Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

49. Skylar

Why am I always late? I wonder as I walk quickly down the hospital corridor, my heels clicking on the linoleum.

"Dr. Evans?" A junior physician appears in my path, and I silently debate making a run for it. "Can you look at this chart quickly?"

"Dr. Peterson is on duty," I reply, just slightly out of breath from my hustle to get out of here. Today of all days, I can't be late.

"He got pulled into the operating theatre for an emergency consult," the young woman explains, holding out the chart. "Five minutes tops."

Flipping through the notes, I furrow my brow. The symptoms don't make sense, at least not in this combination.

"You've ruled out acute bronchitis?" I ask. She nods and twists her hands nervously as I re-read all the notes one more time.

"Order a CT," I finally reply. "Get the results to Dr. Peterson as soon as they're available. Keep me in the loop."

"Cheers," the doctor replies, but I barely hear it because I'm already jogging towards the elevator.

The cold air hits me as I walk outside, wrapping my wool trench coat more tightly around my torso. I pause just outside the hospital, my eyes scanning the immediate surroundings. I'm about to start panicking when, in the distance, I see him.

Roger is leaning against a massive oak tree staring at the ground pensively. One hand holds a cigarette, while the other taps nervously on his thigh. A thick red scarf is looped around his neck, dark sunglasses firmly in place to maintain anonymity. He looks really fucking good.

"Those things will kill you, you know," I say as I approach. He looks up, startled, and a lazy grin spreads across his face. He slowly straightens, as if we have all the time in the world, and throws the half-finished cigarette to the frozen ground.

"Hi," he says softly, leaning over to brush his lips over mine.

"Hi," I reply, leaning back to look at him. His eyes look happy and anxious, two emotions that I'm sure are mirrored in mine.

"You promised that you wouldn't be late for your wedding day." Roger raises one eyebrow and looks at his watch pointedly.

"I promised no such thing," I reply, remembering that day a million years ago at the airport. "In fact, I dodged the question."

"Still," he counters, "It was implied."

"I'll have you know," I continue tongue-in-cheek, "that in some corners of the world, I'm a very important person. Which means that I'm allowed to be late every now and then."

"Mmm," Roger hums in agreement. "It's true:  both that you're a very important person and you're always fucking late. But I love you anyway."

"Should we...?" I gesture towards the high street.

"Well, it's a five-minute walk, and they close in about seven minutes, so, yeah, we should probably go."

Roger reaches out a hand to grasp mine and looks down at my low heels. "Can you run in those?"

We take off towards the Register Office, laughing our heads off the entire way. We're giggly and out of breath when we arrive. Clare and Cadie are standing outside the entrance, one of them looking at us delighted and the other looking like she might kill us.

"You two can never manage to get it quite right, can you?" Clare cries, reaching over to peck us both on the cheeks. Roger picks up Cadie, rubs her nose affectionately with his, and we head in.

The government building is overheated and stifling. A few people are milling about, but it's mostly empty, probably because it's already half-five. A receptionist sits behind an imposing-looking desk, a very officious look on her face. She's dressed in a sweater set and skirt, and I bet that she's never broken a rule in her life.