and then there was light {Roger Taylor}

angrylizardjacket:

Summary: You’re a roadie and lighting assistant for Queen’s first US tour, a bit of an overachiever at your job, despite the terrible pay. It’s all worth it to spend time with the band, and when you find the lunch break you’re working through interrupted by Roger Taylor, that worth increases tenfold. Except he’s a womanizing rock star and you’re the roadie who’s secretly sleeping in the equipment bus to avoid paying for hotel rooms, but the heart wants what it wants. At least you and Freddie get along.

A/N: 5157 words. Christ. This is 100% based on the fictionalised version of Roger Taylor played by Ben Hardy. This fic is so self gratuitous it’s a bit shameful (reference, I’m an actual roadie and lighting assistant, but on a much smaller scale, obvs.). Board certified first Post-BoRhap Roger Taylor Imagine (weird flex but okay)

Warnings: Smoking, drinking, it gets a little bit M rated but no smut.

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The tour bus was hot and stale, and if it wasn’t for the window up the back, you’re pretty sure you’d have suffocated by now, crammed up the back of the equipment bus, wedged in behind three amps, a drum kit, and a road case full of lights. As it was, you were struggling to keep your knee from leaning against the snare drum, a task especially difficult when you’ve got a parcan wedged between your legs, and a box of gels balancing atop your knees. It’s uncomfortable, but life on tour is just like that, and you wouldn’t complain even if you’d wanted to.

You’re part of EMI’s usual tour crew, having gone around the States with Bowie for his last tour, but now you found yourself promoted to Lighting Assistant for Queen, and though the pay didn’t greatly increase, at least you could delude yourself with the title. As it was, you were already only sneaking food from the band’s catering, and the Production Manager hadn’t noticed that you were sleeping at the back of the bus, so at least you weren’t hemorrhaging money on the trip. You could look for a better, more stable job, but where was the fun in that?

Queen was, in a word, incredible. Their passion and talent was breathtaking to watch, and they respected your work enough to leave you and the rest of the crew to their jobs, or perhaps they were just lazy. You’d never really spoken to any of them, though they smile kind enough at you as you run their cables while they set up their instruments.

“You should move.” A voice calls from the drum riser, in front of which you are sitting, legs crossed as you cut gels for the drum lights themselves. After a moment to process what had been said, you look around at the bits of plastic littered around you.

“No thanks.” You call back, not even bothering to look at who had addressed you in the first time, going back to your task.

“Suit yourself.” The voice called back, and after a moment of silence, the bass drum kicked in, following by a heart-thumping tom-and-high-hat rhythm. The thumping beat kept in time with your now racing heart, both out of a little nervousness and exhilaration at the sudden realisation that you had back chatted Roger Taylor, or someone who was going to be severely injured if Roger caught them on his drums. To your credit, you barely flinched, making yourself relax as the beat knocked your heart about your ribs.

It didn’t take you long to recognise the beat, and you found yourself bopping along while it lasted. You weren’t sure what he was doing back here, the rest of the crew was on break, but you had been left to get the last of the lights ready for that night’s show. As the stringless version of Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll came to an end, you were left in silence, broken only by the creek of the frames you were putting the gels into. Roger had pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches when you turned to look up at him from your spot on the stage.

“I wrote that one, ya know.” He mused, leaning down and reaching through the hardware of the drum kit to offer you one. You accepted without really thinking, moving from muscle memory as he lit his cigarette and held the still burning match out for you.

“‘s a bit different from some of the newer stuff.” You said, the statement neither positive nor negative, just a thought you allowed into the universe. Looking away from him, you inhaled deeply, cigarette held loose between your lips as you wrestled the frames into the parcans exhaling the smoke from your nose as you moved the first into position in front of the drums themselves.

“Careful.” Roger warned, and when you looked up to glare at him, you saw him watching you intently. Biting back a sarcastic retort, you moved your hand to your lips, taking a long drag on your cigarette, not breaking eye contact as you stubbed it out on the shifter by your ankles. You put the remainder behind your ear as you breathed out the lungful of smoke.

“Of course, Roger.” You conceded, “accidentally” knocking the parcan against the edge of the drum, to which he squawked in protest, but the sight of your mischievous grin had him smiling despite himself.

It keeps happening, like a ritual, the day you land in whatever town they were performing in, you worked through lunch, not that you didn’t take lunch later, it’s just that you enjoyed being alone on the stage in the theatre. He’d always end up tapping out a few songs, perhaps something he was trying to write and was musing over, it was different every time, as was whatever task you were up to. Usually the two of you share a cigarette or two, and Roger’s stopped hiding the way he leers at you whenever you’re working, though you’re pretty sure he’s taking the piss, since you’re sure you look grubby and sweaty, with a roll of gaff tape pushed up to your bicep for easy access.

You’ve actually really started looking forward to it, and he’s stopped complaining when you ask him to stand on stage so you could focus your lights. The way you two chat turns to easy banter, a little cruel side of teasing, but neither of you really took it to heart, in fact, he genuinely seemed to enjoy your company, and you his.

But the thing is, you knew about Roger Taylor and his reputation, had seen it from the window of the equipment bus which doubled as your secret bedroom, of girls aggressively and conventionally attractive, hanging around him like flies. It grates on you in a way you hadn’t expected, and after a while you realised that perhaps your hero-crush on his music may have turned to something more.

The day the rest of the band tags along, it’s a particularly hot day, you’re at the top of a ladder with a profile light in hand, cigarette glowing where it was held in your lips, wearing a set of cut off overalls and a sports bra with you steel-capped boots.

“Lighting Wench?” Roger calls, as you fasten the security chain for the light.

“Aye, Captain Dickhead?” You respond without even thinking.

“I like her.” A new voice comments, and from your vantage point, you see the rest of the band looking up at you, Brian wearing a shit-eating grin as Roger scowled.

“We’d been wondering where dear Roger had been squirrelling himself away all this time.” Freddie beamed up at you, which caused you to flush, more from being addressed by Freddie Mercury himself, than anything else.

“I come here to work on songs, she just happens to be here.” Roger huffed, retreating to sit on the drum risers.

“Tha’s good work ethic.” John grinned up at you, to which you smiled back. After a beat, of sudden panic facing all of Queen at once in an informal setting, you had found your voice again.

“Since you’re all here, could I get someone in centre so I can focus this spot?” You asked, breathing in a lungful of smoke and smiling to yourself as Freddie stepped forward without hesitation, the others drifting off to find their instruments. You connected the power cord, which had already been turned on at the wall, which was blatantly bad conduct, but the ladder was tall and you didn’t enjoy climbing up and down it in the heat.

“You’re so much more cooperative than Rog,” you muse on the exhale, and Freddie turns and gives you a wink, despite the fact that he’s looking directly into the light.

“Of course, darling, I’m used to the spotlight.” He said casually, ignoring the rest of the band’s snorts and Roger flipping him off. After a beat, his eyes brightened, and not just from the correctly focused light. “Spotlight.” He mused, pointing up at you. “It’s perfect, darling, you’re Spotlight now.”

“My name’s Y/N.” You spluttered, hands moving automatically to adjust the light until it was perfect, but Freddie shook his head.

“I know,” the brief phrase took you back a little, but he didn’t give you time to process it, “but you’re Spotlight now.” He sounded like he had made his mind up, and the others laughed good naturedly. After double checking the rough focus, you climbed back down the ladder. “The Light Bringer.” Freddie mused to the empty auditorium, which was only punctuated by you turning off the light at the powerpoint, leaving him in the glow of the house lights.

“I prefer Lighting Wench.” Roger called, from his seat at the drums, grinning as you flipped him off without even looking at him.

“Why don’t we see you at the after parties, you should be there?” John asked, and you suddenly went very quiet, though Brian answered for you.

“Bump out, mate. Packing up all this shit.” He gestured around, and you nodded, avoiding eye contact as you made a break for the door.

“Spotlight,” it’s Freddie’s voice, surprisingly serious, that makes you turn back, “you will be there tonight though, won’t you?” He asked, the others all giving you hopeful smiles, bar Roger who was squinting at you. You smiled weakly, your whole mind hating you for denying Queen of all people.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” You told them, and left.

They had an actual rest day the next day, even the band was staying in a hotel rather than their tour bus. The benefits of a real hotel was an actual breakfast, an all you can eat buffet. You hadn’t had breakfast since the tour started, and you didn’t think any of the boys would be awake to call you out on it; the perfect crime.

Except you woke up late, cutting it real close when you arrived at eleven. As you were piling your plate with hashbrowns, you felt someone pinch your ass, and in the next moment, an incredibly hung-over Roger found himself with a face full of continental breakfast buffet.

“What the fuck?” He yelped, stepping back and grumbling. “I’m still drunk, don’t be a-”

“Careful with what you’re about to say, Roger.” You warned, face furious,not even slightly tempted to laugh at the way your breakfast was sticking to his face in places. “What in the hell gives you the right to touch me like that?”

“‘m still drunk?” He tried again, now actually pouting, wiping food from his face, “I just showered.” 

“You’re hungover, Roger, and it’s not an excuse.” After more of your glaring, Roger frowned, nose wrinkling.

“I’m… sorry?” The apology sounded more like a question, but it also sounded as though he never said the words before, so you accepted it with a deep sigh. “Why are you here? If you’re staying in the hotel you could’ve at least come to the afterparty, get a good sleep in the next day.” Suddenly nervous once more you step back, facing away from him to load your now empty plate with more food.

“Honestly? I’m just getting breakfast using the band’s good name.” Laughing humorlessly, you thought you could placate him with a small truth to hide the bigger lie.

“This your work, Spotlight?” John asked, flicking a speck of food off of Roger’s nose, stepping into the conversation, and past him to join you at the food. “Good on ya’.” He grinned good-naturedly at you, before inviting you to join him and the other boys for breakfast, which you accepted, trying your hardest to ignore Roger’s pissy look.

Despite the altercation, things aren’t strained between you and Roger, and though the other boys are more likely to join you in your pre-show set-up and chill, the ritual continues. It’s easy and familiar by now, almost a month into the tour, and most of the sting has left your banter, you’re just friends now, actual, honest-to-god friends.

It’s nearing the peak of Summer, and more often than not he’s wearing shorts and an open patterned shirt, while you’ve taken to sporting a pair of shorts of your own, and a sports bra, along with your trusty steel-caps. Usually the two of you, and anyone else who’s around for the last ten minutes of the break you share, end up lying side by side on the stage, fan on, sharing a smoke.

“I’m thinking of asking to put up-lighting in front of the risers,” you mused, staring up at the lighting rig, “but with the haze, it might block you out.”

“Freddie’ll take ‘em out with all his jumping around on the first night and you know it.” Roger half laughs, his words spoken through an exhale of smoke. He can already sense your incredulous look and he smiled. “And no light can outshine me, love.” He said, by way of explanation, turning his head to look at you.

“Not even a spotlight?” You teased, looking back at him. It hits you very suddenly how close the two of you are, practically nose to nose. His grin fades as the proximity becomes apparent to him, his eyes focusing in on your lips.

“Rog?” Your voice is so small that only he can hear it, eyes wide, heart thumping with anticipation as he props himself up on his side, leaning down to kiss you instead of answering. He’s more insitent than you had pictured, not that you were complaining, kiss becoming messier by the moment as you reached up to thread your fingers through his hair. Free hand ghosting along your side, he let himself be pulled closer until there was no space between the two of your on this Summer afternoon on the stage of an empty theatre, both of you warm, slick with sweat from the afternoon heat, hearts hammering to a tune you could both feel in your soul.

With his free hand holding your upper thigh, he moves it so your leg bends gently, your knee coming to rest at his lower back, and breaks the kiss for the moment, moving instead to suck a rough, dark hickey into your neck, teeth grazing at the edges, to which you muffled a slight moan with a whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel him smirk against your throat, before he pulled away to look you in the eyes, to take in your barely debauched state, kiss swollen lips.

“Oh bravo, darlings!” Freddie’s voice rang out, along with his applause, and you and Roger scrambled away from each other. “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Freddie’s expression was not unkind as he moved past them to the front of the stage, “and your adoring fans!” He laughed openly, gesturing to the empty auditorium.

“Don’t be a fucking perv, Fred.” Roger spat, blushing a hilarious shade of red as he took a drag on the cigarette that had remained between his fingers.

“Takes one to know one, Roger,” Freddie brushed him off, instead smiling kindly at you, “quiet the voyeur, isn’t he?” He joked, but the lazy, sensuousness of the afternoon was quickly disappearing; you felt dirty, like every piece grime in the theatre was sticking to the sweat on your skin.

“Piss off, Fred.” Roger spat out through gritted teeth, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor.

“Break’s almost over.” You said, voice flat as you got to your feet, and turning away quickly, cheeks heated with shade at being caught in such a compromising position. “Thanks for the reminder.” The smile she gave Freddie didn’t reach her eyes.

“I like her.” Freddie mused after the door shut behind you. “What about you?” He turned, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Roger blinked a few times, the rage clearing from his expression, morphing into confusion, and then back to anger.

“What?!”

“Spotlight’s not like your usual sex-bunnies.” Freddie sat beside Roger, despite the boy’s history of violent outbursts, fingers steepling as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“‘Course not; she’s our roadie, I can’t just leave her in whatever town I picked her up in like the others.” Roger conceded after a beat, and Freddie felt himself repressing the urge to cuff the blonde about the ears.

“Do you want to leave her in a town?” Freddie asked slowly, and Roger told him ‘no’, finally simmering down. “Well, do you want to shag her and never speak to her again, except for more shagging?” Freddie asked, in that same, level tone as the first question. It was when Roger answered with ‘mostly not’ that Freddie realised he was probably going to have to spell Roger’s own feelings out to him.

You take the next three tour stops to figure yourself out, taking lunch breaks at usual times instead of hanging around the empty theatre, giving Roger only the politest of smiles in passing. At first, you weren’t sure what to make of what happened, feeling dirty for being caught, angry at yourself for being so caught up in the boy you had feelings for but-

Except that he had kissed you, in the middle of the day, sober. He still finds himself on the empty stage on a lunchtime, Brian’s told you, has tried to seem casual when asking some of the other roadies of you’re doing okay. These, you figure, aren’t really the actions of a man who has zero feelings for you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you around here.” Roger is spinning idly on his stool, shoes off, drumsticks resting on his snare drum.

“I’m doin’ my job.” You respond, but there’s no malice behind it. With practiced ease you start taping down cords, shoving them underneath the drum riser to keep them hidden, the silence only broken by the loud ripping of gaff tape.

“Come to the afterparty.” It’s not an order, you know you could say no if you’d like to, but something about the way he asks means you don’t want to say no to him.

“Why?” You hear yourself ask, and his mouth twists in a half-smile.

“I like having you around.” He admitted, and despite the sweet gesture, you couldn’t help the next words that bubble from you.

“I’ve seen the kind of girls you like having around, Rog, I ain’t one of them.” The words are punctuated by a humorless laugh and the rip of another strip of tape. You’re both quiet for a long moment.

“That’s clearly not true!” He came back with, sounding endlessly frustrated. With a groan, he flops forward, his forehead against his drum.

“Okay.” You stood, squaring your shoulders. He looks up at that, confused. “I’ll go.” Your mind’s already running through possible ways to get into the equipment bus after it was all locked up, but trying not to worry too much.

Roger’s expression brightened and when you offered him a smoke from where you had it fucked behind your ear, he grinned.

The afterparty itself was loud and dingy, the little local pub already seemingly at capacity when you arrived, having changed from your theatre blacks to something a little cleaner, though still mostly black.

“Spotlight!” Freddie crows through the crowd when he sees you, echoed by the rest of the bandmates and a few groupies. When you get to them, you see Freddie’s standing on a leather armchair, part of the seating set the boys had claimed, brightly dressed men and women alike cramming themselves into any free space that would get them closer to the band.

“So glad you could make it!” Freddie beamed, pulling you through crowd when you were within arm’s reach, sitting himself onto the armchair and sitting you on his lap. “Everyone, this is Spotlight, she sets up our lights.” He spoke to the group as a whole, and before you could even get a word in edgewise, a drink was pressed into your hands, and Freddie had moved to seat you in the chair as he swanned away to talk to someone else.

It was overwhelming, the music – Queen, obviously – swelling from the jukebox, people dancing all around, laughing and talking, barely room enough to think let alone exist. And there, across from you, was Roger, in the corner of a sofa, one arm slung across the back of the seat, beer in his other hand, with a very pretty girl practically on top of him, her hand on his chest. They seemed to be having a very riveting conversation that you couldn’t hear, but was also very clearly about three seconds away from becoming something not appropriate for the very public setting.

Gritting your teeth, you looked at the drink you were handed, sniffed it, and downed it in one gulp. It was very sugary, but the syrup and juice wasn’t enough to hide the sting of tequila. Raising your glass in the air, you worked up the nerve to ask if anyone knew where the bar was, but the empty glass itself was enough to prompt someone in the mass of people behind you to to switch out yours with a full one.

Downing the second drink as quickly as the first, which earned a cheer from some of the surrounding people, you stood abruptly, letting the man who had been sitting on the arm of the chair to slide into your place, giving you a wink in the process. You grinned back at him, trying to push down your anxiety and hoping that the drinks would kick in soon. As soon as the thought occurred to you, someone had given you a third drink, though you sipped this one, pushing through the crowd letting yourself move to the music as you tried not to spill.

“You know Spotlight’s here, right?” You hear Brian call over to the music as you’re leaving the boys, and though you see Roger immediately start looking for you, you don’t turn back. You’re here now, and you’re going to enjoy it, pretty, blonde boys be damned. After a while, you think you’re buzzed enough to dance, finishing the last of… you’re not quite sure what number this one is, but the point is you’re ready to dance, it’s all you can think about, threading yourself into the pack on the dance floor, dancing with pretty girls and pretty boys alike, even with Freddie a few times.

Sometimes you think you see Roger through the crowd, and every time you do, you quickly find yourself searching for another drink, until you’re thoroughly plastered, and can’t even remember his name in your state.

“Where’r the rest?” You ask Freddie as the song dies down, the both of you sweaty, flushed and grinning, people around clambering to be near him.

“They claim they don’t dance.” You can hear the eyeroll in his words before you see it on his face, and you snort with laughter, leaning back, accidentally bumping someone, not that you care in your state.

“Boo!” You groan, before covering your mouth, the next song picking up with a rolling drum beat, the grow moving in a frenzy to the sound. “Freds, Freddie, Mr Freddie Man, I gotta go.” You mused, hands on his shoulders, eyes wide, suddenly very serious. Freddie gives you an amused look, clearly not as far gone as you. Turning, you move to make a beeline for the door, or as much of a beeline as you can in your state, before turning back. “This’s my fav’rite song.” You’re not sure whether he heard you, but Freddie’s sad smile lets you know he had. Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll fills your ears as you make your way to the exit, and you can’t help but bop along.

“Where are you going?” You’re half a block away from the club when you hear his voice call out to you. Turning, you see Roger leaning against the side of the building, half smiling, obviously also quite drunk.

“To break into bus,” you said, with all the seriousness you could muster, before you realised what you said and stood straight up, “I mean normal hotel sleep.” The words spill out quickly, but you don’t move.

“Come on, love,” he held out his hand taking even, measured steps towards you, “stay with me.” Taking a deep breath, you didn’t move, preferring to instead scowl at him, your inhibited mind trying to make sense of his motivations. “No funny business, I promise.” He assures,  expression actually fond, before it becomes panicked as you and your glare began to lean sideways, your balanced compromised by the alcohol. Surging forwards, he catches you before you hit the ground.

“What about the girl?” You asked as he brought you back to standing, his arm around your waist to support you as the pair of you started towards his hotel. Roger barked out a laugh.

“Which one?” He couldn’t help himself, and you shoved him off of you, promptly falling to the ground as he stumbled away. “Listen, I never asked any of them to be here; I asked you.” His words had made you grow quiet and contemplative, and you get him help you to your feet, the two of you walking in silence for the next few blocks.

“I sleep in the equipment bus, but that’s a secret.” You stage whispered to him as the lights of the hotel came into view, your mind having wandered a few blocks back.

“What? No you don’t.” Roger snorted, and you nodded very seriously.

“No, I do, after bump out, I sneak in and lay on the amps.” You paused, turning to face him. “It’s very uncomfortable.” You assured, and the drummer rolled his eyes, pulling out his room key as the two of you made your way through the front entrance.

“Just stay with me, love.” He offered, and you shook your head, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.” You hummed with a sad little smile, detaching yourself so you could lean on the wall of the elevator as it rose, head tipped back, eyes closed. Roger didn’t answer, but he was also pretty sure now wasn’t the time to argue his point. Instead, he played with his keys in the silence, and you looped your arm through his when the doors opened on his floor, marginally more capable of keeping yourself upright.

The room itself was small but rather fancy, though you only had eyes for the big, soft bed in the middle of the room. You’re restraining yourself, taking off your boots and your jacket, but you’re not coordinated enough to stay upright where you’re trying to take off your second boot at the end of the bed before you faceplant on the duvet. By the time you’ve recovered, taken off your boots and been to the bathroom, Roger’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and has face planted onto the bed himself, though that was on purpose. You clumsily got yourself a glass of water, sloshing half of it on the nightstand when you put down, though you’re not too concerned, and you let yourself land on the bed.

There’s literally no feeling better, you decide, than sinking into a comfortable bed after a big night out.

“Did you have a good night?” Roger’s voice comes muffled through his pillow.

“I had fun,” you said, considering the night as a whole, before moving to lie on your side facing away from him, “but no, not particularly.” You mused, yawning. After a beat, you heard a soft tapping on the duvet, and looked back to see Roger’s hand searching blindly for you as he remained with his face on the bed.

“Why not?” He asked, finally finding your hip, pulling you back, so he could shift to lie on his side and hold you close. He was warm, his arm slung over your hip, chest solid against your back. You found yourself leaning into it, moving your hand down to lace fingers with his where they were brushing your stomach.

“I wanted to spend it with you.” Voice small, you punctuated it with a yawn, sinking further into the bed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. You drift off before he responds, his soft apology lost on you.

You’re the first to wake, sort of, you stand and make your way to the shower, but as your nausea subsides beneath the warm water, you manage to fall asleep sitting at the bottom, and wake to a banging at the door, and Roger asking if you’re okay.

“I don’t have a change of clothes.” You call through the door once you’re finished, and he offers you some of his, which you accept after some hesitation. When you exit the bathroom wearing a pair of his bright red shorts and an oversized t-shirt, he grins at you.

“How do you feel?” He smirks, and you grit your teeth, taking a deep breath that irritates the dryness of your throat.

“Like I’m dying.” You rasped back, and he laughed standing, moving to the bathroom, except he stops in front of you. “About what I said last night-” You begin, even though you can only remember blurry snippets, but he cuts you off with a laugh.

“Don’t worry about it, love.” A new intensity in his eyes as he leans forward to plant a kiss on your lips. After the brief shock had worn off, you leaned into it, heart fluttering as he wraps his arms around you, deepening the kiss.

“You still drunk?” You asked, nervous, but smiling slightly, he grins back at you, shaking his head and you meet his lips with yours, with enthusiasm this time. He walks the two of your back to the bed.

“What about you?” He asked, and you moved back a little with a strained smile.

“No, but I am pretty hung over.” You admitted, sitting on the bed, trying not to squint as the light from the gap in the curtain hit him. He laughs, but reaches over to the nightstand, passing you the water you had left there.

“No strenuous activities then?” He asked, eyebrows raised. You spluttered by way of denial, and he shrugged, stepping back to head into the shower. “Well I guess that can wait until next time.” He grinned. “Get rest, love.” He’s halfway into the bathroom when you call out.

“What do you mean, next time?!” You crowed, and he popped his head around the corner.

“You don’t think you’re still sleeping in the equipment van do you?” He asked, continuing to talk over your protest. “You can stay with me.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You called to the now closing door of the bathroom.

“I don’t have to do anything, I want to.”