Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As you cruised down your quiet residential street, you breathed in the fragrance of freshly mown grass. A group of children were playing cricket in the field across the way. You admired their spirited play from afar, taking your eyes off the road for just a moment too long. With a great crash, the front tyre of your bicycle scraped hard against the kerb in front of your house, and in an instant, you found yourself sprawled out on the front drive.

Missing the strip of grass along the drive by just a foot, your knee and both hands connected with the cement, and were now scraped and bloodied. The clip-clop of heavy boots rang out against the pavement, but you didn’t hear a thing, focused instead on pulling tiny pebbles out of the indents they’d made in your palms. Thankfully, you hadn’t hit your head, but you were a bit dazed by the ordeal, and just wanted to get those silly rocks off your hands.

“Y/N, are you alright?” a familiar voice called frantically. When you finally looked up, you saw that your brother’s friend, the lanky yet lovely John Deacon, had come to your aid. He knelt down beside you, inhaling in a sharp hiss when he saw the deep scrape on your knee. Beads of blood were pooling together on the surface of your leg, and a thick line of the red stuff dripped onto the asphalt beneath you. “Look at you, you’re hurt,” he fretted. “How badly does it hurt?”

“I’m fine, John,” you groaned, leaning your head back to keep from crying. Tears stung at the corner of your eyes, and at least one managed to escape, leaving a warm, wet trail down your cheek. You hated crying, especially in front of boys you thought were cute – Brian’s sweet, intelligent friend was no exception.

“Wow, you’re really bleeding a lot,” John gulped, reaching out to inspect your hands. “I think we should get you inside and see if we can’t clean this up.” You protested, pulling away from him as he grasped the underside of your elbow, and he shied away, not wanting to upset you further.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” you assured him, although you weren’t so sure yourself. As soon stood and tried to take a step, your injured knee collapsed beneath you. John caught you beneath the arms, hauling you upright.

“I can see that,” he quipped, “but for my sake, just put an arm over my shoulder, and I’ll give you a hand to the door.” He wrapped one arm around your back, and another beneath your legs, scooping you up as if you were light as a feather. His hands were cool against the skin of your sun-kissed legs, having been tinkering with cold metal tools in the garage prior to your fall. From the kitchen window, Brian had seen the incident unfold, and hurried to the front door to greet you both.

“Bloody hell, Y/N,” he exclaimed, “What’ve you done to yourself?” He held the door for John, who made it up the few steps into the kitchen with ease and deposited you in an old wooden chair. Brian scurried to the cupboard and pulled out a basket of rags, which he quickly soaked, wrung out in the sink, and brought over to where you were now seated. “John, would you mind fetching the first aid kit from the garage, please?” he requested. His friend bobbed his head and stepped out of the room, his departure announced a moment later by the slam of the screen door.

“It was nothing,” you frowned, annoyed by the attention. “I got distracted while I was on my bike, and I bumped the kerb a bit too hard. Wasn’t that bad a fall, really – nothing’s broken, I don’t think.” Brian met your eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“And what, may I ask, was the distraction?” he wondered, a sly grin creeping over his face. “It wouldn’t happen to be that skinny young lad who’s been working in our garage, would it?” Your cheeks flushed, and you swatted at your brother, who screeched out a high-pitched laugh. “Come on Y/N,” he teased, “how long are you going to fawn over poor John before you just tell him you like him?”

“I never said I liked him,” you huffed indignantly, “I said I thought he was fun, that’s all.” Brian returned to your side, ruffling your hair affectionately before picking up one of the damp cloths he’d set on the table.

“Whatever you say, sis,” he winked, holding out a hand. You placed your own atop it, palm facing up. When the warm cloth touched your wound, you gasped, snatching your hand back for a moment. Brian grimaced apologetically; he hadn’t meant to hurt you.

“It’s fine, just get it over with, and for God’s sake, at least try to be gentle,” you whined, bracing yourself for the pain. Your brother did his best, wincing in response to the sharp breaths you were taking to combat the stinging sensation. By the time he had finished with both of your hands, John returned from the garage, first aid kit in hand.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he babbled, setting the box on the table, “it was hidden beneath some of your father’s tools, and I didn’t quite know what colour it was, and I didn’t want to break anything so I had to get the ladder, and—”

“Thank you, John,” you interrupted, hoping to give him a break from fretting. “And thank you again for getting me inside. I was going to try and tough it out, but I don’t think I realized how hard I hit the ground.” John leaned over Brian’s shoulder to get a peek at your knee.

“Really got yourself good,” he observed, tilting his head to one side. “I hope your bicycle isn’t too badly damaged. N-not that it’s more important than you, I just mean...” This time he stopped himself, realizing he sounded foolish. “I’m glad you’re alright, Y/N. I was really worried about you for a minute there.”

“Well, a few days off from cruising the neighbourhood and she’ll be good as new,” Brian said decidedly, smiling brightly at you. “All done, kiddo. Maybe John can pull out a lawn chair and set it up outside, and you can read a book for a bit, so you don’t have to miss out on your daily quota of fresh air.” With John’s back to him, your brother waggled his eyebrows deviously; he’d been trying to set you and John up for ages.

“Sure, I could do that,” John nodded quickly. “Are you alright to walk this time, or…”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine this time around,” you shrugged, hauling yourself to your feet with great effort, “but just in case, maybe give me your arm.” John offered the crook of his elbow, which you laced your arm through. His skin was a bit moist, probably sweaty from being outside all afternoon, but you didn’t mind; you’d longed to hold his hand, sweaty or not, and had secretly hoped Brian would mention your interest to him at some point.

“Y/N, did you hear me?” John asked, his voice interrupting your train of thought. You shook your head, not realizing that you’d been too caught up to hear anything going on outside your head.

“Sorry,” you frowned, “come again?” He smiled, showing the slight gap between his front teeth you’d always thought was quite charming.

“I was just asking whether you’d like for me to set up your chair out in the front garden,” he told you. “Or, if you wanted some company, you could come sit in the garage with me. My project shouldn’t be too loud.” This sounded like a marvellous idea to you; maybe you’d learn something new about John, figure out how to solve the puzzle that was his mind.

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to sit with you,” you effused. “What are you working on today?” The corners of John’s mouth turned up in a slight smile, and the twinkle in his eye said that in just a moment, you’d see exactly what he’d been up to.

“Here we are,” he announced, guiding you into the cool, shaded garage. “If you’re alright to stand for a moment, I’ll grab a lawn chair right away.”

You leaned against the garage wall for support, looking around at the mess of tools, sawdust and scraps of wood to try and determine what he could possibly be doing here. Brian had left him to his work, but had been stopping in every few hours to see his progress, you knew. Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy ogling him from afar, you’d have known what exactly had been displacing your father’s car from the garage every weekend for the last month.

“How’s right here?” John inquired, unfolding the blue chair and setting it beside his workstation. “You’ll be close enough that you can see everything, but far enough away that all this rubbish won’t get on your clothes,” he explained, indicating the dust and chips of wood that had accumulated on the table and floor.

“Perfect,” you agreed, smiling up at him. “So tell me, Deaky, what have you been up to in here all these weekends? I’ve been dying to know.” At the mention of his nickname, John’s cheeks blushed bright pink, and he covered a tiny smile with his hand.

“Well, um, you see,” he started, biting his lip as he thought about how to explain it all. “I’ve got a bass that I play for shows with the band, but I’ve been wanting to make my own for a while now.” You looked up at him, your interested expression encouraging him to continue. “Brian and your dad have actually built a guitar together before, so I asked if they’d give me a hand with it. Brought over my own materials, which I saved up for over the summer, and your dad said he’d lend me the tools and space to do it.” His expression was one of pride; he had worked hard on this project, and it was clear that he felt good about the work he’d done thus far.

“Can I see it?” you asked curiously. “I watched Bri and Da when they put Red together, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen another homemade guitar before.” John waved you over, encouraging you to come close to the table. He lifted a protective plastic tarp up to reveal his creation: a guitar body with a natural finish hewn from a piece of maple, which John had been meticulously sanding all afternoon.

“This is incredible,” you breathed, reaching out to touch the smooth wood. “You actually made this, John?” He pressed his lips together and nodded, continuing to watch for your reaction.

“I finished another bit last weekend, if you’d like to see that as well,” he offered. When you glanced up and met his eyes, beaming with excitement, he reached beneath the table and brought up a long piece of wood you immediately recognized as the guitar’s neck. The wood was darker than that of the body, and had already been fitted with a matching fingerboard and set with copper frets.

“Look at this,” you pointed, indicating the round, luminous dots inlayed between some of the frets. “Mother of pearl, right?”

“Right,” John confirmed. “Could have used something else, but I like the way it looks better than plastic.” He pointed out a few other notable aspects unique to his guitar, and explained his inspirations. “This bit here is similar to a guitar my favourite bassist uses,” he noted, pointing to another bit of inlay on the headstock, “and I shaped this bit on the back of the body exactly how your dad recommended, so my hardware will fit properly.” He indicated a box filled with metal bits and bobs. “There’s all the stuff that needs to go into or onto the guitar, so I can plug it into my amp and play it at shows.”

“This must have taken a lot of time and energy to plan and build, John,” you expressed. Without thinking it through, John took your hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Ouch!” you yelped, pulling your hand back. John smacked his forehead in disbelief; how could he have forgotten your injury in less than a half hour? He reached out and put his arms around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest in a tight embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaked, stroking a hand down the back of your head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to…” John buried his face in your shoulder. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” Surprised but not displeased, you encircled John’s waist with your arms, nuzzling your face against his t-shirt.

“It’s alright, I know you didn’t mean to,” you comforted, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered shoulder. Suddenly realizing that he had swept you into a hug, John’s body stiffened. This was something he’d only done in daydreams, but now, here he was.

“Are you…is this alright?” he murmured, pulling his face back to meet your eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if I could touch you.” Rolling your eyes, you released his waist and placed your hands (very softly, to avoid more pain) on the sides of his face.

“John Deacon, if you don’t kiss me right now, we’re going to have a problem,” you stated firmly. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch the hint for months.” Not needing to be told twice, John leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, humming happily at the warmth and softness he was met with.

Neither of you had much experience with kissing, but that proved not to be a problem at all. John went by instinct, pacing himself so as not to seem too needy. Your hands shifted back so that your fingers tangled in John’s long hair, and he responded to the gentle tug with increased fervour. What he lacked in confidence, John made up for in passion.

The two of you, caught up in each other, could have continued on that way for much longer. If it weren’t for your father – who had parked on the street and walked up the drive, wheeling your sad-looking bike alongside him – and his interruption, you would have spent the entire afternoon in John’s arms if you could.

Harold May cleared his throat awkwardly, causing the two of you to leap apart. John’s cheeks went scarlet; by the look in his eyes, you knew the boy was trying to scrap together an explanation for having been snogging Mr. May’s daughter in his garage.

“Looks like things are progressing well, John,” your father declared awkwardly, pointing at pieces of the bass guitar John had been showing you moments earlier. He didn’t seem put off at all, judging by his expression. In fact, he seemed rather pleased. “But, uhh, would you mind taking a break and looking at Y/N’s bicycle?”

Chapter Text

The summer of 1970 passed by faster than you’d ever imagined it could. In a matter of days, your brother, his friends, and yourself would return to your respective colleges for another school year. After your little bicycle accident, John Deacon had finally got it through his thick skull that you had taken a fancy to him, and had devoted the rest of the holiday to making sure you knew he felt the same way. On his lunch breaks from his job at a small electronics repair shop, he would pick you up from the library down the street, and the two of you went for lunch every weekday. By the end of the summer, you were nearly inseparable.

When your father had interrupted your moment that day in the garage, he had been kind enough to keep what he had seen to himself. This enabled you and John to discuss the trajectory of the relationship before sharing it with Brian, Freddie and Roger. The three of them were ecstatic for you both, of course, but you were glad to have had the time to work things out before telling others. You’d both had casual dating partners before, but something made this relationship feel much more serious; you were adults now, which meant that dating could lead to a long-term partnership – marriage, even.

One Saturday afternoon, John surprised you with a picnic lunch in the park. It was a day off for both of you, and he had suggested that you spend the day together. You pitched a blanket beneath a shady tree, close enough to the duck pond to hear the gentle splash of waterfowl as they mucked about, fishing for their own lunch. John was propped up on one elbow, stretched out beside you on the blanket. Your hair had fallen into your face, and he reached out to brush it behind your ear. Over the past 6 weeks, he had lost the tentativeness that had previously characterized him. Once you’d gotten to know him better, you realized he was actually quite bold.

“I have to tell you something,” John announced, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on your lips. He smiled and wiped his hand across his mouth, removing some of the cherry lip-gloss you’d applied to your lips before leaving the house that afternoon.

“What is it?” you wondered, arching an eyebrow. “Is it a secret?” You loved a good secret, and John knew it. With a smirk, he shook his head and reached out to tweak your nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“No, silly,” he teased. “I hope it’s not a secret at all. In fact, I hope everyone knows it, from John o’ Groats to Truro.” You cocked your head to one side, feigning confusion – really, you knew what was coming, and it made your heartbeat quicken in your chest. “Y/N May,” he murmured, setting a hand gently on your hip, “I’ve fallen in love with you this summer.” His grey-green eyes shimmered with the bright sunlight overhead, and his words were the sweetest sound you’d ever heard.

“Have you really?” you smiled, shifting your hips forward. You balanced your head on your hand, your elbow supporting your weight beneath you; your position mirrored John’s exactly, and the adjustment of your position brought you closer to him. “You – in love with me? I can hardly believe such a thing.”

“Well, you’ll have to try your best to believe it,” John said seriously, “because it’s the truth, and I can’t contain it any longer. My feelings will not be repressed.” You giggled as he quoted your favourite book, Pride and Prejudice which he’d read a few weeks ago at your insistence.

“Well then, John Deacon,” you replied, glancing up at him beneath your dark lashes, “you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” A toothy grin spread across his lips, and he couldn’t help but pull you into another kiss, deeper this time. He moved forward so his body was flush with yours, and tangled a hand in the curls at the base of your neck.

“I love you, I love you,” he whispered between kisses, wanting nothing more than to be near you every moment of every day. Neither of you were paying attention to any pedestrians walking past, too focused on each other. If you hadn’t been sprawled out on a blanket in a public park, things might have gone further, the way they had in the privacy of your bedroom or John’s. Those moments had been magical in their own way, but this, the acknowledgement of your feelings for one another, was exactly the way you’d both hoped the summer would end.

“Yoohoo, lovebirds!” a melodic voice trilled across the way, causing you to break apart and glance up at the offending sound. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got news to share!” Freddie, Roger, and a very embarrassed Brian were crossing the grassy field towards you. John released a heavy sigh, planting one last kiss on your lips before hauling himself up to a seated position.

“Absolute bollocks,” he whispered, shooting an annoyed glance down at you. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“Maybe after dinner tonight, we can pick up where we left off?” you suggested, smiling coyly at him. He swallowed hard and bit his lip, trying to keep himself from trembling in anticipation; the last thing he needed was for Freddie to pick up on that energy. He’d already embarrassed John beyond belief by commenting on the bulge in John’s trousers when he’d caught the two of you getting handsy in the back garden a few weeks before.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Roger grinned devilishly, settling in on the grass beside you. “Careful now, Y/N. Our John can be a real heartbreaker.” You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore your brother’s best friend and his unnecessary commentary.

“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until later?” John complained, scowling at Brian as though he should have known better. The curly-maned guitarist was staring off into space, trying to remove the image of his friend snogging his sister from his mind. He was happy for the two of you, truly, but he really didn’t want to know the goings-on of your relationship.

“We’ve got a gig,” Freddie announced dramatically, seating himself directly between you and John. “A one-night engagement at Ealing College, two weeks from now. We’re to play a 45-minute set, whatever we like, and word on the street is that Pete bloody Townshend and his boys are supposed to be there.” John’s face lit up, his annoyed expression clearing in an instant.

“Are you serious?” John exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. “That’s where The Stones started out, Freddie.”

“That’s where a lot of important people started out,” Brian agreed. “This is certainly a fantastic opportunity.” Your brother had taken a seat beside you, and he reached out to give your hand a squeeze; Brian had worked so hard to build his skill as a guitarist, and you were very proud of him and the boys.

“Which is why,” Freddie paused, glancing around at each of his bandmates, “we’ll need to look the part.”

“No,” Brian and John chorused, immediately rejecting Freddie’s well-disguised request to go shopping.

“Why not?” Freddie whined, glancing between his friends. “We’ve been wearing the same old ratty costumes at all of our gigs. This is our chance to shine, boys. And we’ve just spent the whole summer working, so it isn’t like we’re skint just yet.”

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Roger complained. “Tuition is due in a few weeks, and it’s not bloody cheap.” Brian nodded in agreement; he would be starting graduate studies in the fall, and certainly wasn’t in any place to blow a load of money on fancy new clothes.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have gone into dentistry if you didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg for tuition,” Freddie sniffed indignantly.

“I’m not in DENTISTRY anymore, Fred!”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” John spoke up, surprising everyone. He was usually relatively quiet, and didn’t like to involve himself in arguments. “Thanks for the news, it’s all very exciting. But I’d like to get back to my picnic with Y/N, thank you very much.” The boys all suddenly looked sheepish, having remembered that they’d interrupted your date. Brian stood up quickly, giving his long legs a stretch.

“Right then,” Roger cleared his throat, “I suppose we’ll be seeing you later, John. Y/N.” Brian extended a hand, which his blonde friend grasped and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Freddie leaned forward and gave you a hug and a gentle peck on the cheek.

“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, you two,” he winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He pinched John’s thigh teasingly, whispering something to him that you didn’t quite catch. You saw that your boyfriend’s cheeks were flaming when Freddie stood up to leave.

“See you at dinner tonight, kiddo,” Brian called to you as the group of them walked back across the field.

John groaned and laid back down on the blanket. You patted your lap, which he took as an invitation to roll towards you and use your legs as a pillow. With a grin, you ran your fingers through his soft, brown hair, which was nearly as long as your own by this point.

“I love them to death,” John sighed, “but sometimes they’re a real handful, those boys.”

* * * * *

On Monday, you were back at the daily grind; there was a cartful of books to re-shelve that had been returned to the overnight box that weekend, as well as a long list of other tasks that needed to be dealt with before the day was out. It wasn’t looking as if you’d have time to join John for lunch, which was disappointing. This was the last week of summer holiday; a week from today, you would return to University College, and John would be back at Chelsea College, both for your second year.

It wasn’t a terrible distance between the residence buildings you lived at, but it meant that your time together would be significantly reduced. The two of you were serious about your studies, had goals and dreams for yourselves, and it would be a challenge to build your new relationship into university life. For the remainder of the morning, you found that your thoughts revolved almost entirely on how you would keep your grades up and still see John as often as possible.

Just before noon, you found yourself in the first aisle of non-fiction books. You tucked your cart against a shelf, making room in case anyone should need to access the aisle at the same time as you. With a thick marine biology volume in hand, you browsed the highest row of books, trying to find the right place to slide it in. As you wiggled it between two other dusty books on ocean life, you heard a man clear his voice on the other side of the shelf. You peered into the space between the tops of the books at your eye-level, meeting a pair of grey-green eyes that you would recognize anywhere.

“Excuse me, Miss,” John said softly, “I was wondering if you could help me find something.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, and although you could only see part of his face, you knew he was grinning.

“Certainly,” you nodded, your own smile creeping across your lips. “What are you looking for?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to find a book on the history of Antarctica,” he smirked, “but I don’t have the slightest clue of where to start.” This was a rather odd request, you thought, but with a shrug, you left your cart where it was and beckoned for John to follow you.

A Dewey Decimal chart was positioned on a nearby wall, explaining the different subjects that might be found under each group of numbers. History and geography, you knew, were in the 900s section, so you pointed to this area on the chart to begin.

“So let’s start here,” you suggested, “and work our way through the categories.” Running a finger down the list, you stopped at the 990s, titled ‘History of other areas’. The history of the Arctic islands and Antarctica was listed at 998, which was located on the furthest shelf from the circulation desk in the entire library. A look of confusion crossed your face, but as soon as you met John’s eyes, you caught on to what he was doing.

“John Deacon,” you scolded, trying to suppress a smile, “Are you trying to get me alone right now?” He feigned confusion, shaking his head in earnest, but the twinkle in his eyes made your heart skip a beat; he had purposely chosen this obscure subject because it would put you far from the prying eyes of the head librarian and other library patrons.

“Why, Miss, I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” he frowned. “I’m just thrilled to bits by the history of frozen wastelands.”

“I see…well then, follow me,” you encouraged, tilting your head towards the back of the library. John followed, trailing an appropriate distance behind you in case the stern librarian you worked with was watching. On your way there, you didn’t pass a single person; lunchtime on a Monday wasn’t particularly heavy in terms of patronage, so you didn’t expect any issue with taking John back into the stacks.

When you reached the very last aisle, John laced his fingers through yours and walked ahead of you, tugging you along after him. It seemed as though he’d suddenly lost interest in Antarctica – you couldn’t imagine why. When you reached the centre of the aisle, John turned and placed his hands on your hips.

“I think I’ve found what I’m after,” John murmured, backing you up against the shelf.

“Is that right?” you teased, tilting your face up towards him. He leaned in, tucking his nose alongside yours, and met your lips in a sweet but frantic kiss. You drew in breath of surprise, a bit startled by his intensity. He pulled back, sensing that he’d maybe come on too strong.

“Are you okay?” he questioned, his grasp on your hips loosening slightly. John’s expression had changed, his eyebrows now drawn together with worry. “Sorry, I just—”

“I’m fine. Kiss me, you silly boy,” you giggled, slipping your fingers through the two belt loops on the front of his trousers. This time, he was gentler, slower in his approach, giving you time to enjoy the sweetness of his touch. You initiated the change in pace, allowing your hands to wander as you drew him closer. The greedier you became with your kisses, the more thankful you were for the privacy of the stacks.

If you could have stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, you would have, but after John’s breathing began to grow more laboured, you realized that the situation was teetering on precarious. The last thing you wanted was to have him return to work with his trousers a mess - he would never hear the end of it.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, turning your face to the side, “we should slow down.” John nodded, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he caught his breath. Your cheeks were flushed, and you were certain that your lips would be visibly puffy after the force of John’s mouth against yours.

“I love you,” he mumbled, peppering tiny kisses along your collarbone. “And I’m not just saying that so you’ll come over after work.” He pulled you into a tight hug, resting his chin atop your head.

“I think that’s exactly why you’re saying it,” you teased. “But I love you, too. And I’ll still come over after work.” You felt the thumping of John’s heartbeat against your shoulder, and suddenly felt an overwhelming rush of thankfulness for the events of the summer. Without that silly bicycle accident, you weren’t sure things with John would have ever come this far. He was the best thing that had happened to you, without a doubt.

“I’ll make you dinner,” he offered, planting a kiss on your forehead. “My flatmate won’t be home, so we can snuggle on the sofa and watch whatever we want on the telly, even Monty Python, if you like.”

“Cheese on toast doesn’t count as dinner,” you reminded him teasingly, “So be careful what you promise me. But yes, a thousand times yes to Monty Python.”

“I’ll have you know that cheese on toast certainly counts as dinner,” he replied with dismay, pretending to be offended, “but that I’ll make something else just for you, because you’re so lovely.” You squeezed your arms tighter around John’s waist before releasing him. “Get back to work before they miss you,” you instructed, “and I’ll see you at 5:30.” He gave you one last kiss before wandering back towards the front of the library. Still flustered by the events of the last few minutes, you gave yourself some time to recover. You ran your fingers through your hair to smooth it out, and re-tucked your shirt into your knee-length skirt.

When you returned to your cart, a piece of paper tucked between two books caught your attention; this hadn’t been there when you left, you were sure of it. Curious, you unfolded it, and found that John had left you a little note.

“Love you, my beautiful girl,” it read in John’s slanted script. His initials were splashed at the bottom of the paper, as though you might not have known who left it for you.

How sweet, you thought, holding a hand over your heart. John was always doing thoughtful little things for you, whether it was fixing your broken car radio, or tucking a well-worn paperback from the second-hand bookshop down the street into your bag; he knew what made you feel special, and went out of his way to shower love over you. Now the only question was, what could you do during the school year to make him feel the same way?

Chapter Text

Upon entering your tiny room in the women’s residence hall, you noted a peculiarly shaped lump beneath your blankets. In fact, it rather resembled your boyfriend. With a smirk, you dropped your knapsack on the floor and flopped down on your bed. John let out a loud oomph as you knocked the wind out of him, but as soon as he’d recovered, he tore the blankets off himself and began to tickle you mercilessly.

“John, stop!” you laughed, wriggling out of his grasp. He continued his playful assault on your belly, pressing his fingers into your sides and trailing them lightly across your abdomen. You hadn’t been tickled like this since you were a child – and where your father had stopped the moment you asked, John was relentless. “I’m gonna wee if you don’t quit it, seriously!” He planted a wet, sloppy kiss on your cheek, proclaiming the end of his teasing – for now, at least.

“How was class today, love?” he asked, wrapping his arms around you. You protected your belly fiercely, hoping he’d keep his hands to himself. It had been a while since you’d visited the loo, and you hadn’t been joking about wetting your pants if he continued.

“Boring,” you shrugged, leaning back against his chest. “How were yours?”

“Full of numbers,” he smiled, waggling his eyebrows, “so it was fun.” You shook your head in mock disdain; it was beyond you that someone could like maths so much.

“Alright, then, smarty-pants,” you teased, turning your head so you could press a kiss to his jaw, “why don’t you show me how to do statistics so we can go do something more fun later?” John squeezed you a bit tighter, reluctant to release you. “Plus, my roommate will be here any minute now, and she’ll report us to the residence advisor if she sees that I’ve got a boy in my bed. You’ll never be allowed to come back.”

As if you’d lit a fire beneath him, John scrambled out from beneath you and took a seat at your tidy little desk space against the wall at the foot of your bed. He reached for your knapsack and pretended to be unable to lift it, as you’d filled it nearly to the point of bursting with your heavy biology textbooks.

“Have you brought home an entire house worth of bricks?” John inquired, hauling the bag onto his lap. “Good grief, love, you’re going to have problems with your back if you don’t start carrying a lighter load.”

“Maybe you should come to class and carry it for me,” you suggested, shifting your body so you were lying on your stomach, and propped up on your elbows. “I’d get to see you more often if you did.” John leaned down and kissed you, humming with satisfaction against your mouth.

“See, I would,” he smirked, “but that would be a waste of my electronics skills. Now, Roger, on the other hand…” He trailed off, leaving the joke about his bandmate unfinished.

“Dentistry certainly isn’t his strong suit,” you laughed. “And Brian’s too obsessed with space dust and cosmic whatsits to have any interest in being my textbook caddy. Guess I’ll just have to hit the gym and build up my muscles.” John reached out and gave your upper arm a playful squeeze, testing to see whether or not you had ‘biceps of steel’, as Roger humbly referred to his own upper arm muscles.

“Oh, I had something I built that I wanted to show you later,” John suddenly remembered, his eyes lighting up at the thought. “After supper, remind me to stop by my building. I was thinking of bringing it over to show Brian at some point, but I want to get your thoughts first.” He was cryptic about his creation, not wanting to spoil the surprise.

“Alright, then,” you agreed amiably. “But first, let’s go find something to eat. I’m starved, and I thought I smelled something tasty wafting from the refectory.” John was out of his chair in an instant, having been hearing the gentle rumblings of his own stomach for nearly an hour now.

“Let’s just hope it’s not pasta salad,” he said hopefully. “Can’t stand the stuff. Cold pasta should be illegal.” You laced your fingers through his and allowed him to pull you down the hall towards the dining hall, which was now bustling with other hungry students. Your roommate, Margaret, waved you down, inviting you and John to share the table she and a few other girls from the building had taken. Two of their boyfriends had joined the meal as well, knowing the dinners in women’s residence to be much tastier than those at the men’s residence – after all, student employees prepared the food, and many of the women had significantly more cooking experience than their male counterparts.

“Keeping Y/N out of trouble, are we, John?” Margaret inquired, raising an eyebrow. John replied with a nod, but felt a blush creep up his neck. He had bumped into her when trying to sneak into your room half an hour before, and had secured her promise not to tell the residence advisor about the incident, after swearing he was only coming by to help with homework, and promising to bring Roger by sometime soon. Margaret was a stickler for rules, and hadn’t been easy to convince. You knew nothing about this, however, and thanked your roommate for saving the two of you a seat.

To John’s immense relief, dinner was hotpot, a slow-cooked stew of lamb chops and potatoes. The hearty flavours were much appreciated after a long day in class, during which he’d worked up an appetite. When you were busy chatting with a girl who lived down the hall from you, he snuck a forkful of lamb and potato from your bowl, having polished off his own serving in record time. The other men at the table engaged him in conversation about a recent football match, which he didn’t know much about, but he appreciated the inclusion; he tended to stick by Freddie’s side, and hadn’t made many friends outside the band, and a few fellows he knew during secondary school.

“Well, we should be off,” you announced after finishing your supper. “John’s got something to show me, and he’s promised to help me pass stats, so we’ll see you lot later.” Kate, one of the more bold girls in your friend group, made a bawdy comment about what your boyfriend might want to show you in exchange for homework help, and when the table burst into laughter at the insinuation, John went redder than you’d ever seen him, even when his mother broached the topic of contraception at the dinner table.

“Come off it, love,” you reassured him once you’d made it out of the dining hall. “They’re just teasing because they know they can get a rise out of you. I haven’t said anything at all, not to Margaret or anyone else, about us.” His embarrassment, you suspected, came from a series of incidents where he’d had a bit of a…shortcoming, for lack of a better word, behind closed doors. You’d worked it out, but it tended to be a touchy topic for John.

“Let’s just go to Freddie’s,” he insisted, “we don’t have to stop at my room. I can show you another time.” You stopped walking, and caught his hand in yours.

“Hey, what did I tell you about this sort of thing?” you asked softly. “Just because someone else is being a wanker and gets a laugh at your expense doesn’t mean you have to listen to them. All my friends like you, I promise. Kate was just being a tart, as usual.” You did your best to help him be less self-conscious around other people, but really, you knew the best thing right now would be for him to be with the group of people that brought out the confidence in him.

“Let’s get this creation of yours, and we’ll take it to show the boys, alright?” you smiled, standing on your toes to give him a gentle peck on the lips.

“Fine,” he sighed, thankful for your ability to ease his anxiety. “It’s a bit heavy, though, so we’ll have to take the car.”

* * * * *

“D’you think your mum said her prayers for you this morning?” you wondered nervously, watching as John loaded his new contraption into the boot of the car. “We could just take turns carrying it, if not…” John rolled his eyes and gave you a sarcastic look.

“Don’t you trust me and my repair skills?” he asked, feigning insult.

“Of course I do,” you replied. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought of getting into that death trap with you. If you could fix our TV when my dad couldn’t, I trust you to fix anything.”

“Well then, get in,” John shrugged, opening the passenger door for you. As you slid into the seat and shut the door behind you, you wished for the first time that seatbelts were required in vehicles. John’s old rustbucket had been built long before the installation of the first seatbelts, however, and with every creak and groan of the engine, you tended to clutch tighter to the door handle, as if it might save you in the event that the car exploded, or slid off the road without warning. Your boyfriend leaned over to kiss you, and as you had done every time he insisted on driving his car, you kissed him as if this was the last time you ever would.

“You’re such a worrywart,” he teased. “Even more than Brian, maybe.” That was saying something. Your brother had concerns about a million tiny details of life, from his test scores to the minute arrangements of his curls, to the way his nail lacquer looked onstage. Brian was the ultimate worrywart, and being compared to him irked you just a touch.

“Yes, well, I’d like to see my parents again, and maybe finish college before dying in a fiery automobile accident,” you told him snarkily. “Just keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel, and pray that God doesn’t smite us for shagging in my brother’s bedroom during that party Roger threw last month.” John threw his head back and laughed; you had been all for it in the moment, but had been worrying for weeks that Brian would somehow find out and kill either you or John.

“I love you, silly girl,” he smiled. John reached out and ran a hand over your hair, twirling a curl around his finger and giving it a playful tug.

“Hands on the wheel!”

* * * * *

The five of you stood around the box that was John’s creation, eying it sceptically. It wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen, but knowing him, it would work exactly as he’d said it would.

“So…you dug the parts out of a skip?” Brian queried, cocking his head to one side.

“The circuit board, yeah,” John nodded, doing his best to hide how eager he was for them to hear it in action. “Found an old speaker cabinet at a mate’s house, a few wires from the shop I worked at over the summer, plus some bits and pieces I’ve got lying around in the workshop at my mum’s place.”

“And it’s a guitar amplifier?” Roger asked, bending down to inspect the simple back panel. There was no volume or tone control, just an input port and a wire for battery hook-up.

“Guitars, yes,” John confirmed. “I’ve got what I want for my bass, in terms of recording. But, um, I thought we could experiment a bit with Brian’s sound, as he’s got the instrument whose sound is out in front, what with his solos and all.” He chewed on his lip, waiting patiently for Brian to decide it was worth trying.

“For God’s sake, Bri,” you sighed, “just hook it up and give it a go. John’s been waiting weeks for you to see it.” Your brother shot an annoyed glance at you, and you returned his snarky attitude by sticking out your tongue. Who said adult siblings couldn’t behave like children?

“Oh, and maybe use the treble booster,” John recommended, pointing to the pedal board at Brian’s feet. “I think that might give the amp the boost it needs to create something interesting.” The guitarist, muttering beneath his breath about John and his inventions, did as directed, and plugged in his guitar. John turned the battery on when Brian was ready, and from the first moment he started noodling around, Brian’s attention was caught by the sound he was making.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Brian spluttered, tinkering with the tone and volume dials on his guitar, “that’s something else, innit?”

You leaned against John, and he wrapped an arm around your waist. The two of you watched smugly as Brian, always the sceptic, tested out the range of the amplifier. His higher notes sounded virtually orchestral in quality. The applications of this new tool were immediately clear to Freddie, who watched with wide eyes as Brian played through a bit he’d been working on for the album he and Freddie were writing.

“John, this is exactly what we needed,” Freddie enthused, planting an exuberant kiss on his young friend’s cheek. “Brilliant boy, we always knew those skills of yours would come in handy.” John flushed pink; pleased by the high praise he’d received from his friend.

“Oi, John,” Roger called, grabbing the bassist’s attention. “D’you know much about lighting?” John nodded hesitantly, wanting to maintain what little humility he had left after the incredible confidence-boost that came from his invention functioning properly.

“A bit, sure. Why?”

“We’re supposed to play in a college theatre this weekend, and I keep getting blinded by those bloody lights they’ve got overhead,” Roger explained, adjusting his glasses on the end of his nose. “Could you perhaps step into the booth during sound check and adjust things so I can actually see Fred’s cues? I don’t know a thing about how all that stuff works.”

“I think we could work on that, definitely,” John said amicably. Roger gave him a grateful pat on the back, and ruffled your hair as he walked past you and into the kitchen to grab a few beers to celebrate John’s success.

“I’m proud of you, darling,” you whispered into his ear, unintentionally tickling his cheek with your hair. “You deserve to be recognized for your work.”

“Thanks,” he smiled coyly. His expression puzzled you for a moment, until you realized he was tugging at your hand, and motioning with a tilt of his head towards your brother’s unoccupied bedroom.

“John, he’s right there!” you protested, keeping your voice down.

“Seems to me he’s quite content to mess about with that new toy of his,” John shrugged, flashing you a mischievous glance. As soon as you began to sneak off, a high, melodic voice caught your attention.

“Take it downstairs, you two,” Freddie laughed, having watched the entire exchange. “Lock the door, and don’t take all afternoon. We’ve got work to do if we’re going to put this album together.” Once again, John’s cheeks blazed with embarrassment, but since your brother had clearly heard nothing, the two of you felt comfortable enough to leave the boys to their devices and take Freddie up on his offer of a private space. You thought fleetingly about the help you still needed with your statistics homework, but the confidence boost he’d experienced as a result of his amplifier’s success gave John the edge he needed to make you forget all about it.

Chapter Text

“What on earth have you done?” John asked, perplexed. He gaped at the inch of water covering the floor of the washroom in the women’s residence hall, trying to imagine what could possibly have caused such a mess.

John had received a frantic call a few minutes earlier, begging for him to come quickly to help with an emergency. Being a spry young fellow, he had made it across campus in barely any time at all. To his relief, you hadn’t been injured, as he’d originally thought. Instead, you were desperately trying to stop one of the toilets from flooding the entire building.

“I…I don’t want to tell you,” you stammered, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “Just help me. I don’t know how to fix toilets!” Flustered, John placed both hands atop his head and breathed out a quick puff of air.

“I’m an electronics major, love. I can’t fix toilets either!” he exclaimed. “I can tinker with radios and, you know, telephones, no problem, but this…I think you’ll need to call a plumber.”

“No!” you screeched. “John, please, just give it a go. If the plumber comes, he’ll…”

“He’ll what, Y/N?” he asked, sloshing his way through the water to put his arms around you. “What are you so worried about? It’s not as if a clogged toilet is something he hasn’t seen before.”

“I flushed a sanitary towel down the toilet!” you wailed, breaking down against him. “I know you aren’t supposed to, but the bin was full and I didn’t know what to do. It was fine at first, but then it—the water, it just—” Your explanation was cut off by an anguished sob. John tutted softly in your ear, doing his best to comfort you without bursting into laughter. As brilliant as you were, this was exactly the type of mess you tended to get yourself into.

“It’s alright, love,” he soothed, “it happens. I’m certain a good plumber will have it all fixed up in no time. Let’s get you out of your wet clothes, and I’ll ring one of the fellows over in maintenance.” John pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and led you out of the bathroom. Water had begun to creep out into the hall, where it was rolling down the stairs into the lower level of the building.

“My shoes are going to smell like piss now, I’m certain of it,” you grouched, sniffling as you tried to hold back more tears. Every time you took another step, water squelched between your toes, and made your feet feel wet and disgusting.

“Then we’ll smell like piss together,” your boyfriend told you, scooping you up into his arms. He carried you down the hall, leaving a trail of wet boot prints in his wake.

* * * * *

As John had anticipated, the plumber was able to make a diagnosis of the issue quickly. You’d clogged a pipe when you flushed the napkin, and water was backing up out of the toilet and onto the floors because of the increased pressure in the piping system. You’d sheepishly explained the incident, but the fellow had just adjusted the strap of his denim dungarees and gently told you to ‘please refrain from doing that again.’

Once the issue had been dealt with, John insisted that you wrap yourself in your fluffy bathrobe and lie down in bed, while he made a trip to the shops to pick up some groceries. You’d run out of sanitary napkins and tampons, which was a problem, and although you had a hot water bottle pressed to your abdomen to combat your cramps, John thought that a bar of chocolate and some flowers might help to alleviate some of the emotional distress you were experiencing.

His attentiveness drove your roommate, Margaret, insane. Her boyfriend was sweet enough, she thought, but John took the cake with his thoughtful gestures. You agreed; John was everything you wanted in a man. He was kind and respectful, adorably geeky, always witty, and a fantastic kisser. He talked science with your father (an engineer), helped your mother with the dishes after supper, and was one of your brother’s good friends. Nearly everything about John was perfect.

The one issue you were having at the moment? John was horrifically shy – with the exception of his time onstage. He always attributed it to his ability to act the part of a cocky musician, but you worried that when the crowds started getting larger, he might start to experience stage-fright and be unable to play. For now, though, he was particularly anxious about a handful of school-related issues.

“I don’t understand why I should have to speak to the professor about this,” he had argued earlier in the week after finding an issue with the way his physics instructor had marked his latest test. “It’s only 2 marks; won’t matter much in the long-run.”

“You earned those marks, Deac,” you had protested. “All you need to do is walk up to him, show him the error, and it’ll be fixed. It’ll bump you up to an A, which you bloody-well deserve.” He had been doing practice problems for an hour every day in preparation for the test, and would have a perfect score, if he’d just get over his fear of speaking up for himself.

As John had curled up beside you earlier, after helping you into your bathrobe, he had told you about a prestigious internship opportunity being offered to students in the engineering college. Working with one of London’s best firms as a draftsman on a part-time basis would be an incredible boost to his resumé, but he explained that he wasn’t going to apply.

“I’d have to ask for three letters of reference from either employers, professors, or others familiar with my work ethic and abilities,” John said, reading off the application form. “The employer’s letter is easy enough. I can ask my boss from my summer job.”

“My dad supervised you as you worked on the amp and your guitar,” you reminded him. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to put a good word in for you.”

“The third is a bit trickier,” he grimaced. “I have a few instructors I could ask, but…”

“But?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They won’t want to do it,” John conceded. “They’re terribly busy, and none of them will remember me. Doubt they even know my name.” You had sat up in bed, indignant with the idea that John would throw away such an opportunity because he was nervous to ask for a professor to sponsor him.

“That’s ridiculous,” you said sharply. “Just go up to Dr. Murphy after class, and tell him you’re interested in the internship. He’d be thrilled to bits, I’m sure of it.” Despite your insistence, John was still hesitant. In your mind, the issue was entirely based in his self-confidence. When he looked in the mirror, John saw a lanky kid with shaggy hair and knobbly knees, instead of what his friends saw: a brilliant young man with bright eyes and a killer sense of humour. If only you could make him see himself as you and the Queen boys did…

As you waited for John to return from the shops, an idea popped into your mind: maybe there was a way for you to explain how much you all loved and appreciated him. A do to celebrate him was no good, and neither were store-bought gifts, you knew. You staggered out of bed and made a beeline for the residence hall telephone, hooked up down the corridor a few paces from your room.

Typically, some girl would loiter for a half hour, twirling the phone cord around her finger as she made up an excuse to her mother why she couldn’t come home for the break. Once, you’d even heard a fourth year student talking in a low, husky voice to her boyfriend on the other line; that had encouraged you to never wait around for the phone ever again. Today, however, the telephone was not in use, so you snatched up the receiver and dialled Freddie’s apartment. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick as though he had just woken up; it was nearly 4:00, how could he have been asleep?

“Y/N, how lovely of you to give us a bell,” he exclaimed, rousing himself quickly so he wouldn’t miss any gossip, if that were the reason for your call. “All is well with you?”

“I’m well, Fred, thanks,” you replied. “But, um, I wanted to talk to you about an idea I’ve just had…”

* * * * *

A week later, you, John and the Queen boys were gathered for dinner at Brian’s flat. Your brother had meticulously tidied everything, as was typical of him, and you appreciated the time he’d put into preparing dinner. After all, tonight was a special celebration: John had joined the band a year ago to the day. Whether he remembered it or not, you and Freddie had agreed that it was an important date, and served as the perfect time to show John a bit of appreciation.

“Alright, then,” Freddie announced, standing from his spot at the head of the table. “Tonight, we are celebrating the magnificent addition of our lovely bassist, Mr. John Richard Deacon, to our group exactly one year ago.” Roger clapped John on the back, and your boyfriend blushed, not used to the attention being focused on him.

“We’ve each got something for you,” Brian explained, “in honour of the occasion. Y/N organized it all, so we’ve got her to thank for the brilliant idea.” John glanced over at you uncertainly; he hadn’t expected to receive any gifts. Freddie had mentioned dinner and nothing else.

“I’ll start,” Roger proclaimed, leaning forward as he passed John a small square box. “It’s not much, but I thought it would go along with what you usually wear.” When John removed the lid, he saw that Roger had fashioned a ring from one of John’s bass strings. “Took one of your strings after you changed them, and hammered it down so it would be flat and not get in the way of things,” Roger told him. John slipped the ridged metal band onto his left middle finger, and found that the ring fit perfectly. The texture provided a nice contrast to the others he wore on his right hand.

“Thank you, Rog,” John said gratefully, extending his hand to shake the blonde’s. “It’s brilliant.” Roger beamed at him, glad that his gift had been well received; a lot of work had gone into its construction. He’d enlisted a friend to help him solder the ends of the strings together into a circle, and you had procured the strings from the bin in John’s bedroom after he changed them, but the idea had been Roger’s own.

“Me next!” Freddie demanded, snatching up a large manila envelope from beneath his chair. “See that you don’t bend it too much, or you’ll ruin it,” he advised. John slid a finger beneath the sealing flap to open it, and pulled out a piece of heavy paper. On it was a drawing, a portrait of you and John, which Freddie had done in pencil. The likeness was extraordinary, and had obviously taken a significant amount of time to perfect.

“We’ll get it framed so it will stay nice,” you spoke, admiring the drawing. Leaning your head on John’s shoulder, you examined the crisp lines and excellent shading Freddie had done. He had modelled the drawing from a Polaroid photo Roger had taken of the two of you, which you usually kept pinned to the bulletin board in your room at the residence hall.

“Got the twinkle in your eye right and everything,” John smiled, holding the drawing closer to get a better look at the details. “And look at the pattern on my shirt.” Freddie had borrowed one of John’s favourite shirts for inspiration, as well as a few other photos you’d had lying around. Truly, the drawing was good enough to frame and keep forever – John was nearly moved to tears by it.

“I’m glad you like it, darling,” Freddie beamed, laying his hand affectionately over top of John’s. “We love you, and are thrilled that you’ve stayed with us, even when we bicker about every little thing, and force you to shop for costumes.” The boys erupted into laughter, thinking back to the first concert John had performed with them. He’d arrived in denim trousers and a black t-shirt, and it was clear from that moment on that he’d be wearing whatever he liked to shows.

“I suppose that leaves me, then,” Brian said, clearing his throat. “I thought that if I made you something like a star chart, my sister might feel like I was trying to get off with you, so I scratched that immediately.” John barked out a laugh, and leaned over to press a kiss to your cheek. “Instead,” Brian continued, “I’m going to lend you my car for the weekend so you and Y/N can take a trip to the coast.”

“That’s my surprise for you,” you said, smiling up at your boyfriend. “Roger’s parents agreed to lend us the cottage at Truro for the weekend, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves.”

“Bri, I’ve already got a car,” John said, confused. “Why would we take yours?”

“Because you’re not driving my sister more than 10 kilometers in that death trap,” your brother harrumphed. “Not a bloody chance. My dad would murder us both; you for taking her in it, and me for allowing you to.” John rolled his eyes, but he nodded and accepted the keys that Brian tossed in his direction.

He knew it was probably a better idea to take Brian’s car, as it was more reliable for distance, but John couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed that none of you trusted his fixer-upper. Since he’d done work on it, there had been no issues – other than the engine light always being lit up, the occasional fluid leak, and the frightening clank of bolts rolling around, the location of which he couldn’t identify. The car whinged terribly when it was pushed over 60km/h, and neither the heat nor the air conditioning was functional. Really, it was an excellent gift for Brian to give; he’d have to catch rides with Roger for 3 full days, which meant that he’d be late for everything while you and John were away.

“Thanks, Brian,” John sighed, glancing wearily toward you. “I promise to do my best not to wreck it or kill your sister while we’re away.”

“That’s all I ask, John,” Brian nodded. “Also, maybe leave some petrol in the tank, if you can.”

Freddie reached behind his chair for the tall, slim glass flutes on the cabinet behind him. Roger reached for the bottle of champagne sitting at the end of the table and popped the cork, nearly shattering the light fixture above the dining table. He poured each of you a glass, and you held them up in a toast to John’s first year with the band.

“To many more,” Freddie proclaimed. “A million years together, if the gods let us.” Everyone clinked their glasses together, resulting in much spillage of bubbly on the table runner Freddie’s mother had loaned to him for the occasion. John caught your eye as you sipped at the golden liquid; he looked as happy as you’d ever seen him. This was where he belonged – with Freddie, Brian, Roger, and you – and everyone knew it.

* * * * *

Margaret had gone out to spend the night at her boyfriend’s flat, which allowed you to invite John to stay in residence for the night. The RA’s never came into your room without knocking first, so you didn’t feel it would be a problem, so long as you could sneak him in without anyone of importance noticing. Of course, though, your plan didn’t succeed. A moment later, the two of you found yourselves wrapped up in a conversation with both RA’s from your floor. Their suspicions were immediately roused by the presence of a man in the building past dinner hours.

As he had done on several occasions, John pretended to say goodbye to you in the sight of the RA’s, left the building, and waited a few minutes before scaling the rugged wall outside your window. He rapped gently on the glass with his knuckles, and waited patiently while you unlocked and pulled the window up, allowing him to scramble in. Sprawled out on your bed, John watched as you slipped into a ratty old shirt of his and a pair of shorts.

“There’s my girl,” John cooed, raising an arm to allow you to curl up against his body. As he usually did when you cuddled up together, John slipped a hand beneath your shirt and rested his palm against your chest, where it followed the rise and fall of each breath. His thumb settled against the outer curve of the cup of your bra, and his fingers fanned out over the skin of your rib cage. It was an odd tendency of his, but you loved the intimacy of the gesture. With his other hand, he removed the watch his father had gifted to him shortly before he passed away, setting it on the bedside table so it wouldn’t cut into your skin.

“Do you miss him?” you asked softly, reaching out to touch the inscription on the back of the watch’s case. In curled letters were John’s initials, JRD, and above it in the same script, ‘To my dear son.’ John cleared his throat and shifted behind you.

“Terribly, some days,” John admitted, his voice little more than a croak; he hadn’t expected the topic to come up. Once, he had mentioned his father briefly, but never again. In the privacy of your room, though, he felt safe enough to remember the man that now seemed larger than life in his memory.

“Wish he could see me now,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “I’d like to think he’d be proud of what I’ve accomplished so far.”

“Of course he would, love,” you assured him, craning your neck up to place a kiss against your boyfriend’s chin. “You’ve nearly finished the first two years of your degree, and you’ve found a group of friends that adore you. There are a million things to be proud of you for.” John pulled you closer to him and pressed a kiss against the back of your head.

“He’d have loved you,” John promised. “And I know my mother will. She’s looking forward to meeting you when exams are finished; Julie, too.”

“Are you certain?” you questioned, your voice wavering. The idea of meeting the two most important women in your boyfriend’s life – his mother and his younger sister – was nerve-wracking, especially when you and John had recently started discussing the possibilities of moving into a flat together in the near future.

“Of course they will,” John insisted. “But right now, we need to get some rest, alright? It’s late.”

“Not too late,” you pouted, turning towards him. “Besides, we’ve got the room to ourselves tonight. You don’t want to sleep already, do you?” A sly, suggestive smile crept over John’s lips, as though he had been hoping you would say exactly that. You twirled a lock of his long, mousy brown hair around your finger, bringing your hand close enough for him to ghost a kiss across your knuckles.

“I guess you could convince me to stay up a bit longer,” he teased, toying with the hem of your t-shirt. “If you wanted to…chat a bit more.”

“Belt up, Deacs,” you said, pinching the collar of his shirt between your thumb and forefinger. “That’s enough chatter for one night.” John began to chuckle, but stopped as soon as your lips met his. The remainder of the night was spent in each other's arms - the only place you both felt truly happy at home.

Chapter Text

John’s family home was exactly as you’d expected. The red brick semi-detached house was situated in a quiet neighbourhood in Oadby, a small town just outside the city of Leicester. Everything was neatly organized, from the bookshelf in the sitting room to the clothesline in the back garden. On many of the walls hung photos of John and his sister Julie from their childhood, and on the table beside the sofa was a portrait of their father, the late Mr. Deacon. John’s mother had greeted you both at the door with a hug and a kiss to the cheek, which your boyfriend had warned you about earlier in the week.

“She might a bit standoffish when you first meet,” he had warned you in the car on the way from London. “Don’t be offended if she just shakes your hand. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought home, you know.” John had been the exact same when you first met; he’d been hesitant to hug you or even hold your hand until he’d taken you out a number of times. Even after you’d kissed him in your parents’ garage, he had still needed a bit of time to get used to touching you in public. Now, he had an arm around you almost anytime you were together.

When John knocked on the front door of his mother’s house, the brightly-painted door swung open immediately; she must have seen you pull up on the street. Mrs. Deacon’s mousy brown hair had streaks of grey through it, and sported a short, feathered ‘do like those you’d seen many of your friends’ mothers wear. She had a pair of reading glasses perched atop her head, and had applied a bit of rosy pink lipstick for the occasion. John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; he’d not seen his mother so gussied up in ages.

“So lovely to finally meet you, Y/N,” Mrs. Deacon said brightly, pulling you into a brief hug. “John’s told us so much.” You glanced back at your boyfriend curiously; he hadn’t mentioned calling home at all, with the exception of a birthday phone call to his sister a month or so before. He mouthed an apology and bit his lower lip; John had barely discussed his family before today.

“Well, come in, come in, don’t be strangers,” Mrs. Deacon insisted, ushering you into her quaint sitting room. “Shoes off on the rug, if you don’t mind.” John took your light wool coat and hung it up in the cupboard alongside his own; it had been a chilly spring thus far. You were invited to take a seat on the sofa, where tea, sandwiches and fresh-baked scones had already been set out on the table.

“Bit early for tea, Mum, isn’t it?” John asked, glancing down at the face of his watch. “It’s barely past one o’clock. I told you we’d have lunch in the city, didn’t I?” Mrs. Deacon fussed over the arrangement of food on tea tray and pretended not to have heard her son’s comment.

“This is lovely, Mrs. Deacon,” you effused appreciatively, reaching out to touch her arm. “Thank you again for having us for the weekend. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, and to see where John grew up.” It was clear to you how important it was to John’s mother that she be a gracious hostess; after all, you were the first girlfriend of John’s she’d ever met. She accepted your thanks with a smile of pleasure and reached for her china teapot.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she insisted, pouring a cup of tea each for you and John. The brown liquid splashed neatly into each teacup, and not a drop was spilt. You scooped a small spoonful of sugar into your cup, as well as a splash of cream, before bringing the cup to your lips. After braving the chill of the wind outside (even if it was only for a moment), a hot cup of tea was exactly what you needed to warm back up.

“Mum, I have to fetch our bags from the car yet,” John said once he’d finished his tea and at least two scones. “I can go make up the bed in my room if you haven’t already. Oh, and Y/N and I will just share a room; it’ll save you from having to wash the sheets in the guest bedroom.” His mother looked up sharply from her own cup of tea, and you felt your cheeks flush bright pink at your boyfriend’s forward statement.

“I’ve already made up both your bed and the one in the guest room,” she said evenly. “I’m sure it will suit Y/N well enough for a weekend.” Her expression remained cordial and pleasant, but you heard a flatness to her tone that concerned you. Why would John have even thought to suggest sharing a room? The world was changing quickly, especially in terms of the expectations of couples and romantic relationships, but it still seemed crazy to you that he’d think to say something so brazenly open to his mother. He might as well have said to her face that the two of you were enjoying a healthy sex life. John, obviously annoyed with her comment, opened his mouth to debate the matter with his mother, but before he could get a word out, you set a hand on his knee and gave it a sharp squeeze.

“I’ll be happy to stay in the guest room,” you said, plastering a smile onto your face. “But if you’d prefer that I find a room at the hotel in town, Mrs. Deacon, I have no issue whatsoever with—”

“Don’t be silly, dear!” Mrs. Deacon shrilled at the same moment John whipped his head toward you and firmly stated, “Absolutely not.” The two of them made eye contact across the small room, and you felt the tension rise between mother and son. Clearly, this was going to come to blows if you didn’t take one for the team and insist upon an alternative that suited them both.

“If the guest bed is big enough, I could ask Julie to stay with me for the night,” you suggested. “I’ve been dying to meet her, and perhaps if I’m on my best behaviour at supper, she’d agree to a sleepover.” Just then, the heavy thunk of footsteps on the stairs sounded, and John’s sister appeared in the sitting room.

“Brilliant idea, Y/N!” Julie crowed, throwing her arms wide to receive a hug from you. The girl was practically a twig in your arms; being 3 years younger than John and about 8 inches shorter, Julie was clearly not following in her brother’s footsteps when it came to height. “We can chat all night, and I’ll tell you all the best embarrassing stories about John.” Julie had a bright, beaming smile, and her eyes were the same green as her brother’s – the resemblance was uncanny.

“Jules, have you been eavesdropping?” her mother inquired, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ve had this discussion more times than I can count; it’s not polite.” The teen’s eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open in indignation.

“Absolutely not, Mum,” she promised, shaking her head solemnly. “I had just stopped at the top of the stairs for a moment, to tuck my shirt in, when I heard Y/N’s fantastic idea.” She sounded innocent enough, but John rolled his eyes; he knew her to be a master at inventing stories that sounded just convincing enough to fool her mother. Mrs. Deacon’s eyes narrowed, and she investigated her only daughter’s expression for signs of trickery: a quirk at the corner of her mouth, or a guilty flicker of her eyes. None were found, but John’s mother still seemed suspicious as she relented.

“Well, if that’s what you’d both like, you’re very welcome to stay together in the guest room,” the greying woman conceded. You smiled at John, encouraging him with a look of false happiness to brighten up and not be a poor sport. After all, it wasn’t a surprise to you that his mother had reacted strongly to the idea of her son sharing a bed with a girl she’d never met. Mrs. Deacon wanted the best for her son, and you had yet to prove to her that you were the best.

“Come come, let’s get you settled upstairs,” Julie insisted, grasping your wrist. “John’ll bring your bag up once he’s had a bite to eat. You know, I’m sure, how cranky our John can get when he’s hungry.” With a glance over your shoulder, you bid farewell for now to your boyfriend. He glared at his sister, but made no attempt to stop the two of you as you ascended the staircase. The ancient floorboards creaked beneath your feet, but Julie managed to make it up to the second storey without a sound. Julie grabbed your shoulders and spun you around once you’d stepped foot onto the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom, and pointed to a few insignificant scratches on the floorboards.

“If you step only on those ones, the floor won’t squeak,” she informed you in a quiet whisper. “Same thing with the stairs; John made these little scratch marks when he was in secondary school so he could sneak out and spend time with his mates after Mum went to bed, and told me about it when he caught me trying to slip out one night.” You stifled a laugh as you thought of John skipping curfew; his resourcefulness had always impressed you, but this was on another level.

“He’s a genius, isn’t he?” you said proudly.

“I’ve always thought so,” Julie nodded. “He’s loads smarter than me, that’s for certain.” The teen swung the door shut and collapsed backwards onto the queen-sized bed, which had been done up in blue and white floral bedclothes. You sat down beside her and crossed your legs politely, as your mother had taught you to do. Julie frowned up at you and gave your leg a playful shove.

“You don’t have to be all prim and proper around me, silly,” she remarked. “I’m not my mum.” With a nervous giggle, you allowed yourself to relax; you lay back on the mattress, as Julie was doing, and turned your face towards her. Other than the colour of her eyes, you observed, the only other similarities between Julie and John was the shape of her face, and perhaps the shade and texture of her hair.

“Thanks for saving us there,” you said gratefully. “I was worried it was going to come to blows.” Julie waved a dismissive hand, as though she hadn’t done anything.

“They’ll be fine,” she assured you. “Those two will be at each other’s throats for a day, and then it’ll all work itself out. Always does.” Julie tucked her hands beneath her head and stared up at the ceiling. “Ever since Dad passed away, Mum and John have had a hard time seeing eye to eye. He was her sounding board, and John’s champion whenever there was a disagreement.” Julie’s openness in discussing her father surprised you. John made little comments once in a while, or shared memories from his childhood here or there, but never talked about Mr. Deacon at great length.

“Julie, how long has it been since your father…”

“Died?” she asked. The casual tone with which she said the word made you flinch, making Julie felt the need to explain her choice of words. “We’ve got to say ‘died’, not ‘passed on’ or anything else like that. Dressing it up in gentle words won’t make him any less gone, John always says.” Her explanation left out the fact that her mother vehemently disagreed with John’s opinion on the issue, but you sensed it nevertheless.

“Yes,” you said awkwardly, not really wanting to press her on the subject. “When did he die?”

“Three years ago…last week, I suppose,” Julie answered, counting back the days silently in her head. “Mum’s been touchy about it all month.” You nodded in understanding; it wasn’t quite the same, but you remembered the renewed feelings of sadness that came with the anniversary of your grandmother’s death.

“Sorry to ask,” you apologized, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand over Julie’s own hand. “I’m sure it’s terribly difficult to talk about.” Julie shrugged, playing down the heartache she had been feeling over her father’s absence.

“We all die someday,” she smiled sadly. “It hurts terribly, but it’s gotten better as time has passed. Before either of you could continue the conversation, a gentle knock came at the door, and John entered the room. Julie rolled her eyes, annoyed at her brother’s interruption.

“Can’t go a half hour without her, can you?” she complained. “We were just getting into the interesting stuff, too. A shame, really.” Your boyfriend made a snarky face at his sister before lying down beside you.

“So, is your mother convinced that I’m a complete slag?” you asked, slipping your hand into John’s. “She did not look pleased with the idea of us sharing a room. Probably thinks I’ve stolen your innocence and turned you into some sort of delinquent.” Both John and his sister burst into laughter, though you failed to see what was so funny; you had really hoped Mrs. Deacon would like you and approve of you as her son’s partner.

“You never said what a riot she is, John,” Julie said, wiping a tear from her eye. “As if you weren’t a delinquent before you went off to college.”

“Shove off, Jules,” John replied, reaching out with a socked foot to kick at his sister. “And no, of course my mother doesn’t think you’re a slag, love,” he promised you. “She didn’t even bring up the sleeping situation. Just wanted to know if I could give her a hand with a few little things that need fixing around the house this weekend.”

“Thank god,” Julie sighed dramatically, propping herself up on one arm. “The kitchen faucet’s been leaking for a week and a half, and she’s refused to call a plumber because ‘John will be home soon enough’.” Her impression of Mrs. Deacon was shrill and ridiculous, and sent John into another fit of laughter. It warmed your heart to see him so happy, especially when it was because of his sister.

“Don’t you worry,” John said once he’d settled himself. “I’ll have the faucet as good as new in a half hour. Once I’ve finished with that, I’m going to take Y/N on a walk around town, show her some of our childhood haunts.” John leaned in and kissed you, earning a cry of disgust from his sister, and then stood up from the bed; he wanted to get the repair work started as soon as possible.

“See you in a bit, girls. Love you both.” As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Julie's head whipped towards you.

"He's told you he loves you?!"