Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, later on in the day

"Do you think I'm overdoing it with the pink lipstick?" Monica Brannigan fretted, staring back at herself in the small mirror over the hospital room's tiny sink in the corner.

She anxiously searched her parents who were in the reflection over her shoulder, sitting beside Johnny on his bed.

"How can you overdo it? You've always been a gorgeous wee cracker, Mo." Mr Brannigan encouraged.

"You're just saying that because you're my dad." Monica turned back around to face him.

In the next ten minutes or so Monica was due to meet Johnny's blood donor. It'd be the first time in a few days that she'd be away from her son's bedside, so she thought that she might as well have put a bit of effort into her appearance with all that she had with her in the pockets of her trusty peagreen coat and denim jeans and the little trinkets her friend Paula had brought to her. She'd brought her a tube of lip balm and mascara, and a packet of tissues that she'd easily forget about at the most inconvenient times.

"Do you have something to tie your hair with? You'll look more headstrong if you're not afraid to show your face." her mother Patsy Brannigan advised gently.

Monica reached into her coat pocket for her elastic hairband, and without thinking she tucked her dark, towel-dried tresses back from her visage. But as she did it allowed the pink slap mark that was still imprinted on her cheek to be more visible than before.

She had almost forgotten about it by now, and it had faded a lot, but that didn't stop her parents from noticing.

"The side of your face is all red," her father warily remarked, "Have you had a reaction to something?"

"Shit!" Monica panicked.

She hadn't yet told her parents that Freddie had slapped her, only that she had left him, and she didn't feel like telling it anytime soon. Things were already ugly enough.

"I probably slept on my side last night, or leaned on my arm for too long" she fumbled for excuses, going back to the sink and folding a small flannel towel.

"What are you doing now?!" Patsy watched her daughter peculiarly as she ran the cloth under the cold water tap.

Monica pressed the flannel to her cheek, "Trying to make the redness go down, mam."

"Maybe tinted makeup would be better?"

"I don't have any with me, this is the next best thing!" Monica snapped frantically.

"Calm down Mo, you'll be grand!" Mr Brannigan assured her, "It's not like you're gonna meet your future husband in that room or-"

"Monica Brannigan?" A woman's voice announced with a knock on the open door.

All three of them looked to the doorway on which a short, round black woman donning a professional grey pant suit and braided hair stood.

The woman repeated with a Jamaican accent, glancing at the clipboard in her hand, "Which wan of yous is Monica Brannigan?"

"Me." Monica raised her hand.

"Me name's Abigail and I'm a family liaison," the woman calmly introduced herself, putting her hand forward, "Your son's donor is 'ere and ready to see you now."

"Nice to meet you." Monica stepped forward and automatically shook Abigail's hand in return.

"Come," she said, "Let's not keep 'em waitin'."

"Good luck, love!" Monica heard her father behind her as she made her way to the door.

She smiled at her parents as a silent word of thanks, and hesitantly glanced at her unconscious son in the hospital bed one last time.

"He'll be fine," she heard Abigail whisper, urging her to move along as she truthfully said, "Your son has many people who love him, you know."

Monica wasn't sure what she meant, or if she even meant it or not, but nonetheless obliged and followed the lady out.

Abigail quietly lead her from one corridor to the next, turning one corner to another, and through one or two elevators until they were now in a completely different part of the hospital.

As Monica got closer to her next destination, so did reality:

"I have't really thought this situation through, I have I... I mean, what do you say to a blood donor other than 'thank you'? Maybe if I have an idea of who they are or what they do, then I'll know what to say or ask..."

Her head was swimming with so many questions already that she had forgotten the liaison's name.

"Sorry, what did you say your were called again?" Monica awkwardly asked.

"Abigail."

"Thanks Abigail, you're going to have to forgive me for being slow," Monica explained through a slight yawn, and asked, "Do you know if the donor is a man or woman, or a child?"

"'Tis a grown man." the woman answered shortly, not revealing much else.

"Oh, okay." Monica thought aloud, trying to build a picture in her mind.

Was he young, or an old man? What did he do for a living? Was he a do-gooder, like policeman, a schoolteacher, firefighter or maybe even a buddhist monk? Or was he somebody doing it for financial gain, as her mother had rather cynically suggested?

"Is he even dead or alive? Of course he is! Otherwise he wouldn't have consented to voluntarily donating blood and agreed to meet me."

They both walked further until Abigail stopped at a door in a much quieter section out of the way than where they were a minute ago.

There was nobody else except one of the butch, female healthcare security officers standing in front of it with her arms crossed and her fair hair tightly tied in a bun.

"Why is there a guard at the door?" Monica quietly asked.

"You'll see." Abigail simply answered.

Her words repeated in Monica's clueless mind, "'You'll see'... what's that supposed to mean?"

Abigail held up her hospital staff ID sitting on her large bosom by the lanyard hanging around her neck. The security officer silently nodded in approval, stepping aside to allow them in.

"Now if you need any'tin' t'all," she told Monica, twisting the handle to unlock the door, "We'll be waitin' out here. A'right?"

The door pushed open, revealing someone standing in the middle of the room by the window.

No, it couldn't be. It must've been a fluke.

Freddie and Monica's eyes met for a brief second... until she spun back around to leave.

Both Abigail and the security officer watched Monica in puzzlement as she quickly brushed past them both and slammed the door after her.

"Monica?" She sounded.

Looking into those dark brown eyes for the first time in a few days sent Monica into a stupor for a split second before she started getting a nasty hot and cold feeling all at once. She felt her heart rate elevate as her chest grew heavy and breathing so shallow that she could barely hear herself speak or think. All that she cared about was making an escape for the nearest elevator or staircase.

But a man's voice at stopped her when she reached the end of the corridor:

"Monica, wait!"

Monica turned back around, for the voice didn't belong to Freddie.

Peter "Phoebe" Freestone was peering out the door whilst Abigail and the security officer stared on.

"You're here as well?!" Monica exclaimed, having not noticed him in the same room as Freddie seconds earlier.

"Please give Fred a chance." he pleaded quietly.

"Why should I? He's had plenty of chances, don't you think?" She uttered bitterly.

As she was about to head around the corner, Phoebe defended, "Monica, we're only here because of sheer, dumb luck!"

"Or maybe because he sent a private investigator after me and Paula!" Monica hollered back, walking further away in panic.

"No!" Phoebe was following her around the corner, "We found out that Johnny was in this hospital by pure coincidence!"

That grounded Monica to a halt.

"You're here because of Johnny?!"

"Well, we were here because I got beaten up at my new job and then we saw Johnny when I was getting patched up in A&E." Phoebe awkwardly answered.

Monica turned around and put her hands on her hips, staring back at him as she waited for an explanation.

Now that Phoebe was standing closer she properly noticed his eye was lightly bruised and his nose was bandaged up. But she was too confused and panicked to even question why he'd gotten beaten up, let alone what he was even doing back with Freddie in the first place.

Then Abigail's short, plump frame appeared around the corner.

"What you doin, man?!" she reprimanded Monica, "Dis man is yer son's father and blood donor! Why on Earth you runnin' now?"

Monica turned to Phoebe, "Neither of you even told her what he did to me, did you?!"

"That isn't for me to tell, Monica!" He defended.

Abigail reinserted herself into the conversation, "I don't know what's goin' on between you and that man, but he came all the way out 'ere because you wanted to meet him and thank him."

Monica folded her arms, facing herself away from them both, "Why are both you on his side? You should be on my side, protecting my children and I."

"I am on your side as much as I am on his, believe me," Abigail stepped forward, and gently told her, "Part o' my job as a family liaison is to safeguard everyone's wellbein' and interests under difficult circumstances such as this."

"Then what do you see in him that I don't?" she quietly asked her as Phoebe watched on.

The woman, who was a few inches shorter than Monica, took her hand and looked her in the eye.

"It may not be my professional place to tell you what I think," Abigail began, "but I do know that Freddie is a man that loves and cares about Johnny very much."

Monica's frown softened, for finally hearing somebody else say what she had always hoped for such a long time was refreshing.

Abigail calmly continued, "The moment Freddie learned him own son was injured he chose to save him life within a heartbeat in whatever way he could. And after all that he must've done to you in the past he was still courageous enough to g'wan out here and face you."

Monica could feel both Phoebe and Abigail's persuasive stares on her as she processed the woman's words. It seemed as though the universe wanted her to go into the room down the hall where Freddie was waiting for her, although her pride made her resist.

The decision was resting on her shoulders...

Queen Productions Offices, Savoy Court, Westminster

Henry James "Jim Miami" Beach looked at his Cartier wristwatch, then at the small clock on his desk for what must've been the 10th time in a space of 15 minutes.

Brian May, John "Deaky" Deacon and Roger Taylor sat spaced out in front of his desk and tapped their knees with growing impatience, the fourth chair beside them noticeably empty as they waited.

Jim hopelessly lifted the receiver of his office phone on the table yet again.

"You're not going to try ringing him again, are you?" Roger asked him.

"Freddie knew this meeting was coming up long before Christmas!" Jim snapped back, and furiously dialled the telephone number to Garden Lodge himself, "You'd think he didn't care about the future of Queen..."

"Well, maybe he doesn't" Roger shrugged, sitting back.

Brian leaned closer, "It's no use, otherwise Fred would've been here 45 minutes ago."

Jim ignored him as he held it up to his ear and listened, but to no avail as yet another robotic voice answered him on the other end.

"Blasted thing!" He cursed, slamming the phone back onto its cradle, "Are you absolutely sure none of you know if Freddie is or isn't coming?!"

"We've told you already," Brian insisted, "none of us have talked to him since... since..."

"Since the pool thing right before Christmas," Roger finished his sentence, adding, "Besides, I've been away in-"

"In L.A! We get it!" Brian argued across him.

"John, have you heard anything?" Jim turned to the bassist.

Deaky silently shook his head resting on his propped arm.

Jim huffed, shooting up off his chair and heading out the door.

"Where are you going now?" Brian watched him, sitting up in his seat.

"For a smoke!" Mr Beach's voice trailed off as he slammed the door behind himself, leaving the drummer, guitarist and bassist amongst themselves.

"I didn't know Jim smoked..." Deaky thought.

"Good idea." Roger broke the silence first, reaching into his pocket for his box of Marlboros.

"Aren't you even going to say something?" Brian threw his hands up.

"Something." Roger stuck a cigarette in between his teeth.

Brian scoffed at his lazy attempt at humour, "We're obviously in hot water."

"Come on, the writing's been on the wall a while now," Roger said nonchalantly, flicking his lighter on, "First, Fred gets an image overhaul-"

"He shaved off his moustache, Roger," John cut across him, "It's not exactly what you'd call an overhaul."

"Anyway," Roger took his first drag, and spoke through smoke, "Freddie's also overhauling his musical genre. That's why he's in Spain right now with Mike Moran and that fat opera singer, isn't he?"

"No, he's going later in the week," Brian corrected him before adding, "and don't talk about other women like that."

"At least I don't cheat with other women, Bri!" Roger snarled back.

Brian lunged forward in his seat, only to be held back by John's arm:

"Will you two just pack it in for one minute?! Listen to yourselves!"

Bri and Roger both reclined into their seats, getting a grip of their tempers as they sheepishly listened on.

Deaky firmly continued, "Freddie would've sat us down by now and told us if he was leaving the band, let alone if he wouldn't be able to make it to this meeting!"

"What are you trying to insinuate?"

"Yeah, none of us have even heard from him, Deaky!"

"Whatever's going on with Fred is probably out of his control." John answered.

"He's not dead, is he?" Roger asked sarcastically, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"He's Freddie Mercury, we'd know by now if he was dead." Brian rolled his eyes at the drummer.

"Told you, Freddie wants to leave the band but won't admit it." Roger nonchalantly stubbed out his cigarette and wordlessly stood up.

"Now where are you going?!" Brian asked him.

"Back to Los Angeles, probably." Roger stopped at the door.

Brian sighed in defeat, and stood up after him, "So much for our future!"

John watched them both in bewilderment, "Guys, wait!"

Brian and Roger both turned to look at John across the room once again.

"I still think we should check on Freddie ourselves." he voiced.

"Why bother, Deaky? He's not answering!"

"It'll be like hitting a brick wall for the millionth time."

"I know it's hopeless," John agreed, and explained, "but it'd be the right thing to say something than to say nothing to him... even if it's the last thing we'll do as a band, don't you think?"

Brian and Roger glanced at each other.

At last, the drummer muttered, "I guess it'd be a dick move if we ignored him, even if he's ignoring us."

"You're right," Brian finally agreed, "How should we approach it though?"

"Maybe we could ask Monica if something is wrong with him," John suggested, "Or at least get one of our wives to ask her?"

"Isn't Monica still recovering from the pool accident?"

"She'll need to recover from more than that!" Roger jibed and made a drinking gesture, only to be elbowed sharply by Brian in the ribs, "Oowww!!"

"That was uncalled for, Roger." John shook his head.

"You're right, sorry," The drummer guiltily admitted, "Mind you, your Veronica seems a lot closer to Monica than my Dom would be. Maybe she should be the one to ask her."

"To be honest," John awkwardly replied, "Ron and I haven't heard much from either Fred or Monica since the pool thing, and David Clark's party..."

"Well, how should we reach him then?" asked Brian hypothetically.

Roger pointed to Jim Beach's desk, "These are our best bet. Letter, answering machine, or fax. Take your pick..."

Brian and John looked at each other knowingly.

"Just try all of them!"

*****

It was dreadful waiting for her to come back again.

Freddie's heart pounded as he heard Abigail's murmurs on the other side of the door. He didn't want to know what the two women were talking about or what she was saying. He just wanted it to be over with.

At last, the door lock clicked as the handle turned, causing him to jump.

He stared at his feet and tried not to notice as he felt her figure enter the room, her light footsteps sounding against the fabric of the carpet as she walked in.

"G'wan in. If you need any'tin at all, we're right outside." He heard Abigail tell her.

The door closed again with a click, followed by a silence.

Freddie could feel Monica's burning presence from the corner of the room. Oh, how he itched to lift his head up and look at her again, but it'd be too painful.

It may have been only for a second, but he already caught a glance of the pink mark on the side of her face before she ran out of the room only a few minutes ago. That sight alone was enough to make him feel ashamed and disheartened at his own destructive actions.

All was silent, except for the traffic on the other side of the glass of the window and the frequent ambulance sirens dropping in and out of the A&E department outside.

She was the first out of the two of them to speak, her tone calm but wavering with nervousness, "This has to be some sort of joke."

Freddie was taken aback. How dare she make such assumptions, he thought.

"You don't even know why I'm here in the first place." He heard himself retort.

"Yes, I do," she defended quietly, "Phoebe told me a bit about the complicated debacle outside just now."

Freddie could already feel his fists clenching at his sides in frustration. He silently continued to stare at his shoes, counting each lace on his foot until he or she could think of something to fill in the gaps.

Monica then asked peculiarly, "Why is there a security officer outside the door?"

"I requested she be there." he answered coolly.

"Why? So that crazy fans who recognise you don't try to come in?" She jibed.

Freddie sighed, and reluctantly answered as he tried to keep composed, "I wanted you to feel safe being in the same room with me. And I thought if she was female it might make you feel safer."

Despite his consideration, Monica retaliated, "I can't even look you in the eye, let alone be in the same room as you."

"Yet here you are." He numbly responded.

He heard her soft footsteps get closer, but walk right past him and stopped at the window.

Monica then dubiously asked him, "Are you actually Johnny's blood donor?"

She heard him noisily huff behind her as he hastily rolled up his leather jacket and shirt sleeves as far as they would go.

"There!" He spat, "If that isn't good enough proof for you then I don't know what is!"

Despite Freddie's growing annoyance, Monica forced herself to look over her shoulder and at his exposed forearm.

Indeed, clear as day, there was a bandage on the crook of his elbow where the extraction needle had gone in.

She looked away again, refusing to look at his face, "Why did you choose to do it?"

"Why is that even a question? He's my son!" Freddie started rolling his sleeve back up.

Monica stared straight ahead, "I want to hear it from you."

"What do I have to do to prove my love to you all?!" He suddenly snapped.

The volume of his voice made Monica flinch, but she daren't turn to face him just yet.

Freddie went off, standing up and pacing back and forth across the room, "You came here wanting to meet me, your own son's donor but you won't even give me the time of day because you have such a low opinion of me!"

"That's not true," she heard herself quiver, "I actually had very high hopes for you, and all you did was let me down."

"See? Even when I try to do the right thing it's never good enough for you! All you do is show contempt instead of gratitude!"

Monica didn't answer. Freddie knew that nicotine would calm him down, so he instinctively reached into his jacket pocket for his Benson and Hedges cigarettes, but stopped himself when he remembered that he was in a hospital and there was a No Smoking sign around every corner.

"Ah, fuck!"

Despite his growing aggravation, it felt easier chucking the entire packet away rather than leaving in the middle of a quarrel.

There was the sound of a clunk in the metal bin as he threw the box into it, starling Monica.

"What was that?"

"Only my cigarette box. It's about time I quit anyway."

"You know," Monica murmured, "you can't just say and do something without trying to commit."

Freddie dejectedly sat back down on his chair, "I know I can't... but at least I tried."

Finally, Monica turned around to face him.

They both had a proper look at each other. It was the first time in a while that Freddie had seen her with her hair damp and tied back but her face was the same as ever, only her blue eyes were slightly puffy from fatigue and she'd had one or two new frown lines that she hadn't had last week. Still, he still thought that her face shape was exquisite and having her hair back from her face suited it rather nicely, even with the less-than-elegant padded collar around her neck.

Monica could see that Freddie was still devastatingly handsome and looked a lot less haggard than she did. His hair was combed back and he had no signs of sleepless nights the same way she had. He was crouched over, rising his elbows on his knees whilst he tensely tapped his foot.

"It's unfair," she pettily thought, "Why does he have to look this good when I'm a mess, after all he's done to me?"

His clothes, however were so wrinkled and were obviously picked up off his bedroom floor in a haste, for there was no assistant to wash or iron them.

"Yet Phoebe's with him... why?"

They tried to resist looking into each other's magnetising eyes, but it was unavoidable. The longer they stared, the more they saw one another's pain, and the more they noticed the more they tried to deny it.

Monica walked away from the window, and a little closer towards him.

"Freddie," She managed to breathe his name, "This isn't one of your songs or albums that you can just release into the charts and hope for the best until you move onto the next project. This is your son, your own flesh and blood... and he mightn't even live to see what you've done for him."

Such a reminder really did twist the knife for Freddie.

"How can you even say that to me?" he choked in a whisper, looking away from her.

"Do you know what it's like to face your own mortality, let alone the mortality of your own child?" Monica's voice trembled, "Somehow it's even scarier than facing your own death twice in one month!"

"I got a pretty damn good idea when you had the miscarriage, remember?!" Freddie spat back.

Monica looked back with contempt, but stayed quiet. Then he knew that there was no better time to tell her what he came to say, regardless of the uncertainty of her reaction.

"And you may find it difficult to believe, dear," he began, "but despite what you think or know I have faced my own mortality. And I ought to have been brave enough to tell you about it in past, but the truth is I was scared of worrying you... hurting you, even."

"Oh, please!" Monica scoffed superciliously, "What has life or death got to do with your deceit?"

At last, he angrily blurted out, "I thought I had AIDS!"

Monica's eyes widened, and her frown faded.

Freddie felt relief, for even if the truth didn't come out the way he'd hoped it could agitate him no more.

He watched as Monica stared back out the window, and silently processed such a revelation.

"You think I don't understand the severity of our son's situation, but I really do," Freddie continued to muster, "If I was HIV positive, Johnny would probably be as well."

Monica didn't know much about AIDS, only what she had seen on television. She instantly envisioned the pictures she'd seen on the 6 O'clock news of victims in hospital clinics with their ribs sticking out of their torsos and red patches on their skin, and abandoned babies in cots waiting for somebody to love and acknowledge them.

"What if they're already in another ward in this very hospital? It's all too real..."

Imagining Freddie being not only terrified of such a possibility but also suffering in the same scenario as them was too unfathomable and painful for her, more than she cared to admit.

"Oh god," Monica realised, "What if Johnny gets it too?"

Frightened, she turned back to Freddie and asked, "Are you negative?!"

"Of course I'm negative! I wouldn't be standing here as Johnny's donor, otherwise..."

"Then when did you get tested?" Monica pressed.

Freddie exhaled, and admitted, "I got tested the day I was meant to be in Dublin for Johnny's play."

"You mean, it wasn't a throat injection?"

He confessed, "I lied."

Many new questions for Freddie popped up in Monica's mind, yet so many questions also answered... except for one thing:

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

"I was going to tell you when the time was right. Even Paula urged me to tell you after you-"

"You told Paula and didn't even tell me?!" Monica cut across, feeling utterly betrayed by the both her best friend and him.

"It came out while you were recovering from practically drinking yourself to death! Anyway, she's gay. She understands the fear more than you."

Monica furiously let out, "If you'd just told the truth right then and there instead of lying to me, let alone just moved your appointment to after Christmas, then maybe I wouldn't have jumped in the damn pool!"

Feeling instant regret, she turned away again before she said anything else.

But Freddie remorsefully agreed with her, "You're right. I had a choice between Johnny and Roshni and myself that morning, and I was wrong to chose myself... But don't act like you haven't hurt me with your bad choices and your secrets. Don't act like you haven't taken my children away from me twice already!"

Monica opened up, "Look, if you mean the whole university thing last February, I wanted to tell you everything about reapplying. But I was trying to give you enough room to grieve the miscarriage first, and you were so closed off that I could hardly read you anymore. I was starting to think that..."

She trailed off, feeling tears starting to sting her eyes.

Freddie eagerly waited for her to finish her sentence, "What? What is it, dear?"

Monica swallowed her nerves, "I thought that maybe you-you fell out of love with me."

"No, I didn't! I-"

"Maybe I wasn't good enough for you anymore because I had lost the baby."

"Monica, nature failed you, not the other way around," he begged, instinctively standing up, "Please stop blaming yourself, my darling-"

"Don't call me that!" She shrieked across him.

He backed away, and saw Monica's figure shaking in the window as she started to sob.

"I'm even failing uni... and you know how I don't believe in God," she spoke through floods of tears, "But maybe that nightmare I had in Atlanta all those years ago was a sign. Even Laurence Olivier told me not to let you break my heart, but I can't stop it! And every shitty failure one after the other is making me feel as if something bigger out there is betraying me and trying to tell me that all of this isn't meant for me, and that we're not meant to be!"

Before Freddie knew it his arms around her figure, and tears of his own were running down his face.

The unimaginable was happening. Monica was back in his arms, and she wasn't struggling. Instead she just continued to cry into his broad shoulder as she kept her arms tucked into herself.

Freddie held her as he stared into nothingness out the window, thinking out loud, "If the miscarriage was bad, then imagine what losing Johnny would do to us..."

Monica's body had stopped shaking, and had become rigid in his arms.

She regretfully stuttered, "I think the damage has already been done, don't you?"

Freddie buried his face into her dark hair as he tried to numb her agonising words and the reality of the mess that they were in. Her hair was damp and taught, and therefore it didn't feel or smell as nice and familiar as it usually did. Maybe she was right...

But still, he never wanted to let her go in that moment. Oh, how he wanted it to last forever and to forget everything they'd been through.

Monica pulled away from him slightly, and looked up at his face which was now inches away.

She could see the sorrow in his dark eyes and the tears streaming down his cheeks, and realised that perhaps his exterior wasn't as hard-shelled as she thought.

She reached up and tenderly caught each of his tears with her thumb as it slid across the contours of his cheekbone, only to crush him with her words at the same time:

"If you don't love me anymore, I honestly don't know what to live for".

"Oh darling, of course I still love you!" He wanted to tell her, eyeing her rosebud lips, "You're the mother of my children and the woman who saved me from going down a darker path. You practically saved my life, all three of you!"

Monica noticed where his eyes were looking. She too could feel her head gravitating upwards, slightly closer to his...

But Freddie's fear got the better of him.

"Live for our children," he responded, "Promise me, darling."

Monica broke eye contact, and hesitated for a moment before shaking his arms off of her.

Staring dead into his eyes, she finally uttered, "Only if you will."

Freddie watched in bewilderment as she walked away from him, opening the door and striding straight out of the room past Phoebe, Abigail, and the security guard.

Too immobilised to call after her, he tried to process the interaction that they'd just had which started out tense and turned into an argument waiting to happen, but it didn't even end as one.

If it wasn't even a reconciliation, what was it?

He listened to the echoes of her footsteps fading down the hospital corridor outside, morosely thinking to himself, "The least she could've done was thanked me..."