Somebody To Love (Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor fanfic)

forty seven

The next day, Roger is relieved that they don't have a show that night.

Rebecca had cleaned his lip for him when they'd got back and although she had said that the bruising wasn't that bad, when he looked in the mirror that morning, it looked worse.

She came into the room just after he climbed out of the shower and he was inspecting his lip and she smacked his hand away when he continued to poke at it.

"It won't heal if you keep doing that," she mumbled, hopping up onto the counter by the sink and he looks at her, seeing the guilt in her eyes.

He knows that she blames herself and he moves to stand in front of her, where her legs part to make room for him and she reaches up to move some hair back so she can get a better look at his cheek.

That's when he sees the finger-shaped bruises on her forearm, where that arsehole had his hand on her and he feels the rage building up in his chest once more.

"Hey," she whispers, making him look at her, "I'm okay, yeah?" Her forehead touches his, "I'm okay."

"If I see him again..." he begins but trails off. He knows he won't. This city is massive and they're leaving in a few hours.

She kisses his jaw softly before sliding off the counter, "I'm going to run down to reception and see if I can get some more antiseptic wipes. Not risking an infection."

Hearing her leave, he takes one last look before leaving the bathroom to go get dressed.

He's pulling a shirt over his head when there's a knock at the door and looking at the bedside table, he sees that Rebecca forgot to lift the room key before leaving. Again.

"Becca, I swear one day that I'm not going to be here to let you..." he trails off when he opens the door.

Hannah's stood there with a shoulder bag and a suitcase and she gives him a shy smile along with a little wave but looks anywhere but him, "Hi, Rog."

"You look like shit."

And she does. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, she looks like she hasn't slept in days and she's wearing an old hoodie of John's and some joggers.

"Thanks," she huffs, dragging her case into the room, "But believe me, I know. You don't look too good yourself."

Roger closes the door and leans against it, watching her as she drops her bag onto the floor. She starts pacing, pulling at the necklace she's wearing, "Don't take this the wrong way but what are you doing here? John said you were busy with uni. Does John know that you're here?"

She stops her pacing at the sound of his name and she still doesn't look at him and when she brings a hand up to wipe her face, he realises that she's crying.

"You'd better sit down," he says gently, "You're quite cut up. Do you want something to drink? Tea? Vodka?"

She takes the offer of the seat and sits on the end of their bed, "It's eleven thirty in the morning, Roger. No, I don't want a vodka."

"Does John know that you're here?" he asks again but he thinks that he already knows the answer to that question.

"No," she admits, wiping her eyes again, "I..."

Roger grabs a chair from the small table that's in the room and sits down in front of her. She's scaring him now. He's never seen her like this, so shaken up about something, "Hannah, what's going on? Has something happened?"

She nodded.

"What? Has someone hurt you?" He's relieved when she shakes her head and he reaches out to place his hand on her knee, "If you don't tell me, I can't help."