Work Text:
Freddie has been away for 5 months. Despite his previous protestations, he is beginning to miss London. The bustle of the busy streets, the diversity and excitement of Notting Hill, and of course The Hour. But the one thing he missed the most was obvious, not only to him, but to anyone who knew him as well as she did. But he had a new leading woman now, and a French one at that. One that was passionate, cut her hair daringly and read Ginsberg. She had pulled him in until he was drowning in her, her mind, her thoughts, her opinions - all of her wrapped around him like a cocoon, as if he were going to take flight as a new man.
She had satisfied him for a while, his mind staying in this new and exciting place until he had learnt everything there was to learn, or so he believed. He thought it was love, that steady thrum of contentment and comfort with her that he felt with those he had professed love for before. Like a member of his family, someone he had spent countless hours with over two months, listening to her poetry on the bank of The Seine and crying. Feeling as though she was a part of him. She had stolen a part of his heart that he would doubtless never get back, but it wouldn't be until later that he would realise it wasn't the same.
She wasn't like his wavy haired, hard working, intelligent, modern, free spirited partner in crime at home. She didn't write poetry, but she was akin to poetry on her own - a well woven, intricate pattern of words and thoughts in a beautiful entity. She was his everything before Camille. And she still was. He wouldn't realise this until he lead in the darkness of Camille's studio flat a week after their wedding, staring at the red walls as his mind floated images of the past around him. Chips in the park. Taunting a preacher (entirely by accident). Nearly falling down a hill. Writing their stories together. Watching television. Debating. Everything and nothing.
He used to drown in her, in her spirit, in her personality, her ambition, her perseverance, her strength. He still wanted to drown in her, thought of her endlessly, wondered about her, thought about calling or writing, but gave up after he received no response. Months later he would try again. Try to bridge the gap that had formed, try to bring back their previous closeness. That unbreakable duo that had puzzled and perplexed those around them, he with his abrasive and sharp attitude, she with her gentler, more tactful cleverness. They matched each other, balanced each other out. She was encouragement, reassurance - without her by his side, he was somehow not himself. Camille had not stolen as big a part of his heart as she had. And where the gap would heal over and repair itself when she left, Bel's never would, however much time would pass.
He felt guilty. So utterly guilty that he had been such a coward. Hadn't rocked up at her door, demanded to see her and poured his heart out. But he was too proud, too afraid of rejection, of never relinquishing her, so resolved himself to carry on without her, to miss her everyday and do nothing about it. But now he was back. She was right there, and he would wait no longer. Now was his chance, and he was taking it with both hands. He walks towards her desk, stops and waits for her to look up, push her glasses down her nose with a raised eyebrow. He says nothing but one word. One word that contains everything:
"Moneypenny."