Chapter Text
"Oh, would you look who decided to show up!" Roger derided as Freddie strutted into the studio, clearly drunk and clearly having just spent some quality time with Mr. Prenter.
Freddie set his usual bottle of beer on the upright piano in the corner, then turned to meet Roger's gaze. "There a problem, darling?"
Roger had always been told he looked like a child when he frowned, but he shot Freddie his most wilting glare. "Why don't you ask Paul?" he snarled, completely aware he was aiming below the belt (so to speak). "He seems to know more about the band than we do, lately!"
"Rog-" John tried to interject, but Roger didn't want to hear it.
"Not a word from you! I can't believe you're on board with this. 'Body Language', really? Sounds like the sort of song they'd play at a strip joint!"
"What's so wrong with that?" Freddie asked, unperturbed, turning on one of the atrocious new synthesizers in the room and starting to pluck out a few chords.
Roger was about to tell Freddie exactly what was so wrong with that, and perhaps destroy that damned synth with his bare hands, but he felt a hand on his chest.
"Nothing's wrong," Brian said, sounding diplomatic as usual. "It's just… are you sure that's our single?"
"A single?" Roger cried. "It shouldn't be on the album at all! Honestly, Brian, I thought you were on my side!"
"I'm not taking sides! There are no sides!" Brian sighed, weary, then continued, "We're all friends here, yeah? Let's just put this album together."
Roger snorted derisively. "Oh, you mean the album featuring a hit single without any guitar? Does that not bother you?"
"I get to play in 'Body Language'... a bit…." Brian trailed off for a moment, then added, "it's catchy!" like that made everything better. Sure, it was catchy, but it wasn't Queen . Brian would have to be mad to think so.
Unsure, Brian looked to John, who shrugged and said, "It's a good song, Rog."
"It's complete bollocks, Deaks! Freddie's moaning like a whore for half the song! God, am I the only one in this band with any sense?"
"Perhaps," Freddie said with a nod, still plodding away on his stupid synthesizer, "the problem is that you have too much sense."
"Too much- why, I-!"
"I think!" Brian interrupted. "Freddie means that you should calm down a bit?"
"Calm down?! When you all want to release this garbage? I- that's it. I'm leaving. I'll come back when you get your heads on straight." On his way out, Roger cursed and uttered his final goodbye:
"God, sometimes I wish I'd never met any of you!"
Roger, not for the first time, wakes to a voice he doesn't recognize.
"Time to get ready for work, Doctor Taylor," his latest one-night stand murmurs into his ear, stroking his cheek with smooth, sultry fingers. As Roger's eyes flutter open, he takes in last night's conquest—a dark-haired beauty with ethereal black eyes to match her lacey bra, which has fallen carelessly off one shoulder.
Roger laughs. "Doctor Taylor?" he echoes, one brow cocked in playful confusion. "Kinky." This wouldn't be his first time getting roped into some morning-after roleplay, and Roger definitely isn't opposed. He's never quite understood doctor kinks himself, but he'll play along for the prize at the end.
The woman rolls her eyes, sliding her fallen bra strap back over her shoulder before she quips, "yes, dentists are very sexy," she drones. "Come on Roger, you've got a root canal to perform in an hour."
He's about to play along, brain already piecing together what this nameless woman could possibly mean by "root canal" (that must be a euphemism for something ), when she continues. "I know you hate your job, but I won't have you late for work again on my account." Her voice suddenly flat and without a hint of seduction, and it throws Roger for a loop.
"Again?" This doesn't sound like a roleplay anymore. More than anything, it reminds him of Dominique's scoldings, back before their marriage fell apart. The sense of familiarity in this stranger's voice is almost haunting, and Roger realizes with a shudder that he doesn't remember anything about last night. Even if he's completely hammered, Roger will usually recall at least hazy flashes of his escapades, but he doesn't even remember meeting this woman. He doesn't even remember walking into the bar.
The last thing he remembers, actually, is his row with the band.
"Yes, again ," the woman retorts, arms crossed. "This would be the third time this month. Honestly, I don't understand why you don't just quit that bloody dentistry already."
"Dentistry?" Roger repeats dumbly, and he starts to take in his surroundings. He assumed he was in a hotel room, but the room they're in looks like someone's home. Roger's reading glasses have been casually placed on the nightstand, and he definitely wouldn't have taken out of the house last night. He puts them on, hoping to get a better view of the room, and that's when Roger spots the plaque on the wall. There, printed in bold calligraphy, are words Roger swore he would never read:
Roger Taylor, BDS
A shock of terror runs down Roger's veins. Something is very, very wrong.
"Oh, fuck," he says, still reeling as he shoots to his feet. As with most one-night stands, Roger expects to feel the telltale throbs of hangover pounding in his skull, but even those are unsettlingly absent. His eyes dart about as he walks across the room, trying to take in every strange detail of this new world around him. His bare feet pad over soft carpet that doesn't feel like that of a hotel room—it's too thick, too comfortable. Finally, he's made it to the bathroom, and he slams the door shut behind him as he turns on the lights.
He leans forward to clutch the smooth granite countertop, hands trembling. He can't even bring himself to look up at his own reflection. He's almost scared he won't recognize his own face. His words from earlier echo in his head.
Sometimes, I wish I'd never met any of you!
Did the universe somehow grant his wish? Had some mysterious force heard his thoughtless request?
No. No, that's impossible. He's being unreasonable. Mysterious forces of nature may be Freddie's game, but Roger is a man of logic. There must be a practical explanation for all of this.
Then Roger notices the gold ring on his finger.
"Shit!" he yelps, before remembering the woman (his wife?) outside. Voice dialed down to a stage-whisper, he continues. "Shit, shit, shit, shit…."
He's married. He's married to some woman he doesn't even know.
At least she's hot, he reasons, but some voice in the back of his mind that sounds a bit like Brian chides him. Now isn't the time, Roger .
The voice has a point. Roger needs to figure out what's happening to him. Bracing himself, he forces himself to look into the mirror.
He looks- well, pretty normal, actually. His hair is a little shorter in the back, and there are a few more white hairs than he's used to seeing (probably from the stress of dentistry, dear god). A quick glance at his throat doesn't reveal any hickeys to cover up, which is one less thing to worry about, so he rummages through the various shelves and cupboards until he finds his razor and some shaving cream in a drawer absent of his usual stage accessories. As he shaves, he notices the subtle differences in the lines of his face. Roger is in his thirties, so he's come to terms with the shallow wrinkles starting to etch their way into his skin. They're still small, and they're nothing a little makeup can't cover up, but they're prominent enough to notice when he's leaning toward the mirror like this. So far, he's had more smile lines than frown lines, something he's always noted with an inward sense of smugness. At least he's getting the good sort of wrinkles, if he must age at all.
Not anymore, he realizes, pausing mid-razor-swipe to trace a finger over the deeper scowl marks between his brows. They make him look more stern and serious, more like the doctor of dentistry he doesn't want to be.
If this is a prank, it's a damn good one. Perhaps it's a hallucination, or a bad trip. Freddie tends to dabble in heavier drugs, maybe he slipped Roger something. That has to be it. Any explanation would be better than accepting this as reality.
I wish I'd never met any of you!
The words repeat themselves against his will, and Roger shakes his head, returning to his shaving. He'll think about this later. Right now, he has a root canal to perform on one very unfortunate patient.