#the next one might be abit more angsty i haven’t decided yet

[roger1na]

careful ch4 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and befriend the sweetest man on the planet.

words: 4k+

warnings: swearing (and tension ;0)

author’s note: keep forgetting to mention that this fic happens in late july 1974! there are a few inaccuracies concerning brian’s illnesses and newspaper articles but, hey, it’s a fic, right? according to googe though, norwegian wood, really does have waltz time! and it’s a hella good song. thank you for all the love <3

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter four

Your heart was ready to burst out of your chest as you looked in the mirror on that fateful saturday morning.

Your hair was falling around your bare shoulders. You’d gone with a bright red tank top and blue overalls that cut off mid thigh, as the meteorologist had promised a hot afternoon. Nervously you pouted at the mirror and tried to look cute, but you felt ridiculously silly.

You had called Rose on friday night in a panic.

“What the fuck do I wear? I can’t just wear my training clothes they’re ugly as shit,” you were babbling on while Rose had laughed.

“You’re so nervous, it’s adorable.”

“Rose,” you had warned.

“Listen, it’ll be alright, put on something you can move in, but not something dumpy, it’s not like you’ll be bending over backwards with a couple of beginners.”

You had sighed and nibbled on your nails, the chewing sound traveling through the phone.

“Oi, don’t bite your nails, it’s a bad habit!” Rose had scolded you. You  had stopped immediately, feeling slightly ashamed.

“See, I’ll do something like this, something embarrassing and he’ll leave me forever,” you had whined.

“If he leaves you for that, he was going to leave you anyway,” she had replied nonchalantly.

“Not helpful,” you had groaned and rubbed your forehead.

“It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.” Rose had insisted and you calmed down slightly. “Now go to sleep. You don’t want to be a raccoon tomorrow.”

“Don’t make me regret calling you, I was expecting support.” You had pretended to be offended. “You know what’s worse? I feel silly, like I shouldn’t be this excited for a date- or whatever you call this. Like I’m doing myself a disservice.”

“You don’t have to go all prude just because you love dance.”

“Hey!” You had snapped. “You love dance too, and when d’you last have a girlfriend?”

“Oi, that’s not what I mean, I mean, you can balance things. If you can do an arabesque you can metaphorically arabesque your life.”

“That’s the worst analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Alright, alright,” there had been a lightness to her voice. “But I’m serious, stop obsessing, go to bed. It’s one of those ‘you’ll understand when you need to’ moments.”

“Bullshit but, I will go to bed, thank you, because I need the sleep, not because you told me to.”

“That’s right, sleep well.”

“Goodnight you righteous bastard.” 

Rose had been right, it was pointless to worry about the stretch of your clothes when at most you’d probably get to the fourth position. She could’ve been right about your love life too, but you were stubborn and refused her help.

You glanced in the mirror once more before grabbing your purse and keys and heading out.

The weatherman had hit the mark, sort of. The sun was shining strongly but there was a certain electricity in the air, which entailed a thunderstorm. The hairs on your arms stood on end as your converse slapped on the hot pavement.

The tube was crowded with children on their way to the park, excitedly babbling at their parents about their last daydream. Your stomach coiled with anxiety and you squeezed your purse so tightly your knuckles turned white. You were sure you looked a right sight, and suddenly felt embarrassed. The whole world was shouting around you, perhaps about you, and you wanted to sink in through the tube floor and into the tunnel. You shuddered at the thought of the cold wetness as the metro pulled into your stop.

The address John had given you by another flashy post-it delivered to an overly curious receptionist (this time with a little doodle of his face with a poor stick figure body holding what you assumed was a bass guitar. Didn’t really look like one) lead to a small, but not rundown, studio graced with the EMI Records logo on the front door.

You knocked on the glass gently, but when nobody came to open you tried the handle and found that the door was unlocked. The hallways echoed with bickering and the occasional strum of a guitar. “Hello?” You asked, your voice caught in your throat. You coughed a bit and tried again. “Excuse me?” The sound clattered off the walls, but didn’t stop the bickering.

You continued down the dimly lit corridor with black and white checkered floor tiles and flyers and posters tacked on the walls with no apparent order or reason. Occasionally, you passed a door with a blurry window and a sign saying ‘recording room’ and a number. You pressed your ear to the wall to try and locate the guitar strumming which sounded without a doubt like Brian May’s red special.

You were concentrating on the sound on the other side of a door marked ‘recording room 3’ when the door swung open and nearly hit you on the nose. You stood there, bewildered, hands clutched over your face in a feeble attempt to protect what Rose called the ‘moneymaker’, eyes locked with John’s grey ones, which were slightly widened at the sight of you.

“Careful,” he let a soft smile rise on his cheeks. “I could’ve broken your nose.”

“Is it my fault you have such an aggressive style of opening doors,” you scolded him.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop?” He raised his eyebrows and you rolled your eyes but smiled at him.

“Deaky! Who’re you talking to? Is Paul back with our coffee?” A high-pitched voice you pinpointed as Roger’s rang from the room.

“Actually, it’s your dance teacher!” You called out over John’s shoulder, then shot him a glance. “Deaky?” You whispered confused.

“Don’t mind it, it’s just a nickname,” he shrugged.

“Alright,” you smiled. “I still like John, though,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, before allowing him to gently take your hand and lead you into the studio.

You felt very exposed once you’d entered the studio, swinging back and forth on your black vans. The band (minus John) was on a little stage, tending to their instruments, Freddie’s hands set on the piano keys, as if he was hesitating to play. When he saw you got up and crossed the room to you at lightspeed.

“Hello, lovely to meet again,” he flashed his famous smile that had been subject of criticism for too long in your magazine. You returned the expression and out of the corner of your eye saw Brian and Roger get up as well, but shoving each other slightly because of what you assumed was another disagreement on the band’s next album. John shot them a signature glare and they poised themselves.

“I’m not good at dancing,” Roger had a way of speaking you could only describe as a drawl. He shook your hand lightly. You felt his calloused skin scratching your palm slightly.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be doing anything too hard today, I promise,” you replied.

“Unless she’s here to make a fool out of all of us,” Freddie grinned.

“I’m nicer than that,” you said over your shoulder before turning and shaking Brian’s hand as well. He felt miles over you in height, especially combined with his hair.

“What’s with the formalities, we’ve met before, haven’t we?” Brian’s voice was warm and his eyes glimmered in the yellow studio light.

“That’s what you do, Brian, when John brings his girl over!” Roger said in the must duh voice. “We’ve got to make a good impression.” You felt redness prickle at your cheeks. His girl? What’d they think was going on? You shared a quick glance with John, who looked equally flustered.

You were still deciding whether to say something about Roger’s little quip when John opened his mouth to tell him off. “We’re here to dance, not scrutinize each other, right?” Roger stuck out his tongue and John rolled his eyes.

“Actually, we’re here to play music and Fred had a spark of ‘genius’ and now we’re here to dance.” Brian made little air quote signs around the word ‘genius’ before smiling at Freddie fondly to remind him that he was joking.

“Right, so, what’re we waiting for?” You huffed, your hands on your hips. “We need more space, you’ll need to push some things around.” When the boys stared at you incredulously for a moment you clapped your hands. “Hey, I’m a lady, I can’t do this by myself!”

John laughed and kicked Roger’s behind as he whined while they set to clearing a space in the center of the floor. “‘M not sure I like her anymore.” He said, rather loudly, but not too maliciously and you grinned at him from where you were helping Freddie shove the grand piano into the corner of the room.

A small, square, space opened in the centre of the room and all the boys rushed to fill a spot in it, each trying to ridiculously out-pose each other, raising their chins comically high and straightening their backs to the point of bending backwards. They were all excited to compete against the ‘best-ish dancer’ prize, falling over each other like little children.

“Alright, don’t worry, I’m not going to make you dance your feet off.” You giggled and helped them adjust themselves to be in the first position, narrating your adjustments. You got to John, who seemed to have figured it out by himself. No wonder, as the first position wasn’t particularly hard, but often beginners struggled maintaining their balance standing with their feet so close.

You continued, hearing the boys get increasingly more frustrated as the positions got harder. When you got to the fourth position, Roger was practically falling over and Brian was struggling with his long legs. Only Freddie and John had managed to somewhat keep their composure.

“This isn’t my favourite thing to do,” Brian mumbled courteously.

“Fuck ballet,” Roger seconded, not nearly as polite.

“Chin up boys, you can’t ever be as good as me, why complain about it?” Freddie grinned.

“How am I doing, Y/N?” John piped up softly.

“Perfect,” you grinned. “But,” you continued, “if you all hate ballet so much, we can try ballroom dancing instead, it’s a lot easier.”

The boys nodded eagerly, except John, who was stuck on the fact that this meant he might have to dance with you and he wasn’t exactly sure of what to do with that information. On one hand, he definitely wanted to lead you, but maybe not in a room with his best mates where he’d make a fool of himself with his clumsy moves. You made eye contact with him, blush on your cheeks, unsure of what he thought of your idea. His lips twitched into a small, nervous smile and you took a shaky breath.

“Right, so, pair up. Winner, best dancer, whatever,” you waved your hands around incoherently before continuing, “gets to dance with me.” The suggestion was silly, but to be fair, you were an uneven amount and you couldn’t just kick the rest of them to the curb and let John twirl you around, though that was all you really wanted.

“Oh she’s brilliant!” Freddie smiled before rushing over to John, who still had the most flabbergasted expression on his face.

“Do you have waltz music?” You peered around the studio. There was a small box of records on the edge of the stage and you rifled through it, picking up the vinyl for the Beatles’ album Rubber Soul.

“Big fan?” Freddie piped up from where he had taken John by the hands.

“Well, uhm, this was published when I was twelve so, maybe when I was a teen? Not really, but Norwegian Wood is in waltz time.” You dusted the cover and slipped out the record, putting it in the vinyl player. “I’ll show you the steps while we wait for Drive My Car to be over, and then you can lead each other to the beat of Norwegian Wood.”

Roger insisted on leading Brian despite being several inches shorter. Freddie was swishing his hair dramatically as John grabbed his waist.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me,” he muttered to you in passing as you adjusted their positions and you stifled your laughter.

Norwegian Wood began with an upbeat strumming of a guitar.

“I once had a girl

 or should I say, she once had me…”

Brian kept tripping over his feet and Roger was by far the worst dancer you’d ever seen. Freddie and John were a bit more smooth but even they had their little hiccoughs. The song ended and you lifted the needle off of the vinyl.

“You guys did so well!” You grinned.

“Don’t lie,” Roger rolled his eyes.

You burst into laughter. “Okay, fair enough, John and Freddie did really well!” Freddie looked proud and John looked embarrassed to be called on.

“So who was the best?” John asked nervously.

You smiled at him and Freddie gave him a dramatic shove forward, despite definitely knowing he was the better half. John stumbled a bit before reaching you, slightly towering over you, taking your hands into his. Freddie moved to the vinyl player to place the needle back at the beginning of Norwegian Wood. Just as the folks-y strumming of guitar began, someone, you assumed was the Paul Roger had named earlier that day. At least he was carrying a tray with four cardboard coffee cups.

You and John flew apart like scattered mice, as if somebody had walked in on something truly scandalous. You looked at the floor embarrassed as Freddie lowered the volume of the song.

“Paul!” Brian greeted and grabbed a cup that had his name scrawled on with black pen. John walked over as well and took his cup and sipped it tentatively.

Paul was a relatively tall man with shaggy, almost ginger, hair, who spoke with a subtle Irish accent. “Eh, and who’s this?” He smiled at you, but his smile was a bit forced and you were both tense with each other.

“Y/N, hi,” you held out your hand and he set the tray of cups down and shook it. His hands were slightly clammy. In the end, Paul wasn’t nasty. He was just a bit stuck up and awkward. You let it slide and gave him a warm smile. He responded with a slightly stiff one, but that was it.

“Sorry, I didn’t get you coffee, never know when Roger’s bringing a girl about.”

You went red and John scoffed. “Yeah, she’s here with me,” he took your hand, squeezing it slightly. “She’s teaching us dance, remember?”

“Sorry,” Paul didn’t even flinch and continued to serve the coffee to Roger and Freddie who had grown a bit tense. Electricity crackled in the air, like the thunder storm you had thought of this morning.

You sat down on the couch. Roger and Brian immersed themselves in more arguing, pointing to each others notes. Freddie tapped out a few absent notes on the piano. John sat next to you.

“He’s an arse, always has been, always will be.” John muttered. “Take no note of it.”

You glanced up, and looked at him for a while. The yellow lighting of the room created dancing shadows on his sculpted face and light danced in his eyes. His uneven lips twitched upward at the right corner when he noticed you staring. “What? Have I got something on me?”

You shook your head. “No.” You placed a hand on his cheek. “I was just admiring you.” The silliness of the words, the romance that you had uttered made you turn away and lower your hand in embarrassment. John was over the moon, a soft smile splitting his face.

“You’re such a dork, Y/N,” he teased you. “If only I’d have known sooner, what a softie you are.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed, turning away but occasionally looking back at him with a smirk. .

“Do you want to help with something?” He suddenly turned to you, grey eyes sparkling.

“Sure, what is it?”

He set his cup down and dragged you up by the wrists. “Hey,” you laughed. “What’s going on?” Brian glanced at you two absentmindedly, two young lovers in his mind, giggling and enjoying the world. A gentle expression crossed his face before he went back to songwriting.

“Come, I’ll show you,” John only said secretively.

He lead you out of the room, further back into the studio until you arrived at a banged up door which looked like it hadn’t been used in years. The paint was peeling and some of the letters on the door had faded off so it said ‘re o ding ro m’ with a small number six that was more of just another ‘o’ because the stem had been rubbed off.

“They closed this part of studio down because keeping six recording rooms was unreasonable.” He took out a rusty key and twisted it in the lock. “So,” he opened the door with a creak. “I stole the space.”

The room smelt of ink and electronics. “Wow,” you breathed out, in awe. Posters of bands and bassists were tacked on the room as well as pictures of his band, and an article called ‘John Deacon, shutterbug at large’ with pictures taken by him surrounding the title text. Next to the back wall was a desk with a box connected to lots of wiring on it.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” He smiled as you turned around in the room, inspecting the little details.

“It’s so cool.” You jumped around in excitement. “Does the rest of the band know about this?”

John shook his head. “They think the key to the room was lost.”

“Brilliant. And evil, John.” You teased. “What’d you need my help for?”

John flicked his right pointer finger as he realised what he’d brought you here to do, and flashed a quick smile before digging in the drawers and fishing out a boxy polaroid camera. “Will you let me take a picture of you?”

You smiled gently. “You sure? I’m not that good of a model. Or particularly pret-” John cut you off by taking your hand.

“You’re absolutely perfect.”

You hesitated before nodding. “But only if you let me take one of you as well!”

John laughed and let you take a seat and pose slightly before there was a small click and a flash before the polaroid started coming out.

The picture was black and he placed it upside down on the desk, before handing you the camera. “Alright, I have no idea how this works,” you announced, fiddling with the camera. John gave you a wide grin, showing his tooth gap, eyes wrinkling and you snapped a photo.

“We need to place it upside down, so it develops well,” he instructed and tried to take the photo.

“Oh but you promise I get this one? To take home and all?”

“Absolutely,” he assured you.

“Okay, one more, then,” you took the camera from his unsuspecting hands and turned it so you couldn’t see what picture you were taking, only knowing that John was leaning close to you, breath tingling on your cheek and looking into the black lenses.

The photo rolled out and you set it down. John was looking at you adoringly. You turned to him, hips swaying a little bit. “D’you want to finish that dance?”

John took your waist hesitantly. “That’d be nice, yeah.”

“Can you sing? Norwegian Wood?”

John thought for a bit before taking a few small waltz steps, his voice starting low and scratchy.

He lead you gently, smoothly. You glided along his arms, enjoying the warmth of his hand on your waist. And god, you loved his voice. It was deep and soft but powerful. It rumbled from his vocal chords and sent shivers down your spine.

He finished the song, slowing down the beat slightly.

“So I lit a fire

Isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?”

On the last wood of the song, he spun you around slowly, and though you knew the song was about an arsonist burning down his almost one-night-stand’s house, it did really feel as if he’d lit a fire. It burned in your chest and reddened the blush on your cheeks. It sparkled in your hands and steamed where you were skin to skin.

Time stopped. You were both still slightly swaying even though the singing had stopped. Your eyes flicked to his lips and back to look into his grey eyes. You leaned very close, you could feel his breath on your face. He smelt of earthly cologne and breath mints.

There was only a few centimetres between your lips and his when thunder rumbled throughout London and startled you so bad you ducked and fell into his arms with a shriek. You both stood in stunned silence whilst you shook in his grip.

He chuckled slightly. “Are you afraid of thunder?” You looked up, chin pressing against his chest and nodded meekly.

He stroked your hair and kissed your forehead. Fire burned where his lips touched your skin. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.” And he wrapped his arms around you tighter and rocked back and forth slightly. After a few moments had passed, he said in a low voice: “D’you want to join the others?” To which you shook your head.

“I’m fine here.” You mumbled. “Sorry, I’m a bit daft.”

You felt John’s chest shake as he barked in laughter. “You’re so silly. You don’t need to apologise for anything. I’m just as well here.”

“Thank you.” You felt bad you hadn’t kissed him. Like your chance was gone with the wind, washed down the drain with the rainwater that storms brought from the sea.

Slowly you unraveled yourself from his arms and took the photographs off the desk and smiled at the one with the both of you on it. John insisted on pinning them all on the wall, except the one of himself, which you held from his reach, reminding him that it was yours to keep.

“Like you promised!” You yelled as you let him chase you around the room a bit before he caught you from the waist and pulled you into an iron grip where you squealed with laughter, still waving the photo far from his reach. He looked ridiculously adorable in the shot, his cute smile living in the photo, hair a little messed up.

The thunder rumbled again but you didn’t hear it over your own and John’s laughter. Happiness filled your heart and love pumped through your veins.

The day passed too fast and too soon you were exchanging goodbyes at the exit of the studio. The rain was pouring outside, but the air was still hot. The other members of the band had already said their ‘byes’ and teased her endlessly but goodnaturedly about disappearing for the larger part of an hour.

“You sure you’re okay going out on your own? I can drive you again, if you want?” His voice dripped with concern and his downturned eyes seemed sad.

“John, I’m going to be fine. The cab’s waiting, and I don’t think the driver would be too fond of me just popping over saying, ‘I’ve got another ride, bye.’”

He sighed and looked at you long through those grey, piercing eyes. A clap of thunder made you jump slightly. The hairs on your arms were stood on end. You regretted wearing the tank top. John saw you shiver and shrugged of his own jacket and gave it to you. You tried to protest but he reassured you.

“You can give it back the next time we’ll see each other.”

“Next time?” You whispered.

“Yeah.”

You smiled, and on your tiptoes leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “‘Till next time, John Deacon.”

“‘Till next time, Y/N Y/L/N.”

You ran through the rain to your cab, a goofy grin plastered across your face. If the driver had asked, you could’ve talked about this day forever, but instead, you took out the picture of John, with his kind eyes and stared at it lovingly until the cab reached your home.

‘Till next time.

***

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