64 Oslo Square
"Companion' Middle English. From Old French 'compaignon', literally 'one who breaks bread with another.
Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it's more than worth it. It's worth it because of you.
A/N: she finally did it! she finally got her act together! if anyone is still reading this, honestly, bless you and thank you for your patience. this was such a nice fic to write and definitely made the year and a bit i worked in a bakery/cafe a lot easier. a lot's changed since then, but i'm still here and so are you, so thanks guys, i love you tons xx
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Chapter 13: Epilogue
“So, this is where the magic happens?”
“If by ‘magic’ you mean sleeping and revising and trying not to breathe in the mould...”
“You take me to all the best places.”
John stood with his shoulder blades flat against the inside of his bedroom door. His hands hung behind him, fidgety and nervous, though he wasn’t quite sure why. You knew more of him than anyone ever had. He’d hope that his admittedly dingy uni accommodation would not alter your good opinion of him, digs you’d insisted you wanted to see, no matter how much he assured you that you weren’t missing anything.
With his long body crammed into the tiny phone box on campus, he’d finally relented and said you could pick him up before you went to see a movie together. But John immediately began to panic the moment he set the phone down. With only thirty minutes before you would be at his door, he didn't have a second to waste. He raced back to his room and assessed the damage.
He couldn’t do anything about the lack of natural light, but he pulled his curtain aside as far as it could go, then pushed open his one window, hoping the sweet summer air and the sound of students playing music on the grass below would give the place a bohemian flair, rather than submit to the indomitable brutalist architecture of the accommodation blocks.
In a fervour, John plucked every silk shirt and every pair of unwashed jeans from the floor, shoving them in a laundry basket his mum had bought for him when he left for uni. He slotted textbooks back onto his shelf, cleared his desk of scrap paper and took all his dirty plates and glasses to the communal kitchen to be dealt with later.
Lastly, he found his little transistor radio sticking out from under the bed and landed it with a firm ‘clunk’ on his bedside table instead. He flicked through frequencies, hoping to find a station that would please you. Finally, he landed on Radio Jackie, who were currently playing a Sweet song he’d heard you humming along to before. Perfect.
He was panting by the time you arrived.
Against the dull grey walls and corrugated navy carpet that seemed standard in universities across the UK, you looked like an angel. When you greeted him with a quick kiss, John breathed in the sweet smell that always hung around you like perfume, but he knew it was really a delicious mix of pastry, cinnamon, and you.
You stood in the centre of the box room, your arms crossed comfortably as you turned your head this way and that, taking it all in.
“Well, well, well, your humble abode.”
“Emphasis on the ‘humble’.”
“Shut up, it’s great. Look, you’ve got a window and everything. It’s basically The Savoy.”
John smiled to himself as he watched you move around the room. With his hands still pinned behind his back, he spun the silver ring on his thumb, a habit he’d adopted in place of picking at the skin at the corner of his nail.
One night, when you were both lounging on the sofa in front of the telly, you’d pressed the ring into the palm of his hand. To thank him, you’d said, for all he’d done for the bakery. You’d picked it up from South Ken market the first time he took you to visit Roger and Freddie. He hadn’t noticed you slip off to talk to Mhairi, the woman who owned the stall next door. Her table was clustered with silver she’d warmed and twisted and styled by hand, rings, necklaces, and funny trinkets for the mantle.
John insisted he didn’t need to be thanked half a dozen times. Really, he hadn’t done anything that any good lawyer wouldn’t have pointed out eventually, but you wouldn’t hear it. In your mind, he’d saved 64 Oslo Square, your home, and your family. So he kissed you, and let you slip the ring down the length of his thumb, as if you were claiming him as yours all over again.
John span the ring around and around, thinking about that kiss, and smiled to himself.
“Oh, who’s in here?”
You'd found the small, spherical tank on his bedside table.
The university obviously didn't allow pets, but Roger had once, as a joke, brought him a packet of Sea-Monkeys. This was before John met you, and was probably some sort of low dig at him needing some company, but he’d brushed off Roger’s jokes and cared for the little creatures as assiduously as he would any other pet.
“Do they have names?” you asked, bending in half so that you could peer into the water.
John huffed and shook his head.
“No. You can name them, if you like.”
“Thought it would be a few more years before we had to worry about this,” you said, and turned your head to grin at him. “How about John Junior. For all of them.”
“Perfect. You're great at this.”
“Well, this' coming from the owner of a bakery named after its own address.”
You went over to his chest of drawers to see what lay there.
John was pained to realise he hadn’t quite managed to tidy as much as he’d hoped, but you didn’t seem to mind.
There was a stack of film ticket stubs held together by an elastic band, a few little multi-coloured bracelets Freddie had once given him, cassette tapes, and a few books in a haphazard pile.
You wore a small, sweet smile as your eyes crossed over each item, like a visitor in a museum.
“It’s not bad, actually! Carpet’s a bit gritty but…”
You turned your head, and your gaze landed on his desk, wedged into the corner beside the window.
“Wow, John. You are proper scary, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at all these textbooks…”
You grabbed one from the shelf and prised it open with two thumbs, like you were splitting a ripe piece of fruit in half. The pages made a soft fluttery sound as you pored through the book, scanning each paragraph but only retaining the odd obscure symbol and phrase written in bold.
“Do you actually know what all this means?”
John felt something in his chest tighten when you sat down on the edge of his bed.
He suddenly felt like a teenager again. He would've given his right arm to have a pretty girl in his room back then, asking him questions about his life and making herself comfy on his bed, but now you were here, and his life was bared before you, he found he wasn't sure what to do with himself. It didn't matter that you'd been dating for months or that you'd seen each other from every angle possible, you still managed to make him nervous. He thought that might never go away. He hoped it wouldn't.
“Most of it. I’m still learning. Here, do you want tea?”
“I’m alright, ta.”
You closed the book when he came to sit beside you, and let him take it from your hands so that he could lay it on his bedside table, on top of the tank.
“Oh, John, the kids…"
“They’re fine.”
He was already kissing you before you could think to argue with him anymore. He was just so happy to see you here, in his world. Suddenly, John couldn’t think why he’d put off for so long.
Showing you the market where his friends scraped a living had been so wonderful. He loved showing you off, but you had once admitted that you didn’t get out much. You just didn’t have the time. Now, the bakery was upright again, and you’d allowed yourself some freedom for the first time in years.
He loved seeing you weave between swathes of turmeric yellow silks and bow your head under strings of glimmering beads. Your bright smile had lit the way through those winding, maze-like tunnels. You led him from stall to stall, a tourist in your own city, pointing out pirated records, prints you thought would look nice in the flat, and endearingly wonky pottery. All the while, your hand had stayed safely tucked in his.
Now, you were in his room, taking an interest in his world, even though John would be the first to admit there wasn’t much to be interested in, and being so sweet about the little life he’d carved out for himself.
He’d admired it about you from the start, the relationships you had with the people around you, the community you'd cultivated. You ran a business in an ever-changing city, you had a family that extended further than flesh and blood, and you worked hard, far harder than anyone he knew. Despite everything, you had created a home for yourself, and John was proud to think he might’ve followed in your footsteps with Queen.
He was not separate from this city, he was part of it. He had a life here now, a place, a home, and it was all because of you.
All it took was your gentle hand slipping around the curve of his neck for him to crumble. John hummed against your lips, his hand on your cheek so that he could nose in closer.
You answered with a soft noise of your own, and let him smooth his hands around your hips, where his fingertips dug in to that perfect softness he ached for, until he was pawing at you like a settling cat. John felt rather than saw you lift one leg to settle on the bed, and then he was leaning into you, his birdcage ribs against your warm chest, completely lost in your mouth, completely lost in you.
You pushed your hands inside his jacket, following the dip of his waist, and laughed into John’s mouth when he immediately shrugged it off. That hadn’t been your intention, but he was too entranced to be embarrassed. You had that effect on him.
“How many girls have you gotten off with on this bed?” you asked, almost to yourself, as his mouth found your neck.
“Erm, including you?” John hummed in thought, and heard you gasp at the shiver it sent across your skin. “Er… One.”
“Would you call this getting off?”
“I’ve never been entirely confident on the definition. Maybe you could show me?”
That earned him your fingers in his hair, which is exactly what he’d been hoping for. Your nails grazed his sensitive scalp, then crooked to tangle by the curve of his skull and tugged gently.
“Ohh, and there was me thinking you just wanted to show me your books and electrical bits.”
“Nope,” John sighed against your mouth. “Complete lie.”
You laughed softly, breaking the kiss for just a moment before his insistent mouth found yours again.
“Shame, geeky boys like you really turn me on.”
“Oh, well, if it’s geeky you want, geeky I can do.”
With one of his hands on your lower back and the other slipping down the inside of your thigh, John started to press tiny, soft little kisses across your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, down your neck and up again, murmuring against your skin as he went.
“The magnitude of the electrostatic force of attraction between two point charges…” He let his teeth graze your neck and smiled when he felt your breath sharpen by his ear. “Is directly proportional to the product of the magnitudes of charges and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them…”
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but you were grinning.
Finally, you had enough and yanked him back up to kiss you properly.
John laughed softly as you sank back onto the bed, pulling him with you.
“We’re going to miss the movie, y’know.”
He settled on top of you comfortably, like he belonged there, and you immediately wrapped your legs around him. It was second nature now.
“There’ll be another showing. You know, I never got to have the full uni experience. Maybe you could show me what I’ve been missing out on, and I can be the first girl to get some use out of this awful, lumpy bed.”
John smiled so wide it made his eyes crinkle.
"First and only girl.”
"Mm, good answer.”
You whispered to each other between sweet kisses, your eyes fixed on John’s as his hand slipped under your shirt.
You did end up missing your movie. And the next showing.
/
At the end of Kensington High Street sat a bakery. It had stood there for almost thirty years, and those who loved it hoped it would stand for many more. The windows were always lit with warm yellow light, and there were flowers over the door, no matter the season. Below them, in curling, scarlet script, read the name 64 Oslo Square.
In the kitchen, Mickey was leaning over the counter while he waited for his signature loaves to rise in the brand-new ovens. He chewed on the end of a pencil, staring at his crossword. Just above his head, a pinboard, another new feature in the kitchen, was covered in photos of his wife and daughter.
Behind the counter, Gladys moved between the till and the display case like a hummingbird between flowers. Her bangles and bracelets clattered almost musically, her bright clothes a draw to anyone walking past. She knew every customer by name, and when she wasn’t chatting, she was singing bright, silly songs from her childhood that she’d almost convinced herself she’d forgotten. Her smile could power the city at night.
Beside her, watching and learning, the bakery’s newest employees fiddled with their aprons. Barbara, a fresher at Imperial, worked part-time and made the best cup of tea any of 64 Oslo Square's workers had ever had. David, a gawky teenager, had taken over the delivery boy job and was still getting used to the new company bike.
Finally, you and the former delivery boy were sitting outside, taking your break together.
You lounged back in one of the scarlet chairs, turning your mug of tea around in your hands. Your foot rested against the stem of the table so that you could push against it and carefully rock your chair back on its hind legs.
Conversely, John sat with one long leg crossed over the other. He kept his back straight, his gaze on the high street, watching the multicoloured people as they passed by.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
You turned your head.
John was still staring off into the middle distance, but his folded hands fidgeted in his lap. You watched the tip of his right index finger bounce against the base of his left middle finger, keeping an allegro tempo only he could hear.
Humble to a fault, John would always insist he was an engineer before he was a musician, but you were certain there were hundreds of songs floating around that crowded mind, ballads and strains and dances that would spill out one day.
He was sweet like that, a wonderful mix of pragmatist and creative. Much as he tried to deny it, the twin facets of his personality were conjoined, twisting around each other till they formed something new. He could see a pile of scrap metal and envision something beautiful, something to fill a need others might not have seen. What was that if not poetry? And where would Queen be without its thumping, steady heartbeat?
You turned back to look at the high street, ignoring the way your chest panged with worry.
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s not really. Maybe a bit.” John pulled in a deep breath, then sighed. “Someone came to see us play the other day. Someone from a record company.”
“What? That’s amazing, John. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t know he would be coming, and then when we found out… I don’t know. I didn’t want to jinx it, I s'pose.”
“Did he like you?”
You watched his finger pick up speed until he was tapping out semiquavers. You wanted to reach out and slip your hand over his, but forcing the fidgeting to stop would not snuff out the anxiety causing it. Instead, you waited for John to speak, giving him the space he needed to organise his thoughts and articulate what was bothering him.
Several moments passed wherein the only sounds were the roar of midday traffic and the hum of humanity all around you.
At last, John said,
“He’s gonna set up a few gigs for us. They start in Cornwall, and there are a few up North too. And then, when we get back, the record company wants us to record an album.”
The front legs of your chair hit the paving slabs hard as you sat up straight.
“John!” You did end up grabbing his hand and squeezing it then, your grin so wide it hurt. “John, that’s amazing!”
But he only gave you a wan smile in return. The corners of his mouth turned upwards, but there was no shine in his eyes. His fingers had finally stopped moving, but beneath the table, you could hear the sole of John’s beaten-up old trainer tapping a beat of its own.
“Oh, dear…” You tilted your head and reached up to tuck some of his long hair behind his ear. “What’s that face for? Come on.”
John’s hands tightened beneath yours.
“It means… It means I can’t work here anymore.”
The smile slowly faded from your lips, and understanding fell like heavy snow on your shoulders.
John’s funny mouth twisted, and he looked away for a second before turning in his chair to face you properly, courage restored, if only by a little.
“I’ve still got uni to finish, and when the music stuff is all done with, I’ll need a work placement, or maybe I’ll go for my masters or- I don’t know, I don’t have enough time to…” He exhaled again, like it would expel the weight he felt in his chest, but his pained expression didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, love.”
It was strange. You’d always known this day would come eventually. You and John were always going to end up here. You’d known it from the moment you saw him play. John was destined for far bigger and greater things than your bakery. You weren’t sure what they were yet, what path he would take, if he decided he needed to choose between them at all, but John Deacon could not be your delivery boy forever. And though you’d known that for some time, it still made your chest heave to realise you were finally at that crossroad.
But sad as change was, you knew this wasn’t the end of something good, but rather the beginning of something wonderful. John had changed your life in so many ways, some tiny, some insurmountable. He brought joy to this little world of yours and had found his place amongst your strange family so easily. And you liked to think you’d changed him, too. He was no longer that skinny, timid kid standing out in the rain. Well, he was in some ways. You hoped that side of him would never leave him, but he had become so much more.
You squeezed John’s hands, then leaned over so that you could press a sweet kiss to his cheek.
“Listen to me, New Boy. Electrical engineer or rockstar, you will always have a job here. Doesn’t matter where you go or what you do, this is your home, and you’ll always have us. Okay?”
John’s expression softened, but worry was still pinching his brows together.
“But what if…”
“Hey,” You kissed his cheek again, then gently held the other in your free hand. “You’re stuck with us. You’ll always be our delivery boy.”
That did it. Finally, that smile you’d come to love so quickly spread across John’s face. He ducked his head, tucking his chin into his chest the way he always did when he knew he was giving away more emotion than he was comfortable with. But you slipped your hand under his jaw and brought him back to look at you.
“Were you really worried about that, sweetheart?”
“I just didn’t want to… I didn’t want to let you down. Any of you.”
“Oh, love…”
You kissed his cheek again, and John closed his eyes with a sigh.
“You could never, John. Never ever, I promise.”
He melted under your hands. You didn’t care that everyone in the shop could see you through the bakery’s wide front window. The ribbing you’d get later was definitely worth watching the worry vanish from John’s face, and feeling him completely unwind from your gentle touch.
“You’re a funny old thing, you know that, Deacon?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the palm of your hand.
“I wondered… You can say no, obviously, but… I wondered if you might want to come with us? Maybe not all around the country, but it’s not too bad down to Cornwall. It’d just be a week, maybe two? We could go to the beach. And I think Roger’s girlfriend is coming, and I think maybe some of Freddie’s friends from uni. God knows, it might be a disaster, but you deserve a holiday.”
Stunned, it took you a moment to process the information. John didn’t often speak more than a few sentences in one go, but God, when he did.
John was right, you couldn’t remember the last time you had a holiday. Definitely before you started at the bakery. Your friends had stopped asking. Your family, too. You’d turned them down one too many times. The bakery had always come first. It was your home, your livelihood. It was the only place that made you feel that spark of belonging. You were good at this. You loved your community. And there was so much uncertainty in this world, you couldn’t see why paltry things like holidays couldn’t wait until everything was safer. Which, you supposed, they were now. Thanks to John.
Since giving Alastair the boot, things have righted themselves again. But you weren’t just surviving anymore. No, you were thriving. Accounts were righted, revenue streams cut off, and terrible men scared off for good. Life had returned to your little shop and to your friends, and you were determined to keep it that way.
Gladys was happier than you’d seen her in years. Mickey enjoyed coming to work again. You'd been able to update the kitchen and hire some new people, and Gladys even had her sights set on the empty building next door. You could expand in a few years, if things kept going as they did. It would always be a tenuous business, but people needed a little joy, and that’s exactly what you made at 64 Oslo Square.
Maybe you could let yourself relax for a week, or even two. Maybe you could trust that the home you’d built to keep yourself and your loved ones safe would be okay if you looked away for a second. Maybe you could allow yourself some fun, for once.
“Okay. Yeah, okay, I’d love that.”
Something - something in your chest, something that had always been there but you didn’t have a name for until now - flickered and ignited like a candle in a window, a guiding light, warm and constant.
“I love you.”
John held your gaze for all of half a second before the corners of his mouth twitched again, and he was beaming at you, that big beaming smile that made his cheeks bunch up and his eyes crinkle.
“I love you too,” he said, then said it again, for good measure.
You began to laugh, and didn't even stop when John pressed his mouth against yours.
All too soon, he had to get back to uni for his afternoon lecture.
You stood in the doorway to the bakery, one foot on its polished wooden floor, the other in the city. You watch John lope off, his back a little straighter now, his hair a little longer, and his step a lot lighter. He waved to you on the corner. Your boy. Your silly, clever, brilliant boy. You hoped he knew just how wonderful he was. You supposed you had a lifetime to show him.
The new ABBA tune greeted your ears as you headed behind the counter, waving to Gladys and the new kids as you went. Humming along, you passed through to the kitchen, where Mickey was waiting for you.
"Here, love," He dropped his newspaper down in front of you. "7 Down. 'A section or speech at the end of a book or play that serves as a comment on or a conclusion to what has happened.' Eight letters."
Tying back your hair, then your worn apron, you scanned the white boxes, searching for the column he was talking about.
"Starts with 'E', Mick."
You heard what you thought must be Mickey pulling the newspaper close to his face, then a triumphant cry.
“You’re a genius, darlin’.”
A tree trunk-sized arm wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you back into a brick wall of a chest. Mickey pressed a huge, wet kiss to your cheek, and you just laughed and shoved him away, too happy to tell him off.
“Alright, alright. Haven't you got work to be getting on with?"
"Aye, aye, Captain."
Mickey dropped his paper down by the back stoop, where it could wait until his lunch break, then went to check the ovens.
You dug your hands into a box of flour and dusted them together. The sun shining in through the back door lit up the kitchen with a warm clementine glow.
"Right," you said. "What's next?"
//
Master List
