Two and a Half Men: Waking up as Charlie Harper

"No, well, yeah. I mean..." Charlie stuttered, visibly sweating through a shirt that was expensive enough to resent this situation.

But before he could trip into a full-blown confessional, Laura stepped in smoothly, like she'd been trained for damage control at a UN press briefing.

"He helped me," she said brightly, walking fully into the room, still barefoot, still holding her granola bar like it was a mic drop.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Helped you?"

Laura nodded, casually hopping onto the edge of the white couch, ignoring its no-crumbs policy.

"When I was starting out," she said, "opening my tattoo parlor. It was a mess. Rent was insane. I had one tattoo gun, a half-dead printer, and dreams powered entirely by Red Bull."

Charlie coughed, trying to regain composure. "She had ambition. And a lot of debt."

"I posted online asking for donations after you said I need to stand up for myself and earn something with my own effort. So, I did," Laura continued. "Most people gave like, five bucks. Charlie gave five grand. Just sent it. No questions asked."

Alan turned to Charlie, jaw dropping. "You gave her five thousand dollars?"

Charlie shrugged, acting normal. "She said she needed help. And I was drunk. Also, there was a very persuasive sketch of a tiger flipping off capitalism on her donation page."

Laura smirked. "It was a classic."

Irina let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head as she walked toward the bar. "Jesus. I thought you slept with my daughter or something."

Charlie blinked. "Your daughter?"

He turned to Laura, who was now munching her granola bar with perfect calm.

"I thought she was your sister or something."

Irina turned around slowly, crossing her arms as she stared at Charlie like he'd just told her he paid his taxes in hugs.

"You thought she was my sister?"

Charlie nodded cautiously. "Yeah. I mean, look at her. She's... tattooed and beautiful. You're... well put-together and terrifying. It didn't exactly scream mother-daughter."

Laura grinned through a mouthful of granola. "Flattering. Anyway, going out. See ya, Charlie." She walked out of the house, just like that.

"Well, umm... Can we come back to my problem?" Alan finally spoke.

Irina stared at the door for a few seconds after Laura vanished through it, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

Then she slowly turned her gaze back toward Alan like she was trying to remember why she hadn't kicked him out yet.

"Yes," she said, voice clipped. "Let's."

Alan sat up straighter, trying to brush imaginary lint off his shirt like presentation might somehow save him now. Charlie, meanwhile, leaned back on the couch with the air of someone who'd narrowly avoided a sniper round.

Irina walked to the coffee table and picked up her notepad again, flipping through the pages with a precision that felt surgical.

"Alright," she said, eyes flicking to Alan. "Your case."

Alan blinked. "Yes, my case. The one where my ex is legally stripping me down to the emotional socks."

"Well, meet me at my office in a week. Meanwhile, I'll take a look and prepare the paperwork, then we and your ex-wife's lawyers will sit together and decide which route to take," Irine said, and then she went to the room on the right. She came back after a minute with her office card. "Here you go."

Alan took it.

"Thank you. You are a lifesaver. So... About your fees. How much are we talking exactly?" He asked with his usual awkward grin.

Irina gave Alan a look that could've curdled cream. Then she walked to the bar, poured herself a finger of whiskey, and took a sip like she was prepping to explain algebra to a particularly dim golden retriever.

"You're asking me about money?" she said calmly.

Alan chuckled nervously. "I mean... yeah. I just want to make sure I can afford you. You know, in case I need to sell a kidney or something."

Charlie slowly turned to Alan with the kind of expression that screamed, 'Please shut up before she eats you. Or, me.'

Irina set her glass down, hands flat on the bar. Her nails were perfect. Sharp. Red. Like claws dipped in expensive blood. "You're already losing your house, your kid, your dignity, and probably your remaining brain cells," she said coolly. "You're not in a position to afford me."

Alan blinked. "So... is this a no?"

She stepped closer, heels clicking.

"I said I'd take your case. That means I will. But you don't get to haggle. This isn't a garage sale. It's war. And you hired the nuclear option."

Alan swallowed. "Okay. Got it. So... what do I owe you?"

Irina smirked and turned to Charlie.

"Ask your brother. He knows what I'm worth."

Charlie let out a dry laugh. "Oh yeah. I paid in alcohol and three days of nonstop cardio."

Irina raised her glass to him, deadpan. "Still my favorite workout."

Alan cleared his throat. "So..." He pointed his thumb at Charlie. "Cardio with him for my case?" He then turned toward Charlie. "Charlie, I never knew you were a gym person."

"Shut the fuck up before I run you over with a car," Charlie mumbled, as he pinched Alan's arm, making him jump up. 

"Ooouuch!" Alan jumped up, rubbing his arm, looking at Charlie, who was giving him death stares. 

He sat back down carefully, rubbing his arm, eyes wide with the dawning realization that his mouth would one day kill him. Charlie didn't even bother hiding the glare anymore. He looked like a man who'd been gifted an anvil labeled "sibling liability" and had been carrying it since birth.

Irina, still sipping her whiskey, leaned against the bar with one foot crossed over the other. Cool. Composed. The kind of calm that came right before a courtroom execution.

"Alright," she said, her voice smoother now. "We're done for today. You'll hear from me within the week. Don't text. Don't call. Just wait."

Alan opened his mouth.

Charlie shot him a look that shut it immediately.

"Thank you, Irina," Charlie said instead, standing and buttoning his jacket like this was a formal event and not the cleanup from a legal disaster.

Irina tilted her head slightly. "You still know how to dress well, Harper. That's always been one of your more useful talents."

He grinned faintly. "That, and my uncanny ability to exit windows before emotions show up."

She smiled at that, dry and sharp. "Don't test that here. The windows are bulletproof."

Charlie held up both hands. "Noted."

Alan followed Charlie toward the door like a child on a leash, still holding Irina's business card like it was a ticket to either salvation or certain doom.

Just before they reached the exit, Irina spoke again.

"Oh, and Alan?"

Alan froze mid-step and turned, stiff.

"Yes?"

Irina raised her glass slightly.

"Tell your ex-wife's lawyer I'm looking forward to the negotiation. I've already picked the table. It's circular. Less room to hide."

Alan nodded too quickly. "Will do. Absolutely. Circular. That's... good."

Charlie opened the door and ushered him out like he was defusing a bomb.

Once outside, the sun hit them like a reset button. Alan exhaled like he'd just finished an exorcism. Charlie put on his sunglasses and didn't say a word for the first twenty steps.

Finally, Alan broke the silence.

"She kissed you."

Charlie kept walking. "Yep."

"And she's freaking hot. Like a real hot lady with a dominating personality."

"Also, yep."

"And your ex's daughter was chewing on a granola bar and wearing no pants. Did you really sleep with her? I mean, if you gave her that much money..."

Charlie stopped and looked at him.

"Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to live on the streets?"

"No."

"Then shut up, and if you dare say anything about that kiss to Lisa. I'm gonna bury you on the beach."

"Ok. Point noted. My mouth is sealed. Zippp!"

They reached the car. Charlie slid into the driver's seat, Alan fumbling with the door like it might bite him. Once inside, Charlie started the engine and sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel.

Alan looked over at him.

"She's terrifying."

"She's the best shot you've got," Charlie said.

"You really think she can win?"

Charlie looked out the windshield at the clean, perfect house behind them.

"She's not going to win," he said.

Alan looked confused. "She's not?"

Charlie turned to him, eyes behind the sunglasses unreadable.

"She's going to ruin Judith."

Alan leaned back in his seat, heart pounding.

After a few seconds, he smiled.

Then whispered, "Good."

Charlie shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb.

...

...

[Charlie's House – Evening – Balcony – 6:48 PM]

The sun dipped low over Malibu, casting long amber streaks across the waves. It was the kind of view most people would kill for, the kind that came with silence so thick it demanded thoughts. (Yeah, the usual repeat loop of beach, house, and the water)

Charlie sat barefoot in a lounge chair on the balcony, a notebook balanced on one knee, an acoustic guitar, which he had dragged out from the garage, resting across his lap. A pencil dangled from his mouth, occasionally shifting as he hummed something under his breath.

On the little table beside him, two things sat: a lukewarm beer and his flip phone. No new texts. No calls. Just peace.

For now.

He scribbled a line.

She walks like she knows every answer,

But never shares the questions...

He frowned, tapped his pencil twice against the paper, then crossed it out with a sigh.

From inside, he heard Berta's voice.

"You know what your brother did this time?" she called from the kitchen. "He left the toilet seat up, shocked himself trying to fix the microwave, and spilled bleach in my tea cupboard."

Alan mumbled something unintelligible.

Berta ignored it.

"I swear, he's not a man, he's an unpaid internship in household hazards."

Charlie smirked faintly, still not looking up.

He flipped the page in his notebook and scribbled a new line.

She kissed me once like she meant it.

Left behind heat and a question mark.

He paused again, stared out at the horizon, and let the guitar settle into his arms. His fingers moved slowly, casually, strumming out a soft progression. It wasn't perfect. But it had something.

A feeling washed over him. He could hear the water running inside; Lisa was home, likely getting ready. His mind began to wander. 

For a brief moment, he actually entertained the thought of going full cheater mode. But not on Lisa, but on music. The idea played in his mind like a devil dancing with a record deal.

Why not? He knew what was coming: songs that would top the charts twenty years from now, the hits that people hadn't even dreamed of back in 2003. He could hum "Someone Like You," pretending it was his. Or that silly fox song. Heck, even that Billie Eilish whisper-pop style could put him ahead of the curve.

He could own the charts. Make millions. Drop an album every six months and still have time for tacos. Heck, he could even write stories and movie scripts. 

He strummed once. Twice. Slower now.

But then he looked at the page in front of him.

His chicken-scratch handwriting. His crossed-out lines. His raw, clumsy heart.

This was his.

It wasn't great. But it was his.

Charlie leaned back and let out a long sigh.

He didn't want to fake it without giving it a try.

He scribbled a new title at the top of the page.

"Midnight Kind of Love"

Under it, he wrote:

She laughs like trouble in a Sunday dress

Hair up high, heart a holy mess

Burns the toast, then blames the pan

But still makes me feel like a better man

She reads the news out loud in bed

Corrects my grammar, shakes her head

Calls me out when I play cool

But holds my hand like I'm nobody's fool

It's a midnight kind of love

Slow and quiet, but it's enough

Not fireworks, not movie scenes

Just two lost souls who learned to dream

No red carpets, no sky above

Just me and her, and the kind of trust

That shows up late, kicks off its shoes

And stays the night, like love should do

She leaves her shoes all by the door

Says "I'm fine" but I know there's more

She lets me in, but makes me earn

Every secret, every turn

She hums off-key when she folds clothes

Sings '80s hits that nobody knows

And when she's tired, she'll still make time

To ask how I am, like it's a crime

It's a midnight kind of love

No loud confessions, just quiet trust

No diamond rings, no Valentine scripts

Just stubborn hearts and messy lips

It doesn't shout, it doesn't shove

It just shows up and calls your bluff

Then pulls you close when you're too tough

That's a midnight kind of love

She ain't perfect, hell, neither am I

But we've stopped keeping score

It's not about who's wrong, who's right

It's about showing up and showing more

It's a midnight kind of love

The kind that doesn't have to prove it's tough

It heals the cracks, fills the gaps

Writes real songs, not love traps

It doesn't fade when push comes to shove

It holds on tighter when times get rough

No spotlight, no script, no velvet glove

Just me and her... and this midnight kind of love

Yeah, she's my mess, my moon, my late-night call

Not perfect, but perfect, after all.

---

AN: The song is available on pat reon with proper music and vocals + other songs that Charlie will write in the upcoming chs.

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