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

38. Anatomy of a Zuckerberg

As might be expected, the plan-out really didn't take too much time, which was just how Freddie liked it. This gave the seven of us the chance to sit down, face-to-face, and work out how today would transpire. Who was splitting up with whom, by what time did they need to be at the airport (John and Rudy were assigned to plane ticket arranging; seeing as the Starship wasn't going back up in the air, we needed to figure out a more public Plan B), and things to that effect.

"And this time, let's stick to the deadline, shall we, Fred?" Elton said dryly, and Freddie gave him a thumbs up and a wink.

We made an interesting sight there by the poolside- the original Suicide Squad tightly (and just a tad uncomfortably) encircling one of the round tables like some sort of King Arthur parody. We would have made quite a cool-looking album cover: Peter in sunglasses, lounging in his chair, hands behind his head; Elton, smoking, occasionally being interrupted by the smattering of fans who approached him, which he handled gracefully enough; "Randy John" meticulously writing things down so as not to forget; Rudy leaning forward, hands folded on the table, making notes on his own mental notepad; Paul, also dragging on a cigarette, listening intently but not so intently as to stop throwing suspicious glances our way- "our" referring of course to Freddie and myself, slowly drying out in the morning sun, me wishing I'd brought my journal so I could write the plan down myself.

Not that I was really even paying much attention. Freddie kept distracting me in two big ways. The first, obviously, because of how drop-dead gorgeous he looked with his hair curling as it sun-dried, his unshaven face, and the way the water droplets glittered on his tan skin. It took great self-composure not to let my hand touch his chest again, or let my fingers get tangled up in that mess of dark hair.

And apparently, he thought I was worth caressing as well, which brings me to the second distraction.

Whenever Freddie would talk, everything was fine. I could focus, because he was focused. But as soon as Straker or Rudy or somebody besides himself (including me) opened their mouths, a film would slide over Freddie's eyes and he went into auto-pilot. Outwardly, that is. On the inside, he was busy playing a rapidly escalating game of "Can I Help You?"

Within seconds of his eyes going flat, I would feel a hand grip my bare knee. I would clench my teeth, do my best not to visibly react, because that's what he was trying to evoke- a reaction. The first few times he did this, I simply lifted his hand off my knee and put it back in his lap, shooting him an irritated glance. But he learned quickly; when he did it next, he held my hand down over my other knee, so that should I try to stop him again I'd make a scene. So I stopped reacting altogether.

When I sat there like a stone for a few moments, his smooth hand would began rubbing my lower thigh back and forth. My eyes would drift down toward my lap, and I would cross my legs, moving out of his range. It was indeed a reaction, but not the one he was looking for. So, very subtly, he would scoot a little closer and slide his hand under my raised thigh and again rub back and forth, squeezing harder until I could stand it no more and I spouted the magic phrase: "Can I help you?"

But even there, I couldn't win. Not only would I disrupt the group, but Freddie would draw back and look completely oblivious to my outburst. And there was no way could I explain to these guys what was going on, so I would wind up looking like a complete idiot yet again. Mutely, then, I had to endure Freddie's teasing touch.

"Back in the air by eight," Peter mused. "That doesn't give us much time to paint the town, does it?"

"Just means there's very little time to waste, so we'd better make the best of it," Freddie explained.

Elton took a puff, smoke escaping his lungs in little wisps as he spoke. "So tell me about this Zuckerberg fellow."

He asked it so nonchalantly and without a very good segue, so I didn't realize at first that he was addressing me. "Oh! Uh- well, what about him?"