A/N: The first chapter of my story which is a continuation of the BBC2 drama 'The Hour', following on directly from the end of episode 6 ("Come on, we've got a story to write). I'm hoping will put a sub-category for this TV show in sometime soon, but until then I'm just going to have to put this under Misc. TV. Apparently, it has been confirmed that a second series is being written (Wahoo!), but that it may be set in 1958 (some two years after the end of the first series), so I thought I'd try and fill in the possible 'gaps', such as they are, and hopefully write a bloody good story at the same time! Well, I hope so, anyway. It was a great programme with some amazing characters, but Freddie most of all (he's just lovely, isn't he? And have you seen that hair?).

So this is written for my friend Lucy, who is quite possibly nearly as obsessed with Freddie as I am ;) (I'd better get a great review now Lucy!)

Disclaimer: I don't own 'The Hour' or any of the characters mentioned. What I would do if I owned Mr Lyon... xD

Please R&R, or Angus McCain will shut us down! :P

Enjoy!

Freddie held the door open for Bel and she skipped out onto the street, Freddie following close behind.

"You're chirpy," he commented, disguising a smile behind a disbelieving tone.

"I feel lighter than air!" she exclaimed, spinning on her toes.

"You've been fired!" Freddie said, even more incredulously, although he knew what she meant.

"I know," she said, slowing down, "and I'm sure I'll feel terrible in the morning, but...we did it!" she grinned again, turning round to give Freddie a kiss on the cheek to say goodnight as they went their separate ways home, but instead of turning left, he turned right, following Bel.

"What are you doing?" she asked, confused.

"Escorting you home, Moneypenny. A girl can't be too careful, out on the streets on her own at night," he said, only half-mockingly, considering the events of the past few months – being followed everywhere, the phones being bugged, Ruthie's murder – who knows, someone (Angus McCain, for instance) could have a grudge, a bone to pick with the brilliant and beautiful Miss Rowley. Bel, however, just rolled her eyes.

"That is...if I may?" Freddie asked, suddenly uncertain.

"Of course, James," she said playfully, offering him her arm. "Come on!" she said, tugging him forward.

When they reached the door to Bel's apartment, she turned to Freddie to say goodnight yet again, but instead what came out was, "We were incredible tonight, Freddie. You were incredible." She moved closer, speaking softly, stroking his goose-down soft cheek with the flat of her thumb.

He looked up into her eyes then back to her hand stroking his face, up down, up, down, trying to keep his breathing in time with the movement.

"Freddie..." she said, moving in even closer so their noses were almost touching, thinking of so many things that she wanted to say, and she needed to say, and she didn't know how to say...'Freddie' would have to suffice.

He looked back up into her eyes, gazed into them for a long moment, then pulled away.

"Clarence is the Soviet agent. In the BBC," Freddie said, looking at the door.

"What?" Bel said, sure he must be wrong, and yet knowing he was right – Freddie was always right, it seemed to her, although she would never admit that to him.

"We have to run that story." It was said in a decisive tone, a tone that couldn't be argued with, and anyway, she wouldn't even have thought of arguing. He was right. Again.

She sighed and rattled open the door to her apartment, this time holding it open for Freddie, who had that determined look on his face that was so familiar to Bel, that he always got when he needed to get to the bottom of a story.

"Better get started, then," she sighed, half-laughing, knowing neither of them would sleep until this was done.

They were journalists. That's what they did.