i feel fine [charlie]

Honey lowered her wand and Charlie felt the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly. He mirrored her belatedly, letting the hand holding the note fall to his side slowly. But yes. That was it — she hadn’t slept with anyone else. In a whole month (don’t think about all the months prior — he could already feel a lick of jealousy coursing up to spoil things).

He hadn’t worked out—nor had she elaborated—whether it had been intentional or anything other than chance but— to mention it seemed like there was a point, didn’t it? And what could the point be, other than to find out what he was doing? She spoke again before he could decide to let her know. He kept his eyes on Honey’s face as she waved her hand (the one not holding her wand, thankfully) between them.

Charlie knew what she meant, even without finishing her sentence — and no, it wasn’t, but hadn’t he been thinking about this just last night? He hadn’t made any conscious choice to only sleep with her, and part of why this worked and how he’d fallen into that pattern was because things with her were easy — but they weren’t just easy in bed. They had been spending more time with each other, without the explicit intention of— and it was working, wasn’t it?

He was breathing slow, and he could hear her breaths, too, with her standing just over an arms length away. It was so quiet and— and this was the closest they were ever going to get to having an adult conversation about this. Them. He wet his lips. It wasn’t like he hadn’t put himself out there before—but don’t think about that, because that hadn’t ended as he’d hoped.

Fuck it. He could take it back if she didn’t want to, but the owl in his hand suggested otherwise. “What if it was?”

Charlie didn’t say anything, didn’t try to interrupt her before she said the wrong thing. He was just standing there and staring at her, not saying anything. Fuck. She shouldn’t have come to his house like this, should have just let the owl arrive and let things sort themselves out naturally. He could have read the note and had the same reaction and then she wouldn’t have to bear witness to it; he could have just written back to her. Or not: that was how they had ended things once; it could have worked again. Besides, the notes were way easier than a real conversation. Everything was easier than talking.

Except she liked when they talked. That was part of the problem. It had started with the phone call, but lately-- she really did think they were friends now, separate from the sex. Neither of those things would survive this going any way but one, the one way that Charlie seemed to suggest with his next question.

Honey’s eyes went a little wide. What if it was? Was he serious? She blinked and narrowed her eyes, but it didn’t seem like it was one of those tests, that sure you know how to use a phone. She waited a few more seconds for him to start laughing at his little joke, take it back, or--

Why was she letting him affect her like this, ruin her confidence? She should have been able to just wave it off with a laugh and an it’s only Charlie but she wasn’t there-- but she also wasn’t about to say aye, we should date, because that would be stupid. They were-- she had tried that last time, overlooking red flags in favor of some dumb romantic notion because of chemistry.

“We don’t have good track records for it,” she said finally. That much was true, anyway, and had been established time and again.

Honey’s eyes widened and Charlie thought he’d somehow misread the situation, despite all evidence pointing to this being what she wanted — what she had brought up, with her owl (even if she’d subsequently tried to take it back — and maybe that was the problem). He kept quiet—out of embarrassment, or fear, or whatever—just long enough for her to not exactly say no.

He let out a light laugh in (misplaced?) relief. “Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “yours is better than mine.” He watched her react to his words, and his mouth fell ajar— That had been a dumb fucking thing to say. His expression said it, too. “I—” he started, before pressing his lips together, resolving to think a bit more before speaking again. Honey was right — neither of them were poster adults for monogamy and commitment, but he wasn’t even entirely sure that was what they were talking about.

Charlie folded his arms across his chest, subconsciously defensive as he put himself out there (again). He was acutely aware of the fact he was standing in his kitchen in his boxers, nothing to hide behind literally or figuratively. Christ, he could do with a drink, or a smoke, but the moment they abandoned this conversation—even for the time it would take to crack a bottle or light a cigarette—he had the feeling it would never crop up again. They wouldn’t let it.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked, his tone still serious as he absently scratched at his elbow, before letting his hand inch higher to grip his bicep tightly.

Charlie laughed, so that was great. There was a yeah, well and a shrug next, and Honey glanced toward the refrigerator, determined to look at anything other than Charlie, agreeing with her about why this couldn’t work, why this was better suited to how it was now, no strings. For once, she didn’t like that she was right.

But maybe her ‘better’ track record was part of the reason she didn’t want him to know about the owl in the first place. She didn’t want to put herself out there, get into a vulnerable spot— but then she would have hexed him instead of letting him read it, right? She must have wanted him to know, or something; it shouldn’t have been so confusing. It looked like Charlie was thinking along the same lines as her, regretting pointing out the obvious. They wouldn’t work because they were shit at this, her technically better record aside.

And then there was that: what was the worst that could happen? “Er—“ she had literally just been thinking about that, but she wasn’t ready to put it into words. If she didn’t ruin things first—it had been a month already and she hadn’t found a reason to follow through with any temptations, and what was she trying to prove then if no one but her knew?—then surely Charlie would, because that was how they worked.

He wasn’t saying no, though, and that was something. Honey met his eye again, her mouth pressed in a hard line. “The worst thing,” she started, stalling, figuring she could be mostly honest and make this more about her than any other feelings she might have about losing their friendship. She hesitated another second before adding: “I get fucked over again.” That much was true, anyway. It would be worse for her if Charlie ruined things, and he had worse than an old friend to worry about— he had an ex-wife that was less ex than Honey would have preferred. Somehow that was easier to admit than not wanting to risk not talking to him again.

His right thumb was digging into his left bicep painfully whilst his left hand wrapped around his opposite side, tucked under his arm, fingertips tapping anxiously against the bare skin of his torso. Honey hesitated and Charlie kept staring at her. His jawline stiffened, then softened when she finally said it: I get fucked over again. He loosened his grip in the same moment it sank in — an irrational guilt settling in his stomach like lead. Or, perhaps not so irrational — he had ended this before, hadn’t he? But it hadn’t been cheating, then, and he was confident that that was what she meant now. “Honey, I—” he started quietly, then stopped: he couldn’t make that promise, as much as he wanted to. His track record right now was good, but right now he wasn’t technically in a relationship to have a record to track.

Charlie glanced away, at the floor tiles, then back up to her face. “This is different,” he said, without elaborating further. He didn’t want to have to point out exactly how — he thought maybe Honey already knew, if she had sent that owl in the first place. She wasn’t Kate and he wasn’t Harlan, were the obvious differences — but he could see the concern, more specifically in his direction. He didn’t know enough about her relationship with Harlan to point out with any confidence how he was better, how this might actually work. (Was he better?)

From his perspective, Honey wasn’t a teenager, giddy on her first real relationship. There wasn’t the power imbalance that had been there with Kate. They weren’t working together. He wasn’t moving to sleepy little Hogsmeade in any hurry—and he couldn’t imagine Honey anywhere other than in the flat above Honeydukes—so they weren’t about to be living in each other’s pockets. And, perhaps most importantly, she had already dumped Bellamy over cheating, so Charlie knew she wouldn’t stand for him pulling the same shit on her. Kate’s forgiveness had been her downfall, ultimately.

Charlie let a big sigh out through his nostrils, looked away from Honey and back again: in his kitchen, in the middle of the night, in his t-shirt. They were so comfortable. She had to see that they were practically already there, didn’t she? But she still wasn’t being clear about what she wanted, despite his (equally unclear) prompts. He didn’t want to continue this under anything vague because the longer they avoided it, the harder it would be to bring it back up again.

He’d already offered to do whatever she wanted in an owl, but that had been along the lines of jokey-dating, this was... It could be real dating, if— “What do you want?”

She shouldn’t have been enjoying this at all, but there was something about his expression that made her feel somewhat better. The last time they had really talked about this--her last relationship, not any potential new one--had been that phone call and she hadn’t been able to see him then and this was easier to focus on than how she was even sort of talking about her feelings. Charlie started, like he had something to say; stopped when he must have thought better of it. It wasn’t surprising that he didn’t have a follow up--assuming he understood what she was accusing him of--but it was surprising that he wasn’t accusing her of anything, either.

It was different, he said, and Honey made a point to look anywhere else but at him. It felt familiar, the kitchen conversation. She had shown up to Harlan’s, drunk and declaring she wanted to date him. Six months later they had had another kitchen conversation, one that went much worse. Never mind whatever happened in this kitchen-- maybe she needed to stop having conversations in kitchens, however impossible that might have been.

Honey was waiting for him to elaborate on how this was different, enlighten her somehow. She didn’t want to say anything else without being sure, didn’t want to put herself out there anymore than she already had. She had already let him read the note; wasn’t that good enough? It certainly was embarrassing enough.

She looked at him when he sighed, met his eye once he had looked away and back again. They were at a standstill, because neither of them were going to say it. She was used to that silence, the intentional one to trick her into saying something she would end up regretting. So when Charlie was direct, asking her right out what she wanted-- it was hard to not look annoyed.

“I don’t--” know, she was going to say, except she did know, didn’t she? She thought this was happening out of convenience. It wasn’t complicated. Charlie had nothing but time for her-- and somewhere along the way, she had started making more time for him, finding reasons to see him. It was so obvious she couldn’t believe she was about to say it. She sighed, keeping her gaze on him. “I don’t--” she started again, paused for a second before pushing on “--want to sleep with other people.” She could be crass about it later; it was about being direct, now. She waited a second to give herself the opportunity to reconsider before she pushed forward some more: “Don’t want you to, either.”

Honey wasn’t looking at him and Charlie went back to digging his thumb into his arm as a form of distraction. He was waiting for her to take it back, say she hadn’t thought things through — that was why she’d tried to hide the owl, and so on. He looked away himself, then back in time to see her scowling softly at him. She started to say something, then stopped. Charlie shifted his weight onto the other foot, waiting for her to carry on — he’d asked first, etc.

He stopped pressing his thumb into his bicep, began staring at her more intently. He didn’t say anything immediately in response — which was fortunate, because she proceeded to tell him she didn’t want him sleeping around either, as if he’d expected her to be alright with that while she attempted monogamy on her own. “Yeah,” was all he managed to get out — nerves, or something. The feeling that this was just some sort of trick on her part or something — but this was too elaborate, too serious.

It took him another long minute to realise he hadn’t sounded enthusiastic, or been very clear about his position on all of this. “I— Me too.” Had he realised that that was what he’d wanted until now? How long have you and Honey been dating? Fergie’s girlfriend Edith had asked him when they’d met. It had been too ridiculous to expect Honey to want this—him—so he’d just shoved it down and ignored it. Laughed it off. Chosen not to ask where she was going, and with whom, whenever she had plans so that he could convince himself it wasn’t another bloke. Apparently that hadn’t been the case — for the last month, at least.

But, Christ, what if he did fuck her over? He’d seen what she was like after— He didn’t want to think about that (him) right now. But she had been different since, hadn’t she? And hadn’t he (Charlie), too?

He caught Honey’s eye—hadn’t really lost it—and offered her a small smirk (when in doubt). They were still standing with enough distance between them that he couldn’t just distract her with some physical contact — but he didn’t want to distract her, exactly. He wet his lips and uncrossed his arms, resting his hands lightly on his hips instead. “Edith already thought we were dating anyway,” he shrugged and scuffed his foot across the tiles, as if that settled things.

Charlie looked around the kitchen, just to give himself a break from the eye contact, but found himself searching her out again after he’d done a loop of the cabinets. The corner of his lips pulled up into a lopsided smile. “Now what?”

Yeah, he said, and that was it. She had said all of that, and he had said yeah. Right, then. It had been a stupid thing to ask of him--she knew that, of course--and if she was being honest, it was a stupid thing to expect herself to keep wanting to do. It was so stupid, all of it-- she was, again. She flexed her grip on her wand, only vaguely realizing she was still holding onto it.

Honey was still looking at him when he spoke again, hadn’t wanted to be the first to say anything (else). So-- him, too. He wanted what she wanted? She had to assume that was what meant because he would have been more clear if he was putting her off. She had some experience with that, from him, to know better.

So, it was out there now. Honey couldn’t take it back now (except she knew that wasn’t technically true, but there certainly wasn’t a good or easy way to take it back right now).

Charlie smirked, and Honey realized she hadn’t smiled--or really offered any positive expression--since she had staked a claim on monogamy with him, but she didn’t start now; her eyes went wide when he mentioned Edith. That was probably Fergie’s fault, too uncomfortable to tell his girlfriend the true nature of their--Honey and Charlie’s--relationship. Not relationship, in that sense, but-- except that was what they were doing now, wasn’t it? She didn’t have time to dwell on it, wondering in the next second if she needed to clarify to Charlie that she hadn’t been the one to tell her brother they were dating; she hadn’t planned to even tell Charlie.

“Edith can tell Fergie, then,” she said after a couple more seconds, smirking softly, finally. Merlin knew she wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, anyway.

She wasn’t sure what to do when he wasn’t looking at her. She tapped her wand lightly against her thigh, fidgeting, stalling as she tried to decide between talking about this some more or making sure they didn’t talk. But he looked at her again, and she returned his smile without really thinking about it. Now what, indeed. “No idea.” This would have been easier if she had just let the owl do his thing, deliver the letter like normal.

Honey was sure she wanted her now what to be now we shag but the slightly more sensible--or, more realistically, the more suspicious--side of her was leaning toward a bit more talking. She didn’t want to have to ask for clarification (because this was embarrassing enough, as is, asking Charlie Baker to date) but he had already said it (sort of) so technically, she wasn’t saying it first. “We’re dating, then?” Her eyebrows went up and her smile wasn’t quite as visible, but at least she had refrained from asking if he thought this was a good idea (because she thought she would agree when he said it wasn’t).

Charlie let out a light laugh (borderline nervous giggle); he couldn’t quite tell if she was being serious about letting Edith tell her brother, but he certainly didn’t want that honour — he (and his jaw) could still remember how Ferg had reacted last time, when it had just been shagging.

Honey smiled, finally, and Charlie relaxed — considering she had been the one to state her intentions first, her lack of enthusiasm (nevermind his own) had kept him on edge about what they were doing here.

But: no idea. Great, he had no idea too — or, well, he had one idea, but he was pretty sure she’d have had it too, and if she wasn’t jumping straight to it, he wasn’t going to either. There was obviously more to talk—or not talk—about, first. If he thought about it, he did want to clarify things—were they dating now? Boyfriend and girlfriend?—but he was also reluctant to make this gay (and risk spooking her, again).

They appeared to be on the same page about this, at least — Honey asked him outright, clarifying things. Charlie stared at her for a moment, paralysed by the reality of it all, then nodded: they were dating. “Yeah,” he added as an afterthought, figuring he ought to verbalise his agreement. The corner of his lips tugged up into a lopsided smile and he let his hands slip from his hips to hang by his sides, just in case the Superman-style pose was coming across as confrontational or something. Was he going to overthink everything now? Christ.

He wet his lips and stepped closer (subtly, he thought), clasping his hands together behind his back rather than have them just hanging there awkwardly. “You gonna put that down now?” he smirked, nodding at her wand still in her hand.

Yeah. So they were dating. And she had initiated it. “Alright,” she said, nodding once. She probably wouldn’t forgive herself for being so stupid if it ended like it had the last time--her last time, almost exactly a year ago--but she had already said what she had wanted, the exclusivity. She didn’t think she needed to say it again, though it was more like she didn’t want to say it again.

This wasn’t what she had expected, not from him nor from herself, but mentioning any of that now would ruin the mood more than date me had. She was thinking about this far too much considering how little thought went into that owl.

Charlie smiled and things started to sink in a little. She still wasn’t sure what had changed between them--or with her, seeing as Charlie had tried to date her before and had been obsessed with her since he was twelve, or something--but she returned his smile instead of trying to figure that out now. There’d be time for that later, plenty of time alone to not just figure it out for herself, but figure out what to tell other people--Grace, mainly, but Fergie was a close second--once she had figured it out for herself, and all of that at a time when she and Charlie weren’t standing in front of each other, half dressed.

Honey’s gaze slid down over his chest, flicking it back up lazily as he asked his question. “Hm?” She had heard him, but it took her a second to catch up and look down at her hand, still wrapped around her wand. “Oh. Aye.” She caught his eye again before she added: “Yeah.” She probably didn’t need to threaten him with it anymore (tonight). She turned and set it on the counter closest to her, turned back and met his eye again, another smirk on her lips. She only hesitated about half a second before she lunged at him, wrapping one arm around his waist and drawing him closer with the other hand behind neck.

She pressed her lips to his almost too eagerly, nearly knocking his teeth with her own, but they had done enough talking for one night.

[out]

He watched her eyes drift down over his chest and smirked softly to himself, glad that that hadn’t changed. Other things would, surely, but— Well, things already had, before this. That was how they’d gotten here, after all — she’d changed her mind about him, at some point — about them. He almost wanted to ask what it had been, but drawing attention to it might not do him any favours — better to leave it well enough alone, for now at least.

Charlie watched (still smirking) as Honey turned to place her wand on the counter, then turn back to face him. He unclasped his hands from behind his back (ready), met her eye and—

Was caught off guard slightly by her eagerness. Perhaps some subconscious part of him had expected that to be different, now — but he wasn’t about to complain, definitely didn’t want this, in particular, to change; her hand on the back of his neck, threading up into his hair, and the other around his waist, sliding lower over his backside. Charlie kissed back, half-grinning into it before he got too distracted to be smug anymore — all the enthusiasm they’d lacked in their conversation being made up for now. He stepped them backwards carefully through the kitchen into the lounge, his hands mirroring her placement—one on her backside and the other on her neck—as he led her to the settee.


[ end ]