In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

57. Plan Bs Make Memories

"Again," Freddie murmured softly, "I am so sorry about tonight."

"What for?" Veronica chirped. "I've had a lovely evening." And John nodded in agreement, grinning.

I tucked my arm in Freddie's. "As have I."

"You're too sweet. It's just, um- I know this is hardly a substitute for the-"

Quietly I laid a finger across his lips. "Freddie, don't say another word about it, or..."

"Or what?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Or I eat your egg roll."

"Hey, you can have it, darling, I'm finished."

"And then I drink your wine." I reached for his glass.

"Now, that's a step too far," Freddie laughed. Thunder boomed almost straight over our heads, the walls of the flat trembling with the sound. "See? Even your Boss thinks so."

"Besides," I said quietly, tapping Freddie's chest, "if anyone should be apologizing, it ought to be me. There you were, with big plans for writing songs and then, because of me-"

"What, you think I didn't write anything?" Freddie scoffed. "Darling, now don't you be absurd. I finished one song and wrote another today. I'll show you later if you remind me. You'll like them- for different reasons."

The five of us were sitting comfortably round John's living room, tipsy with cabernet and full of takeaway fried rice and chow mein, while the rain gushed down outside. The only music came from my Android, which served as the centerpiece-

"What's all this then? Stop being so confusing! God, why can't you just frickin' tell the story and quit jumping around so much?" I hear you cry.

Oh, yes, I think I just jumped the gun here. Last chapter I ended with with us walking into an extremely upscale restaurant in the company of good friends. Sorry. I suppose I ought to elaborate. Very well. I shall explain, in so many words, how rapidly our best-laid plans can be turned inside out and leave us scrambling for a backup:

Freddie pulled out the chair at the head of the table for me and made some playfully pretentious comment about me being the "guest of honor." I smiled, shyly lowering my eyes. John was at my left, while Veronica took the place at my right. Freddie seated himself at the other end of the table, next to Rudy and Peter, apparently so that he could gaze fondly upon me "to my heart's content." A sweet sentiment, although I would have preferred him to be a little closer.

Truth be told, I was extremely nervous. For I still hadn't gotten over how fancy this restaurant was. The House of Lords in Vegas, true, was no casual affair, but the House of Lords did not also possess this refined, understood hush, this highbrow attitude, made no less intimidating by the fact that this place was British and not American, and serving French cuisine instead of good old-fashioned steaks. I felt like I was dining in a library- not deadly silent but reserved, stiff, with unseen eyes watching me closely for any uncouth behavior. Of course, I endlessly appreciated Freddie's sweet effort to spoil me this way- but I was afraid to lean my back against the chair. I took comfort from John's expression; he didn't seem any more at ease than I.

The waiter, a soft little man with a receding hairline, approached and welcomed us, handing Freddie the wine list. The special of the night, if I remember correctly, dealt with sweetbreads in a caper mignonette sauce with some sauteed whatever on the side.

"What are sweetbreads again?" I whispered to Veronica.

"Calf organs, I think," she whispered back.

I'm sorry I asked. "Yummy," I muttered.

Freddie ordered us two bottles of red wine from the reserve collection, and waiter scuttled off. I started looking over the menu, my eyes bugging alternately at the prices and the dishes' contents. If I was ordering anything, it would be a salad.