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femslashficlets2020-06-17 03:56 pm
ilthit) wrote in femslashficlets2020-06-17 03:56 pm
[265] The Girl at the Bar (Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell)
Title: The Girl at the Bar
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: Emma Pole/Arabella Strange
Rating: teen
Prompt: 265 Girlfriend
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: Modern AU - It's a noisy night at the Starecross. Arabella plays the knight in shining armour.
Warnings: Alcohol, smoking, sexual harassment.
Notes: Also written for a prompt from the Society of York Magicians discord and Touchmytardis, via BeautifulSoup.
It was the first Saturday of Pride Month and the Starecross was full. It seemed everyone had shown up drunker than Arabella, including Jonathan, and she could feel the words ‘designated driver’ creeping in her direction—if they didn’t simply assume she’d do the responsible thing and refrain. Arabella rather felt like ordering the stiffest, fruitiest cocktail at the bar just to make being responsible somebody else’s problem for once.
‘They’ looked like it would at least include the two Johns (though nobody called Childermass ‘John’ except Henry, and that was only when Henry was feeling particularly drunk and nasty), and of course Chris. Chris was inescapable. She could see him now, already wriggling on top of a table and dangerously close to taking off what little shirt he had on.
Sometimes Arabella wondered just how she, a bi woman, had ended up spending all her Saturdays surrounded by queer men and her days listening to the boyfriend troubles of her exhaustingly heterosexual boss at the bakery. At least the drinks were great at the Starecross—when she could get them.
Jonathan was deep in discussion about medieval demonology with a cute young lesbian in a buzzcut. To hell with it. Arabella picked up the phone she’d been casually browsing and headed for the bar. “Can I have one pineapple Bacardi, please?’” she shouted over the din. The bartender waved sparkly blue fingernails at her in acknowledgment and she settled to wait. She was third in line.
“You know I’ve always admired you, Emma. Your resilience. Those gorgeous grey eyes.” The words weren’t even loud, but her ears pricked up at the oily voice, its intimacy, less than foot away. “I’ve decided—you’ll come to my party tomorrow night. Wear something white and tight.”
“Richard—”
“You think your husband would object? I doubt it. He lets you come here, doesn't he? So he’ll let you come to my party, too. It’s the lady’s choice, isn’t it?”
Arabella turned and saw a man—or, well, a masculine person, judging by the white pompadour and the expensive suit—leaning over the barstool of a younger woman. Their body language spoke volumes.
“I don’t think I can make it tomorrow.” The woman turned back to her pint. Her voice was mild, but her shoulders were stiff with anger.
“Of course you can. I’ll let Walter know I invited you. There, it’s decided. Now maybe you’ll let me order you a real drink instead of that swill—”
“Oh my God. Emma?”
They both looked up at Arabella. She made sure her grin did not falter. “It is you, isn’t it? It’s been bloody ages.” She threw her arms around Emma’s shoulders for a quick, hard squeeze. Play along. “You’ve been a stranger, haven’t you, love? Come on, Jonathan’s here too, he’s been dying to meet you.” She took the woman’s hand and pulled her off the barstool and into the thickest crowd, saying a silent goodbye to her pineapple Bacardi.
“All right, I think he’s lost sight of us,” Arabella said once they were safely behind a conga line.
“Thanks,” said the girl. She withdrew her hand and hid it behind her other one, but Arabella had already noticed that the top half of her pinkie was missing, cut clean off at the knuckle. “Stay with me a sec, please? Let’s go to the ladies’.”
“Sure, sure. Of course.”
The ladies’ room at the Starecross was almost as packed as the dance-floor, but they avoided dirty looks from the back of the queue by heading straight for the mirrors. Emma leaned against the counter and seemed to deflate, as if she hadn’t breathed out in an hour. She dug into her small cotton designer purse for a pack of Chesterfields.
“Hey, no smoking!” someone cried.
“Fuck.” Emma stuffed the pack back in and crossed her arms.
“Leave her alone,” Arabella snapped. “She’s upset.”
“She’s upset, yeah? Well, I’m asthmatic.”
“It’s all right,” Emma said. “I should quit, anyway.”
Arabella propped her hip up on the counter as well, not too close to the girl. Emma was young, but not that much younger than her. In her nice cotton lace summer dress and loose brown waves of hair she looked like an H&M summer collection photoshoot, but the dark rings around her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “You okay? I mean, I know you’re not... Who was that?”
“That was Richard.” Emma hugged her arms to herself. “You don’t say no to Richard.”
“Well, Richard’s a bell-end.”
“He’s an absolute bell-end.”
“Hey, want to go get a drink somewhere else? I’ll let Jonathan know he can drive himself home tonight.”
Emma sniffed and looked up. “I thought you might say you’d drive me home instead.” Her eyes really were the prettiest shade of grey, and with that small smile playing on her unpainted lips, the sight shifted something inside Arabella. Christ.
“Uh.” Arabella and Jonathan had an agreement, though up to that point that agreement had been entirely theoretical, and right at the moment Arabella seemed to have forgotten how to talk to pretty girls at bars, or even that pretty girls at bars could possibly talk to her. “I, if you like? I didn’t get my pineapple Bacardi. I mean, I’m all right to drive. My car’s, uh.” Her car was Jonathan’s car too and parked in the back, with the backseat full of boxes of flour and the throw on the rear tray covered in cat hair.
“It’s all right.” Emma’s smile grew, and Arabella thought she saw a glimpse of the real woman behind the exhaustion. The next thing she knew, Emma’s fingers were brushing her cheek, and then her lips were brushing hers. “Thank you.”
Another gaggle of women burst into the cramped space and somewhere in the chaos, Emma disappeared, swallowed up in the stream of people. She left Arabella with her heart beating fast, an excitement at the pit of her belly, and the nonsensical conviction that they’d meet again.
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: Emma Pole/Arabella Strange
Rating: teen
Prompt: 265 Girlfriend
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: Modern AU - It's a noisy night at the Starecross. Arabella plays the knight in shining armour.
Warnings: Alcohol, smoking, sexual harassment.
Notes: Also written for a prompt from the Society of York Magicians discord and Touchmytardis, via BeautifulSoup.
It was the first Saturday of Pride Month and the Starecross was full. It seemed everyone had shown up drunker than Arabella, including Jonathan, and she could feel the words ‘designated driver’ creeping in her direction—if they didn’t simply assume she’d do the responsible thing and refrain. Arabella rather felt like ordering the stiffest, fruitiest cocktail at the bar just to make being responsible somebody else’s problem for once.
‘They’ looked like it would at least include the two Johns (though nobody called Childermass ‘John’ except Henry, and that was only when Henry was feeling particularly drunk and nasty), and of course Chris. Chris was inescapable. She could see him now, already wriggling on top of a table and dangerously close to taking off what little shirt he had on.
Sometimes Arabella wondered just how she, a bi woman, had ended up spending all her Saturdays surrounded by queer men and her days listening to the boyfriend troubles of her exhaustingly heterosexual boss at the bakery. At least the drinks were great at the Starecross—when she could get them.
Jonathan was deep in discussion about medieval demonology with a cute young lesbian in a buzzcut. To hell with it. Arabella picked up the phone she’d been casually browsing and headed for the bar. “Can I have one pineapple Bacardi, please?’” she shouted over the din. The bartender waved sparkly blue fingernails at her in acknowledgment and she settled to wait. She was third in line.
“You know I’ve always admired you, Emma. Your resilience. Those gorgeous grey eyes.” The words weren’t even loud, but her ears pricked up at the oily voice, its intimacy, less than foot away. “I’ve decided—you’ll come to my party tomorrow night. Wear something white and tight.”
“Richard—”
“You think your husband would object? I doubt it. He lets you come here, doesn't he? So he’ll let you come to my party, too. It’s the lady’s choice, isn’t it?”
Arabella turned and saw a man—or, well, a masculine person, judging by the white pompadour and the expensive suit—leaning over the barstool of a younger woman. Their body language spoke volumes.
“I don’t think I can make it tomorrow.” The woman turned back to her pint. Her voice was mild, but her shoulders were stiff with anger.
“Of course you can. I’ll let Walter know I invited you. There, it’s decided. Now maybe you’ll let me order you a real drink instead of that swill—”
“Oh my God. Emma?”
They both looked up at Arabella. She made sure her grin did not falter. “It is you, isn’t it? It’s been bloody ages.” She threw her arms around Emma’s shoulders for a quick, hard squeeze. Play along. “You’ve been a stranger, haven’t you, love? Come on, Jonathan’s here too, he’s been dying to meet you.” She took the woman’s hand and pulled her off the barstool and into the thickest crowd, saying a silent goodbye to her pineapple Bacardi.
“All right, I think he’s lost sight of us,” Arabella said once they were safely behind a conga line.
“Thanks,” said the girl. She withdrew her hand and hid it behind her other one, but Arabella had already noticed that the top half of her pinkie was missing, cut clean off at the knuckle. “Stay with me a sec, please? Let’s go to the ladies’.”
“Sure, sure. Of course.”
The ladies’ room at the Starecross was almost as packed as the dance-floor, but they avoided dirty looks from the back of the queue by heading straight for the mirrors. Emma leaned against the counter and seemed to deflate, as if she hadn’t breathed out in an hour. She dug into her small cotton designer purse for a pack of Chesterfields.
“Hey, no smoking!” someone cried.
“Fuck.” Emma stuffed the pack back in and crossed her arms.
“Leave her alone,” Arabella snapped. “She’s upset.”
“She’s upset, yeah? Well, I’m asthmatic.”
“It’s all right,” Emma said. “I should quit, anyway.”
Arabella propped her hip up on the counter as well, not too close to the girl. Emma was young, but not that much younger than her. In her nice cotton lace summer dress and loose brown waves of hair she looked like an H&M summer collection photoshoot, but the dark rings around her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “You okay? I mean, I know you’re not... Who was that?”
“That was Richard.” Emma hugged her arms to herself. “You don’t say no to Richard.”
“Well, Richard’s a bell-end.”
“He’s an absolute bell-end.”
“Hey, want to go get a drink somewhere else? I’ll let Jonathan know he can drive himself home tonight.”
Emma sniffed and looked up. “I thought you might say you’d drive me home instead.” Her eyes really were the prettiest shade of grey, and with that small smile playing on her unpainted lips, the sight shifted something inside Arabella. Christ.
“Uh.” Arabella and Jonathan had an agreement, though up to that point that agreement had been entirely theoretical, and right at the moment Arabella seemed to have forgotten how to talk to pretty girls at bars, or even that pretty girls at bars could possibly talk to her. “I, if you like? I didn’t get my pineapple Bacardi. I mean, I’m all right to drive. My car’s, uh.” Her car was Jonathan’s car too and parked in the back, with the backseat full of boxes of flour and the throw on the rear tray covered in cat hair.
“It’s all right.” Emma’s smile grew, and Arabella thought she saw a glimpse of the real woman behind the exhaustion. The next thing she knew, Emma’s fingers were brushing her cheek, and then her lips were brushing hers. “Thank you.”
Another gaggle of women burst into the cramped space and somewhere in the chaos, Emma disappeared, swallowed up in the stream of people. She left Arabella with her heart beating fast, an excitement at the pit of her belly, and the nonsensical conviction that they’d meet again.