[Gingerlyoness asked me for a modern AU and this happened… It doesn’t have a title but Freddie and Lix share a flat, and Randall wears leather trousers, so…]
___________
“Thing is, Fred, if you fuck this up, you’ll end up working on CBeebies,” Bel mutters at his side as they trudge up the steps to the double fronted West London house Freddie shares with his mostly absentee flatmate; a fellow journalist, who travels the world and is far too careless with money- as far as Bel is concerned- because the paint on the windowsill is peeling with age and the gate, which creaks and slams behind them, has seen better days, “this is the last favour I’m doing you.”
He looks at her side-long, the mop of curly hair he never has cut obscuring his eyes, “that’s what you said last time, Moneypenny,” and when she starts to totter on her high heels, he takes her arm gently, “and it’s not my fault they’re all stuck in the bloody nineteen-fifties.”
She glares at him, battling with a smile in spite of herself, “oh what, so, you’re too modern for them, is that it?”
“Exactly,” he fumbles around in the pockets of his skinny jeans, finding nothing but take-away receipts and Extra Strong Mints, “can’t find my fucking keys.”
The late December sky hangs ominously with street-lamp illuminated clouds, but it hasn’t snowed. Wind whistles through the porch, catching the dregs of autumnal leaves on the terrace, and the goose-bumps on Bel’s bare skin. She tilts her head back and sighs, watching her breath linger in the air for a moment like a ghost, Freddie rapping his fist against the stain glass door, “can’t you ring her?” she tries through her teeth to supress a yawn, “she might be a bit tied up.”
The banging is replaced by his laughter, he glances at her wickedly over his shoulder, “quite literally, probably.”
“You’re disgusting,” she says, arms wrapped around herself because of the cold; wearing a lycra dress was definitely not one of her best ideas.
Her friend raises a wry eyebrow, keeps his face straight, “you obviously don’t know Lix very well,” before crouching in front of the door and shouting through the letter box, just wiggle the handle and shove, darling comes Lix’s husky reply.
And they stumble inside, involved by the scent of joss sticks and Jack Daniels, hanging their coats up and kicking off her shoes into the perfectly aligned line of Lix’s and someone’s pair of shiny Doc Martens. Light pools from the living room and Bel follows Freddie to be met by the sight of Lix Storm stretched out on the chaise longue in a silk dressing gown, a cigarette between her lips.
“Lix,” Freddie runs his hand through his hair, a pained expression on his face, “for fuck’s sake – you can’t smoke in the house, the landlord’s going to throw us out.”
The older woman smirks, untangling her honeyed legs languidly, “I’m by the window.”
“That doesn’t count, it drifts!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she muses with an almost haughty air, lips pursed as though bored by the whole affair, “you need to get yourself a girlfriend,” looking pointedly at Bel, who lets her blonde curls fall over her face to hide the scarlet blush creeping up her powered cheeks.
Freddie smiles indifferently, his eyes darting around the room, “where’s the punk?” he asks, referring- Bel presumes- to the man Lix met in Paris; the one that does the washing-up and wears leather trousers.
She bites her lip indulgently, lowering her gaze to stub out her fag in the ashtray tittering on the windowsill, “Randall’s not a punk, darling, and he’s in the shower.”
He wanders over to the sofa and Bel flops down beside him into the leather upholstery, “we’re going out, are you coming?”
“Yeah, we both are,” she groans as she gets to her feet, stretching her arms above her head, knuckles cracking, “just give me a minute to get dressed,” and she disappears into the bathroom.
“D’you want a cuppa?” Freddie asks several minutes later, straining to keep his voice loud against the sounds coming from the other room.
Bel forces a smile, feigns nonchalance, “got any Earl Grey?”
