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* * *
“Oh, you must be joking!” Freddie exclaimed with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Another one?”
There stood Roger, with a cheeky, sinfully delighted grin on his face. Only a handful of things could be responsible for that look, and since Freddie hadn't met him at the door in nothing but an untied kimono, nor finally agreed to go on that sailing trip in the Mediterranean (nothing about the reality of being on a boat was romantic, no matter how much Roger insisted), and Brian definitely hadn't OKed their ingenious idea for the opening of their live show to feature Freddie riding a cock-mobile… there was only one possible explanation left.
Admittedly, the car key Roger was demonstratively tossing up and down in his hand was a bit of a giveaway.
“She’s a beauty, Fred,” he proclaimed like a man newly in love, catching the key in the air once again, and with that, he strode to the window to gaze out at the prized possession he had only just parked in the driveway.
“I see you miss being inside her already,” Freddie quipped dryly, raising an eyebrow at his boyfriend. Roger turned to him, still grinning.
“Jealous, Fred?” His infuriatingly disarming, cheeky wink made Freddie smile, despite himself. “Come have a look.”
Freddie sighed, switched the TV off and obligingly wandered over to stand beside Roger and admire a shiny car, pretending that it was even shinier than the other cars Roger already owned. Freddie didn't particularly understand the appeal, but he was a good boyfriend who was happy to enable his partner's obscenely expensive sports car addiction, so long as it made Roger happy. He even nodded along, feigning interest as his boyfriend enlightened him as to the rarity, history and customisations of this particular model.
“...white leather interior, and there's even a mini bar in the glove compartment!”
“Oh?” This caught Freddie’s attention. “That’ll come in handy. Why, you could offer a choice of beverages to the officers who stop you for drunk-driving.”
“It will come in handy.” Roger wrapped him in a hug from behind. “When I take you for a drive…” He purred and nuzzled against Freddie’s cheek, lips right beside his ear. “...and get you drunk.”
Freddie leaned against him with a smirk. “Hmm, is that your cunning plan?”
“Oh yes. You’re more fun that way,” Roger teased.
Freddie feigned an affronted gasp, followed by a giggle when Roger kissed that ticklish spot on his neck.
“What if I throw up on your beautiful leather seats, dear?”
Roger gave a chuckle and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “I’ll take the risk. Fancy a ride?”
“In your new car?”
“That too, if you like.”
Freddie laughed heartily. How could he refuse when Roger was so excited to show off his new toy? Besides, a little country drive (they were spending the long weekend in Surrey) with good chances of a merry road fumble didn’t sound entirely unappealing.
“I’ve named her Jolene,” Roger informed him five minutes later, when Freddie closed the car door and settled into the passenger seat.
“You’ve named her?”
This was new. Although all of Roger’s cars were ‘her’, and Freddie could never decide whether that bothered him or if he preferred it that way, few of them had ever been given a name. For the most part, Roger referred to them by make and Freddie, who couldn’t always be bothered to tell Porsches, Ferraris and Aston Martins apart, referred to them by colour more often than not.
“Jolene,” said Roger, with feeling. He was stroking his hands up and down the steering wheel slowly and appreciatively, then gripped it tightly and gave a contented hum. “I dunno,” he added, when Freddie was about to jokingly enquire if he needed a private moment with the car. “It was on the radio when I was driving home.”
“The Dolly Parton song?” Which was now stuck in Freddie’s head at the mere mention of it, thank you very much.
“Yeah.” Roger shrugged. “Just feels right.”
Well. Sometimes it was nice to know that Freddie wasn’t the only headcase in this relationship. Roger’s hand dropped to the gear stick and lingered there as though he were a blind man exploring a never-before-felt precious object.
“I don’t know that I want to fool around in this car,” Freddie said quite earnestly, watching Roger circle the bulbous head of the gear stick with his fingertips. “I’m not in the mood for a threesome, dear, I’ll have you know.”
Pulling his hand away, Roger gave Freddie a playful slap on the knee and chuckled, finally putting his hand on the key in the ignition. He waggled his eyebrows.
“Let’s turn ‘er on, eh?”
“God, Roger,” Freddie groaned. “Stop, or I’m getting out.”
Roger just laughed as he turned the key. However, the result was decidedly anti-climactic. The engine turned over a few times, spluttered, and died.
“What the hell?”
A frown had replaced Roger’s winning grin. He tried again, and again, with the same unfortunate result. Oh dear.
“Darling,” Freddie started, after the fourth attempt.
“It was running just fine before!” Roger shot back at once, defensively.
When another few tries yielded only curses and no improved results, Freddie took off his seatbelt and slowly cracked the car door open. “Roger, dear…”
“Come on!” growled Roger, slapping the steering wheel with the hand which wasn’t furiously clutching the key in the ignition. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?!”
“I’ll just nip to the loo.” Even as he finished the sentence, Freddie slunk out of the car. He really did need a piss, but he also wasn’t going to sit here while Roger was having his tantrum. He did hope that there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with the car, because Freddie was in no mood to put up with a grumpy, disappointed Roger for the rest of the weekend.
As it turned out, he was in luck. Freddie had walked but a few paces toward the front door when the sound of the straining engine attempting to come to life suddenly transformed into an even purr. Roger’s elated whoop could be heard through the open car window.
“Come on!” he shouted.
Exhaling a breath of relief, Freddie turned and walked back to the car. He could hold it a while longer, he supposed. As his hand made contact with the car door handle, Freddie pulled it back abruptly with a yelp.
“You okay?” asked Roger.
“Yes… yes, just an electric shock.” Shaking out his hand, Freddie looked down at the handle suspiciously, having just received one of the strongest electric shocks of his life. A feeling came over him then, so strong that it was hard to dismiss. He was not an irrational man, but if there was one thing Freddie knew, it was that his instincts rarely misled him. And right now, his every instinct was telling him that Roger’s new car was not best pleased with his presence, which was utterly ridiculous, of course.
And yet.
“Get in, Freddie!” said Roger, and leaned over to open the car door for him.
“I…” Not at all sure how to put into words what he felt, Freddie cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a hand on his hip. “You go ahead, darling. I don’t think I’m feeling up to it just now.”
Roger gave him a bemused look, still leaning over the passenger seat. His sunglasses had slid to the tip of his nose. “It’s just a drive.”
“I need the loo,” said Freddie, realising what a nonsensical excuse this was. “It’s alright, really. You take it for a spin.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Roger, concern creeping into his voice.
“Nothing!” Freddie threw up his arms, desperate to get out of this situation without making himself look utterly insane. “Honestly, Roger! I reserve the right to change my mind, you can’t just expect me to-”
“Yeah, okay,” Roger cut in placatingly. “It’s fine. I wasn’t saying…” He sounded a bit depleted as he leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
Freddie stepped back from the car. The engine roared, and a sinking feeling of regret filled his chest. He hadn’t meant to argue and accuse. The last thing he had wanted was to spoil Roger’s good mood.
“See you soon, dear!” he called as the car pulled away. But the words came too late to be heard over the noise of the engine.
* * *
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene…
I'm begging of you, please don't take my man
* * *
Perhaps—Freddie contemplated one afternoon—the issue was not with the car but with himself.
Of course it was. A part of him realised that it must be, though he very much preferred to be of the opinion that the issue was with Roger and how much time he was spending with that damned car. Still, he realised it was beyond ridiculous that he was sitting here, pretending to read while he eyed Roger, who was busy polishing his new car outside.
Good God, how long was he going to rub away at it? Freddie was pretty sure Roger hadn’t rubbed him any place this attentively in years. In all fairness, they’d had sex the night before, but these days it was all ‘wham bam, thank you, ma'am’, as they liked to say across the pond. Not that Freddie was particularly desperate for Roger to caress every last part of him whenever they made love, that might have been a bit much. That car, however, was getting the whole works every other day. God forbid any part of it remained muddy or dusty after Roger took it out for a drive, which was such a regular occurrence that Freddie had joked about a dog requiring less attention than his boyfriend was devoting to Jolene.
“Hey.”
Freddie jumped. In the couple of minutes which he had spent fantasising about his chances to convince Ratty and Crystal to steal the car and drive it into a ditch, all while staring at a page in the book he wasn’t reading—technically it was Roger’s book, Freddie’s book rarely left the shelf and he had picked this one up from the coffee table—Roger had finally come inside.
“Hm,” was all the acknowledgement he received from Freddie, who wasn’t sure how to tell him why he was cross, but still thought that Roger ought to know about it.
“Everything alright?” Roger asked, leaving his jacket on the back of the sofa as he approached the armchair where Freddie was sitting.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Freddie, turning the page. The problem was that Roger would undoubtedly think he had gone round the bend if he announced that he was jealous of a bloody car.
And yet.
* * *
He talks about you in his sleep
There's nothing I can do to keep
From crying when he calls your name, Jolene
* * *
It all came to a head one sleepy Saturday morning. Freddie had always been a light sleeper, and with age, he found himself sleeping less and waking earlier. Often to his annoyance. Usually, cuddling up to Roger did help. He was warm, soft and had the impressive ability to pull Freddie into a sleepy hug while barely conscious. Best of all, Roger hardly ever snored. Though sometimes, he did mumble in his sleep.
This was one of those mornings. At first Freddie, who was comfortably lying in Roger’s warm embrace, did not mind very much. He couldn’t make out any words in particular. Just a few grunts and a throaty noise of amusement. Roger was probably dreaming of something pleasant. It was sweet, really.
However, Freddieʼs tender feelings toward his boyfriend turned sour quite abruptly when Roger made a couple of sleepy vroom-vroom sounds. That in itself would have been supremely amusing and adorable, had it not been followed by a breathy moan which sounded suspiciously like:
“Jolene…”
Freddie froze, eyes suddenly wide open. Roger gave a contented sigh, fingers twitching against Freddieʼs stomach as if he were itching to grab that gear stick even in his sleep.
This was the last straw. Freddie could stand it no longer. The fact that Roger barely stirred when he pulled away and threw the blanket back, climbing out of bed, only served to incense him more. Roger did not deserve to be sleeping so soundly when Freddie was upset with him. But clearly, all Roger could think about day and night was that bloody car! And what about Freddie? What was he, chopped liver?
Positively vibrating with a wounded fury, Freddie made himself a cup of tea and went to stand by the window, peering at the garage across the garden. What was so bloody special about that car? To this day, Freddie hadn't agreed to go for a drive in it. That unnerving feeling that the car did not want him near it had not left him.
However, as he stood and sipped his tea, its soothing, sweet warmth began to comfort and relax him a little. Perhaps he was being a tad unreasonable? How, after all, could a car dislike anybody? It was he who disliked the car, simple as that, because Roger was giving it so much attention.
Silly, really.
Freddie knew well enough how demanding he could be. Always needing. Seething with anger because of what? Something Roger had mumbled in a dream?
A sense of shame overcame him. It was a wonder Roger was not fed up with him, the way Freddie blew things out of proportion sometimes. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped himself tighter in the kimono he had thrown on over his pyjamas and resolved to go and face his fears.
He wasn't sure what exactly he was trying to accomplish. Perhaps he simply wanted to convince himself of his own foolishness, to be so upset all because of some sports car. Ridiculous.
It was a damp, misty morning outside. Steam rose from the cup as Freddie walked across the grounds toward the enormous garage that housed Roger's treasured cars. The door rose automatically, with the press of a button, and Freddie watched the pale sunlight glint on the hood of the car which stood front and centre. Jolene.
Freddie scoffed. There she was. Cold, lifeless, ordinary. Just an overpriced toy, really. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he stepped closer, running his fingers over the shiny hood. Taking his time, even though the cold morning air was beginning to give him a chill through the thin layers of silk and satin he was wearing, Freddie walked all around the car, peering into the wing mirrors, patting the roof and giving the antenna a flick. Finally, he stopped at the other side of it, beside the front wheel, and sighed contentedly, looking back at the house where his boyfriend was peacefully slumbering. To think that Freddie had got himself so worked up over nothing.
“You're just metal, bolts and fancy leather seats, really. Aren't you, dear?” he muttered aloud to the car beside him, quite amused at his own hysteria, in hindsight.
WHACK.
The hard, cold ground, on which he had scraped his hands and bruised his knees, was the first thing Freddie became aware of. The pain in his back, where something large and solid had hit him full force, was next. He had found himself on all fours so suddenly that his mind was still piecing together what had happened as he scrambled to turn around and see where the blow had come from. A piece of broken china from the chattered tea cup pierced his palm.
All curses or exclamations of surprise got stuck in his throat as Freddie stared, wide-eyed, at the open car door which had knocked him to the ground. Now, everything was perfectly still. His eyes flitted between the vehicles in the garage, panicked, as he stumbled to his feet and backed away. Not a sound. Not a quiver. He was alone in the garage, and the complete stillness of the car in front of him and its open door was taunting him. How? What? Impossible!
“Freddie?”
Roger's voice was like a lifeline, pulling him back to safety. Freddie spun around in time to see his tousle-haired boyfriend walking toward him, in his usual old pair of jeans that he liked to wear around the house and a sports jacket he had thrown on over the t-shirt he'd slept in.
“Roger!” Freddie gasped, hurrying toward him.
“What are you doing out here?”
As Freddie threw a look back over his shoulder at the garage, Roger too looked and stopped, tilting his head with a frown.
“What exactly were you up to?”
The note of suspicion, albeit mild, brought Freddie to a halt as well, only a few steps from Roger.
“What am I up to?” he retorted, his voice shrill as he pointed at the car. “Why don't you ask that… that thing what it's up to!”
Roger raised his eyebrows, looking quite confused, which was understandable, only Freddie did not have the nerves to calmly explain.
“It's attacked me!” he shrieked instead, throwing a few wary glances back at the car as he tried to convey what had happened. “I was just- I didn't do a thing! And the door, it wasn't me, it hit me, Roger! Your fucking car hates me, I'm telling you, I knew it all along-”
“Freddie, hold on.” Crossing the distance between them, Roger lay his hands on Freddieʼs shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Slow down, you're not making any sense, love.”
“I'm making perfect sense,” Freddie hissed, “you're just not listening. It's your car!”
“Which one?”
“You know fucking well which one!”
Roger took a step back, holding up his hands in surprise at the outburst. “Jesus, what's going on with you?”
“Your car attacked me!” Freddie pulled the kimono tightly around himself, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “I can't tell you more plainly, Roger!”
The sound of his voice died away, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence. Roger was looking at him with overt disbelief and utter confusion.
“You do realise what you're saying, right?”
“Roger, you've got to believe me.” An edge of panic had crept into Freddieʼs voice. To his dismay, Roger looked wary now. Wary of him.
“Fred…”
Freddie shook his head.
“I know how it sounds, but…” Of course—a bitter voice at the back of his mind whispered. Of course Roger would never believe him where his beloved car was concerned. “Roger, it hates me.”
“It's just a car,” repeated Roger, as though talking to a toddler who had taken playing make-belief too seriously and had frightened himself.
“Yes,” Freddie gritted out between his teeth, “And I suppose you love it so much that it can do no wrong.”
Roger snorted, as though Freddie had said something utterly inane, and threw up his hands. “What?”
“Oh, don't pretend!” snapped Freddie. Before he could stop himself, the niggling frustration which had accumulated over the last few weeks came pouring out of him. What difference did it make now? Roger already thought he was mad as a hatter. “You're obsessed! You're in love with that thing, you'd much rather spend every waking minute drooling over her, that wicked, evil piece of-”
“Jesus Christ!” Roger gave a disbelieving laugh. “Are you jealous, is that what this is really about? It’s a fucking car, Freddie!”
“Yes, I know what it bloody well is!” Freddie yelled back. “And what of it? Do you know what I’ve realised, Roger?” He pointed a finger at his boyfriend, advancing on him. “I’ve realised you’ve never written a love song. Not for anyone, certainly not for me!”
“What?” Roger spluttered. “What does that have to do with…”
“Except you did write one!” exclaimed Freddie, eyes twinkling furiously. “About a bloody car!”
“You’re out of your fucking mind, Freddie!”
“What’s the title of your next ballad, Roger? Oh, let me guess! You’ll have to fight Dolly Parton for the rights!”
“This is ridiculous,” squeaked Roger, voice jumping up an octave out of sheer frustration. “You’re ridiculous! Do you hear yourself? I’m going inside!” he added, before Freddie could say anything else. “Come and talk to me when you've come to your senses. Bloody hell!”
And with that, he turned on his heel and marched off to the front door, slamming it behind him so hard that a few sparrows took flight nearby. Freddie stared at the house, chest rising and falling rapidly, his breath visible in the air.
The rev of an engine right behind him startled him so badly that his heart missed a beat. And then, his heart sank, like a stone, into the pit of his stomach. Feeling his blood run cold, Freddie turned around and was promptly blinded by bright headlights shining straight at him. Squinting past the light, he could see the car, which was no longer silent but revving its engine. He had the distinct feeling of facing an angered bull that was scraping its hooves along the ground, ready to charge.
“Oh no. Rog… Roger.” As booming as his voice could be, it seemed to have abandoned him now, and his legs were not obeying him either. Taking a couple of shaky steps backwards, when part of him knew he should be running, Freddie tripped on the hem of his own kimono, which had slid off one shoulder. The car jerked forward, its door slamming shut with a bang, and at last Freddie found his voice while he tried to get back up again before it ran him over. “ROGER!”
The engine roared, Freddie tried to roll out of harm’s way and landed in the brambles, arms over his head. The front door flew open, Roger’s voice yelled:
“STOP!”
The next moment, there was a screech of tires.
Fighting with the clingy branches of the shrub, Freddie got on his feet just in time to see Roger, silhouette against the bright headlights of the car, his arms held out wide. Jolene had come to an abrupt halt inches from him, still revving her engine angrily, but evidently unwilling to run him over. For a long few moments, nobody moved. Then, Roger lowered his arms, propped his hands up on his hips, and spoke.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, huh?” At first, Freddie was firmly and immediately convinced that admonishing an angry, evil car that wanted to kill him was the worst possible idea. But then, Roger’s voice changed, and his tone slipped into a register Freddie recognised very well. Too well. It made his face grow warmer despite himself. “Oh, you bad, bad girl,” drawled Roger, taking a step forward. Incredibly, the headlights dimmed slightly and the car rolled back a little. Roger tutted, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice as velvety soft as it was stern. “I’m not sure I like your attitude. Getting all riled up like that. I should lock you up in there for days.” He indicated the garage with a wave of his hand. The car rolled back a little further, and Roger followed, backing it into its usual place. “Weeks,” he rasped, tilting his head to the side, and held up a car key in his hand, pretending to contemplate it. “Hmm, maybe I’ll stop by once a day, huh? Just to stick it in. Give the gearstick a little tickle.”
“Eugh,” murmured Freddie, grimacing behind a bit of bramble.
“Twist your knobs as long as I like,” Roger was saying and the car’s engine purred like an excited cat, while Freddie bit his tongue, quite aware that bursting into delirious laughter might just ruin this whole situation. “And if you’re very good for me…” The moment the car was inside the garage, Roger leaned onto the bonnet and gave it a few pats. “I’ll consider taking you for a drive again. Now.” He straightened up and walked backwards slowly, leisurely. “Settle down and wait for me… right… here.”
Raising his hand, he clicked the button on the garage door remote, which was attached to the car key, and the metal door slowly descended. Freddie did not dare breath until it had come down all the way, and then, Roger whipped around to look at him. They caught each other’s eye and ran toward one another, almost bumping into each other when they met halfway, clutching at each other’s clothes as though afraid to be separated again by some unknowable force.
“Roger, what in God's name?”
“I can’t believe that worked,” breathed Roger, shaking his head, and he looked quite shaken now. His cool, collected persona had crumbled, his eyes were round, darting between Freddie’s face and their oddly peaceful surroundings.
“You didn’t know it would?” asked Freddie, keeping his voice low, though it rang with disbelief. “You guessed talking dirty to the car might work?”
“This is the part you’re finding hard to believe?!” Roger all but laughed, the look on his face crazed and frightened all at once. “Fuck me, I’m selling that thing.”
“I’ll call Phoebe,” said Freddie automatically, because he was not going near that car or opening that garage door ever again, and Roger was only going to go near it over his dear body. On second thought, perhaps he ought to have Phoebe bring an exorcist in first.
“Yeah,” Roger agreed numbly, taking Freddie’s hand in his and squeezing it tightly. “Fred?”
“Yes, dear.” Freddie squeezed back and then let go, wrapping an arm around Roger’s waist instead. Roger put an arm around him in return.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“Water under the bridge, dear,” Freddie said weakly. They looked at each other, then at the garage, and back at each other once more.
“Let’s grab some money and head out for breakfast,” said Roger. “We’ll take a taxi.”
“Let’s walk,” Freddie suggested firmly, as they made their way back toward the front door as quickly as they could without letting go of each other.
“Good idea,” concurred Roger, even though the nearest village pub was three miles away. However, everything considered, that seemed like a negligible inconvenience at the moment.
* * *