i feel fine [charlie]

wednesday night, 26 may 2004

She realized that letter was a bad idea as soon as the owl was out of arm’s reach, or about two seconds after she had sent it on its way. She had just been replying to his note and while it was technically true, Honey didn’t exactly want Charlie to know she wasn’t currently sleeping with anyone else. That hadn’t been the point she was trying to make-- though, honestly, she didn’t know what the point was at this.. point. It was bad enough that she was agreeing to go with him anywhere, but this—

Honey had had some wine, and then a bit more wine, and then a bit more because that was the thing to do when Grace graced her with her presence, like she had that night. She had anticipated the rest of their wine-suggested activities—maybe some kissing, definitely some snuggling—but Grace had fallen asleep as Honey had found her second wind. And then Charlie’s owl had arrived and replying seemed like a good idea.

But it was a bad idea. Honey had only just realized the whole situation maybe a week ago. It wasn’t like she had set out to find some sort of something that resembled exclusivity—she didn’t think it went both ways—but she liked their arrangement and he was meeting her needs, so she had simply made no move to change things.

Whatever the origin story of her feelings—no, the situation—she didn’t want to ruin things now by telling Charlie any of it. She wasn’t about to stupefy the owl out of the air, either, which left her with a couple of shit options: 1) apparate. To London. She’d lose only one arm if she were lucky. 2) Floo to London, but Charlie wasn’t on the network (and she would find time to roll her eyes about that later). She couldn’t floo to Fergie’s—she wasn’t confident she wouldn’t walk in on anything and she would be annoyed by that later, too—but she could floo to the Leaky Cauldron and apparate from there. It was doable, had to be because the only way to keep things like they were would be to intercept the letter, distract Charlie enough to not know she ever sent one. (Distraction would also be fun because she would otherwise be flying solo if she stayed home.)

She couldn’t think about it anymore. Or maybe she could a little, as she checked herself in the mirror. She looked flushed—the wine, the situation—but she hadn’t put pajamas on yet, so at least she had that going for her. She gave up on fussing with her hair after a few seconds and grabbed some floo powder before she could reconsider. It took a few minutes—and a solid break at the Leaky Cauldron to wait for the room to stop spinning—but she safely (more or less) arrived on Charlie’s street, all pieces and parts present and accounted for.

Honey knocked before remembering she didn’t need him to be there; he had given her a key back with his leg issues and— the key was back in Hogsmeade. She was almost too lost in thought, wondering what to do if he wasn’t there (because going back to Hogsmeade and returning to London again seemed out of the question), to realize the door was opening. “Hi.” He looked surprised, but not unhappy, to see her. That was good. “I—“ Honey blinked. She hadn’t gotten this far into planning The Plan. “Was out with Fergie.” She waited a beat before she raised her eyebrows, silently asking to be invited in.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie let the front door shut behind him and set his keys down on the little table in the hall with a clatter. He didn’t get his jacket or boots off before he heard a knock on the door through which he'd just come, and was half-expecting it to be a neighbour who'd just seen him get home, given the time of night, mid-week (what the hell did they want? If it was Caroline, he’d thought she’d gotten the hint by now)—

He opened the door to see Honey standing there and his eyes lit up in surprise; they hadn't planned to meet up tonight — she'd said she was going to be busy and he hadn't questioned it—not wanting to pry for details she didn't voluntarily offer him for fear of discovering something he couldn’t undiscover—and then he remembered the owl he’d sent just before he’d left to go to the pub (as if he hadn’t spent almost the entire time wondering if she’d replied, and if she had, what had she said)—

Charlie smiled, first, automatically—if she was here, wasn’t that an answer in itself?—then his (pleasantly) surprised expression faltered when she said she was out with Fergie. That was a lie, because he’d just been out with Fergie — and he didn’t want to assume the worst about how she’d come to be here, at his door (as the second choice, again), but it was hard not to— But, she was here, so—

His eyes searched her face, then narrowed; “Are you drunk?” He looked her over with more scrutiny — he hadn’t needed to ask, because that little sway told him everything — and he was mad for a different reason now, not that he wanted to admit what it was. His nostrils flared and he reached forward to pull her into his house and shut the door with a soft slam (he didn’t need the whole lane noticing that a woman had just appeared out of thin air on his front step, because he could guarantee Honey hadn’t been subtle about it).

Honey’s hands were on him and Charlie grabbed her wrists to stop her before he got distracted (because he would, if he let her). “Did you apparate here?” he asked harshly, his voice rising in volume because he already knew the answer. She pulled out of his grasp and Charlie felt his temper flare. “Why would you do that?” he continued his interrogation angrily, following her into his kitchen.

Charlie’s smile fell, and-- oh. Her gaze slid over him, head to toe. Hair slicked back, jacket on, shoes on-- oh. She had caught him on his way out, clearly meeting someone. Of course, that meant she could have waited a few minutes and missed him--though that brought her back to the problem of needing to go home and get the key, needing to remember where she put it--but thank Merlin she was regretting that letter, trying to undo it. It couldn’t be more clear that it was a one-sided situation, now.

She snapped back to the present when he spoke (finally). “No,” she said, blinking twice, quickly, before opening her eyes a little wider, try to look a little more awake, more sober. That should help corroborate her story, right? Maybe not, she figured out after a second. “A little.” She backtracked, admitting to one, maybe two glasses of wine.

He pulled her through the door and she grinned, misreading it as something far more sexual. (All she had to do was show up; she was too good at this.) Honey reached for his face, one hand on either side, both for some contact and as a means to steady herself as she pulled him closer, but he grabbed her wrists and Honey smirked. It usually took them at least a few minutes to get to this point, but she wasn’t complaining.

Or-- what? Did she apparate? “No.” It was another automatic response--because apparating would be dumb (and she hadn’t apparated that far, just from the Leaky Cauldron)--but more defensive. She pulled herself free of his grasp because this--lying to him--would be much easier from a distance. And without looking at him, too. She turned and stepped into the kitchen, unsure what was next.

He asked another question and she spun around to face him, sighing, already forgetting that she was trying not to look at him. “I wanted to see you.” That was technically true, of course, but she thought it might endear him to her, if only the littlest bit. “Thought you’d be a bit more pleased,” she added, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms across her chest.

Honey turned to face him and Charlie stopped in his tracks, still on the other side of the kitchen.

I wanted to see you.

He stared at her, then shifted slowly along his side of the kitchen to rest his backside against the counter opposite her, both hands gripping the edge of the countertop either side of his hips. They weren’t that direct — well, she was drunk, he supposed. He’d had a few himself, but he could still tell she was a fair way further along than he was— He was missing the point: she wanted to see him. Charlie let his eyes drift down over Honey in her t-shirt and jeans, the lace of her bra obvious through the thin cotton where it stretched over her curves — the moody lighting of the rangehood certainly wasn’t doing her any harm.

His eyes flicked back up to meet hers, that last owl he’d sent on loop at the forefront of his thoughts. She was here, she wanted to see him— Honey spoke again and occupied his mental processing for the time being. She thought he’d be pleased. He watched her fold her arms and fought the urge to do the same, gripping the counter tighter with one hand and rubbing at his jaw with the other, looking out the window to the dark street beyond before bringing his attention back to her.

“I am,” he admitted quietly. He pressed his lips together in a line and exhaled through his nose, pushed off the bench, and crossed the tiles to meet her. He was still annoyed—that she’d apparated, that she was lying about who she’d been with—but she was here and he didn’t want to ruin this — not so much right now but what they had, what was working (and maybe right now, too).

“Bit hypocritical,” he murmured, the slightest hint of a frown on his features; she’d gotten her knickers in a twist over him apparating drunk only a few months earlier, and he’d been better about it since then. His fingers hooked through her belt loops, giving them a soft tug. “If you wanted to see me that badly you could’ve just asked,” he teased, his mouth barely twitching into a smirk. His gaze fell to her lips and he wet his own, effectively wiping the smirk away. He didn’t really want to ask, didn’t want to know, but: “I was just out with Ferg,” he said, bringing his eyes back up to meet hers.

Charlie didn’t immediately give in, and the grip Honey had on her upper arm tightened. He took his time--two seconds, at least--before he looked at her. She didn’t have another line prepared, some other excuse for being there, though if I wanted to see you didn’t work then she didn’t know what sort of ego boost he was wanting (or what sort she would be willing to give). But he said he was pleased to see her after another second, even if he didn’t seem like he was-- it didn’t occur to her that he might genuinely be mad at her for being there, or for how she got there.

She kept still--or as still as possible after drinking most of one bottle of wine--as he crossed the kitchen to her, her arms still folded across her chest as he told her it was a bit hypocritical. Or she was. Either way she didn’t know what he was getting at, decided she didn’t much care what he was going on about when he pulled her closer by her belt loops, very effectively distracted when she had thought she would distract him. But this could work, too.

Honey uncrossed her arms, wanting to say something; she hadn’t wanted to see him that badly, but the way her hands had reached for his upper arms--close to wrapping them around him--might have indicated otherwise. And she had wanted to see him, to intercept the owl, because the whole point of the owl was how she was seeing only him. It was totally by accident of course, completely unplanned, though if she thought about it anymore she might convince herself there was some element of not wanting to see anyone else. But that was the wine.

“Mm,” she agreed, watching his gaze drop. She could figure out the owl later, figure out why it was mortifying to think about him reading her note. The talking was over for now, which was more than fine with her; Honey wanted to turn her brain off.

Her eyes were half closed--anticipating his lips on hers--when he spoke again; she opened her eyes, blinking once after meeting his gaze. He had been out with Ferg, so he knew she wasn’t conveniently in the neighborhood. “Oh, er--” Was this about her apparating, then? (Obviously it was; he had just asked her why she had apparated about ten seconds ago, but she had put that out of her mind almost as soon as he had said it.) Sure, she might have been mad at him for doing exactly that--drunk apparating--before but that was different (and she hoped he didn’t ask her how it was different because she didn’t have an actual answer for that).

“I was with Grace. At home,” she said, feeling rather caught out and finding it harder to come up with a different lie. (The Fergie excuse hadn’t failed her before; she was unprepared.) She trailed her hands over his shoulders, lacing her fingers together behind his neck and pulling him a little bit closer. “But I flooed to the Leaky Cauldron.” As if that would reassure him-- it occurred to her then that she could have flood to Fergie’s flat if he had been out, and then she could have walked--she was giving herself a lot of credit to her non-ability to walk through London without getting lost--and avoided whatever this could be turning into.

Charlie kept his dark eyes on Honey’s—also darker in this light—searching for any hint of a lie. She wasn’t with Fergie, so who was she with? Or was she alone, and genuinely had wanted to see him that badly? He pushed that thought out before it could root and take hold — he had fallen into this trap last time (and the time before), thinking she liked him more than she did—

He blinked. “Grace?” Of course, that was probably the next name she pulled out whenever she got caught out, after Fergie. But she said she had been at home — and he thought he believed that, for some reason; something in her tone, in the way she was gazing up at him. And at home was good, because that meant she had received his owl and her first thought had been to come and see him in person— But it was bad, too, because Hogsmeade to London was a long fucking way to apparate. Charlie frowned, his hands suddenly itching to roam over her for reasons other than the usual, check for any signs of splinching she wasn’t sober enough to take seriously — Lord knew he had experience there.

But he was distracted by her hands, sliding up his shoulders, linking at the base of his neck, fingers brushing the shorter hairs on the back of his head. He shuffled half a step closer, unhooking his thumbs from her belt loops to press her hips properly against the counter.

Flooing to the Leaky Cauldron was better, but he shook his head softly. “That doesn’t matter,” he told her, speaking quietly, this close, but with an edge of identifiable anger in his tone. “What if you’d—” He met Honey’s gaze and stopped talking, pressing his lips together. It wasn't like he was admitting to anything she didn't already know—anything she hadn't made obvious by visiting him for six weeks at the beginning of the year—but she was drunk and maybe she’d forget all of this by the morning.

"You'd be mardy if I'd done it," he said, hoping to salvage some of the casualness he’d lost.

That doesn’t matter, he said, and Honey blinked, sure from his tone that it did matter. Her jaw tensed as she swallowed, dropping her gaze to his lips. Now would be the time to distract him properly, wouldn’t it? Distract him from how upset he was, continue distracting him from the owl that would arrive in a couple hours. His hands were on her hips properly now, it would be easy. But she was thinking too slowly to act before he spoke again.

Honey raised her eyebrows, willing him to finish that thought--what if she had--because it sounded like-- it sounded less like he was mad because she was a hypocrite and more like because she could have splinched herself. She narrowed her gaze, looking at him a little more intently. It was normal, friendly like, to not want someone to splinch themselves, especially on one’s own doorstep, but Merlin, he just needed to pick just the one thing to be mad about. She’d had far too much wine to deal with two separate reasons, plus deal with the one reason that had brought her here.

Before she confuse herself too much further, Charlie told her she’d be mardy; she didn’t pause to realize she knew what he meant--both mardy and what, exactly, it was--or try to credit her understanding to having spent too much time with him lately. “I’d’ve waited ‘til morning to be mardy,” she said, raising her eyebrows defensively. (Never mind this wasn’t really a problem for them anymore; lately they had been making plans around not needing to apparate, finding pubs with inns attached, plus even having more than necessary sober time together.)

His body language wasn’t really aligning with his words, aligning more with her own priorities. But this--Charlie being mad but also admitting he… cared? about her wellbeing--warranted a little more discussion. Or something like discussion. Honey’s gaze surveyed Charlie’s face and she grinned lazily. She unlaced her fingers, resting one hand more deliberately on the back of his neck, the other hand coming around to the side of his neck so she could drag her thumb along his jawline. “If you’re worried you could just say so,” she said, her grin tilting farther toward a smirk.

Charlie didn’t miss the rise of her brow, or the narrowing of her eyes; Shit.

Honey said she’d have waited ‘til the morning, then proceeded to give him that same look again, just to make it really clear what she was accusing him of. Charlie averted his gaze up and away, avoiding it—avoiding what she was pointing out, avoiding ruining things—before looking out to the side, at the dark abyss of the window, and then down — for once not intentionally staring at her tits.

His thumbs absently stroked the warm skin under her t-shirt, and he met her eyes again: she was grinning at him — he couldn’t quite work out if she was smug or drunk or both (most likely both). Charlie rolled his eyes, smiling (barely blushing) — not not enjoying the hand on his neck, or the caress of her thumb on his jaw. He brought his gaze back to meet Honey’s. This wasn’t what they were supposed to be doing — but she didn’t look mad about it (the opposite, if anything). He swallowed. “Yeah, alright,” he said, intentionally vague; he could just say so, he was worried — both fit, didn’t they?

But now there was the temptation to just… talk about this. Them. He’d obviously thought about it before sending that last owl—the last three, technically—because what were they doing, if not pseudo-dating? They were at each other’s places multiple times a week—and not just to shag—going on trips places nobody would recognise them—

But Honey was steaming—easy denial, if things went south—and he’d been staring at her—this close, her hands on him—for a good minute now. Charlie dipped his head and pressed his mouth to hers, not ready to risk anything more than admitting to being worried.

“Yeah, alright,” she said, matching his tone, his inflection, with a hint of mockery; he had been worried and she had caught him out and— what was her point? That was nowhere near as bad as her impending owl. She raised her eyebrows, hoping that would compel him to say something else; she lowered her eyebrows when he didn’t say anything, flattened her expression. Charlie continued not saying anything and Honey continued the lazy movement of her thumb along his jawline, eased the fingertips of her other hand up into his hair. That was enough talking—she didn’t think he was mad at her anymore, at least—and he seemed to figure that out at the same time, as Honey tilted her chin up to kiss him.

She dropped her hands to the end of her t-shirt after a couple seconds, pausing for a breath long enough to pull it over her head, not caring that Charlie still had his jacket on or hadn’t asked her yet to stay; Charlie could undress himself and the sleepovers were a given at this point.

…

Honey had almost fallen asleep after—she had been determined to be a good distraction in case the owl had arrived during—but the panic about the owl’s imminent arrival had kept her awake. It seemed to be taking its time, or the wine had slowed down time for her, or both; the clock beside Charlie—asleep, thankfully—said it was nearly one o’clock when she heard the tap tapping of her owl at one of the bedroom windows. She got out of bed—quietly, slowly—and hurried over to the window, only pausing for half a second to wonder what she must look like, creeping around the window wearing nothing. She didn’t stop to consider Charlie getting owl post from anyone else— she just would read it (or destroy it) if it wasn’t the note she sent. Easy.

But it was her owl (Beans) and Honey got the window open to take the note and tell him to go home. She unrolled the receipt and read her latest addition again—haven’t fucked anyone else in.. a month? xx—and grimaced. Yeah, it was as bad as she remembered. Them not getting attached was why they worked so well; no strings, not serious, and so on and so forth. She spun to look for her wand, intent on vanishing the note, before she remembered it was still downstairs. She could flush it, maybe— or she could just go downstairs and get her wand. She swapped to looking for her shirt before remembering it was also downstairs; she turned toward the drawers she was standing next to and pulled one open, grabbing one of Charlie’s shirts and pulling it on as she left the room, leaving the drawer open behind her.

She was rather quiet until she clocked the bedroom doorknob with her hip, letting out a less than quiet, “Fuck.” She turned to look back at Charlie;  he stirred but he was still asleep. Honey continued downstairs without any other incident, her heart still racing from the encounter with the doorknob (and probably from the lengths she was going to to make sure she didn’t lose this sex in particular).

Honey attempted to find her wand in the dark, but gave up after a minute, squinting her eyes shut as she flipped the switch in the kitchen. It was right there on the bench, where she’d left it after pulling it out of her pocket so she could get her jeans off; she stopped, her hand outstretched and hovering above it when she heard Charlie’s what are you doing? behind her. She turned, backing up against the counter in an attempt to look as casual as she could. “Was just—“ Honey crossed her arms and noticed the parchment she was still holding onto— “sending Grace a note.” That could make sense; she had left Grace without telling her she was going anywhere and Honey expected her to worry when she woke up without Honey next to her.

Fuck.

Charlie stirred, eyes still closed with a soft frown on his features — trying earnestly to stay in the realm of sleep. He reached out to Honey’s side of the bed, fingers extending to search for her; his hand smoothed lazily back and forth across the mattress to make sure— nope. He lifted his head and peered around the room, at the dark doorway to the ensuite — not there, either. Charlie’s frown deepened and he pressed himself up into a sitting position slowly. He heard the creaky step and deduced that Honey had gone downstairs — for what, though?

He got to his feet and promptly walked into the open drawer of his dresser, hissing “Fuck—” under his breath before slamming it shut in annoyance. Then opened the drawer above to retrieve a pair of boxers and slip into them, scowling.

Charlie slinked down the stairs quietly—skipping the noisy step—one hand on the rail to steady himself. The kitchen light turned on just before he reached the doorway, and he lingered in the frame as Honey reached for her wand. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice still thick from sleep. He padded into the now brightly-lit kitchen, squinting at her in nowt but one of his t-shirts (The Beatles) — not that he minded the view, of course.

Honey backed up against the counter, arms across her chest, and Charlie moved closer — stopping when she answered him. His eyes darted immediately to the paper in her hand — which was quite clearly a Honeydukes receipt (he was pretty familiar with how they looked, now). “Yeah?” He wet his lips, belatedly bringing his gaze up to meet hers. “You sure she’s not sending you one?” he asked, his tone verging on accusatory — but that was the most logical explanation, right? But what was Grace doing sending owls at this time of night? Here? Unless Honey had ditched her for him, or she was warning Honey off— But Honey wouldn’t have told Grace they were shagging, surely— What if Honey had apparated here before his last owl had arrived?

Charlie stepped closer still, crowding her against the counter. “What’s so urgent?” His eyes moved from hers to the receipt again and he could see now that it was their back-and-forth, from earlier. His heart sank — or, something in his chest did. The most feasible scenario was that Honey had come here, then his owl had arrived, and Grace had received it in Honey’s stead— and had sent it here, to show Honey how much of a psychopath he was. He was, wasn’t he? Honey didn’t want that — she’d told him as much last time he’d been stupid enough to think—

He brought his hand up to try and take the slip of parchment from her — see what they were saying about him.

Honey did her best to not look startled, not look caught out, because she was on both accounts. She was breathing quickly, probably overcompensating, mostly just looking annoyed. “Yeah.” She was sending Grace an owl and even though she had seen him look at the parchment in her hand, that was the story she was sticking to. But fuck, that would have been smarter, to say Grace had owled her-- Charlie didn’t even own an owl, and Honey had sent Beans back home. Plus, she was clearly holding a Honeydukes receipt and she didn’t exactly carry those around with her.

But too late now. Charlie stepped closer and Honey doubled down. “I left without telling her.” That was true, and Grace would worry about her leaving because she had seen her drinking all that wine, didn’t want her drinking and apparating. Oh-- that put her and Charlie’s earlier argument into a different perspective, didn’t it? Honey tightened her grip around the parchment, too large for it to be completely hidden in her fist; that wasn’t enough--Charlie caring about her wellbeing--for Honey to want to risk him reading it now.

“I didn’t want to leave--” leave Charlie, she meant-- “before she woke up.” She thought that would be a good enough explanation, enough for him to stop trying to pry the note from her fingers, but he hadn’t let up. Honey uncrossed her arms, dropping her hands to her side. “Really-- sorry I woke you up.” She took a step to the side, maneuvering to grab her wand and take one more step, out from between Charlie and the counter.

Her grip was still tight on the note, but she tried to be less obvious about holding her wand. They just needed to go back upstairs; honestly, she could probably take care of vanishing the parchment on the walk up, she just needed Charlie to not look for a few seconds. “Let’s go back to bed,” she said after another second, attempting a smirk she wasn’t really feeling.

Charlie clenched his jaw softly, keeping his gaze focused on Honey’s face — Honey’s face as she lied to him. He had thought she’d be better at it, given— He exhaled through his nose. He didn’t want to be this person—jealous, controlling—but it wasn’t even about that. He was arguably more concerned about what she thought about him: asking her to be his date to her brother’s birthday, like a fucking prat.

Honey kept going, saying that she left without telling Grace. He supposed that much could be true — would explain Grace owling Honey to warn her off. The main flaw in her excuse was the fact that he didn’t own a means of initiating communication with someone in Hogsmeade (which had been something he’d been considering rectifying more and more lately -- like a fucking prat).

Had she not been so obviously lying he might have let himself believe that--that she didn't want to leave, that she was sorry for waking him up--but it was more likely that she was just sorry he'd woken up before she could sneak off. Honey uncrossed her hands and conveniently moved the parchment out of his grasp -- which wasn't suspicious at all.

Nor was grabbing her wand.

Honey turned, as if she knew he would just go along with what she wanted -- and hadn't he done just that for the last few months? Ignored any hint of her being busy with someone else so long as she was still making time for him? Charlie grabbed her upper arm and brought her back to face him. "Show me." His voice was low but firm, not unlike his grip-- Christ, he was a controlling prick, wasn't he? But he'd already fucked things up, the last thing he wanted was to look weak and timid about it -- to give her the chance to call him fucking pathetic again.

Honey turned to leave, to go back to bed, fully expecting Charlie to follow her--when hadn’t he?--but Charlie grabbed her (and not in a fun way), turning her back around. The look on her face read get tae fuck, but Charlie beat her to actually saying anything. “No,” she said in quick reply, matching the firmness of his voice but not the volume, her temper already getting the better of her. His hand was on her wand arm and she brought that hand up--grip tight on her wand--between them, making a few futile attempts to swat him off of her with the side of her fist while also trying to keep her other hand--the one with the note--out of reach. It was almost like their last fight; here, in his kitchen, but then he had been too mad to touch her.

And things had been going so well since then. She tried to reassure herself by thinking about what a waste it had been, but before she could convince herself she actually believed that, Charlie got his fingers around the note. Red sparks zipped out of her wand--unintentionally, she was pretty sure--just as she felt the note slipping out of her grasp; she tightened her grip around the parchment as Charlie finally took a step back.

Honey sidestepped again, then turned back around, staring down at the note in her hand. She didn’t have time to put it down somewhere before she made to vanish it; she uncurled her fingers from around it and pointed her wand at it as it sat in her flattened palm. But it didn’t disappear--neither did her hand, but that was less important now--flying out of her hand instead, up and over her head.

She spun around to find it, try again--she wasn’t concentrating properly, surely--but it wasn’t anywhere on the floor for her to snatch it up. Charlie had it. She didn’t allow herself to think too hard before she had her wand pointed at him--rather than reach for it with her hand--her “Give it back,” coming out a bit more shrill than she had intended. She didn’t want to hex him, not exactly, but she didn’t stop to consider why not.

No. Charlie frowned, not exactly surprised by her not just handing the vandalised receipt over when he’d asked so nicely — but, annoyed? Sure. He couldn’t decide if Honey was doing this intentionally, now, just to make him look like more of a twat. He tried to reassure himself that she had come here first, but— Honey was holding the note in her left, so Charlie let go of her with his right to try take it from her— She countered him by holding the slip of parchment back, out of his reach, while the tip of her wand got perilously close to his nostril. He pushed forward—determined now despite how childish the whole thing was—and his fingers closed around the parchment.

In the next second red sparks fizzed out of Honey’s wand, the sound and effect reminiscent of an (angry) sparkler. Charlie’s eyes widened and he stepped back, giving up the ground he’d won in favour of keeping his eyebrows. Honey moved, turning her back to him. Charlie hesitated for a long second — he didn’t much fancy his chances; he didn’t have his wand, and even if he did he knew Honey would out-jinx him. What was he achieving anyway? She’d already read it, hadn’t she? But he’d already made a twat out of himself and he wanted to know what was so bloody bad that she was going to such lengths to keep it from him.

He’d just worked up the courage to lunge at her—grab her from behind, wrap his arms around her and try to pry her wand out of her hand, he figured—when the receipt floated up into the air as if caught on a tiny jet stream passing through the kitchen. Charlie stepped up on his tiptoes and grabbed it mid-flight. Triumphant, he kept the paper held aloft — though mostly because it meant it was still out of her reach, rather than from any sense of victory. Honey quickly drew her wand on him, properly this time. Charlie’s focus was very much on it, rather than on her face. She had hexed him before, but it had been minor (it had only taken half an hour for his tongue to unstick itself from the roof of his mouth — he’d been another fifteen minutes off apparating to St Mungo’s and just dealing with the embarrassment).

Charlie met Honey’s eyes and attempted to look confident when he asked “What are you gonna do with that?” He was calling her bluff, but as he lowered his arm slowly she didn’t make any move to blast him across the room; he couldn’t settle on whether that was a good sign or bad — what if she wasn’t cursing him because she felt too guilty about whatever she or Grace had written? Charlie chose to take the risk and look down at the parchment in his hand, his eyes scanning across the familiar handwriting quickly, adjusting to the different directions they had written in to utilise all of the space. There was nothing obvious—

don’t know where i’d find a different date
haven’t fucked anyone else in.. a month? xx

Charlie blinked and reread it, double-checked that it was in response to what he’d sent (so does that mean we’re going together?). Slowly, Charlie lifted his gaze to stare at her — and as soon as he did, he wanted to look back down to make sure he’d read it right—that they had been tussling over that—but he didn’t want to break eye contact with her, either. He was simultaneously trying to work out what was so bad about it—was she embarrassed?—and when the last time was that he’d fucked anyone else—more than a month, too, at a quick guess—and why was this worth threatening to hex him ov—

Oh. He was still staring, not saying anything. His eyes flickered down for a brief second before meeting hers again. He wet his lips. “Is that it?” he asked quietly, his tone devoid of any hint of mockery.

Honey’s gaze slid from the end of her wand to Charlie’s face. She rotated her hand at the wrist, getting a surer grip, though her mind had gone blank when she should have been deciding whether to turn his nose hairs into noodles or earthworms. She swallowed hard, meeting Charlie’s eye as he challenged her. She opened her mouth to answer him, closed it again after a second of no sound coming out; he was unrolling the slip of parchment and looking down to read it and--

Maybe she wanted him to read it. A month wasn’t long at all, not in the grand scheme of things. What was the worst that could happen? Charlie would think that the monogamy (on her part) was some indication of Honey getting emotional and this--them--only worked as long as no emotions got involved; Honey had said that from the start.

But if there was a chance he was alright with it-- Honey blinked, figuring she must still be drunk if she was letting her thoughts wander in that direction. The only thing to worry about now was ruining what they had going because it had been going well; she waited for it, the scoff, the smirk, the disgusted god, she’s clingy face, anything. He might have been obsessed with her once but things were different now.

Charlie took his time reading the note, all of two lines, then didn’t say anything once he had looked up. Honey still had her wand pointed at him; could she get away with obliviating him? Probably not. Honey swallowed, licked her lips; waited for him to say anything.

Except it was just is that it? and Honey blinked. Was he asking if it had only been a month? As if she should have stopped sleeping with everyone else ages ago because he was some sort of sex god-- his expression wasn’t nearly smug enough--or smug at all, really--for that to be what he was getting at. “I--” she started, pausing to lower her wand to her side, stalling, wanting to be sure that he was asking her if that was all she was hiding from him.

“Yes.” That was it, and it wasn’t obvious how Charlie felt about it. Honey waited a beat before she went on: “But that’s not what this--” she waved her hand vaguely between the two of them, continuing a long streak of not being able to complete her sentences when she was put on the spot, emotionally (or whatever).