leftovers [honey]

wed 14th april 2004

Charlie pulled the duvet up higher, across his chest — cooler now that they’d been laying there for a little while. His other arm—the one furthest from Honey—was still tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling in the dark. There was a faint orangey glow seeping out around the edges of the curtains, just enough to be able to discern the shape of the room, the objects and bodies in it. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, then exhaled just as long.

“I had a weird interview with a reporter the other night,” he said into the gloom, unintentionally vague about the who, when, and where. He wasn’t telling Honey this to brag about his exploits (there hadn’t been any) — he had met with @Cordelia Leighton, of the Daily Prophet, in a swanky bar in central London, but it had been a much more professional ‘interview’ than he had anticipated.

He paused long enough for Honey to prompt him to go on— and when she didn’t he continued on as if she had; “About like, being a muggleborn and the war and stuff.” Charlie knew this was a weighty sort of thing to bring up, especially given that they’d slipped a little closer to no sudden movements in the second round, just now — but perhaps that was why he felt like he could tell her about it. And they’d had some ‘normal people’ conversations now, hadn’t they? And he hadn’t seen anyone—anyone he could talk to about it—all weekend, with it being Easter; he’d gone up to Sheffield to see his parents and grandmother, and Honey was the first person he’d caught up with since— And Honey’s mother was a muggleborn — something he had known, vaguely, but had been reminded of more recently, with the My Dad’s having a big birthday, on a sheep farm (Am no inviting you, though) conversation a couple of weeks ago in the Honeydukes kitchen.

“She’s writing a book or something,” he ploughed on, slowly, shrugging softly and wetting his lips. Was he trying to ask something, or just venting? He shifted a little, kept staring straight up at the ceiling because it was easier than looking at Honey—

About you? Charlie turned to look at her then and let out a breathy laugh. “No,” he said, resting his head back again. He wasn’t whispering, but he didn’t think he was talking loud — but it sounded louder in the silence of his bedroom; the only punctuation to the stillness was the odd car trundling down the main road or a siren in the distance; “About the war in general, I think. And muggleborns and what different people went through.”

“I think, I dunno.” He wet his lips again. “Just realised I didn’t fucking do anything.” He exhaled again, closer to a sigh. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much, and it had been six years ago now—he’d been twenty-two—but each additional question from Cordelia had left him feeling less and less comfortable with himself — there had been teenagers who had fought—and died—at the Battle of Hogwarts, and he had been doing what? Getting high and pissed and rich in America. Cordelia had wanted to talk to him to get a famous muggleborn’s view of the war, and he had left The Coral Room feeling pretty insignificant.


@Honey Bea Flume

Her sleep schedule was fucked. From Easter, from— Honey tilted her head just enough to look at Charlie before she looked back to the ceiling. She was wide awake. Maybe she could go watch television— if she could remember how to turn it on. She could go home; she had hardly been buzzed after one drink and she was definitely sober now but there wasn’t a lot of work to do so she would just end up staring at her own ceiling. Then there was the obvious option but there had been a weirdly nice moment that last round, and maybe she shouldn’t encourage it. Or—

Or they could talk about his weird interview. Honey turned her head to look at him, not saying anything.

Being a muggleborn. The war and stuff.. This wasn’t where she thought he’d been going, mentioning his interview (and not just because she had read some of his interviews; this just wasn’t close to anything they had ever talked about). Her gaze slid over his face, lingering on the silhouette of his nose on her way to his lips, in time to watch him speak again.

She was writing a book, he said, and fuck, this was not a predictable conversation. She blinked, waiting for him to go on—he seemed talkative, after all—but when he didn’t: “About you?” Eye contact, a laugh, a no. Unpredictable, again. Honey shrugged one shoulder, barely, still looking at him after he had looked away. He said the book was about the war in general, muggleborns, what they went through— “Oh,” she said, turning her head to blink up at the ceiling again, reaching the extent of her contribution to the conversation. This wasn’t them, this talking; she hardly talked the war with her mum, and she had been directly affected, versus Honey’s indirect. And wasn’t this what Fergie’s girlfriend wrote about? She’d interviewed Mrs Flume, anyway, heard more about everything than Honey ever had.

But she couldn’t wonder too long if he was talking about an interview with Edith, because he wasn’t done. He hadn’t done anything, he said, and Honey closed her eyes in a long, slow blink. She could remember Fergie saying he’d gone to America, and how was that any different than other people going into hiding? Her mum had; Grace had. They had heard from her mum every once in a while, heard from Grace never. “You—” she stopped to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry— “You weren’t meant to…” She trailed off because what was he meant to have done except try not to get thrown in Azkaban or— She directed her next question at the ceiling. “What’d she say to you?”

Honey was quiet after her oh. Too quiet. He’d said too much, made it weird — they weren’t those kind of friends, evidently. Charlie swallowed softly, his eyes still focused on the ceiling, not even chancing a peripheral glance at her for fear of what he might see.

You— Charlie frowned gently and kept his attention skyward. She said he wasn’t meant to do anything and he breathed in, slowly, almost as if he was trying to do it without her noticing—which would have been a little easier now that she wasn’t staring at him through the gloom—because that little bit of reassurance had been what he’d needed.

Charlie stayed quiet for a moment, mulling over the bits of the conversation with Cordelia that stuck out the most to him — the bits that replayed when he was left to his own devices for long enough without distraction. “I dunno,” he mumbled, exhaling through his nose; he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell Honey, now that he’d started them down this path — it wasn’t going to paint him in any great light.

His eyes flicked from the flat white expanse above them to the point where ceiling met wall, staring at the moulding in an attempt to focus on something. He let out a subdued bitter laugh; “She called me Britain’s favourite muggleborn.” He shook his head barely — he’d seen through that ‘compliment’ immediately, at least. “Which is bollocks,” he added hurriedly, after he realised it might not have been obvious to Honey that he thought so.

He wet his lips and tilted his chin down. "She wanted to know what I was doing during the war. Think she expected some like, heroic tale." He brought his hand up from where it had been gripping the duvet and rubbed at his face and jaw, before lowering it back to the bed to rest in the little crevasse between them. He sighed. "Not me getting wasted and loaded in the States," he pressed his lips together and turned his head away from her by an inch, blinking into the dark. “I never even helped when we got back,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Honey wanted to know what the reporter had said to get him like this; she didn’t think he was in this weird mood an hour ago, and she didn’t think she was responsible for getting him there, either. It wasn’t protective that she was feeling, but it was something. Defensive on his behalf, maybe? She didn’t want to prod but his I dunno wasn’t exactly reassuring. He had brought it up and while the topic might have been a little off for them--it was off for Honey and anyone, really--she wanted to know what he had been getting at.

She tried to look at him without moving her head, wasn’t very successful, and went back to staring up at the ceiling. Charlie laughed and Honey frowned-- that was obviously bullshit, Britain’s favorite muggleborn. (He wasn’t even her favorite muggleborn.) He quickly added that he was aware it was bollocks, saving her from having to say anything, which was probably for the best-- he had kicked her out of his bed before.

The reporter wanted to know what he was doing during the war, hear some heroic tale, and Honey frowned again. Grace--her first favorite muggleborn--had a heroic tale of sorts, and it was nearly impossible to equate Charlie with what she had done during the war, which really begged the question: what was he doing? They had certainly never talked about it before, it had never crossed her mind to ask.

Charlie moved, more obviously this time, and she tilted her head to the side to look at his profile again, trying to concentrate more on his face than how close she knew his hand to be to hers, now; the tone of their--mostly his--words was making her hyper aware of where he was in relation to her. She shifted her gaze to his lips as he spoke again and she opened her mouth to say something, closing it again when she assumed he was making a point by tilting his head in the opposite direction.

What did he think he was supposed to do when he got back? How was he meant to help, if that’s what he was getting at? And more importantly, why should he? Her mum--Honey’s second favorite muggleborn--returned to Hogsmeade after the war with the announcement that she and Honey’s dad would be retiring and moving to Spain, effective immediately. Grace had helped with the rebuilding of the school, but she was a literal cursebreaker, it was part of her job description.

She didn’t think it was helping, thinking about anyone other than Charlie, not when he was clearly going through something. “Charlie, you--” she stopped, hearing how loud her voice was, stopped because she didn’t want to think he would have been actually murdered if he had stayed, but Azkaban wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, either. “You had to leave,” she continued, trying to match his volume. Her mum had left; Grace should have left the UK (and not just Honey in her effort to be heroic).

And Honey had no idea when Charlie had left, but that didn’t really matter because what she had to say next was true no matter when he had: “It just got worse after you did.” It being everything, really. “Don’t think you owe anyone anything,” she added, speaking to the ceiling.

His chest was—despite earlier efforts to go unnoticed—rising and falling deeply as he breathed in and out slowly through his nose. Quiet had fallen over them again and Charlie wasn’t sure how to break it. He was back to thinking that he shouldn’t have brought this up — not with Honey. But he’d done it now, hadn’t he? She wasn’t getting out of bed, though, or telling him to grow a pair, and she wasn’t drunk so it wasn’t like she was stuck here—

He tried to peek at her out of the corner of his eye without moving his head, gave up when he realised he couldn’t see her expression without giving himself away, and looked back up at the ceiling. He had to leave, it just got worse. Charlie nodded softly, not saying much of anything, too busy thinking about what Honey thought of him and his methodology.

He didn’t owe anyone. Charlie wet his lips, about to say that some people seemed to think he owed them, before hesitating — still not sure what to say to her and, belatedly, suddenly, aware that she was offering him comfort; his hand twitched—flexed, nervously—and his little finger brushed against Honey’s. Charlie swallowed gently, blinking his eyes closed in a frown and curling his hand into a soft fist. Idiot.

“I just—” he started, a little louder than before—eager to say something now to distract her—before lowering his voice again to fit the room, “—don't want to be the one prick in her book that didn't help,” he said. “Everyone already thinks—” He stopped, pressing his lips together in a line. He was being a little too self-pitying, here, and history told him Honey wasn’t into that. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

But it got worse. Honey had been here—well, Hogsmeade, he assumed—through it all, and her shop—her home—was on Hogwarts’ doorstep. Cordelia’s tidbits about life at the school during the Death Eater regime had only served to pique his curiosity. He gazed up at the ceiling. “What was it like?” he asked in a low murmur, turning his head to look at her.

Honey felt Charlie’s finger brush against hers and she froze, not immediately searching him out in return. She couldn’t convince herself that would be entirely friendly, holding his hand, even if it was something she would do for a friend if they were talking about all of this. Except that was just another part of the whole thing: she didn’t talk about this to her friends, didn’t want to, hadn’t talked to Fergie or Grace or her mum about it after the first few weeks post-war. She extended her fingers to find his after a second, figuring he didn’t really want to talk about it, either-- but he had already moved, changed his mind, and Honey didn’t move her fingers any farther than she already had, not about to initiate it herself.

Everyone already thinks-- Honey finished the thought for him, silently. Everyone already thinks he’s a prick, but for less important reasons than this. She figured that was close enough. It didn’t matter, he said, and she frowned again, unsure what to say. If she was ever tip-toeing around what to say to him, it was usually to save face, to get herself out of her own lie; this certainly wasn’t that.

She was still trying to figure out what to say next--because they couldn’t end it there, could they?--when Charlie spoke again, asking her a question. She could tell he was looking at her as she continued gazing up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to put what it was like into words. She was simultaneously too sober and too drunk for this; she preferred not thinking about it at all, but Charlie needed-- comfort? reassurance? something to get it through his thick skull that he had to leave.

“Bleak,” she said, after another minute of silence. “We tried to stay out of it—“ not really doing anything to help, either— “And with the Death Eaters and the dementors in the village…” She trailed off, unsure what else she could say that wasn’t just we had a curfew or business was down because that wasn’t what he was looking for. She didn’t know how to put it into words but she didn’t have perspective to explain things any better besides the general ‘worse’ she had already offered. “Mum left before anything— and Grace, too. Fergie told them about the Ministry.”

Honey blinked and turned her head to look at Charlie, her gaze sliding over his face for a couple of seconds; in the darkness she couldn’t tell if he was meeting her eye, but maybe it made it easier to go on if he wasn’t. “Did Fergie tell you?” It didn’t matter who told him, in the grand scheme of things, but something about it possibly being her brother made it sit a bit differently.

Charlie kept his eyes on Honey’s silhouette after he posed his question, kept his head turned towards her even after he let his gaze drift away from her face— Bleak. His eyes flicked back up and he felt the tiniest of smirks in his jaw—bleak was a good word, from her, she must be learning a few from Scrabble—but now wasn’t the time, as evidenced by what she said next: Death Eaters and dementors in the village. Charlie’s expression softened sympathetically; he’d dealt with the presence of dementors in his last year at Hogwarts, and that had been at arm’s length for the most part. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like living with them patrolling the streets just outside — or, he tried to: without overthinking it, he pictured them laying in Honey’s bed, all the lights out and the fire burnt low,  and an unnatural cold filling the room—

He’d been staring into dead space somewhere above her neck, but his eyes searched for hers again in the dark. Statistically muggleborns were few and far between, but Honey was beating the odds: her Mum, Grace (he wasn’t self-important enough to include himself, though mostly because they hadn’t known each other then). Charlie blinked in the gloom; thank fuck for Ferg.

Honey read his mind then, or it was just a natural assumption to make. Charlie wet his lips and nodded his head an infinitesimal amount; “Yeah.” He shifted to look back up at the ceiling. “He owled me out of the blue. Hadn’t spoken to him really in ages, which was my fault—” he was speaking slowly, quietly, hit with the weight of what Fergie had done for him and for who knew how many others. He’d known, obviously, before now that Fergie had for all intents and purposes saved his life, but he’d never really allowed it to sink in before. Nor had he mulled over how Fergie had done that even after they’d mostly lost contact, years after graduating — after Charlie had gone on to bigger and better things. 

“He’s a good mate,” Charlie said, a little louder. Firmer. And Charlie hadn’t taken that long to get in touch with Ferg once he’d returned from the States, albeit longer than he probably should have — and getting distracted by his sister really wasn’t the sort of thank you the other man deserved either, but he couldn’t change that now (would he want to?).

Yeah. Honey felt Charlie shift and she did the same, looking back at the ceiling. So Fergie had told him, too; she wondered how many more people he had warned. She had understood at the time how big a deal it was for him to quit his job and move back home, but they had never really talked about it--there were more important things at the time--nor did they ever really get into the why Fergie and his girlfriend--Vicky--split at the same time and then on top of all that he was telling people to leave the country or-- they probably needed to talk about it more. Honey probably needed to thank him, properly; Mum, Grace, and now Charlie--

Fergie was a good mate, he said, and Honey nodded. “Aye.” She waited a beat, blinked a few times. “Yeah, he is.” And then Honey had to go and intercept Charlie at the shop when he had turned up to see Fergie; at the time, she had no idea it was their first time seeing each other since all of that, but had learned that since, and now there was this to add on top of all of it. That was probably the wrong time to let a smirk and a lingering look cloud her judgment, though there was no changing that now.

But her brother really was a good mate. If anyone should be written about, it was him; didn’t Fergie’s girlfriend now-- she had written about Mrs Flume, written about a lot of people. As far as Honey knew, she wasn’t writing about Fergie, but he hadn’t exactly been very forthcoming with details about his relationship (for good reason, probably) so who knew?

Honey turned her head to look at Charlie again. “It’s not Edith, is it?” She frowned before she elaborated. “The reporter.” The one with the weird interview. Honey wasn’t sure what she would say to her if it was her, but hearing Charlie talk like this certainly warranted her saying something.

It felt weird to be talking about Fergie, but this whole conversation was weird by their standards — a few months ago just having a conversation would have been weird for them. He tried to remember at what point that had changed, and he thought maybe that phone call at Christmas—

Charlie froze, eyes going wide, expecting an accusation to follow— Oh, Edith. Fergie’s girlfriend Edith. He turned his head to look at Honey, the light from the window just catching her eyes enough to let him know exactly where they were in the gloom. “No, it weren’t Edith,” he said, then wet his lips and cleared his throat softly. “Cordelia Leighton,” he continued, deciding to be honest. “Met her once before, on tour. She’s no Rita Skeeter, but, I dunno — maybe she’ll get there,” he smiled weakly, the expression fading quickly — the talk of the war pressing back in on him.

“Met Edith the other week, though.” The unspoken don’t bring up Ferg rule had kept him from divulging this sooner, or maybe he’d just been preoccupied, or thought it unimportant. “She’s alright,” he volunteered his opinion, unsure if Honey had met her yet — he wasn’t sure if meeting friends or family first was the scarier option, though he’d take Grace Howard over Mrs Flume any day of the week. “She’s a muggleborn and all.”

They were looking at each other then, and Honey blinked, letting that be the extent of her shifting. He said it wasn’t Edith, and that was good—she still hadn’t figured out what she would have said to the other woman—but the name of the woman Charlie did mention didn’t ring any bells. She didn’t read into anything he was saying—meeting her on tour—because this was still a serious conversation, maybe the most serious one they had had so far. Thankfully he mentioned Rita Skeeter before she could get too sidetracked with that thought; “Hope not,” she said, because one Rita Skeeter was plenty enough.
 
He had met Edith, though, and Honey raised her eyebrows with a quiet, “Did you?” That must be serious, then, if she was meeting the mates; Honey was sure she had only been introduced because she had interrupted Edith and Fergie that night several weeks ago (and Honey hadn’t used her key for Ferg’s flat since). Never mind she knew it was serious, considering Fergie had just told her the other day that Edith would be moving in with him next weekend, which was surely his way of avoiding having to ask Honey to stop using his fireplace. “Aye. Alright,” she agreed, though Honey still had some doubts because they were moving so quickly. But Edith was funny and she drank a lot, so she was, at least, alright.
 
And she was a muggleborn. “That’s why I thought you were talking about her,” Honey said quietly, blinking twice. “That’s what she does, writes about the war.” She had known about her—about the writing, anyway—before Fergie had started dating her, but it was only after Edith had said it directly—I interviewed your mum—that Honey made the connection between the new girlfriend and her mum’s article.
 
Honey waited a beat before she rolled onto her side, folding her arm under her and sliding her hand under her head, under her pillow. “She interviewed my mum for the Prophet, before Ferg.” It had been when Honey and Charlie weren’t speaking, and she doubted Fergie would have brought it up over a pint. “But it—” Honey paused, swallowed, her mouth feeling dry— “It wasn’t some rubbish trying to make her look bad for not doing enough.” Her voice was still quiet, but she was determined to make a point, and she hoped it was obvious enough that she didn’t need to spell it out.
 
She was glad her mum hadn’t risked doing more, would probably never forgive Grace for risking so much, was suddenly far more grateful than she had ever been that Charlie had kept himself safe.

Charlie let out a weak laugh; he hoped not too.

Honey parroted him—Aye, alright—and he gave her a not-very-subtle look, which was presumably mostly lost in the gloom; he didn’t mean alright like she was fit (though, if pressed, he’d give her a nudge) — but he wasn’t smirking about it now because Honey was humouring his little pity party.

But the muggleborn thing was why she thought he was talking about Edith. “Oh, right,” he said. It said something that blood status was something people tended to know about each other in the wizarding world, didn’t it? Whether you were bloodist or not, you were aware of almost everyone’s lineage. It was easy to forget how good he’d had it, comparatively, with the mates he’d acquired over the years. Imagine he’d fallen in with the likes of Marcus fucking Flint.

Honey elaborated: Edith wrote about the war. Charlie’s eyebrows rose. “She never said.” He hadn’t exactly asked, but they’d had other things to talk about — and with him spending the first half an hour or so wondering if Fergie had bagged himself a muggle girlfriend, he’d been a bit preoccupied.

Honey shifted onto her side to face him properly; Charlie turned his head to look back at her. “Really?” Interviews were nothing foreign to him, but he correlated them with fame or notoriety in his head — what had Mrs Flume done to warrant being interviewed? Was she some sort of Scottish Schindler? He’d never pictured it, but then he’d never wanted to know anything about her—

Charlie’s eyes flicked back up to meet Honey’s from where he’d begun staring off into space again. He felt a rush of affection for her, then, when she tried to make him feel better about not doing enough. The corner of his lips twitched into a small smile and he nodded once, before gazing back up the ceiling.

He let out a deep (almost silent) sigh, then shuffled onto his side — keeping his arms down, not tucking one up under the pillow like Honey had done. He didn’t say anything for a minute, and strangely didn’t feel like he needed to. This was… It reminded him of the call at Christmas — just talking, properly. But now they had the benefit of not needing to fill the dead air.

"What did she do?" he asked after a moment, the curiosity overcoming him. He felt (not for the first time) like he was speaking entirely too loud for how quiet it was. “Like, I assume she couldn’t stay if you had dementors and shit.”

Honey tilted her chin for a hint of a nod rather than say anything else. There had been an interview but she wasn’t about to ruin the mood by telling him Mrs Flume had so many copies of it that it would be pretty easy to get him one-- that wasn’t what this was about, anyway. The whole thing had been about how she hadn’t done anything, couldn’t have. That was the point she--Edith--was trying to make, she thought (and Honey tried not to think about it too much).

Charlie turned onto his side; Honey continued looking at him, though it was a bit more obvious now that she was staring at him. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. This was a good place to end things, on the reassurance that he didn’t need to be doing something one reporter could consider extraordinary. They should sleep, if they could. It felt a little strange to be this close without any sort of physical contact, but she didn’t move.

He asked what she did; Honey had literally just been thinking about how her mum hadn’t done anything. She hadn’t been off rescuing orphans or-- she didn’t get the chance to say as much--again--before he asked another question. “She didn’t stay,” she said quietly, pretty sure she was meeting his eye in the mostly-dark. “Don’t know where she went.” And she still hadn’t told them. “At least she told us she was leaving,” she added, somehow feeling prompted to offer him more details. “Grace just--” she brought up her hand between them and waved it vaguely, trying to convey all the words she was thinking of without having to say them out loud. In the end, she settled on: “Left.” She was still mad about that.

She scratched her nose before she set her hand back down, her fingers grazing Charlie’s. It was unintentional, but not necessarily uncomfortable, and she didn’t make any effort to move.

She didn't stay. Well, that made him feel a bit better. His brow furrowed when Honey continued, telling him she didn't know where her mum had gone; it made sense in an 'at the time' way, but it had been literal years since -- had they really never talked about it? He supposed he didn't really talk about it in the context of 'during the war', it was usually catalogued in his mind as Banshee's first American tour-- what did that say about him?

But Mrs Flume did tell them she was leaving. Unlike Grace, apparently. Charlie could tell from her tone that Honey felt a certain way about that -- and he supposed he couldn't blame her; imagine just disappearing without a word -- who knew if you'd run or if you'd been caught?

Charlie watched as Honey scratched her nose--he'd grown familiar with that particular tell--and then his eyes grew a little wider in the dark as he felt her cool hand brush against his under the covers. He was more surprised still when she didn't pull away. He froze, wary of being the first to move and of moving the wrong way.

His fingertips curled around hers barely, tentatively. When she didn't withdraw he relaxed and took more of her fingers in his, slowly. He felt the urge to apologise for bringing the mood down by bringing up what clearly weren’t happy memories, or to apologise for Grace fucking off like she had -- but it wasn't his fault she'd been a dick, and when had she ever stuck up for him? He also wanted Honey to know he appreciated the way she'd tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t going to say thank you out loud.

Now probably wasn't the time to kiss her, but he was at a loss for what else to do -- they couldn't just go to sleep holding hands, and he didn't want to draw the focus back on himself (not in this scenario anyway). Charlie craned his neck forwards and found Honey's mouth with his, noses bumping together he shuffled his body closer to distract both himself and her from whatever that had been.

Honey felt Charlie’s fingers move against hers, and while she was expecting what happened next, it still took her a second to wrap her mind around it, shift her hand to hold his at a more comfortable angle. Her fingers slid between his; she only let herself overthink it for a couple more seconds, until she realized she was just trying not to think about what they were talking about, and then she was thinking about all of that again.

She didn’t let go of his hand as he kissed her, moved closer to her. It was a strange transition but it was certainly better than talking anymore. She didn’t try to speed things up; she moved toward him slowly, sinking back into the no sudden movements mindset from months before.

....

Honey’s head was on Charlie’s chest when she woke up, body turned in toward him, her arm draped over. It was a new sort of snuggling—for them, anyway—but it was not not nice. She didn’t move to look, but she thought she could tell from his breathing that he wasn’t still asleep.

The longer she laid there not talking, the more she remembered their conversation from last night. That was a first for them, nearly a first for Honey, in general— not having a conversation at all but talking about the war. She’d be alright if they never did that again, unless Charlie needed to hear again that he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Let’s go somewhere,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.