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astranva · 4 years

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Reason To Hate You.

// masterlist //

Word Count: 5k

Category: Angst

Warning: Some strong language, as usual. Just angsty. It’s good for the skin and some soul cleansing.

Summary: He loves her, but has no time to show it even when she asks him to. But she’s had enough, and Harry writes a song.

Based on Reason To Hate You by Rhys Lewis.

You were sure when Harry sang “comfortable silence is overrated” he wasn’t joking, because maybe your boyfriend appreciated the uncomfortable silence more, or at least he had been showing so.

Familiarity was out of the window when it came to the both of you, because that would be an understatement. Your friends and families had joked about it for the one year and 7 months of your relationship, about how you were one soul in two bodies, how alike you and Harry were and how the differences completed one another.

You knew when he was stressed, sad, nervous, even when he was a combination of every emotion there is and it had always assured you that he, too, knew you like the back of his hand.

One look at you and he’d offer the best support; let it be a shoulder to cry on, a celebratory dance, or a shared cup of blueberry yogurt.

But quietness had barged in like an univited guest, one you weren’t ready for and the more you thought about it, you would have never been ready for it.

Empty was one word to describe it; the bed, the kitchen, the living room, the balcony, the house, the trips to the grocery’s – the relationship.

It began around the time of Fine Line’s release. Biting back your tongue, you had managed to not feel small whenever you listened to all the tracks on there that Harry had on his ex, especially the one that had his ex talking at the end of.

But Harry had showered you with love and assurance, telling you that he couldn’t believe he had ever lived without you by his side and how he had never felt this sort of love with anyone.

You, too, had showered him with affection and the undivided pride you felt for him, making sure all your friends and family purchased the album, playing it at all times, working online so you could accompany him to some of his press because he needed you there with him.

“Mom’s birthday is coming up. I think we should get her that dress she talked about last time, remember it?” You had asked one night as you lied in bed, eyes on your boyfriend as he moisturized his face while standing in nothing but his boxers.

Harry glanced at you before looking back at the mirror one final time before walking to the bed, “I don’t, no.”

“The Marc Jacobs o-“

“When is it?” He rushed, getting under the cover, turning away from you before turning his head back to look at you.

Your lips parted before closing again, before you replied. “Friday.”

“This Friday?” And at your nod, Harry pursed his lips, “I’m sorry, baby, I can’t make it. Have a meeting all day to talk about tour.”

“But H, you knew about this for two weeks.”

“I did?” Sheepishly, Harry asked.

You slumped before shaking your head, “It’s alright. I’ll just tell her you had an emergency or something.”

“You do that.” He nodded, reaching behind him to give your thigh a squeeze, “Get whatever gift you want, pay with my card.”

You didn’t reply, watching as he let his head down on his pillow, back to you as he got comfortable, the only light in the room coming from the lamp on your bedside table.

On the day of your mother’s birthday, you remember the halfhearted smile you offered to her when she asked you where Harry was,

“Says he’s really sorry. Family emergency, but this is from the both of us.” And then you had given her the neatly wrapped present, a card attached to it with a birthday message from you and Harry, only that it was only you who had written it because Harry was up and out of the house the minute you opened your eyes that morning.

And then it happened, again, and again, and again,

and some more.

“Good morning,” you had smiled at him one morning, watching as he rubbed his face before he approached you, capturing your lips in a kiss that had the butterflies in your stomach cheer and dance, “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, love. What about you?” He smiled tiredly, hands on your waist and chin on your shoulder from behind as he watched you flip the cheddar cheese and omelet toast on the pan.

“Great.” You smiled when you felt him rub your skin from over your nightgown with his fingers. You turned off the stove before turning, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, leaning to peck his lips, “Hey, I know we always get Chinese takeout for our Sunday night date but how do you feel about Thai?”

And instantly, Harry tensed, guilt already taking place on his face and the smile on your face faltered at the change of demeanor, “Y/N, I’m sorry, lovie, I can’t make it tonight.”

“What? Why? We never skip on our Sunday night indoor date.”

It was a ritual you and Harry were devoted to since the very beginning of your relationship, and not once had neither of you flaked on it, always having plans around it but never during it because it was when the both of you would kick your heels up, pig out, watch a movie, talk, and just get ready for the start of another week.

“Told you I’m going to Miami for a few days to meet with the director for Watermelon Sugar, baby.”

“You’re travelling?” You frowned, “You never told me.”

Harry paused, eyes going slightly big before he looked away for a moment before looking back at you, “I’m sorry. It must have slipped out of my mind with how hectic everything has been.”

You didn’t reply, suddenly feeling a tad uncomfortable with your position which had you remove your arms from around him and turn, holding the pan and moving out of his grasp to put the toast on his plate.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. It’s just my job and I can’t reschedule.”

You sighed, feeling as if your heart strings were being tugged at. Nevertheless, you managed to give him a small smile. “It’s alright, H. I understand. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

To be honest, if anyone had a say in this, they’d say Harry took advantage of how accepting you were, but you would never. You would never say – nor admit – that he was taking advantage of all your “I understand”s and “I get it”s, because you knew he was busy. You knew he loved you. You knew it, until you weren’t so sure anymore.

Standing in the corner of Adam and Emi’s living room, you sipped on your Sprite as you watched people from Harry’s band and those behind the album mingle, your boyfriend standing out of earshot but in front of you, conversing with Tom – Kid Harpoon – and Naomi, his hands moving around as he talked which made you smile a little.

“Why are you standing here all lonely?” You felt a nudge to your shoulder before you looked beside you, seeing Sarah leaning on the wall beside you.

You shrugged, “Just watching.”

“You never texted me yesterday after your date. How did Harry react to your dress? Did you end up wearing the white sh-“

“We didn’t go.”

“-oes? Or- Wait, what?” Sarah frowned.

“We didn’t go on the date.” You repeated, avoiding her eyes by looking down at the small soda bubbles in your cup.

“Oh,” Sarah’s shoulders slumped, taking notice of your gloomy mood, “Oh, um,” she cautiously looked at you, “You were dressed.” She mumbled with a frown, genuinely sad for her friend.

You chuckled, putting your weight on one leg, “So was he, but we had different intentions, I guess. He had a meeting with Jeff.”

“Y/N…” Sarah, with a frown, offered a hand of support on your shoulder.

With a small, very fake smile, you looked at her and shook your head, “It’s alright, really. He’s been busy with tour and the press and all that.”

“Doesn’t make him less of an arse, you know?” She raised an eyebrow.

You only chuckled, looking down at your shoes, “Don’t worry about it. Hey, at least I got to watch that show you’ve been bugging me with.”

You were patient; something many of the people you knew in your life always praised, some even were in disbelief at how patient you were with the shit life threw at you. Like that one time your laptop lagged in the midst of your presentation at uni and instead of freaking out, you remained calm, collected and patient, and it was why you ended up acing that presentation.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t feel like crap, because you did.

Since communication was key, you had decided to do just that – communicate. Harry was better than you when it came to confrontation. For a long time, you had trouble with approaching anyone and telling them that things weren’t fine, but as yours and Harry’s relationship blossomed, you learned to.

It was why you had decided against going to bed early one night and opted to stay and wait for Harry’s return, knowing that it was the only time you would be able to see him with how tight his schedule had been.

In a crewneck of his and plaid pj pants, you sat on the couch with a cup of green tea in your hands, watching a talk show that you mentally criticized as shit in your mind before you heard the click of the door.

Taking a breath to steady your heartbeat and breath, you put aside your tea before you clutched your hands together, cracking your knuckles nervously as you heard the sound of Harry’s home sliders against the floor.

His face showed confusion at the light being turned on, knowing that by that time, you usually slept, but he saw you sitting there, too in your head as you looked at your fidgeting hands to notice that he was a few steps away.

“You’re still up.” He stated in surprise, watching your head snap to look at him.

“Um, yeah,” you nodded, “Was waiting for you.”

Unknowing why, Harry smiled to himself as he approached you, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, “Yeah?”

You nodded, “Can we talk?”

And then his smile slightly faltered, eyebrows furrowing in slight worry before he sat. “Are you alright?” His hand reached up to brush your hair.

You hated how loving he was that moment, how he made you feel. How he showed you care when he was there for a few minutes, but you hated how he had trouble showing you that by making time for you.

“Harry,” you began and he immediately felt like shit because you rarely use his name, “Are you ever not going to be busy?”

“What?”

You felt stupid, not knowing how to articulate how you’re feeling but gave it another go anyway. “It’s just that, you’re never here anymore. It’s always the album, meetings, press, and when it’s none of those, then you’re out with your friends-“

“Is this about me cancelling that date?”

And you knew he was starting to get defensive and you made note that you hated that, too.

“Which one?” You asked tiredly before sighing, turning fully to look at him, “I’m not asking you to choose between me and your job, your life, but I’m just asking you to make time for me. I just feel out of place, Harry, and it sucks.”

“You know this album is important to me, everything about it.”

“And I absolutely love all that for you, I’m so proud of you,” you held his hands, “I just miss you, that’s all.”

“But Y/N, that’s-“ Harry let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment, “That’s my job.”

“It’s not your job to cancel on our quality time more than twice to be with your friends, all of whom you see everyday.”

“I see you everyday.”

“Seeing me when I’m sleeping or kissing me goodbye is hardly anything, Harry.” You said gently.

He contemplated it, staying silent for a few moments as he looked down at your joined hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just, make time for me, for us – please?”

You had kissed then, almost like a promise, and for the first time in a long time, you cuddled.

You wished you received enough assurance that he was trying, wished to see it, but it seemed like too big of a wish to come true.

You had a career of your own, one you were proud of and worked hard for, so when one day your boss asked you to their office to break the news of your promotion, your smile might as well have resembled a painted one like the Joker’s, from ear to ear.

Your colleagues had cheered for you, even interns approaching you to tell you that you deserved it, and they had all decided that a celebration was due. While they were planning for the celebration, deciding that it would take place at a nearby pub the following day as it Saturday and Friday was a good day to recover from hangovers, you took out your phone, composing a text to Harry.

‘H, please be home early tonight. Big news! 🥳 Love you!’

“You sure you don’t want to join for a quick drink? You earned it.” Your colleague Mariah asked as she walked you to your car.

“I’m sure. You go have fun and we’ll meet tomorrow.”

“Hey, tell your boyfriend to tag along!” She said as she waved before leaving.

That day, you went back home, showered and changed before cooking a nice meal for yourself and Harry.

You had checked your phone multiple times, checking if you might have missed a response or missed a call but granted, your phone only notified you of few congratulatory messages from people in your workplace and your family’s Whatsapp group after you had shared with them the news, none from the one person you longed for.

When the clock struck 8 that night, you found yourself grabbing your phone, tapping on it until you were calling his phone. One missed call, you called again and that time, he answered.

“Baby, I’m in the middle of something.” Harry rushed.

“What is it?” You found yourself asking.

“Mate! You fucking cheated!” You heard him laugh, sounds of different people in the background, “Don’t wait up, yeah? I have to go now. Love y-Wait, I’m coming!” And with one final laughter from him – a sound you had always loved and cherished but that moment, it only made you feel like crying – he hung up.

You stared at your phone, eyes stinging and nears getting itchy, swallowing the lump in your throat before you angrily tossed the phone onto the couch before walking to the kitchen to eat your share of the food. No way in hell were you going to sleep sad, angry, and on an empty stomach.

You hated how small you felt, how you felt unwanted in his world. It wasn’t like you wanted much either, just some time.

It was why the following morning as you got ready for your day at work, you might have loudly closed a drawer or two before looking over at Harry’s sleeping figure.

Huffing as you looked into the mirror while adjusting your top, you were unaware to Harry stretching and rubbing his eyes before you heard him.

“Good morning, love.”

Your heart raced, turning instantly to look at him. You tried to smile but when that failed, you turned back to give yourself a final look before grabbing your bag, mumbling a halfhearted “good morning.”

“Leaving early?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I want to grab donuts before I go.”

Harry smiled sleepily, “You usually get them donuts when there is good news.”

“I got promoted.” You said, still avoiding looking at him as you walked towards the door, lingering by it before you finally looked at him, finding him looking at you with a grin.

“Really? Baby, that’s wonderful! Congratulations, Honey. You deserve this. C’mere.” And he opened his arms, making grabby hands at you.

That moment, you also hated how you couldn’t fight the urge to go to him because that was exactly what you did. You walked towards him, sitting beside him and letting him embrace you, peppering kisses on your head.

“I’m proud of you.”

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him as you closed your eyes. “You are?”

“Of course. Always am.”

You smiled, nuzzling your head into his neck.

Harry wasn’t dumb – he felt it. You missed him, and he, too, missed you. He just couldn’t seem to say no to all the plans that he was invited to – except yours.

“They’re celebrating me tonight. Do you want to come?” You said, and although it was a little muffled, he heard it.

“Tonight’s Steve’s birthday. Remember hi-“

“Oh my God.” You rolled your eyes, pulling away from his embrace, shaking your head at yourself before letting out a chuckle, “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Why? What did I- Y/N, you know I can’t miss it. Steve has helped a lot with the album, it wouldn’t be right.”

“He helped with-“ You laughed bitterly, “Right, and I have never helped you with anything. Nothing at all.”

“Don’t take it like that, Y/N.” Harry huffed.

“I’m not taking it like anything, Harry. It doesn’t matter. Don’t wait up. Oh wait,” you stood, giving him a sarcastic smile, “You never do.”

And with that, you were out.

Any other time, you probably would have felt guilty. You would have felt like running back into his arms the moment he opened them. Only, he hadn’t called you, nor had he opened his arms.

There you were, sitting on a stool at the bar as your friends danced and drank, sulking with an untouched cocktail glass, staring at the door every time someone walked in.

But 7 became 8, 8 became 9, and before you knew it, you had driven one of your very drunk colleagues home at 12 and you were back home at 12:30, too sober for your own liking. That was a pathetic celebration, you thought.

You weren’t sure why but the moment you stepped foot inside your shared home with Harry – it was initially his but by the 12th month of your relationship, he had asked you to move in – you couldn’t stop the tears.

Ugly sobs broke the silence in the house, your body shaking with the extra weight of emotions it carried for months.

Maybe it was because even then, Harry wasn’t home and surely, he wasn’t beside you as your friends celebrated a big event in your life. Maybe it was because you received a notification that Harry had posted to his close friends story list on Instagram, the story being him holding his phone with the front camera, Harry singing along to a Queen song with Alexa Chung as she had one arm around his shoulders, her other hand holding a cup that resembled the miserable cocktail you had earlier to celebrate yourself.

But you were packing a suitcase.

You were neatly folding some of your clothes in it, putting some of your undergarments in the zipped-up area. You hadn’t bothered to quit crying, you figured that you owed that yourself.

One thing Harry didn’t expect to return to was to see you out, closing your car’s trunk as you stood in your black sweatpants and a grey hoodie, comfortable sneakers on your feet and your hair left with no hairbands or as much as a clip as if you hadn’t bothered to do anything with it.

Quickly parking and turning off his car, his eyes had glanced at the time quickly, finding it reading 2:21AM. Harry was quick to get out, noticing your movement to your driver side halt as you heard so.

“Where are you going?” He asked as he approached you, feeling worried and scared as he stared at the back of your head as you were yet to turn.

But you did, and Harry found himself staring your puffy eyes, tears in clouding the color he loved too much and his heart broke.

“I’m leaving.”

If it was possible, his heart would have beat its way out of his chest.

“L-Leaving wh-where? What?”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, “I’m leaving, Harry. I’m done.”

“Y/N, baby,” he cooed, stepping closer, “Let’s talk, alright?” He gently put his hands on your arms, only to have you shrug them off, breaking his heart even more and causing a lump to form in his throat.

“No! We’re not going to talk, Harry. I’m done talking. I’m done waiting. I’m done being alone in this fucking house – in this- this fucking relationship!” You cried.

“Baby, please,” his jaw clenched as he tried to control his breathing and to push back the tears, “Y/N, please. Don’t do this.”

You shook your head, “I gave you everything. I tried everything and it’s just not working. I’m done giving, Harry. Please, just understand.” You stepped closer to him, cupping his face, “You’re never here for me anymore and I’m done holding on to the ghost of you.”

“What can I do? Anything, please,” his nose reddened, eyes going tearful as he was just about to melt in your hands, watching you shake your head, “Please, lovie, anything.”

“I’m done.” You whispered in the midst of a sob, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “I tried.”

And with that, you got into the car before speeding off, leaving Harry standing there, his heart seeming to wave him off as he watched your car disappear.

He was shit.

He had tried to contact you, even tried to visit you at your work only to get told that you were taking a few days off.

He messaged you everyday for 3 weeks, called and left voice notes.

His friends felt bad for him when they knew, but they felt worse when he broke down one day when his band visited to check up on him,

“If only I wasn’t part of all of this! If you didn’t drag me into all of this shit, she would have still been here! Right here in her fucking home with me!”

“Hey! You got no one to blame but yourself. You’re the one who decided to blow her off every time, even when Mitch and I asked you about her and gave you an earful so don’t fucking put the blame on anyone but yourself, Harry!” Sarah had knocked some sense into him, “I love you and all, but this is all you and whatever will happen next will be you. Don’t wait for anyone to pick up your mess because it’s about time you act and show her you love her.”

He deserved that.

Harry had tried countless of times, visited your old apartment only to face an old man holding a puppy who had no idea who you were.

He found himself sitting in his studio one night – where he slept because he couldn’t bring himself to sleep in your bedroom – his journal perched up as his pen worked on it. It was like he didn’t need to think about it, he went on auto-pilot and before he could realize it, he had written a song.

You weren’t any better. 2 months later and you were still avoiding his calls. It didn’t help that you got another phone and number but kept your old one, only to know that he still remembered you and you felt pathetic for it.

His fans were bombarding you with questions on yours and his whereabouts, saying that you’ve been inactive for way too long and it wasn’t like you to not interact with them, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t.

By the 3rd month, you began to go other places than your workplace.

You met up with 2 of your friends, giving them short answers and “yeah”s as they talked. With your mind being somewhere else, you unlocked your phone and opened Instagram, checking your explore page.

And there it finally was; a picture of him. His beard and moustache had grown, untrimmed and messy as his hair. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, yellow sweatpants and a grey hoodie worn along with his running shoes while he walked.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you opened the photo, checking the caption to read it;

‘Harry out a few minutes ago!’

As fresh as your favorite home baked pastries this photo was. Your eyes moved from him to the shop behind him, zooming with your fingers before letting out a gasp.

“Y/N? Is everything okay?” One of your friends asked.

“I have to go.” You quickly said, slinging on your bag before you shot out of your seat and outside, frantically looking left and right before walking towards the shop you had seen in the picture.

You didn’t even know what you were doing. Hell, you shouldn’t have been doing that, looking for him like that.

You panted, reaching up to place a hand on your rapidly beating heart as you stood in front of the shop.

God, you felt stupid.

“Y/N…”

You heard it, then you felt it; his hand, gentle on your shoulder.

You turned, coming face to face with the man you had sworn up and down was the love of your life – and you knew he still was.

He snatched off his sunglasses, as if they played a trick on him but they weren’t because you stood right there.

“You’re here.” He breathed out.

Harry’s green eyes were staring into yours, hand still on your shoulder.

At the feeling that rushed through you; one that made you feel that one more minute and you would be in his arms, kissing him and going back home with him, you slowly shook your head. “I have to leave.”

“No, please, please, a minute. Just a minute.” Harry pleaded with wide eyes, desperation in his voice.

“If I stay for one more minute, I won’t control myself. Please let me go.” You closed your eyes as you spoke softly.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You did it more than once.”

One final jab to his heart, you turned, rushing to cross the street before getting in your car.

The news of a sudden single drop was everywhere.

Friends and family texted you to ask if you had heard the song, most asking you to “please talk it out with Harry, he seems really sorry.”

Your coffee, sat waiting for you as you read the wave of tweets that crashed on you from fans, most of asking you what your friends and family asked of you, some others apologizing on his behalf, some others questions if the song was about you to begin with, and some others giving you shit for “breaking Harry’s heart.”

You were quick to click on a YouTube link that was attached to a tweet of a fan reacting to the song, sitting up straight and suddenly feeling nauseous as the screen changed.

Harry Styles – Reasons To Hate You.

Your stomach dropped as you saw him. In a white tee and black shorts, his hair was held back with your light blue clip while he sat in a chair behind his mic in the comfort of your home studio, holding the black guitar you had gifted him for his 26th birthday.

“Can you just lie to me

And ruin these memories

'Cause I've gotta forget somehow

So I'm begging you, burn us to the ground,” Harry sang as he played the guitar.

“Cause I know it's over

But I don't know what to do

So help me get over

Help me get over you,”

With no intentions to stop the tears, you let yourself cry, reaching up to stifle a sob by putting a hand to your mouth.

“And tell me you love somebody else or something

Or say you've been unfaithful to me

'Cause I need a reason to hate you, a reason to let you go

A reason to move on 'cause without one I know I won't

So tell me you love somebody else or something

Or say you've been unfaithful to me.”

He had looked up to his camera, and as he did, you felt like he was physically there and singing for you.

“Where do we go from here?

Do you just disappear?

'Cause I don't think I can be your friend

When it feels like the break isn't gonna mend.”

You stopped questioning your moves, and as proof, you had no idea what you were thinking when you grabbed your car keys and bolted out of the studio apartment you had rented, the song still playing.

“'Cause even after all this time, I'm hoping I can change your mind

'Cause hope's the only open door left to choose

So let me out for good because I know that I'm not strong enough

To stop myself from feeling things for you

So don't give me the truth.”

And you drove to him, right back to your home.

The song had replayed itself 4 times before you were finally out of your car and rushing to the door, ringing the bell and knocking, cursing yourself for forgetting your keys back at that apartment.

The door opened and there he stood, in the same clothes with the same clip holding back his hair.

Harry didn’t have time to comprehend before you threw yourself at him, crying into his chest.

“You’re such an asshole.” You cried, “How can you release something like that, you shit?”

He held on to you, hiding his face in your hair as he took you in.

“Next time, even an album won’t bring me back, you understand?” You mumble, feeling his arms tighten around you as he kissed your head then shoulder.

“There won’t be a next time.”

#wellbeafinelime #reason to hate you #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles one shot #harry styles fiction #harry styles angst one shot #angst #angst imagine

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theneolistickid · 7 years

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Bubble tea this evening at Miu’s Tea in Miami Beach with @altarflame

❤️😍😘🌴🌿🍃🌊🌞👌

https://www.miustea.com

#bubble tea #Miu's tea #Miami Beach #personal

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musedblues · 4 years

Text

Call It Fate Call It Karma

summary: In which your band gets signed to the same label as Queen, and Brian May takes a whole bunch of fun out of your new musical journey.

a/n: Here’s what to know… There’s an age gap! This takes place sometime in the 1980s and reader is in her twenty’s. There are also mentions of sex / sexual situations. (Not 18+ just be aware!) Here’s what’s been dubbed as The Bitchy Bri Fic! Title from this song!

w/c: 10k

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Everything changed as you’d started to lose hope. And you owed it all to Jim Beach.

It was the afternoon you and your bandmates managed to sneak past the receptionist desk at EMI and present the reel of tape you called you an EP to a bored producer called Watts; Jim Beach was already occupying his office. By then, you’d been to every other record label in the city and were prepared to be kicked out of this one all the same.

But then the producer agreed to listen to your tape. Watts sat with his feet on his desk and a glazed over look in his eye as two of your only three songs played. Jim spoke up from the back of the room when your third and final song started to crackle to life.

“Well, aren’t you going to give them a shot?” He asked, in a warm, gentle tone.

“What are you three called?” Watts asked.

“Loba.” Wilda piped up, picking her nails in place of her guitar.

“It means ‘she wolf’ in Spanish.” Joane pointed out, twisting strands of her pale fringe as she perched on the edge of the bench at your side.

“Can you lot throw together the couple hundred bucks it takes to record, by the end of next week?” The producer asked.

“Yes.” You spoke up, though you weren’t sure how you’d get the money, this was the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Beach! Manage these lady wolves, will you?” Watts dragged his feet back to the floor with a thud.

“Me? I-I well,”

“You’ve got Queen, and who else? No one.” Watts exasperated. “McCartney has half our staff on lockdown this month and Iron Maiden has already gotten our three best workers to quit. You liked this mediocre garage rock well enough to say something…” The producer gathered your tape and tossed it to the manager with kind eyes and a smile under his furrowed brow. “Now everyone leave my office.”

You’d barely processed the life changing news as Jim turned toward you and your band with a grin that just kept growing.

“What do ya say, girls? Wanna make a record?”

///

You worked overtime and Joane got a second odd job to come up with the money to make a real-life record. And in a matter of a couple of months, you had an all new stage show, a new shiny Fender bass, and your very own album.

Well, almost. The record was in the final processes of being pressed. Watts helped put it together with his feet propped on the soundboard he manned. Past his usual cigar, he mumbled suggestions and even some encouragement; as you Wilda and Joane perfected the songs from your EP and threw together a couple more. Joane was praised for tightening her drum kit and bringing back up sticks. Wilda’s method of retuning her prized guitar worked without a hitch. You sang all your worries away with your bass playing in time. It was as easy as ever to work together, and one thousand times more terrifying all the same.

Jim lingered by on days like those, and on nights you’d booked gigs at local pubs and places of the like. On tea breaks, and in storage closets turned green rooms, Jim helped you and the girls make plans for the future. He carried around a pad of paper to jot down every time one of you thought up a new goal or two.

You went on and on about the sounds you heard in your head, and how you dreamed of bringing them to life. Of the words you longed to share with the world, and your favourite old tunes that never failed to inspire and excite.

Wilda dreamed of parties and people and places, the things she’d say on guest appearances and press tours. She dreamed of stages much more grandiose than the rickety old ones you were so familiar with now.

“We’d quite like to be as big as that other band of yours, one day.” Joane quipped, to a smiley Jim Beach. She was always going on about Queen. Bet she never dreamed of being graced with the assistance of her favourite band’s very own manager.

“No worries there.” Jim chuckled. “You ladies are a well-oiled machine compared to those four old bats. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow at the party.” He seemed to raise a brow like an omen but you couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.

///

Your first ever album had been slowly climbing the charts since it’s release at the start of the week. When your single aired for the first time, Joane parked her old beaten down truck outside of your flat and turned her car’s radio up all the way. You dismissed your neighbour’s pleas for peace and quiet by hopping in your drummers ride and speeding away to EMI, squealing along to your very own song the whole way there.

You met your guitarist outside of the company’s biggest office. Inside, the three of you hurried through a few pages of papers, and scribbled your signatures along odd dotted lines. Just like that, you were signed.

Even though Loba was gifted a bottle of champagne and a couple of snapshots to prove it, the label decided a proper party was in order to welcome you. Apparently, EMI liked to use every excuse they could to make use of their loft and it’s impressive bar top that wrapped around nearly every wall.

So no sooner than you’d shuffled into the head office, you were escorted out and up to the very top floor. The party, Jim said, was already in full swing.

And that’s when you met his other band. Though he never said so outright, you could tell Jim was most excited to introduce you to the only other group he’d had the pleasure of working with till now. Behind poorly placed streamers and the backs of people too busy carrying on conversations to notice you, there was Queen. All lazily huddled together against a spot at the long and winding bar.

When Jim made his presences known, you and the girls stopped in your tracks and traded a few nervous glances.

Freddie Mercury was all of a sudden shifting his weight before the lot of you, casting a sweeping gaze across each of your faces.

“Miami, are these the children you’ve adopted now that we’re all grown up?” Freddie asked, greeting the manager and turning his oxen eyes to your band. His champagne sloshed in the glass he held near his chest as he threw one arm around Jim’s shoulders.

“Awe, you talk about us?” You jabbed an elbow toward the manager though you couldn’t quite reach where he stood. As his grin only grew, the rest of the band shifted closer.

“Boys, meet the girls.” Jim smiled, introducing you each by name.

But you couldn’t be sure if Roger even heard the manager’s introduction. The blonde floated up to your guitarist like he’d been supernaturally dragged across the room to meet her. Wilda stood before him, trying desperately not to pick at her nails, and smiled. You wanted to laugh, but you wanted to hurl. It was just too much, the way Roger seemed to drool at the simple sight of her, like Pepe Le Pew.

“What are you lovely ladies called, again?” He asked in a voice just as rasped as you’d come to recognize over the radio. Wilda blanched and seemed to go shy all of a sudden, but you weren’t.

“Loba.” You shrugged speaking in the drummer’s direction.

“What?” John asked, stepping closer to the other side of you, standing taller than you expected him to be.

��It means she-wolf.” Joane piped up, reciting her favourite and well-practised line. It always saved her from going too quiet, that fact.

“Uh-huh.” Roger seemed to agree, shifting to stand at Wilda’s side instead of ogling her head on- holding her gaze all the same.

“Better than their almost name. Guess what it was, lads.” Jim raised a brow to Freddie. Oh no. With Joane likely having shut down at the mention of her old idea, and Wilda entirely preoccupied with whispering to Roger, everyone turned to glance at you- Left with no choice but to bury your embarrassment and answer.

“Doin’ Alright.” You admitted through a smile, because if you didn’t laugh, who would? It was your drummer, resident Queen fanatic’s idea, one you talked her out of shortly after joining.

“How bloody un-o-fucking-riginal,” Brain huffed and crossed his long arms over his chest.

You had barely officially met the guy. He loomed near the back of the gathering and stood in silence, till then. And you might have thought he’d only been joking if it wasn’t for the way his stoic expression remained unchanged when your eyes met his for the first ever time.

“Hate to break it to ya, but your name was already sort of taken, too.” You pointed out, giving a weak mocking curtsy at the vague mention of her majesty. Queen’s guitarist’s glare remained.

“Oh, I like this one. Good ear, Miami.” Freddie sauntered over and nudged you away from Brian’s burning gaze. Roger was pointing Wilda out to the balcony, where a rowdy group grew larger every time you glanced out beyond the open glass doors.

“Don’t mind him.” John cocked his head toward the sulking guitarist, and handed you a bubbly drink. “He’s in the middle of a divorce and a midlife crisis, it’s really quite the combination.”

“Poor thing.” You stuck your lip out on your turn in Brian’s direction, as Freddie yanked you toward the balcony, laughing all the while. The wild-haired guitarist watched you leave with an expression you couldn’t quite understand, though you wanted too.

But before the lot of you could spin your separate ways and dance until sunrise, one of the men from the head office stopped in front of everyone with a smile.

“Nice to see you’re all already so well acquainted.” He said, in a sickeningly posh tone. Roger draped an arm across Wilda’s slim shoulders as the rest of you hummed in agreeance.

“So how would you like to tour together, then?” The man grinned. Freddie flourished, making a grand gesture and saying something about how that was the best idea he’d ever heard in his life. Joane turned to you, not even attempting to hide her squeal of excitement. Jim shared a look with John, like a proud father.

“Good. Because that’s what the label wants.” The man nodded and turned to Jim with instructions to phone him to start planning. Freddie swept you away to kick off a night of fun, and when you turned to see if Brian cared at all, he was gone.

///

Your single topped the charts in the US. Jim came into your work, feigned an emergency and gathered the rest of your band to share the good news over a celebratory brunch. You might have won over the yanks, but Queen had stolen the hearts of billions long before you’d written your first tune. So it was naturally decided your band would open for the much more renowned group.

You turned your two weeks notice into your job, and blew your last paycheck on an all-new wardrobe. If you were going to prance around America with the likes of Queen, you had to look the part. Some platforms and a few dazzling dresses found their way into your suitcase a week before it was time to go.

By the time you met up with the other band at the airport, you knew Roger well enough to stick out your tongue as a greeting. He’d come around your flat once, trailing behind Wilda to crash a night out you’d been planning all week. And again to steal her away from your last band meeting. When you, Joane and Wilda sleepily trudged through the waiting gates, he stole your guitarist away for the third time, and you wondered what might become of them.

You were still dazzled by Freddie, charmed by his laugh and stunned when he insisted on sitting next to you on the plane ride over, to share gossip. All of his friends seemed just as taken with the ethereal singer, too. John sprung up from his catnap to go help Freddie find the best snacks the airport had to offer. And while Jim sat going over the schedule with Joane, Brian sat across from you with his arms crossed and his legs a mile apart.

“Are you excited?” You wondered because you really wanted to know if someone who’d done this a time or two was still thrilled by it. But mostly, you wanted to get the lanky guitarist to open up a little. If you were going to spend a whole month and a half near each other, wouldn’t it be nice to get to know the guy a little?

“I’m tired.” Brian nodded, his hazel eyes fluttering toward the windows.

“Lighten up Mr. May. You could have my job. Was just sent to phone Fred’s cats and we haven’t even left home.” A man as gangly as Brian shuffled to sit at your side, adjusting the sunglasses on his head that did little to hide his thinning hair.

“I’m Crystal, that’s Ratty.” The guy pointed across the lounge to another slim, long-haired fellow bent over an open acoustic guitar case.

“We’re everyone’s personal lackeys and will be glad to lend you ladies a hand all the same.”

You thanked the guy with a chuckle and felt charmed enough by his sudden kindness to admit your growing nerves. But then Freddie and John were back, and the plane was ready, and it was time to go on tour.

///

The first week flew by in a flash. You were jarred by the size of every new arena and crowd that filled the seats. You lost yourself entirely to the music that blared from the speakers at your band’s command; but never got used to hearing the songs you once plucked away at in your bedroom, fill stadiums.

Going from entertaining grotty pubs to seas full of people wasn’t something you ever expected to happen. The sound of their collective cheers directed to your band didn’t seem real. All you could do was play on, and sing with your friends until the time came to rush to another green room, catch your breath, and a glimpse of the headlining act.

You usually only saw Queen in passing- in revolving hotel doors or shuffling about the same backstage halls. If you weren’t on stage, your band was hauled off to radio stations for interviews while Queen partied on. And if your band had an afternoon to do as you pleased, Queen was off signing records and privately touring art museums.

But there were the rare occasions your paths crossed for longer than a minute or two. John would always make a point to ask after you, from time to time. He said you and the girls seemed to be handling the road like old champs.

“I’m too busy to be bothered with stage fright.” You laughed, when John asked how you looked so at home in front of the crowds that had started to sing along to the songs you played.

Where most of Queen felt like friends your parents warned against staying out past curfew with, John felt like your older brother; who waited up to sneak you back home with a kind word.

Freddie always invited you to the after parties and nights out, even when he knew Loba was meant to do a photoshoot one city away. And when you failed to show up, the singer would always say he’d missed you. And you believed him, because of the nights he’d sneak in your hotel room to share the last of the liquor that had knocked the rest of his bandmates cold. Freddie went out of his way to include you and the girls more often than not.

But Roger seemed to include himself in your groups circle any chance he could get. He trailed behind Wilda, sure, but he seemed genuinely fond of chatting away with you and Joane all the same. And when your guitarist and Queen’s drummer partook in their weekly game of playing hard to get, you were awarded tiny moments with just Roger.

Like the time everyone crashed before midnight, and the two of you stayed up by the quiet hotel poolside, with an acoustic. It wasn’t long before your goofing around turned into some kind of jam session, and you were writing a song together. Roger insisted you keep it to use, and left the cocktail napkin full of scribbled lyrics tucked between the strings of Wilda’s guitar that you’d been left in charge of.

Then, there was Brian.

He strolled ahead of you off of the riverboat where both of your groups had been invited to enjoy a day off, cruising around somewhere in America’s deep south. You couldn’t help but watch Brian’s figure move as it seemed to tower just over all the people at his side. It was time to head back to the hotel, or at least, time for your freshwater adventure to end. Everyone was glad for the easy-going ride, still tired from the night before.

Maybe that’s why he was so quiet all afternoon. Brian usually was, but there was something more to his silence today. And you didn’t know the guy well enough to figure, or dare ask why. The weather was nice, and Queen was received with reverence every place they went. Brian had no reason to sulk- none you could possibly understand.

A slew of people with cameras and questions flocked to the boat docks as the one and only Freddie led the way, pretending to introduce Crystal as some kind of rockstar in his own right. The roadie ate up the attention as Brian’s pace set your own. You couldn’t move until he did. And while he stalled, cameras flashed and a desperate middle-aged man held a skinny microphone toward the band.

“Brian, how are you finding America?” They asked in a mousy pitch.

“Oh, it’s lovely here, as always.” Brian politely grinned, curling his fists in his jacket pockets, from what you could see.

“How’s touring with another group? Queen usually don’t need the support of an opening act.”

“Right.” Brian seemed to agree in a curiously cynical tone.

“They’re called Loba, and we quite like having them around.” Roger was suddenly shaking your shoulders like an overzealous coach. You chuckled at his antics as Brian dared to glimpse at the commotion.

He turned his gaze over his shoulder to look at you for a moment. It might have been the most exciting part of your whole day, considering how Brian hardly ever looked your way till now. But why did it have to be like that? What did you ever do to the guy?

The best you’d ever gotten from Brian was an empty hum when asked if he cared if you sat in the only open seat at his side, during some dinner. And over that meal, he chattered away with the likes of his band, and even yours. And maybe it was because you became utterly paranoid by his silence to break it with all of the questions you had for the guy. But he never spoke to you. The seat at Brian side seemed a void in his peripheral. And you were growing a bit anxious by the thought of actually being invisible to Brian. So you started speaking up.

When Freddie asked you with help on matching one of his many jackets with a pair of trousers, you’d already made up your mind, but twisted around to ask what Brian thought. His brows upturned in a painfully confused expression as he hesitantly gave his answer to Freddie’s clothing debacle. You got your own answer too, that at least Brian heard a voice coming from the space you existed in.

When both tour buses stopped for gas one random midnight; Roger raced you into the convenience store and distracted you from buying anything in place of dancing to The Cars tune crackling from the overhead speakers. Your spontaneous party was broken up when Brian breezed by with his freshly purchased candy bar in hand.

“We are on a schedule you know?” He glared your way on his turn to leave.

“I’m sorry you weren’t invited to the dance party Bri.” You mused, stopping the guy in his tracks, who turned to look at you in the way he did. “We’ll let you sulk in the corner of our next one, since it would obviously kill you to actually join in the fun.”

But all that got you was a roll of Brian’s hazel eyes and a cackle from Roger. That was the norm. Brian either seemed to pretend you weren’t there, or traded you bone chilling glares like you’d wronged him in a past life. But you’d never known less of a person than you’d known of Brian May, and you were beginning to wonder if going about finding out more was worth it.

///

By the time your next soundcheck came, Queen had nothing better to do than bop about the stadium to wait their turn. You and the girls rushed through your usual set up but decided to change things around for your second to the last song. And while you started to unplug it was decided Joane would have to turn a certain drum fill into a solo while Wilda rushed off stage to retune her only electric guitar to properly close out the show.

Brian overheard, from the place he stood arguing over an amp with Ratty, who’d kindly agreed to stick close by your band during times like now. The roadie shuffled over to take your bass away, while Brian issued a complaint.

“You’re going to retune? Just use a bloody capo and don’t waste everyone’s time.” Brian shifted his weight, furrowing his brow your way. Though you weren’t the guitarist in question, you seemed to be the one and only person Brian felt most comfortable yapping at.

“There’s more than one way to do things, you know?” You pointed.

“Yeah,” Brian shrugged, agreeing with you in a breathtaking turn of events. But then again, not really… “The right way and the wrong way.”

“Christ no wonder you’re divorced.” You shook your head in the guy’s direction. His eyes might have been pretty if they weren’t burning into yours with such disdain. Then you both made a show of storming past each other. You were getting really sick of his attitude, and what it did to yours.

///

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no!” You cried, cradling your bass that had fallen from the stand to the concrete floor below. The neck was ever so slightly cracked and a tuning peg was bent and your heart was near stopping. When you looked up from the ground, you saw Ratty cursing out one of the stadiums impish young stagehands. The kid had blown an amp and sent it smoking, and your guitar flying off the stage in his rush to run from the trouble he’d stirred.

You clutched your one and only instrument to your chest and hurried away for help. Ratty was wrestling the broken amp, Crystal was nowhere to be seen, and John was off phoning home. You recalled the sights of the city from yesterday’s afternoon off. There was a guitar shop across from the Chinese place where you stopped for lunch.

So you raced past Joane and shouted that you’d be back in an hour. The exact amount of time you had until it was time to go on stage.

You ran down the city streets with your bass in your arms like a wounded child. The guitar shop appeared like a beacon.

Inside was blaring a song by Led Zeppelin you might have wanted to sing along too if your heart wasn’t in your throat. There was a mass of teenaged boys crowded the counter. You waited, held your breath and checked the clock as it ticked away at a frightening speed. By the time the boys buying strings and straps shuffled away, you threw your broken baby to the older man behind the counter. He assured you the fix would be a breeze and tried to sell you an overpriced Gibson while you waited. You stood drumming beats on the sales counter and tried not to scream when the clock showed you’d only had ten minutes left to waste. A couple more later, your bass was in your grasp. You threw an extra bit of cash to the guy and ran off in a flurry, praying to make it on time.

You’d never ran so fast, certainly. You didn’t even have time to apologize to a kid on a bike who had to swerve out of your way. You burst through the back doors of the stadium, much to the shock of the doorman. When he shouted at you to take it easy, you ceased running to walk as fast as you could toward the green room.

Brian was the first familiar face to greet you after the nerve-wracking scene.

“So nice of you to finally show up.” He let out a mocking cheer from the place he kicked back on a torn leather sofa. So relaxed in his gloom. Your heart used to ache at the thought of his troubles. At the sight of his far off gaze as his friends joked on around him. When Freddie would drunkenly whisper to you details of Brian’s trying year. But the guitarist’s sneers your way were getting old, and the ache in your heart for him was slowly growing cold.

Freddie spun to greet you, let out a sigh of relief like an anxious mother, reaching out to adjust your shirt collar skewed under the strap of your instrument.

“Well, my guitar had to get fixed one way or the other. And unlike you, your highness, we haven’t got a gaggle of roadies to call upon.” You swatted Freddie away and snapped toward Brian.

“No, but what’s ours is yours. Next time ask for help.” John spoke like a stern father, tossing you a bottle of water and pointing toward the clock on the wall. You had about a minute to run out on stage.

“Let her learn the hard way, Deacy. She seems to like it that way.” Brian rang. You dashed away before you had time to curse him.

“Brian, stop being such a bitch, I mean, my God.” Freddie whined as you stormed off, glad for once that someone else seemed fed up with the guitarist’s sharp tongue, too.

///

When the show was over, John insisted you hop along his band’s tour bus back to the hotel. The other two-thirds of your band were still enjoying the amenities of the afterparty, and you were in the middle of trading bass themed horror stories with Deacy. So he kept on talking as you walked to follow him, settling near the front of the ride as it travelled to your latest hotel.

As Queen shuffled to cross the bleak lot to get to the grandiose lodge, Brian was the last to leave. He shouldered past you with that same old sullen pout. His eyes caught yours for a moment before he took another step, but something about the usual interaction was the final straw for you.

“What the hell did I ever do to you?” You demanded to know, as Brian’s bandmates disappeared inside the hotel. Brian stalled reluctantly and turned to face you with pursed lips and the smallest shake of his head.

“Look,” He began, as you stood ready to get to the bottom of whatever this was. “I’ve really never meant to be so cross with you. And I’m sorry my temper’s been so easily getting the better of me. I am sorry.” Brian nodded. He looked exhausted, like this was the millionth time he’d had to give a similar speech, but he did so in such a genuine manner- that you could only stand and trade a perplexed gaze to the lanky guitarist.

“It’s… it’s best if we just keep to ourselves, yeah?” Brian concluded, turning away with one final nod. You didn’t get the chance to agree, or disagree, or understand what just happened before Brian was on his way, and you were on your own.

///

After the tour was said and done, a new year was just kicking off. And the label was pushing for another album right out the gate. You and the girls had two months to throw together a collection of new songs, and were struggling for most of the time to do just that.

The song Roger helped you write was the best one you had to offer, and Joane was nearly crippled under the stress of being creatively confined to a certain amount of time. You’d never had such a hard time working together before, and the pressure was building up between each of your bandmates in a way you were afraid of.

When Watts strolled in to take control of the soundboard you’d been fiddling with all morning, you couldn’t help but to warn him against changing any of your settings. You and the girls were finally making some kind of progress, albeit bickering along the way. Poor Jim could only sorrily sigh each time one of you turned and ask for his help. This bit of work was a little outside of the managers league.

And Watts only seemed to egg you on, pressing the few buttons you asked him not to.

“You want to control this soundboard so bad, have at it.” He stood in a huff, “I only strongly suggest you don’t fuck this up.” The producer hissed before slipping out of the door. He smiled a smile that made you queasy, and you nodded knowing full well you were on thin ice.

Jim left you and the girls to fight over tempos and key changes and came back from the studio’s kitchenette with an unexpected announcement.

“Brian is coming.” He said, matter of factly.

“What’d you call him for?” Joane groaned from the floor, where she laid fiddling with her kit.

“Because Queen is the best help I know. But Freddies in Barcelona, John’s with his family, Roger is MIA and Brian is right down the road. You lot have a day left, and I’m running out of helpful ideas. And quite frankly, you girls are in need of a lot of it.”

“Yeah, maybe, but now nothing will get done.” Joane countered. “Not with the way he and y/n square off like old alley cats.”

“He’ll be here in five. Come on lady wolves… Claws up, plugs in.” Jim pointed as he sat back down on the studio sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Wilda shot into a speech, begging you over and over to keep it cool. The sooner you started, the better. She was right, and you wanted nothing more than to get this record finished. So with a nod, you accepted your fate.

Brian strolled in the studio right on time. His eyes looked desperate for sleep, and his already wild mane seemed even more unkempt. His small smile Jim’s way made you want to reach past the wall Brian put up, and shake his shoulders, and tell him it was okay to be actually happy once in a while.

Maybe it was the time that had passed since the tour. Maybe Brian forgot that he’d cared so little for you, and that’s why his faint grin lingered when his eyes met yours, past the glass of the recording booth. You willed your own weak smile his way, weary of this new civility, but just as tempted to take it in stride.

“Hello, ladies. Let’s see what you’re working with so far, shall we?” Brian leaned in and spoke just to you, it seemed. Maybe it was because you were closest, front and centre before the guy in a little glass box.

You’d felt more vulnerable than ever, under his forest coloured gaze. There was no place to run off and hide. You were right in Brian’s line of sight, right under his thumb, as he pressed a button stopped your band from playing to suggest a few dozen changes.

You knew he was here to help. And Jim looked so hopeful, tapping his foot to the beat in the corner of the room. So even though your throat was going dry as Brian settled his eyes on your bass- you played on. When he stopped you again, your blood began to boil.

“Please tell me you plan on adding a keyboard? A harmonica, something else?” Brian grimaced.

“We only play on the record what we can play on stage as a three-piece.” Joane raised a drumstick to make a point.

“Yeah well, it’s sure sounding that way.” The older and wiser musicians voice crackled through the speaker.

“Fuck you, that sounded good!” You hissed into the mic, wielding your bass like a weapon. That might'a been the best take you’d done all day.

“Yeah, but it didn’t sound great. If I turned my car radio on to that I’d fall asleep at the wheel. Joane, try using your snare on the bridge, instead of the cymbals. Y/n… from the top.” Brian sighed, sitting back in his chair like an exhausted parent.

You sighed too, adjusting your headphones and tossing Wilda a glare, a sign that you couldn’t keep your cool much longer.

You tried harder. But Brian kept stopping you. And every time he did, you couldn’t be stopped from cursing him just a little. If he’d only give you just one chance to find your rhythm, you might’ve made a whole record by now. When you told him as much, he let you play on for almost half a song before he’d stopped you again. When he did, you nearly exploded. But Joane snapped first. She got up from her kit, chucked her headphones, and stormed away. You slung your bass away to follow after her, but Wilda was quicker and raced out of the back to chase Joane down.

That left you with time enough to break out of the glass box and give Brian a few choice words.

“Way to fucking go, drill sergeant.” You gestured toward the guy who was slow to rise from his place before the soundboard.

“It’s not my fault she decided to-”

“Yeah, it is. Thanks for showing up and doing fuck all.”

“I came here to help you, and I could do if you’d stop acting like a damn child.” He pointed a finger your way, and the fire in his gaze sent a chill down your spine for the first time ever. You weren’t afraid of him. You were only stunned by the way he spoke to you. The way he always had. Why did Brian bother showing up here tonight?

“We might be able to take some of your suggestions if you stopped stopping us! Why don’t you just stick to pissing your own band off? You do it so well.”

You’d heard him trade sharper words with Queen. Roger told you that Brian was just working through some things. John said he’d always been like this. You just couldn’t understand why you got the worst of it.

“Well, it’s clear you’ve got more than enough hell to give your own group. You might sound less like the second place winners of your primary school’s talent show if you learned to stop making so many executive decisions.”

“I have a suggestion for you.” You decided, “Why don’t you take all your bleeding suggestions and fu-”

“Yeah, alright, let’s all take a break.” Jim intervened as you let out an exhausted sigh that doubled as a frustrated cry. The manager waved Brian over and the two men started to share a word as you stormed out of the back from fresh air and a clearer mind.

“He’s right you know. We sound like a washed-up wedding band.” Wilda shouted your way as she stayed leaning back against the hood of her car with a cigarette in hand.

“Where is Joane?” You asked, already knowing the answer. Wilda glanced at the empty parking spot where your drummer’s new mustang was earlier today. Great. Just what you needed.

“Right. Let’s forget everything, and finish. We’ll just… get it done.”

And so that’s what you did. Brian was gone when you ventured back in, and his absence left a familiar little ache in your heart. You didn’t like shouting at each other like cross siblings. You’d wanted to be his friend more than anything, at the start of all of this. The stars that might have aligned for that chance were all askew by now.

Jim left you and Wilda to go fetch some takeaway. Then he sat around the small table in the studio and shared dinner and some words of wisdom with the two of you. You thanked your manager for being so kind, and forgiving of your antics thus far. He chuckled and said something about having witnessed and dealt with much worse. Jim stayed a while longer, while you and Wilda worked together, and it was you who had to encourage the guy to go home and get some rest.

He entrusted the key to the place to you and your bandmate and left you to finish up for the evening. And you did, eventually. You and the eager guitarist listened back to the tapes and added in riffs and fills, and even a few of Brian’s suggestions; until well past midnight. But right on time for the label.

You could sleep soundly knowing you’d finished when you were meant to. But your dreams were full of worry that the record still wasn’t good enough.

///

“You did what?” Joane shrieked in the hall of your flat.

“We had to finish, Joane. You never came back, what else were supposed to do?” You yelled back, worry saturating your tone. It was far too early to be having this fight.

“You were supposed to wait for me!” Joane shouted, looking to you with big sad eyes. You rushed to remind her that you were out of time, and she could have shown back up and helped you finish, but she didn’t. And in her typical fashion, the drummer spun on her heels and stormed away, fringe flying far behind her shoulders as she shouted something about never coming back.

The girl had been known to fly off the handle on occasion. There was the time she drove your van away from a sketchy Welsh pub you travelled miles to play in, because Wilda called the drummers shoes ugly. Or the time she nearly chucked her cymbals from your third story flat window. You prayed that this episode was like the others you’d endured as you shut your door and rushed to get ready. It was time to take your record to the head office.

No one was particularly happy to find your three-piece only consisted of two when you showed up with Wilda to present your latest creation. Jim flashed a couple of smiles as the tracks played on, but all you noticed were Wilda’s shrugs. The record was done. But under unexpectedly trying circumstances and lacking a lot of help from your drummer. It wasn’t what you’d envisioned. The label still decided it was good enough, and sent you to fill a couple of talk show slots before the week was up.

You went with your guitarist to a couple of press junkets, and watched as your dazzling friend gave away answers she’d been practising since before you’d played your first gig. The only thing that made her umber eyes glow brighter was the sight of Roger Taylor waiting up after a certain interview. He invited her back to wherever it was he’d run off to, and Wilda had the decency to look toward you with a furrowed brow.

With a sigh, you agreed to handle the rest of the press on your own. Because she deserved to have the fun she’d been wishing for with the capricious drummer.

Four talk shows, three guest appearances, and one very hectic game show later, it was time for your record release. Roger phoned to assure he’d bring Wilda back in the nick of time. But Joane wasn’t answering her phone. You’d hoped after a bit of space that your drummer would come back around. But she wasn’t any place you’d gone to look. You spent until the witching hour driving to the places you knew she might have been and came up short.

When the time came to get ready for the party, half of your time getting ready was spent trying to hide the dark circles under your eyes. Before you left home, you took a couple of shots and prayed tonight wouldn’t crash and burn around you.

///

The mansion belonged to the head of the company, a place he’d invite people to when celebrations were too grandiose to fit in EMI’s loft. You wondered if you were the last to arrive when you opened the massive carved doors to find the stunning home littered with faces most of whom you didn’t recognize. One you did finally emerged from the crowd.

“Thank God you made it, I feared I’d have to put on a show instead.” Freddie chuckled, greeting you with glee. You ruffled the boa around his neck, thanked him for showing up, and wondered where you could find the drinks.

“I’ll take you round back dear, but you’d better hurry. The old important men are tired of waiting.” You could have explained how you’d waited up in hopes that Jonae would phone. And how when the phone did ring, it was Wilda worrying that she’d missed the only flight back home. But you only gave Freddie a sorry smile and spun into the garden. There was a bar in the veranda, where a handsome man made a show of mixing you a drink, making little passes along the way.

The time you thought you were stalling by answering all of the dude’s dumb questions was very soon interrupted. All of a sudden a towering guitarist was casting a shadow over you, and swiftly excusing the man behind the minibar.

“It’s about bloody time you showed up.” Brian rang in a mockingly sweet timbre. And as your stomach fluttered with nerves, you knew time was up. But how could you release a record without the rest of your band?

When you started to argue as much, Brian clamped his fingers around your arm like a vice and yanked you away from the bar and the drink you didn’t even get to try.

“Saving the day again, are you?” You rang dryly, as he towed you away. Brian’s face was set in its usual frown, one you’d become so familiar with that his smile on magazine covers made you look twice. He said nothing as he marched you out of the yard and into the mansion. You figured he’d part ways from you once you passed through the doors, but his grip didn’t loosen on the way down the empty marble hallway.

“Let me go.” You struggled, huffing out the words as you fought his grip and won. Before you had time to storm away, Brian spun to face you.

“Would you grow the fuck up? There is a room full of people depending on you and you’re acting like a fucking child, like always.”

“I’m not a child.” You hissed, curled your fists and glared up at Brian as he loomed over you. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His feet and fiery eye’s pointed to back you into the corner. But you wouldn’t let him get to you. “I’m trying my best it’s just not fucking good enough.”

A bit of a waver passed through your tone, as you targeted the words through your teeth. You watched Brian bend at the knee to look right in your eye, and pretended not to hold your breath.

“No, you aren’t.” Brian pointed a finger right at you and spoke in a low, unnerving rumble. “I’ve seen you at your best and I can guarantee you’re far from it, tonight.” He snarled, glaring you up and down with those dangerous hazel eyes. They raked over the span of your figure before landing on yours once more. “You look a bloody mess.”

“Because I’ve been running around till two in the damn morning, trying to find Joane! And when I couldn’t, I had to finish everything all on my own again. Because Roger took Wilda away and bought her nice pretty shoes and put her in good graces with all the higher-ups, and unlike her, I have to earn that shit myself.” You yelled, the dam holding back your bottled up emotion had crumbled in the overflow. You could feel the threat of tears stinging the backs of your eyes as Brian stood gaping at you in your outburst.

“So now I’ve lost my voice from all the interviews and the lack of sleep and I probably won’t be able to sing on tour to promote this shite album with a single you’ll switch off when it comes on the radio, anyway!”

And before you’d even stopped shouting, it seemed, Brian had his hands on either side of your face, and his lips pressed to yours. Your back was pushed to the wall and it took great effort not to melt down it with the way you were consumed by an all new kind of fire; mixed among the usual. But above it all, you were too shocked to kiss him back. Then you parted from each other, and past his unbuttoned top you watched the rise and fall of Brian’s chest while he caught his breath and stared at you.

“What the bloody hell was that?” You asked in a stunned hush. Brian blinked and shook his curls.

“I’m, I- I don’t- I didn’t mean-”

“You think you can just kiss me and, I don’t know, that everything is just magically going to be okay?” You wondered in a fluster, knowing there was nothing that could be done about the blush burning your cheeks. After months of frowning every time the two of you passed each other he kisses you?

“No. No I- I’ve always wanted to kiss you and I just thought I knew better than to do it.” Brian held up a hand like he was swearing not to come closer. Talk about some seriously mixed messages.

“What?” You asked in an embarrassingly high squeak.

“I wanted to kiss you before I even knew your name. And it just seemed like the entirely wrong thing to do. So I shut you out, and my ire kept getting the better of me, and that’s not an excuse, just the truth,” Brian sighed, at what seemed like a sudden loss for words as his eyes searched yours.

“Well, you’ve gone and done it now.” You pointed out with the faintest laugh despite everything. Brian shook his head, asking, in a way, to understand what you were on about.

So you shook your head too, and latched onto his loose collar. You yanked Brian closer because you weren’t angry. You were actually feeling fine all of a sudden about everything. Only sure that you had to kiss him again good and proper. It was your first kiss with him, really, as your mouths moved together. Brian’s fingers were wrapped around your arm again, less claw-like than moments ago. And he didn’t seem too keen to break away from pushing you a little closer to the wall, a second time around.

But just as you lost yourself to the feeling of Brian’s frame moulded against your own, your name was hollered from somewhere down the hall. Music grew louder over the speakers that reached out to the sparsely decorated hall. Brian let you go, and you released your latch on his shirt to wipe your lips in a hurry.

But before you could scurry away, you watched Brian watch you prepare to bolt, and couldn’t help the small smile blooming across your face. He smiled, too.

You looked a mess. You were a mess. And you might’ve been one step away from fucking this whole thing up. But for the first time all year, you accepted it.

///

Your second record, somehow, was praised by the label and adored by the steadily growing following you’d gained. The old burnt out hippie man who ran your home town record store stood from his torn leather stool and applauded you, the day you came in to buy the Talking Heads new record.

“You’re really finding your sound, man.” The old hippie grinned. You told him to sit back down and thanked him despite your embarrassment. He asked you to autograph the cash box and gave you a discount on the album you bought.

After your single reached the top five in the charts, you talked Joane back around. It wasn’t easy. You had to promise you’d keep a cooler head, and she did too. She started stopping over every Sunday with a book of songs for you to think up a tune to, and turned the radio up every time one of your hits came on air. You laughed when she danced around your coffee table like it was the first time she was hearing your band name on the lips of a local dj.

Wilda cut all her hair off and wore the shoes Roger bought her everywhere. She talked about him after every breath, but you knew she hadn’t talked to him in months. Queen were busy planning a tour of Europe and trying to save the families that hadn’t already slipped through the cracks at the homes they bought but hardly visited.

You knew because you called Freddie to ask after Brian.

“Why are you asking about Brian?” You could hear the smile in Freddie’s voice, after he’d finished gabbing about the others.

“I want to know how all you boys are, naturally.” You panicked, realizing how lame your excuse was as you spoke it into the receiver. Freddie only hummed after a beat, and let another silence linger before speaking up again.

“I know you both secretly care for each other. Just give him time love, he’ll come around.” Freddie chirped before giving you a sweet farewell and hanging up.

Throughout your ever-changing year, Freddie had been more than kind to you. He’d become your friend. He gave away secrets like a kid at a slumber party. And when Brian came up in his conversation, Freddie always got serious. When the singer told you about the rough year Brian had been through, and the state of his well being, Freddie seemed to look at you with all of the seriousness in the world. Like he was desperate for you to understand. Did he know you were desperate to understand? Did he know Brian kissed you?

You could have phoned Brian. But you were too busy secretly hoping he’d ring you.

///

Your only notable call came from Jim, who gently nudged you to agree to being Queen’s opening act, once again.

“It’s what the fans want, according to the label. It’s what the label wants.” Jim explained, in the soft, kind, way that protected the guy from ever receiving a glare or harsh word from you, or Brian, you realized.

“We’ll do it, if the royal court isn’t up in arms.”

“Freddie said, and I quote, 'Beg her on my behalf and tell her I’ll fly home from Barcelona to do it myself if she even thinks of saying no.’”

So you called your band, packed a bag and showed up to the airport at five in the bloody morning with a smile on your face.

And then you were off. For the first week, a local band had been chosen from each new city, to open for Loba. By the time you, Wilda, and Joane took the stage, each audience of what seemed like billions were more electric than the last. You’d never had more fun, jumping around to the music you’d worked your ass off to create with the girls. You each ran off stage, changed in a flurry and ran back to the sidelines to watch Queen light up the black ink night. And like the last time, that was about the only time you’d see much of them- till one show got delayed when a wicked storm showed no signs of passing.

Roger took Wilda to dinner, and she followed his burning trail after about a minute of pretending she wasn’t at all interested. Joane made a speech about everyone catching up one sleep, before she crashed in your bed with her shoes still on. After unlacing her heavy boots and tossing them aside, you went to find your favourite band of boys gathering in the lobby with plans to go out.

“Now the party can really start.” Crystal grinned, reaching to wrap a strong arm around your neck as he pulled you to follow the gang to the limo in waiting. You broke loose of the roadies hold and shoved him into the back of the car before crouching in yourself.

A couple of girls you’d never met sat on either side of Freddie, and cast their doe eyes to John who scooted over to make room for you. And holding the bassist’s attention was Brian, who had yet to look your way all week. Ah, just like old times. You both had been busy. But you couldn’t stop from wondering if there was something more to it…

Had you upset Brian beyond your wildest dreams, when you kissed? Did he smile at you after it happened in the way people who were so angry did, that their furry appeared in a mask of calm?

Or… did you finally get him to shut up for good? Did he realize how unremarkable you were? That you weren’t even good enough to bicker with any longer? Pushing his buttons was one thing. But you always hated the times you and Brian paired harsh words with those deadly glares. Now that you were getting the silent treatment though, you’d take his arguing with you with a relieved smile.

Freddie pulled you along into a club adorned in sickening green uplighting. The purple-tinted insides held a crowded bar and a dance floor where patrons overflowed toward the restrooms. Some tune by The Velvet Underground was pulsing through the speakers as Freddie spun you around, dancing you both closer to the mass of people doing the same.

You noticed members of your group beginning to lose themselves in the crowd when you decided a drink was in order. The bar was packed, so much so that you nearly couldn’t turn to see who you’d wedged yourself against until you felt him tense up.

Brian kept his eyes on the wall decorated with drink options and dared not move as you shifted to notice him. His hip jabbed into your side, his white knuckles rested on the ledge of the bar brushed against your arm as he drew his hands together.

“Aren’t we going to talk about it?” You asked all of a sudden. If it were up to you, you would have cornered Brian like he’d cornered you, that night. But the tour had been so busy, and this was the closest you’d been since the night he pushed you against the wall… And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Still, Brian kept his eyes pointed front and said nothing.

“You kissed me first, ya know?” You spoke plainly, desperate for a response.

The barman shoved a tall drink toward Brian’s chest just then, at the same time Freddie reached past a few strangers to yank his guitarist toward the dance floor. As he was pulled away, Brian’s eyes swept over yours, and they were prettier than ever.

///

You’d nearly forgotten all your troubles that weekend, as everyone rushed to make up the cancelled show with two in a row, and one another city away with no time to sleep, not really.

After a montage of screaming crowds, ringing guitars, and squirming in and out of too-tight clothes, a three day break awaited the lot of you at long last. You trekked behind familiar faces down a lime green hotel hall, and dreamed of sleeping until you were good and ready to wake up.

Freddie waved as he twirled into his room, and Roger followed Wilda all the way down the hall. And while you watched your feet move toward your room number a few dozen doors away, you were stopped in your tracks.

You grinned when you recognized the feeling of the fingers around your arm, and the way Brian dragged you in his tow. You didn’t have far to go, just behind the door he was already closing in one swift move…

And in a flash, the door was shut and he was kissing you like how he did before, without a word, all of a sudden. Like he was trying to suck the life out of you. You kissed him right back, like you’d been dreaming of doing since you knew how nice it was.

And then you shoved him away. Because you wanted this, but not like last time.

“You’re not going to leave me in the quiet after tonight are you? I might at least be able to stand the radio silence if I knew what it was all about.” You searched Brian’s face in the dark. All the while, you kept ahold of his shirt sleeves and slowly found your way to his haphazardly made hotel bed.

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” You couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d treated you with all the interest of a passive-aggressive house cat since the day you met. Brian went quiet as you guided him to sit on the mattress, leary to close the space between you until he spoke up again. Though his long fingers fell feather-light against your hips, you only kept yours on his shoulders and held his gaze, silently hoping he’d speak up again.

“Of how desperately I’ve always wanted you.” He whispered while his fingers curled to grip you the slightest bit closer. “There were about one thousand reasons I was afraid of ever kissing you, and they all seemed even scarier after I did.”

Brian let his eyes rake up your figure before meeting your own. His lips were close enough to brush yours now. It made such sense, now. All those looks weren’t really glares. All those bitter words weren’t so malice. The tension that lied between you and Brian was all to do with how badly you’d wanted to be this close all along.

Maybe he was afraid to cross that line, because of all the love he’d so recently lost. Or maybe it was because of how young and dumb you really were. And maybe it was because of something you wouldn’t come to find out for a while, yet. You decided there wasn’t time to worry over why, tonight. That could come later.

“I hope you realise now, there’s nothing to fear.” You wrapped a hand around Brian’s neck and watched his eyes search yours in the dark. Then he nodded, softly bumping his head against yours. He pulled you closer between his legs and kissed you. You pushed him to lay down and started on your mission to show Brian just how fond of him you really were.

“I’m still pissed that we could have been doing this ages ago.” You breathed a laugh as Brian’s teeth grazed your neck.

“Never could handle not getting your way, could you?” He hummed against the skin you’d started to expose.

“I mean it.” You chuckled, tugging at a few of Brian’s highlighted curls. His head lulled until he was looking at you again. Brian stayed perfectly fitted against you while his eyes peered into yours. You recognized the uncertain look on his face, but it was different than before. Softer. Sadder, maybe.

“You really want this?” He asked in a soft timbre.

“Yes.” You nodded, tracing the length of his nose just because. A bit of quiet lingered after your assurance.

“But do you want me?” Brian asked in a hush. His sweet voice saturated in a worry you didn’t realize he had.

“Yeah,” You nodded again, searching his pretty hazel eyes as you placed both of your hands on the sides of his lovely face. “I want you Bri.”

The kiss you shared then was one that meant more than you knew a kiss could. There was something about Brian, a part of him you’d always longed to know. You felt closer than ever to that side of the guitarist now, when he deepened the kiss, and you felt him smile.

///

You woke up with a song in your head. A melody left over from a dream. But instead of rushing to find a pen and paper, you rolled over to covet the warmth of your unexpected company.

Brian draped an arm across your middle and hummed in delight when you nuzzled closer. You stayed like that, perfectly content in the tangled up sheets, watching the patterns of the sun through the window on their slow shift across the room.

“We’re going to have to leave this bed at some point you know?” You sat up a little after dozing off for the third time in a row. Brian stayed happily tucked close to your side. “And someone is more than likely going to figure this out.”

“That’s fine by me.” Brian shrugged, peering up to you from the pillows you leaned against.

“We’re supposed to hate each other.” You reminded through a sleepy chuckle. Brian only grinned and blinked, conjuring up a thought.

“I never hated you. I might always be sorry for picking such fights. I did always want the best for you, I just had a nasty way saying so.” Brian murmured thoughtfully.

He caught your eye once more and the corners of his mouth turned up when he looked to find you were already staring at him, trying to memorize the perfect outline of his profile against the bright sunlight. You inched lower to meet his gaze, and said,

“I think we might’ve finally figured out what’s best for both of us.”

And the way Brian looked at you then sent a chill down your spine that raced back up and shot through your heart in one go.

“S'Just, sometimes you’re a real bitch.” You joked to fight the way your heart was beginning to beat like a drum. Because you weren’t quite brave enough to fall all the way in love yet. But you decided just as quickly that Brian was probably worth falling for.

“I know. And sometimes you’re fucking unbearable.” He countered with a smirk.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You noted with a laugh. You had it real bad for this guy. And that kind of scared the shit out of you. How could this have happened so quickly? How had you failed to see it coming? What if it was over no sooner than it began?

“But…” The only thing that broke through your hesitancy was Brian’s long fingers slowly trailing across your jaw. "Do you want me?“ You echoed his statement from the night before, in a hush. You’d only just realized the depth in asking so.

"Yeah.” Brian said, wrapping a lean arm snug around your middle without a moment’s hesitation. “I want you.”

And he said so like he was trying to encapsulate all the things that made you whole and wonderful and unbearable all at once. And even then, you giggled before leaning in for a kiss.

You spent the rest of what was left of that morning doing all the things you’d done the night before. And when you decided to finally get dressed, you and Brian hopped into your clothes while squabbling over what and when to tell your friends.

You hoped you’d get to hear his maddening whinging on for the rest of forever. Because if it ever became too much, at least you’d finally discovered some pretty effective ways to shut each other up.

∘��✧──────✧₊��

#Brian May #brian may x reader #brian may fanfiction #brian may imagine

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tooweirdforyou · 3 years

Note

Omg syd your zoro nosebleed Drabble was so cuuuute!!! Imagine if Sanji walked out and caught y’all too ahahaha cause he’d know EXACTLY what would be running through zoros head and be cheeky but also jelly and I love it 😈

Anyway, hope you’re enjoying your vacay!!! Drink plenty of water, humidity is dehydrating af!

Thank you so much!!! <33 haha, yes, I could’ve included a bonus part for Sanji’s reaction :0

thank you! I’ve got Starbucks, McDonald’s coffee and bubble tea to help on this trip! I’ve been to Miami, Orlando and currently in Atlanta rn!

also can I just express the amount of cute guys I’ve been running into? This Viet restaurant my family went to today was filled with male workers who by the way, don’t mean to objectify or judge appearances or anything, are attractive as fuck.

Anyways, hope you are doing great today, tonight! <3

#tooweirdforyou #fly-chicken

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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

Text

the three of us (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: the three of us Rating: PG-13 Length: Warnings: discussions of pregnancy planning, angst, heartache Notes: this chapter made my heart hurt. Set in 1996. You can find the Maybe Today, Maybe Forever Timeline here. Summary: Javier and Reader have not had the success they hoped for.

Taglist: @grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito @rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow@hiscyarika @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501@fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut @just-add-butter @snivellusim

Maybe Josie had been a fluke.

Your doctor had given you a full bill of health — both times you visited the doctor. There was no reason for why nothing had taken hold. Five months. Four negative tests. Four periods. Even Javier had visited the doctor, just to make sure his swimmers were in working order. They were. Everything was right and yet…

You swallowed thickly as you pushed the bathroom door open, eyes lowered to the floor as you shook your head. Another unsuccessful month had slipped by.

“C’mere.” Javier murmured, holding his hand out and gesturing for you to join him at the foot of the bed. “It’ll happen.” He reassured you.

“Yeah.” You almost wished you hadn’t decided you were ready to try. To actually plan on having another kid.

Javier curled his arm around your waist, drawing you into his side. “It’s okay baby.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I just thought that this time…” You shifted, laying back on the bed and bringing him down with you. You stared up at the ceiling, brows furrowed. “I was two days late and I was certain.”

“I know.” He slid his arm out from under you, rolling onto his side. You could feel his eyes on your face, “Hey.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes. “Hmm?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s neither of our faults.” You said a little quickly. You were both healthy, but you were the one that wasn’t pregnant. You had been so certain this time around. For a fleeting few days you had felt different. Maybe you had been, maybe it ended before it even began.

“We’ll just keep trying.” Javier draped his arm over your middle, giving your waist a reassuring squeeze. “If you want to.”

“I do.” You sighed heavily. “I just didn’t realize how hard it was going to be.” Your eyes drifted back up to the ceiling. Josie had been easy — one night was all it took to give life to a beautiful baby girl. Sure, it had been sheer hell, but she had been easy.

This time, you were actually trying and nothing was working.

“I’ll go back over the calendars the doctor gave us. Maybe we’re off by a day.” You scrubbed your hands over your face, before you looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Baby, you haven’t got a damn thing to apologize for.” He cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the rise of your cheekbone. “And as much as it pains me to leave you right now…”

“Get to work, Professor.” You teased, trying to put on the emotions you would rather be feeling. You were depressed. But you didn’t want to ruin his first day back in the job force.

“I am just a teacher.” Javier countered, “And it’s just orientation.”

You curled your fingers around his tie, pulling him in closer so you could kiss him. “But Professor sounds sexy.”

Javier bumped his nose against yours. “I love you.” He whispered, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “Are you going in today?”

You pursed your lips thoughtfully. “Probably. It would be a nice distraction.” You forced yourself to smile. You needed the distraction, otherwise you’d spend the day in sweatpants with a bottle of wine trying to forget your inadequacies.

“I’ll pick up dinner on the way home so you won’t have to worry.” Javier told you as he pulled back, straightening his tie. “Pizza?”

“Sounds nice.” You nodded, peeling yourself off the bed. “Good luck today, Javi.”

“Thanks baby.” He murmured and you could feel his eyes on you as you moved around the bed room to get ready for work. You knew he was hurting too — maybe not the same way as you were. But he wanted this baby as badly as you did. Each month that slipped by killed you. At one point in your life you had prayed for a negative test, but now it was all you saw.

——

Your 1 PM meeting took you by surprise. Not the meeting itself; but the person leaving the meeting ahead of yours.

“Lance Collier.” You remarked, stopping dead in your tracks. “What are you doing here.”

He held his hand out to shake yours, “Working with the local law enforcement on a case. How the hell have you been?”

“I actually have a meeting.” You glanced at your wristwatch. “It’ll be about forty five minutes.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Great.” Lance nodded. “Hope they don’t bore you to death.”

“Chances are slim.” You quipped, before you headed into the conference room. He certainly was a welcome distraction from the thoughts weighing on your mind. And one of the last people you expected to see from your time in Colombia. Second maybe only to Chris.

——

It was surreal to have Lance Collier standing in your little office with an obscured view of Dodge Island. The last time you had seen him was the night you broke up with him and promised to call him in a week or two. You hadn’t.

“Niece?” Lance questioned, nodding to a picture of Josie you had framed on your desk.

“Daughter.”

His brows shot upwards, “Wow. When did that happen?” You couldn’t exactly blame him for being surprised. He’d actually mentioned having kids with you when you dated and you had been pretty against the idea. You had a whole career you were building.

“She was born in ‘93.”

“And who’s the lucky father?”

You arched a brow, “Would you believe me if I told you I’m with Javier.” You turned one of the pictures on your desk towards him — a family shot Connie had taken for you in their backyard at Easter. Josie was clutching a stuffed rabbit, nestled in between you and Javier.

Lance’s jaw dropped. “Peña? What the hell did I miss after I left Colombia? I figured you must’ve moved on — you never called.”

You grimaced. “It didn’t feel fair to string you along, Lance. It’s not like I moved on to Javi right after we broke up. Far from it, actually. I just wasn’t—“

“There’s no hard feelings.” Lance cut you off. “I’m getting married next month.”

“Oh, wow! Congratulations.” You smiled at him. ”So what has the CIA poking around here?”

“Clearing up soon loose ends from Medellín. We received intel that La Oficina de Envigado was laundering money out of Miami. Due diligence, really.” He lowered his voice, pointing at Josie’s pictures. “Is she why you’re persona non grata with DEA? I was down at the embassy a year ago and—“ He whistled as he shook his head. “They’re not fond of you.”

You shrugged a shoulder. “Javi and I lied about our relationship for a year. I was already on thin ice for being pregnant and…” You made a face. “Straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Jeeze, I’m sorry.” He gestured around the office. “But check this place out.”

You laughed. “Yeah, who knew Miami had the budget to give consultants offices with windows?”

Lance shook his head, staring at the family picture on your desk. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but… I just can’t picture Peña as a father.”

“He’s amazing.” You told him, your eyes drawn to the picture. “Josie is a complete daddy’s girl.” You glanced back at Lance then, “What do you mean you’re not surprised?”

He gave you a look. “Do you remember the first time you brought me along to drinks with him and Steve?” You nodded. “I realized pretty quickly that night that he was my competition.”

“Really?” Your brows furrowed together. “I just remember him being a dick that night.” Then again, he always got pissy whenever Lance turned up with you.

He was going to lose his shit knowing that Lance was in town.

“I’m glad you’re happy.” Lance told you with a genuine smile. “That’s all I wanted for you.”

“Thank you.” You sank back in your seat, “I mean, look at us. You’re getting married next month and I’ve got a family.”

“With Javier Peña no less.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, “Right? I’m still waiting for the pigs to fly.”

“Any wedding bells in your future?”

“Not our thing.” You shook your head, “But we’re good. He’s started teaching a criminal justice course at the university. I’ve got this.” You gestured to your office. “Life is good. Miami was the right move for us.”

Lance pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. “You deserve it.” He glanced towards your office door, “I should probably get going. I’ve got a deposition to sit in on later.”

“It was good to see you Lance.” You offered with a warm smile, watching him leave. Once upon a time you probably would’ve settled for him. But there was nothing about Lance that made your heart skip a beat — even back then. That would’ve been an easy path. Everything with Javier had been difficult. It still was difficult.

But all that difficulty made the quiet moments worth it. The uphill battle was justified every time Josie roped Javier into wearing a princess crown and attending tea at her make believe restaurant.

You couldn’t imagine a life where you didn’t have both of them. And maybe it was okay that you weren’t having any luck. Maybe it was meant to be just the three of you.

———

“I don’t know why we bother trying to expand her dietary options,” You remarked as you picked a piece of cut up pizza off her abandoned plate as you took it to the trash to throw away. “She’s always going to just want chicken nuggets.”

“In futile hope that she’ll kick her chicken addiction.” Javier remarked from the living room, where he was fastforwarding through the trailers on the VHS he’d rented. Four Weddings and a Funeral seemed like the right kind of movie to unwind to.

You grabbed two beers out of the fridge, gripping them in one hand as you snatched up the pizza box off the counter and headed into the living room to join him. “I wish it were that easy. I think she’s hooked, Javi. Our baby’s a chicken addict.”

Javier looked back at you over his shoulder, a grin spreading over his lips. “Guess there’s worse things she could be hooked on.” He settled down onto the sofa, loosening his tie. “I’ve got a full class. I guess everyone wants to meet the guy who helped bring down Pablo Escobar.” He swept his fingers through his hair, before taking a beer from you.

“They’re going to love you.” You said as you took a swig of beer before sitting it down on the coffee table. “You’ll never guess who I saw today.”

“Who?” His brows drew together.

“Lance.”

Javier huffed, “Really?”

You nodded, leaning back on the sofa. “He’s still chasing down money launders from Escobar’s predecessors.” You explained. “Still a CIA suit.”

Javier gave you a wary look, before he leaned forward to grab a slice of pizza. “That’s good.” He said before taking a bite.

You chewed on the inside of your bottom lip, heart pounding a little quicker as you stared at him. “Are you going to be an asshole about this?”

“No.”

“Our entire conversation basically revolved around you.” You told him, lips drawn into a faint smile. “It was a nice distraction from everything else.”

Javier grabbed the remote and paused the movie. “I’m not going to be an asshole about this, but I just never liked the guy.”

“I know.” You reached out and stroked his cheek, before sliding your fingers into his hair. “He wasn’t surprised that I was with you.”

His jaw rocked tensely before he relaxed under your touch. “What? Did he tell you about the time I pulled him aside and told him he better take care of you?” Javier clicked his tongue against his teeth.

You shook your head and tilted your face to look up at him. “When did you—“

“You had just started seeing him.”

��Well, that explains everything.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest. You could easily picture Javier pulling that shit. He had been in fine form that evening from the second that Lance sat down at the table. It was a miracle it hadn’t run the poor man off then and there. You had a sneaking suspicion that he had said a lot more than just ‘take care of her’. Everything had been so new back then — Colombia, Javier and Steve, your outlook on the future. Maybe things didn’t turn out how you had planned, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Javier gave your shoulder three little squeezes, pulling you in close to his side. “Is he going to be around for awhile?” He questioned as he picked up the remote with his free hand, loosely holding onto it.

“I didn’t ask, but probably not.” You reached out and took the remote out of his hand, sitting it aside. “We should talk about this morning.

He exhaled heavily, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I’d planned for us to talk about everything but that.”

A nervous laugh escaped you as you interlaced your fingers with his. “I know.” You swallowed thickly. “It’s not bad… it’s just—” You squeezed his hand tightly. “I think we should try for another month and then I think it’s time to accept that it’s just the three of us.”

Javier lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to it. “The three of us are perfect, baby.”

“Yeah.” You whispered, sinking into his side feeling defeated. You wished you could make it happen. That tomorrow you’d magically wake up pregnant. The thought of both of you being able to enjoy this from the start seemed like a vain wish now. “Are you excited to start teaching?”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand, “I met a couple of the students this afternoon and they seem keen. We’ll see.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “They even gave me an office with a window.”

“We both ended up with windows,” You mused.

Javier chuckled. “I wanna bring you and Josie by later this week so you can see it.”

“That reminds me.” You squeezed his hand before you got up off the sofa. You headed down the hallway to the bedroom to get the gift you’d wrapped and hidden on your side of the closet. You returned, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you this morning, but…”

Javier took the parcel from you, unwrapping it slowly. “Baby, you shouldn’t have.”

You had taken the negatives of the photos from Colombia and had duplicates made to be framed. Four photos that captured so many memories from that era of your lives. Josie resting on Javier’s chest, both of them fast asleep a few days after you had brought her home; you and Javier kissing, a slightly blurry photo you’d relied on the timer for; Josie’s first bath; and a photo of the three of you when Josie was still so tiny.

“I thought you might like taking us to work with you.” You smiled at him as you settled down onto the sofa beside him.

“Maybe we should stop now.” Javier suggested as he looked up at you. “I hate how much this is stressing you out, baby.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Maybe we can just try to see if it’ll happen naturally.” You still weren’t ready to call it quits. Not entirely.

He nodded his head, staring down at the frame. “We’re good as three, aren’t we?”

“We are.” You leaned into his side. Part of you regretted that you had started this whole endeavor. You had thought it would be easy, free of heartache. But you had been wrong. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was the planning and the stress that was causing it to fail.

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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utterlyinevitable · 4 years

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thanks for the tag @rookie-ramsey ❤ i’m starting a new job next week and am trying very very hard to wrap up all my ongoing series 🤞🏻

Another Night (Trials Universe) Bryce x F!MC (Becca) x Ethan

Becca sulked towards the Diagnostic’s Office, dreading what’s to come. She and Bryce had stumbled into a supply closet for a much needed stress-relieving session. No more than two minutes into their affair, a livid colleague unlocked the door from the outside. Greeted with the sight of Becca pinned against the wall with Bryce’s hands pawing at the sensitive skin below her shirt, and their lips locked. The couple knew who the intruder was just by the deep huffs emanating from the doorway.

And now she was on her way to face her boss after that awkward encounter.

The moment she shut the door Ethan blew up.

The Conference: Bonus POV Ethan x F!MC (Becca)

[i’d post from the finale chapter but rn it’ll be total spoilers lol]

Ethan watched as they spoke and laughed and talked about everything. Their conversation flowing freely and without any effort. Meanwhile Ethan sulked at the bar trying to wrap his head around how one woman in the billions out there could be so irresistible.

How could one woman captivate so many men?

He thought back to Miami. And how the last time they were at a conference they shared a bedroom. Now they shared a suite with ample personal space. How they kissed on the balcony. Was that guy getting his goodnight kiss this time?

Hurricane: Part 7 Ethan x F!MC (Becca)

Ethan and Becca made their way outside in a scurried panic, throwing on their jackets and shoes with swift, trained precision. As if at any moment Jenner could be lost to them for good. Drama, dissatisfaction, lingering inebriation, none of that mattered right now. The two doctor’s banded together with a common goal.

A pattern of different callings bellowed from the back of their throats, rivaling the thumps of rain on the soft ground around them. Their desperate calls reverberating in the eerie scene as they trekked along the area where the green yard meets the shore and the woods.

“Jenner! Here boy!” Ethan bellowed.

“Jenner!” Becca yelled in tandem in the opposite direction.

“Jenner, come here,” Ethan all but ordered into the void.

Becca stopped to catch her breath, putting her hand on her knees to keep her lungs from getting too overwhelmed.

It’s Happening (FATL Universe) Ethan x F!MC (Becca) x M!OC

She walks down the narrow corridor thousands of brides have done before. Every step taking her closer and closer to that red carpeted aisle. The vaulted beams and stained glass. The candles lit. Every little detail set ever so perfectly. Absolutely nothing went wrong.

And wasn’t that wrong?

Where’s the pain and heartbreak, and trials and tribulations she’d come to associate so closely with love?

Everywhere she turned, a crane of her neck, she sought for some hidden tragedy. Whatever - she didn’t know - to come out of the shadows and pull her back in. The life she fought so hard to forget creeping up with every footfall.

But then the double wooden doors opened and Becca could see him at the end of the aisle.

And every worry left her.

Time Bomb: IV. Ethan x F!MC (Becca)

Sienna had reached her limit. The pot full of her anger and boiling grief had pooled over, the lid blown and the raging waters bubbling out of control. Becca watched as her friend huffed and disappeared behind the nurse’s station, leaving her feelings right there in the hallway with the gossiping residents. This wasn’t Sienna. This wasn’t the wonderful, loyal, put-together friend Becca had come to love. This was a grieving woman and more. This was a girl who’s angry at the world. A girl who’s known to have slight depression... On any other day - any time before - Becca would have bounded right over to Sienna, wrapped her in a hug and absorbed all her problems. Here, now, Becca just didn’t have the strength.

Later. We’ll talk later. She assured herself that they’d sit on the couch back home with some tea and talk about everything that happened today.

tagging: @lucy-268 @starrystarrytrouble @terrm9 @choicesficwriterscreations

#wip wednesday #wip #trials and tribulations #the conference #hurricane #fatl universe #time bomb

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desiraypark · 4 years

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Unlikely

Previous Entire Series Content: Fluffier than cotton candy; one sexual reference; food. Word Count: 1,449

Memphis had been a delight. Their best stop so far. They had a mind to stay an extra day, but they needed to stick to a schedule that would have Mae pouring glasses of orange juice again.

They’d found a motel walking distance from Beale Street and walked the long stretch--stopping at vendors and walking into all kinds of establishments--ignoring stares and glares, and having a good ol’ time anyway (because who was going to try anything with the tall twosome that both packed pistols?). Before dinner, they got back to the hotel to get cleaned up. Naked as a jaybird, Mae plopped a shower cap on her head and walked to the bathroom--interrupted by a wolf whistle on her way. She looked over her shoulder and smirked.

“Need some company in there?” Flip asked, lying back on the bed.

“Nope. We’d never eat anything if you follow me in here,” she said, stepping into the bathroom.

“Oh, I would eat something…”

Mae shook her head and closed the bathroom.

Flip took a cat nap while Mae showered, then as he showered, she got ready for dinner. Flip stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and he nearly froze at the sight of Mae. She was leaning in the mirror and applying lipstick. She wore an orange jumpsuit suit that had bell-shaped sleeves and a ruffled collar. The fabric clung to every curve of her body. He walked into the room, grabbed his lotion, and sat at the edge of the bed with it. As Mae dabbed her lipstick, she got a glimpse at his reflection--he was watching her as he rubbed lotion into his arms.

“Like what you see?” she asked flirtatiously. She expected him to smirk, but he smiled. It was a sweet smile. So sweet that his dimples appeared.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Mae smiled back and closed her lipstick tube.

____________________

“Mae, what do you want?” Flip asked. Mae had just shoved a fork full of yams into her mouth.

“Hmm?”

“What do you want your life to look like right now?” he echoed. “I know you wanted to be a chef, but...what else do you want? What kind of chef? What kind of restaurant? What kind of house do you want to live in?”

Mae chewed down her yams and washed them down with some sweet tea. “These are a lot of questions,” she answered with a chuckle. “At this point, Flip. I just want to pay my bills. That’s all.”

“If you didn’t have bills to pay, what would you be doing?”

Mae swirled her fork around in her macaroni and cheese. “You Put It On Me” played on the jukebox.

“Honestly?”

“No, lie to me,” Flip said sarcastically.

She rolled her eyes and he laughed.

“Honestly, Flip…” Mae took a deep breath. “I just want to be laid up in a house, bakin’ pies and cookin’ casseroles and shit.”

Flip chuckled. “So no chef?”

Mae shrugged. “I think my time has passed.”

“Why do you think that?”

She shrugged again. “It’s not my dream anymore.”

“What is your dream?” he asked.

“I told you,” Mae said with a chuckle. “To be laid up in a house, bakin’ pies, and cookin’ casseroles and shit.”

She sat back against the booth. “Like Lucy or Harriet Nelson or somebody like that.”

Flip’s eyebrows raised. “You wanna be a housewife?”

“You say that like you’re disgusted,” Mae laughed.

“No, not at all. You just seem too modern and hip and independent for that kind of thing,” Flip responded.

Mae nodded. “I mean, I can be a modern, hip, and independent housewife.”

Flip laughed and nodded in agreement. “I guess so.”

“I’ve been working since I was a kid, Flip. If I wasn’t runnin’ around after my little brothers, I was goin’ to work with my mama. I started cleaning houses when I was eight.”

“Eight?!”

“Oh, don’t you pretend to be shocked now, Flip,” Mae said, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. She sat up, stuck a fork full of macaroni and cheese into her mouth, and chewed it. “Anyway. Long story short, I’m just tired, I guess.” Flip watched her move her fork through her plate.

“For once, I want to pour my own morning cup of coffee,” she continued. “I don’t want to have to wonder if some strange man is gonna smack me on the ass today or tomorrow. Or ask me if I like cream in my coffee, or if I want a hot dog between my buns or whatever the fuck else you men like to say.”

Mae forced a laugh, and Flip grunted--trapping a chuckle in his chest. But he knew Mae was serious and meant every word. He watched her play with her food, and she finally looked up at him.

“What about you? When are you going to open your landscaping business?”

Flip leaned back in his booth and chuckled to himself. “About that…”

“Uh oh...”

“I’ve been thinking about going to school. Get a degree in business or something.”

“Hmm,” Mae nodded, impressed.

“Might open up a bed and breakfast.” “Oh, that sounds lovely.” “Or a five and dime. Who knows.” Mae giggled.

“I’ve never taken you as the indecisive type, Mr. Zimmerman,” she said.

“Hmph,” he grunted. “I’m usually not.”

“Everything taste alright?” the bubbly waitress asked, practically popping up on them like Jeannie.

“Yes, ma’am,” Flip said. “Yes.”

“Can I ask you something, ma’am?” Flip asked.

“Sure…”

“Where’s the nearest park around here? Or a nice place to go stargazing?”

____________________

“What made you want to do this all of a sudden?” Mae asked.

The waitress had directed them to a park with a small lake. Mae sat on a blanket over the grass, and Flip retrieved another blanket from the Volkswagen. He closed the door, tossed the blanket over his shoulders, and sat down beside Mae. Then, he tossed the other half of the blanket over her shoulder. A flashlight sat at their feet, shining in somewhat in their direction.

He straightened the blanket on Mae’s shoulder, not noticing that the gesture had made her smile. “I wanted to do this in Miami, but I don’t know. I guess I got the sudden urge in the restaurant.”

Crickets, cicadas, and who knows what else chirped around them. They watched ripples form and quietly disappear across the lake. And they looked up at the dark blue sky. A waxing crescent illuminated much of it, along with countless twinkling stars.

“It’s so beautiful,” Mae said to herself.

Flip let his stare linger at the sky, then it fell onto Mae’s profile. She smiled and looked at him, feeling his gaze. He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

“Why did you ask me on this trip, Flip?” Mae asked when they pulled away.

He released air through his nose and looked back up at the sky. “There’s no one else I’d want to be on this trip with.”

“But why me? We’ve only known each other for a few months,” Mae pressed.

“I know.”

She joined him in looking back up at the sky, letting the silence marinate between them for a few seconds.

“Am I correct in assuming that you feel there’s something special between us, but you don’t know what?” Mae asked.

“Half correct.”

Mae looked at him, and he looked at her.

“There’s something special between us, but I know that I want you to be my woman.”

Mae couldn’t stop the burning sensation that flooded her face. “Oh, Flip…” she said, looking down. Flip let a few seconds pass, and she gazed up at the stars again.

“I’ve never believed in love at first sight or any of that,” he said. “But every inch of my flesh...every fiber of my soul is telling me that I belong to you.”

He looked back at Mae. He saw her swallow and start to blink profusely. Then, he chuckled nervously.

“Or maybe I’m just losin’ it and being foolish.”

Mae glanced at him again then looked down at his hand. She reached out, took it in hers, and looked Flip in the eyes.

“You are being foolish,” she said smiling. Flip chuckled, looked down, and shook his head. Mae leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “And I already told you that I’m foolish, too...boyfriend.”

Flip’s dimples reappeared. He slipped his free index finger under Mae’s chin and pressed his lips against hers. They kissed slowly--breathing life into each other. Breathing in a love that others would say is unlikely. But Flip and Mae took math in grade school. They knew that “unlikely” did not mean impossible.

#flip x mae

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somefantasticplace · 4 years

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MISTER AND MISTER

We asked comedians Vic and Bob the same questions in separate rooms. Then we compared their answers…

HERE for pictures.

What are the rules in your relationship? Is there a line that you'd never cross?

Vic: We've never needed to have rules - apart from who makes the tea next. We never speak to each other on the phone unless it's to say, 'I'm not coming in today,' or 'Will you bring some milk in?’ We have completely functional phone calls because we see each other every day. We live about 10 miles away from each other. We're very medieval in that we do all our writing with a pen and paper. Bob tends to hold the pen more and write things down more, but that's entirely down to my idleness. I have to do the drawings because his drawings are indecipherable.

Bob: If we don't want to work, we don't have to and we never make an issue of it. We never phone up and say, 'I'm really sorry, I've got to do this or that.' We just say, 'I'm not working today. See you tomorrow.' We're both quite unassertive, so there's no obvious dominance. It could be [why neither of them is the straight man]. We compromise - it's unspoken. We talk about most stuff, but not sexual things. I don't know why that is. You always imagine that everyone else does. If he's been out with a lass, I'll say 'So how did it go?' I don't really ask anything like, 'Did she have nice tits?'

Tell us a secret about the other.

Vic: He's got an anal dysfunction. Let's just say there's some kind of angle involved. He backfires.

Bob: He collects a percentage of his used condoms in a jar and keeps them. He does! Last time I saw it was in his house. So there you are!

What surprises can we expect in the new BBC TV series of Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased)?

Vic: I think the best bit is a very camp psychedelic episode, set in a big toy shop, with giant puppets and evil mannequins. it's got that late-60s Avengers feel. I fly through the air a lot. I was hurled down a corridor by a flaming man [no need to swear- ed]. No, he was on fire. It's always good working with Tom Baker. When we're together we camp it right up. He even gives me a kiss - it's quite full on and I wasn't expecting it. He was telling me something really close up and he finished off by grabbing hold of my face and going mwwwwwww. I was pretty startled. You don't think, 'Oh, he's a good kisser!' You think, 'What's he doing?'

Bob: There's one bit where we're in a jungle and Derek Jacobi is in a wheelchair with his face peeled off; Dervla Kirwan is on a sex machine (a punishment machine that gives women orgasms continually until they hate it); Emilia Fox is having a fight with a huge lady prison officer; and I'm being beaten up by two huge men. It's a lovely little tableau.

Hopkirk (Vic) is Randall's (Bob's) spectral minder. Who would you choose as your spirit guide?

Vic: Don Johnson from Miami Vice because he'd be suave. Or Michael Knight from Knight Rider. Or Peter Glaze [of Crackrjack]. He was quite short with little round specs and he'd look good if he appeared behind a bush in spectral form.

Bob: it would probably be quite good to have Jim [Vic's real name is Jim Moir]. He'd do anything you asked. I'd get him to spy on people and report back. I think he'd Iove it. I don't suppose he could carry a camcorder, but I'd like to see images from D-grade celebrities’ homes and Jim would be up for doing that. I'd send him to spy on Anthea and Grant. Could it be true that no one watched Anthea's show? I take no pleasure in that. I just couldn't believe her viewing figure was zero. You'd think Grant would have tuned in, though.

Who has the better sense of style?

Vic: Bob has his own particular sense of style, which I admire. He’s a very clean man, but he wears dirty clothes. I admire that because he pulls it off. He sometimes buys unsightly shoes and I'll say, ‘I think we should burn them.' I've burned a lot of clothing and taken photographs of it. I took a photograph of a pair of old woman's shoes on fire beneath a standing stone with a pool around the bottom. I had eight copies printed; I'm going to frame them and offer them out at Christmas.

Bob: I have no sense of style and I get a lot of abuse for it. But I'm beginning to think that I'm the more stylish man because I have no style. I don't buy anything. This is all bought for me by my girlfriend [points to his chunky sweater and scuffed jeans]. I hate male perfumes, male jewellers. I hate walking into a room and the first thing people see is your suit.

Vic/Jim has said: 'People can't seem to understand that Vic is just a character I play.' Are they two different people?

Vic: It just goes back to the fact that not many people can pronounce Moir [rhymes with lawyer]. I changed my name because I was only going to do one night - and I thought it was right for that night. 'Vic' is when I'm on TV.

Bob: I think Vic and Jim are one and the same.

Who would you least like to be chained to a radiator with?

Vic: Terry Waite. Or Donald Duck. I don't like the way he looks, I don't like the way he speaks. His attitude is all wrong. And his nephews! If they were chained as well I'd slit my throat. Eat them? I'm not sure anyone's ever eaten a cartoon yet.

Bob: Bubble from Big Brother. I'd probably irritate him - it wouldn't be a good mix. I think Vic would pick Bigfoot out of Bigfoot And 7he Hendersons - that big hairy thing.

You wake up one day to discover you are women. What kind of women would you be?

Vic: Probably much the same as the men that we are. Vaguely interesting. I don't think we'd be smart. Eclectic. I'd be wearing Victorian clothing, a high-necked, long, black dress, looking like a widow. Or Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. Dusty and dowdy.

Bob: I'd be the same as I am. I’d be a mummy. I’d be like Nigella Lawson, but anonymous. Jim, he would be like Ulrika.

Complete the following: I’d die if I ever had to… again.

Vic: …live.

Bob: I couldn’t face doing the conveyancing on a house again. I used to do that in another life.

How do you make your kids laugh?

Vic: Stupid walks, fart jokes – they always win. I can’t fart to order, but I can belch to order. Words always make kids laugh. You’ve got to get on their level and sing things like, ‘There’s a woman on a bike, wike, thike, nike, fike, like.’ They love it.

Bob: Repeating a non-word such as ‘uballah’ over and over, very loudly – that seems to get them going. Or walking like a monkey.

What would you never, ever lend the other?

Vic: My car [a Jaguar], as he’s always crashing cars. The interior of his car [a Lexus] is like a council tip. When we were filming, we had a boot sale and put everything from his car on a trestle table. There was cat litter, one shoe, a bra, plants, food, jam – everything you could possibly imagine - stashed away. He doesn't have his cars long. I'd say it takes him about an hour and a half to fill one and perhaps two hours to wreck it.

Bob: My dog and my cats. He'd be useless. He'd probably feed them the wrong stuff.

How do you know when he's down and how do you help him snap out of it?

Vic: I ring up Middlesbrough Football Club and tell them to pull their finger out. He doesn't know I do this. He gets into a terrible depression if they aren't doing very well, but that's the only time he does get depressed. He always cheers me up with his cheeky grin.

Bob: I don't bother, he's always down, so there's no worries.

Who has the better body?

Vic: My body is turning into what it was like as a young boy - there's nothing there really. Bob's is very manly - a big hairy chest, broad and brawny. I'm in pretty good shape. I do a lot of walking. But Bob's in better shape than he's ever been. He has this secretive world where he does a lot of digging. He moves gravel around and stuff like that.

Bob: We fluctuate. You'll see photo of him sixth months before and he'll be as trim as a tuppence. But at this moment in time, I might be able to top him. One thing Jim does is put weight on his face. If he's had a Christmas where he's scoffed and drank for a week, it all goes on his face.

If you could send the other on a course, what would it be?

Vic: Fly-fishing. I think he's got a secret wish to be a fisherman. We've been fishing about twice in 10 years. I think it's something he'd be into. I think he'd also benefit from learning how to draw. I would imagine his children can draw better than him.

Bob: An assertiveness training weekend. He came into work yesterday and said, 'The builders are after me for money.' I said, 'Have they done owt?' He says, 'Not that I can see.' So I said, 'It's very difficult, Jim, but when they phone up, if they haven't done the kitchen, the dining room and the bedroom, at least say, "Could you have the kitchen finished by five?" before you give them the cash.' He says 'Yeah, I'll try and get something out of them.' So he phones the builder and says, 'So you want some money? I'll put the cheque in the kitchen drawer.' He couldn't do it!

You’re in a room full of smart, beautiful women. Who do they gravitate towards?

Vic: Neither of us, I'm convinced. They'd probably turn their backs us. Maybe they'd gather around Bob first because they'd want to mother him and I think that's the first urge of a group of beautiful women in a room.

Bob. Jim. He's sassy. He's a single man and there's an air about him. You wouldn't notice me walking into a room.

Could you order for each other in restaurant?

Vic: Definitely. He'd have what you consider old person's food - tongue, potatoes and cabbage, and a steamed pudding with custard, with tea or a lager. If he chose for me, he'd go for something more obscure. If there was something odd on the menu, I'd try it.

Bob: Jim always has the most bizarre thing on the menu. He likes to try things. He'd order me potatoes.

If you were invisible for a day, where would you hang out?

Vic: Can I breathe underwater or be ethereal? I'd float over the capital and blow down chimneys and through windows at quite high speed. I wouldn't be that interested in spying on anyone. I might like to creep into a tiger's cage or maybe get inside an apple. I wouldn't find anything interesting in being a peeping Tom. I'd rather spy on a cat than a person.

Bob: I'm tempted to say at Grant and Anthea's again, but the truth, of course, is that I'd hang around wherever in 24 hours you'd see the most nude women.

How far would you go for friendship? Would you: a) lend him your underpants; b) give him your kidney; c) help him on the toilet?

Vic: a) I wouldn't want to wear his underpants. Have you seen the state of them? b) I'd give him my kidney, depending on how many I had spare on my plate. He'd enjoy it. c) I would help him on the toilet, yes, if I had to.

Bob: a) Yes, I'm sure I would. b) Can you survive with only one? I'd think about it. c) Yes, definitely.

What is the other's most irritating habit?

Vic: He would probably say blowing his nose on his clothing. But he quite often leaves some marmalade or something on the front seat of his car, so, when you get in, you really need to put a towel down first.

Bob: Not buying drinks.

What's the most endearing thing he's ever done?

Vic: Just being him really. He always makes me laugh. We're not present givers. We ignore Christmases and birthdays.

Bob: There's lots. He bought me a very rare record, which surprised me. It was an original copy of Free Live! He always looks after me. With the odd lives we have, we do have to look out for each other. It's one of the stabilising things about being in a double act. You can't start being poncey because you've got the other person with you. You can help each other out.

What scares you?

Vic: I've got a terrible fear of heights. Before I pass out, the sky comes in and I start ducking.

Bob: The thought of my children getting hurt. You see something on the telly and think, 'God, if that were them, I couldn't bear it.'

Do you go on holiday together?

Vic: We do. We've been off on our own a few times - we've been on motorcycling holidays, we've been camping. We're probably quite insular. We act like children.

Bob: On holiday, he's a bit too busy for me. He can't sit down. We're in a cafe and I just like watching people. He'll be saying, 'Have you finished your fag? Come on!'

If the partnership ended tomorrow, what would you both be good at?

Vic: I'd probably just paint pictures. I think he'd like being a gardener or maybe do up houses.

Bob: I'd like to be a gardener, if I was financially able to just garden. I can't act, so I wouldn't go down that line. Jim does it already, but I suppose he'd like to paint.

What sort of old people will you be?

Vic: I will sit in an old people's home, staring out of the window, listening to a distant Alsatian. I've often imagined myself sitting on a park bench with a dusty novel. And a bottle of milk. If they stop putting milk in bottles, I'll be cantankerous and lead the march to Trafalgar Square to reinstate bottles of milk. I'd imagine Bob would be very much the same, but he'd be sitting on a dusty chair with a bottle of milk watching the TV - anything that's on. He's a channel hopper.

Bob: Quite traditional, really: nice tweed suits, brogues, lonely. Together would be nice. We would probably be... [sighs at the inevitability] in a pub.

Former solicitor Bob Mortimer (42) was born only a few months and a few miles apart from Vic Reeves in Middlesbrough . They didn't meet until 1986 when Vic was performing at the Goldsmith's Tavern in London. Vic thought Bob was 'quite quiet' but it transpired he was eating a macaroon and didn't want to talk with his mouth full. Bob lives with his girlfriend Lisa Matthews and their children Harry (4) and Tom (3) in Kent .

Vic Reeves (42, James Roderick Moir to the Inland Revenue] lives in Kent with his wife Sarah (though they are separated) and their children, Alice (8), and Louis (4). It’s just down the road from Bob, at whose house they write every day. The two have had many series on TV including Shooting Stars, Families At War and Bang Bang It’s Reeves & Mortimer. Vic has also published a book of his paintings, sunboiledonions (Michael Joseph, £12.99).

Eve

Nov 2001

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