "Any reason I shouldn't be?" he asked, flicking his eyes back up to meet hers after reading the message a second time. He tried to think how he possibly couldn’t be, but he supposed he hadn’t had a haircut since before Christmas, so that might’ve been throwing the waitress off (or, indeed, the general improvement in his appearance: no bags under his eyes, fresher skin from not smoking, a bit of weight gained from sitting around snacking all day -- none of which he was aware of because it had been a slow ascent and his ego had ironically taken a dive as a result of his seclusion).

And there was that smirk; she realized she had smirked first, but still. Honey turned to look over her shoulder again--the whisky was doing wonders for her subtlety--when Charlie glanced over, but she quickly looked back to Charlie. She was regretting this now, passing him the note, bringing him out in the first place-- last time they had been out (in Geneva, six? months ago), no one had recognized them (him), no one had bothered them (him), and was that the reason that night had gone so well?

She was used to his undivided attention, something like that, blah blah blah. Hunger (and the promise of what was to come after) had blinded her to how dumb it was to come to this pub together. Her smirk faltered, just a little.

But did she have a reason he shouldn’t be? She’d just come up with a few in her head, but she wasn’t about to voice any of those aloud. Honey raised her eyebrows instead, trying to think of some other reason-- thought it might have been nice to not have to be on all the time, embrace not being recognized, but once she remembered his ego, she didn’t think that reason would be very convincing. (The ego hadn’t been quite as prominent the past several weeks and though it pained her to admit, she was into it).

“Nope,” she said, lingering on the p sound for a second. She added a little shrug before having another bite of her haggis. “Just--” she swallowed and picked up her whisky again-- “Giving you the out.” It was the most basic reason, and nothing to do with-- “Am not--” jealous, she was going to say, but just before she did she realized that would be the least convincing argument for it, even though he was the one that had showed up unannounced.

Her gaze shifted briefly to his jacket behind him as she had another sip. “You carry a marker round with you?” She asked with a small smirk.

Honey’s smirk slipped slightly and Charlie’s did too in response. She raised her eyebrows at him, so he raised his back — daring her to say it; presumably it was that she wanted to keep him all to herself — and who could blame her? She’d had almost six weeks of his near-undivided attention — but they couldn’t go on like that.

His smirk came back in full-force when she finally answered him and he just held back from saying yeah, right out loud. Honey was still going, in fits and starts. Charlie’s lips twisted into something closer to a smile; how kind of her to give him the out — except, it actually was, wasn’t it? If he hadn’t been starved of attention for the last six weeks, then maybe he would have considered the out — but he wasn’t really starved, was he? Honey had been taking care of that, so he owed her as much not to be a prick.

If only that was a conscious decision for him.

Charlie smirked again when Honey cut herself off, and the look he gave her said she didn’t need to finish her sentence. He was almost definitely enjoying himself a little too much (and the whisky was helping).

He twisted in his seat, raising one arm, to see where she was looking—his jacket—then turned back to her. “Must’ve left it in my other one,” he quipped. He glanced past Honey again, to the waitress behind the bar, before his dark eyes were drawn back to the redhead in front of him, who was focusing on her dinner and thankfully couldn’t see the minute shift in his expression. He shrugged and cut off a bit of sausage. “She can wait ‘til we’re finished eating.”

Charlie swallowed his mouthful, setting his knife down to pick up his (third?) whisky and have a sip. As he placed it back on the coaster he cleared his throat softly. “Thanks for—” he started in a lower tone; his eyes met Honey’s and he hesitated for half a second, “—you know.”

He left the marker in the other one; if she hadn’t worn (and absconded with) his jacket before, she might have believed he really walked around with one. “Mhmm,” she said, followed quickly by another bite of her dinner, pointedly looking down at her plate as he glanced over her shoulder-- again. She shrugged as she chewed, rather than agree that Isla could wait. Honey didn’t know how much longer they were staying--they had things to do--and she wasn’t sure how long Isla would wait before working up the courage to ask Charlie herself-- but it was also kind of nice, being out for a drink. Of course, the drinks were helping her to stop worrying about things she should have been more concerned about..

She looked up as Charlie cleared his throat. Thanks for-- Her chewing slowed as they made eye contact; she blinked as he told her that she knew. Did she? She swallowed her mouthful and responded before she could overthink it: “You’re welcome.” The reprieve-from-thinking didn’t last long, and she went right back to wondering what he was thanking her for.

It wasn’t having dinner with him--that was her idea--and he had surprised her by being here, hadn’t invited her anywhere so he wasn’t thanking her for going someplace. So-- whatever they had been doing the past several weeks? The biscuits and the takeaways, television and no sudden movements-- Honey smiled, just barely. It wasn’t a big deal; she would have done it for any of her--

“We’re friends, right?” She meant it more in the way to say that the takeaways and general time spent were no big deal.

He offered her a small smile—the corners of his lips barely twitching up—before frowning softly down at his dinner rather than continue to look her in the eye. She hadn’t been weird about it, but he was being weird about it -- wasn’t he?

We’re friends, right?

Charlie flicked his gaze up to meet Honey’s again, taken off guard by her (rhetorical? In hindsight) question. “Yeah, ‘course,” he nodded, then shoved another forkful of mash into his mouth. As he chewed, he snuck another glance at her. He supposed that yes, they were friends now -- if perhaps they hadn’t been before. He couldn’t imagine Honey spending time with him watching television before.

But they weren’t just friends and he didn’t think she was suggesting that, either. And hadn’t there been an owl exchange over how nobody believed they could be just friends? He smirked to himself -- they’d gotten that much right.

She looked at him and he quickly focused back on his food, on chewing. “This is friendly,” he pointed out after a moment, gesturing with a nod of his head at their impromptu dinner date (and conveniently forgetting what would undoubtedly be coming next, which would be much less friendly). He finished eating and set his cutlery down, then picked up his whisky. “Not lunch, though,” he reminded her, before having a sip.

They were friends; Charlie confirmed it. Honey smiled smally as he then shovelled food into his mouth, watching him and laughing to herself after another second. She looked down at her plate and speared another bite of haggis on her fork, figuring that was that settled.

Honey had a couple more bites in the next several seconds of silence; it was too much silence, she decided, so she glanced at Charlie again, just in time to see him pretend he hadn’t been looking at her. She smirked softly and picked up her coffee, holding it with both hands as she blew across the surface.

She had a sip as she raised her eyebrows, as if she was having to consider if this was friendly. (It was.) She took her time setting the mug down, swapping it for her glass of whisky. “Aye,” she agreed after a beat. She didn’t think they would be doing this if he hadn’t dropped by unannounced, or if he had waited until after she had eaten dinner by herself. She definitely wouldn’t have invited him to dinner out of the blue. But she couldn’t say she was upset about it all.

He was quick to point out that it wasn’t lunch, and Honey agreed with a little laugh. “It’s not.” That had been the deal before, having lunch, when they had to figure out how to be friends. And now they had figured that out, apparently, and she wasn’t about to sit there and think if they would have arrived at this point if Charlie hadn’t horribly injured himself.

“Can get lunch tomorrow,” she said, picking up her fork again.

Honey agreed it was friendly and Charlie pressed his lips together, not quite smiling but not not. He folded his arms low across his chest while he waited for her to finish eating.

She laughed at his lunch ‘joke’ and he allowed himself a smirk. He was over being stood up now (mostly), and could joke about it, at least. He was willing to accept that it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea, either — they definitely hadn’t been friends then. Was he a little smug that he just might’ve been enough to tempt her away from her then-boyfriend? Absolutely.

Tomorrow, though? Charlie perked up and scratched at the side of his nose. He would have counter-offered brunch if she wasn’t going to be working—not because he didn’t want lunch, but he wasn’t exactly planning on going home tonight—but she did have work (he knew that much of her timetable) and he wasn’t stupid enough to try and convince her to pull a sickie (she had never done so before, to his knowledge, so why would she start now, for him?). And was he about to lay in her bed all morning without her? No.

“Alright,” he agreed, arms unfolded again with one hand wrapped loosely around his half-drunk whisky on the table. "Not London, not Hogsmeade, I take it?" he smirked. They were eating in Hogsmeade now, of course, but this was different — it wasn’t daylight, for a start. But the waitress had already sort of proven Honey’s point in that he wasn’t capable of blending in amidst magical society. He wasn’t sure if he really cared all that much anymore — back when lunch had first been brought up he was fresh out of the divorce, Honey was still in a relationship. Now… well, neither of them were encumbered, but he also couldn’t blame Honey for not wanting to subject herself to the Witch Weekly rumour mill again.

“Royal Dick?” he suggested, unable to keep a straight face as he said it.

Charlie agreed to lunch, and Honey smirked around her mouthful. She thought the implication was obvious; having lunch meant spending the morning together, too--she could think of one or two things they could do to pass the time--because he wasn’t going home tonight. Couldn’t, with all that whisky.

Not London, not Hogsmeade-- that was their thing now, it seemed, but she didn’t mind. “Please.” It was for her sake as much as his, if not more hers; if they stayed in the village, there was a better chance of potential Honeydukes customers seeing her; practically everyone else she knew lived in London; her mum had only just stopped hinting at that one article about her from well over a year ago and Honey didn’t want to give her another reason to think she couldn’t behave herself. Even if it really was only lunch.

She had started to pick up her coffee when he suggested the Royal Dick, set it back down so she could laugh--hard not to with the combination of Royal Dick and Charlie’s expression--and nod her head. “Aye.” Edinburgh should be fine. There was a chance she’d see a cousin (or two) but she could worry about that when (if) it happened. “Have you been?” She meant that more in a is the food good sort of way, asked before she remembered that part of her ditching those long ago lunch plans was Charlie still showing up to the pub. Looking like a twat, she was pretty sure he had said about it. Following that train of thought, Honey quickly added: “Only they’ve named it after you.”

Honey laughed again--hopefully diffusing whatever awkward situation she had potentially caused--and had a final bite of haggis. She pushed her plate a little to the side as she washed everything down with more whisky. They’d soon need to decide on a third round or leaving and she knew which option she would prefer, was pretty confident she knew what Charlie would choose. Still, it was his first night out (she assumed) so she could give him the (illusion of a) choice. “You want another,” she started, motioning toward his glass. “Or…?”

He’d made her laugh again and was subsequently smirking about it — the expression stretching out into a smug grin. Charlie nodded; Edinburgh, then. He brought his glass to his lips and paused just shy of drinking, raising his eyebrows at Honey when she asked if he’d been. He lowered the whisky halfway between his mouth and the table. Before he could actually say anything (or think of anything to say — had she forgotten that he’d admitted to going there and being stood up?), Honey attempted (rather transparently) to try and recover the situation. A quiet, breathy giggle escaped his lips. “Right,” he said, eager not to dwell on the faux pas and risk making it twice in a row that he was left sitting there like a twat.

Honey finished her food and Charlie finished his whisky. She gestured at his empty glass as he set it back on the table. Charlie smirked wolfishly. “Or,” he said in answer; they were already behind schedule — he was pretty keen to make the most of having full mobility back; he’d had that ‘practice run’ last night with the nurse, but it had only served to whet his appetite rather than satiate it. Honey downed the last of the amber liquid in her tumbler and they both got to their feet.

When they approached the bar Charlie met eyes with the waitress and was reminded of her request for an autograph. He nodded, as if to say alright, then, and she produced a slip of blank receipt paper and a quill. Charlie glanced sidelong at Honey and smirked—about the quill, though that might have gotten lost in translation—and proceeded to ask who he was addressing it to as he withdrew his hand from his pocket. Isla. He scribbled the standard To Isla, signed his name with an ‘x’ — and was silently grateful for the recent quill-practice, courtesy of Honeydukes.

As he handed the paper back to Isla, she offered to cover the whiskies. “You don’t have to—” he started, grinning lazily, but stopped sharply when he turned to Honey and saw the muscle in her jaw tense. “Cheers, love,” he said instead, and loosely wrapped his arm around the redhead’s lower back to guide her out of the pub. ”No need to get jealous, Beatrix,” he teased in a low voice in her ear, “am coming back to yours, aren’t I?” He glanced back briefly to Isla behind the bar as Honey opened the door to the street and told him to Fuck off. He smirked, again, at the back of her head.

The sleet had gotten heavier in the time they’d been inside, and the wind was whipping down the main street in gusts. Honey lifted her apron over her head in a make-shift umbrella and darted across the cobbled street, and Charlie followed, ducking into the Honeydukes alcove behind her. For someone who usually left the door unlocked, it was taking her a long time to get it open; as a result, his hair was getting increasingly wet from where he wasn't quite under the shelter of the doorway — sticking flat to his head, with bits of icy-rain slipping down the inside of his collar unpleasantly. “Come on,” he hurried her, pressing closer and halfway to reaching around to help with the key when she finally got it open.

They stumbled in and Charlie ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to get the worst of the water out; he met Honey’s eye as she closed the door behind them and he grinned, taking one large step to lunge at her in a way he hadn’t been able to for six—longer, he realised as his mouth found hers—weeks.

Charlie picked the ‘or’ option, and Honey returned her smirk. She had her last two swallows of whisky--she only made a slight face--and set her glass down, pulling her apron from the back of her chair as she stood up. She met Charlie’s eye very briefly, but now that she’d gotten food out of the way, they didn’t need to linger. Honey moved toward the bar, getting Isla’s attention before beginning to tell her that Charlie’s dinner would be on her tab, too-- but Isla cut her off, apparently overcoming her fear of talking to Charlie directly. She wanted to comment on the quill, ask Charlie if he knew how to use one, but as soon as Charlie smirked at her, she decided she’d rather be annoyed (annoyed, not jealous).

She fidgeted with her apron, swapping it from her right hand to her left, watching Charlie do his thing (and being surprised he knew how to spell Isla). “My tab,” she finished finally, waving her finger before Charlie and herself, only vaguely wondering if Isla was paying attention. She must have been, offering to cover the whiskies. Honey opened up her mouth to tell her that was fine but she could afford to buy him a couple drinks, closed it again when Charlie spoke up instead. She swallowed hard, not realizing how much her nostrils flared as she inhaled.

But Charlie’s arm was around her then, and they were heading out of the pub; Honey rolled her eyes--for many reasons, calling her Beatrix, thinking she was jealous--now annoyed with herself for enjoying his voice in her ear, the fact that he was coming back to hers. “Fuck off,” she said, rather than denying (or admitting to) anything, pulling the door open. The rain was coming down harder; Honey stepped out of Charlie’s grasp and pulled her apron over her head as she darted for her shop’s front door.

Honey didn’t move to make room in the little alcove, glancing over her shoulder to see Charlie half-caught in the rain, taking her time to unlock the door (and him moving closer didn’t exactly encourage her to move any faster). “Alright, alright,” she said, turning the handle on the door--though with the way her new wards worked, it was unlocked as soon as she had touched it--and practically falling through it. Charlie moved past her and Honey leaned back against the door to close it, grinning as she looked him over from head to toe. She felt better, looking at him-- his hair was a mess and his t-shirt was clinging to chest and shouldn’t she help him out of those clothes before he caught a cold?

She didn’t get a chance to offer, didn’t mind why she didn’t. She dropped her apron and pulled him toward her, even though the momentum of the lunge warranted it unnecessary. She rested her hands on either side of his face, softly--for just a second--before she traced a line down the sides of his neck, out along his collarbone under the collar of his jacket, being a different sort of helpful than she might have been two weeks ago with the takeaways and the careful movements. Charlie’s lips had moved to her neck, freeing up her own to ask aloud the next thing that popped into her head: “Is this--” he seemed back to normal, with the leg and all, but the past six weeks were hard to get out of her mind--”Do we need to find a.. surface?”