Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

11. Skylar

"Do you want to come in?"

The question pops out not once, but twice, and I stifle the urge to clap my
hands over my disloyal mouth. God, I had been doing so well at keeping Roger at bay for months, and in one night, I've both kissed and invited him into my flat.

From the bottom of the staircase, the drummer looks at me with curiosity. His face reveals little emotion as he cautiously lifts one foot onto the first step as if he's going to join me at the top. He hesitates, and his hand taps his thigh, the only signal that perhaps he's feeling just as nervous as I am.

The silence hangs heavily between us, as I become increasingly embarrassed. All my instincts command me to blurt out a hurried mash-up of 'sorry' and 'bye' before bolting into the warmth and safety of my apartment. Instead, I command myself to stand quietly while I wait for Roger to reply.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, and, after what feels like a million years, he looks up at me with a good-natured smirk. Slowly, he climbs the stairs so that he's one step below me. He gazes up at me with those impossibly blue eyes, and, for a moment, I forget to breathe. The snowflakes fall between us as I blink, wondering what we're doing and how we got here.

He climbs one last step so that we're at eye level. As he opens his mouth to say something, I realize that I desperately want him to say yes to my invitation. But, equally so, I need him to say no. This isn't a good idea. This goes against everything that I've built up for myself over the past few months. This--

Roger leans towards me, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I stand frozen in place, unsure of his next move. He pulls away, his now serious eyes trained on mine.

"Figure out what you want, Sky. Then we'll talk."

And then, in a move from my own book, Roger pivots to walk back down the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, and our eyes lock. After a beat, I nod in acknowledgment. He flashes me a smile: a small, shy one meant just for me, not the wolfish grin that I've seen him offer to so many others.

After a short pause, he lifts his hands to offer me a small wave. I return the gesture, watching him walk rapidly in the direction of Freddie's apartment, rubbing his hands together furiously in the cold. He's halfway down the block when he turns around and lets out a small whoop.

"1974!" he shouts boisterously. "What a glorious fucking year it'll be!"

**

Before I know it, it's been nearly a month, and I'm standing nervously in front of the supervising physician. He's walking us through a complicated procedure that, hopefully, I'll be performing on my own in a few short months.

"Miss Evans?"

The worst part about this whole thing with Roger is that I can't stop thinking about him. It's particularly annoying because I've only seen him a handful of times and yet... and yet, I can't get that little laugh or unguarded smile out of my mind.

"Miss Evans?"

I fucked up that night. Instead of playing it safe, I should have grabbed him by his stupid fur coat and dragged him inside, giving it my all.

And, the worst part is that I still haven't called him. That's right, I'm a goddamn moron. At first, it was for technical reasons: I couldn't find the scrap of paper that he'd written his number on. Then, once I found it, my hospital shifts got all screwy, and there was never a good time to call.

So here we are, nearly a month later, and I still haven't reached out. I want to. Well, I want to want to, for sure. But all the doubt swirling around in my head has stopped me from doing anything.