(no subject)
Title: Panic on the streets of London.
Fandom: Original (mostly)
Pairing: Laura/Amelia
Rating: PG?
Genre: Femslash
Copyright: Laura belongs TO ME and Amelia belongs to fallen_arazil, and the way I have interpreted her does not necessarily mean that she is actually like that, but anyway, the point is that they are both original people and you can’t have them. Title taken from The Smiths’ song "Panic". This fic is not set in London. I promise.
Summary: rivers_bend wanted my version of Wilson’s first wife paired with fallen_arazil’s version, and here’s an interpretation. It’s never easy when you’ve just walked out on your first husband.
Author’s Notes: I stayed up way later writing this than I meant to, so it may not make much sense. And as for the whole “they’re both the first wife of the same guy” thing- I decided to completely ignore that. It was too complicated trying to come up with a circumstance where this would actually work, so I didn’t.
There may even be a sequel. ;)
Panic On The Streets Of London
When the final box of her belongings is neatly (well, kind of) packed up and shoved in the car, and Laura has nearly crashed said car into a wall because she’s shaking to the point that attempting to drive will turn into a suicide attempt (and she’s not that miserable- not yet), she decides that what she really needs is some kind of a drink. Or maybe two. Something to make all the crappy bits of- of everything in her head to settle down and behave themselves.
So she slits open the duct tape and pulls out a jumper belonging to her ex-husband that she has taken because it looks better on her and even if it doesn’t; well, that’s his problem for only owning like two jumpers and for not noticing that she’s stolen one of them. There’s a bar that she likes that she can drink the remainder of the evening away in and leave her car in the parking lot for picking up tomorrow.
It’s not a bad idea, as ideas go.
*
There’s a woman sitting at the bar and sniffling into a gin and tonic. Laura doesn’t blame her. Gin and tonics make her weepy too. There’s something infinitely depressing about them. So she slides onto a barstool two stools away from unhappy-blonde-woman and considers the chipped paint on her nails and tries not to hear the apartment door slamming behind her for the last time. It’s something she doesn’t want to dwell on- not the death of the marriage; that was a couple of weeks ago and kind of fun, but the actual burial of the relationship and the wasted years makes her grit her teeth too hard.
Nothing about this evening is going to fun or easy, and it is not a night for gin and tonics. Laura bites her lip, fingers twisting and clenching as she tries to work out what it is she wants. Perhaps nothing. But it is also not a night to drink alone. She casts a sideways glance at the only other person at the bar- as-yet-unnamed-blonde-woman, and notices something. She’s got the last vestiges of a tan, as though she went on holiday somewhere sunny a few months ago and it hasn’t quite faded yet- and there’s a pale line around her ring finger. It tells Laura everything she needs to know, and she orders two Tequila Sunrises and shifts sideways along to sit beside her.
“Not a good idea,” she says quietly, moving the half-full glass of murderously clear liquid away, and replacing it with a brightly coloured cocktail. “Today is a day for pretty drinks.”
She offers the blonde woman a smile, which she returns tentatively. She’s pretty and delicate and vulnerable and there’s something about her that makes Laura want to gather her up and tuck her into her pocket, which she suspects is the effect she has on everyone. Laura has never been delicate or vulnerable in her life; but on other people it can be a pretty interesting emotion, and it suits this woman down to the ground.
Then she tears her blue eyes away and instead focuses on the tall cocktail glass in front of her. There’s a suspicious look on her face.
“It’s ok,” Laura tells her, “I haven’t drugged it with rohypnol or anything. You can have some if you’d like, but-”
Those wide blue eyes are on her again, slightly surprised, and then her mouth twists into a sort of grin. Laura reaches out and gently swipes a smear of mascara off one porcelain cheekbone with her thumb. Personal space has never been an issue with her.
“I don’t even-” Honey-blonde woman begins, and Laura shrugs and tells her her name is Laura Ramsey, her maiden name still tasting bitter in her mouth.
“Amelia,” the other woman replies.
“Amy,” Laura decides, turning her attention back to her drink.
“Amelia.”
“My mother’s name is Amelia,” Laura replies, which is a lie, but who really cares, “So you’re Amy, all right?”
Amelia looks like she’d like to protest some more.
“I don’t have to sit here with you,” she says.
“But you’re going to,” Laura points out with the certainty that always clings to her, “Aren’t you?”
Amelia blushes a little and can’t meet her gaze, instead turning her gaze to her ring-less hands and where they rest on the bar top. She’s got these really distracting little wrists that Laura suddenly can’t take her eyes off of. Her own wrists aren’t exactly fat but they feel huge in comparison, the right with its chunky swatch watch that’s always been seven and a half minutes slow on it, the left with its tattoo of barbed wire wrapped neatly around it. She doesn’t have a wedding ring mark or anything, and indeed, she doesn’t even have the wedding ring any more.
(She and James had walked out of the divorce court hand in hand, neatly put their rings down a nearby drain in the road, and gone their separate ways. Laura has finally got all her numerous belongings out of the apartment she let him keep and God, she’s never going to see him again. She blinks hard and decides not to think about that too much.)
“Look,” she begins into the silence that could become awkward if she really wanted it to, “You’ve had an argument with your husband or it’s finally over or whatever, and my divorce and so on is all sorted out now, and neither of us are having a great evening, but it’s not an evening to be alone on. So come on. Sit here. Talk to me about anything that isn’t him. I don’t want to know what he did or didn’t do to you, I don’t even want to know his name. What do you say?”
Amelia looks at her for a moment with such a look in those eyes that Laura reckons there really Mis a fun-loving and dangerous Amy under the Amelia in her Laura Ashley skirt and sensible but expensive shoes. And, of course, it will be entertaining to see just how many cocktails it takes to find her.
*
Amelia couldn’t hold a drink to save her life, and Laura finds this funny for more reasons than she’s even sure of. By the time it’s getting around to being very, very late they’ve moved to a table and she’s picking at a hole in her Gap jeans she’s sure wasn’t there this morning and Amelia is studying the table top with her cheeks flushed pink and her blonde hair in disarray. Laura’s only been blonde once and she didn’t like it much- right now she’s black and pink and it might make her look overly pale and rather dead, but she likes it, which is always the most important thing.
“Thank you,” Amelia says, apropos of nothing, looking up at Laura. She really does have this vulnerable edge and Laura honestly doesn’t think it’s at all manipulative. It’s just natural and rather adorable.
“I couldn’t just let you sit there drinking the most depressing drink in the history of alcohol,” Laura points out, fishing the olive out of her third martini and biting it off the cocktail stick, reflecting even as she does so that she doesn’t actually really like olives. Amelia giggles and it’s surprisingly cute. Hell, everything’s cute right now, but then Laura is well on the way to being utterly smashed and Amelia is so totally definitely out of it.
“You should get home,” she says vaguely at some point. Amelia pouts.
“I can’t,” she says simply. Laura doesn’t ask why. It’s probably easier never to know.
“Fine,” she sighs, deciding that as the slightly less inebriated one here she’d better be the sensible one too, “I have a sofa. I think. Maybe. I hope so, anyway. Come on, we should get a cab.”
Amelia laughs and stumbles repeatedly until Laura wraps her fingers around the other woman’s wrist to keep her steady. Her hands are still shaking but she decides she’ll deal with this tomorrow. On top of everything else. Oh well.
Laura throws one glance towards her car and decides that it’s just better not to think about her beloved Johnny Cash CDs; they’ll either be safe tonight or gone tomorrow morning and she’ll add that to her growing to do list. At least she didn’t bring the Harley tonight. Amelia stumbles again and her face ends up buried in Laura’s shoulder. She frowns slightly like she’s trying to work something out, but all Laura can think is that her ex-husband’s aftershave (which is irreversibly permeated into the black sweater and she’s not sure how she feels about that yet) must be doing something to Amelia’s brain. In any case, she doesn’t ask and Amelia doesn’t tell.
She heavily over-tips the cab driver and her brain is beginning to think less and less coherently as they make their way up in the elevator. Amelia is beginning to look more and more like a model strung out on god knows what, which makes Laura feel more than a little guilty, but she decides not to think about that either.
The lights in her apartment are off when they get there, and Laura flicks them on, highlighting a room covered in cardboard boxes, boots and clothes and CDs and records and cosmetics and books and cooking utensils and god knows what else spilling out of them.
“Wow,” Amelia says softly, taking in the sight of Laura’s life in unrelated pieces spread across the floor. Laura smirks but decides not to try and answer that- her home is a mess, and to tell the truth, she likes it like that. It’s much less lonely, to be surrounded by clutter.
“We both need some sleep,” Laura says with more logic than she ever gives herself credit for, unlacing her DMs and going into the kitchen to unearth a glass of water and some aspirin, so they’ll all be laid out for her in the morning.
“Mmm,” Amelia murmurs in a non-committal fashion, and it’s about then that Laura discovers just what happens when you take sensible but gorgeous young women and feed them grief and cocktails with ludicrous colours and even more ludicrous names. Amelia tastes like alcohol and tears and the last vestiges of her Maybelline long-lasting rose pink lipstick. Her fingers tangle in Laura’s hair and maybe she knows what she’s doing and maybe she doesn’t but at this point in time it doesn’t entirely matter.
And Laura thinks, ah, there you are Amy.
Laura’s bedroom is the only vaguely tidy place in the whole goddamn apartment and even so it’s covered in converse all stars and boxer shorts (her own) and classic novels she can never quite get finished, but Amelia doesn’t seem to notice the mess and Laura doesn’t really either. She knows, somewhere in her increasingly fuzzy brain, that she shouldn’t be doing this- Amelia, Amy, whatever, is completely out of it and taking advantage of her at this point is probably not a good idea. On the other hand it’s only a little, high-pitched thought, and one that can easily be drowned out. Which Laura obediently does so. She could write a book on the things she refuses to let herself acknowledge.
Amy (as Laura is now thinking of her, because this isn’t sobbing-in-a-bar-Amelia any more in any way, shape or form) is on top of her, pinning her to the bed, tongue in her mouth dominant and hard and Laura is almost smug about the being right aspect of the whole thing- there really is more to this delicate woman than meets the eye. And in spite of the soft moaning sounds coming from Amy, Laura takes her time unbuttoning that blouse, if only because it’s a nice blouse and it doesn’t deserve to have its buttons ripped off in drunken passion. Her Clockwork Orange t-shirt is easy enough to get over her head and then they’re skin to skin, Amy stroking her fingers over the vine tattoo encircling Laura’s navel and giggling softly. But she still can’t let this happen. She’s got to be the Good One, whatever it costs her.
“You should get some sleep,” Laura manages to suggest through her bruised lips, even though she knows she’ll regret this later. “It’s going to be one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”
Amy kisses her again but it’s true that she’s tired and so is Laura, so she strokes that dishevelled honey hair until Amelia drops off to sleep, baby blue bra strap just sliding off her shoulder. She looks even more petite and breakable when she’s asleep, and Laura forces mental images of bruising that perfect skin well away, changes her sodden panties and jeans for a clean t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, and slides into bed. Amelia curls into her side a little and Laura smiles as she lets herself slide off to sleep.
*
With a lot of aspirin and an apple, Laura’s migraine abates enough for her to be able to shower. Amelia is dead to the world, showing once again that she really doesn’t do this very often. Laura is so used to hangovers by now that she can get on with her life by pretending they’re not there. She dresses and pulls her damp hair into a ponytail and carefully permanent markers her cell phone number on the base of Amelia’s left thumb, just in case.
“You want some coffee?” she asks when Amelia finally stirs, looking like the top of her head feels like it’s falling off.
“I think I’d better just get home,” Amelia replies with a little smile, but she doesn’t look angry or guilty or anything, which Laura takes as a good sign.
“You need to borrow clothes or anything?” she offers, since she reckons they’re about the same size. She makes up for her slim frame by being tall, but Amelia is petite all over.
“No, I’ll be fine,” Amelia replies, searching for her blouse and slowly buttoning it up. “Sorry about this.”
Laura shrugs, sipping her own mug of coffee, the laminate floor cold against her bare feet. She really wants to go to bed and sleep for several more hours, but she’ll have to change the sheets so they don’t smell like Amelia’s perfume or whatever, so she decides maybe she’ll just collapse onto the sofa in a few minutes.
“Call me,” she murmurs.
“I will,” Amelia says, and she at least sounds like she means it.
They manage to make it to the door through the obstacle course of belongings Laura has erected over every available flat surface.
“You really should tidy up a little,” Amelia says thoughtfully.
“I know,” Laura shrugs, leaning against the doorframe to keep herself upright while Amelia steps out into the hallway. “But having stuff everywhere helps fill the gaping hole James left, so-”
“James?” Amelia asks, getting the look on her face she got last night when she smelt Laura’s aftershave-soaked sweater.
“James Wilson,” Laura replies, shrugging. “My ex husband.”
“That- that was my ex-husband’s name,” Amelia says, sounding thoroughly lost.
Laura has a dozen things she could say to that but the hangover pixies are kicking her head, so instead she bites her lip and just closes the door, because running away from your problems is a sadly overused avoidance technique, but one she intends to use right now, even if it is a cliché.
TBC?
Fandom: Original (mostly)
Pairing: Laura/Amelia
Rating: PG?
Genre: Femslash
Copyright: Laura belongs TO ME and Amelia belongs to fallen_arazil, and the way I have interpreted her does not necessarily mean that she is actually like that, but anyway, the point is that they are both original people and you can’t have them. Title taken from The Smiths’ song "Panic". This fic is not set in London. I promise.
Summary: rivers_bend wanted my version of Wilson’s first wife paired with fallen_arazil’s version, and here’s an interpretation. It’s never easy when you’ve just walked out on your first husband.
Author’s Notes: I stayed up way later writing this than I meant to, so it may not make much sense. And as for the whole “they’re both the first wife of the same guy” thing- I decided to completely ignore that. It was too complicated trying to come up with a circumstance where this would actually work, so I didn’t.
There may even be a sequel. ;)
Panic On The Streets Of London
When the final box of her belongings is neatly (well, kind of) packed up and shoved in the car, and Laura has nearly crashed said car into a wall because she’s shaking to the point that attempting to drive will turn into a suicide attempt (and she’s not that miserable- not yet), she decides that what she really needs is some kind of a drink. Or maybe two. Something to make all the crappy bits of- of everything in her head to settle down and behave themselves.
So she slits open the duct tape and pulls out a jumper belonging to her ex-husband that she has taken because it looks better on her and even if it doesn’t; well, that’s his problem for only owning like two jumpers and for not noticing that she’s stolen one of them. There’s a bar that she likes that she can drink the remainder of the evening away in and leave her car in the parking lot for picking up tomorrow.
It’s not a bad idea, as ideas go.
*
There’s a woman sitting at the bar and sniffling into a gin and tonic. Laura doesn’t blame her. Gin and tonics make her weepy too. There’s something infinitely depressing about them. So she slides onto a barstool two stools away from unhappy-blonde-woman and considers the chipped paint on her nails and tries not to hear the apartment door slamming behind her for the last time. It’s something she doesn’t want to dwell on- not the death of the marriage; that was a couple of weeks ago and kind of fun, but the actual burial of the relationship and the wasted years makes her grit her teeth too hard.
Nothing about this evening is going to fun or easy, and it is not a night for gin and tonics. Laura bites her lip, fingers twisting and clenching as she tries to work out what it is she wants. Perhaps nothing. But it is also not a night to drink alone. She casts a sideways glance at the only other person at the bar- as-yet-unnamed-blonde-woman, and notices something. She’s got the last vestiges of a tan, as though she went on holiday somewhere sunny a few months ago and it hasn’t quite faded yet- and there’s a pale line around her ring finger. It tells Laura everything she needs to know, and she orders two Tequila Sunrises and shifts sideways along to sit beside her.
“Not a good idea,” she says quietly, moving the half-full glass of murderously clear liquid away, and replacing it with a brightly coloured cocktail. “Today is a day for pretty drinks.”
She offers the blonde woman a smile, which she returns tentatively. She’s pretty and delicate and vulnerable and there’s something about her that makes Laura want to gather her up and tuck her into her pocket, which she suspects is the effect she has on everyone. Laura has never been delicate or vulnerable in her life; but on other people it can be a pretty interesting emotion, and it suits this woman down to the ground.
Then she tears her blue eyes away and instead focuses on the tall cocktail glass in front of her. There’s a suspicious look on her face.
“It’s ok,” Laura tells her, “I haven’t drugged it with rohypnol or anything. You can have some if you’d like, but-”
Those wide blue eyes are on her again, slightly surprised, and then her mouth twists into a sort of grin. Laura reaches out and gently swipes a smear of mascara off one porcelain cheekbone with her thumb. Personal space has never been an issue with her.
“I don’t even-” Honey-blonde woman begins, and Laura shrugs and tells her her name is Laura Ramsey, her maiden name still tasting bitter in her mouth.
“Amelia,” the other woman replies.
“Amy,” Laura decides, turning her attention back to her drink.
“Amelia.”
“My mother’s name is Amelia,” Laura replies, which is a lie, but who really cares, “So you’re Amy, all right?”
Amelia looks like she’d like to protest some more.
“I don’t have to sit here with you,” she says.
“But you’re going to,” Laura points out with the certainty that always clings to her, “Aren’t you?”
Amelia blushes a little and can’t meet her gaze, instead turning her gaze to her ring-less hands and where they rest on the bar top. She’s got these really distracting little wrists that Laura suddenly can’t take her eyes off of. Her own wrists aren’t exactly fat but they feel huge in comparison, the right with its chunky swatch watch that’s always been seven and a half minutes slow on it, the left with its tattoo of barbed wire wrapped neatly around it. She doesn’t have a wedding ring mark or anything, and indeed, she doesn’t even have the wedding ring any more.
(She and James had walked out of the divorce court hand in hand, neatly put their rings down a nearby drain in the road, and gone their separate ways. Laura has finally got all her numerous belongings out of the apartment she let him keep and God, she’s never going to see him again. She blinks hard and decides not to think about that too much.)
“Look,” she begins into the silence that could become awkward if she really wanted it to, “You’ve had an argument with your husband or it’s finally over or whatever, and my divorce and so on is all sorted out now, and neither of us are having a great evening, but it’s not an evening to be alone on. So come on. Sit here. Talk to me about anything that isn’t him. I don’t want to know what he did or didn’t do to you, I don’t even want to know his name. What do you say?”
Amelia looks at her for a moment with such a look in those eyes that Laura reckons there really Mis a fun-loving and dangerous Amy under the Amelia in her Laura Ashley skirt and sensible but expensive shoes. And, of course, it will be entertaining to see just how many cocktails it takes to find her.
*
Amelia couldn’t hold a drink to save her life, and Laura finds this funny for more reasons than she’s even sure of. By the time it’s getting around to being very, very late they’ve moved to a table and she’s picking at a hole in her Gap jeans she’s sure wasn’t there this morning and Amelia is studying the table top with her cheeks flushed pink and her blonde hair in disarray. Laura’s only been blonde once and she didn’t like it much- right now she’s black and pink and it might make her look overly pale and rather dead, but she likes it, which is always the most important thing.
“Thank you,” Amelia says, apropos of nothing, looking up at Laura. She really does have this vulnerable edge and Laura honestly doesn’t think it’s at all manipulative. It’s just natural and rather adorable.
“I couldn’t just let you sit there drinking the most depressing drink in the history of alcohol,” Laura points out, fishing the olive out of her third martini and biting it off the cocktail stick, reflecting even as she does so that she doesn’t actually really like olives. Amelia giggles and it’s surprisingly cute. Hell, everything’s cute right now, but then Laura is well on the way to being utterly smashed and Amelia is so totally definitely out of it.
“You should get home,” she says vaguely at some point. Amelia pouts.
“I can’t,” she says simply. Laura doesn’t ask why. It’s probably easier never to know.
“Fine,” she sighs, deciding that as the slightly less inebriated one here she’d better be the sensible one too, “I have a sofa. I think. Maybe. I hope so, anyway. Come on, we should get a cab.”
Amelia laughs and stumbles repeatedly until Laura wraps her fingers around the other woman’s wrist to keep her steady. Her hands are still shaking but she decides she’ll deal with this tomorrow. On top of everything else. Oh well.
Laura throws one glance towards her car and decides that it’s just better not to think about her beloved Johnny Cash CDs; they’ll either be safe tonight or gone tomorrow morning and she’ll add that to her growing to do list. At least she didn’t bring the Harley tonight. Amelia stumbles again and her face ends up buried in Laura’s shoulder. She frowns slightly like she’s trying to work something out, but all Laura can think is that her ex-husband’s aftershave (which is irreversibly permeated into the black sweater and she’s not sure how she feels about that yet) must be doing something to Amelia’s brain. In any case, she doesn’t ask and Amelia doesn’t tell.
She heavily over-tips the cab driver and her brain is beginning to think less and less coherently as they make their way up in the elevator. Amelia is beginning to look more and more like a model strung out on god knows what, which makes Laura feel more than a little guilty, but she decides not to think about that either.
The lights in her apartment are off when they get there, and Laura flicks them on, highlighting a room covered in cardboard boxes, boots and clothes and CDs and records and cosmetics and books and cooking utensils and god knows what else spilling out of them.
“Wow,” Amelia says softly, taking in the sight of Laura’s life in unrelated pieces spread across the floor. Laura smirks but decides not to try and answer that- her home is a mess, and to tell the truth, she likes it like that. It’s much less lonely, to be surrounded by clutter.
“We both need some sleep,” Laura says with more logic than she ever gives herself credit for, unlacing her DMs and going into the kitchen to unearth a glass of water and some aspirin, so they’ll all be laid out for her in the morning.
“Mmm,” Amelia murmurs in a non-committal fashion, and it’s about then that Laura discovers just what happens when you take sensible but gorgeous young women and feed them grief and cocktails with ludicrous colours and even more ludicrous names. Amelia tastes like alcohol and tears and the last vestiges of her Maybelline long-lasting rose pink lipstick. Her fingers tangle in Laura’s hair and maybe she knows what she’s doing and maybe she doesn’t but at this point in time it doesn’t entirely matter.
And Laura thinks, ah, there you are Amy.
Laura’s bedroom is the only vaguely tidy place in the whole goddamn apartment and even so it’s covered in converse all stars and boxer shorts (her own) and classic novels she can never quite get finished, but Amelia doesn’t seem to notice the mess and Laura doesn’t really either. She knows, somewhere in her increasingly fuzzy brain, that she shouldn’t be doing this- Amelia, Amy, whatever, is completely out of it and taking advantage of her at this point is probably not a good idea. On the other hand it’s only a little, high-pitched thought, and one that can easily be drowned out. Which Laura obediently does so. She could write a book on the things she refuses to let herself acknowledge.
Amy (as Laura is now thinking of her, because this isn’t sobbing-in-a-bar-Amelia any more in any way, shape or form) is on top of her, pinning her to the bed, tongue in her mouth dominant and hard and Laura is almost smug about the being right aspect of the whole thing- there really is more to this delicate woman than meets the eye. And in spite of the soft moaning sounds coming from Amy, Laura takes her time unbuttoning that blouse, if only because it’s a nice blouse and it doesn’t deserve to have its buttons ripped off in drunken passion. Her Clockwork Orange t-shirt is easy enough to get over her head and then they’re skin to skin, Amy stroking her fingers over the vine tattoo encircling Laura’s navel and giggling softly. But she still can’t let this happen. She’s got to be the Good One, whatever it costs her.
“You should get some sleep,” Laura manages to suggest through her bruised lips, even though she knows she’ll regret this later. “It’s going to be one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”
Amy kisses her again but it’s true that she’s tired and so is Laura, so she strokes that dishevelled honey hair until Amelia drops off to sleep, baby blue bra strap just sliding off her shoulder. She looks even more petite and breakable when she’s asleep, and Laura forces mental images of bruising that perfect skin well away, changes her sodden panties and jeans for a clean t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, and slides into bed. Amelia curls into her side a little and Laura smiles as she lets herself slide off to sleep.
*
With a lot of aspirin and an apple, Laura’s migraine abates enough for her to be able to shower. Amelia is dead to the world, showing once again that she really doesn’t do this very often. Laura is so used to hangovers by now that she can get on with her life by pretending they’re not there. She dresses and pulls her damp hair into a ponytail and carefully permanent markers her cell phone number on the base of Amelia’s left thumb, just in case.
“You want some coffee?” she asks when Amelia finally stirs, looking like the top of her head feels like it’s falling off.
“I think I’d better just get home,” Amelia replies with a little smile, but she doesn’t look angry or guilty or anything, which Laura takes as a good sign.
“You need to borrow clothes or anything?” she offers, since she reckons they’re about the same size. She makes up for her slim frame by being tall, but Amelia is petite all over.
“No, I’ll be fine,” Amelia replies, searching for her blouse and slowly buttoning it up. “Sorry about this.”
Laura shrugs, sipping her own mug of coffee, the laminate floor cold against her bare feet. She really wants to go to bed and sleep for several more hours, but she’ll have to change the sheets so they don’t smell like Amelia’s perfume or whatever, so she decides maybe she’ll just collapse onto the sofa in a few minutes.
“Call me,” she murmurs.
“I will,” Amelia says, and she at least sounds like she means it.
They manage to make it to the door through the obstacle course of belongings Laura has erected over every available flat surface.
“You really should tidy up a little,” Amelia says thoughtfully.
“I know,” Laura shrugs, leaning against the doorframe to keep herself upright while Amelia steps out into the hallway. “But having stuff everywhere helps fill the gaping hole James left, so-”
“James?” Amelia asks, getting the look on her face she got last night when she smelt Laura’s aftershave-soaked sweater.
“James Wilson,” Laura replies, shrugging. “My ex husband.”
“That- that was my ex-husband’s name,” Amelia says, sounding thoroughly lost.
Laura has a dozen things she could say to that but the hangover pixies are kicking her head, so instead she bites her lip and just closes the door, because running away from your problems is a sadly overused avoidance technique, but one she intends to use right now, even if it is a cliché.
TBC?