Chapter Text
I rip my heels off my aching feet, whip my lanyard over my head, and dive onto the couch with an ecstatic groan. God that was a long fucking job. I love being a flight attendant, I do. But sometimes I’d like to occupy one timezone, just for a while, let my internal clock settle into a rhythm instead of constantly being rocked off its axis by surprise sunsets and out of nowhere sunrises.
I shimmy my hands up under my dress, desperate to rid myself of the constriction of my stockings. I’m just working them down over my hips when I hear the firm dook, dook, dook of measured footsteps (heels, probably heeled boots?) coming from my kitchen. I tumble off the sofa into a crouch, thwacking my elbow on the coffee table as I go. “Fuck,” god I wish I was less of a fucking mess.
“Well aren’t you a sight?”
I groan and slump against the rug. I would recognise that accent anywhere. “What the fuck?”
Miranda snorts and takes a sip of red wine from the glass she’s pilfered from my kitchen.
I gesture frustratedly at her and repeat, “What the fuck?
Miranda smirks wryly, “I could most definitely ask you the same thing, Cassandra. I thought we were sober now? What’s this doing here?” She holds up the bottle of red I’d bought for a dinner party and then panic-shoved to the back of my pantry.
I push myself to my feet, tired of her looming over me. “Wh- where did you even find that? Have you been,” I gesture widely, “rummaging through my stuff? Because that was very well hidden.” I pause. “Actually, y’know what,” I hold up my hand, “Nevermind. I don’t even want to know.”
“Are you sure? Because if that’s your idea of ‘very well hidden,’” she air-quotes, bottle and glass raised.
“Yeah, ok, enough. It’s meant to be hidden from me okay, not the crazy lady who sometimes breaks into my house.”
She shrugs at this and takes a swig from the bottle before pouring the remainder into the large glass. How long has she been here? Waiting for me and drinking my wine?
“Help yourself,” I hiss sarcastically as I work my stockings back up over my hips. Apparently I’m not going to be relaxing any time soon.
“Oh, were you getting comfortable? Don’t mind me,” she gestures with the glass, collapsing bonelessly into a lounge chair. “I do like a show.”
I should be used to this by now. Miranda is full of innuendos, but somehow she always manages to make me flustered. I’m not into women (well, I mean, maybe occasionally I have a passing thought here and there), but she’s so damn confusing. I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s just Miranda. She doesn’t mean anything by it.
I huff, roll my eyes and tell her, mock sternly, to stay there while I go get changed.
When I return to the living room, Miranda’s tapping at her phone, looking like it has personally offended her. When I sneak a peek over her shoulder I can’t help but snort. Candy Crush.
“Oi! No spying on the criminal mastermind’s phone,” she snaps, pressing the phone to her chest to hide the screen.
“That’s a really hard level. I think they just do that to get money out of you,” I grin as I flop down on the larger couch. “Also, criminal mastermind? This from the woman who managed to drop a book containing the key to two hundred million dollars?”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve given me some warning that we were jumping,” she snaps.
We’ve had this argument too many times by this point, so I just wave her comment away and let the subject drop. We sit in silence for a while. I’m just enjoying the peace after having been at the literal beck and call of a flight full of entitled first-class pains-in-the-ass for the last ten hours. Not to mention the drama that goes on among the cabin crew. My god. I really would have thought we were all too far out of high school for this shit by now.
Miranda seems content to take big, sturdy mouthfuls of wine and one-handedly swipe at her phone, occasionally muttering a for fuck’s sake under her breath.
“Sooo… what’cha here for Miranda?”
She takes a big gulp of wine, finishing off the glass and finally looks up at me. “I need a date for a wedding.”
I blink. “Um, ok? And you… want me to… help you find one?”
She shoots me this look that says I’m the biggest dumbass she’s ever seen. “No, I want you,” she emphasises the you, her Scottish accent dragging it out, “to be my date. Obviously.”
Uhh. Ok. “Oh, obviously,” I snark.
“Well?” She’s giving me big, expectant blue eyes.
“What? No! I’m not going to be your date for a wedding. Why would you even ask?”
“Because oh, I don’t know, you owe me. Big time. Remember how I saved your ass in Iceland?”
“You did not save my ass. You swooped in with your helicopter and your private plane and got yourself shot in the leg, is what you did.”
Her cheeks go hollow as her mouth makes a small ‘oh.’ For a moment I think I’ve offended her, but then she snorts and mutters something under her breath. I think I heard the words ‘ungrateful creature.’
“It’s next week. A three day affair, two nights, on an island off the coast of Ireland.” She stands, pulling a tape measure out of the pocket of her long black coat. “I need your measurements for the tailor.”
I let out a defeated sigh. She’s right, I do owe her, although why she’d decide to collect in the form of dragging me to a wedding, I really don’t know.
“Ireland?” I ask half-heartedly.
“Mmhm.”
“Your family?”
“God no.” She shoots me an incredulous look. “Besides, I’m Scottish. Arms up.”
“What? Oh, no, I know my measurements,” I bat the tape measure away and step back to get her out of my personal space. The couch hits the backs of my knees and I land on it with an undignified ‘oof.’
She shrugs and folds up the tape measure with a dubious “Alriiight.”
I self consciously cross my arms over my stomach. Being sober hasn’t been super kind to my waistline (not that I really thought anyone but me would have noticed, honestly. Thanks, Miranda.).
“Seriously, though, why do you want me to come to this wedding? Why not just take Cecilia?”
There’s a moment where she seems almost like she’s not sure, herself, but it passes quickly. “Because. Cecilia is incredibly disloyal and also has a newborn. I don’t think she’d take kindly to me dragging her off to some godforsaken island for three days.”
“And I would?”
She shrugs, pins me with a resigned look. “You owe me.”