0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.
Charlie’s feet were swinging back and forth slowly in the water, casting ripples across the pool’s dark surface. All in all, the day hadn't gone as badly as it could have (and he’d expected it to go pretty fucking badly), and he was taking that as a win – her dad seemed to like him, at least, or his music, which had made conversation a little easier while the rest of Honey’s immediately family spent the majority of the day in and out of the kitchen, preparing dinner. Which had left him with Mr Flume (Ambrosius), Honey, and Edith – and her sparkly new accessory. Honey had known—had gone shopping with Fergie for the ring—and hadn’t thought to give him a heads up, or hadn’t done so on purpose – and what did that mean? And did all of this (and Mrs Flume’s comment, which Charlie hadn’t missed) hint to Honey wanting to get married one day too? Was he just wasting her time? He had a sip of his brandy and then pressed the cool glass against his forehead, slightly pink (though hard to see in the night) from a day of sitting in the sun. He was wearing the tartan pyjamas Honey had bought him for Christmas—the in-front-of-the-parents gift exchange—and had only realised as everyone else opened their matching tartan sets that his was different; blue woven with goldish yellow and purple bands where they all had a brighter blue with green and thin stripes of red (which he wasn’t mad about, his was definitely more subtle). His had also come from his girlfriend, whilst the rest had been from ‘Santa’, so he put two-and-two together: Honey had needed a mum-friendly present and hadn’t wanted him to be left out. He was wearing them both for appearances’ sake (good boyfriend) and because he hadn’t packed any (hadn’t realised he was staying with the Brady Bunch).Charlie lowered the glass and looked at Honey. “No shit,” he said. He was holding his brandy loosely between both hands, resting between his thighs (pyjama bottoms rolled up to above his knees). He turned to look out over the hills, hard to discern in this light. He should probably make it sound like he was happy for them, and not mad at Honey – both were true, he supposed. “Good for them,” he added, his tone even.He wet his lips and continued talking quietly, the brandy (and the sangria – better than he’d anticipated) loosening his tongue. “Your mum really is keen, in’t she?” He meant about Honey getting married (presumably not to him), but he figured Honey could decide if he was referring to Ferg and Edith too – the woman had asked to see the ring practically every time she’d emerged from the kitchen, and as the sangria jugs had been refilled, the number of hints of future christmases being busier (read: grandchildren in tow) had increased. “Can’t have her meeting mine, they’ll gang up on us.”
Honey said No quickly and Charlie sat up a fraction straighter, not sure if he should be offended or relieved. He glanced down at the glass of brandy in his fingers, and turned it in his hands slowly.Honey sighed, Charlie glanced at her out of the corner of his eye— Determined it was safe to look at her, so he did. He let out a soft sigh of his own. “Yeah.” She offered him the bottle of brandy and he emptied his glass (by draining it) before taking the bottle from her and pouring himself a new (full) serve. Charlie set it back down on his side – for emotional support, and the added bonus of Honey having to reach around him if she wanted more. He fiddled with his pyjama collar, had a sip of brandy, and stared out into the dark. “My mum was the same,” he volunteered after a moment, intentionally not turning his head to meet Honey’s eye as he spoke of his ex, of his last engagement. “Least it gave her something to focus on that wasn’t how much she hates me,” he continued before having another sip. He didn’t really think her mum hated him, but she certainly wasn’t his biggest fan (her dad on the other hand…).
She didn’t hate him – well, that was nice. But, there it was: she didn’t like him either. Charlie let out a soft snort of amusement. If he’d been treating all of this more seriously—more seriously than spending Christmas with Honey’s family—he might’ve been more worried about Isla Flume’s opinion, but he was still mostly convinced that this was going to blow up in their faces at some point, or perhaps just reluctant to consciously admit that there was something about this that he was wary of overinvesting in. Honey smirked at him and he rolled his eyes as he nudged her with his shoulder, using a little more force than he’d intended (sangria, brandy). Charlie’s gaze dropped to said jammies and he tried not to grin – failed. “Very nice they are, too,” he said, not at all facetiously (a little); he really leaned into it, then: smoothing the material out along his thigh— Then she was in his space, and he was distracted, looking at her face and the patterns the pool reflections were making across her skin.He drank in the lull— paused and raised an eyebrow when he felt her fingers on his thigh (it had been a long day, specifically of not touching too much). He glanced down as he lowered his glass. “You better fucking not,” he told her with a lopsided grin. Belatedly, he processed next year and his expression slipped slowly as it sunk in. He swallowed, shirked the feeling. “Don’t you need to be Scottish to wear one anyway?”
Charlie laughed – too deep in the brandy to give a witty retort (“Och, aye.”). His attention was drawn down to where Honey’s finger jabbed into his thigh; he raised one eyebrow at whatever non-verbal— Baker tartan. His other eyebrow joined the first as comprehension dawned, before both furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the pattern with more interest, knowing what he knew now. He proceeded to zone out as Honey prattled on about their tartan, her mum, Edith…He lifted his chin when she mentioned a real gift, and he wet his lips around a grin as she leaned into him. “Have ye?” he replied, employing a poor Scottish accent—something he and Edith had started doing as a joke whenever a Flume was out of earshot, and had apparently stuck—before relaxing back into his usual slow, Yorkshire drawl; “Convenient, I’ve got you one too,” he smirked, the expression softening into a smile subconsciously as his mind continued to process Baker tartan. Honey’s hand was still on his thigh and he closed his over the top of it, not squeezing but trying to communicate something. “Didn’t know we had one,” he admitted in a low voice—we as if The Bakers were some sort of clan, not just an occupational surname— And, at that, an occupation his family had long left behind— And what sort of surname was ‘Flume’, anyway? Charlie turned his head to look at the Flume beside him and paused, belatedly processing Mum only got Edith’s after and realising Honey’s choice in (family friendly) gift might’ve also been of a subtle shove it to her mum. “Thanks,” he said, his lips twisting into a small, awkward smile. “I— D’you want your other one now? While everyone’s asleep?” he asked, before the silence became weird or too much. He definitely didn’t want her opening it around her parents (though it might’ve been worth her opening it in front of Fergie, give the lad some hints as to what to get Edith). And he had wanted to see her reaction anyway, but now he felt like it was more essential, in case he needed to promise he had something else back home (he didn’t) if she didn’t like it— And he was overthinking it. He had a swallow of brandy.