Jily oneshots

Casablanca

by B.C Daily

When James drives up to the drab, squarish brick house with the literal white picket fence located in the middle of Boringshire, London Suburbia, the last person he expects to see galloping straight towards his vehicle is a familiar redhead, skittering like a newborn fawn on unsteady spindle legs, one shoe off and a giant purse thrown over her shoulder like the proverbial burlap dollar sack of thieves of yore.

"Go, go, goooo—" she's shouting, adding to this image, bypassing the Uber user's typical preference for the backseat and instead yanking open the passenger side door, then promptly hurtling herself into the seat beside him.

James is whacked in the shoulder with one errant hand, and the single undonned shoe somehow finds its way to the floor beneath him. She's wearing a flowy, flowered sundress and the silky fabric has ridden up and revealed a healthy swath of smooth, pale skin. James forces his eyes to the windshield as she slams the car door closed behind her.

It's her.

Somehow, here, incredibly, it's her.

"Hello," he says, formal and flushing. "You're…er, Lily. Lily. Yes? I'm—"

"Go, go, go-oooo!"

"But—"

"—oooo—!"

"You—"

"Go!"

James goes.

There is more to say—so much more to say, on twelve different levels, but the important level—the one in which she is shouting at him—takes precedent at the moment. He keeps his foot to the gas, not quite with tires squealing dramatically, but close enough. He makes it to the end of the road, stopping briefly as he flicks on his turn signal, then tries again.

"Er…ma'am—"

"Ma'am," she squawks like an intoxicated parrot, snorting and scoffing and still all limbs and long legs askew. She's squirming around in the seat, trying to maneuver her apparently uncooperative body parts and the giant bag while simultaneously doing her best to buckle her seatbelt. She positively reeks of sickly sweet alcohol.

"Where is my shoe?" she asks.

James looks down. "Er...by my feet."

"Well, how'd it get there?"

"You threw it there?"

"You best not have some foot fetish," she mutters in warning, and James is grateful they are still on residential streets so that when she abruptly leans straight into his lap to grapple for her shoe, squirrels are the only potential victims of his sudden break slam. His eyes fly downward, certain she will shout or cry or threaten legal action over his reckless driving, but she's far more concerned with straightening up, then promptly tossing her reclaimed shoe over her shoulder into the backseat (…?).

She begins to work at re-buckling her seatbelt, as her shoe-diving has got it all locked up and now she needs to start again with it.

She is cross with the seatbelt, and is muttering at it with vicious, creative swear words.

James takes a deep breath. Gently presses the gas once more.

"Ma'am—"

"I get carsick," she tells him without prompting, without preamble. She's finally got herself buckled and is fairly preening in smugness over her success. "I know it's the done thing to sit in back, but I can't sit in back unless you want me spreading my DNA in vomit form all over your nice seats that you need un-vomity for commerce, and also for life, so I'm doing you a favour, you're welcome."