Work Text:
The tip-off that this is going to be a crazy episode is two-fold.
Fold #1: The producers flag this email specifically. Usually, Max and Nev get some degree of latitude in picking who will appear on the show–subject to final approval–but this email gets forwarded to them by the production team two minutes before flight confirmations also land in their show-inbox. The clear message being: This is happening.
And then there’s Fold #2: It’s a Bottle case. Which they never take because at the end of the day, they’re guys with computers, not the CIA and that’s pretty much who you’d have to be to get information from that app that’s not freely given. A reverse image search on Google will only do so much.
But, hey. If that’s what the producers want, that’s what they’ll do. They film the opening segment. They get in touch with this Amalia girl who is expecting their call and agrees to meet them the next day when she gets off from work. They film each other messing around in the airport and the hotel room and then it’s six the next day and they’re meeting Amalia at her studio apartment.
Or, rather, waiting for her there because she doesn’t show up for another ten minutes and then she’s dashing out of the elevator and down the hall all apologies and fumbling for keys.
“My supervisor,” she gets out between huffy breaths, “has it in for me. Made me late.” She checks her purse, her pockets, and her purse again before rolling her eyes at herself and remembering the lanyard around her neck.
As the crew sets up, they level with her. “This may be tricky,” says Nev. “Since Bottle is so anonymous and all–”
“That’s what I was telling Ilona!” She stops, realizing that she’s interrupted but Nev waives for her to continue. “I’d never actually watched Catfish before Ilona–she’s my friend from work–said I should write you guys so I’ve watched a couple of episodes since and I didn’t know exactly what you’d do but I sent the email anyway and the lady from MTV called and she made it sound like you could help.”
“Well, we’re definitely gonna try,” Max says, setting up the handheld camera. The producers like to leave them in the dark as much as possible so their reactions are genuine but it’s unlikely they’d give them an uncrackable case. “OK, we’re gonna just ask you some softball questions to get you used to the cameras, alright?”
“Ready. Wait!” She tucks her lanyard back under her shirt. “OK. Now I’m ready.”
“So, tell us about yourself,” he says. Once all of the cameras are all set up they’ll ask again. This is more just to get her talking–not that she needs the extra help. She talks about her family and her interests and her English degree which is the reason she’s currently working at Maraczek’s.
“It’s a local store. Kind of like Lush?”
“And do you like it?”
She makes a so-so hand gesture. “I don’t want to do it forever but our boss is great and we get a good discount. Plus, I like the people I work with. Well, I like most of the people I work with.”
“Your supervisor?” he asks, remembering her earlier comment.
She nods. “He has hated me since the first day I worked there. And then the Mona Lisa Bath Bomb Incident happened and–”
The crew signals that they’re ready to go and Max makes a mental note to ask about that later (the audible capitalization of the words just beg to be questioned). But right now, it’s time to get to business.
~.~
Georg is closing out at work when his phone pings with a message from his mystery girl.
Hey, I know this is weird but I’m going to give my phone to someone else so they can talk to you, OK? I’ll tell you when I’m back.
And he’s not surprised, of course. He was warned that he’d be getting a text from the Catfish guys and they’d be giving him the spiel and asking him if he’d like to meet up. This time, he’s supposed to say yes.
He’s not surprised but that doesn’t stop his fingers from shaking as he replies in the affirmative and asks about a meetup location.
They ask where he lives. He gives the name of a town.
There are dots indicating typing for a solid three minutes but no response. And then, one word: Really?
Yeah. Why? Is that too far?
More dots and then: Nope, that’s fine. In fact, we’ll come to you.
They agree to meet after he gets off from work at 8 and he’s told that someone will call him with details in about an hour. It’s so simple. They could have done it months ago, sans camera crew, if he hadn’t insisted on dragging his feet.
Back! She texts and he can almost hear the excited jump in her voice–in a manner of speaking.
I said yes, he texts quickly. Then, They probably told you that already. Sorry. I’m nervous.
Don’t be. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been trying to make this happen for months.
Oh, he’s noticed. She stopped being subtle ages ago.
He thinks for a moment and then types, How will I know it’s you?
I’ll be the girl with the camera crew. Duh. You?
Hmm. I’ll have a rose. I’ll give it to you.
He regrets it the second he hits send–why couldn’t he have said something normal and not horribly cheesy like his shirt color or something–but she messages him back a heart which she does infrequently enough that he knows she’s touched and he feels his own heart settle in his chest.
~.~
The next day at work, Amalia tells Ilona the news and Ilona is equal parts thrilled and skeptical. Thrilled because it was, of course, her idea in the first place and she smells either major drama or a happy ending (a happy beginning a least). For Amalia’s sake, she hopes it’s the latter but that doesn’t stop her skepticism.
“Amalia, I’ve seen every episode. These things go wrong all the time.”
“But they go right sometimes, right?”
“Sometimes,” Ilona repeats, with little confidence. They’re stocking the shelves or rather Ilona is stocking the shelves while Amalia does inventory because she’s not allowed to stock the shelves anymore after the Mona Lisa Bath Bomb Incident.
Georg walks past them, carrying small and medium bottles of lavender shampoo but Amalia doesn’t seem to notice. Which Ilona definitely notices.
“Did they shut down?”
“Who?”
“The factory. You know, the one where you buy the daggers you shoot at Georg in bulk.”
Amalia laughs. “I barely even noticed him. I’m in such a good mood, not even he can ruin it.”
She seems to forget that hours earlier they were about to start WWIII over a last minute schedule change that would have ruined her plans if Ilona hadn’t stepped in to swap shifts.
“I hope this goes well. I really do. But just, y’know, brace yourself. He could be an ax-murderer or old or your cousin.”
Amalia makes a face. “My cousin?”
“That happened!”
“You’re making that up.”
She hovers her hand over her pocket like she’s readying to unholster a weapon. “I will pull up the episode right now.”
Good mood or not, Amalia doesn’t want to risk Georg seeing and making a comment about her work ethic so she passes. Instead, she begins ticking off points on her fingers. “I don’t have any cousins old enough to be on Bottle, asking me about my thoughts on War and Peace, ‘Ax Murderer’ technically isn’t on my list of deal-breakers, and age doesn’t matter.”
Ilona stops what she’s doing so she can give Amalia the eyebrow raise that last statement deserves. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes! Honestly, if you thought it was gonna be a disaster, why did you even suggest this?”
“Because I thrive off of drama.” She grins but then turns sincere. “But I really do want this to work out for you. You’re obviously crazy about him. Every time your phone buzzes and it’s anyone besides him you look personally offended.”
“Do not.”
“Do so,” says the delivery boy as he walks past with a stack of boxes.
“See? And he doesn’t even work here,” Ilona says triumphantly.
“OK fine. Maybe I do.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why I’m trying to play cool. Yes, I know I do. I don’t care. I can’t help it. Lie to me and say this will definitely go OK.”
Ilona places her hands on Amalia’s shoulders and looks at her very seriously. “It’s going to go amazingly. He’s going to be as hot as he is nerdy and as rich as he is hot and he’s going to propose on the spot.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Well, no. But he’s probably not your cousin either.”
Amalia laughs at that and then gets back to work
~.~
When she asks Max whether or not she looks OK for the third time, he says, “If this going well was riding on you looking good, you’d pretty much be killing it.”
It’s nice to hear and it settles her nerves somewhat but she still smooths her hair over nervously and glances towards the door of the ice cream parlor they’re in. He shouldn’t be late. Especially considering how nearby they apparently live. That had been a surprise. When he’d texted them where he was and they’d realized they were a half hour removed, tops.
Max and Nev had shared a look. A, “You sneaky bastard producers” look. Then, they’d decided that the mall was a good place to meet since it was local and public and close by to her work. Amalia had requested the ice cream parlor in the mall specifically.
There’s a little bit of the feel of a set-up because, really, what are the odds? But there’s no way to send a message to a specific person on Bottle. They call the company and are assured it’s completely random. Which is enough for Amalia to distill any doubt she’s feeling down to a manageable pinprick as she stares at the stream of people coming into the store, looking for a flash of red.
But she doesn’t see that. What she sees is Georg walking through the front door and she groans. One long, throaty, sustained groan as he walks over to their table, wearing the entirely insufferable expression that he always wears when he’s about to do his best to ruin her day.
Before he opens his mouth she says, “Georg, not today. I can’t do this today. I refuse.”
“Whaaaaaat?” he says in mock-offense. “It’s a free country. I can’t come in and patronize this local establishment?”
Oh he’s patronizing alright, Amalia thinks. “Look, obviously I’m in the middle of something so can you just leave?”
He seems to totally ignore the camera crew which strikes Amalia as strange. People have been staring since they came in but he just pulls up a chair across from her. “You’re all dressed up. Is this a date? Who is he? Is it serious?” He’s doing what she thinks is his impression of Ilona’s rapid fire girl-talk and she wants to smack him. She does smack him.
“Ow! What was that for? Being friendly?”
If she had heat vision, she’d be glaring at twin holes through his skull right now. “You’re not being friendly and you know it. Now, if you want to mess with me tomorrow, that’s fine but right now–”
“Where is this mystery guy anyway?” He makes a big show of looking around. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you? I mean,” he points at a crew member wearing a black t-shirt with the Catfish logo on it. “These guys are usually liars and fakers but they usually at least show.”
She hates that she feels a twinge of panic at those words but she tamps it down and turns up the glare. “I don’t know why you’re like this and I honestly don’t care but I swear that if you don’t leave right now I’ll–”
“You’ll what?” he shoots back. “You’ll make every day of my life a living hell? You know, you can’t threaten me with something you already do. Not really effective.”
“Me?” she says, her voice jumping an octave in outrage. “I make your life a living hell? You are, without a doubt, the most petty, most insufferable, micro managing–”
“Cameras are rolling,” Max whispers to her. It’ll probably get cut in post anyway but she may not want it on camera at all.
“GOOD!” Or maybe she does. “I’m glad. Let me, on the record, say that you have been awful, you are awful, and I see no reason that you’ll suddenly stop being awful anytime in the near future.”
“Is that a fact?”
She stands so she can look down at him. “Yeah. And you know what? That’s why you can’t give some people power. Put them in charge of supervising a handful of people and they turn dictator instantly. Good thing you’ll never have any real power. Who would give it to you? So I hope torturing me gives you all the fulfillment you need out of your life because it is all you’re ever gonna get.”
She sees that she’s hit a nerve and for a moment, she feels thrill of victory but his expression goes briefly dark and she wonders if she’s gone too far.
“Georg,” she starts in a markedly less hostile tone but he’s already on his way out the door. Which is what she wanted but, somehow, this doesn’t feel like a win.
He doesn’t turn to look at her. He just walks out the front door, dropping something into the trashcan just outside of the doorway as he goes.
~.~
Her guy doesn’t show.
It’s hours later and the place has nearly cleared out. They’ve all had at least a cone a piece and it’s getting late. Amalia sends him a couple of texts and so do the guys but all they get is radio silence and they can hardly stay in the shop all night.
Nev turns to Amalia. “How are you doing?” he asks as if the answer isn’t evident by looking at her. The past few hours have been a lot like watching a time lapse video of a helium balloon deflating.
Now, she’s pushing stray sprinkles on the table around and purposefully avoiding eye contact.
“Amalia?” he asks again.
She still doesn’t look up but she answers this time. “You remember how I said that I haven’t seen a lot of episodes of the show? Does this…ah,” She sniffs. “Does this happen a lot? That the other person just doesn’t show up?”
“Occasionally,” Nev admits. “Because they get spooked by the cameras or they just get cold feet or really it could be anything. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I’m not.” She is. “I just…do we have to keep filming right now? Can I go home? I’ll be fine tomorrow but right now can I just–”
“Go,” he says and she gives a watery smile before making a hasty exit.
The crew breaks down their equipment and starts loading up. They leave a couple of $20s in the tip jar for having monopolized the table space for so long.
On the way out Max happens to glance into the trash. Inside is uneaten food from the nearby Burger King, some handouts about something or other some group had been passing out, some plastic bags, and–poking out from under all of that–the head of a long-stemmed rose.
It takes him a second to put it together and, when he does, he thinks he must have reached the wrong conclusion because that can’t be it, right? This isn’t how the real world works. But he shows Nev who takes one look and comes to the same conclusion instantly.
“Holy crap. Did he…then that means…holy crap.”
So the next step is deciding what to do with the information.
Telling Amalia right away is off the table immediately. She is obviously in no state for more bad news right now–no matter how good it will be for ratings. They can call production but all they’ll want to know is if they got it all on tape. In the end, they decide to call Georg. They get his full name from Maraczek’s website and then it’s not hard to get in touch with him.
He agrees to Skype them and damn if the guy doesn’t look shellshocked.
When they produce his discarded rose, he doesn’t try to deny it at all. He just sighs heavily and spills his guts–about the past few months and how he’d also sent Catfish an email and how he knew Amalia had plans for tonight but he’d had no idea what they were. That’s how they piece everything together and–hearing all of it–no wonder the producers flagged Amalia’s email. Even with the newly discovered “mortal enemies irl” twist, it was already an episode of TV waiting to happen.
By the time Georg finishes saying everything that he can think of that’s relevant, he looks a lot like Amalia did the last time they saw her.
“Are you sure it’s her?” he asks, rather pointlessly.
“It’s her,” Nev confirms. “100% for sure her.”
“But I can’t–” his expression is so pained as he runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t be in love with her. I hate her.”
“Obviously not all of her,” Max says, too low for Georg to hear.
“You can’t just leave her hanging like that though,” says Nev. “Like, you gotta tell her what’s going on. It’s not fair that’s you’re holding all the cards here.”
“I know, I know. I just–did it have to be her?”
Evidently, yes. Yes it did.
They promise they’ll give him some time to come clean on his own. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to face her at work tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or really any time in the general future.
He sleeps that night but he doesn’t sleep well.
~.~
The next day, Amalia wakes up hungover, sick, and to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She’s hungover because of the bottle of wine she’d cracked open post-disastrous non-date, she’s sick because a toddler sneezed on her while she was at the mall, and the phone is ringing because Max wants to know if they can come over and film some follow-up footage.
“You can come,” she says–so stuffed up that her “can” sounds like “cad” and her “come” sounds like “comb”–“but I’m sad and contagious.” She doesn’t see a reason to filter herself seeing as they had been there for the non-date themselves. Ilona had gotten the glossed over, brave-face version last night when she’d felt her throat getting scratchy and asked her friend to tell their boss that she was sick.
“Sad” doesn’t quite capture what she’s feeling. She feels as though someone has scooped out her insides, blended them in front of her, and then dumped the container over her head, Carrie on prom night style. But she’s too sick to be florid so sad it is.
“Oh, that sucks. Do you need anything? Like medicine?”
“You don’t have to do that,” she assures him.
They don’t have to but they want to. Half an hour later, they show up at her apartment with five different kinds of cold medicine which she mixes together and throws back with a very congested, “Salud.”
Ten minutes later when she’s bouncing on her bed and speaking what Nev thinks is Finnish and Max thinks is Turkish (they’re both wrong. It’s Hungarian) they feel slightly responsible.
They spend 20 minutes coaxing her into bed where she thankfully crashes, seemingly dead to the world.
For about five minutes. That’s when a tentative knock at the door abruptly shocks her back into full consciousness as if she’d never fallen asleep.
“Whazat?” she says, unintelligibly.
There’s another knock and then a hesitant, “Umm…Amalia?”
She’s ramrod straight in an instant and charging towards the door just as quickly at a speed that is frankly miraculous given the amount of medication in her system. Nev intercepts her while Max opens the door.
Georg jumps slightly at the sight of two exasperated TV-hosts and his physically restrained co-worker but composes himself enough to say, “This is a bad time, isn’t it?”
No one dignifies that with a response.
As he speaks, recognition goes off in Amalia’s eyes and she stops struggling and goes still and Nev decides to loosen his grip on her.
She lurches forward and closes the gap between herself and Georg who makes the foolish mistake of raising his arms to steady her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snaps.
“I–”
“I’m still on break!”
“You…” Georg looks to Nev for an explanation and Nev points to the kitchen counter where the mini-bar’s worth of medication is still sitting. “Huh.”
WHACK. A weak swat lands on his forearm, almost surprising him into dropping the bag he’s holding. “Go ‘way. I have…I have five minutes–” He’s learned his lesson about physical contact but when she starts tipping towards him, he hardly has a choice but to grab her shoulders and keep her from collapsing right then and there.
She doesn’t hit him again but as soon as she’s (relatively) steady, she shrugs him off and starts walking towards the kitchen. He doesn’t completely realize what’s going on until she grabs the apron that’s hanging on the oven’s handle and drapes it over herself.
“Oh, Amalia no. You’re not at work. Go to bed.” She flits away, clumsily tying the apron behind her back.
“Amalia,” he tries again. How is she so fast? When he sees that Max has turned the camera on he yells, “Why are you filming this? She’s hopped up on cold meds and vulnerable and stuff!”
“It’s not for the show,” says Max.
“Then what is it for?”
“Your rehearsal dinner probably,” he thinks but doesn’t say before putting the camera down.
“Amalia,” Georg says, trying a different tactic. “Look at yourself. You can’t see customers like that”
She looks down at herself, sees the frayed black cooking apron that looks nothing like their work ones over bright pink pajamas, and then says very solemnly. “You’re right. Where are my shoes?”
“What? How is that the only thing–Amalia, be reasonable.”
But she’s already scrambled to the bed. She finds the left one and slips it on but its partner seems to have vanished. “Where is it?” she says to herself. When she can’t find it anywhere in the immediate vicinity, she looks up at Georg, suspicious.
“OK, what did you do with it?”
“What?”
“My shoe? My right shoe? I know you took it so I’ll be late.”
“Wh–” he starts but there’s no point in bringing up that he’s had no time to steal her shoe in the three minutes he’s been in her apartment or that she’s not actually at work so what is he making her late for or the fact that she has a closet full of other shoes so stealing one shoe from one pair would make a very poor act of sabotage.
There’s no point in saying any of that so he points at Max and says, “Look, a customer.” Because as much as they are prone to turn the shop into their personal battleground, as soon as there’s a customer in earshot it’s suddenly all smiles.
And the trick still works. She’s suddenly retail-peppy and completely off of the shoe-stealing accusations. “How may I help you, sir?”
“By lying down. Please. You’re making me dizzy, girl.”
“Ha!” Georg says, triumphantly. “You have to do it. The customer is always right.”
To her fevered brain, it’s an inarguable position. She relents and allows Georg to guide her to her bed with only minimal pouting.
“Your hands are cold,” she says when he sets her down.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” The reason he’d come in the first place. He’d set the bag with the carton down while trying to get her to settle down. Now, he retrieves it.
“I heard you were sick so I brought you vanilla ice cream because–” Because I know it’s your favorite because you’ve been telling me random, tiny details about yourself for months because, surprise, I’m the person you’ve been messaging this whole time. “Because you were sick,” he finishes, lamely.
If he’d said what he was thinking, she wouldn’t have noticed because every word after “ice-cream” had been completely lost on her. She snatches the carton away from him and he smiles slightly. Doped up Amalia was all speed and no strength.
She grabs the plastic spoon just as quickly but has trouble with the plastic ring around the carton, proving his point. He pops it open for her easily and she looks at him like he hung the moon.
Somehow, the ice-cream seems to have a sedative effect. Three spoons in and whatever manic energy she’d been full of seems to have drained away. In fact, she looks fairly lucid. Lucid enough to hear the second thing he came for.
“Amalia. About yesterday. I–”
She shakes her head sadly. “You don’t have to say anything. I showed up at the mall with the Catfish crew. I was kind of asking for it. And it’s not your fault he didn’t show.”
Nev’s pointed look at Georg is entirely lost on her as she sets the carton of ice cream to the side draws the covers around her. “I thought we were so close. I really thought that–” She stops and then sighs deeply. “Did he ever care about me?”
“Yes,” he says too firmly, forgetting to be careful. He realizes that he’s practically given himself away again (not that she’s in a state to realize it) but he can’t just stand there and do nothing while she’s acting like this. When it’s his fault that she’s acting like this.
“I’m sure he has a good reason for not showing up.”
“Then why didn’t he message me? How much effort is it to return a text? If he cared, even a little, he would have said something.”
“Maybe not.”
“He would have.”
“Maybe he has a good excuse.”
“Like what?”
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“Huh?”
“Your bathroom?” he repeats. She points to the only other door in her studio apartment and he disappears through it.
Max looks at Nev, suspiciously. He’s not…he can’t be…
Amalia’s phone buzzes.
Max turns the camera back on.
Georg stays in the bathroom for a few extra minutes, runs the water, then exits, gratified to see that Amalia’s despair has melted into tentative hope.
“Oh, Georg,” he says, reaching out to him as he walks closer. “You were right! He wrote–Well, I shouldn’t show you exactly what he wrote. But it’s gonna be on TV anyway so–”
“No, it’s OK. You don’t have to show me,” he says, partially because he appreciates the the fact that she would protect his privacy, even if she doesn’t know that it’s his privacy specifically. And because he already knows exactly what’s on her screen at the moment: Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
It’s a quote from Poe. Of course, the quote is followed by an appropriate amount of apologies and reasonable excuses and soothing but he hopes she’ll recognize the quote for what it is. A simple plea: Please don’t hate me for this.
But she doesn’t seem at all upset. At him or the Bottle-version of him. In fact, she pulls herself up once she’s close enough and brushes her lips against his cheek. He finds that his skin is so hot that her touch is cool, despite the fever she must have.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the ice cream and for not kicking me while I was down.”
He starts to say that he would never but up until very recently that would have been untrue so instead he says, “Get better. I’m sure we’ll be fighting like cats and dogs in no time.”
“My mom has a cat and a dog. They nip at each other constantly but they’ll eat out of the same dish. Do you think we could fight like them?”
He almost breaks and tells her right then but the words stick in his throat. “I have to get back to work. Get better. Really.”
Nev follows him out into the hall where he slumps against the wall and stares into the ceiling.
“I love her,” he says as if it’s in any way new information. As if driving across town with ice cream for sick enemies is totally a thing that people do.
To his credit Nev skips the completely warranted, “Duh,” and says, “What are you going to do?”
“I know I have to tell her but not while she’s sick obviously and if I do it right away at work she’ll freak and–what if she doesn’t like me?”
God, no wonder they needed a TV show to work out their stuff. “Were you not listening to her? She likes you! More than likes you.”
“Yeah, now. While she’s high on whatever truth serum cocktail of drugs you gave her. But what about when she’s her again?”
“Why do you think this is less the real her than what you’ve seen?”
“She’s never like that with me.”
“Are you ever like that with her?”
The question gives him pause and before he can come up with an answer Nev says, “Look. I know you need more time to tell her so we won’t say anything. We have most of what we need for the episode anyway. Not gonna lie, you’re not gonna come across great. But we’ll be following up in about a month so please get your crap together by then. Not even for the show at this point, we’re just personally invested.”
He promises that he will and then he gives himself a deadline. Christmas Eve. If he can’t tell her by then, he really doesn’t deserve to be in love with her.
Back in her apartment, Max has gotten the footage he needs from Amalia and she’s under the covers again. He’s trying to leave the room without setting her off again when Amalia mummers, “He wasn’t surprised.”
“What?”
“When he walked in and there was a camera crew. He wasn’t–”
She yawns and falls asleep. For good this time.
~.~
Working with Amalia after visiting her at home isn’t any easier for Georg. If anything, it’s harder, though for different reasons.
Riddle Me This: If your mind already inconveniently wanders towards a co-worker (albeit for all of the worst possible reasons) while you are in the middle of what your fellow co-workers lovingly refer to as the Colder War, how do you stop your mind from drifting towards said co-worker once a cease-fire has been called and the slings and barbs have melted into something resembling amicability?
Answer: You don’t.
A friend had once described to him the feeling of putting on a pair of prescription glasses for the first time and thinking, “Oh my God, is this how everyone sees all the time?”
Now, he feels as though he is having a similar experience. Was this how everyone else had been seeing her this whole time?
Every memory of an unpleasant interaction with her shifts in his mind as he recalls it to conform itself to his rapidly improving view of her.
“Sharp tongued” becomes “quick witted.”
“Critical” becomes “perceptive.”
When he finds himself silently laughing about the Mona Lisa Bath Bomb Incident, he knows that he is a complete lost cause.
So damage control becomes the name of the game. He knows she likes his words. That’s not up for debate. The question is, will she still like them when they come from him. He’d balked at the concept of her being the one that he’d been spilling his guts to for months. He can’t imagine she’ll react much differently. He has to ease her into the idea.
When Amalia shows up to work, barely on time, he looks up from what he’s doing and gives a tentative smile.
He expects resistance. He expects her to revert back to their old pattern and snap at him or roll her eyes or ignore him completely. He expects to have to do more. But she simply accepts it and smiles back, not smirks–actually smiles.
This of course, throws off his entire timeline. Here they are practically two weeks ahead of his two week plan and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. So everything he does for the next two weeks is stalling. The Christmas rush lets him pretend that it’s a timing issue but he’s being chicken and he knows it.
But being chicken has its perks.
He covers a shift for her on Tuesday. She brings him coffee the way he likes it the next morning. He lends her a book over the weekend. She brings it back annotated with sticky notes. (She turns every O into a smiley face which kind of makes him want to propose on the spot).
“Are you sleeping with Georg?” Ilona asks her on the Wednesday before Christmas.
She almost spits out her coffee. “Ilona!”
“Are you?” she insists.
“No.”
“Do you wanna be? Because not that I’m complaining but lately it’s been less angry eyes and more bedroom eyes with you two.”
A customer walks in and Amalia is grateful for the opportunity to escape the conversation.
“You have no poker face, Amalia,” Ilona calls after her, gleefully.
The days tick down to Georg’s self imposed deadline and as his relationship with Amalia improves by leaps and bounds, the secret he’s keeping makes him more and more uncomfortable.
She needs to know. She deserves to know.
He just wishes he was more certain of what her reaction will be.
~.~
He drags it down to the wire. Christmas Eve itself. Ilona sees the last customer out and then pops a bottle of champagne she seems to have pulled from thin air. She pours glasses for everyone who doesn’t bolt as soon as they have the chance and they close out and chat and eventually filter out as well because it’s Christmas Eve and they have places to be.
Besides Georg and Amalia, Ilona is the last to leave. She tops off Amalia’s glass and whispers a, “Good luck,” into her ear before putting on her coat and slipping out of the front door.
“What’s she talking about?” Georg asks. A question like that would have been unthinkable two weeks ago. Now, Amalia’s face lights up and she answers openly.
“My guy. From Bottle? You remember, right?”
“Heh, ah yeah.” He takes a long, sheepish sip from his glass. “I’ve apologized for that, right?”
He waves him off. “About as many times as I have. Water under the bridge. That’s not important. What’s important is that we’re meeting for real. Tomorrow.”
“Really?” he says, like he doesn’t have every word of that conversation memorized from reading and rereading practically all night.
“Really,” she echoes. “I was really…hurt after he stood me up two weeks ago but I don’t see the point in holding a grudge. He was very apologetic and when you hold a grudge against someone that you love–”
His throat closes up.
Someone that you love.
Love.
“You’re really just hurting yourself.” She drains the rest of her glass and then starts gathering her things. “Well, I’m gone. I want to get home before it starts snowing.”
She’s slipping away. His window of opportunity is closing. “Amalia!”
She turns to face him, curious. “Yes?”
“Ah…Merry Christmas.”
For a moment, she looks almost disappointed. Then, she smiles warmly at him. “Merry Christmas Georg.”
And as she’s turning her back again, heading for the door, he panics and blurts out what he’s been meaning to say all day.
“Years of love have been forgot from the hatred of a minute.”
She freezes in her tracks. Turns around slowly, so slowly. Her head is cocked slightly to one side and she doesn’t look confused exactly. More, questioning.
Anything he was going to say beyond that traitorously jumps from his brain instantly and he’s left fumbling for words in a way that he’s never had to while talking to (or yelling at) her. “Do you think…do you think the opposite maybe–”
She breaks then, rushing towards him and throwing her arms around his neck and when their lips touch she can’t help but think “God, we could have been doing this this entire time,” and “Ilona is going to be insufferable,” before letting herself melt completely.
When they break apart, her insides are fizzing like there’s a Mona Lisa Bath Bomb Incident II going on and he’s grinning brilliantly.
“You knew?”
She nods happily, so glad to be done with the secrets.
“Since when?” he asks.
“Since the day I was sick when I realized you weren’t surprised about the cameras. Of course, after that you were so nice to me all of a sudden–I would have figured it out anyway–but that’s when I knew.”
The look he gives her makes her wonder how she could have ever hated him. “You’re so smart. Even when you’re delirious you’re so smart.”
She groans into his chest. “I remember about half of that. Was I really that bad?”
He pushes away from her slightly so that he can kiss her forehead. He’s wanted to do that all week and her shy smile in response makes it doubly gratifying. “You were adorable. But also yes, you totally were that bad. You should ask Max. He filmed most it.”
She recalls another detail about that day and laughs. “I can’t believe you texted me from my bathroom and thought I wouldn’t notice.”
His hands move from their position on her waist and go up in defense. “What else was I supposed to do? You were so sad. I felt awful.”
“Good. You deserved it.”
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself! Not holding a grudge doesn’t change the fact that you stood me up. And on TV!”
He crosses his arms and tries to look serious but be can’t quite manage it. His face can’t manage anything but a giddy smile for more than a couple of seconds. “And here I thought we were done fighting.”
“Oh no,” she says in as lofty as tone as she can manage. She’s doing only a marginally better job at keeping from grinning uncontrollably. “I like you far too much to stop fighting with you. But you can relax because all of my threats to strangle you will be empty now.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” she hums while casually picking imaginary lint off of his collar. “I couldn’t possibly get away with it now. First suspect is always the girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” he says, hopefully.
“Of course. Unless there’s a spouse.”
And Amalia doesn’t make it home in time after all because that’s the moment it starts snowing.