Work Text:
Baz could sense something was off about the day when she heard her coworkers tittering and whispering in the hall. Once or twice she thought she heard hers name mentioned, but she was too proud to get up and look for the source of the disruption. Leave that to lesser mortals; she had spreadsheets to finish.
Baz drifted off to her happy place and became lost in paperwork, but was abruptly pulled from her reverie by the sound of footsteps. The footsteps stopped outside her door and knocked. But because the footsteps didn't have an appointment (she flipped open both her pocket planner and her calendar app to check), she figured they could stay on the other side of the door, thank you very much.
"Baz Pitch?" Shouted an unfamiliar voice through the door.
"Go away," she replied.
"I'm here to deliver a message to Baz Pitch."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but..."
Baz cut the voice off before it could make excuses. "Then go away and come back after you've made one."
"But I have a message for you." The stranger wasn't leaving. She sounded truculent.
Baz was patient. She was reasonable. She explained the situation with admirable forbearance and a minimum of condescention. "Then send a text. Or an email. Modern technology is a marvel-- you should try it sometime."
But the stranger refused to see reason. "Baz! Open up!" To Baz's great astonishment, she started blustering and hammering on the door. "Why are you making things so difficult? I know you're in there. It's just--this has to be in person, alright?!"
"Then make. An appointment."
Baz was irritated. Just how important did this fool think her message could be? Baz got loads of messages every day. That was the point of messages-- you leave one, then you leave. Why was this person not leaving?
Baz was debating whether to call security, resort to violence, or wait the intruder out, when the pounding on her door came to an abrupt stop. Baz smirked and picked up her pen, thinking she had won this round through attrition, when the woman began to sing. At a full bellow. Emphasizing each word.
"If you want to escape, it's too late/ for this day has been chosen by fate / to be a most auspicious and memorable occasion / for a special someone to make a declaration! "
What the actual, ever-living fuck?
By now, howls of laughter were echoing down the hall. It seemed that the entire staff of the Accounting Department had come to watch the spectacle of a woman serenading at Baz's doorstep. Baz gritted her teeth, stalked to the door, and wrenched it open. There (on bended knee), was a young woman dressed in a banana outfit, singing her heart out.
She glared when she saw Baz. Then she threw out her chest and sang the next verse even louder:
"Someone's heart is in this song/ and they beg you to listen for it won't take long/ I'm here to tell you how much you're ardently admired/ and deeply desired/ for everything you are and everything you do-oo-ooo"
"Baz, I didn't know you had a giiiirlfriend," her cousin Dev taunted. Dev was the most insubbordinate of underlings, if you wanted Baz's opinion.
Baz narrowed her eyes at her cousin and sneered. She kept her private life very private. The truth was, Baz did have a girlfriend, not that Dev needed to know that. Her name was Jessie, and she was decidedly not the singing girl in front of them. Baz wasn't sure she'd ever heard Jessie sing.
The banana-woman held a stack of index cards in one hand. She shuffled through them as she sang. In spite of the lyrics, she stared Baz right in the eyes and bellowed each line like she was challenging her to throw down in an alleyway afterwards. Baz was equally horrified and impressed.
The banana costume itself was yellow---standard banana color. And covered in brown spots. As was the woman's face---covered all over in spots. (Moles and freckles.) Baz wondered if the outfit was chosen to match the girl, or vice versa. The banana was large and floppy, with a circle cut out for the woman's face.
As far as faces go, this one was alright. It had points in its favor. The eyes, for instance. They were plain blue; but then again, sometimes blue could be a lovely color. The face was altogether strikingly---average. Baz thought she could rate this face at least a five. Maybe a six, on a good day; she could be generous. But the addition of the banana costume was knocking it down several notches. No face, however acceptable, should be framed by a giant plush fruit. It wasn't right.
"I'm asking you at their request/ so all you have to say is yes/ Just say you would be thrilled to!!!!"
Baz glowered at the woman, who now reached into a pocket (cunningly sewn into her costume), and pulled out---another banana. The edible kind, with a jewelry box attached. The sort of box that's only large enough for one small piece of jewelry the size of, say, an engagement ring.
"Is this...a marriage proposal?"
Baz felt her world tilt on its axis. Was she recieving a marriage proposal from a freckled stranger dressed as a banana? Her life had taken some strange turns, but this would be by far the strangest. She wasn't one to welcome the bizarre and unpredictable---she was an accountant, for god's sake! What more did she have to do to prove to the universe she didn't like whimsy? Or surprises.
A suspicion began to dawn.
Baz weighed in her mind the certainty that her aunt would enjoy tormenting her in front of all her collegues, with the knowledge that this prank wasn't her style. She was more the type to set off a smoke alarm, or yell "fire!" in a crowded theater. A bag of dog poop sitting on a radiator, yes; Musical comedy, no.
"In my office, now!" Baz commanded, holding open the door, and glaring. The woman's eyes widened in surprise, but she scrambled off her knees and did as she was told. (Good girl.)
Baz shut the door firmly behind them, before griping, "did Fiona put you up to this?"
The woman continued to glare, as she handed Baz the banana with the gift box attached. She then dug into a pocket again, and came up with a note. Slightly crumpled, but Baz recognized the handwriting. Instead of answering, as any sane person would, banana-girl sang again:
" So please, if you are so inclined/ I hope I haven't wasted your time/ This Banana wishes you the best/ and a life of future happiness/ to the lucky couple who will soon get hitched/ if only you fulfil their wish/ and say 'I DO' !!! "
"There you go," the girl said, "message delivered. Sorry I bothered you, but you didn't have to be such an arse about it. Congratulations to you and..." She squinted down at the card... "Jessie?"
"My girlfriend," Baz sneered.
Which only deepened Baz's confusion. She'd been dating Jessie for a month. One month! Not nearly enough time for this to be a real proposal. But, not enough time for her to pull this off as a casual joke, either. And who would joke about an engagement, anyway?! Her time with Jessie was just a dalliance, a fling. But when it came to True Love, Baz was deadly serious.
She'd never experienced True Love, it had to be said. But that didn't stop her from being something of an expert in the subject. She had read enough paperback Romance novels to fill a small library. She'd even considered penning one or two herself (under a pseudonym, of course). (Chaz Bitch had a nice ring to it.) They were her guilty pleasure. She suspected that her aunt knew, although she'd never told her.
And according to every novel in existence, romance should involve fiery confessions of undying love, not singing fruit.
"Good luck to you and your fiancée," the girl said, but she made no move to go. She hung by the door, eyeing the tasteful decor in Baz's office, and the small, but classy library of books on the shelf above Baz's desk. Leather-bound works of Shakespeare that had once belonged to her mother. (Any paperback novels were safely hidden in her briefcase.) She seemed to be searching for something; Baz didn't know what. There weren't many personal items in the room. No framed photos, no greeting cards, none of the art that Baz hung in abundance on the walls of her flat. (Georgia O'Keefe. So she liked flowers--what of it?)
"She's not my fiancée," corrected Baz.
The girl perked up a bit, and smiled at Baz. Then she looked down at her hands and muttered "I had a Jessie once. She was a tosser, though. Practically my type."
Oh. So...
This girl was queer?
Huh.
Baz wasn't sure why the girl wasn't leaving. She wasn't sure why she herself wasn't insisting on being left alone. Maybe it was the shock of having been proposed to via singing banana. Maybe it was the way she was now re-evaluating her relationship with Jessie. Maybe it was something in the girl's expression, and the way she stood by the door, neither leaving, nor sitting down, as if she was awaiting instructions. (From who? From Baz? As if she had any idea of what to make of this situation.)
But instead of saying 'get out!' Baz found herself offering the girl a coke.
"That was an astonishing show, Ms. ..." Baz waited for the girl to supply a name.
She cheerfully accepted the coke Baz handed her, and gave Baz another grin. "Call me Simone," the girl smiled, as she slurped down the coke.
Baz raised an eyebrow. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Simone."
Simone first belched, then frowned. "No," she said, "just Simone."
"Ah," said Baz. "Like Madonna. Or Cher. I didn't realize I was in the presence of a celebrity." She couldn't help being a shit; It just came so easily. She enjoyed ruffling this girl's feathers.
"Fuck off," said Simone, but she said it in a way that sounded friendly. "Alright if I take this costume off? It gets kinda sweaty."
What was Baz going to say, 'no'? She wasn't sure she had the strength to tell a sweaty girl not to take her clothes off. She settled for a nod that she hoped came across as aloof.
The girl wiggled out of her banana outfit, rolled it up and stuffed it under one arm. Beneath the banana suit she was wearing grotty jeans and the most mud-spattered pair of trainers imaginable. But her chest was broad, and her t-shirt was a size too small, and the freckles went all the way up her arms, so Baz found that she could overlook the rest.
Simone looked slightly like Jessie, in fact. But with messier hair and bad fashion sense and way, way more freckles. An outrageous riot of freckles. And moles, to boot. If presented with an opportunity, Baz might like to lick one. (She was disturbed. She was realizing this now.)
Or then again, maybe it was Jessie who looked like Simone. Like Simone was the candid shot, and Jessie used an Instagram filter and soft lighting.
Simone belched again and swiped the back of her mouth with a shirt sleeve. It was mildly indecent the way the movement showed off her broad shoulders and her well-developed triceps. In their entire month of dating, Baz had never heard Jessie burp.
Baz was relieved to see that minus banana costume, Simone was shorter than her by several inches. Those inches made her feel generous. Baz revised her previous assessment of the girl's looks up to a seven. Baz could loom, if she so chose. She chose.
Baz stretched up to her full height and addressed the pretty girl haughtily. "Why are you standing in my hallway, belting out bad poetry in the middle of a work day?"
"I got sent here," Simone shrugged. As if that explained anything. "I deliver all sorts of singing messages. This is the first time I've done a proposal, though. Do you want my opinion?"
Baz raised an eyebrow. Who wouldn't want an opinion from a freckled, blue-eyed fool?
The unjust thing about blue eyes, Baz reflected, was that they were entirely unremarkable--a dime a dozen--and yet society persisted in believing that they had some special relationship to truth, innocence, and sincerity. Well, Baz would buck the trend. She was nothing if not a contrarian. Let those blue eyes gaze at her all they like--she would not be moved. (Not much, anyway.) (Okay, maybe she would be moved just the slightest smidge. The eyes were so earnest.)
Simone continued. "If you ask me, it's a shit way to propose. I mean--who does that? A banana isn't even a romantic kind of fruit. If I was trying to win someone over, I'd go with a grape, or a cherry--it's more poetic. 'You're the cherry of my eye' and all that."
"Apple," said Baz.
"What?"
"You're the apple of my eye."
"I always thought it was cherry," Simone said obstinately.
"So you think that putting on a show in your fruitsona makes you qualified to stand around giving out incorrect opinions?" Baz gave her best Oxford-educated, smarter-than-thou, bitch face. To knock this girl down a peg or two. (Her curls and her dimples were doing things to Baz that she Didn't Appreciate.) Just to drive the point home, Baz crossed her arms and looked down her nose in a way that made most commoners quail.
Simone bristled but didn't back down. "Stop being an arse, I'm only doing my job."
Baz rolled her eyes. "Impressive career."
"Well, we can't all be an 'Executive Controller'." She jabbed a finger at the placard on Baz's desk. The more worked up Simone became, the more she waved her arms around in a way that threatened to knock over the furniture. "What the fuck does that mean anyhow? What are you controlling, minds? Are you a hypnotist? Do you have hordes of little minions running around and following your orders?"
"I'm an accountant." Baz said stiffly.
"Yeah well, and I'm a singing messenger. I don't have the money to turn down a paying gig." Baz watched as Simone's elbow caught the edge of a potted fern, and sent it teetering.
"Clearly," Baz smirked, side-eyeing her trainers. "I had assumed that going around assaulting the ears of complete strangers was more of an avocation."
"A trip to Ibiza is a vacation. This is a job."
Baz snorted, as she caught the fern before it fell. What a charming idiot.
"And what are your long-term plans? Are you working up to a whole fruit salad?"
"No, you git, I'm working on my mechanic's license. I'm also getting forklift certified."
Baz felt her knees go weak. She had a sudden mental image of Simone under the hood of a car wearing cutoff jean shorts and a sports bra, with grease up to her elbows.
Baz was painfully aware that Simone was inspiring fantasies in Baz that went all the way back to her lonely teenage years. She was mentally transposing herself and Simone onto the covers of some of her favorite paperback novels. Herself in a bodice that begged to be ripped. Simone on horse back, wearing armour. Simone's strong arms around her waist. A castle off in the distance. Maybe a dragon or two in the sky.
'Could I be in love with a singing banana?' Baz thought.
"And cosplaying a banana is just a side benefit?"
"Well, who the fuck wears a flowered suit to an accounting job?" Simone asked.
"I do."
"It's pretty," said Simone, and she smiled. "Beautiful and unusual."
"So are you."
The words snuck out of Baz's mouth before she could bite them down. Curse her soft heart and her disloyal tongue! She was supposed to be filing reports today, not falling in love with a pretty girl who knows her way around an engine and isn't afraid to look like a complete fool in public.
"Listen," said Simone. "I know it's not my place, but like I said, it's tacky. Like choosing orange gerbera daisies for an anniversary bouquet. I mean, I've only known you for ten minutes, and you've spent most of that time insulting me, but you still deserve better. She's just phoning it in. If she wanted to give you a funny proposal, she could have the balls to do it herself, er, well...you know what I mean."
"What business is this of yours?" Baz frowned, regretting her moments of weakness. She didn't have the beautiful banana-girl. She still had Jessie, who was looking less and less appealing every minute. But Baz didn't want to admit her romantic failings in front of Simone, who probably could have any girl (or boy?) she wanted. So what if Baz was moody and bookish? And so what if her only relationship so far was lackluster at best. She could still put up a good front. "Jessie Smith-Richards is a highly successful entrepreneur, and we're very happy together."
"Wait---Jessie Smith-Richards? The influencer? The one with the fucking pyramid scheme?" Simone's freckled face blazed bright red, and she started waving her arms again. This time the fern crashed over and broke, sending soil and shards of pottery in all directions over Baz's woven carpet.
Baz had tried really hard in their relationship to avoid knowing the specifics of Jessie's 'business'. The main things she had liked about Jessie were her curls, and the way she had assuaged Baz's existential dread of spending an entire lifetime alone, unloved and undatable, too much of a prickly bitch to suit anyone's taste.
"Inspirational Direct Marketing," said Baz, uncomfortably. She hoped that Simone wasn't a former devotee.
"Jessie the liar? The cheat? The scumbag?!" Simone was raving now. "She wanted me to get a tattoo of her name, on my ring finger!"
"What are you talking about?"
Simone blushed and shrugged. "Had it covered, didn't I?" She held up a hand, showing where a string of letters had been turned into a chain of flowers.
"You tattooed her name on your hand?"
Baz knew that Jessie had a strangely intense cult following, but demanding that her mentees get her name tattooed on their body seemed to be taking things a step too far.
"We dated last year! She fucking cheated on me! And, she stole my sword."
Baz felt a wave of nausea and shame, followed by a wave of jealousy.
Simone stuck out her chin, and squared her shoulders. "She wants to marry you, and that's the best she could come up with? I could do a better job proposing!"
"Is that so?" Baz never backed down from a challenge. "Well then. Indulge me." Baz crossed her arms and leaned back against her desk in an attitude of expectation.
"Do you mean it?"
"Try me." Baz narrowed her eyes and menaced. She had a good menace when she needed it. (She'd had many younger siblings to practice on.)
Simone frowned for a second, but something in Baz's face must have sparked her competitive nature.
Simone jutted out her chin, and once more began to sing.
"Smooth is something I am not,
But dear Baz, I like you a lot.
Even though you're snooty and a complete git,
The truth is, you're a bitch, but I kind of like it.
You're witty and sharp and you dress like a snob
I can see that you're smart and work hard at your job.
I like your posh hair and your shoes and your clothes,
And your frown and your sneer, and your slightly crooked nose.
Fighting with you has been so much fun,
I kind of hope that our fight isn't done.
So, if you'll please let me say,
Take me instead, and toss Jessie away!
I can treat you much better than that fucker can,
If you'll let me be your girlfriend !"
"This is the second-worst proposal I've ever recieved. The metaphors were trite and overused, the banana costume is, frankly, baffling. The poetry was marginal at best. And my nose is not crooked."
"Your nose is crooked, babe. It makes you look fierce." Simone said.
Simone was clearly a menace.
Baz sighed. "Yes," she said.
"Yes, I did a better job?"
Baz rolled her eyes yet again. Sometimes you had to spell it out for people. Not everyone saw life spread out before them like an Excel spreadsheet. Not everyone could excel (pun intended). Some people in life were banana messengers, and that was okay, too. (Between the woman too cowardly to propose in person and the woman who was willing to embarass herself charmingly in public, it was clear which one was going to win Baz's heart.)
"Yes, I accept your proposal."
"Oh," Simone's eyes went wide. "Wicked!"
She stuck out a freckled hand, and Baz stepped forward to shake it. When she got close enough, Simone leaned in and took a whiff.
Baz startled. "Did you sniff my hair?"
"No," said Simone, coloring. "Okay, maybe. I like your shampoo, okay?"
"Okay Carmen Miranda."
"Simone."
Baz relented. "Okay, Simone."
"So," Simone grinned, bouncing up and down like an excited puppy, "can I buy you some lunch?"
"Yes, you dolt. But I was in the middle of these spreadsheets when you came barging up to my door. I need to file this paperwork, before we can go."
"I'll file your paperwork." Simone appeared to be doing her level best to wink and raise one eyebrow at the same time. Apparently this is what passed as a come-on.
"What does that even mean?" Baz tried to hide a laugh.
"I'll fill out your spreadsheets."
"That's absurd."
"I found the world's sexiest accountant, and I'm not mad about it." Simone looked smug. "I can wait here til you're done. Are you going to eat that banana?"
"Go right ahead." Baz picked up the forgotten banana and handed it to Simone.
Simone grabbed the banana and finished it in one enormous gulp.
Baz took it all back. This woman was clearly an eleven.
"You're the most barbaric creature I've ever met," she grumbled.
"But you like me, right?" Simone asked. "In spite of all that?"
"I do."