April 1975 (18 months later)

I'm late.

The four-year-old boy sitting on the steel examination table doesn't care that I'm silently panicking at the time; instead, he studies me with a mischievous smirk. By now, it's been two years in the pediatric A&E, and I'm quite familiar with all the tricks. He'll either go for my pen or the stethoscope looped around my neck. He chooses the latter, giving it a sharp tug so that it falls to the floor with a thud. His mother quickly rebukes him.

"Don't worry, this happens 6 or 7 times a day," I reassure her as I quickly spray the stethoscope with a cleaning solution and wipe it down. Forcing myself not to look at the clock on the wall, I cringe at the deep shit that I'll be in if I'm late to this particular occasion.

Twenty minutes and a double ear infection diagnosis later, I'm in the locker room frantically changing into jeans and a paisley button-up shirt. Looking at my watch, I mutter an obscenity and start to shove my belongings into a large satchel. This small act somehow swallows up a precious three minutes, and, by the time I grab my suitcase and manage to find a taxi, I'm already a half-hour late.

"Heathrow, please," I say to the portly taxi driver.

"There's been an accident on the M4, miss, so it may take a while," he warns me. I once again swear under my breath and look anxiously out the window as London zooms past. We sit in traffic for what feels like forever. By this point, I'm a whopping 55 minutes late, and there's an excellent chance that I'll miss the flight. I cross my fingers and close my eyes, saying a silent prayer that we make it in time.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm running through the airport like a banshee. Shoving my passport under the glass divider, I tap my foot impatiently as the border agent scrutinizes my photo. Finally, he hands back the document, and I take off running.

"This is the final boarding call for Japan Air Lines flight 634." A warm but impersonal voice booms the warning from the overhead speakers as I dodge fellow travelers. As I get closer, I see Roger pacing back and forth in front of the gate, a cigarette dangling nervously from his hand.

"Roger!" I call out, barely able to speak from the physical exertion of pulling my suitcase while running at breakneck speed. Turning towards me, his eyes brighten, and his entire body sags in relief. He starts to walk towards me but is interrupted by an officious-looking airport employee. Roger shakes his head at whatever the man says, pointing emphatically in my direction.

I finally reach the gate and throw myself into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

"I didn't think you'd make it," he said breathlessly, his arms tight around me. "Miami is trying to re-book you on the next flight."

"I know, I'm so sorry, I'm so late--"

"Mr. Taylor, you and your, uh, friend, need to board immediately; otherwise--"

"We're coming, we're coming," I say hurriedly as Roger reaches for the suitcase. He loops one arm around my shoulder and draws me closer as we walk down the long hallway towards the plane.

"Can you ever be on time, Sky?"

"Apparently not," I reply ruefully.

"You're like a bride late to her own wedding," he scoffs.

"Is this your way of proposing to me?"

"Trust me, when I'm proposing, you'll know," he replies with a wink. I'm about to respond when we step onto the plane, the smell of jet fuel making me slightly nauseous. The entire first class cabin is staring at us, wondering who has delayed the departure, but they're soon distracted by the whooping and clapping coming from the back row.

"Thought you'd never make it, darling," Freddie calls over as Roger and I quickly made our way to a pair of empty seats. Across the aisle, Brian is cozied up with a thick book, still looking thin from his bout with hepatitis last year. Next to him is Freddie, and, further away, is John.

The flight attendants do their final check as the plane begins to slowly pull away from the gate. Seatbelt on, I lean against Roger and press a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

"Thanks for inviting me to come with you." I repeat the sentiment that I'd said many times in the past few days. The boys had been in America for the past two months, and this was the only way that Roger and I would be able to see much of each other.

"If you hadn't said yes, I would've kidnapped you anyway," Roger replies, brushing my bangs off my forehead.

"Kidnapped, huh?" I lean my head against his shoulder and listen to the sound of the engine accelerating. We're propelled slightly forward in our seats as the airplane lifts off the ground, and we're officially on our way to Tokyo. This is the boys' first tour in Asia, and the excitement is palpable.

"Yep, kidnapped," Roger murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. He leans his cheek on the crown of my head, and I can feel my eyelids getting heavy. Before I know it, I'm out.

**
I somehow manage to sleep for the majority of the eleven-hour flight, waking about 30 minutes before landing. Roger is slumped against the window fast asleep, Brian and John are flipping through magazines, and Freddie... Oh, good Lord, Freddie has donned the most ridiculous hat. It's a black-rimmed cowboy sort of thing with an enormous white feather trailing down his back.

"Freddie," I hiss across the aisle, careful not to wake Roger. "Where on Earth did you get that hat?"

"Do you love it?" He waggles his eyebrows and flashes a toothy grin at me.

"You're not really going to wear it, are you?" Brian asks, finally looking up from his copy of Rolling Stone.

"I am now, darling," Freddie responds. "Are you really wearing that?" He nods his chin towards Brian's light blue button-up shirt.

"I have a blazer, too," Brian replied defensively. "At least I won't look like a ponce."

"I'm sure the four fans at the airport won't give a shit what any of us is wearing," a sleepy voice says from just behind me. I turn my head to see Roger squinting at us tiredly. Out of the four of them, he's genuinely the worst with international travel.

"Hey, there were at least eight fans when we landed in Cleveland last month," John adds with a grin.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that it might actually matter if I look decent, which I most assuredly do not at the moment. The boys all look reasonably stylish, but I'm starting to feel underdressed in what I hurriedly threw on in the hospital locker room. And I think it's been 18 hours since I last applied mascara, which is probably caked under my eyes right now.

As if sensing my panic, Roger leans closer. "You look beautiful, Sky," he says softly.

"Don't worry," Freddie adds. "Roger's right. Our arrival will go wholly unnoticed and we can all change at the hotel. Tell you what, I'll even wear this hat, just for you, darling. So I'll be wearing this monstrosity, Brian will wear his little suit, Roger will have hair that looks as if he just slept on it--"

"Humans aren't meant to cross nine time zones in eleven hours," Roger retorts. "We're not built for it."

"Don't start with that bullshit, Rog. How are you supposed to be the drummer in a rock-n-roll band if you can't even deal with jetlag?"

A smile on my face, I close my eyes and put my hand on Roger's knee while he and Freddie banter away. As we make our final descent towards Tokyo, Brian gets involved.

"To be fair," he says to Freddie, "It takes the human body an average of one day per time zone crossed to fully adjust to local time."

"So, that's nine days!" Roger exclaims triumphantly as if his point has been irrefutably proven.

I open one eye and look over at Brian. "Really? Is that true?"

"We're flying home in eight days," Freddie says, exasperated. "So you're just going to bitch about jetlag until then? God, this will be worse than the trip to Australia."

"Of course, it's true," Brian replies to me.

"Nothing could be worse than the Australia trip," John interjects.

"Yes, I will continue to complain about it every fucking day, because it's unnatural," Roger says, his voice rising. "And you know what? As soon as our bodies get used to Tokyo time, we'll have to fly back home and adjust to London time. So expect some bitching on the return flight too."

"Good fucking Lord," Freddie says. He goes to run a hand through his hair, forgetting that the hat is still perched jauntily on his head. It falls to the floor, the feather wilting sadly in the aisle. "I hope they sell earplugs in Japan because I'm not fucking listening--"

"It really takes one day to adjust to each time zone crossed? That's a scientific fact?" John asks Brian, who looks mildly offended that we're questioning his wisdom.

"Why the bloody hell would I make it up?"

"Sir?" The stewardess approaches Freddie's seat and hands him the hat, which he places proudly atop his head. "Please adjust your seat. We'll be landing shortly."