Queen Of Hearts | Roger Taylor

XVII

a/n: smut warning for ya nasties! this is the only one i will be giving, because it will keep coming after this one and it's not gonna stop or get less :)

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I was discharged from the hospital later that evening. The doctor told me to take it slow, not work or do anything that would take a lot of effort for two weeks. Maybe he forgot that I couldn't work at all, since the pub had burned to the ground. My brother took me home where he took care of me and made sure I was alright.

Mary and Delilah had visited – both separately because according to my brother I was still "recovering". Mary told me that the place was halfway burned down and they didn't know if there was enough money to rebuild it. I was already stressed enough since I didn't have a job right now.

"It's fine, Lo. The salary I get from playing with the band is enough for three months' rent and we can always ask mum and dad for help," my brother reassured me. I knew he was right but asking my parents help was the last thing I wanted to do. They had already spent enough money on us.

For the next few days I found myself in bed or around the flat trying to keep myself entertained. I read, baked cookies, watched some tv and read some more. By day four I was bored out of my mind and I had nothing left to do. I even cleaned the bathroom, taking so many gross hairs out of the shower drain that I for sure knew did not belong to me.

Right now, I was lying on my bed, looking at the ceiling. I heard the front door opening and closing, knowing it was my brother. He had been staying at home all week to take care of me – he was really over-doing this whole nursing me back to health job. I sighed, not feeling like getting out of bed to great him. I heard the door of my room open.

"Brian, please, I am fine. Stop this nonsense," I complained. I heard snickering and when I looked up, I saw it wasn't my brother – it was Roger. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing a light brown jacket over a patterned blouse. His hair wasn't as rough as I remembered, it almost looked like he combed it.

"Hi," he said with a smirk. That stupid smirk.

"How did you-... oh right, you have a key," I rolled my eyes and let myself fall onto the bed again. I hoped he didn't come here to yell at me again, because I wasn't up for that. I didn't even remember the last thing he got mad about.

"I just wanted to check on you," he said.

"Well, I am doing just fine," I answered. He walked over to my bed, sitting on the edge. I could turn around, so I wouldn't have to look at him but that was stupid. Also, I wasn't a five-year-old.

The tension hanging between us was obvious. I wanted to kiss him, but I also wanted to push him off the bed and yell at him. Either of those things didn't really seem like the right thing do to, so instead I did nothing.

"I think I owe you an apology," he broke the silence. He didn't look at me as he said it. It struck me that he usually did that when he was nervous or felt uncomfortable.

"I owe you one, too," I sat up, propping my knees up. He was dangerously close now. He motioned for me to go first. I thought for a second, finding the right words. "I shouldn't have said those mean words to you. Whatever you do in your free time is none of my business. I'm sorry."

He tried to hold back a smile but failed miserably. I gave him a push when he chuckled. I didn't know I was gonna get laughed at if I would apologize. Then his smile faded, and he looked at me serious again.

"What I did at the hospital was out of line. I didn't know how to control my emotions and," he stopped, almost swallowing the words he wanted to say. He couldn't leave me hanging like that. "I just got angry thinking about you lying in that freezer, smoke in your lungs and never waking up again."