Chapter Text
According to chaos theory, the infinitesimal shudder of wind produced by a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could redirect the path of a tornado in Kansas. A minute variance in an initial action — a chance encounter— could have a profound effect on the course of history, with each potential variance branching off into an infinite number of possible futures. An infinite combination of cause and effect. Jane Deacon could not have predicted the outsize significance of a single drink, a dingy club along the Thames, a weird, no-name band. It was just another Thursday night, after all.
Thursday nights at the Marquee Club were relatively low-key. There were bigger live acts in Chelsea and better drink deals on King’s Road, and rowdy pub crawlers rarely ventured this close to the river. The music wasn’t half bad either, if one could abide the enthusiastic fumblings of college bands after their third and fourth drink. So Jane made a habit of winding down at the Marquee after her Thursday engineering labs, nursing a drink or two and maybe a half-written song in her notebook, cozied up in the dark, back corner near the speakers. The thud of the bass helped her think.
Tonight, however, her corner booth was occupied. Typically, she’d let it go— find another table for one out of sight or just, y’know, leave. But it had been a long day, and she’d been slightly rattled from a minor electrical shock after messing about with the homemade amp she’d taken to fixing up. A little bit of routine and privacy would be appreciated. And, judging from the instrument cases laying at the foot of the table, the occupants were musicians and would be up on stage soon anyway. She pulled up a bar stool at the end of the bar and ordered her drink. She could wait.
The acoustic act on stage appeared to be finishing up, the long-haired woman banging her tambourine with a little more flourish than strictly necessary. Jane’s eyes kept flickering back to her corner, the musicians there obscured by the dim lighting. She could make out a shock of shaggy blonde hair though, and its owner turned in her direction. She realized with a flush that although they were largely obscured in the shadows, she was sitting directly beneath a light at the bar and was thus not inconspicuous in her staring. Her eyes quickly dropped to the drink in her hand, and she busied herself with downing it. The last thing she needed was some wannabe rocker coming over to talk to her.
“Hey.”
Shit.
Jane dragged her eyes up reluctantly, pursing her lips in a tight smile. Sure enough, it was the blonde. Now that she could see him in the light, she recognized him as the drummer for a somewhat regular act. They went by Smile for a while, though the last time they played a few weeks ago, they had used some other name, something weird and outrageous.
The man in front of her wore a cocky smirk and was leaning against the bar with the casual confidence of someone who’s done this dance many, many times over. He hadn't even spoken and she was already exhausted.
“Hi,” she replied finally. “Can I help you?”
He cocked an eyebrow, flashing an impish smile. “I was going to ask you the same question. Did you happen to see something you liked?”
Her face burned, and she gripped her glass tighter, though it was empty now. “No, I just— well, your table.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Our...table,” he repeated slowly.
Jane nodded, not meeting his eyes. “It’s nothing. It’s sort of where I sit, sometimes. When I’m here,” she muttered, her voice trailing off in the din of the bar.
He leaned in, pointing to his ear. “Sorry, say that again?”
“It’s my table!” She said louder, practically yelling into his ear just as the ridiculous tambourine player finished and there was a lull in the music.
He chuckled. “Didn’t think you could own a table.”
“I didn’t say I owned it, I just…” She was getting flustered, and the fact that the man standing very close to her also happened to be very attractive didn’t help much. Did his hair do that on its own, or did he purposefully make it looks so disheveled? “Are you going on soon?”
He looked back toward his band mates, biting the inside of his cheek. “In a bit. You can join us, in the meantime.”
She stared at him blankly, trying and failing to read his intentions. “I’m good.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m Roger, by the way.”
“Right. You’ve played here before.”
His grin widened. “Ah, a fan!”
“I’m not a fan.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Everyone’s a critic, eh? What’s your name, love?”
She absently shook her glass to hear the rattle of ice, and glanced at him sideways. “Jane.”
Apparently catching on to the fact that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, he inclined his head slightly in a playful bow. “Then enjoy the show, Jane. Or don’t. Your call.”
He turned and left, and Jane shook her head. Drummers really were all cut from the same cloth, but at least he had taken no for an answer. To be fair, she hadn’t been entirely truthful with her brief assessment of his band. Not that she was a fan, per se. But they weren't bad.
His band had first played at Marquee in October ‘70, and they had been alright — nothing to write home about. But the last two shows in the months since have been almost...good. The audiences were still small, paltry even. But their lead singer, a brash and flamboyant man with a voice like a rocket, was something to behold. Unbidden, the band’s new name popped into her head— Queen. Outrageous, indeed. She supposed she could order another drink. Stick around for a bit longer.
The show was good. Not fantastic. The Thursday crowd had been pretty dead, despite the lead singer’s — Freddie’s — best efforts to rile them up. The rhythm section had been lackluster; Roger’s beats were steady enough, but there was no helping the bassist, who she was fairly certain was a new addition. The poor sod couldn’t keep time to save his life.
The curly-haired guitarist, on the other hand, was on top form, and Jane was rather interested in the unusual squeals the man plucked from his instrument; she was dying to take a look at his amp configuration. As an electrical engineering student and a musician herself, she had a particular interest in sound equipment. The guitarist had seemed pleasant enough on stage during their set, so Jane headed round to the back after the show, where bands unload and reload their vans, to pick his brain.
What she found when she left through the side door, however, was Freddie and the bassist locked in a heated argument. Embarrassed, she tried to go back inside, only to discover the door was locked. She went with plan B, which was to flatten herself against the wall and pretend to be taking a smoke break— shit, she didn’t have any cigarettes on her. So she stood awkwardly in the alley, watching as the bassist stormed off, kicking a piece of equipment over in the process.
Freddie released an audible sigh and then looked up, noticing her presence. She waved awkwardly, then gestured to the door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything. The door, it—”
“Yes, you’ve got to prop that one open,” he said wearily, offering her a kind, if exasperated, smile. “Looking for a light, dear?”
“I, ehm, forgot my smokes.”
He pulled out a pack from his back pocket, beckoning her forward. “Come on, then. Silk Cut alright?”
She crossed the alley to take the proffered cigarette. “Lovely. Thank you.”
“I’ve seen you here before,” Freddie said casually, lighting her cigarette for her. “I never forget a face.”
She nodded. “I’m here every so often. My apartment is literally next door.”
Freddie chuckled, his hand covering his mouth. “Good place for an alcoholic to live,” he paused, as if rewinding what he had said. “Sorry, that was rude, wasn’t it?”
Jane shrugged. “I like a drink. Nothing wrong with that.”
He grinned, toothily this time. He had quite the impressive set of teeth. “Cheers to that, darling,” he said, dangling his cigarette jauntily between his fingers. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Jane. Jane Deacon.”
He held out his other hand for her to shake. “Hello Jane, I’m Freddie Mercury.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know who you are.”
“As everyone should,” he said with a wink. “So, tell me Jane, what did you think of the show?”
She took a drag, considering her words. “It was…”
“Be brutally honest, dear.”
She normally wouldn't, really. But she had had a few drinks and this man she had just met put her strangely at ease. “It was loose," she admitted. "There were gaps in the sound. Vocals and the guitar were tight, but—”
“The bass was falling behind. Yes, that’s what I said!” Freddie exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Doug didn’t care to hear that at all, but good riddance.”
“He left, then?”
He raised his eyebrows in affirmation as he exhaled a puff of smoke. “Mm, third one in a year. You can have a bass player with talent, or a bass player with a good personality, but you can’t have both, I’m afraid.”
“They’re out there,” she said shyly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Or at least, I like to think so.”
Freddie cocked his head. “Oh? You play?”
She nodded. “I was in a little band back home, in Leicester. The Opposition. You...wouldn't have heard of us.”
“Hm,” he pursed his lips, scanning her curiously. “And you’re good?”
“I think I’m decent,” she said, cringing at the uncertainty in her voice. She was good; she knew that. Saying it just seemed...brash.
He grinned, leaning toward her as if about to tell her a secret. “You know, I think the boys and I could do with a little more decency, sometimes.”
The hallways of Imperial College’s arts building were nearly deserted. It was a Saturday, and the university’s students presumably had better places to be on a February morning than in an inadequately heated academic building. Except, of course, those looking to join a local rock ‘n roll band. Jane stopped outside the lecture hall where auditions were taking place, parking the wheeled case for her practice amp against the wall. She checked her watch: quarter after nine. The booming rattle of someone’s over-amped, out-of-tune bass echoed outside. She would be next.
Jane had exchanged numbers with Freddie that night outside the Marquee, though she hadn’t actually expected him to call her up with an offer to audition a couple weeks later. Joining the band seemed like a longshot, but it had been ages since she had the chance to play with talented musicians, and the audition sounded like it might scratch that itch. Truth be told, she had missed playing in a band and had been aching for a jam or two.
A guy about her age dressed head to toe in denim finally exited the lecture hall, equipment in tow. He looked her up and down, taking in her own equipment at her side, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re Deacon?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they’re ready for you,” he said, passing her and muttering under his breath, “Good luck.”
The auditorium was cavernous, with only half the lights turned on. A drum kit and a few amps were set up at the front of the hall, before the blackboard. The rest of the band - Freddie, Brian, and Roger - were sprawled on the first row of fold-down seats. Freddie perked up when she entered, bounding onto his feet. He had traded the glitter and sweeping necklines of his stage attire for a t-shirt and embroidered jacket.
“Here she is! Decent Deacon! Thank you for coming, dear.”
“Not much of a rock name, is it?” A voice commented from the front row. Jane didn’t need to turn to look to know it was Roger. “Now wait a second, I remember you. You’re Table Girl!”
Jane flinched at the memory of her awkward encounter with the drummer. She was also somewhat annoyed to find that Roger was still attractive in the harsh light of day. He wore a loose blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled and the first three buttons indifferently left undone. But despite the casual bravado, clearly nothing about the way he presented himself was indifferent. Here was a person who wanted you to look at him.
“I didn’t know we were holding groupie auditions today,” he said with a shit-eating grin, perched on the back of his chair. She flushed, biting her lip to hold back an indignant retort. Brian rolled his eyes, whacking his bandmate’s knee.
“What? I was obviously joking…”
“Oh hush, Rog. How about you get set up, Jane? Take your time,” Freddie said, gesturing for her to unpack her equipment.
She bobbed her head in acknowledgment, silently getting to work. The boys talked and laughed among themselves while she hooked up the amp and tuned her bass, making minor alterations to account for the change in temperature. After a couple minutes spent warming up her fingers and her strings, she signaled to Freddie.
“You ready then?”
She nodded, adjusting the strap across her shoulder. “What would you like first?”
“Start off with anything you’d like, sixteen bars or so,” said Brian, who was sat on the edge of his seat, hands steepled. He smiled kindly at her. “And then we’ll make requests.”
“I’ll play some Led Zeppelin, if that’s alright.”
“As long as its not a funeral dirge,” drawled Roger, sliding down into his chair, foot propped up on the armrest.
She exhaled, tapped her foot to catch the beat, and played. It was one of her recent favorites, Ramble On, and she could play it in her sleep. Sixteen bars went by quickly, and when she finished she allowed herself to look up at her audience expectantly. They gave her nothing in the way of reaction, except for a request from Brian.
“Can you play some Beatles for us, please?”
In response, she played the first twenty bars of Happiness is a Warm Gun, to be followed by requests for pieces from The Who, Deep Purple, and The Rolling Stones. All fairly straightforward, nothing requiring too much fancy finger work. She rode the beat, steady and sure, until the lecture hall was filled with the thumping pulse of her bass.
Roger’s face (she’ll admit, her eyes were drawn to his first) was nearly passive, aside from the smallest trace of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Brian was slightly more expressive, clapping politely after she had finished The Stones’ Miss You. She knew she hadn’t done anything impressive — any idiot with a bass could stumble through the hits unaccompanied. The real test of a bassist was how they were able to fit in with the rest of the band’s sound.
Freddie popped up to his feet, grinning widely at her. “Bravo, darling. Excellent. But that’s enough solo stuff, I think. Let's have a little fun.”
The rest of the band took his cue, Brian and Roger returning to their respective instruments, and Freddie standing, hands clasped, front and center.
“Careful with this one,” Brian said to her as he shouldered his guitar, gesturing to Roger settling in behind the kit. “He’ll run away with the beat if you give him an inch.”
Roger’s head shot up, pointing a drumstick at Brian. “I’m a fucking metronome, Brian. You’re the one who’s always trying to slow down— ”
“I play the song exactly how it’s written; if you want to change the bloody BPM you need to warn us ahead of time—”
“You studied the song I told you to, right?” Freddie interrupted from his spot, leaning against the lecturer’s podium.
“Hm? Oh, Helter Skelter? Yeah I know it.” She wasn’t about to tell him that every bass player and their mother knew that Beatles song. Fun to play and could be pushed quite fast, but it wouldn’t kill her.
“Good. We cover it every so often. Rog, give her a beat.”
The drummer locked eyes with her and tapped the rim of his snare to set a breakneck, pulsing rhythm, snappier than she usually heard the already heavy song. He clearly had no intention of taking it easy on her. Jane could appreciate that.
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll follow you.”
Roger gave the count, and she latched onto his beat, starting the song at a run and escalating to a sprint while Freddie wailed into his makeshift microphone - an empty beer bottle. It was good they were there on a Saturday morning when the campus was deserted, because they were loud. No stage monitors needed - the sound bounced off the vaulted ceilings and hurtled back at her. But...they could be louder. She caught Brian’s attention and jerked her head toward his stack. He mouthed up? and she nodded. He grinned, leaning down to crank up the volume before vaulting into the next verse. Jane cranked up her own volume, and Roger’s drums pounded like cannon fire in lock step with her bass. When the song came to a close, she could feel the remnants of her and Roger’s wave of sound reverberate through her feet.
Before she could gauge the others’ reception, or take a breath even, a clatter of Roger’s hi-hats pulled them into the next song. Which...she didn’t know. They had probably played it at their last gig, she was fairly certain, but couldn’t remember anything about the bass part. She looked frantically to Brian, who was already ripping away at his guitar. Freddie looked as surprised as she was that they were playing this song, but shrugged cheekily at her, shouting over the crescendoing trill of Brian’s guitar, “It’s called Stone Cold Crazy! Improvise, darling!”
If this was how they wanted to test her, fine. Jane had taught herself how to play by listening to her dad’s jazz records; she could bloody well improvise. She caught up with Roger’s beat as Freddie started the first verse, playing quick and choppy to mirror Brian while plugging any discernible gaps in sound. The song was fast, and she had the distinct feeling of laying down the tracks for a train that was hurtling toward her at full speed. It was exhilarating.
She glanced up, catching Roger staring at her as he played. He was smiling now — a real one, with teeth, no smugness in sight — and when she unconsciously added a little hoppity sort of dance to her movements, he threw his head back and laughed gleefully. Before she knew it, Freddie was screeching the last note, and the song came to an end with a mighty crash of snare and cymbals. Jane looked to Freddie, who smirked and snapped his fingers. “Sons and Daughters, Rog. Count us off.”
They played like that for another 30 minutes, or maybe an hour — one song bled into another as they jammed, occasionally playing songs she already knew. By the time they finished, she was hot and sweaty and her fingers burned with the familiar buzz of overuse. She doubled in half, catching her breath while the others laughed and swore at their own exhaustion. Roger tossed his drumsticks in the air, letting them spin and clatter somewhere behind him.
“So? How was that?” Jane asked, once she had composed herself. Now that she wasn’t playing, her shyness crept back, and she felt somewhat out of place.
“Like standing in front of a jet engine,” Freddie said breathlessly, tossing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “You and Roger are two parts of a sonic volcano, you know that?”
Brian set his guitar gingerly down on its stand, coming around to inspect her equipment. “That little practice amp packs a punch. Is that a Hiwatt?”
She nodded shyly, patting the top of her amp as if it were a well-behaved dog. “The bones of it, yeah. I did some tweaking to make it louder.”
“You build your own equipment?” Roger asked, sitting forward on his drum stool to take a look.
“Oh, well, I’m learning. I’m studying electrical engineering at Chelsea, so fixing up amps and radios is sort of a hobby.”
“A lady electrician,” Freddie hummed. “That’s quite different, isn’t it? How’d you end up on that path?”
Jane looked down, self-consciously picking at a loose thread on her strap. “I’ve just always liked taking stuff apart, I guess. Taking a look at what’s inside, making it work better.”
“And do you think you could do that for us?” Roger asked cheekily. “Cut us open and dig around to make us sound good?”
“I...I suppose I’d like to try. Do you have another audition today, or…?” She asked, looking at her watch and realizing with a start that it was already half past ten.
“Nope,” Freddie popped the p. “You were our last. And I’m pretty sure our decision—”
“Will be made this afternoon,” Brian chimed in, casting a sideways glance at Freddie. “We have a lot to talk about. We’ll call you to let you know.”
She deflated a little at the tone in his voice, but forced herself to smile. “Thank you. I really appreciated getting to play with you guys. It was a great time.”
Roger, looking put out, climbed from behind the drum kit to speak to Brian and Freddie. While she packed her gear, they spoke in hushed tones in a huddle. She thought she had played rather well, especially considering she had never played half the songs before. But she had been in a band before, she knew all about band politics; if she joined, she would be entering a pre-established unit, with a set structure and hierarchy. It was a delicate balance, the makeup of a band. She’d leave them to their discussion.
Sidling past their huddle, she slipped out of the lecture hall unobtrusively. She was rolling her amp down the hallway when she heard the echo of Roger’s voice from the auditorium.
“Wait, where did she go?”
She smiled to herself. They had her number.
“What’s there to talk about anyway?” Roger said, once they realized Jane had somehow sneaked out without them noticing. He had climbed atop the podium and was drumming aimlessly against the wood. After a full and early morning of ear-splitting and (mostly) shitty wannabes, he was more than ready to call it a day. “She’s obviously the best we’ve seen. Bit of an odd bird, though. Quiet.”
“That’s a good thing, as far as I’m concerned,” said Freddie, lighting his cigarette in direct rebellion against the prominent No Smoking sign behind him. “There’s enough personality between the three of us as it stands. She won’t put up too much of a fuss.”
“If it’s a doormat you want, we could just go to Tesco, ” Brian said wearily, tapping a pen on the notebook in his lap. Roger didn’t realize they were supposed to be taking notes.
“I don’t think she’s a doormat,” Freddie said. “She’s shy, but she’ll open up eventually. Brian, at this point we just need someone we can work with. Besides, she is a solid bassist. You’ve got to admit that.”
“Yes, and I wrote that down in the pro column. I even circled it,” he said, showing them his notebook.
Roger rolled his eyes. Nerd. “So what are the cons?”
“She’s solid, but she’s not particularly imaginative, is she?”
“I think we’re all set on imagination, Bri.”
"And...well, it's not a con, necessarily, just something to consider. She’s...a girl.”
“Excellent observation,” Roger said dryly. “What, are you uncomfortable seeing a woman out of the kitchen? That’s rather sexist of you.”
Brian turned in his seat to face Roger, crossing his arms. “You of all people can't lecture me on sexism. I’m just being realistic. You’re saying you don’t see any possible way that could go badly for the band? Any at all, Roger?”
Roger set his jaw. “What’s that tone for?”
“You’ve never met a woman you wouldn’t sleep with if given half the chance. You’d fuck a pillow if I drew a mouth on it.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” Freddie muttered. “You’re not the one living with him.” Roger shot them both a withering look.
“Oi, that’s my personal life. If Jane joined the band, she’d be part of my professional life. I don’t mix business and pleasure,” he said, scowling when he leaned over to see that Brian had written “Roger is a slut” in the cons column. “Besides, she’s not exactly my type, is she?”
“Women’s lib is a big thing now, you know. It could be a plus, actually. Broaden our appeal,” Freddie added.
“I’m not saying we should or shouldn’t pick her because she’s a girl, I just want to address the fact that the band’s dynamics will change,” Brian said, taking a moment to scribble “Feminism ??” under pro. “Also, is she really even the rock ‘n roll type?”
“She was wearing a sweater vest,” Freddie mused, tapping his chin. “And something would have to be done about that hair.”
“She doesn’t need to have sex appeal; she’s the bassist, for crying out loud,” Roger groaned, hopping off his perch on the podium. “We’ll stick her in the back, in the dark.”
Brian looked up at him, squinting. “You sure are defensive of a woman you don’t know, who you supposedly don’t want to sleep with.”
Roger threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “I just want a good bassist! She’s the only one we’ve met who doesn’t have an attitude. Not to mention, she’d a fucking electrician.”
“And that really was a good session,” Brian allowed, “She didn’t drop a beat.”
Freddie looked from Roger to Brian expectantly. “Well? What’s the list look like, Bri?”
Brian looked down at his notebook and sheepishly held it up. It was a mess of scribbles and arrows, and a lot of question marks. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well, I think she’s just what we need. Rog, you agree?”
He nodded and turned to Brian. “Bri? Come on.”
Brian paused, glancing down at his list and nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, OK. Deacon is in.”