Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 6) John Deacon x Reader Series
I meant to get this up last night and then promptly fell asleep as soon as I hit my bed. Whoops!
Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.
This series is a work of fiction and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.
PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5
Pairing: John Deacon x Reader
Chapter Warnings: Strong language. Mentions of death. Vague mentions of drug use.
Chapter Notes: Disclaimer that this basically turned into a filler chapter with a ton of exposition. I wrote this long ass thing and then decided it would be better to split it in two. Bright side - new chapter up sometime this week once I proof it!
Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac
Songs Mentioned: PLAYLIST
She’s A Bad Mama Jamma - Carl Carlton
Africa - Toto
She’s A Beauty - The Tubes
Naughty Naughty - John Parr
Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @brianmays-hair @deacyblues @squishy-geckboye @hae-bee @aprilaady @theresalexis @uglipotata72829
- - - - - - -
December 1982 - Columbia Records Holiday Party, New York City
"Oh, fuck yes! I love this song!"
She's a Bad Mama Jamma booms from the speakers around the Whitney Museum, quite jarring in the usually serene space. The modern building is decked out and packed to the brim with the employees of Columbia Records. Tinsel adorned trees, candlelight, and holly had been placed around to embellish the bland white walls, their usual precious art nowhere to be found. Having been replaced by large glossy canvases of the label's album covers from the past year. Various music stars are scattered throughout the crowd, mostly sticking to the cocktail tables on the outskirts, chatting away with high-level executives over bottles of Dom.
The Limbs, however, had taken up residence in the middle of the main room's large dance floor. The crowd parts around you all as Steve gloriously shimmies to the floor, spreading out as he beings to worm across the slate. You clap a hand over your face to keep the gin in your mouth from sprouting out as cheers ripple through the onlookers.
"We've created a monster," Rich laughs from beside you, consciously trying not to whack anyone with his long arms.
"That's on Eddie!" You shout over the roars of encouragement directed at Steve. "Have you seen him yet?"
Rich grimaces, pausing his careful dancing. "Nope. I doubt he'll show, Bun."
The debonair guitarist of yours had gone radio silent for weeks, causing concern to spread to his band members. There had been no argument. No blowout. And while you were currently on a break before the holidays, it was extremely odd not to have gotten a harried phone call about some new idea to try on the next album or a near-constant insistence that you all should be preparing more from Eddie.
"I'm worried, Rich. I'll go take another look around," you tell him somberly as you squeeze your way off the dance floor. After a few walkthroughs of the adjoining rooms, you give up your futile search. Finding a place in one of the quieter galleries, you grab a new drink and beeline to an empty table to drown your growing woes.
Eddie wouldn't miss this. He loved schmoozing and having his photo taken more than anyone else in the group. He lit up when getting noticed on the street—any hint of the spotlight to wander into, really. In high school, he was the graduating senior with the most superlatives: best hair, best eyes, best personality. And he never let any of you forget it.
You're pulled from your fretting by a nasally high pitched voice calling out your name. "Oh, Y/N! There you are!"
Unfortunately, you catch the eyes of your junior exec, Lisa Lebeaux. A buoyant and bubbly girl who happened to have a voice that made you crave the sound of nails on a chalkboard. You weren't alone in this. The boys had no-so-affectionately nicknamed her Lisa Leblow, for the hints of white powder under her nose on occasion. Usually, you felt guilty for your undeserved judgment of the woman, but your plastered on smile seemed to have a time limit coming up.
"I was just talking you up!" she squeaks as she approaches, swinging an unwanted arm over your shoulder. "I'm just so excited for you guys to get back in the studio. I'll pop by whenever I can, promise!"
Closing your eyes, you groan inwardly. The boys would definitely freak at having the label breathing down your necks during sessions. Tensions were already at an all-time high as you were set to begin recording at The Power Station in January. While it hadn't been spoken out loud, the band was already feeling the pressure. It was a widely known fact that a second album could be a make or break it type of deal. Strong debut? That's great. But can you do it again? Keep the people interested without just repeating yourselves? Or would you end up bungling it altogether, destined to be "that person," who had that one hit, that one time?
Lisa takes your stoic silence as an open invitation and barrels ahead. "Have you seen that charming guitarist of yours? I've been looking for him everywhere," she pipes up.
You regard her wearily. "Nope, no perfectly coiffed pompadour in sight, sorry." Her face falls. "Is it important?" you press.
"Oh, no! Just wanted to say hello is all." She waves it off, but you catch a glimpse of a blush upon her cheeks as she glances around the room. There goes another one, you smirk to yourself. "Oh my god! Bob Dylan actually showed up. I'm gonna try and get an introduction," she exclaims before running off. Calling over her shoulder, "We'll hook up later!"
"Uh-huh," you mumble while taking note to avoid the flash of her sparkly green dress for the rest of the night. You let out a sigh of relief as your date casually slides in next to you.
"I thought Leblow would never leave," Dawn gripes as she slides water your way.
"Oh god, not you too. I know she's a lot, but that nickna-"
"What did she want anyway?" Dawn asks with a sly smirk. "Did she get you to ride the rail line on the bump train?" You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing your chuckle to stay dormant. "Was it light dusting or a blizzard?"
"Please stop," you plead, failing to keep in a snort.
"Was that a SNORT I heard!? You delinquent you. Good thing I was sent to get ya. Gotta keep an eye on you, apparently," Dawn jests as she squeezes your shoulders. "What did she want anyway? I could feel your annoyance from the bar."
"Nah, it was fine. She was just asking if I'd seen Eddie."
"Oooo, juicy. Trying to give Leblow another meaning?" she giggles. But your face remains serious. "Dawn, c'mon," you lightly chastise.
She holds her hands up in surrender. "You're right, you're right. Too far. Anyway, I was sent to retrieve you. The boys require your salsa skills on the dance floor."
You run your hand along your face, careful not to disturb Dawn's festive eye makeup she painted on you. "In a minute," you sigh. She raises her brows in suspicion. "I promise. Plus, I think Rich is enjoying my date being unoccupied."
She hides her smirk by bringing her drink up to her ruby red lips. Dawn and Rich had become increasingly close over the past year. There were longing stares, "accidental" physical touches, quiet inside jokes whispered to one another. You were curious as to why Dawn hadn't made a move yet. Her usually forward nature bagged many a man in the past. But you had quietly assumed it has something to do with her position alongside the band. Maybe she just needed a green light.
"I peeped some mistletoe by the sculptures when I was looking for Eddie," you throw out.
Her grin is no longer concealed as she lights up brighter than the Christmas tree in the corner. "I'll be back in 15 minutes! And don't make me drag you. I'm not fucking up those heels!" She kisses you swiftly on the cheek before scampering off. You glance down at your feet to the stilettos she'd lent you, fantasizing about chucking them out of the large paned window to your left.
Downing the water Dawn brought over, you simultaneously snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Mentally high-fiving yourself for heading some words of wisdom that your father had passed on. One glass of water for every drink, and hopefully, you won't make too much of an ass out of yourself.
Here you are, yet again, you can't help but scold. What happened to adopting the rockstar mentality? Now look at you. Back in a quiet corner, alone with your thoughts and anxiety. You knew only one other musician like that, but you kept that door locked tight. Carefully constructed walls of compartmentalization had been put up to keep your increasing thoughts of a particular bassist at bay. Not once had you even asked about him specifically on your phone calls with Freddie. All in the hope that your silly crush would be quashed by your next chance meeting.
But your thoughts are quickly brought back to your missing bandmate, the pit in your stomach growing and not from the alcohol. Something had to be wrong. Your gut always had a nagging knack for letting you know. Like when a lover was starting to stray. Or, in this case, when a friend was hurting.
A blue sport coat slides into your peripherals, and you steal a moment to yourself before having to put on yet another smile.
"What's a south shore floozy like yourself doing in a place like this?" questions a familiar voice. The same voice that uttered one of Long Island's most used phrases - you either date a rich girl from the north shore or a cool girl from the south shore. The perfect summation of the loving rivalry engrained into every resident.
"Can't be too bad if a north shore priss like yourself is here," you jest, your voice sounding more confident than you would've thought. A deep laugh rumbles from the man as he extends his hand.
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss L/N."
Your now sweaty hand flashes out to meet his. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Joel," you respond sincerely, your grip firm in the hopes of disguising your shock.
"My bassist Doug has been telling me for months that I should check out the new group of kids from the island. I heard your show at Jones Beach was a knockout. Probably due to what you closed it out with, though." Billy knowingly smiles.
You have no clue how someone like Billy Joel had heard you'd ended your set with a song of his, but you immediately want to kiss whoever made that happen. "Well, we just had to end the night with something from the grandaddy of Long Island rock n' roll." Oh god.
"Grandaddy?" he clutches his heart in mock hurt. "My kids aren't that old yet."
"Fuck, I am so sorry. I didn't mean it like that," you rush out, mortification slipping into your plea. "We're just huge fans and-"
"Hey, hey. It's all good," he chuckles. "But seeing as you're a big fan and you're currently groveling. I actually came over here to ask a favor of you."
"Oh?"
"The album I got going isn't coming out for a while, but I got this idea for a video in my head. One that would be greatly enhanced by your presence in it." You quirk one eyebrow at him as your stomach somersaults. "That entails..."
"Well, the hard part is we're going to have to class you up a bit," he teases with that everyman smile of his.
A giggle falls from your mouth as you pinch yourself, a gentle reminder that you're not a young schoolgirl meeting a cherished rockstar but a fellow musician on the same label. Turning, you try and hide the spreading heat on your cheeks, noticing that your hands weren't the only part of your body sweating now.
"Really, I'm thinking you just put on a fancy dress and strut around. I have a feeling you'll like the song."
Lifting a hand to your chin, you pretend to consider his proposition while you glance around at the partygoers. Rich's tall figure slinks into your field of vision. He halts a few paces away, his shoulders shrunk forward as if hesitating to approach. You find his eyes and subtlely point over to Billy in an "oh my god, look" type of fashion.
But in taking in the rest of his features, you pale. His face is ashen. Entirely blank except for his eyes, which you can now see are rimmed red and glassy. Sighing deeply, he closes the space in two long steps. While shooting Billy an apologetic half-smile, he grabs your hand.
"Y/N, we have to go."
- - - - - - -
February 1983 - Musicland Studios, Munich
"That sounds good to me, Fred. Why don't you come take a listen?"
As Freddie makes his way out of the booth, John glances over to Roger from his seat behind the sprawling soundboard. "What did you think?" he asks.
"Oh yeah, very good," Roger mumbles without glancing up from a newspaper he's intently reading on the plush couch. John sighs loudly as Mack cues up the current track.
"This is your project, you know," he tells him pointedly.
Queen had finished their Hot Space tour in November of last year, and the four agreed unanimously that a break was in order before starting the next album. A break from the road. More importantly, a break from each other. A "break," which consisted of Freddie, Roger, and Brian taking off on solo projects. Brian to Los Angeles and the other two back in Munich.
John, on the other hand, had spent his free time finalizing his divorce. Once back home, it had taken a few months to iron out every heartbreaking detail. It hadn't been messy, but the whole experience was utterly enervating. What proved even more difficult was figuring out how to be a present and doting father still. So when his now ex-wife whisked his children off on extended holiday to see her family, John was left alone. In a sparsely decorated flat with only his guilty conscience and desolation by his side. And when Roger called with an invitation to help out on his new album, John (for the first time in his life) jumped at the chance to head to Munich.
"How was I?" Freddie questions, sauntering over to Roger.
"Not sure he was even listening."
"What's got you so-" Freddie peeks his head around the paper Roger's still reading. "Oh, will you look at that!"
John's brow furrows, but he doesn't move, now quite curious as to what they're fussing over but still wanting to stay on track.
"I told her she looked good in gem tones. Looks like I was right," Freddie states proudly.
John huffs as he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry to interrupt, Rog, but did you like the piano Fred laid down for your album."
Roger finally tears his eyes away with an apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry, let's hear it then." He tosses the paper on the coffee table in front of him as he moves around to the board.
"I was still looking at that!" Freddie pouts.
Curiosity getting the better of him, John glances down at the open page.
A light squeak from his chair rings out as he wheels himself closer for a better look. His eyes widening when he realizes what they were reading.
"They lost. Fucking Toto and their incessantly catchy Africa song," Freddie fills him in. "They're Best New Artist in my heart."
"I like Africa. It's got a lot of layers to it," Roger comments from his perch over Mack's shoulder. "Plus, Lawrence said they weren't expecting much. Just excited to go to the damn thing."
In the upper right corner of the article sits a grainy color photo of The Limbs on the Grammy's red carpet. John smiles to himself as he picks it up. Excited, they were indeed. Y/N's face is spread into a flashing smile, clearly laughing from the apparent squeeze Rich's hand was giving to her mid-section. They looked adorably out of place for the sort of occasion. Lawrence's arms hang awkwardly by his side. Eddie is mid hair fix. Steve's face is beet-red from excitement. And Rich's gaze is pulled towards Y/N as if checking to make sure she was enjoying the moment.
"Alright, you'll have time to moon over it later," Roger snorts. "Let's get back to work."
"You're the one- oh, never mind," John grumbles, scooching his chair back over to the board. I wasn't mooning, he thinks to himself. However, it was hard not to notice that Y/N did look good in that colour. Stunning, really.
He thinks back to their amusing first meeting. In all honestly, he found himself thinking about it more and more recently. Her looks weren't the sort that slapped you in the face; it was a kind of subtle beauty that sneaks up on you. Although, it's hard to miss it once she laughs. Big, bright, and wide with a flash of teeth. The kind of laugh that soothes and shocks you all at once. John finds it hard to wipe off the smile set on his face, not able to conceal his fondness for the young woman. The same one he hadn't spoken to since his last time in New York.
Freddie talked to her quite often from what he could surmise of the semi-frequent updates he got on the band. Roger and Brian as well conversed on occasion with the boys. John wasn't surprised. He was undoubtedly a far cry from the most memorable of the group. But he found that he had to stop himself every so often from inquiring after Y/N's phone number. Not that he was sure Freddie would even give it to him. The man had become rather protective of her.
What would you even say? Barley remembering what he'd rambled on about the last time they spoke due to his stupor, John could only recall her immediate kindness and comfort at his despair.
Freddie loudly clears his throat, and he looks up to a knowing stare from the man. It's pointed as if a warning of some sort. "Shall we?"
- - - - - - -
August 1983 - Record Plant, Los Angeles
No way. It's too big.
While pacing the studio floors, you tilt your head upwards, taking in its expansive ceilings. The walls are decorated in exposed wood, casting warmth around the room. An oddly intimidating warmth. As if the windowless cavern was lulling you into a false sense of ease.
The Limbs were back in Los Angeles, their first time being a two-night stay during the last leg of their tour a few months ago. You had found that you weren't particularly fond of the city. It was the antithesis of New York. Sprawling and vast. With people spread out instead of stacked on top of each other. Everyone you had met was overly pleasant and complimentary, a far cry from the usual "mean but well-meaning" attitude you had grown up with.
It had been a year and a half since the release of Quiet Lies. But your plans to record back in January at The Power Station in New York were pushed due to an unexpected tragedy that had hit your young group.
Right around the holidays, Eddie's mother, Mary, had passed away from stage four pancreatic cancer. From what you had gathered from his father, it had been painful but quick. All the while, Eddie had suffered in silence, shutting himself away for weeks. The group having to find out from their parents only after she was gone.
It had come as a shock to you all. Mary had always been a force. Stubborn as an ox and tough as nails. A short-tempered Irish Catholic woman who took no one's shit except for her eldest son's- and his gaggling group of four friends. She had driven the boys to every odd gig they played as teens: Block parties, retirement gatherings, the occasional bar-mitzvah. Mary was the first to get a copy of your record, promptly inviting everyone in a ten-block radius over to the house to listen. She was the band's number one fan.
More than that, she was your friend—a woman who was also your confidant. While you cherished your relationship with your mother, her disability often led to a disjunction in communication. You knew it was your own impatience, but it was sometimes easier to unload on Mary. And her unwavering wisdom and bluntness had never failed you. Going as far as to even get you a job at a local restaurant out of high school to help pay for college, coming in a minimum of three times a week to leave you a tip that put all others to shame.
At first, you were downright livid. Livid at Eddie for preventing you all from saying goodbye. But once you saw him, unshaven, despondent, not a single lick of pomade in his locks, you knew better. He had been broken. His typical firey spirit gone with Mary. Losing a parent was something you couldn't begin to comprehend. The mere thought of it sent you reeling. So you did what you always did—endeavoring to gently nurse the shell of your friend back to something somewhat whole. Except for at Mary's funeral. Where you had just stood there. Blank. Cursing yourself for never being able to show emotion when you felt like the situation called for it.
But that was December, and the Eddie that stood alongside you now was a different man. More combative and cynical, lashing out over minor details that weren't to his exact liking. It was a miracle that he had finally agreed to record in LA.
"So, what are we thinking?" the voice of the owner, Gary Kellergen, rings out over the pa system from the control room.
Glancing around at the four boys, you notice a similar air of unease. Save for Steve, who is animatedly banging on various objects while marveling as acoustics bounce about.
"They love it! How could they not, right guys?" your producer answers for you all. David Foster, the steadily rising mega-producer/writer that the label had hired to "help out." This wasn't your first time working with him, either. To quell Columbia's worries over your extended break from recording, you had all agreed to sign on to an unexpected project. Producers from the film Valley Girl had reached out about a possible single for their soundtrack, and your managers had thrown it to you faster than Ron Guidry pitches for the Yankees.
Eddie had taken point, needing to throw himself into something to keep his ever-spiraling mind at bay. Locking himself in a studio with David, they wrote She's A Beauty with minimal input from the rest of the group. Usually, this would've caused a rift between the boys, who traditionally composed as a cohesive unit. But as all your jobs nowadays seemed to be placating Eddie's whims, you had signed off on the pop-rock concoction. That being said, it had worked out well for the band in the end.
"It's perfect, Gary. Thank you," Eddie slides in with comfortable smoothness. The man waves from behind the glass as he departs, leaving you all alone with David.
"Only the best for you guys. A band with a number two single deserves it all," he comments as he spreads his arms wide. Rich, Lawrence, and yourself all demurely nod.
"Can we get some time alone in the space?" Rich asks evenly, meeting your worried eyes briefly.
The man slaps him on the shoulder as if they were old pals. "Of course, I'm sure you're all ready to get to work while the guys load everything in. I'll be back in a few days to hear what you got for me!" You all watch as he strolls out of the studio with an air of earned confidence. The "for me" comment strikes you, but you push it down as Steve bounces over.
"Are we ready to rock and roll, friends?" Scattered chuckles ricochet off the walls as the phrase used frequently amongst your fathers sets you all at ease. Steve springs to the door to begin loading in your equipment.
"Hold on." Eddie plops his backpack to the floor as he grabs several sheets of paper, passing them around to his confused friends.
"What's this?" Lawrence questions hesitantly.
"Just an idea I had for our first single."
Bewildered, you look over the sheet. Eddie never writes lyrics first. It was something you did that the boys had immediately thought was odd. Although, the rest of the group had also taken to writing their own ideas due to the prolonged hiatus and partially in response to Eddie's stunt he pulled with David.
A skeptical huff leaves Rich's mouth as he reads on, and with a song titled "Naughty Naughty," you had to agree.
"Ed..." he cautions with a cock of his head. Eddie waits patiently for one of you to say something, his face unreadable.
Steve bravely bites the bullet. "The lyrics are a bit much. Maybe too on the nose?"
"In what way?"
"Well," Lawrence joins in. "For starters, the sheer amount of times the word naughty is used."
"Naughty naughty, cute and horny, tease me," Rich reads aloud for effect. "Naughty, naughty, naughty, I'm a naughty, naughty guy."
A snicker comes from the front of a room, one of the employees who was unloading amps overhearing Rich's deadpan presentation.
Eddie lets out an unsettling chortle. "I had you guys going there for a sec." He smirks at your skeptical faces.
"What the fuck, dude?" Lawrence counters, rightfully annoyed.
Eddie shrugs nonchalantly. "I just wanted to see how far you'd all go to appease me. I want this album to be the best it can be, and that won't happen if you're all tip-toeing around my feelings."
Biting your lip, you study Eddie. Not knowing whether his test was real or his defensive mechanisms were flaring up.
"You can fuck right off," Steve uncharacteristically snipes. "I mean, c'mon. Who pulls that shit? We're already freaking out."
"What are the children quarreling about now?" a lithy British voice filters into the room via the com system. Five heads quickly turn to find a spindling Brian May behind the soundboard.
"H-E-double hockey sticks, what is he doing here?" Lawrence questions aloud.
Brian gracefully lopes into the room, quickly bringing you in for a light hug. "Lovely to see you, Y/N," he smiles.
"You too, Brian," you stutter, still in shock by his presence. "I gotta echo Lawrence on this one. What are you doing here?"
Brian explains as he makes the rounds, being sure to pull Eddie in for a proper hug. The grim upturn of his lips telling you that he's aware of his loss.
"Heard you were starting today and wanted to pop over and say hi. We just wrapped up for the day. I'm over in Studio C recording with a few friends out here," he explains.
"Friends?" you mummer, taking in a sharp breath at the implication of who else could be with him.
"Roger and John will be arriving next week to start on the album," he says knowingly. "Freddie probably sometime after that, who knows. I'm doing a side project at the moment. A few people I think you'd like to meet actually. But first, let's get back to what you were all bickering about before I interrupted."
Eddie cuts in casually, "We're all just a bit nervous to start the album, I think."
"Mmm," Brian muses. "A fair conundrum. I've found that one thing helps to kick off the months of grueling agony."
Eyebrows raise all around as the five of you lean in intently.
Brian smirks - something up his sleeve. "A simple jam session."
