#queen requests

Then you started talking, and the talking turned into throwing insults and eventually even shouting. You both were saying nonsense, Roger more so than you because you were hurt and had already said what you wanted to. Roger was agitated because of his foot and your bad mood and your coming onto him and accusing him of not loving you. 

So he called you clingy, needy and attention-seeking. Oh, you think those are the worst? No, he also called you annoying and self-obsessed. And you both knew those words were the farthest from the truth than any other. But Roger couldn't help it. He was angry and called faulty, and he wasn't having any of it. 

When you both looked into each other's eyes after he had shouted that he never loved you, that damned driving drunk crashed his car into yours from the back left side. The scenery completely changed and everything seemed to have gone in slow motion. 

Your wide eyes were shut now, your hands gripping the steering wheel. But your body was pushed forwards, over the wheel and through the window. Roger didn't have to react, he was thrown to the side. He tried to grip onto anything with his hands, but nothing came close to touch. He only remembers seeing the glass shattering as you went through it. 

When he opened his eyes again, Roger's head was in the grass and he was half laying in the grass, half still in the car. After he had stood up, he realised he was pushed against the door and it opened as a result, and he ended up falling out of the car halfway. His neck was hurting now and he groaned as he slowly got up on his knees and then his feet. The process was slow and painful, but he didn't think about that. He only thought about you and finding you, seeing you, checking if you're alright.

You were oh so very far from that. You were laying face down on the pavement, Roger could see blood around your head and body even in the dark, your arms folded next to you. It looked like you had broken your leg, or even more...

Roger staggered over to you and lifted you up in his lap. Your eyes were open, and through his blood and tears in the eyes, he believed you were conscious. But you weren't moving. Maybe it was the shock that made him believe you were here with him still.

He rocked you both back and forth, slowly and softly, in robotic motions. He felt a pain in his left elbow and shoulder, but he wasn't feeling it fully. “Hey, you're okay,” Roger said to you. He didn't know what else to say, all other words having fled his mind, “you're okay, you're alright. We're fine.” His voice turned squeaky at the end, and more tears came. He's crying, and he can't control it. 

Soon, Roger heard sirens coming your and his way, but he stayed where he was. Holding you, crying, and murmuring the same sentences over and over. He lost all track of reality and you when they took him away from you and placed him on the stretcher. He tried not to leave your figure with his eyes, but he couldn't. Roger was passing out and they were taking you away to where he couldn't see anymore. 

He woke up and didn't know where he was, what time it was. He'd lost all track of it between waking up several times and passing out again. Tests and questions and systems and blood-taking and bandages and redressing and... Tiring things, no wonder he slept through most of it all. 

Roger glanced around him, looking for a clock or a watch or anything that might tell him what time it was. He was in the hospital, a strange set of... his clothes on him. He didn't remember wearing them earlier. There's also a serious bandage on his left arm, going from his shoulder to the middle of his forearm. He hasn't seen that before, as well. 

There are no more wires or needles on him, and Roger sighs appreciatively. There's a glass on the bed-side table, and yearns for it, reaching over. Once he drinks the liquid, he feels a bit better. Then he feels his stomach tighten and groans, realising he's hungry, as well.

Roger finds a clock on the wall opposite him and it tells him that it's half past five in the evening. He sighs.

Roger waits for someone to come in and while he does, he also tries to remember what happened. The last decent thing he remembers is holding you in his arms, crying and mumbling in your deaf ears. You didn't hear him anymore. You didn't hear anything. But he didn't know that. And for a while, it's better for him not to know. And now he wonders where you are, how you're doing. You're probably in a hospital bed, sleeping, drugged and wired up.

A nurse comes in, dressed in white, her hair brown. She has similar features to yours, and Roger almost mistakes her for you at first. “H-Hi.” He says in a quiet voice, and then clears his throat.

The nurse gives him a polite smile and grips her clipboard in her hands. “Good afternoon, Mr Taylor.” She says. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.” He says at first. “Nothing hurts, if you're wonderin' about that.” 

“Good to hear that. Your arm, your head, your back—none of them hurt?” She asks and Roger nods. “Alright. Now, please tell me what's your relationship with Y/N Y/L/N. You both were brought in together and seemed to be carrying each other's blood on your clothes.”

“Sh-she's my girlfriend, um...” Roger gulps and looks down, his eyes frantic, “my-my girlfriend, yes.” He looks back at the nurse with hopeful eyes, hoping she'll tell him anything about where you are and what's your condition.

“Does she have any family?” She asks and Roger nods.

“Her mum and sister.” He responds. The nurse nods and writes something down on her clipboard papers. Roger watches her do so with anxious eyes. “Can-can you tell me about her? Where is she? Is she alright? Can I see her?” He can't contain his curiosity and anxiety anymore, he has to know something. They have to tell him what's happening, it'd be purely heartless to keep him in the dark from any news.

The nurse looks down and folds her arms behind her back. Roger watches her anxiously, fiddling with his hands on the edge of the hospital blanket. The nurse walks a few steps closer to Roger's bed, but doesn't reach it. Only a few steps closer. Roger gulps.

“She was brought in without a pulse, without a heartbeat. She wasn't breathing.” She tells Roger. “I am so sorry, Mr Taylor.”

Roger can see the sincerity and hurt in her own face, but he doesn't understand what she's said at first. “Wh-what do you mean 'sorry'? Is she not here?”

“We couldn't regain any life in her body. I truly am sorry, Mr Taylor. There was nothing we could do, unfortunately.” She explains to him further and Roger's own heartbeat and breathing stop for a second.

“She's... She's...” 

Those were the last words Roger said before he started screaming and shouting and throwing everything around. He was uncontrollable, and the nurse was scared of him. He was shouting profanities, threats, denying words. He was crying and screaming his voice out. The nurse ran out, rushing her coworkers to get into his room and fix him a sedative.

Due to a drunken situation or simply a stupid decision, Roger Taylor's closest to-call person's number belongs to Brian May. The secretary sighs and dials the number on the phone and waits for the man to answer the phone. Once he does, she speaks without hesitation.

“Hello, is this Brian May?”

“Yes, who's calling?” 

“This is Saint John's hospital calling you. You're written as Roger Taylor's first contact person.”

“Oh, dear, am I really?” Brian sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, then, um—what's happened?”

“Mr Taylor's in the hospital, recently sedated due to an anger breakout and he's soon going to wake up. We think a familiar face might bring some peace to him.”

“Well, what's the—alright, I'll come and find out if you won't tell me now. Goodbye, then.”

“We'll be waiting for you, Mr May.” The secretary says and ends the call. She puts the telephone down and fills out a form that is to be signed by Mr May when he arrives.

He came quicker than she would have thought, seeing the familiar lanky frame and head of curls of the rockstar walking down the hallway ten minutes after their call. She smiles when he reaches the her table. 

“Hello.” Brian says to her, and she nods.

“Please sign these forms.” She says and gives the papers to him. Brian huffs and sighs quietly to himself, while also humming a tune, giving the hospital papers his signature and check marks. He gives them back to the secretary, a tight-lipped almost smile on his face as he looks at her almost shyly. “Thank you. Mr Taylor's in the 322nd room, first door on your right when you turn the corner. He's awake.” She shows him where he has to go and Brian nods.

“Thank you.” He says and walks away, dragging his long thin stick-like legs behind him. Brian knocks before opening the door and entering Roger's room. His friend is laying on the bed, looking at the window. This night is gloomy for London, practically the usual look. “Hey, Rog,” Brian speaks to get his friend's attention.

Roger turns his head to Brian slowly with raised eyebrows and his face changes into slight surprise when he sees his friend. “What are you doing here?” He asks and Brian chuckles. He closes the door behind him and walks over to the bed. Brian sits down next to his friend and Roger shimmies a little so Brian would be more comfortable.

“The hospital called me.” Brian responds. “Apparently, I'm your number one contact person in your file.” He says and smiles. Something similar to a smile appears on Roger's lips, as well, but it's gone before it lasted. Brian noticed, though. He saw the glimpse of hope. “How are you doing? They told me you were sedated after an... anger burst-out?” Brian furrows his eyebrows a bit, looking at Roger in question. His eyelids only drop a little lower and he looks at the window again.

Brian waits for Roger to speak, and he doesn't, for a while. “Someone crashed into us.” Roger says quietly. “Sh-she fell through the window. The front windshield.” He tells Brian and he tenses a little, feeling sorrow for Roger and you. “And she...” Roger gulps down his tears, but his sadness and anger can be heard in his shaky, squealed voice. “She didn't survive, Brian.” Roger shakes his head violently, still not looking at Brian. 

“Rog...” Brian says ever so softly. As softly as a feather falling against a glass window. 

“They couldn't bring her back. They couldn't restart her heart, they couldn't power her lungs, they couldn't—” Roger stops himself and looks around. “FUCK! They could have done fuck all, but they did nothing and stood by while my girl was still revivable! PISSPOTS!” Roger shouts and Brian brings his hand to Roger's, trying to do anything to calm his friend down. Roger cries, but wipes his tears at the same time with the back of his hands. “It's all my fault, it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Brian.” He repeats over and over, crying heavily. 

“Don't say that, Rog, that's not true—”

“It is!” Roger exclaims, looking at Brian finally. “It is thoroughly my fault from start to finish and now she's DEAD!” He screams and Brian brings his lips together, hoping no doctors will come by and sedate his friend again. Roger's tears keep falling and he sobs, looking at the boring window again. He calms his own breathing, but Brian can see the tears coming down still. “We were arguing. Because I forgot her birthday, you know—”

“Yes, I was there last night.” Brian nods and Roger looks at him.

“And then I got my stupid foot cut and we had to get bandages.” Roger tells Brian. “And then we started talking, shouting, insulting each other. And then some cunt's car—”

“Roger!” Brian scolds him for the horrible word. For all they know, it could have been an accident, a sick or mental person driving. They're bound to know the truth only in a day or two.

“—crashed into ours and she—” Roger stops himself, sniffling and wiping his face. “And I held her, I held her to me. I thought her arm was broken, and I thought she was conscious, but I didn't even notice that she wasn't moving.” Roger looks back at Brian and more tears start falling, like rain now, down his cheeks. “She died in a second, Brian. A second! A fucking—” Roger stops again and looks away, trying to get his tears out by blinking. “Could have prevented it all. Could have been with her now.” Roger starts crying again, more heavier than previously and it breaks Brian's heart break to see his best friend like this. He's never seen Roger so visibly broken, in such a state of despair. 

Brian sits closer to Roger and puts his arms around the small frame of the drummer, pulling his best friend against his chest. He feels Roger's bandaged arm against him and puts a hand on his hair. Brian lets Roger cry all he needs, and neither of them care how it'd look if someone walked in. Roger needs comfort and Brian's now here to give him just that and more.

Roger whines about how he lied to you, how he hurt you, how he forgot your birthday, how he said such horrible things to you. Brian listens to it all while holding Roger like a little child. Brian knew how much you and Roger mean to each other, and now that you're gone... it brings a few tears to his eyes, as well. You were a sunshine, a person full of love and life and support and just... everything good. Brian noticed how happy you made Roger and how he always wanted to be by your side. What broke Brian was that Roger mentioned something about proposing to you soon. Roger was so happy about it, excited. Excited for you both and the future you could have had together. 

“Please don't blame this on yourself, Rog,” Brian says softly when Roger's sobs have grown quieter, “weighing yourself down in this situation is the worst you can do.” He tells him. “She wouldn't want this.” He then says, quietly, careful of how Roger might react to those words. Nothing changes in his demeanor, and Brian is a bit relieved. “I'll keep you company here. I can call Freddie and John—”

“Please,” Roger pleads softly, “no one else.” He says. Brian nods and pats Roger's back. He lets go of Roger, and the blonde drummer falls into the soft hospital bed again. A shaky sigh leaves his lips. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Brian asks and Roger nods, looking at his best friend. “I hear they have killer eggs here.” He says, smiling sheepishly. Roger only looks at Brian, not replying anything. Brian understands it well, not asking anything more of his grieving best friend. He needs time.

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Very much pregnant, two and a half weeks in. You felt morning sickness and a dislike towards alcohol, finding its smell horrible. Anything you ate, you threw up and you soon called your mum. She's the one you trust in any question you have, always has been. So you called her and told her what's been happening and she broke you the news of being pregnant.

Her words burned on your lips which you nibbled at afterwards, after the phone call had ended. You stood in your kitchen, thinking of the consequences, thinking of what to do, what would he say... What would Roger say? What would he do? You booked an appointment immediately after having our doubts, having split thoughts about being pregnant. But you were, you found that out that same day, hours after.

Certainly, a three month relationship isn't a lot, and a child too soon for that, but... You weren't sure of Roger's response, but you were very sure that you loved him like no one else. He was a sure one for you, his looks and reputation might not promise that, but you know who he is. 

Yet here you are. Abandoned by the man you thought you loved most of all, the man you thought gave you the same amount of love. The one you thought wouldn't leave you, wouldn't deny you, wouldn't do... what he did. Maybe you should have just not told him, make up lies and run away when your stomach got too fat. But you didn't, and in time, you'll realise that it was the right choice to make.

“Hi, Roger.” You say sweetly to him, your hand around his neck already and twirling the ends of his blonde strands. He smiles at you and kisses your lips with the same smile, making you giggle. His nose touches yours softly, and you kiss the tip of it. Strangely shaped, his nose. A round form, but the pointiest tip at the end. Always reminded you of a little birdie.

“Hi, my love.” He says, slowly blinking. “Have a good day?” The conversation with your mum you had echoes in your mind and the doctor's appointment of last night flashes by, but you nod. 

“Do you mind... sitting down?” You ask. Roger furrows his eyebrows and turns his head slightly. “I have something to tell you.” He nods then, and walks over to the kitchen table, taking a seat at one of the chairs. 

Roger reaches his arm out to you, pouting and you giggle, blushing and trying to shake the stress out of your body. You walk over to him and take his hand in yours. He can feel that you're a bit shaky by holding your nervous fingers between his. Roger looks up at you and you sigh heavily.

“I only found out last night that...” you trail off. Your facial expression changes between a nervous smile and a frown as you try to bring your lips to say the fatal words. “R-Roger, I'm pregnant.” You finally say, maybe in a voice bit too harsh, as you look in his eyes.

You feel his hand loosening on yours as his reaction to your words. You lose his eyes as he looks down. Roger makes no sound. He's completely silent, and you know very well it's not like him at all to be silent. If he is so, then there's something truly wrong or he's deep into thinking. This must be the first and the latter. 

You don't move an inch and honestly, you start to feel very uncomfortable in standing and waiting. Roger lets go of your hand, and it drops by your side. You watch him, and your eyes have started to burn from doing so. it's painful, it's unbearable, and you're impatient. You just need him to tell you an exact answer, you can't face silence or ignoring. You never have.

“Roger—”

“You can't be.” He says so quietly you thought you'd dreamt it due to your zest to hear an answer. You furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head down to him slightly. You don't want to look into his eyes, but you do, as well. You don't want to seem to obvious about it. 

It takes a while for you to manage a reply, and when you do, you speak quietly, as well. “I am.” You whisper. When you don't hear an answer, you can't hide your curiosity anymore. “Roger, what's wrong?”

He looks at you, and for the first time, you can't read his face, you can't read any emotion off it, or feeling. “What's wrong?” He repeats in a shaky and mock-ful voice. “You're pregnant is what's wrong.” He says and you draw in a breath. Did he really...

Tears gather in your eyes and you step away, Roger watching you as you do, not moving an inch, not changing his facial expression. He doesn't even want to apologise. He doesn't think what he said was wrong. He doesn't—”You don't want a child?” You ask in a shocked whisper. 

“So you're keeping it?” He asks back, tilting his head to the side.

“Of course I am!” You reply. “It's out baby, Roger. I want to keep our child... I want to have your child.” You admit, and though you feel like Roger wants you to feel shame for that, you don't. 

“Well, you can't.” He shakes his head and looks away, but then quickly back at you. “I've been making money and we can afford... not having it.”

You don't hesitate to let out a gasp from the shock, your hand shooting up to your face. “You can not make decisions for me just because it's your money.” You say to him, angrier. “And couldn't that money be saved for the baby?”

“No.” Roger says, shaking his head quickly. “Absolutely not.” He assures you and you cry out, tears falling down your cheeks. 

“You'd kill an unborn child because—“ you tell him in a questioning manner but halt when you realise you haven't got a reason. “Why don't you want to have a child?”

“Y/N, we're not serious!” Roger exclaims. “We've only been together for three months and I don't want to have a child with just a fling!” He stands up now, taking a few steps over to you, and you gasp again, followed by a cry. You immediately step back from him and his angry form, grasping the kitchen counter. 

“Just a fling...” you whisper. It goes around in your mind in a loop until the words get too loud for your liking. You sniffle and wipe your face. With tears in your eyes, you face Roger and look at him, trying to straighten your back confidently. You want to shout at him so much, let all your anger and confusion out. But you don't want a shouting match. “Right. So if I'm just a fling, it won't matter to you that I raise this baby alone and without a father, and leave you now? Right?” You ask, expecting a real response, but Roger only watches you. “You'll feel just as alone soon as I do now, Roger. Just a fling...” you mutter again and look down. “Just a fling who is willing to have your baby. I'm just a fling who has supported you more than anyone. Just a fling who loves you.” The words leave your mouth quicker than you can register, but you don't really care that they're out in front of him. They should be, because it's the truth. Even if he was ready for abortion—would he have thought that you two could be together after that?—and even if he doesn't want a baby at all, the words are still true. You love him. 

Roger visibly freezes at that, and sighs quietly. “I didn't know you felt that way...” He admits, and you throw your hand at him. 

“Doesn't matter anymore. I don't need your pity.” You say and walk past him, wanting to walk further into his apartment. You stop and look at him. A smile stretches your face. “I'll pack my bags and be going, alright?”

There's not a hint of sarcasm in your voice, and it surprises the drummer. You have the most genuine voice and smile as you speak, and then walk further into his apartment. As if you two had a regular conversation, like you did day to day. Like nothing just happened, like he didn't just reject a child from you, like you didn't just confess your love to him. And now he knows. 

It's nothing serious. Nothing meaningful. Just like he thought your relationship was. Three months. That's nothing, right? Nothing that important. Just like this little argument. Nothing to fuss about, nothing major that should cost worry or stress or crying over. It didn't mean anything, and still doesn't. Right?

You pack two bags of all your stuff calmly, although tears are burning your cheeks and rolling down them. You say nothing, you don't make a sound. You fight off all the memories that come back with each little thing you pick up in your hand. What's done is done, you've said what you wanted, you've got your answer. Now you go back to your flat and figure out what to do next. But that's only when you get there, no need to think about it now. 

Roger sits in the kitchen with a beer in hand, listening to your footsteps padding on his apartment's floor. He's thinking if he said the right words. He told you the truth, but it would have been better if he lied? You hate lying and liars, and Roger very well knows that. He promised he wouldn't lie to you, but he also promised that he wouldn't hurt you. And now look at where you are.

A pregnancy was what it took for a seemingly wonderful three-month relationship to fall apart. You never thought this would be it. You didn't want this to be it. You wanted for this to be a happy evening full of love and dreams for the future. Now you can only think of nightmares and misunderstanding and doubts. That's what is waiting for you now.

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Brian understood your irritation and exhaustion, so he didn't ask any questions and just talked to you, took care of you, mostly leaving you to yourself. You are always thankful for that, loving when no one really bothers you or minds your presence. He asked you if you wanted to go to the studio with him, and you agreed. You didn't really want to stay home, you just wanted to be somewhere. You convinced him that you'd be okay watching them rehearse, minding your own business. 

You're curled up on the sofa, many painkillers already taken and chocolate eaten, your stomach still hurting. Your knees were up to your chest and you watched the boys sing and play their instruments. Their performance was incredible already, and you can't even give yourself a reason for why they rehearse at all. Freddie's improvising every time they perform on stage and it's magnificent, you're frozen on the spot and your eyes are glued to him, watching his enigmatic persona emerge and carry Freddie around the stage.

Deaky takes his guitar strap off his shoulders and over his head, lifting the guitar with it, and you watch Brian do the same. Freddie finishes singing and places the mic into the stand, and Roger gives you all a few final hits on his drum and you know they're taking a break. Finally. You smile tiredly, knowing you'll have some alone time with Brian. They all talk between themselves about grabbing something to eat and you realise your dire need to go to the bathroom. 

You stand up slowly and wince immediately, your back and shoulders hurting. You try to slow your movements even more and stand up finally. Nothing's wrong, you feel a bit faint, as usual, and start walking across the room to its exit door. In the next second, your vision gets warped by black spots and you feel ever weaker, your legs feeling numb, and the incredible pain in your stomach only intensifies. You close your eyes, groaning softly, and feel yourself tilting to the side a little. Actually, you are falling, but you feel absolutely no sense of the world itself at the moment, so you don't know that you're fainting. There are yells around you, but you don't hear anything, falling to the floor and feeling cold all over your body. You feel like you've quickly fallen asleep. 

You don't think you've woken up a big amount of time later, it felt like an eternity but when you open your eyes, you know it's been a minute or two. Four faces are looking down on yours, and they all sigh, some stepping away. Brian, Rog, Freddie and John. You blink a few times and try to gather yourself, rubbing your hand all over your face. You don't want to listen in on what they're saying between themselves, but you only focus on Brian.

“Sweetheart,” he says sweetly and you feel his hand on your leg. You want to swat it away out of slight irritation, but you control yourself, “how do you feel?”

You sigh heavily and look down. You're on the couch and your head falls against the cushion. John sits down next to the sofa, squatting down and you look at him momentarily. 

“I don't know... I felt so weak for a moment, and my stomach wouldn't stop hurting. As it does,” you add with slight anger, “I just wanted to go to the toilet.”

“You fainted, dear.” Says John and you raise your eyebrows. 

“Ah,” you say, “must've been that, yes.” You admit and chuckle, curling up on the sofa, your knees to your chest. The stomach pain hasn't stopped, and it frustrates you. “John, would you mind?” You look at him pleadingly, and he understands what you mean, standing up and nodding. “Sorry.” You apologise. 

John chuckles. “Don't worry.” He says and walks to Freddie and Roger, who are chatting about the place to have lunch at today. You look back at Brian and reach out your hand to his that is placed on your leg. Brian gives it to you, letting you squeeze his hand after it comes off your leg. You do squeeze his hand between your fingers, and Brian even flinches a little. A very quiet 'sorry' leaves your lips, but Brian shakes his head.

“It's fine, dear.” He says and then touches your cheek with his other hand. “Stomach still hurts?”

“Fuck, yes.” You say, gritting your teeth. “I want to murder it.” You admit and look away. Brian chuckles full-heartedly. 

“I think you'll still need that for kids and, uh...” Brian raises his eyebrows, “living.” He finishes and you both laugh. “But love,” he says after the sweet moment and you look up, “can't I take you to the hospital? It seems worse than any other time.”

You sigh and close your eyes, knowing that Brian's right and his suggestion is the right one. “Yeah, you might need to.” You say. Brian looks at you questioningly, waiting for you to finish talking. He knows there's an argument you have. “But I'm lazy.” You make a sad face and shrug. Brian laughs, and then stands up.

“C'mon, love, I'll carry you to our car, get you food and drive you to the hospital.” He says and spreads out his arms to you. You give him a warm smile. “Does that sound good?”

“It does.” You say. “Only I'm not sure your stick-like arms will be able to carry me.” You admit and you two laugh again. Brian knows your humor gets a bit darker when you're going through your womanhood days, and he can deal with it. Sometimes it seems very funny to him, sometimes he gets a bit offended, but that doesn't last long.

“Let's go, dear.” Brian says and slides his arms under your shoulders and knees. You groan, wincing as well, because the pain in your back and stomach only intensify when Brian lifts you up. “Did I do something wrong?” He asks immediately. You shake your head and bear the pain. 

“'S not your fault, baby.” You say and let your head fall against Brian's chest. Maybe this day will get better eventually, and you hope the hospital can give you something actually worthy against the stupid stomach pains and cramps. 

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