Faking It • Queen FanFiction

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 27

꧁ Aᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's Nᴏᴛᴇ: ꧂
𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑, 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑚, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡. 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑝 𝑖𝑡.
𝐵𝑦𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠 ༄

"Bernie, Bernie, Bernadette. You sure do get yourself in the shit, don't you?" Roger stood smugly on the doorstep of Bernie's flat, awaiting entry, staring into her disgusted face. As much as she hated to admit it, he was absolutely right, she did get herself 'in the shit' and now there was no wading out of it. This comment also validated the worry that he knew she didn't necessarily want him there. By now they were friends and had reached a point in their acquaintanceship where it'd be rude to not want to be in each other's company.

By 10 o'clock, both Bernie and Roger were sat on the sofa, closer than enemies would be but further away than lovers. Roughly an elbow distance apart, so Bernie could jab at him if he got too annoying. The Great Gatsby flashed at the pair of them, illuminating their faces in the darkness. Bernie felt comfortable enough to turn off the lights so they could watch the film without having a glare on the screen and ruin her favourite parts. The curtains were also closed for the same reason. As Roger was driving to her flat, the clouds had decided to clear, lighting the skies once again.

The only problem with the lack of lighting was the one she was facing now. Slowly, she felt the weight on the sofa shift and the heat of Roger's body more prominent next to hers. For pyjamas he'd brought a pair of tartan trousers (which he refused to wear until she had gone to bed) and a Queen t-shirt. Because of the pyjama-bottom-boycott, he was wearing jeans still, which Bernie took no time in hesitating to make an open judgement about his surprising ability to get comfortable in jeans. It certainly was a contrast to her grey shorts and matching vest.

Her pyjamas had never seemed like an inadequate amount of clothing until this moment when, with his eyes still fixated on the television screen, Bernie felt Roger's hand ease its way subtly into the gap between her knees; she was sitting with her legs up on the sofa. Tensing up, she didn't know what to do. Two months ago she would have launched him to the other side of the room, but now she felt in a liminal state. Did she let his hand sit warmly between her knees, or did she make it obvious it wasn't welcome? Technically there was nothing inappropriate about this and so she let him stay there for the time being.

Until his hand started to drop and it sat on her bare thigh, the right pinkie making small motions on her leg. She pursed her lips and felt her body go rigid. Something inside of her had secretly been hoping for this brief thought to become a reality. But now it was actually happening, all thoughts left her mind and she silently bit down on her bottom lip in concentration, begging her mind to tell him to get off. Jay Gatsby was too busy illegally bootlegging alcohol to deal with Bernie's first world problems. Not long now and Gatsby would die - her least favourite part - and all she could think about was Roger's hand placement.

Jumping on the small wave of rationality, Bernie took the opportunity to take Roger's hand in hers and directly place it back in his direction politely before letting go and resuming being two people innocently watching a film together once again. Ah, the relief. Nice and comfortable, everybody's hands to themselves and eyes on the film. And then it happened.

[trigger warning here]
Wilson stepped into the room and drew his gun out of his bag, watching Gatsby closely, guilt already etched on his face. Tears congealed in his eyes and then... Bang! Bang! Gatsby dead. His body falling lifelessly into the luxurious pool, turning the water scarlet. Back inside the house, Wilson put the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger as the camera transcended behind the curtain. Bernie, who knew what was going to happen but still reacting in the same way as she did when she first watched the film, delved into Roger's arm instinctively, shielding her face from the screen.
[oki it's over now]

Now it was Roger's turn to tense up. He didn't know what she wanted nor expected him to do, so he did what he wanted to do and put his arms around her, hugging her close. Holding her for a moment until the scene changed, Bernie lifted her head up and coughed awkwardly. Oh dear. She'd just watched two men fictionally die and then delved into the arms of a man - Roger's arms - like a weak little girl. However, when she went to sit back over her side of the sofa again, feeling humiliated, the cold gap was intensely chilling, so she sat closer to him again, arm to arm. "Don't you dare try and feel me up again, or you may not feel anything ever again, okay?"

"Sure, okay," Roger laughed, feeling intimidated and keeping his hands in his own space. The warmth radiating off of him was comforting, removing the chill that had spread over Bernie's pale skin. "Why'd you put this film on if you knew you didn't like it?"

"I never said I didn't. Do you like it?"

"Not really."

"There's your answer. Now shhh, this is a good part." Mandatorily, he did as he was told and watched with a silent smirk on his face. Her attitude was impeccably attractive and he struggled to keep to his 'keeping his hands to himself' command. Once or twice he contemplated just kissing her, but then remembered how she'd react.

It was hopeless trying to be romantic with such an intelligent, cultured (and not to mention angry) feminist who wouldn't hesitate to rip his body to shreds if he tried another stunt like the one on the day they ran into Holden a couple of months ago. The truth was, ever since then, Roger's lips had been craving Bernie's and he often struggled to keep that to himself. Especially when she looked as gorgeous as she always did no matter what and was her fake boyfriend. He hoped one day he could possibly be her real boyfriend, although he knew the chances of that were next to zero. Plus, she hated his guts and he knew it, even if he didn't want to.

But if she 'hated his guts', then why was her forearm leaning on his thigh and head between his arm and chest?

7/12/22