Time Passages (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

48. Gently

(This chapter contains mature content. Viewer discretion advised.)

Julia

As soon as I hung up the phone, I took another swig from my cocktail. I winced at the taste- Freddie must have given my drink a double shot rather than a single (That's what you get when you tell Freddie, "I'll have whatever you're having")- but it wasn't so horrible as to keep me from swallowing. I had indeed exceeded my limit tonight: two pineapple vodkas, half a bottle of pinot, and now this double-strength Stoli and tonic. But at this point, I really couldn't care less. Alcohol muddled my head- and if that meant I therefore could not think as coherently about tomorrow, by all means, the more, the merrier.

Freddie was still upstairs, talking to Wes. I smiled to myself. Funny, I never thought those two would hit it off. Freddie's so high strung, I should think someone as laid back as Wes would repel him.

Then again, Freddie did seem to have relaxed somewhat over the last week, certainly by comparison to how I had found him in Munich- right down to his very appearance. He hadn't fully shaved since Tuesday, and so was sporting a rugged, but nonetheless intentional, bit of stubble along his jaw. Not that I necessarily minded; if anything, it only helped him to blend in a little more ("little" being the operative word- a face like Freddie's caught the eye without any effort on his part).

I wonder how he's going to explain that when he gets back, I mused to myself with a sad little chuckle. One minute he's got a handlebar mustache and harlequin tights- and the next, a three-day beard and the clothes of a pleb.

He had called his makeshift wardrobe as much on Sunday, upon returning from picking up Danny from church; I had tiptoed into the bedroom to find him sorting through the attire Roxie and I had hurriedly bought for him, and just happened to overhear him scoff to himself, "Look at this stuff; what am I, a f---ing tradesman?"

An unfair comment, especially since the clothes we had chosen were of no lower quality or style than many things I had seen him wear in casual settings. But Freddie was still fairly fresh from transport at the time, so I doubt even a wardrobe full of luxurious silks and velvet would have pleased him then. Needless to say, things could have only improved since that first twenty-four hours.

They did, of course- and too much, at that.

I turned my head, gazed upon our lovely Christmas tree. I had not been exaggerating when I said it was the most beautiful tree we had ever had. Of course, it could have had partially to do with how Danny had indeed grown some this last year, and therefore not all the ornaments were hanging next to the floor where Fry's tail could have easily knocked them from the branches.

But the real reason, I believed, came from Freddie himself, and his own special flair for presentation. He had the astounding ability to turn anything he wished, no matter how initially mundane or traditional, into an absolute work of art. The very tree needles themselves seemed to sparkle right alongside the icicles and painted blown glass. I smiled, thinking back to how Freddie had so abruptly assumed the role of the director, telling us where to hang what, occasionally even going back and moving ornaments apart that looked fine to him only a moment before.

He always was such a perfectionist, I mused. The thought had barely run across my mind when suddenly I recalled something he had said that very afternoon. Something he said about us:

"To me, it felt perfect."

The words racked me just as hard as they did the first time I heard them. Of all the words in the English language, "perfect" was how he described our brief, rocky affair.

Of course, he can't really mean it, I told myself -and quickly, so as not to let my thoughts drift toward other, sweeter, much more dangerous conclusions. I remember. We fought, we argued, we were in an almost perpetual state of miscommunication thanks to all the things we kept from each other. Feelings or no feelings, our situation was anything but perfect. And he knows that.