Magical Hogwarts

wednesday, 18 may 2005

“Fuck,” she said, and not quietly. She had missed again and while she wasn’t actually upset about it— okay maybe she was a little upset, but mainly because she couldn’t even blame Charlie for it; playing darts had been her idea in the first place. (Of course, there had been significantly less ‘let me show you how to properly throw a dart’ offers from him than she would have liked, but she supposed that was a different problem.)

Honey pulled the darts out of the board (and one out of the wall) with a dramatic sigh, walking back to Charlie without adding any points to the chalkboard. “I hope you miss,” she said, cheerily handing off the darts, maybe lingering with her hand in his for an extra second or two. Honey sat on the newly vacated stool, picking up her pint of cider from the small wooden ledge. It was her third or fourth pint so she wasn’t exactly shy about leveling her gaze directly at his bum.

She glanced up in time to see him hit the triple 18– she rolled her eyes. “Oh,” she said, not sure what exactly had jogged her memory but not fully discounting that it was by sheer annoyance alone that she remembered. “I saw your album has a release date.” It had been in The Prophet that morning. She knew better than to joke about being his muse (again) and she was definitely not going to mention the rest of the article. She was trying not to make assumptions but he was making it really difficult— there was a bit about ‘pleasures of the flesh’ and ‘romantic longing’ and then the album was literally called B (never mind that was almost positively a B for Banshee and not a B for Beatrix).

She had meant to say something earlier—about the album in general, not the bit about the pleasures of the flesh—but she had been thoroughly distracted when she first got to Charlie’s earlier that evening.  (That had been the ‘pleasures’ bit.) “That’s good, right?” She asked (about the album having a release date) before having another drink.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie sniggered into his pint, taking a sip before getting to his feet to set the glass on the ledge and take the darts from Honey, his fingers gently closing around hers for a moment. “You can hope all you want,” he told her with a smug look. He hadn’t missed yet, and he didn’t anticipate veering so far off course as to miss the board entirely like she had. Darts was one of those ‘pub’ sports he was uncannily good at, like pool, to make up for his lack of ability in properly athletic endeavours.

He stopped at the marker on the floor and turned side on, focusing harder than he’d had on the last round, and the one before that, but— Triple eighteen, not bad. As he threw the next one Honey interrupted with an ‘oh’ that sounded semi-important, and his resultant throw was slightly off, hitting a single three instead of the triple nineteen he’d been aiming for. He turned back to look at her with a gentle (definitely not competitive) scowl, more than half-expecting it to have been a diversion tactic but: the album, a release date. He supposed that could be a diversion too, but she seemed genuinely interested, and he’d spent a fair bit of time thinking over how he’d reacted the last time she’d tried to show interest in his ‘work’, and how he didn’t want to repeat that.

Charlie nodded, turned the remaining dart over in his fingers. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed. Daunting, as always, but it would be good to just.. get it out there. He turned back to the board and got into position, frowning softly in concentration. “They’ve printed it.” He paused, threw, the dart thunked into the board, (hit triple nineteen this time). “The vinyl,” he explained as he strode forward to collect his darts, then turned to return to Honey with the hint of an apprehensive smile playing at the corner of his lips.  “Too late to change anything now.” He lingered in front of her, holding the darts for her to take.

It was good. She probably should have had a follow up question, but everything she could think of felt like a bit much. She let her gaze drift over him as he prepared to throw his last dart, brought it back to his face when he told her they had printed it. Honey nodded, watching his triple nineteen and rolling her eyes. She added an, “Oh, right,” as if she had any idea what went into printing an album. (She wasn’t sure she knew what printing even meant, to be honest.) He clarified: the vinyl. Because that explained it.

He didn’t look particularly thrilled and she felt pretty confident assuming it was because of the conversation and not the darts game. Ah– it was too late to change anything. That made more sense. She took the darts from him, in no hurry to take her hand out of his or get off the stool. She really wanted to joke about something, lighten the mood– something like how he could just tell her that he’d named the album after her, or how it must have been hard to come up with so many song titles when he’d already used Honey on the last one.

She settled somewhere in the middle. “Well, I better be getting credit if you’ve used my ‘pick and mix’ line,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the darts and sliding off the stool into what little space there was between them. She looked him in the eye and smirked, gently nudging him aside after another second.

Honey kept hold of her drink, lifting two fingers off her glass to hold the extra darts in place as she attempted to aim her first throw (without paying attention to where her foot was related to the line). She hit the board, at least–a single 8–and she threw the next two in quick succession because she had neither skill nor strategy. They all hit the board. A first.

She took a few sips of her drink as she retrieved the darts, crowding Charlie’s personal space as she handed them over. “If it’s printed, or whatever–” she was still hung up on what that meant but she wasn’t going to ask– “Does that mean I can hear it now?” She asked, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

Honey’s fingers half-closed around his and there was something reassuring about her touch; in that moment it was just her before him, and he was oblivious to the pub and its patrons around them.

Charlie’s mouth stretched into a grin, a small laugh escaping his lips before he nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, as though he had indeed stolen her line (he hadn’t, but not because it wasn’t good – he’d had a small complex about it ever since). He maintained the eye contact they hadn’t broken since he’d brought her the darts, up until she broke it for him. Honey nudged past and he wet his lips, trying not to think about why he was overthinking.

He took the vacated stool, turning on the spot to perch on the edge of it; one booted foot still on the floor and the other on the crossbar, hands resting in his lap as he watched her (and her bum). (And her foot, over the line – he smirked to himself). He looked up when he heard the dart land in the board, and again, and again. He lifted his hands out in mocking applause, bowing his head to her.

Charlie lowered his hands and continued smirking as Honey returned the darts to him. Then, as she asked about hearing it—the album—he dropped it—his smirk—not unhappy but, still mildly surprised that she was interested in the music more than just what the music made him. “Er, yeah.” He nodded. “If you want to,” he forced himself to smile, though it came out more sheepish than anything. “I’ve got a couple of copies at home.”

Honey watched Charlie’s smirk slip away–it wasn’t like he was trying to hide it–when she asked if she could hear the album now, seeing as it was printed (or whatever). She lowered her eyebrows, tried to keep her expression somewhat neutral. She had thought it would be fine, considering he’d already played her part of that one song–and actually played it, not just let her hear a recording–but it wasn’t like she hadn’t done this before, getting ahead of herself thinking Charlie felt one way when he (obviously, now) didn’t.

His yeah wasn’t super enthusiastic, and neither was his if you want. But she had already made it weird, so she might as well double down. “Aye, that’s why I’ve asked,” she said, rolling her eyes and ignoring the niggling feeling that maybe she should drop it. She didn’t think she genuinely thought it was all about her (and again, B was almost surely for Banshee) but– he had a couple at home. She smirked. “Well I wasn’t about to buy my own,” she said, hoping it was clear that she was trying to have fun and not be super serious, yet was holding back enough to not make jokes (that would have been hilarious but unappreciated).

She poked his hand, the one holding the darts. “Are we done or do you need to properly win?” She asked, willing to do whatever he wanted, though she had a clear preference– they had something else to do, now. Charlie said he had won anyway, and Honey rolled her eyes again. “Aye, right.” Except, of course, he had. She took the darts from him and stuck them into the board, then tipped her head back to finish her pint, ditching her glass on the sideboard as she moved through the pub to the door.

Honey turned left once they were outside, making it two steps before Charlie had grabbed her hand to go in the other (correct) direction. “I knew that,” she lied with a laugh, not letting go of his hand as they walked toward the Underground.

That was why she had asked. Right, obviously. He was doing a piss poor job at being nonchalant about the whole thing, but Honey rescued the situation with a smirk. He returned the look. “Of course not,” he agreed, acutely aware that she didn’t own a single one of his records – not that it bothered him (honest).

Charlie looked down at where she’d poked his hand and he smiled—automatically, genuinely, this time—lifting his head to look at her with a more smug expression. “I think I’ve already properly won,” he said, grinning when she rolled her eyes. Honey took the darts from him and finished her drink, he picked up his glass and did the same.

Outside the pub she immediately started in the wrong direction; Charlie grabbed her hand and tugged her in the right one. “Course you did,” he smirked. After a few steps he linked his fingers properly with hers. They could have hailed a taxi, but whether Honey preferred the walk-and-tube home for the same reasons he did, she’d never voiced an objection to the slower meander back to his place. It wasn’t like they talked a lot anyway, but something about not-talking while walking hand-in-hand was nicer than not-talking in the back of a cab (unless they were snogging, of course).

They reached the station and Charlie gripped Honey’s hand a little tighter in anticipation of the steps, just in case. The stairs took most of their joint-concentration, and then it was the ticket barrier. Charlie let go of Honey’s hand to pull his wallet from his back pocket and withdraw their oyster cards, handing hers to her with a knowing smirk.

Charlie’s grip on her hand tightened as they arrived at the steps leading underground, and she was just about to say something like I think I can handle some stairs when she wobbled and had to reach for the handrail (and tighten her grip on his hand). They reached the landing and Honey held out her hand for the blue card. She had argued with him at first, how he didn’t need to keep it safe for her– and then she went on to almost lose it in the span of three tube stops, so she had graciously let him win that one. He was probably expecting the eye roll response to that smirk he gave her.

“Just slot it in,” Honey said as she tapped in–she was an expert by now–and handed the card back to Charlie.

She reached for Charlie’s hand as they got on the escalator, not really thinking about what she was doing. There was an ad on a wall for a band she had never heard of, and her thoughts circled back around to one she had heard of, their new album that definitely wasn’t named after her. She had asked Charlie to sign the last album for her dad; that had been before they were like this, and Honey had wanted to make her brother uncomfortable because he, frankly, deserved it.

And then Charlie had promptly ruined things by being a jealous prick with ridiculous double standards–never mind that Honey was also partially to blame–and they didn’t talk for a month. And then Christmas: she’d given her dad the album anyway, did indeed make Fergie uncomfortable, and drunk dialed Charlie, which… somehow snowballed into this. Honey glanced at their hands then, almost forgetting what she had just been thinking about.

They reached the platform and walked a way down, until they were mostly alone. They had a few minutes until the next train, so she pulled him toward her and dropped his hand, instead reaching around him for his back pockets and slotting her hands in. She arched her back so she could look up at him. “Do you think that my dad will want your autograph more or less now that–” she smirked, gave his bum a wee squeeze.

Just slot it in. His smirk widened into an appreciative grin. “You’ll have to wait ‘til we get home,” he said, taking her card back and tucking it back into his wallet.

Honey’s hand found his and Charlie’s fingers closed around hers automatically. He couldn’t remember when this had become automatic—normal—for them, but he kept trying not to think about how long this—them—had been a thing, because the weight of that would only add pressure to something that was, surprisingly, easy.

And maybe that was why it hadn’t imploded in their faces yet – they both seemed equally intent on not carbon dating their relationship. He supposed he ought to be thankful that Honey didn’t appear to be interested in marking anniversaries, because he thought it was too late now to ask when theirs was supposed to be. Some time after he’d broken his leg – probably when she had asked him not to sleep with anyone else, but he couldn’t recall when exactly that had been. Must’ve been before Fergie’s birthday because that had been like, the first thing they’d done consciously afterwards and— Christ, it was May now, wasn’t it?

Honey let go of his hand, turning in towards him. He smirked softly as he felt her hands in his back pockets, looping his own arms around her loosely. He glanced down at her and laughed, glanced away; “Erm,” he frowned, thinking about it, getting distracted by the not-so-gentle bum grab. He shrugged. “Would rather he didn’t think too hard about it,” he said. “Us, I mean.” His eyes flicked back to meet Honey’s. “If he starts analysing my lyrics about you he might make me sleep out on the sun loungers at Christmas,” he smirked again; he wasn’t allowed to share a room—let alone a bed—with Honey as it was in Majorca, but he’d silently been hoping that might change once Ferg and Edith were married.

Charlie didn’t really answer her question, instead saying that he’s rather Honey’s dad not think about them too much. She was still smirking, but she managed a, “Mm,” in agreement; she would also prefer her dad not think about them, though if he hadn’t figured it out with Honey then who’s to say he ever would?

“Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with me,” she paused for dramatic effect, gave his bum another squeeze. “We wouldn’t have to worry about your lyrics so much.” She raised her eyebrows in a can’t-believe-you’ve-never-considered-that sort of way.

Honey tilted her chin up soon after her faux scolding, leaning in for a bit of light snogging— she had been so well behaved at the pub, so she figured she had earned it.

She pulled back only after hearing the approaching train for a few seconds, reluctantly pulling her hands from Charlie’s pockets, only to reach for his hand with her now-empty one. “Take me home,” she said with a smirk and a tug toward the open doors.

[ out ]