In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

Birdman's Eye View: Deal Between the Devils

I arrive first at Wessex Studios today. Most of the time, this is a smart move, because Freddie's usually next to show. But for some reason, today he's delayed. And so, I have the great pleasure of walking in only seconds before Roger.

"Hello, Deacy," Roger rasps. "Run into any more ghost girls?"

I smile and shake my head. My gaze stays down so he doesn't see the "F--- you" in my eyes.

For the next few minutes I busy myself with tuning the bass. Roger starts banging away on the drums, practicing his latest song. "Fight From the Inside," I think he calls it. It's bass and drum heavy, so it gives me something interesting to do. So far, it's definitely his best. But then, that's not saying much when you've got tripe like "Tenement Funster" and "I'm in Love with My Car" padding your repertoire. I'm new to the songwriting business, too, but at least I've penned a hit.

Don't tell anyone I said that, though.

Brian's not too far behind Roger. In about ten minutes, he rushes through the door lugging along his 'Old Lady.' The pale face under that curly mop of hair looks unusually expressive.

"Guys, you'll never guess who's recording in the studio next door," he says.

Roger shrugs. "ELO?"

"No."

"Peter Gabriel? Wings?"

"No, and no."

"Then, who?"

"The Sex Pistols."

I'm tempted to ask what's so important about the Sex Pistols, but I know better. Because Brian isn't finished talking.

He sighs. "The shit's going to hit the fan when he finds out."

Of course, he means Freddie.

"So what? Freddie won't care. They've got to record somewhere too," Roger says.

"True. We can't all slip off to Freddie's closet to do our dirty work," Brian quips, coaxing a laugh or two from Roger.

I sigh. It's going to be a long day.

"You boys can stop picking on John now," Freddie's voice cuts in. He appears in the doorway a second later. "He's not as crazy as you thought."

We all exchange glances until Brian finally asks, "You mean, there was a girl in there after all?"

"I'm afraid so," Freddie says.

And naturally, we erupt with questions.

"What was she doing in there?" Brian asks.

"I don't know. She was under the bed when I found her."

"What's her name?" I say.

"Again, I don't know. I call her Eve."

"Is she pretty?" Roger wonders.

"Pretty?" Freddie's brows come together, and he sits down. "Oh, I'm not sure if pretty is exactly the right word..."

"Is she not pretty?" Roger persists.

"Well, I'll be honest with you," he sighs. "She's breathtaking."

"In a good way?"

"Is there a bad way to be breathtaking? She's beautiful. Her eyes are this big around, I'm not kidding." He makes a circle with his thumb and index finger.

That's not enough for our womanizing drummer. "What else?"

"Put your tongue back in your mouth, Roger. She looks like the younger sister of that one actress, what's her name, she was in that movie The Graduate..."

"Anne Bancroft?" I suggest.

"No, no! The other one. The one who played the girl who went, 'BEEENNN!'"

"Katharine Ross?"

"Is that her name? Oh. Then, yeah, she looks like her."

Roger grins. "What a shame we didn't get to see this Eve of yours."

By contrast, Brian visibly would prefer to drop this discussion of Freddie's exciting private life, and is opening his guitar case. "It's a bit scary to me. Sure hope that doesn't happen again. Sycophant fans like those can be dangerous."

"You're both wrong," Freddie says.

Brian looks up, frowning. You have to be some kind of brave, or else some kind of absolute idiot, to say Brian is wrong. Trust me.

Freddie continues, "She's not gone, for one; and for another, she'd never even heard of us, so she's not a fan at all."

Brian and Roger (and even the sound men who've just walked in) groan. "You believed her?" Brian says in disbelief. "This girl had tucked herself away in your closet and you believe her?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

"She sounds absolutely mad," Roger remarks.

"Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about that." Freddie clears his throat. "But I see it this way. Fans to that extreme, who would consider, you know, doing something sneaky like that just to get close to one of us- I just don't feel like she's that kind of person. She's very practical. Fans who think breaking and entering is a good idea are not, by definition, practical. She says she doesn't know how she even wound up in my house."

"Practical, but crazy- not to mention expert lockpick?" Brian says dryly.

"And beautiful. Don't forget beautiful," Freddie corrects him. "To be sure, I've slept with worse."

I hate it when he says things like that.

"What's funny is, she doesn't even want that from me," he goes on. "She just wants shelter."

"You certain she doesn't know who you are?" Roger teases.

"F--- off, you sod. You're just jealous she didn't show up in YOUR closet."

"Bad luck," Brian comments as they laugh. He's now getting up, ready to start work on our songs. I'm with him; this Eve has only said three sharp words to me so far, yet I feel sorry for her.
I know where this is going.

And it begins. "Too bad," Roger goads. "Struck out before you even step up to bat, eh, Fred?"

Freddie turns. "Is that a challenge? I've got quite a reputation, you know."

Roger grins like a crocodile. "Could you change her mind, you think? I know I could."

"She's not your type."

"One hundred pounds says she's not yours, either."

I close my eyes in spite of myself. Don't do it, Fred, I beg him silently.

"You're on!" he cries. They shake on it.

"Lads! Are we going to get to business, or are you just here to talk trash?" Brian calls.

And all I can think is, Poor Eve. Poor crazy Eve.