Work Text:
Maddie doesn’t make it a habit of looking at magazines much. She’s busy, she’s important, she’s almost 30 at this point, she doesn’t have time for a wandering eye at her bodega when she grabs her coffee on the way to work. But this specific day, her eye just happens to wander.
“Is that London fucking Tipton?” She yells far too loudly for eight in the morning.
Her coffee sloshes over onto the counter. The bodega guy levels her a look.
“Yeah, she’s really famous,” he says, like she’s an idiot, before grabbing some paper towels.
“I know that,” Maddie snaps, before realizing that being rude to people in customer service is a slippery slope to becoming a terrible person. “Sorry. Sorry for the coffee too, I can wipe it up.”
“It’s okay,” he says with a pitying smile, “so do you want the Vogue?”
Maddie looks down at the magazine, then back up at the bodega guy, then back down.
“No,” she says, “yes. No, I don’t need it, the internet exists, you know?”
He just tilts his head at her until she throws down a five and takes the magazine.
“Thank you,” she calls as she’s leaving, “and sorry again!”
“You’re good,” he yells after her, then winks. “She’s very pretty, you know? London Tipton.”
Maddie almost laughs. Like anyone needs to tell her that London Tipton is pretty, like she didn’t spend a good portion of college realizing that her latent bisexuality probably ties back to that one time she was literally trapped in a closet with London and London had said she was soo bored , maybe they could pass the time by making out or something and Maddie had scoffed but said, “yeah, okay” because she was bored too and London was maybe the prettiest person Maddie had ever seen and yeah, Maddie had only kissed boys and only thought she ever wanted to kiss boys, but London was very good at kissing and it had felt warm and nice and tingly in her toes and she never told London this, never told anyone this, just thought it was a thing all girls felt around their casual friends-slash-enemies-slash-whatever.
So yeah, no one needs to tell her London is pretty.
She makes it outside and onto a bench, trying to gather her bearings at least a little bit. London’s stupid gorgeous face stares at her from the magazine. They’ve gone with a natural “no makeup” look, though Maddie can still tell that London is wearing a bit of makeup. Her late twenties look good on her, her smile coming a little more naturally, like she’s in on a joke that the rest of the world hasn’t gotten yet.
Or, maybe it’s finally time to let the world in on the joke. Maddie’s fingers tighten around the magazine as she reads the headline again and again.
London Tipton: Heiress, Philanthropist, Queer Icon
Honestly, she’s not sure if it’s the philanthropist or queer icon part that surprises her the most. (Okay, it’s the queer icon bit, Maddie works at a non-profit, she knows anyone with money and a good PR team can be a philanthropist. What she doesn’t know is why the idea of London Tipton being vocally queer is sending her into a god damn tailspin.)
She picks up her phone and scrolls through her contacts, looking for someone who would maybe understand the absolute bafflement with a hint of something stronger and scary that is pulsing through her today.
“London’s queer!?” she practically screeches into the phone when he picks up.
“Good to hear from you too, Maddie,” Esteban says with a chuckle, “and how I am I? I’m good, Carlos and the girls are also doing well, thank you for asking.”
“Sorry,” Maddie says, “I just, I know I’m being totally rude, I do want to hear about Carlos and the girls I promise, I just - did you know about this?”
“That London is queer?” he says slowly, like she’s one of his five-year-old daughters, “Didn’t we all know?”
“No!” Maddie whines, indignant, “I must have missed that memo!”
Esteban laughs, “Are you sure? I seem to recall there were many times I found you two French kissing in empty hotel rooms.”
Maddie blushes. She’s 28, and she fucking blushes at the phrase French kissing.
“That was like, three times, and I thought she was just - you know - she was a hot teen in 2007, it was cool to kiss girls. Ugh, I know how that sounds but - it was just - it didn’t have to mean anything.”
“Did it mean something for you?”
This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. This was supposed to be her and an old friend laughing over a revelation of someone from their past, not decades-old feelings choosing to come back up, uninvited.
“Of course it meant something to me,” she says with a sigh, “but that doesn’t mean it did for her.”
“Have you talked to her about it?” Esteban asks, a little too gently.
“Of course not! I didn’t even know she was queer until, like, five minutes ago.”
“Girl, how?" Esteban starts laughing. "Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, just highly amused. “Just to clear the air, you’ve met my husband, but you know I’m gay, right?”
“Oh, shut up.”
His giggles are contagious, though, and she finds herself cracking a smile on the city bench she’s deposited herself onto.
“And,” Esteban continues through his laughter, “I don’t know how to break it to you, but you might be queer too, if your girlfriend has anything to stay about that.”
And there goes the smile.
“Ex-girlfriend,” she corrects.
Esteban sobers. “I’m sorry, Maddie.”
“It’s fine.” She breathes a long sigh out. “It ended a while ago, actually, we just didn’t have that spark, I guess.”
She doesn't mention that she’s felt more that energy in the past ten minutes about someone she hasn’t spoken to in years than she felt for her ex in the eight months they were together.
“We really should catch up more,” Esteban says, “we miss you over here.”
“I miss you too,” Maddie says, meaning it.
She eventually has to hang up and go down to the subway, actually try to have a functioning work day. She shoves the magazine in her messenger bag, and wills herself not to think about it. She’s proud only fumbling her MetroCard a little bit to get to the A train. She misses Boston sometimes; misses the simplicity of tapping into the T, the annoying squeak of the Green Line whenever she would venture downtown.
She remembers the anticipation of getting off a train the first time London had randomly invited her out with her to a club when her rich out-of-town friends had bailed.
“London, I’m seventeen,” Maddie had whined, as she tried to keep up with London power walking in heels down Boylston street, “how are they going to let me in?”
London had looked at her like she was stupid.
“Because you’re with me, silly!”
Then she had pulled Maddie close by the arm and stayed that way, even when they got past the bouncer who, of course, gave them no trouble at all. They stayed close even when London started dancing like she was born for that specific purpose, effortlessly moving in a way that would have turned every head in the room even if London hadn’t been famous, pulling Maddie in with her.
“You dance like you’re in high school.” London said, laughing.
“I am in high school!”
“Not tonight.”
London gave Maddie a private little grin and then pulled her in by the hips and showed her how to dance like they definitely weren’t in high school.
Men’s eyes had followed them (which Maddie only realized much later was super creepy and gross, they were minors) and she had assumed that London danced with her so closely for the those watching, that was why she smiled at Maddie like Maddie was special and important and somehow belonged in that world. But even that never fully explained why, when London paid for a car back to the hotel for them, her head fell on Maddie’s shoulder and her hand ran light circles over Maddie’s thigh the whole ride home.
Maddie blinks as her train stops, already at 34th. So much for not thinking about it.
She makes it though most of her work day unscathed. It’s good, it’s busy, tracking down donors who told her at events that they definitely wanted to support low-income housing, but have yet to write a check. She’s good at it; guilt tripping rich people. She tries really fucking hard not to focus on where she got that skill.
Her phone rings around three, from an unknown California number. Something in Maddie’s heart leaps. Not that she doesn’t have London’s old number (which always redirects to her assistant) saved on her phone all these years later, not that a 818 area code would even make sense for her, not that London being queer on a magazine would even lead to her thinking of Maddie of all people. But, still the smallest hope sparks in her as she answers the phone.
“Hello?” She says, trying to sound cool and confident.
“Well, well, well,” the distinctly male and not-London voice sounds, “look who’s picking up the phone.”
Maddie hesitates for a moment, trying to quell the annoying disappointment that trickles into her, before she realizes where she knows that voice.
“Zack Martin?”
“Ah, she remembers.”
“How did you get this number?”
Zack laughs over the phone. “You’ve had the same number since I was 12, when I had a crush on you and memorized it like a dumbass.”
Maddie laughs, in spite of herself. “So, um, how are you?”
“Oh pretty good,” he says, “I’ve been doing some casual reading-”
“So you have changed in the last ten years then.”
“Ouch. I deserved it, but ouch.”
Maddie smiles. She’s vaguely stayed in touch with the twins over the last decade or so, mostly just through social media, and it’s oddly comforting to hear his familiar teasing voice on her phone. She smiles as she takes a sip of her now cold coffee.
Then he says, “look, I know I was only in middle school back then, but I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you and London were a thing.”
Maddie chokes on her coffee.
“What?” she sputters out.
“Hey hey, no need to pretend, I’ve read the article.”
“The article?” Maddie wheezes.
“Oh, come on, you’ve got to have seen it by now.” He puts on a haughty voice. “London Tipton: Heiress, Philanthropist, Queer Icon.”
Maddie lets out a long-suffering sigh
“I’ve seen it. I haven’t read it but - wait, what does it have to do with me?”
“Oh ho ho, I see how it is.”
“Zack, what?”
“Just read the article, Maddie. Then, call me and give me all the tea.”
Maddie’s still confused but she can’t help but raise her eyebrows.
“Tea?”
Zack laughs. “I’m currently sharing a two-bedroom with Cody and his boyfriend, and the speaking habits kind of catch up on you.”
Maddie raises her eyebrows. “Cody has a boyfriend?”
“You really are behind the times, huh?”
Maddie groans, suddenly desperate for a change of subject. “So how’s LA?”
She zones out as Zack talks about his job in whatever Esports is. She thinks about the first time she ever went to LA, that one surreal week where they’d been flown out to help some TV writer develop a show based on the hotel. It had all fallen apart, of course, but there was a moment when the writers talked about making London’s character a boy, so Maddie could have a romance with him.
The whole concept had made Maddie’s stomach turn, though she had no idea why at the time. They had kissed a couple times at this point, always without ever dissecting it, going along with almost weekly attempts to woo different boys, and Maddie didn’t want to reflect on why she kept getting just a bit jealous when she would see each new beau was on London’s arm.
So when London had said, “I would never date Maddie, she’s not my type,” it shouldn’t have made Maddie feel like she was going to throw up. And when she followed it up with, “she’s poor,” it shouldn’t have made her relieved and furious at the same time.
She remembers hanging out in London’s hotel room that night, picking at her nails before casually asking, “would you really not date me just because I’m poor?”
London had tilted her head, like she was seriously considering it.
“Well for a poor person, you’re also kind of high maintenance.”
Maddie had stood up, nervous energy replaced by a much more familiar anger directed at London.
“I’m high maintenance? You literally cannot walk outside the hotel without the hired help carrying your bag.”
“Yeah, duh,” London said, still with a little smile, like this was all too funny to her, “but that’s part of my deal. It works for me. You act like you’re so much better than me because you ‘earn money’ and ‘aren’t an heiress’ but you’re totally just as needy.” London plopped down on the bed. “Anyway, wanna to get room service?”
Maddie crossed her arms in front of her chest, huffing.
“That is so unfair.”
“Okay, no room service then, jeez.”
“I can’t believe you wouldn’t date me because I’m poor and high maintenance.”
London sat up on the bed, leaning back on her elbows, still grinning, which was so annoying, like she couldn’t stand for a second not to be the cutest person in a ten mile radius.
“Maddie, are you saying you want me to want to date you?”
“What!” Maddie felt her face getting red. “No! You’re… annoying and rich and snotty and a girl, anyway.”
“My reasons are better than yours!” London said in a sing-song voice. “But, seriously I’m hungry. Should we get caviar?”
Maddie had rolled her eyes then, but eventually lay down on the bed next to London and perused the rich people food options. And if they maybe did over the shirt stuff that night, neither of them talked about it.
Neither of them talked about it for years, though what Maddie thought was a mutual repression, but was maybe less mutual than she thought.
“Maddie, you alive?”
Maddie starts when she hears Zack’s voice on the phone.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, just spaced out a little.”
“Ah, still rude after all these years,” Zack says, overly fondly, “Well, I’ll let you get back to reminiscing about the Sapphic adventures of your youth.”
Maddie makes a face. “Who taught you the word Sapphic?”
Zack laughs. “You really don’t want to know. Now go read that article.”
So Maddie reads the article.
She locks the door of her office, pulls up a very important looking Excel document on her computer just in case, then flips open Vogue, eyes absolutely not lingering on London’s stupid dimples.
It’s one of those overwritten profiles, where the journalist describes every item London is wearing, every detail of her SoHo penthouse. If Maddie feels a little skip in her heart at the idea that London has a place maybe five subway stops away from her, it’s whatever.
The interviewer is some guy named Josh, who Maddie immediately dislikes, not finding his colorful commentary adding anything. It’s an article about London, not stupid Journalist Josh. Maddie rolls her eyes, but keeps reading.
“So, why are you choosing now to publicly come out?” I ask Ms. Tipton after I’ve eaten my weight in the best mini lobster rolls I’ve had in my life.
It’s meant to be a fairly standard question. Ms. Tipton, however, proceeds to laugh at me for a solid five minutes.
“Please, the only closets I’ve ever been in are walk-ins filled with designer clothing. It’s just that journalists like you didn’t bother to ask me about anyone besides men. Which is crazy, look at me! I’m beautiful, rich, famous, clearly someone of taste. Do you think I would limit myself in terms of something as silly as gender?”
I tell her that’s a very enlightened way of thinking, and she just claps her hands together in response, uttering a juvenile, but somehow wildly endearing “yay me!”
“So I have to ask,” I say, fully preparing and almost looking forward to London Tipton laughing in my face again, “are you dating anyone right now?”
Ms. Tipton laughs again, albeit delightedly this time.
“This question never gets old, I love it! No, I'm happily single right now. Oh, and if this is about those Kristen Stewart rumors, I swear we’re just friends. She’s a little too grungy for me, you know? Not cut out for the Tipton lifestyle. Love her though.”
“Have you ever been with someone who hasn’t been, to quote you, cut out for Tipton lifestyle?”
“Oh Josh, no one is cut out for the Tipton lifestyle. You should know that if you’re writing an article about me. But probably the furthest I dated out of the Tipton lifestyle was when I was a teenager. There was a girl who worked at one of Daddy’s hotels who kind of hated me, but we were friends. Best friends. Then a little extra, if you catch my drift. It never amounted to anything. I think she thought she was straight, poor thing. And life happened. She went to camp, then Antarctica; I moved to the boat, she didn’t move to the boat; I went to Bali, she went to BU. Different paths.”
Ms. Tipton pauses for a second, lost in thought, which is a new look for the heiress. Then she blinks herself back to the present, seemingly remembering I’m here. She claps her hands together again.
“Anyway! We were talking about me right? Not some girl I was in love with, like, 10 years ago.”
“IN LOVE WITH?!” Maddie screams to no one at her desk. She reads the sentence. Reads it again.
London was in love with her? London Tipton had been in love with her, Maddie Fitzpatrick, when they were bratty teens who hung out in a hotel all day and sometimes made out a little? London fucking Tipton?
She calls Zack back.
“London was in love with me?”
“It was 2007 in Boston, who wasn’t in love with you?” Zack jokes, casual, too casual for the intense freaking out that is going on inside Maddie’s brain.
“Zack. Shut up.”
She feels like she’s sixteen again, in more ways than one, yelling at Zack Martin while her heart beats too fast at the thought of London thinking about her. The acute combination of annoyance and affection and adrenaline that can only mean London Tipton lights a fire in Maddie’s blood.
God, she missed it.
“Do you have her address,” she asks Zack, “or a phone number that doesn’t go through, like, a million assistants?”
“Nah, I wish I did,” She can hear him grinning on the other end. “But you know who for sure has that info?”
And Maddie does know.
“Tipton Hotel, how may I help you?”
“I need to speak to Marion Moseby. It’s urgent.”
Maddie taps her leg anxiously while waiting for the phone to transfer. She's close, she knows it.
“Madeline, what a lovely surprise,” Moseby’s smooth voice greets her finally, “just calling in to check on your former employer, how lovely. Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Vogue piece that hit newsstands this morning, would it?”
“Noooo,” Maddie says, drawing the word out for too long. She’s aware she’s grinning, whether it’s the familiarity of Moseby’s enunciation or the fact that she is one step closer to London, she doesn’t really care. “Okay, yes. Sorry, I just - you wouldn’t happen to have London’s address or phone number would you? It would be a huge favor.”
“Interesting,” Moseby says, sounding downright gleeful, “A favor? For someone who spent her time on the clock at this establishment cavorting with the owner’s daughter?”
Maddie, embarrassingly, feels herself blush. It’s impressive, the way Moseby can make her feel chastened, not to mention the memories that instantly flood her brain of the... cavorting.
“Additionally,” Moseby continues, “what kind of hotel manager would I be to give out a guest’s contact information to someone over the phone?”
“Moseby, come on, I know that - wait, did you say guest?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you say hotel guest? As in currently staying there?”
“Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue.”
“Moseby, I love you.”
“Please don’t say anything like that again to me, Madeline.”
“Deal.”
Whenever Maddie goes back to Boston, she takes the Megabus. Sure, it takes an hour or two longer, and there is always weird traffic in Connecticut and some kid screaming in the back, but it’s infinitely cheaper than Amtrak. Even though she has been able to afford the train for the past couple years, it's the principle of the thing.
But today, when she ditches work early, the idea of waiting one or two more hours to arrive in Boston just won’t do. So she pays a stupid amount of money for an Amtrak ticket, then rushes through Penn Station to catch the 4:30 like she’s in a cheesy movie or something. By her count, she passes a dozen Vogue s on her way to the train, a dozen Londons smiling up at her.
She’s out of breath by the time she settles on the train, annoyed by how spacious and comfortable it is compared to the bus. Money really can buy anything.
She thinks about that one 24-hour period where London had lost all her money, London spending the night at Maddie’s parents’ apartment, out of place and in awe at things as simple as a family dinner. For the first time, Maddie could see cracks in her façade, sharp digs at the Fitzpartrick's working class decor covering up a deep loneliness that Maddie never would have guessed anyone who had as many shoes and fancy friends as London would ever feel.
That night, Maddie hadn’t been able to sleep, unused to another's person's breathing so close to her, and that breathing belonging specifically to London. So, when London had shifted in her sleep and the Murphy bed had unceremoniously snapped up against the wall, knocking London off of it, Maddie had first laughed and laughed, but then shifted over in her own small bed so London could squeeze in beside her.
“Is this how poor people sleep?” London had grumbled.
“Yes, two minimum to a bed, it’s horrible, just horrible,” Maddie had said, a little too sleepy to come up with anything more biting.
“Yup, horrible,” London had murmured, but she had rested her head on Maddie’s shoulder and Maddie could hear the words tickling her neck and it was maybe the furthest thing from horrible Maddie could imagine.
The train ride to Boston is blissfully short, it only lasts five full reads through the entire issue of Vogue , plus three additional reads of just London’s article. Maddie is fully aware that it's pathetic, but she’s well past pathetic. She’s on the literal and very expensive express train to far far beyond pathetic.
When she gets off at South Station, she at least has the dignity not to pay for an Uber. Amtrak was enough. Instead, muscle memory takes over as she hops on a Red Line over to the Green Line, until she’s at Copley Square, sprinting up the stairs before coming out in the cool Boston air. The Tipton looms before her, even the sight of it making Maddie far too soft and gooey for what was just the job she had in high school.
It’s and odd feeling, not knowing any of the staff anymore as she wanders through the lobby. Even the decor has changed a little bit. A little more minimalist and modernized, as she’s sure Moseby carefully curated.
She laughs a little as she glances over at the candy counter, a new bored teen taking over her mantle. All the magazines have been replaced by Vogue today, twenty London’s smiling down at her.
“Can I help you?” the teen asks in a monotone, chewing her gum.
“Have you met her?” Maddie asks, nodding her head toward the Londons.
“Oh yeah,” the teen says, “who do you think arranged that whole display? She basically micromanaged me for 20 minutes straight, insulting everything I did, until she just sighed, said ‘it’s not the same’ and then went back to her room.”
Maddie grins widely, lets out a laugh. “Of course she did.”
“Who are you again?”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Maddie says cheerfully, dropping a ten in the tip jar and practically skipping to the elevator.
It’s instinctual, how her body automatically knows the route from the candy counter to the room London always has stayed in. She takes a deep breath, fist poised to knock, as tries to center herself. She still can’t believe this is happening, that she just spent 200 dollars and four hours of her life just to be here, even though she has literally no idea what she is going to say.
Before she can think about it, the door swings open, Maddie’s hand suspended in mid air pre-knock, as she stares into the face of London Tipton.
She looks even better than Vogue , which is honestly, not fair. She’s wearing a silk robe, hair piled up on her head expertly, a shocked expression on her face that quickly turns into a grin.
“You’re not room service.”
“Well, I used to work here,” Maddie says, smiling back.
“The Tipton has since raised their standards for employees.”
“Or maybe I’ve raised my standards for employers.”
“You? Have standards? Please.”
Maddie laughs, leaning on the door. She’d missed this.
They just stand looking at each other for a few more seconds before London says, “so are you gonna come in?” at the same time Maddie blurts out, “are you sleeping with Kristen Stewart?”
It’s definitely not what she came up to Boston to ask, and she feels her face flush a little. London raises an eyebrow at her.
“Why do you care if I’m sleeping with Kristen Stewart?” London asks, smirking.
“I don’t!” Maddie protests. “Do whatever you want!”
“Okay, great, I will!”
“I don’t even know why I came up here.”
“Sure you don’t.”
London is looking at her the way she always has, like she has the upper hand, like she knows how much she can get under Maddie’s skin, knows exactly what Maddie is going to do at any given moment.
So Maddie kisses her.
Just to prove her wrong. Mostly. Even though it kind of ends up proving her right. Whatever. Maddie really doesn’t care at all what she’s proving when she remembers kissing London the same way she remembered the T stops to get to The Tipton, the same way she remembered every step to this room.
London lets out a little squeak of surprise at first, then her hands find the lapels of Maddie’s jacket to pull her closer and Maddie knows exactly why she spent 200 dollars and four hours to get here. She smiles into London’s mouth as her hands cup London’s cheeks and it’s somehow soft and culminating and easy and intense all at once.
It’s a little embarrassing how heavily Maddie is breathing when they pull apart but she really doesn’t care.
“Kristen and I are just friends,” London says, sounding just as winded as Maddie.
“Thank god,” Maddie breathes, then kisses her again, longer. They’ve both improved since they were sixteen, that’s for sure.
“Were you really in love with me?” Maddie asks when they break for a second, emboldened by the way London seems just as overwhelmed as her.
London lets out an annoyed huff that Maddie can feel on her cheeks.
“Ugh, journalists will really print anything these days.”
Maddie grins. “That’s not a no.”
“You’re insufferable,” London says fondly, kissing her on the cheek.
“Big word for you,” Maddie snarks automatically, “guess a decade can finally give you a vocabulary.”
“Guess a decade can finally make you realize what a catch I am.”
London steps back, gestures to herself, robe coming undone, hair messy, lipstick smudged. She’s the most beautiful person Maddie has ever seen.
“I always knew what a catch you are,” Maddie says softly before she can stop herself, “I just didn’t think you’d ever want me.” It’s a little too vulnerable, so she quickly lightens her tone and adds, “well that and my mid-2000s deeply ingrained heteronormativity.”
“Oh Maddie,” London says, hand coming up to cup Maddie’s cheek, “you’re such an idiot.”
Years ago, London Tipton calling her an idiot would have made Maddie defensive and irritable, would have made her itch for a fight, a way to get out the rush of energy that London has always uniquely inspired in her. But now it just makes her smile, makes her think of a very different way to get out that energy.
She presses a kiss into London’s palm, lingering for longer than she ever would have dared before, and whispers, “Yeah, maybe I am.”