#deacy fic

- - - - - - -

Days of Our Lives Documentary Shoot - 2010

(Brian May and Roger Taylor Joint Interview)

“The early 80s were huge for us, for sure. I believe we were at our biggest then, internationally speaking.” Brian states, glancing over to Roger.

“Yes, Another One Bites the Dust really set things a-flame I think. The traveling and playing were constant. The crowds getting bigger by the venue. Parties, hotels, girls, more parties. We were meeting just so many people.” Roger adds.

“And one of those being a certain American female rock singer.” The interviewer adds quietly from off-camera.

Roger glances over to him with a questioning look, but Brian catches on quick, like always.

“Ah yes, that particular rock goddess. We did meet her around then, I believe, yes. Maybe a few years after.” Brian says knowingly, still playing along.

Roger stares into space with a confused look on his face until the realization hits him. “Are we talking about Y/N?” Roger mutters to Brian. “Yes” Brian chuckles, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“Oh, what a spit-fire she is! Not back then though. Fred really worked some magic with that one. Almost inseparable those two were.” Roger laughs out, a wave of nostalgia washing over his face.

Brian raises his large eyebrows, “Deacy would beg to differ I think.”

Roger smirks, “Oh, well that’s a whole different story.”

- - - - - - -

1982 - MTV Studios, New York City

You run your hands up and down your thighs, trying to will your left knee to stop repeatedly bouncing up and down. The satin of your pants does nothing for the layer of sweat on your clammy hands. You fold them together in your lap and gaze around the studio instead, taking in the bustling of crew members as they ready for the pre-taped interview. The god-like VJ, Alan Hunter, sits in a chair off to the side as someone artfully pieces his blonde locks into place. He grins over at you with a small wave. You limply lift your hand in a greeting, pasting on a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

You catch your pained expression as you glimpse a monitor off-camera. A friendly woman backstage had painted your face to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Gone was the evidence under your eyes of the restless sleep you’d fought the previous night. They were wide and doed, rather than their normal crescent shape. Your lips full and vibrant, your hair bounced and fanned out around your face. And your skin seemed to be glowing, masking the spots that had popped up overnight from stress. You looked every bit the rock goddess the label hoped to paint you as, and the exact opposite of the nerves currently threatening to overtake your body.

“Y/N, I can feel you vibrating from here. Take a deep breath. It’s gonna be fine.” Rich commented from beside you. His legs were splayed out, his arms bent behind his head. Looking as relaxed as can be, as if he were on his couch at home catching a movie marathon, about to doze off.

“How can you be so calm right now?” You rush out. “Who knows how many people are going to see this interview. Do you know how many times a day I accidentally let the F word fly out of my mouth?”

Rich lets out a snort. “I happen to know exactly how much you curse, thank you. Yesterday you said fuck 3 times in one sentence. It was charming, my mom loved it.” He moves his right arm to squeeze around your shoulders. Usually, it would be a comforting display of friendship, but you shake it off.

“And look at those three. Already so at home, I see.” You nod to the three other members of the band. Steve is exuding energy like yourself, but it’s excitement that bubbles from him. His eyes flit around the room quickly as he taps out some unknown rhythm on his bent legs. A wide grin permanently fixed on his boyish features.

At the far end of the couch, Eddie and Lawrence are wrapped up in a not-so-silent game of knuckles.

“Son of a-- Will you take off those damn rings? It’s my turn and I’m still getting bruised.” Lawrence huffs. Eddie wiggles his long, skilled, silver-clad fingers in front of his face and raises his eyebrows. “It’s all about the look, baby. Gotta play the part of the guitar god.”

“Will you both knock it off.” You call over to them. “We need both those sets of hands in playing shape for tomorrow night.”

Eddie turns, probably to counter with some playful comment about how you mother them too much, but Alan approaches.

“Alright, guys. And girl.” He flashes his perfectly white teeth your way again. “We’re about 5 minutes out from going up. Anybody need anything? Water, vodka, beer…” He turns his gaze to Steve, who is still tapping lightly on his legs. “A Xanax, perhaps?”

“Waters all around would be great, thanks.” You offer. Alan nods to a twitchy PA waiting to his side and they hurry off.

“Oh wait up, a Bud Light too, if you have any!” Eddie calls after them. The other three boys echo the same as well.

“You can take the boys out of Long Island…” you mutter to yourself. Rich teasingly pokes your side. “And something stiff for the lady!” He shouts out.

“In all manner of ways” Steve giggles. You feign a shocked expression and reach over to place a gentle slap to the side of his head. He looks over with big apologetic eyes and you stifle a laugh.

In record time, the lanky PA rushes back over with a myriad of drinks, all threatening to topple over on the tray they were precariously balanced on. Another PA trails behind, handing you all water, which you’re in desperate need of. They hand the drinks out one by one and stop before you. “Your water, Miss. And I didn’t know what you liked so I have a jack and coke, a whiskey sour, and a gin and tonic.”

“The gin and tonic is great, thanks.” They hurriedly hand you the drink and go to turn away. “Love your hair by the way.” You tell them. “I’m absolute shit at styling mine. Guess I’ll have to learn now.” They smile back at you and run a hand through their short locks before disappearing amongst the rest of the crew.

“Okay, we’re ready to rock n’ roll!” Alan exclaims, getting the band’s attention as he sits down in a chair next to your side of the couch. “We’re going to start off with a few basics on the band. Your lower thirds will have your instruments labeled but feel free to explain how you guys started out, your influences, your process. I’ll prompt you in between and then we'll talk about the album and promote your upcoming tour towards the end. Should take 15 minutes tops, so keep your answers brief. But I won’t say no to any rowdy stories you want to throw in.” He finishes with a wink.

The band nods along as you gulp down a breath, your palms becoming even slicker. The stage manager’s high voice rings out around the studio. “Playback ready! Live to tape in 5.. 4...” Rich places a hand over your knee and gives a squeeze. “Light em’ up, Bun” he mutters in your ear.

“3.. 2..” She holds up a finger and then points it at Alan, a wide smile already set on his face. The camera light flicks red as the MTV open plays from speakers around the room. Alan beings as the song fades out.

“We’re here in the studio and boy, am I excited to get to know this next band. Over at MTV we’ve been watching the steady rise of their single “Heart of the Night” on the charts. And as an added surprise, they’re here to introduce their very first music video. I’m very pleased to welcome to the studio, Lo & The Limbs!”

You try to relax your face as a camera pans across the band and settles on a two-shot of you and Alan. You know your eyes are gleaming with anxiety so you glance down the couch, silently praying for one of the boys to take the lead.

“Thanks for having us Alan, it’s such a trip to be here.” Eddie says with ease, resting his forearms on his knees.

“So, I have to ask. Who is Lo? Is it you Lawerence?” Alan questions the piano player.

“Oh god, no.” Lawrence chuckles. “Our high school was affectionately called Lo High, for Long Island HighSchool of the Arts. So we sort of tacked that on while playing during those years to let people know where we were from. That and well, as you can see we’re all above 6 foot except for Y/N, so a lot of limbs going on here.”

Alan gives a short laugh. “You released your debut album, Quiet Lies, earlier this year to growing success. Why don’t you tell me how you all started out.”

“Well, the boys and I have been together for a few years. We’ve been friends since grade school and we always just used to jam about. As we got older we started playing local bars back on Long Island to mostly middle-aged crowds, trying to break in, but it wasn’t working. Then Rich had the idea to invite Y/N to join up and it’s all kind of all taken off from there.” Eddie explains.

“We needed a pretty face to balance out all these ugly mugs” Steve pipes up.

“It took a while for her to finally concede though. She was off being too studious for the likes of us.” Rich adds on with a smile and nudge to your side. Your eyes grow wide as you feel a question directed at you coming on.

“Is that true, Y/N?”

“I- I guess, I was at NYU studying documentary filmmaking.” You choke out, but continue on. “Love this lighting set up, by the way, it really hides all sins.” That gets a light chuckle out of the crew surrounding you.

“And these sins you’re hiding are…” Alan grins but quickly bounces to the next topic. “Certainly a good call, Rich. Heart of the Night is the only song off the album that Y/N is singing lead on and look how well it’s doing. How did that happen?”

“Most of our songs were already written from before when we finally got the money to record. We wanted Y/N to feel a part of it, so she went on and wrote Heart of the Night and we were all very pleasantly surprised that it’s become such a hit.” Steve explains. “She also directed the music video we’ll be debuting today. I can’t believe she let us do all the things we did in that… well, you’ll just have to see for yourselves. We can be a bit of a handful.” The boys all chuckle.

“That and she plays the weirdest collection of instruments. Rhythm guitar, any type of strings, the saxophone… She's a boss on the harmonica.” Eddie turns to you as he speaks. “You just need to get over those pesky little nerves about your singing, Bun!” He points in your direction.

You feel the heat rise behind your perfectly painted cheeks at the slip of your nickname. You cast your gaze down at your lap. Not liking how the conversation has turned directly onto you.

Alan quirks an eyebrow at you. “Bun?” He teases.

You have yet to lift your eyes when Rich answers for you. “Bunny, an affectionate nickname. It’s stuck around since grade school when she wandered into Lawrence's backyard in search of a rabbit she was chasing.”

“A rockstar called Bunny. There’s a first for everything.” Alan quips, but quickly notices your displeasure in the current topic. Sensing your growing panic, he addresses the rest of the group. “This has been quite the debut album, with more hits sure to come from it. Any bands you’ve taken inspiration from while writing and producing?”

Rich jumps at the question. “Fleetwood Mac would be a big one. The way they layer their sounds is just unmatchable. You catch something new with every listen of an album of theirs.”

“I can’t be a pianist from Long Island and not mention the granddaddy, Billy Joel.” Lawrence adds. “His songs take you on such a ride. They’re full stories, each one of them.”

“And you, Y/N?” Alan directs the next question. “Who will you be drawing inspiration from when you write your next hit single?”

You smile to yourself. “It’s gotta be Queen for me. I’ve loved every one of their albums. I mean, the way they’ve changed their sound just in the past few years alone. They’re always transcending. Never afraid to try out something new or weave a different genre into one of their songs. But you always know it’s a Queen song. I saw them 2 years ago when they played the Garden, and fu--” You catch yourself as you get more animated. “And they were all just so on. Perfectly in sync. There’s something so distinct about their sound, so practiced. I’d love to get to their level, to be able to experiment like that. To give joy in the way they’ve given it to me.” You finish. Realizing you’ve rambled for a bit, you turn your eyes downwards yet again.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you talk since you came into the studio!” Alan laughs. “Well, you heard it here first folks, Y/N L/N is a Queen fan, just like the rest of us. I’m sure you’re just as excited about their new album as well.” You nod quickly as Rich hides a smile. Knowing full well you’ll be first in line to purchase their new album, Hot Space when it drops.

“But before you get off to writing more hits, I believe you have a tour coming up!” Alan states, signaling that the interview is wrapping up.

“Yeah, we have a small American tour starting in February. But until then we’ll be opening up for Hall and Oates during their tour of the NorthEast next month.” Steve says excitedly, bouncing slightly in his seat.

“And with that, I think we’ll roll into the long-anticipated music video and directorial debut for the lovely Y/N L/N. Thank you all so much for coming in today and I can’t wait to see what’s next on the horizon for you. Here’s Lo & The Limbs with Heart of the Night!” Alan keeps his painted smile till the red light vanishes from above the lens on the large pedestal camera in front of him.

You breathe out the breath you’d been choking on as Rich puts an arm around your shoulders. He leans in and whispers lightly, “And only one hint of a fuck, ladies and gentlemen. She might just make it in this business after all.”

- - - - - - -

One Month Later - Veterans Memorial Coliseum - New Haven, Connecticut

The Limbs bound off the stage in full force, glistening with sweat and excitement. It was the largest crowd they’d played for by far. 10,000 people cheered from the audience as roadies and crew moved around them to set up for the main act, Hall and Oates. Rich spreads his long arms and huddles the rest of the group into a family hug, your skin sticking to one another, the smell of sweat filling your noses.

“I just want us to all remember this moment.” He speaks to the group, foreheads touching. “Even if nothing happens past this album. That was insane.”

“Absolutely bonkers, dude!” Steve says and he bounces up and down beside you. You all take a deep collective breath and squeeze.

“Alright, get off of me you fucks.” You laugh, untangling yourself from their vast expanse of limbs. “We all stink and I have to get out of all... this” You gesture to the skin-tight bodysuit your best friend, Dawn, had insisted you wear. Eddie presses a light kiss to your temple as he lets you into the dressing room first to change out of their view.

You close the door and sigh, glancing at yourself in the mirrors that line one wall of the room. Your eyes are bright, your hair is two times the size of when you went out on stage an hour before, and your makeup looks like you’d been in a fight. Grinning to yourself, you start to unlatch the halter top of the bodysuit, excited for the air to cool your skin.

Just as you are about to shimmy out of the rest of the ensemble, the door bursts open.

“Shit! Lawrence, what the hell?!” Scrambling to cover your top half.

Lawrence trains his eyes to the ceiling as he speaks. “Bunny, you gotta… just cover up and get your ass out here. You just... You gotta see, c’mon.”

Flustered, you hurry to redress your sticky body. After making sure everything is properly covered, you step out into the hallway backstage, already glaring at the boys. They’re all tight-lipped, staring at one another. “Okay, someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” You say loudly. “Shhhhh” Rich hisses as he gestures behind him with a shake of his head. You glance over his shoulder to see the backs of two men. John Hall and Daryl Oates.

“Yeah, okay... I don’t get it. We’ve hung out with them like 5 times. Why are we fangirling?”

Rich widens his eyes at you and you glance back at them again. This time they part and you can catch a glimpse of who they’ve been talking to.

The flash of a tight leather jacket, a mustache, and two front teeth shining while laughter erupts from behind them.

You gasp.

“Fucking, fuck. That’s Freddie fucking Mercury.” You say, a bit too loud.

The bold man in question locks eyes with you. Something mischievous dances behind them as he narrows his gaze. Daryl and John move to their roadies to get fixed up before heading out on stage and Freddie lets out a sharp burst of laughter as he makes his way over. Your stomach churns with embarrassment but you can’t tear your eyes from his.

“Quite the redundancy of expletives, my dear. All you had to do was say hello.” he grins at you, all teeth. You’re not one to get too clammy in front of other musicians, but your voice gets trapped in your throat. You pray to whatever gods are out there that your eyes don’t get any wider.

Eddie’s easy charm luckily saves you. “This beautiful songstress right here is Y/N L/N.” You barely lift your arms as Freddie pulls you in for a light hug and kiss on the cheek. “But you can call her Bunny.” Eddie grins. So much for easy charm you think as you stare daggers into the profile of his face.

“Ha! Bunny? Oh my, that is wonderful.” Freddie chuckles. “It sounds as if you’re a socialite... Or a stripper. I can’t tell.” He beams at you. You can’t help but beam right back.

You never would’ve guessed this man would have been the cause of so much disturbance, yet there he was.  Holding a pan of what you could only assume had once been food.  Now it was just the remnants of a fire, still smoking a little.  You coughed, the stench of burnt meat settling into your lungs.

“So sorry!” He said, clearly embarrassed as he stood frozen in his doorway, seeming unsure of what to do with his burned meal.

“ ‘s okay,” You replied, wondering if you should help.  “You trying to learn how to cook?” You asked lightheartedly.

“Something like that.” He said sheepishly.

Something about the way his hair looked like a cloud of smoke made your heart soften a little bit, and made you willing to ignore that this was the man who’d set off the fire alarm in the middle of the night.

“Need help?” You asked, hoping you wouldn’t regret it.

He bit his lip, hesitating.  Clearly he didn’t want to be more of a bother, but he knew he could use some help.

“I don’t mind,” You found yourself saying, and somehow you meant it.

He nodded.  “Alright, if you’re sure.  That would actually be really nice.”

You followed him a little uncertainly into his apartment and watched as he finally got the fire alarm to stop screeching.  “Why were you cooking at 1 a.m. anyway?” You asked, catching sight of a hastily discarded bass on the floor.

He gestured to it.  “Was trying to work on a song and then I got hungry, but then I had a breakthrough for one of the chords.  And then the food started burning.”

“Again.” You teased.

He winced. “Sorry.” 

The apartment still smelled like smoke, so you pushed the window open, breathing in the cold air that greeted you.  “You’re in a band?” You asked.  “Can I hear?”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling gently around the edges.  “Yeah, this is what I was working on, before...” He trailed off, picking the bass off the floor.  He plucked the strings so intimately, you suddenly felt uncomfortable watching, like you’d walked in on something private.

To ease the tension, you opened his fridge, looking for food that wouldn’t burn.  “PB&J?” You called over your shoulder.

“Hmm?” He asked.  “Oh, yeah, that would be great.”

So you quickly made him one, hoisting yourself on the counter when you were done so you could watch him play.  He’d begun to hum under his breath, just a quiet melody.  When he finished playing the song, he grabbed a paper and scribbled a few notes to himself, a little crease forming between his eyebrows as he concentrated.

“It’s good,” You said when he was done writing, then clarified, “The song.”

He smiled at you again, warm and genuine.  “Thanks.  It’s not quite where I want it just yet, but thank you.”

April 1982 - BBC Studios, London

“It’s not funny, Y/N! Stop laughing. You’re gonna ruin all my hard work!” Dawn chastises you as she sweeps a pale blue eye shadow across your lids, trying her best to complete your request to tone down your usual stage look.

You try to muffle your laughter, teetering on your chair set up in the spacious green room. It comes out as a wheeze, a soft whistle escaping through your nose. “I’m sorry, you said what!?”

“I kid you not, I took one look at his penis and said ‘What the fuck is that?”

A sharp laugh escapes from your mouth once again, failing miserably to prevent tears from leaking out of the corners of your eyes.

“I feel awful! It’s just that I had never seen one before,” Dawn whines.

“Okay, I know for a fact that’s not the first dick you’ve seen. Hell, even I’ve seen some of those. Like ships passing in the night as they raced out of your dorm bed,” you giggle.

“You know what I mean. I’ve never been with one that’s… intact.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Oh c’mon. Uncircumcised can’t be that different.”

“It wasn’t! I was just drunk and got spooked, I guess. It was actually kinda cute. Like it was wearing a little turtleneck or something.”

You lose it, yet again. Laughter falls freely from your lips, helping to alleviate the dreaded stress that has now become your constant companion these days. Appearing on a game show alone was not something you thought you’d have to tackle on your third day in London. You’re sure the boys were off exploring the sprawling city that none of you had stepped foot in prior to the trip.

Pop Quiz was apparently a big hit for the BBC, featuring a bevy of famous musicians battling out their knowledge of the industry. You’d never had the chance to watch, obviously not readily available to viewers back home, but a harried man had come in earlier to give you a basic rundown of the format. You were somewhat confident in your knowledge of music, having been a regular at your hometown’s local record shop, you just hoped it would be enough to keep you from making a fool out of yourself in front of an entire country. But your anxiety mostly stemmed from your upcoming appearance in front of the camera without the boys there to play off of.

“How was it, though? I heard they’re supposed to “feel better” or something like that,” your curiosity getting the better of you. “Ooo, was it curved? Sometimes that can be a great thing. Except for one I encountered that was going in the opposite way then you’d think. Like even it knew it should be running away from the dude.”

Dawn’s face screws into a pinch, “Was that Tyler... Wait, don’t tell me. Ew. And I wouldn’t know! The poor guy was so embarrassed he couldn’t even keep it up after that!”

“What a waste,” you sigh. “I thought I’d be at least getting some field research out of your antics. What did I even bring you to London for?” you joke as she holds a tissue out to blot your lips.

“Uh-huh. The day you do some “field research” of your own is the day I chop off my own hair,” she quips, narrowing her eyes at you.

You casually raise your right hand to flip her off. She wasn’t wrong; it had been a while since you’d been with anyone, let alone entertained the fact of jumping into a relationship. There were partners in the past, of course. A few geeky high school boys, a woman who worked at said hometown record store, and the occasional pretentious film kid while at NYU, who spoke condescendingly of women working in film but scratched an itch when needed.

“And there’s no time like the present! You know what they say. When in Britain…” Dawn trails off, failing to finish her bit.

You left eyebrow quirks, “Throw dental hygiene standards out the window?”

Her face twists in disgust again as she uncaps a can of Aqua Net. “Gross. Now close your eyes and shut up so I can be done with you.”

The spray sputters, emitting little from it. “Dammnit,” she curses, turning to rummage around her sprawling kit. “Of course, I didn’t pack a spare. I’ll be right back. Hopefully, their hair department has one we can borrow.” 

She rushes from the room in a sweeping motion, knocking over a coffee that was precariously placed on your chair’s armrest in the process.

“Fuck me,” you breathe, jumping up, your white blouse now doused in caffeine.

You hurry to jog out of the room, trying to catch up with her. “Daw- Shit!”

Your face collides with a hard chest.

Two large hands grip your shoulders to stop your momentum. “Oh! Apologies,” comes a light voice from above, muffled by your full head of ringlets. You jerk your head away quickly, and your gaze lands on a pair of startled greyish, green eyes.

“S-sorry,” you stutter out. “Completely my fault.” You glance down to the hands that still rest on your shoulders for a moment before looking back up. The pair of eyes go wide, and the hands quickly retreat back to the man’s side. 

The man being the bassist of Queen, John Deacon. You scold yourself for only having glanced at the day’s detailed itinerary this morning before heading out. How did I miss that one? Sweat begins to gather on your palms immediately.

“John Deacon,” he hesitantly smiles at you while extending a hand.

“Y/N L/N,” you squeak out as his hand engulfs yours, inwardly cringing at how moist it must feel. You hold it for a bit too long. “I’m one of the contestants on Team A today,” you yank your hand back to your side.

His brow knit together. “Oh? I was told I’d be with Nick Rhodes and Jon Moss today.”

You shift your weight uncomfortably from side to side, having yet to meet his eyes again. “Nick had to cancel, I believe. I’m a last-minute replacement.”

“Okay,” he replies with a tight smile. “Well, good then. I hope you’re ready,” he glances down, noticing the stain splashed across your top. “Or, at least close to it...”

“Huh?” you blurt out before realizing, looking down at your shirt. “Oh, yes. The reason I so rudely ran into you. I should go-” your eye catches something as they finally travel back up to his. “Aw, fuck.”

“Pardon?”

You grimace, pointing directly at his chest. Right to the giant imprint on his tight blue shirt. One that had been left by your bright red lipstick.

He follows your finger. “Ah! Will you look at that.”

“I am so, so sorry,” you rush out, absolute mortification seeping into your voice.

He dismisses your apology with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. That’s what jackets are for,” he says, zipping up the oversized grey jacket slung around his shoulders. “And at least now I know this shade of red really isn’t my colour.”

You smile up at him, not really knowing what else to say—the full weight of your not-so-smooth first encounter with this man hitting you fast, as people squeezed around you two in the tight hallway. “I should go get fixed up,” you tell him, pointing your thumb back over your shoulder towards your dressing room, ready to make a quick exit.

“Alright. I’ll see you out there then. Cheers!” he smiles back with a wave of his hand, turning to find his own space to get ready.

You stand there watching him in a daze, mentally berating yourself for now having had two inappropriate run-ins with a member of Queen.

Dawn materializes into your field of vision, hands-on-hips.

“Honestly, what the hell. I left you alone for two minutes!”

- - - - - - -

20 minutes later, you follow a stagehand through the back of the soundstage, fidgeting with your outfit while trying not to crash into anyone else. Dawn’s top that she quickly switched with your own was cut much lower than you would’ve liked and left you feeling even more exposed than your current bout of nerves did.

You’re dumped onto the set with the point of a finger over to a tall man. Mike Read, the host of Pop Quiz, stands by a large desk, crew members bustling around him. You stick to your spot out of the way, not sure if to interrupt the conversation he’s currently having to introduce yourself. 

You take in the spacious stage, never having been on a show of this size before. A wave of longing suddenly washes over you, yearning for days on set where you were a part of the crew that moved around you. While at school, you’d worked on several student films, usually as a 1st Assistant Director or Line Producer. You loved the pace of production. Keeping everyone on time, on budget. It was where you felt most confident. While there were a variety of different types of personalities on set, you found it exhilarating to be the one to settle disputes and help everyone stay on track. Your subtle superpower of putting out little fires everywhere you went. Never had it crossed your mind that you’d be on the other side of the camera one day.

“A change of wardrobe, I see,” a voice says from behind you, pulling you out of your daydream. You turn to catch John’s smirk, his eyes trained intentionally on your own.

“It would appear so,” you reply, glancing down at yourself quickly.

“Have you been introduced to Mike yet?”

“Nope. I was working up the courage,” you admit.

“C’mon,” he gestures for you to follow him as he strolls towards the man. “He doesn’t bite.” You follow, trailing behind his long strides as he daintily weaves between the many bodies in your path.

“John!” Mike exclaims as you both approach. “Good to see you, mate,” he claps him on the back.

“You too. Thanks for having me back,” John greets him cheerily. “And look, I brought a present. All the way from America, I’m assuming. Mike, this is--”

“Y/N L/N!” Mike says, a genuine smile forming. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that we fit you in.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m excited to be here,” you mumble as he brings you in for a hug.

“Can I just say, your video for Heart of the Night is absolutely outrageous. I thought my eyes were going to pop out my head when I’d learnt that MTV in the States had aired it,” he laughs. “Daring stuff, really.”

You feel a heat creeping up your neck as you try to accept the compliment. “Yeah, thanks. Glad to hear that you’re all a bit more relaxed in terms of watching the explicit murder of a teenage girl on your screens.” You immediately wince at your own bluntness.

You can’t help but peek over at John, curious if he’d seen the violent clip now making its rounds across UK television sets everywhere. He’s staring at you with eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open slightly. 

Great. He thinks I’m a lunatic.

“We certainly are!” Mike chuckles. “Have you been briefed on the logistics of how the taping will go?”

“Mhmm, I got the rundown from one of your producers.”

“Excellent. Well, you’ll be in good hands with John here heading your team,” he says, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulders and adjusting his large glasses with the other.

Good hands indeed, you think to yourself, remembering how large they felt when they gripped your shoulders earlier. No, stop that, you scold yourself.

“We’ll be getting started in just a few minutes if you’d both like to find your seats. And you’ll have to regale me with the gory details from that shoot of yours afterward,” he winks, gesturing towards your spots for the show. You turn to follow John to your side of the set.

“Oh, and Y/N!” Mike calls out. “I do hope you’re good. Deacon got absolutely spanked last time he was on.” You bring your hand up to your face to stifle your giggle. John makes a show of rolling his eyes but keeps walking. You notice his face is now tinged a lovely shade of pink.

“You must think I’m daft,” he says, turning to you slightly.

“Me? Oh no, I’m sure we’ll do great!” you reply, a bit too happily.

“No, no, not that,” he laughs lightly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “For not recognizing you during our... colourful meeting in the hallway. It seems you and your band left quite the impression on our dear Freddie.”

“Oh! That’s nice to hear. You can tell him he left quite the impression on us as well, but I’m sure he makes an impression on most everyone,” you shrug. “And don’t worry about it, please. It’s not as if I’m a part of the biggest band in Britain or anything,” you tease. He smiles shyly. You catch the crinkles on the outer corners of his eyes before he turns them downwards.

You reach the long table on your designated side of the studio. There’s one on the other side mirroring it, with three somewhat familiar faces already sitting behind it. You glance at the empty seats before you, moving hesitantly towards them until John pulls out the closest chair, gesturing for you to sit. He gingerly pushes it under you as you lower yourself down.

“Thanks,” you mumble. He nods and moves to sit beside you.

There’s a loud bang to your right, causing you both to jump and look to the source; a large Grip gingerly picks up the c-stand he’s knocked over. John hovers above his chair, watching on as a producer shouts at the poor man, his waist now at your eye line.

You had never understood the fascination with men’s butts. That is, until now. The tight jeans John had on left little to the imagination. As if that would stop you. You shake your head back and forth as if to clear your thoughts. All of Dawn’s talk earlier must have you seriously whacked out.

“Are you alright?” John asks, now situated in his seat.

“Hm?” you break out of your daze. “Yes, fine. It’s just- I haven’t done anything like this,” you gesture to the large room teeming with various crew and a studio audience, “before, on my own. Usually we’re all together, and I’m slightly less charismatic than the rest of them, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I would tell you that it’ll get easier, but I still feel like I’m rubbish without my lot as well,” he sympathies. “And I happen to find you quite charismatic as you are,” he adds softly. “You certainly had Mike going back there.”

“Oh boy,” a voice huffs from the other end of the table, drawing away John’s attention. You’re thankful for the distraction, finding yourself at a loss for words due to his comment, coupled with your previous thoughts.

“I see you two actually arrived on time, ya goodie-two-shoes,” the flamboyant man complains as he plops into the third and final seat at the table.

“Jon, welcome. Good to see you,” John acknowledges, shaking the man’s hand.

“And who’s this little thing at the end, then?” he points at you.

John’s expression turns slightly sour at the informal greeting directed towards you. “This is Y/N L/N of Lo & The…” he struggles to remember, “Legs?”

You bark out a laugh. “The Limbs. But The Legs sounds better actually.” You share a smile, holding onto John’s eyes even though it makes your insides flip.

An outstretched hand is shoved past his body. “Jon Norris. Drummer. Culture Club.” You accidentally brush John’s arm as you move to return the handshake, not missing how he jumps a bit at the contact. “Pleasure,” reply, tearing your eyes away.

The drummer retracts his hand, settling back to swing his shoes up onto the table. “I’m glad to have a bird on the team, actually. Maybe we’ll get a few extra points thrown our way for that tiny top of yours,” he smirks, not even glancing over in your direction.

You look down at your slightly exposed chest, but the color red quickly clouds your vision. John sucks in a breath as he sits up straight in his chair. “That’s a bit ru-,” he starts in an annoyed tone.

But you’re quick to cut in, leaning your body forward on the table to lock eyes with Jon, “Actually, we might get docked a few for that obnoxious suit you’ve got on. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that stripes bleed on camera, sweetheart?” you seeth.

He glances down at his bright pink and green striped suit, clearly taken aback by your quick comeback. “N-no…” he falters, shutting up for the moment.

You catch John’s expression, a mixture of confusion and awe while he gapes at you. You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. Luckily you don’t have much time to stew over the misogynistic comment as the stage manager’s voice rings out a 10-minute warning.

“Just try not to show me up too much, would you?” John whispers, leaning in closer to you. Obviously, trying to lighten your mood.

You give in. “You, sir, are lucky to have me on your team,” you point at him. “Tell me, what’s more important? The scoreboard or your fragile ego?” You’re not sure where your sudden wave of confidence is coming from.

He brings his hand to his chest. “You caught me,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “One could say I’m overcompensating, given who my bandmates are. Roger’s won this twice already, and it only started airing last year. I’ll never hear the end of it if I muck it up again.”

“Well then, I’ll do my best to save your sorry ass, and maybe that one down there too, if he’s lucky,” you tease. 

Great. Now I’m thinking about his ass again. Fuck you, Dawn.

“If you’d be so kind,” he says before turning his attention elsewhere, content to watch the happenings around him until the show’s start. You hear him start to softly hum to himself, not able to place what the tune is.

You try not to watch him out of your peripherals for the next few minutes, hardly even noticing your lack of nerves as the studio audience starts cheering.

- - - - - - -

“And to end out round one, we have Adam Ant’s team with 3 points. And with a slight lead, John Deacon’s team with 4.” The studio audience erupts in a deafening cheer. “That’ll bring us into round two, which will be a team question. John, your team to go first,” Mike directs from his desk in the center of the set.

John lightly taps his pencil against the notepad in front of him, the current tight score starting to bring about his competitive side. He peeks over to check on his teammates. Y/N looks like a radiating ball of energy. Her feet are tucked up under her on the chair as she hunches forward, pencil already hovering while her teeth chew on the eraser. To his right, Jon doodles away, drawing exaggerated characachers of select members of the studio audience.

“Right, question coming to you in a moment, but first here’s the band, The Band.”

A large monitor towards the front of the set comes to life with a clip from their concert film, The Last Waltz. The chair to his left gives a loud squeak as Y/N begins to scribble furiously as if already knowing the question before it’s been given.

“Here’s a clip from The Last Waltz, The Band’s famous taped last concert. Please name 10 of the 20 rock legends that joined them on stage that night.”

John’s face scrunches in concentration, trying to recall the recording of it that he’d listened to many times before. He writes down the first few that come to mind, struggling to get past 6 names that he’s sure were present.

“Bloody American bands and they’re American friends,” Jon says, shoving his own piece of paper into John’s view. It has 4 names on it, 3 of which John already has down.

“They’re Canadian,” John replies, transferring the extra name to his paper.

“What?”

“The Band. They’re from Canada, I believe. At least most of them are.” Jon shrugs as the clip fades out, their minute of deliberation up.

“Alright, that was The Band with a famous clip from The Last Waltz. If you’d please, John, name 10 of the acts that accompanied them that night.”

A sheet of paper smoothly glides in front of his, Y/N’s messy scrawl covering it with 10 names hastily jotted down. He raises his eyebrows to her, but she just nods at the paper, urging him to read it.

He starts, completely disregarding his own list. “Erm, yes, we have Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Van Morrison, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Young, Bobby Charles” he struggles to read the small scribbling, almost illegible. “Um, Muddy Waters? Yes. And Neil Diamond.”

John lets out a breath, silently praying that the young girl beside him is as bright as she seems.

“Right you are! 10/10,” Mike exclaims. “For a bonus point, can you name the two artists that recorded pre-taped performances with them for the film as well?”

“Uh…” John glances at Y/N for support. She shoves another scrap of paper to him. Emmylou and Staples the only thing written on it.

“Emmylou Harris and The Staples Singers?” he answers, more like a question.

“Wonderful, a full 4 points to you all.”

He watches as a deep grin breaks onto Y/N’s face as she finally reclines. She looks over to him, a bit proud of herself, he thinks, as the other team begins their own round of questioning.

He’s quite intimidated by the American next to him if he’s being honest with himself. Her anxious demeanor seemed to have vanished into thin air once the game started, tackling each question thrown at their team with a hungry reverence. But her laugh is what keeps him on edge the most. It’s brash and full, consistently breaking him from his determined concentration to send a confusing jolt through his body each time.

“While your knowledge reigns superior, your handwriting leaves something to be desired,” he whispers in jest, not being able to help himself. She simulates a shocked expression as she leans over to look at her own paper that sits in front of him.

Her accent is thicker as she returns his whisper, “What ya tawking about?” She moves her eyes closer to examine, her shoulder bumping his. “That clearly says Muddy Waters.” Her hair hovers below his chin, almost tickling his stubble. It smells of something citrusy and light. 

“Y’ smell lovely,” he sighs, almost inaudibly.

“Hm?” she questions, bringing her body back into her own seat.

“E-ever-ly,” He stumbles out, still quietly. “I thought it read it as the Everly Brothers at first,” hoping to god his bad save is enough.

She snorts. “You sure you didn’t leave your glasses at home? Would’ve thought you’d bring them to something like this.”

He quickly fixes the flustered look on his face, “Hm, glasses aren’t conducive to my rockstar type of lifestyle. Take Rog, for instance. Always wearing those bloody prescription sunglasses indoors, looking like an absolute git.”

She lets out that sharp laugh again, immediately covering her mouth, embarrassed at the thought of interrupting the other team. “I’ll have to watch out for that. Eat my carrots, all that nonsense,” she answers softly. If Brian were here, he’d ramble on about how there’s no scientific evidence of that or some bollocks, he thinks to himself.

“Let us hope my ears are in far better condition. Then you won’t have to keep, how did you put it, saving our sorry asses?” She smiles down into her lap and bites her lip. Oh hell, don’t do that.

Mike is now wrapping up with the other team. “No, I’m sorry. Their other top 10 hit was “So You Win Again. 3 points it is.” He once again turns his attention back over to John’s team. “Moving on to our third round, we have individual questions. Y/N, we’ll start with you. Here’s the hit Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye. Please name the artists you hear in order.”

The sound bites begin, and Y/N is once again bent over her paper as she listens, brow furrowing. John identifies the first two singers instantly but is at a loss for the third, making him grateful the question isn’t his. The clips fade out.

“Y/N?”

“I think it was Glen Campbell.”

“Correct.”

“Johnny Nash.”

“Good. Last one?”

“And... Bettye Swann?”

“Yes, top job! Known for her R&B hit Make Me Yours. I’ll give you a bonus if you can tell me who the song was sung by originally,” Mike counters.

“The Casino’s,” she says confidently.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ll give you one more chance.”

John realizes she was probably too young or not even born yet when the original was released. He slyly slides closer to her. “Don Cherry,” he mumbles lowly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Don Cherry?” she shouts as if to cover up his assistance.

“Yes, John Deacon, you’re right. It is Don Cherry. The point is yours for at least attempting to be subtle,” Mike laughs. Y/N shyly smiles over at him, silently thanking him for his help. 

John and Jon mostly breeze through their questions with ease, racking up a hefty amount of points in favor of their team before turning over to the others. He takes a sip of water as he smugly watches on.

“Glad to know my own ass is in good hands if it’s ever in need of saving again,” Y/N quietly comments. He chokes lightly on his water as an image flashes quickly through his mind. John racks his brain for a reply, but only overtly cheeky responses come to mind.

“Anytime,” he manages, afraid to catch her eyes. She lets out a light giggle, starkly different from her usual roar. It sends a warmth of color to his cheeks. 

- - - - - - -

February 1982 - Orpheum Theater, Boston

It’s noisy in the cramped green room backstage at the Orpheum Theater in Boston. Gone were the days of grand arenas while tagging along with Hall and Oates. Now only around 2,000 bodies lined the seats out in the house, but you still feel that familiar bubble of nerves as Dawn busies herself around your hair. 

Dawn, your best friend from your two short years at NYU, had agreed to tag along for the short tour to help with your “look.” Not that you ever really had a problem with your usual jeans and t-shirts, but this rock type of glam proved to be a different beast, and Dawn certainly had an eye for style. Her voluminous hair always streaked blonde and crimped to perfection. She’d tried to convince you many times to do something chemical with yours but you held firm to your virgin hair, causing your pre-show routine to run well into an hour and a half to get the desired popular style. You smile up at her as she curls part of your bangs away from your face, truly grateful to have another woman around.

“Babes, please stop moving your head. I’ve had to do the same piece 3 times already.” She tuts at you. “And Eds, I’ve asked you how many times to watch your elbows, jesus christ.”

Eddie tries to cram in even tighter against the wall, keeping to the five tiny spots you’d all wrangled against the mirror. “Ay, I’m trying over here. It takes some effort to get all this together.” He smirks, running his fingers through his already perfectly coiffed hair. A shame really, that it would be utterly destroyed within 15 minutes of being on stage.

“Have we picked a city song for tonight yet? I want to go over it in my head a few times before we go on.” Lawrence calls out, trying to tug on a pair of pants that look a size or two too small for him.

The Limbs had taken to playing one song per show by a famous local artist from the city they were in. Since they only had the one album out, it was a chance to get the audience singing and moving together; to change up the pace. A modified tip from a certain mustached rock legend that the band had started to implement.

“I thought we decided on More Than A Feeling?” Eddie says as he tears his eyes away from his own reflection.

“That’ll be what they expect. I think Bun sounds better on My Best Friend’s Girl,” Rich says simply. He’s attempting some form of stretching routine in the back corner of the room, his extremities bumping up against the walls.

“So Y/N’s taking this one?” Steve asks, lounging across a small loveseat against the wall, his legs dangling off of it delicately. He looks up from whatever song he’s been working on.

“You heard what the label said. They want Y/N more center stage, so to speak, for marketing reasons.” Rich tries folding his body into some sort of pretzel shape. A light “oof,” escapes his lips as he falls backward slightly.

“Ah yes, we need to give the public what they want,” you huff, wanting to roll your eyes if not for Dawn covering your head in a cloud of Aqua Net.

Eddie starts pacing, or at least tries to, “I just don’t get why they’re trying to make her into some Debbie Harry.” He scoffs, “Like that’s ever gonna happen.” 

Dawn glares at him. It was a bit of a low blow, but Eddie was still getting used to sharing the spotlight with you, with him singing lead on almost every other song. 

You were still struggling to find your presence on stage and were more than happy to take a back seat to the boys for the most part. And while some of the band’s other singles were gaining traction, none were close to catching up to Heart of the Night, which was now getting steady airplay and record sales thanks to the absurd music video that hit TV screens everywhere a few weeks back.

“That’s true, Y/N’s much more of a Linda Ronstadt type if we’re throwing out names,” Lawrence grunts out. Finally able to close the button on his skin-tight pants.

A cold laugh erupts from Eddie. “Exactly. It’s the Eighties now if you haven’t noticed. It’s all about edgy sex appeal, and let’s be honest, even Steve has a better chance of-”

“Enough!” Dawn’s voice sliced through the air, the daggers thrown from her eyes flying towards him. She leans down to your level to examine her masterpiece. “You look as sexy as a goddamn playboy bunny, hun. No pun intended.” Her voice softens as she pinches your cheeks.

The room goes mostly quiet for the next few minutes as the local opening band starts to close out their set with their last two songs. Only Rich’s deep breathing, fitting in time to the beat. 

You chew your cherry painted lips, mulling over Eddie’s words. You knew full well that you weren’t exactly the frontwoman the label or the public dreamed of. Hell, you weren’t even supposed to be a frontwoman at all. When you’d finally given in to Rich’s insistent pestering to come have some fun with the boys, you’d been at NYU for two years. You loved your film classes but felt the hole that was left from the absence of playing any type of music. In high school, you’d all show up to a party with a variety of instruments in your grasps. It almost always resulted in a crowd gathering around to listen, joining in with your voices, clicking their beer bottles in time with the beat. It was when you had felt most carefree, and you had ached for that feeling again.

But playing locally turned into recording an album, for which you wrote a song for some dream of a man that only existed in your thoughts. Next thing you knew you were scooped up by Columbia Records, missing classes to attend photoshoots or album release parties. People were listening to your voice, your song, and wanting more. You dropped out of college to the dismay of your parents but were immediately enveloped in your friends' glee, finally reaching the precipice of something they’d only dreamed of. You hated the thought of letting them down in any way but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a fluke, that you had nothing else to give. Destined to fade out as a one-hit-wonder and a disappointment to your best friends in the world. The weight hit your shoulders as you slumped in your seat. 

None of this was supposed to happen, you tell yourself. It never happens like this.

You’re broken out of your daze when there’s a rap at the door and a muffled “5 minutes” from the stage manager behind it. You all stand, waiting for Rich to spread his wings and engulf you in your usual pre-show pow wow. You slide Dawn in next to you in the now group of 6, needing someone steady as an anchor.

“If you’d please, Reverend.” Steve probes, cheekily.

“We’re gathered here today” Rich begins and Dawn giggles. “To bring immense joy to those 2,000 idiots out there, who so willingly sold out our show for us. They deserve a performance played to 200,000, so that’s what we’re going to give them. In the name of our fathers, John, George, Paul, and Ringo. Let’s go give em’ hell.”

“Amen!” you all shout and disband.

As you follow the boys into the dingy hallway leading to the stage, Eddie catches your wrist. He looks at you through his long lashes with an uncharacteristically shy smile that almost never sees the light of day.

“I’m sorry for being a prick, Bun. I shouldn’t have said all that,” he mutters as you continue to walk, not wanting to miss your cue.

“No worries, Eds. You were right though. I’m definitely no Debbie,” you force a chuckle at yourself while a roadie slips your guitar strap onto your shoulders.

“It’s not alright. And no, you’re not,” he says catching your downturned eyes. “You’re Y/N fucking L/N, and you’re just gettin’ started, baby. All you gotta do is take a little bit of the love we all have for you and give some to yourself once in a while, alright?” A grin forms, showing his adorably asymmetrical teeth as he reaches out a hand to ruffle your painstakingly perfected hair. “That’s better. Now let's get out there so you can show the world exactly what kind of frontwoman you are. And don’t be scared to show them a hint of Bunny while you’re at it.” You move your guitar out of the way to pull him in for a close hug. You hear Steve start banging his snare and pull Eddie on to the stage with you, feeling a bit lighter than you had been minutes ago.

You approach your mic and take a look out at the packed, hazy theater.

“Well hello, Bawston!’ Your accent rings out to the faceless figures before you. “Aren’t you all looking fuckin’ fabulous tonight!”

- - - - - - -

March 1982 - Musicland Studios, Munich

“No, I didn’t say it’s bad, just that it sounds tinny,” Brian argues, crossing his spidery arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. 

“And it’s as if you’ve shoehorned Bowie in there just to mumble in the background incoherently. A waste, really.” Roger tacks on from beside him.

John sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch in the studio. “Just because it’s not your precious red special or your own magic fingers at work, doesn’t mean it’s tinny,” he counters calmly. Trying his best to keep the annoyance from seeping into his voice, knowing that Brian already had anger stemming from John’s earlier composition for the album.

It was the first time this week that all four men were in the studio together. Finishing up Hot Space was proving to be a strain on all of them and the growing rift had caused the men to nearly finish their songs separately instead of in their usual group dynamic. John’s experimentation into different styles, such as funk and disco, had not been willingly received thus far.

“Well, I sound rather fabulous, if I do say so myself. I’m very proud of us, Deacy.” Freddie states, getting up from his own place on the couch and stretching.

“It’s not that, Fred. It just doesn’t sound like us.” Brian sighs, already sensing the escalation of a row coming along.

“Oh please. Not this again...” Freddie huffs.

“That’s because it’s not us. It’s me and Freddie.” John cuts in with a roll of his eyes, landing them on Mack, their producer, who just shrugs and trains his gaze back to the board. 

“That’s for sure.” Roger murmurs out. Now it’s John’s turn to cross his arms as he levels their pointed gazes. He’d worked with Fred for days putting together “Cool Cat,” hoping that the additional vocals from David Bowie would be a selling point for the other two.

With a clap of his hands, Freddie moves about the room. “Why don’t we take a quick break and then give it another listen?” Roger groans. Freddie pats his shoulder as he makes his way over to a radio beside Mack.

John rubs his tired eyes before pushing himself off the couch, eager for a break from the energy in the stale room. “I’m grabbing a coffee,” not offering one to the others as he brushes past Brian on his way out, quickly retreating down the hallway as fast as his legs will carry him.

The remaining three startle a bit as Freddie flips on the radio, Lo & The Limbs hit single pours from it, louder than expected.

“Oh! Oh, yes! Simply marvelous,” he exclaims, jumping up and down lightly. Roger and Brian raise their eyebrows in silent questioning. “This is the band of rascals I was telling you about the other week. They must’ve just broken out here.”

“The yanks you met while in the States?” Roger questions, turning his attention to the song, eager to judge any brimming competition.

“Yes, yes, the wild young lady who swears like the devil and her band of merry giant trees.”

“We have one of those!” Rog nods in Brian’s direction, voice muffled by a cigarette now dangling from his lips.

“Hm, Brain’s more of a willowy spruce, if you will. These ones are giant redwoods. You know American’s. And they have these thick New York accents. I could barely understand a word they were saying at first. What a riot they were.” he remembers fondly.

“I feel as if I’ve heard this before, but I can’t place it.” Brian ponders, almost to himself.

John appears in the doorway, blowing lightly on a steaming mug.

“Probably from that shocking video of theirs, darling,” Freddie waves his hands about. “Oh, you must’ve seen it. They’re all dressed up like they're in Grease or something, and this square of a girl is pinning after the bad boy. But he’s with this slutty little thing. And oh, I can’t recall the details, but in the end, she ends up murdering the slut!” He slaps the table for effect. “But for some odd reason the boy is okay with it all and they run off into the night together, covered in blood.”

“Sounds… spooky?” Roger shrugs. John stifles a chuckle.

“It’s dramatic! And sexy. And obviously working for them.” The wheels already turning in his head.

John tunes out their chatter and trains his ears to said song, which is about halfway through. The instrumentals seem a bit basic for his taste. The soft strum of an acoustic guitar, a slightly heavier electric over it, with a simple bass line. A female voice flits in.

Cool city moon lays its touch on the room,

Your eyes reach to me

It has a rasp to it. Akin to Stevie Nicks, he thinks.

Two shadows fall saying nothing at all,

We know what we need

No, not quite. It’s entirely it's own if he’s being honest. He can feel the soul pulsating through words and the power that’s beneath it. One that could probably fit with any genre it should choose. His interest peaked.

In the release, two prisoners are free from the darkness

One more escape surviving the heartache and madness

The raw emotion erupting from the speakers and the lyrics start to paint a picture in his mind, scrambling to fill in the faceless voice.

In the heart of the night

The chorus starts and picks up steam quickly. Male voices begin to fill in on background vocals, blending together seamlessly.

We run like bandits

Two hungry hearts under the gun

Her voice cracks a bit, in a charming way. It must be radiant when heard live.

In the heart of the night 

When we find each other

Were stealing love on the run

In the heart of the night,

Heart of the night 

A small smile plays on John’s lips as the song fades out. They’re good, he muses to himself, a bit intrigued by the song and Fred’s colorful description of the accompanying video.

“A great voice indeed. They’ve got a strong sound going.” Brian chirps up.

“That’s her first swing at writing, too. Wish it had been that bloody easy for us.”

“Is she a looker, Fred?” Roger wags his brows.

“Oh please, they’re practically babies! Although that drummer of theirs is certainly something to write home about… Even with the head of hair he has. A bit like a mushroom. A cute one.” Freddie ponders, stroking his full mustache.

John reaches up and pats the tight curls atop his own head, wondering how it would look if he ceased from trimming his current short perm.

“I do hope they catch on here. What fun that would be.” John readily nods along without realizing it.

Freddie switches off the radio and turns back to the other three men. “Alright back to it then. Queue it up, Mac,” placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and raising his eyebrows. “Shall we?”

- - - - - - -

March 1982 - Columbia Records, New York City

“Why are the undersides of my knees sweaty? I’m not a back of the knee sweat kind of guy, alright?” Lawrence fidgets, adjusting his collar for the fourth time in two minutes.

You casually gulp down your third glass of water while staring at the wood-paneled walls of the office. Attempting to avoid the gazes of a number of gold discs lining the walls, the echoes of your musical idols. They seem to be laughing at you.

Steve partakes in his trademark bouncing routine, the chair underneath him squeaking in a violent rhythm. “Do you think it’s the video? It has to be the video or we wouldn’t be in this office. I knew we shouldn’t have taken that big of a risk right out of the gate.”

“You gotta be kidding me. You basically doused yourself in the blood when Eddie pitched it!” Rich cuts in, his usual calm demeanor nowhere to be found.

“What! It was your idea for the--”

The door behind where the group is gathered swings open and in strides a stocky man with a full beard and tinted aviator sunglasses still covering his eyes.

“What are we all standing around for? Sit, sit, sit, c’mon.” His gruff Brooklyn accent ringing out as he moves to sit behind a large mahogany desk.

The Limbs scramble to fit on the couch across from him, with you ending up perched on the armrest, gripping Rich’s bicep for support.

The man, Walter Yetnikoff, CEO and Chairman of Columbia Records, grunts as he eases into a leather chair, finally removing his glasses, revealing surprisingly kind eyes, “Jeez louise, look at you kids. You look as if a nun just caught you all playing with each other’s junk. What’s with the faces?”

“Mr. Yetnikoff, we’d like to sincerely apologize for the backlash that has come from our video. We should’ve known better than that. We could’ve toned it down… a lot.” Eddie rushes out. He wipes his hand over his too-snug tailored pants, probably leftover from days of youth choir.

Walter barks out a laugh. “I’ll admit I was a little shocked to find out that’s what you needed a high school gym for, but relax a little, will ya? You’re not here to be scolded. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have fought so hard to get it airtime.”

The Limbs visibly relax- a tad, but their eyes all stay wide.

“Well aren’t ya gonna ask why you’re all here then?”

“W-why are we here?” Rich asks quietly. “Sir.” He adds.

“It seems that the slight PR crisis of a video you made has made its way across the pond,” Walter smirks.

“You mean…” Steve trails off in a voice two octaves higher than usual.

“You kids better like air travel because there’s gonna be a lot of it in your near future. The hit has broken into the London airwaves and they’re not as god fearing as viewers here seem to be. We’re sending you over there next week now that you’ve wrapped up the tour.”

“Holy shit!” Lawrence yells. You feel yourself falling back off your perch as your large friends all jump to their feet. Rich’s gangly arm luckily catches you and pulls you immediately into a suffocating hug. “You did this, Bunny!” He screams in your ear. “You did this!”

“Alright, alright, you can all go celebrate and drink your faces off in a second,” Walter calls out over the group who immediately shut their mouths. “We have a few details to iron out but I’m hoping to send you over there for a full press tour. Photoshoots, interviews, talk show appearances. The works, you got it.”

Steve lets out a squeal of delight, his voice not yet returning to its usual bass.

“You.” He points a stubby finger in your direction. “I’m waiting to hear back about a last-minute cancelation on some game show out there. We’re gonna try to get you in. You know your shit?”

“W-what kind of shit, sir?” You ask from the bear hug that Rich still holds you in.

He holds up his hands, gesturing to the gold discs that surround him. “Music, my dear.”

All you can do is nod, not wanting to think about what that even entails.

“That’s what I like to see. Now get outta here so you can all combust somewhere outside of my office. We’ll call you in a few days. Get those bags ready, you hear me?” He waves you all off.