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spreadyovrwings · 3 years

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64 Oslo Square

‘Companion’. Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon’, literally ‘one who breaks bread with another’.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it’s more than worth it. It’s worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: None!

Chapter Three

There is a famous simile. ‘It’s just like riding a bike.’ It means that any skill, once acquired, is never forgotten. This would have been all well and good, except that John had forgotten, and the irony really wasn’t very funny at all now that he had a big scuff on the knee of his favourite pair of trousers.

In his defence, the last time he rode a bike, he had been a lot shorter, so he was still working out his balance. What’s more, a paperboy in Oadby faced a lot less peril than a courier in London. His cargo was more precious, the stakes a lot higher, and worst of all, if John didn’t do a good job, he risked disappointing you.

Wait. No. There was something worse, the thought of Roger and Freddie seeing him in his stupid helmet.

John sighed as he sank down on the pavement at the end of Sloane Avenue, where it came to meet Draycott Place. He’d just dropped off a couple of cake boxes at St. Thomas More Language College, a Roman Catholic secondary school in the Royal Borough.

The receptionist had peered at him over the rim of her spectacles and informed John that it was parents’ evening, which was why they’d ordered so many cakes. John wasn’t sure why she felt the need to tell him this. Perhaps she’d mistaken his quiet awe for curiosity.

“We’re named after Thomas More, Lord Chancellor to Henry VIII,” she said when she caught him glancing at the school coat of arms painted on the wall behind her. “He was beheaded.”

“Right.” John nodded, unsure how to respond. “That’s nice.”

He left before she could say anything else. If he wanted to get stared down by women who terrified him, he just had to hang around the bakery. Which he did. Quite a lot, actually. He was still figuring out why he liked how nervous you made him.

John tried to stretch his aching feet inside his trainers but to his dismay, there was very little room to manoeuvre.

He hadn’t realised just how unequipped he was for the job. These were a pair of Roger’s trainers. They were perhaps half a size too small but Freddie just laughed when he asked him, and he was trying to avoid gaining a reputation among his uni mates as a Borrower.

John pulled off his protective helmet. The girl he’d borrowed it from had apologised for the bright yellow sunflowers painted all over its red surface (she’d been in a bit of a hippie phase when she bought it) but John didn’t mind. It fit and he needed it, the only thing that bothered him was that it flattened his hair.

The hole in his trousers was a lot worse than he thought. He could poke his thumb through it and wriggle it around, being wary of his grazed knee beneath. John hummed to himself, displeased.

In his three and a half weeks on the job, he’d come off his bike six times in total. Wait, seven. There was that time with the sudden flock of old men coming out of the pub. John had to sharply turn the bike and narrowly avoided a parked car by unceremoniously crashing into a tree.

His sudden arboreal stop aside, things were going fairly well. Actually, John had thought he was getting the hang of navigating London until about ten minutes ago, when a stray cat ran out of nowhere and he wobbled right into the school gates. There were children in the playground at the time. They found it considerably more amusing than John did.

He was getting better, though. Slowly, but incrementally. The money was enough to tide him over between the little odd jobs he did for friends at school. Brian had apparently found them a gig too, a school hall in Hounslow. It wouldn’t be much but it was something.

John pulled in a long breath, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the city, then carefully got to his feet.

When he finally found his way back to 64 Oslo Square, the bakery was a hive of activity.

John had come to learn over the last few weeks that it wasn’t unusual to see a neat queue starting at the flowery archway and ending a few meters down the road, heading away from the market.

He always felt guilty leaving his new colleagues to fend for themselves. John had learned from conversations with Mickey that they were often rushed off their feet and didn’t have many chances for a break. John had asked why he didn’t just quit. Mickey scoffed, said maybe he’d understand if he worked here a bit longer, then went back to his crossword.

John parked his (your) bike where you showed him on his second day. There was a little inlet behind the bakery, an alley where they kept the bins. There was a metal staircase up to the flat above, but you’d assured him that no one ever came back here, the bike would be safe.

He left his helmet in the basket, then pushed open the bakery’s back door. It opened into a little square room. There were only two options to move forward: the stairs that led up to the flat above, and the kitchen door.

When he entered the kitchen, John waited a moment before pulling in a deep breath. The scents of freshly baked bread, browning sugar, roasted pecan nuts, and countless more delights whirled around his head, filling his chest with a warmth so delicious, he paused before exhaling again.

The second breath was just as mouth-watering, but nothing, nothing compared to that first lungful of marzipan, whipped cream, plump strawberries and something else, something he was beginning to suspect was home.

Much to John’s surprise, he and Mickey Caine (Yes, like the actor. No, he didn’t want to hear your impression) got on very well. They were hardly the best of friends yet but every time he came into the kitchen to collect his next delivery, Mickey greeted him with a broad smile and offered John a cuppa.

That’s how it started. Now, John spent what little free time he had during his shift sitting in the kitchen while Mickey regaled him with stories about his lovely wife, his father’s plans for the family market stall, and the trouble he was having with his neighbour about the apple tree in his garden.

John was more than happy to listen, sipping a cup of tea quietly while the kitchen came to life all around him. He had always been shy when meeting new people and much preferred listening to talking, but Mickey was so friendly, he found himself quite at ease.

There were no orders hanging on the hook in the hall (‘angin on the ‘ook in the ‘all, to his colleagues) so John went to make himself and whoever else wanted one a cup of tea.

He grumbled to himself as his shoes nagged at him. Maybe Mickey would have a pair that suited him better, they were about the same height.

John got about halfway to the kettle when Mickey stuck out his rolling pin an inch from his chest.

“Careful, son,” Mickey said, even though he could only have been a year or two John’s senior. “I think the Captain’s after you.”

“The Captain?” John repeated. “You mean Gladys?”

He momentarily wondered what he could have done wrong, but Mickey shook his head.

“Younger, bit softer round the middle, just as terrifyin’, though. Aren’t you a lucky boy?”

John blushed tragically.

“Oh, God.”

Mickey just had time to flash him a broad, cheeky grin before another voice cut across his.

“Oi! New boy!”

You were standing in the kitchen doorway, running a tea towel between your hands. You were smiling, seemingly absolutely delighted to see him, but there was a glint in your eyes. You wanted something from him.

You beckoned John closer with one finger. His heart began to thud.

You weren’t exerting the power he was sure you knew you had over him. You just didn’t want to leave the shop unattended. The bakery was well-respected - John had certainly never seen anyone try and cause any trouble - but one couldn’t be too careful, and you never turned your back on the tills.

Still, as you waited for him to come closer, shuffling slightly in his half-a-size-too-small trainers, John thought you did rather look like a captain. Your hands placed with such certainty on your soft, round hips, the fact you had to raise your chin to meet his gaze but he still felt small… You were completely in control of every interaction you’d shared so far, and he liked it.

God help him, he really liked it.

“How would you…”

You smiled, and John already knew he was going to agree with whatever it was you were about to offer.

“Like a promotion.”

Trying to recover any semblance of bravado, or at least try to pretend you didn’t make him feel like he could melt into a puddle of rings and velvet trousers, John raised an eyebrow.

“You want me on a moped? Great idea.”

“I wan’ you be’ind the counter.”

You laughed softly, trying to recover from the unintentional innuendo. When you saw John’s horrified expression, you laughed again, more authentically.

“Please, it’s just me today and Mickey can’ ‘elp, stuck in the kitchen.”

“Where’s Gladys?”

You pulled a face.

“Out with what’s-his-face.” You didn’t like to say his name out loud, lest you evoke him. “Please, new boy.”

“What about my-”

“There aren’t any more orders,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. Your gaze drifted guiltily towards the telephone, sat just behind where John was standing in the kitchen doorway. “I took the phone off the ‘ook.”

John opened his mouth, then tactfully closed it again.

Over your shoulder, he could see that the bakery was full of people in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There were two bobbies looking for a late lunch; an older woman and her shopping trolley; a man in a fine suit, lifting his young daughter up so that she could see into the display case and pick a treat; and there was still a long queue snaking down the high street.

“I don’t know how to…” John began weakly.

He could already feel his resolve beginning to crumble. He wanted to help you, not least because John liked his job and even if he couldn’t give the bakery more of his dwindling time, he’d like to become a part of the family. Despite the scraped knees and rude customers and, God, so many double decker buses, he liked being 64 Oslo Square's delivery boy.

But there was another incentive, one that he didn’t allow to linger on his thoughts for too long because it would surely make him blush, or trip over his own feet, or something equally as embarrassing. It was that, just as much as he’d got to know Mickey over the last few weeks, he’d also got to know you, not half as well as he’d like, but enough to know that he liked you. Really liked you.

John knew he was done for the moment he came back from his first round of deliveries. He parked the bike up, strode into the shop, proud as punch, and gleefully announced that, despite some near misses, all the ornate boxes you’d entrusted him with had been delivered safely and in good time.

As he passed over the wodge of cash he’d earned, you beamed at him, so clearly pleased, that John’s knees felt a little weak.

That night, he found himself thinking about you. The way you smiled at him, the way you always seemed to be covered in baking ingredients no matter how hard you tried to keep yourself neat, how you spoke with an authority beyond your years, as if you’d been running the bakery as long as Gladys.

You were just a year or two older than him, but much smarter. You had ‘the nouse’, as his mum would say, ‘the knack’. You understood people, you loved your job, and you were kind to him, despite the constant teasing. But he liked that too.

The more time he spent with you, the worse it got. John’s clothes had begun to permanently smell like pastries and freshly baked bread just days after he started, but somehow your perfume had weaved itself between the stitches too.

He couldn’t stop thinking about your kind eyes, your sharp tongue, your apron strings pulled tight around your soft body, and that was only by day five.

Perhaps John had gushed about you a little too long to Roger when he was explaining his new job, because he had threatened to pop by with Freddie one afternoon, just to get a look at this wonderful girl.

John was sure it was a passing thing, a fleeting infatuation. He always seemed to be attracted to those who appeared his opposite. You were relaxed where he was tense, and spoke easily where he felt so shy, he couldn’t seem to get his tongue to work. He was sure that’s all it was, but John hadn’t had much of a chance to find out.

He didn’t see you half as much as he’d like; you were both so busy at opposite ends of the bakery. It only made the times he did see you all the more exciting. John almost tripped over the pedals of his bike yesterday in his hurry to come see you, only to find that you were on your lunch break. Perhaps now would be his chance.

You must have seen he was close to breaking, that you almost had him, because you spared a glance over your shoulder at the shop floor before taking a step closer.

“Please, John.”

That did it. You didn’t use his name very often, so whenever you did, it felt like a spell, like you knew the secret to wrapping your fingers around all his strings.

John pressed his lips together, reminded himself of the promise he’d made his mother to do his best to try new things, and nodded.

“Okay.”

Your face lit up, and John was condemned. Happily so.

“You’re a diamond, John Deacon.”

You reached for him, wrapping your fingers around his thin arms, just above his elbows. You gave him a gentle squeeze, grinning from ear to ear.

“New boy, I could kiss you.”

John blushed almost as red as the bakery’s signature scarlet. All he could think as you turned away was, ‘yes, please’.

You asked him to lean forward so that you could loop an apron over his head, then pressed your hand against his waist with just enough pressure so that he knew you wanted him to turn around.

While he tugged his long hair through the apron loop, you pulled the strings tight around his middle and tied them into a bow for him, assuming correctly that it would take several minutes of fumbling for him to get it right and you just didn't have the time.

When John turned around to face you again, he was feeling more than a little flustered. He could still feel your fingers against him, so much so that he thought if he checked his waist, his back, his arms, he might be able to see an imprint of them on his skin.

You hadn’t touched him hard, hadn’t been rough with him at all, but he was so unused to physical contact that every time you brushed by him, John’s chest swelled and he had to grit his teeth for a moment, uncomfortable but desperate for more, like easing yourself into a hot bath on a winter day.

“There,” you said, looking him up and down quickly. “You look beau’iful. C’mon, new boy.”

John thought he heard Mickey laughing quietly to himself as he followed you out onto the shop floor, but he didn't dare look back.

He was still so wrapped up in the feeling of your hands on him that he didn’t notice someone was ringing the bell on the counter until its last syllables were echoing in his ear. The man and his daughter had made their choices and were looking at him expectantly.

You must have seen his face fall because suddenly you were right by his side again, so close, he could feel your warmth. He had to fight the urge to lean into you.

“It’s easy,” you said, but in such a way that it was reassuring, not condescending. “You just give ‘em what they ask for. Prices are here.”

You tapped the display case twice with the tip of your index finger.

This was the first time John had been behind the counter. Now that he was on this side of the glass, he could see that each layer in the case had a door that he could pull down to retrieve the orders.

Each compartment had a price at the front, written by Gladys long ago in curved scarlet letters on folded white card. On his side, there was just a strip of what looked like masking tape, thumbed there haphazardly, with the price written in thick black marker.

You rested your hand at the centre of his back. It was only gentle, reassuring, but John still had to keep himself from recoiling, and when you moved away again, a shiver ran down his entire body.

“Ask if you need any ‘elp.”

And with that, John was on his own at the mercy of the public.

Thankfully, 64 Oslo Square was fairly well-established. In fact, John had come to learn that Gladys opened the shop in 1948 with money from her father, when she was just twenty-two. This meant he didn’t have to work hard to attract customers, they filed in like worker bees to a hive, inherent and instinctual after twenty-five years.

You were right, it wasn’t difficult. People pointed out the pastries they liked, or asked if they had a particular cake today, and John saw that they got their orders in good time and with little fuss.

You showed him how to carefully place Mickey’s intricately decorated creations into perfect white boxes, and how to slip croissants, pain au chocolat, and raspberry twists into neat paper bags that rustled enticingly.

Sometimes customers stayed, taking a seat inside the bakery or out on the corner. Around 1956, Gladys had rather fancied the idea of owning a café in Paris, and so there was plenty of room for outside seating, despite the English weather and the busy high street.

For the most part, customers left to go about their day, but not without a gleaming white box in their hands, all tied up with red ribbon.

Around midday, the tea and coffee orders stopped, which John was rather relieved about. He once had a job as a tea boy back home and it brought back terrible memories, but it also meant he had to keep stopping you since he didn’t understand the complicated looking machinery in the kitchen.

This wouldn't be so bad but every time he did, instead of looking frustrated with him, you gave John a bright smile as you brushed past him, and that alone was enough to make his hands shake as he fed danishes into paper bags.

When at last there was a lull, the clock in the kitchen was just beginning to tick towards three.

You slid the till drawer shut for a final time with a mighty ‘clang!’. The weather was slow to turn this year. It had been a bitterly cold winter and these spring days were sluggish and dark.

As much as you were looking forward to a nice, long summer, 64 Oslo Square was, like most old girls, prone to overheating. She’d aged gracefully, but your hair would be sticking to your forehead by May. You could tolerate murky winter mornings and even murkier winter nights, so long as it stayed nice and cool.

John didn’t look so serene either. You could admit that you’d thrown him in at the deep end, but it was the best way to learn and, as Gladys would cheerfully tell him if he griped to her, it’s how you were taught.

You didn’t think he would complain, John didn’t seem the type, but as he turned to face you, resting his narrow hip against the counter with a sigh, his frizzy hair and droopy eyes told you that he desperately needed a rest.

“Come on,” you said quietly, nodding towards the kitchen before heading in the same direction.

You resisted the urge to chuck him under the chin or tug on his apron strings as you passed him. You were quite tactile and you could tell that John really wasn’t. Which was a shame because he really did look incredibly grabbable.

“We won’ get another rush for a while. The next lot come in just after five, when people leave work.”

You heard John following you, his trainers squeaking on the spotless kitchen floor.

“Shouldn’t we put the phone back?”

You turned and found him standing in the kitchen doorway, one hand outstretched. Two of John’s long fingers touched the telephone, his thumb pointing upwards, his ring and little fingers curled in. His movements were always so precise, as well-thought-out and rehearsed as his words. He thought you wouldn’t notice, but you did.

With an easy smile, you began to gather ingredients for the next batch of cinnamon whirls. They were a firm favourite, you could never seem to bake enough to go around. You hardly had to look as you pulled jars of flour and sugar down from the shelves, in fact, you could probably find your way around this kitchen blindfolded.

“The shop earns much more than deliveries do. I’m commandeerin’ you, new boy.”

John didn’t exactly laugh (you hadn’t seen that yet, and you were waiting with bated breath) but he did offer a tentative smile.

“What time will Gladys be back?”

“God only knows,” Mickey called from the back door, where he had been smoking peacefully for the last few minutes.

“Alastair’s takin’ her out to The Ivy, apparently.” You rolled your eyes. “She’s probably bein’ felt up over oysters and caviar about now.”

John tried not to make a face. He liked Gladys, he didn’t want that mental image to so much as tiptoe through his head.

Alastair was about ten years her younger, very handsome, and for some reason, your absolute worst enemy. John hadn’t actually talked to Alastair yet, so he didn’t really know what was so wrong with him, but he knew you and Mickey well enough that he felt a strong sense of loyalty, and knew that your loathing was probably justified.

“Hm, lucky her.” John blanched when you gave him a funny look and quickly added, “To have a nice dinner, I mean.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hold back a smile.

If you wanted to help the new boy relax, to make him feel comfortable enough that you could entice him out of his shell a little more, then laughing at him probably wasn’t the best way to go. Thankfully, you saw the corner of John’s lips twitch before he looked away coyly.

“Have you eaten today?” you asked, although you already knew the answer.

There was a plate of two custard tarts in John’s hands before he’d even finished shaking his head. He tentatively glanced at Mickey as he came back into the kitchen, but he didn’t seem to care that John was eating pastries he’d finished making not ten minutes ago.

In fact, Mickey plucked a strawberry from one of the cupcakes waiting to go out. John watched him chew it thoughtfully before taking the cupcake too.

Since you weren’t putting the phone back on the hook and the bakery was quiet, John thought that meant he might get a nice long break. There was a park down the road. He could take the bike and find a quiet spot. Perhaps you might even let him take some more food, he could have a late lunch. But you didn’t intend on letting John rest for long.

Tightening your apron strings, then your hair, you turned and began to wipe down the nearest surface.

“C’mon, new boy, you’re gonna earn your keep.”

“Don’t I already?” John asked through a mouthful of flaky pastry.

That made Mickey laugh from the back of the kitchen. He was sitting on a threadbare chair he’d brought in years ago so that he could rest his feet between shifts. In one hand, he held the cupcake he was happily tucking into, in the other, today’s newspaper, folded open to the crossword.

“Don’t mind ‘er,” he said. “You hold us all to a very ‘igh standard, don’t you darlin’?”

You shrugged.

“I run a tigh’ ship, what can I say? If this place is gonna be mine someday, I have to keep you all in check.”

“Aye, Captain.”

John wanted to ask what you meant, about owning the bakery, but you’d already changed the subject. He filed it away. He’d ask you another time.

“Do you cook much?” When John shook his head, you tried again. “What about bakin’?”

John looked sheepish.

“Only with my mum and not for years. Not since I was little.”

You looked him up and down quickly. An appraisal. John felt like one of the coats in Freddie and Roger’s stall, turned over and around by countless hands, his worth debated back and forth.

“Do you have a hairband?” you asked, gesturing vaguely to your own hair.

John shook his head.

“I never really put it up. I only started growing it out when I came down to London. I don’t really know what to do with it all.”

“What do you do when it gets ‘ot?”

John huffed through his nose.

“Suffer.”

You grinned, then pulled a spare hairband from your wrist.

“Here,” You chucked it to him and laughed when he scrambled to grab it with two hands. “Do you need help with..?”

“No,” John mumbled, already reaching back to tie up his long hair. “I can manage.”

One slightly wonky up-do later, he was ready to begin.

“You’ve got nice big ‘ands,” you said, eyes twinkling. “I think you better start the dough off for me.”

John was grappling with a big bag of sugar by the time your words finally sank in. He fumbled and almost spilt granules all over the floor.

Mickey was right to call you ‘Captain’. It wasn’t so much that you barked orders, you just had this way of speaking that meant he found himself doing whatever you asked.

John really couldn’t remember the last time he baked but before he knew it, you had him warming milk on the stove and weighing out butter. He didn’t have a chance to feel nervous. You even showed him how to separate the white from the yolk by passing the egg between the two halves of its shell, and looked so pleased with him when he got it right first time.

He was covered in ingredients, just like you always were, but John didn’t mind. In fact, he was having fun.

Between university, the band, and work, he hadn’t had much time for fun. Most days, John was so exhausted by the time he got back to his digs, he found himself waking up in an uncomfortable position on the bed, or his chair, whichever was closest when he began to lose consciousness.

He’d needed this.

You could see it too.

Mickey would tease you later, but you couldn’t help dragging the new boy into the kitchen. You’d always had a thing for waifs and strays, and John was the waifiest stray you’d ever seen.

If he was going to work here long term, he needed to be just as much a part of the furniture as the ovens in the kitchen, the red chairs outside on the pavement, and the ancient till that always tried to bite your fingers.

You weren’t sure if John would go for it, but he seemed happy enough as he rolled the dough you’d made together across the counter. You’d really outdone yourself. This was a bloody brilliant idea. As you watched John palm and work his long fingers against the slab of dough, binding the ingredients together, clumsily but enthusiastically, you could feel your eyes glazing over.

Thankfully, the timer on one of the ovens went off, and you could excuse yourself naturally. For once, you were grateful that Mickey couldn’t be bothered to get off his arse.

As you flicked the oven off and pulled down its heavy, square door, you tried to figure out what had come over you. The new boy was undeniably handsome, yes, but there were plenty of handsome boys around and none of them had you this flustered.

John was just different. Quiet. Polite. Intelligent without being condescending. He had a sweetness about him that you couldn’t quite untangle, but you knew if you could get past his reticence, there would be a cheekiness that would make your knees weak.

When you came back to see how he was getting on, John had managed to roll the dough into a neat ball and looked very proud of himself. You tried to hide just how endeared you were by his excitement, but when you told him the dough looked great and John visibly brightened, you almost had to bite your lip.

As you waited for the dough to rise, you turned your attention to the sweet filling you’d need to make the cinnamon whirls.

To help John learn where everything was kept in the kitchen, you gathered the rest of the ingredients together, and as you searched high and low, you got to know each other better.

“You’re in a band?”

“Don’t I look the type?”

You couldn’t help being surprised. John really didn’t seem the rock ‘n’ roll sort. You’d seen the flowery bohemians who floated around the city, the market just down the road their mothership. They wore beautiful clothes, listened to strange, twangy music, and studied subjects like art and poetry.

The Movement had rather passed you by, you were too busy working. It seemed to have brushed past John, though. His long, pretty hair contrasted his plain clothes, but maybe that was just a matter of low funds. Perhaps his ringed fingers and tall shoes were a hint of someone more avant-garde beneath, or perhaps that was as far as it went.

“I s’pose you look the type. It’s just the rest of you.”

That made John snort, and you had to hide how pleased you were.

“Do you sing, then? Or..?”

“I play bass.”

“Cosmic. How’s it going? You get many gigs?”

“Some, we’ve only just started really. Uni makes it hard.”

You placed your palm flat on a square tin, hooking your short nails underneath to prise off its lid. Particles of cinnamon floated up like a curl of smoke, filling your senses with warmth and memory.

“You’re far too young to be paradin’ round the country in tight trousers and funny shoes, anyway.”

John huffed.

“My shoes aren’t funny. And we haven’t done much parading yet.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“But ‘yes’ to the tight trousers?”

John fixed you with his rigid stare, those grey-green eyes clear and sharp amongst the soft, warm browns and creams in the kitchen.

For a moment, you worried you’d teased him just that little bit too much, but then the corner of John’s mouth twitched again. He returned his attention to the sugar and cinnamon mixture you’d shown him how to make, but he was still smiling as he attentively stirred the bowl.

Your chest still felt tight as you peeled back the tea towel you’d left over the dough. Tipping the bowl towards him, you showed him how well it had risen.

“All down to your safe ‘ands. We’ll make a baker of you yet, new boy.”

When John smiled, it seemed like he was trying to hide just how pleased he was, but he couldn’t hold back his grin for long, and there was the lovely gap in his front teeth.

You could feel his eyes on you as you pressed your fist firmly into his perfectly rolled creation. He was so proud of it, you couldn’t help feeling bad, but it had to be done. You dumped the dough out on the counter and handed John a rolling pin, forgetting momentarily that still needed instruction.

John’s face fell.

“Er, Captain?”

You blinked, surprised, then began to laugh, the anxious tightness in your chest suddenly evaporating.

“You don’ ‘ave to call me that. Mickey’s just taking the- Well.”

You didn’t think you were particularly bossy, but Mickey had given you the nickname by your third day of working together. To your dismay, it had stuck.

You just liked things done a certain way. Kitchens were dangerous if you weren’t paying attention, and this bakery was your home, your whole life. If that made you bossy, then so be it.

John shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“I like it. Suits you.”

It was difficult to express just how rarely you were left without anything to say, but that knocked you speechless. Maybe you could get used to a silly nickname. Especially when John said it.

It turned out the boy had never used a rolling pin in his life. You even had to show him how to mould the dough so that it would flatten out into the right shape.

John laid his palms flat on the rolling pin, his gaze switching between your hands and his, while you showed him the correct motion.

When you noticed he wasn’t using quite enough pressure, you reached over and laid your palms on top of his much larger hands, pressing down gently to correct him.

It made your face heat up and you had to pull away after a second, but you could still feel the impression of his fingers against the bottoms of yours. John didn’t seem nearly so flustered, of course, but how could you have known that his heart was beating like a drum.

You pressed your tongue against the back of your teeth, looking away for a moment as you collected yourself, then, in an effort to dispel the tension surely not only you could be aware of, you said,

“You seem too… Thoughtful, to be in a band.”

John’s forehead creased as he concentrated. As he rolled out the dough, he could feel his perfectionism kicking in. The dough had to be level otherwise it wouldn't rise properly. The corners had to be neat so that they looked good enough to sell. He wanted to do a good job. He wanted to do well for you.

“You mean shy?”

John’s pointed smile made you laugh. Sheepishly, you changed tact.

“Quiet.”

“Bassists are usually the quiet ones.”

“Paul McCartney don’t seem all that shy.”

John scoffed.

“Neither would I if I looked like Paul McCartney.”

“Ohhh, ‘e’s got nothing on you.”

“You’re just being silly now.”

“He couldn’ ‘old a candle to you. Not with that mouth.”

John finally stopped rolling out the dough to look at you.

“What about my mouth?”

“Nothin’! It’s lovely! It’s different. It’s you.” You grinned and ran your fingertip along your own bottom lip, then pointed to his. “Paul McCartney wishes ‘e ‘ad a mouth like that.”

Too flustered and bewildered to think of something clever, John just shook his head.

“You’re a nutter.”

“Look who’s gettin’ brave!” You gently pinched his elbow. “Who knew you were such a cheeky li’le thing under all that shyness?”

John raised his eyebrows.

“I can be as rowdy as the rest of them. You better watch out.”

He watched as something in your face shifted. He couldn’t describe it. It was as if the angle of the light had changed just a little, because suddenly your sweet, friendly smile seemed angular and enticing, and the look in your eyes was suddenly challenging, knowing. Too knowing.

John swallowed.

“I think I could ‘andle you pre’y well, new boy.”

Your voice was low, soft. To John, it sounded like you’d swallowed a spoonful of honey and it was still lingering on your tongue, making your words sound rich, sonorous, dark brown and promising.

He tried to respond, but nothing came. John was clever. He had a sharp tongue and knew how to wield his foil well. He hadn’t known his new friends long, but Freddie was already fond of saying that John didn’t talk much, but when he did, everyone listened. You'd stolen the words from his throat. How? How did you do that?

You were surprised too. If John weren’t quite so flummoxed, he might have noticed how you came back to your senses with an embarrassed laugh, trying to brush the moment away and the tension, still thick as treacle, with it.

“Tea?”

You didn't wait for an answer. You’d already turned away to grab the kettle when John finally managed to untangle his tongue.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

John leaned back against the counter, still a little mystified. That was when he noticed Mickey still sat on his chair in the corner, peering at him over the top of his newspaper. He’d forgotten he was there.

At first, neither of them said anything. Then Mickey grinned.

“Oh,” John huffed and yanked his hair down from the bun he’d stuck it in. “Shut up, Mickey.”

While the cinnamon whirls baked, you and John found a seat outside the bakery.

At first, he was surprised that you could do such a thing. The last job he had was so regimented, John hadn’t even been allowed to lean against the counter when his back began to ache after hours on his feet.

You lounged back in one of the scarlet chairs, turning your mug of tea around in your hands. Your foot rested against the stem of the table between you so that you could push against it and carefully rock your chair back on its hind legs.

Conversely, John sat with one long leg crossed over the other. He kept his back straight, his gaze on the high street so that he could warn you of any potential customers.

Although you’d assured him that Gladys wouldn’t care if she caught you taking a break, and that you’d done all the work you could anyway, John tensed every time a woman with brightly coloured hair whisked by, and there were a lot around the market.

You didn’t talk much. After more attempts to coax John into a conversation fizzled out, you decided to just sit back and let him dictate interactions.

You watched him, out of the corner of your eye. If John was happy to sit in comfortable silence, then you should be too, but questions kept springing to mind. You had to bat them away like flies on a hot day.

John was watching you too. ‘Not quite so obviously’, he thought with a tiny smile.

He’d learned a lot about you today. That you liked a band called ABBA and weren’t embarrassed about it. One of their songs had come on over the radio station and when Mickey reached to turn it off, you had yelled at him from across the bakery and told him to turn it right up.

He’d learned that you never, ever managed to finish a cup of tea. You’d had three today and not one of them had been drained completely. You somehow always managed to forget about them. John was sure he’d be finding mugs all over the bakery if he spent another day with you. He hoped he would.

You’d learned a lot about John in return. In particular that he really didn’t ever speak unless he had something to say. It still bothered you, for some reason. So much so that when John nipped to the loo, Mickey even called you out on it.

“He’s still so quiet,” you said, disappointment clear.

Mickey just shrugged.

“Nothin’ wrong wi’ that.”

“I know.” You sighed. “Jus’ worry that if I didn’t talk to him, he wouldn’t say anythin’ at all.”

“John only speaks when he actually has somethin’ to say. People could learn a lot from ‘im.”

You shot Mickey a wry smile.

“I s’pose by ‘people’ you mean me?”

Mickey filled in another row of boxes in his crossword. He was grinning.

“I didn’ say that.”

You smiled at the memory, but it faded when you saw John check his watch. He sighed and slapped his hands down on his knees. He was preparing to go.

“Thanks for the tea.”

It was only when John rose to his feet that he realised he was still wearing his apron. He reached behind him, feeling more awkward and gawky than ever as his fingers stumbled over the ties.

“And for today. It was nice getting to know you better.”

You thanked John when he passed you his neatly folded apron.

“It was nice gettin’ to know you too. Oh, there’s a bag for you by the door.”

John looked confused for a moment before he realised what you’d done. Your self-satisfied grin confirmed his suspicions. He should’ve known.

When he went to check, John did indeed find a 64 Oslo Square bag by the door. Inside were three small boxes and one larger rectangular box, all tied up with scarlet ribbon.

“You know,” he said, returning with bag in hand. “You’re gonna go out of business if you keep giving away all your stock.”

“They’ll just go in the bin.” You waved him off. “And anyway, I worry about you gettin’ swept up by a gust of wind. And then wha’ would we do, eh? Who’s gonna wobble all over London for us if you slip down a grate?”

For the first time in three weeks, you heard John laugh. It was only small but it was a proper, real laugh, and it made your heart go all funny, much to your embarrassment.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, then laughed again softly. “Thanks. Again.”

“See you tomorrow, new boy.”

John twisted his funny mouth, looking almost apologetic.

“I’m actually off tomorrow. I’ve got this exam coming up that I’ve barely had time to study for.”

He’d mentioned his exam while you were rolling up the cinnamon whirls together. You hadn’t actually understood what he was talking about when he described what he studied, all you remembered was something very promising about vibrations.

John had been having trouble focusing. It wasn’t just that he had to spread his time between the band he was tagging along with, and his job at the bakery. It appeared the people on his floor of the digs weren’t nearly so invested in their studies. They played music late into the night and hosted parties that started at midday and didn’t end till the next afternoon.

John wouldn’t usually mind, he was no square, but it was relentless and he couldn’t concentrate with all their racket. It was slowly driving him mad.

“Is there nowhere quie’er at your uni?”

“They’re doing up the library at the moment. It’s been closed since the start of term. Apart from that, not really.”

“Well, you could always study here.” You gestured to the chairs around you, then back to the kitchen. “I know it’s not the quie’est but there’s plenty of room and no one will bother you. You spend most of your time ‘ere anyway.”

You weren’t just being kind. The bakery was often busy and John would have to find a space for himself somewhere in the storefront, or perhaps in a quiet corner of the kitchen, but it was better than nothing. And, you supposed, it would be nice to have him around more, but you kept that thought to yourself.

It was hardly the most enticing offer, so you were surprised when John seemed to genuinely consider it, and even more surprised when, instead of politely turning you down, he smiled and said,

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

You were so taken-aback, you could barely manage a weak smile in response. John hurried round to grab his bike from the alley, and you were still grappling with what had just happened by the time he came back.

“Thanks again,” John slung his flowery helmet onto his head with surprising grace for someone so gangly. “Captain.”

In an effort to ignore just how much your nickname made your face heat up when it came from him, you kept your gaze low as John unceremoniously threw one spindly leg over the bike. You’d heard all about his many, frankly hilarious accidents. You almost expected him to trip over his own feet just getting onto the bloody thing.

“You know, you really don’ ‘ave to call me that.”

“Like I said,” John beamed. “I like it.”

You decided it would be best just to stay quiet.

John carefully placed the bag of pastries into the little basket at the front of the bike then, with one final, awkward wave, he pushed off from the pavement and headed for home.

As you watched him cycle off, you felt overwhelmed by a funny sort of fondness. He really was a sweet boy, far cleverer than even he would admit to, gentle, almost cartoonishly gangly, and he called you ‘Captain’ because he liked it. Boy, were you in trouble.

You winced when John almost veered right into a postbox, but he somehow managed to right himself and narrowly avoid it. His face was drawn in embarrassment as he whizzed around the corner.

You realised you were grinning and pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, shaking your head.

What a muppet.

Your smile didn’t last long. To your dismay, a customer walked past you into the bakery, bursting your happy little bubble. With a groan that could have belonged to someone twice your age, you pulled yourself out of your chair and followed the woman inside.

You had been enjoying your little rest. Moreover, you’d enjoyed showing John that, sometimes, the lackadaisical approach could be fun. You didn’t think he would settle into the flow of 64 Oslo Square for a while yet. Maybe if he stayed, he would relax a little. You hoped not, you liked John just the way he was.

You were still smiling to yourself as you slipped behind the counter, until you realised Mickey was there already, restocking the display case. He had definitely seen you and John sitting together. You dropped your smile, but it was too late. Mickey looked smug.

While your customer was distracted by the chalkboard menu on the far wall, you grabbed a tea towel from the side and thwacked him with it.

“Shut it, Mickey.”

“I didn’t say anythin’!”

Next Chapter

Master List

#john deacon #John deacon imagine #john deacon x reader #john deacon reader #queen imagine #queen fic #Queen

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badgraph1csghost · 2 years

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Now that we're emulating game consoles this year instead of paying giant corporations for the privilege, here's 15 games each for the major consoles throughout time that you can use as a starting point.

Atari 2600. The Atari Video Computer System (more commonly, Atari 2600) is the system that both began and almost destroyed the videogame industry. "ET the Extraterrestrial" will not be on this list for obvious reasons. Also, remember; this is your grandpa's game console, so don't expect much from the graphics or sounds. But, standing as a testament to the staying power of gameplay over visuals, each of these games have uncommonly high replay value.

1. Adventure 2. Asteroids 3. Bank Heist 4. Beamrider 5. Centipede 6. Chopper Command 7. Dragonfire 8. Fatal Run 9. Frogger 10. Galaxian 11. Gangster Alley 12. H.E.R.O. 13. Laser Gates 14. Pitfall 15. Yars' Revenge.

NES. Nintendo is the worst offender when it comes to making people buy their old games several different times. So this, in combination with the fact Nintendo have the most game consoles of any of the hardware makers, means we're going to focus a lot of our time with them. Let's begin at the beginning, then, shall we?

1. The Battle for Olympus 2. Blaster Master 3. Castlevania 4. Contra 5. Donkey Kong 6. Earthbound Beginnings 7. Final Fantasy 8. The Legend of Zelda 9. Mario Bros. 10. Metroid 11. Pac-Man 12. Paperboy 13. Pinball 14. Rad Racer II 15. Tetris.

There were three versions of Tetris released for the NES (well, one for Famicom, two for NES); the first was for Famicom by Bullet Proof Software, the second was for NES by Tengen (alternate name for Atari), the third was the officially-licensed version by Nintendo for NES. The Tengen version is better than the Nintendo version and whatever BPS was trying to do.

Super NES. My personal favourite game console, most of the best games for this platform are stuck in Copyright Hell and aren't likely to be officially re-released anywhere again.

1. Aero the AcroBat 2 2. Asterix & Obelix 3. Blackthorne 4. Donkey Kong Country 5. Donkey Kong Country 2: Diddy's Kongquest 6. Earthbound 7. Earthworm Jim 8. Final Fantasy IV 9. The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past 10. Prince of Persia 11. Soul Blazer 12. Super Castlevania IV 13. Super Mario All-Stars + Super Mario World 14. Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars 15. Super Tetris 3.

Nintendo 64. There really aren't all that many good games for this platform that weren't made by Nintendo or one of their second-party developers because the hardware was really sketchy and no one really knew what Nintendo meant when they said "Make us some new and groundbreaking games please." So, the list is unfairly skewed toward Nintendo and Rare for that reason.

1. 007 The World is Not Enough 2. Banjo Kazooie 3. Banjo Tooie 4. Cruis'n World 5. Doom 64 6. GoldenEye 007 7. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time 8. Mario Kart 64 9. Paper Mario< 10. Perfect Dark 11. Quake 64 12. Rayman 2: The Great Escape 13. StarFox 64/Lylat Wars 14. Super Mario 64 15. Yoshi's Story.

GameCube. Now we're getting into "gaming computer" territory. If your computer doesn't have a video card from at least 2013 in it, don't expect these to run acceptably. The plus side is, this is as new as we're going to get, release date wise.

1. 007 Everything or Nothing 2. Animal Crossing 3. Crash Bandicoot: The Wrath of Cortex 4. Harvest Moon: Magical Melody 5. The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess 6. The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker 7. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers 8. Mario Kart Double Dash 9. The Sims 2 10. Sonic Adventure DX 11. Soul Calibur II 12. Super Mario Sunshine 13. Super Monkey Ball 14. Super Smash Bros. Melee 15. Tomb Raider Legend.

I have a bit of a dilemma here-- "do I recommend any Harry Potter games?" On one hand, Chamber of Secrets on GCN was my favourite game as a kid and JoKeR was not involved in its production in any way except for inventing the canon upon which it was based; but on the other hand, it's still JoKeR's intellectual real-estate in your own brain. I mean, it IS piracy, and it benefits no one except the player, and believe me when I say that the visuals, sounds, and gameplay of the 6th-Gen HP games was absolutely high-art, and you can literally just wander around Hogwarts for hours not doing anything but raiding desks for jellybeans and stink pellets. I'm going to leave it up to you.

Wii. The Wii is a little problematic because of its motion controls. Since connecting a Wii Remote to your computer can be time consuming and may not work at all, this list only contains games that can be played with a gamepad, either the GCN controller or a Classic Controller attachment. Obviously, some enterprising spud with a compiler can probably hack the more popular Wii games to use traditional control, but we won't be counting on that here.

1. Castlevania: The Adventure ReBirth 2. Cave Story 3. Contra ReBirth 4. Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn 5. GoldenEye 007 6. Gradius ReBirth 7. Harvest Moon: Tree of Tranquility 8. Klonoa 9. Mario Kart Wii 10. Nights: Journey of Dreams 11. Pitfall: The Big Adventure 12. Rayman Origins 13. Sonic Colors 14. Sonic Unleashed 15. Super Smash Bros. Brawl.

Game Boy & Game Boy Color. Nintendo is pretty much the last holdout against mobile phones when it comes to portable gaming systems mostly because of the Game Boy line. I recommend playing GB and GBC games on phones (ironically) because the pixels will be less the size of canned hams as opposed to a large gaming monitor.

1. Alleyway 2. Batman: The Video Game 3. Castlevania: The Adventure 4. Contra III: Alien Wars 5. Donkey Kong 6. Game & Watch Gallery 2 (GB Color)<br> 7. Kirby's Dream Land 8. The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening DX (GB Color) 9. Pokemon Gold/Silver (GB Color) 10. Shantae (GB Color) 11. Super Mario Bros. Deluxe (GB Color) 12. Super Mario Land 13. Super Mario Land 2: 6 Golden Coins 14. Tetris 15. Wario Land.

Game Boy Advance. Everything the 32-bit consoles of the '90s should have been, the GBA has an impressive roster of excellent games, and choosing just 15 of them was really hard, actually. Critics tended to be overly-critical of GBA games, mostly because they were adult men and the GBA was seen as a toy.

1. Action Man: Robot Atak 2. Banjo Kazooie: Grunty's Revenge 3. Crash Bandicoot: The Huge Adventure 4. Dark Arena 5. Harvest Moon: Friends of Mineral Town 6. Inspector Gadget Advance Mission 7. Iridion 3D 8. Klonoa: Empire of Dreams 9. Lady Sia 10. The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap 11. Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga 12. Mario Kart Super Circuit 13. Mario vs. Donkey Kong 14. The Sims: Bustin' Out 15. Super Mario Advance 4: Super Mario Bros. 3.

Sega Mega Drive/Genesis. Unlike Nintendo's attempts to horn in on Sega's profits with overpriced emulations with crappy button mapping, this list contains primarily diamonds-in-the-rough and victims of Copyright Hell.

1. BOB 2. Castlevania: Bloodlines 3. Contra Hard Corps 4. Double Dragon 5. Earthworm Jim 2 6. Golden Axe 7. The Incredible Crash Dummies 8. James Bond 007: The Duel 9. Outlander 10. The Ren & Stimpy Show: Stimpy's Invention 11. Ristar 12. Shadow of the Beast 13. Sonic the Hedgehog 14. Sonic the Hedgehog 2 15. Toejam & Earl.

Sega Master System & Game Gear. Technically, the Master System came before the Mega Drive, with the Game Gear happening afterwards. However, a little-known fact about the Game Gear is that it uses the exact same hardware as the Master System; therefore, Master System emulators can also play Game Gear games.

1. Alex Kidd in Miracle World 2. Asterix 3. Batman Returns 4. Ghost House 5. Impossible Mission 6. Kenseiden 7. King's Quest 8. Maze Hunter 3D 9. Montezuma's Revenge 10. Phantasy Star 11. Quest for the Shaven Yak starring Ren & Stimpy (GG) 12. Rastan (GG) 13. Rygar 14. Sonic Chaos 15. Wonder Boy.

Sony PlayStation. The result of an aborted partnership with Nintendo, the only thing Sony has in common with them anymore is a liking for users to buy the same games several times.

1. Crash Bandicoot 2. Danger Girl 3. Doom 4. Duke Nukem: Time to Kill 5. Gex: Enter the Gecko 6. Glover 7. Klonoa 8. Lucky Luke 9. PowerSlave 10. Ray Tracers 11. Rayman 12. Spyro the Dragon 13. Tomb Raider 2 14. Tomorrow Never Dies 15. V-Rally '97.

Sega Saturn. As anyone with a Saturn knew at the time, their console wasn't being very well-received and even intense crunch-time couldn't save Sonic X-Treme from cancellation. In general, most of the games released on Saturn were also released on other systems, where they tended to perform better. This list is only here for nostalgic purposes, and, with a few exceptions, all of these games can be played with better results on other systems.

1. Bug! 2. Bug Too! 3. Clockwork Knight 2 4. Daytona USA 5. Doom 6. Earthworm Jim 2 7. Gex 8. The Lost Vikings 2: Norse by Norse-West 9. Nights into Dreams 10. Rayman 11. Scud: The Disposable Assassin 12. SimCity 2000 13. Sonic 3D Blast 14. Sonic R 15. Virtua Racing.

While you should always use a VPN (Mozilla VPN is $5 a month), you don't need to worry about antivirus software here, because you can get literally all of these games from the Software Capsules Collection on Archive.org.

#not going to tag this post for obvious reasons #boost by reblogging it

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