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

46. The Syntax of Things

"Making a fool of myself, that's what," I breathed. "Sorry." I reached for the door handle.

"You look dreadful," he remarked. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," I whispered, on the verge of another crying jag, "everything is fine, I'm okay, I should go-"

"Julia," John said again. "I- I mean, uh, Eve, sorry, it's Eve, right?"

"Nice try, man, but I know the word is out. Call me whatever, I just don't care anymore."

John looked me over, and nodded. "I think I understand. Do you need time to breathe?"

"No, I just need to get out of here."

"You look like you could use some warm, dry clothes. I can take you by my house, let you stay there till the rain stops-"

"No, John, really, I'm all right-" But I wasn't, which became painfully obvious as his kindness wrapped so nicely around me. Within its warmth I crumbled once again. I was a complete emotional wreck; I would have cried at a simple "Hello," my head was such a mess at that point. At this rate, Freddie may actually turn me into some crazy Harley Quinn. All I'm missing is one hundred volts zapping directly into my skull- and the acid bath. Then again, never say never.

John seemed to mull something a moment, glancing at the passenger seat, then looking back at me. He sighed, shaking his head. "You know, I'm just going to assume you're not all right every time you say you are, is that okay?"

I nodded. "That's probably a good idea."

He turned out the cabin light. "You're welcome to come up to the front if you want. Or you can keep pretending I'm a cabbie and order me about from back there."

"I'll stay back here."

"Then you have to tell me where to go." He plucked something out of the front seat and stuffed it into the glove compartment.

"I do?"

"Cab driver's rules."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "To your place, if you please."

"Bother, I was hoping you'd tell me to 'Follow that car'."

I smiled. "Maybe next time."

John's car almost hydroplaned as he made a u-turn. When we passed Freddie's townhouse, I found myself watching the lit windows for his silhouette. I kept staring behind me until we rounded the corner again. But his door didn't open, and he didn't come out and watch us go. The street was silent and empty.

I sat back and rubbed my smeary face, then, ignoring the black streaks of eyeliner that came off onto my hands. Freddie wasn't the kind to run dramatically after cars anyway, and there was no reason in the world for him to start with me.

But he could have at least had the decency to let me see him one more time.

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It was still coming down buckets when John and I stumbled into his south London home. A woman with long, straight brown hair, whom I assumed to be John's wife Veronica, opened the door to let us in.

"Hello, darling, was he glad to have it ba-" she began to say to John, when her eyes fell upon me. Instead of eyeing me suspiciously, she smiled and put out her hand.

"Oh, it's you again!" she said cheerily. "Hello!"

"Me again?" I repeated. "Have we met?"

"Well, not exactly, but I saw you," she explained. "Freddie's girl, right? Why, you're positively drenched. What happened to you?"