In which the reader discovers they might be John Deacon reincarnated, and their husband Khashoggi knew and protected them from the knowledge to keep them safe. Inspired by Adam Strong as Khashoggi. Also on my AO3 account.
When you first met Khashoggi, it had been because you were in the same group graduating from school and ready to head out into Globalsoft's workforce. You had fit in perfectly with the other Ga Ga Kids, changing your hair to whatever colour was the most popular, listening to the newest programmed music and watching every new movie as it came out.
Maybe that was why no one really noticed you. You were so much like everyone else that you were mostly just forgotten about, which sometimes was the best you could hope for. Being too behind on trends was the worst thing you could do for socialisation, and developing your own style to set trends ended up with failure most of the time. And it helped hide your problem.
Your teacher had advised you to go for an average job. Something that everyone else was doing, but none of the jobs with Globalsoft were appealing, none that the teacher suggested. Administration, virtual shopping assistant, marketing designer. After the disheartening meeting, Khasoggi had talked to you. Not for the first time, but it was the first time that he'd spoken more than a few words to you.
You were walking through the courtyard of the school, surrounded by people clicking on the newest articles on makeup trends, and the best ways to style your hair. Khassogi stopped you by standing right in your way.
"We're going to celebrate, would you like to come with us?" He wore his sunglasses, like always. It wasn't always a popular thing, or trendy, but it was his style.
"Me?" you asked. He nodded and smiled.
"Yeah, after the graduation ceremony at the end of the week. Most of the guys are going, and a few of the girls you hang around with. Are you coming?" None of them had mentioned it to you but he had thought to.
"Alright, I'll come with you." His smile widened.
"Have you just had your careers meeting?" he asked as he started walking. Humming, you nodded and walked alongside him. "You don't sound too happy about it."
"I just don't think I'd be very good at the jobs I was told to try."
"No?" he asked and you shook your head. "What kind of jobs?" You told him and he listened, you were a little surprised at that. A lot of the boys would ask questions and then not really care about the answer. You tended to have the same answers as a lot of the other girls.
"I was just hoping I could do something was wasn't to do with shopping." Since all the jobs the teacher had suggested were mostly to do with shopping. Market clothes, advising on clothes, selling clothes.
"I thought you liked shopping."
"Everyone likes shopping," you said. "That's just how it is, but... I don't want to work in the shopping sector."
"You're good at staying up to date with trends." He'd noticed? At least someone had.
"Yes, but I don't have any sense of style outside of that, like you and your sunglasses."
"What's wrong with them?" His hand moved to touch his sunglasses and you shook your head.
"Nothing, that's the problem. Everyone just seems to have their thing when it comes to shopping and I don't really have anything."
"Well what would you want to do?" he asked. You shrugged, you hadn't managed to talk about that in the meeting.
"I don't really know what else I could do."
"There's music programmers, fire drone controllers, council members, lots of things. Someone has to fix the billboards when they break, someone has to program the computers that generate the latest songs," he explained. A music programmer. You could create software that could create songs. They might even go viral."
"What are you going to do?"
"I've applied to be part of Globalsoft's police force," he said with a proud smirk. His confidence was kind of attractive. "Of course, I'll have to pass training but I think I'll be fine."
"You'll be good at it."
"Thank you," he said as he adjusted his sunglasses. "So you'll think about all those other jobs then?"
"Guess I'll have to."
It had resulted in you applying to be a music programmer. It was risky since you'd been hiding all the melodies you heard in your head for years. The good thing to come out of it was upon telling a slightly drunk Khasoggi at the graduation party, he'd kissed you.
Within weeks you were officially dating, apparently Khashoggi appreciated your ability to keep up with the fast changing trends of the iPlanet. He also encouraged you to go into music programming, though you hadn't told him why you'd wanted to.
His reaction when you did tell him was... different.
"I know this is going to sound weird," you started as you both sat down in your flat. You figured you had to tell him. "But I want to start off saying that I'm really proud of you for getting through your police training. You've done so well."
He smiled. "Thank you." He wrapped his arm around you. Like a lot of things on the iPlanet, relationships moved fast. Maybe not as fast as the popular songs or trends, but faster than you thought was right. "But what's wrong? Do you not like your job? Should we look for something better for you?"
"No, no, I actually quite like it," you said quickly. "It was a great idea, I'm glad you mentioned it." Otherwise you'd be stuck in a job you couldn't stand.
"So what is it?"
"I hear music in my head," you whispered. "Not from the programmes, not like songs that get stuck in your head. It just comes out of nowhere." And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't make the computers generate anything close to it. Nothing matched the melodies in your head.
He frowned, and for a moment you were certain Khashoggi was going to turn you into the police. It was part of his job after all. Then, he took his sunglasses off and looked at you.
"What kind of music?" he asked. Feeling a little stupid, you hummed some of it. Catchy lines. "But you only try to make it with the generation software?" You nodded. Doing it any other way was strange, no one had music instruments for centuries, and you knew what happened to those that stood out. A boy who'd graduated the year before you had been taken away after because he'd tried to argue that all Globalsoft music was terrible and would never compare to real, live music. No one had seen him since.
"I don't know what to do, Khashoggi. I just wanted to be normal, to just be like everyone else," you said. You didn't want to be brain-drained and disappear. "I've never told anyone before, not even my parents. I thought they might not want to download me the newest clothes if I told them."
"You're an engineer, of sorts," he said, more to himself than to you. "And you hear music but just want to be like everyone else?" Hesitantly, you nodded.
"I guess."
"Do you know what Bohemians are?" His tone turned serious and he took your hands in his. You shook your head. "Good. You do not need to hear of them. If anyone comes to you and says they are a Bohemian, you need to tell me. There's not many of them but they are dangerous."
Confused, you nodded. "Alright?"
"And does the music programming help with coping with it? Or should we look at other Globalsoft divisions?"
"I think it helps, it gives me ideas for coding," you said. It inspired you to keep making more songs. The more songs you generated, the more likely that one of them would sound something like the ones in your head.
"That's good to hear."
He hugged you, kissing your forehead and then softly kissing your lips. You smiled at him.
"Do you think I'll make a viral song?" you asked him honestly. "If I keep at this?"
"Certainly," he said, smiling back. "I'm sure you'll make many."
"Thank you, Khashoggi," you whispered, watching as he put his sunglasses back on. "For understanding."
If only you had realised sooner. How far Khashoggi had gone in the name of keeping you away from the Bohemians. Killer Queen wanted them gone, and it suited Khashoggi that all of them were processed and stopped from corrupting you, the most precious person he could ever imagine. Nothing would turn you from the perfect Ga Ga Kid to a Bohemian, not while he was alive.
You just wished he was still alive.
Now he was gone, it was only a matter of time before Killer Queen discovered your little secret that you and Khashoggi had managed to keep quiet. You'd learnt that people were disappearing because they learnt of songs and music from times long ago. Police were taking them, processing them. And Khashoggi had hidden you from it, not letting anyone know of what you had told him so long ago.
Rumour was that the Dreamer, the leader of the Bohemians, had escaped capture with his bad-arsed babe and was in search of a legendary weapon. Since they had escaped, they were a threat, and Khashoggi had been personally in charge of capturing the Bohemians. You hadn't seen him since you heard it. Initially, he said he was working overtime to satisfy Killer Queen, but then there was nothing. He hadn't come home. You'd been left alone for three days before his clothes and sunglasses were returned to you. That was all that was needed to confirm he was gone. If he was alive somewhere, he wasn't Khashoggi anymore.
So you decided you'd act first, and run away to where Khashoggi said the Bohemians were left after being brain-drained. The Heartbreak Hotel.
You'd heard of it from Khashoggi mentioning it, but you had no idea where it actually was. It took days of searching, days you had forced yourself to continue with food you already had in your apartment. You wore his coat. It was big and almost reached your ankles, but you'd rolled up the sleeves and tucked his sunglasses in the inside pocket. Truthfully, it was more of a hassle than it was helpful, but it still smelt of him and you never wanted to let it go.
Hearing noise from an old building with a broken billboard above it, you headed inside. Music and noise and partying. And it all died down when they noticed you.
"Who are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at you. You didn't look like them, didn't fit in. You were wearing your favourite pastel combination underneath Khashoggi's coat. You told her your name. "Never heard of you."
"No one ever remembers me," you said with a shrug. "I was married to the head of the Globalsoft police and no one has any idea who I am." You laughed at that, partly out of nervousness, partly so you didn't break down and cry.
"The head of the police?" yelled the woman as she stormed towards you. "What do you think you're doing here then?"
"Khashoggi?" asked an older man as he smoothly slid between you and the blonde woman, holding her back. "You were Khashoggi's partner?"
"Yes," you said quietly. The blonde woman behind him looked like she was about to murder you. "Were anyway. I haven't seen him in a week, last I heard one of the council members is the new head of police, and Killer Queen was disappointed in him."
"Killer Queen's dead," said the man. "We destroyed her, by playing live music, I hacked the systems and broadcasted it to everyone on the iPlanet."
"I didn't hear it," you said quietly. "I ran away days ago, I was trying to find you guys. I'm only here by luck really."
"And why did you come here? You don't belong here."
"I don't belong anywhere," you said. That was how it felt, always like no one understood you. Except Khashoggi, but he was gone.
"Meat, that's enough, let them talk first. My name's Cliff, Cliff Richard." You nodded as he explained they were all named after artists long gone.
"I thought Killer Queen would have me killed for... well, it doesn't matter. But she's dead and I should probably just go back home. I don't even know what I'm doing here."
"We don't know what you're doing here either," snapped Meat. You looked around, most of them were dressed similarly to Meat, tartans and corsets and bright coloured hair and spikes and studs and leather and you really didn't belong. "Your husband killed Britney Spears."
You didn't know who that was, but it sounded like Meat cared about them a lot.
"I'm sorry. I just... I don't know what to do."
"Run back home and keep buying your pastel crop tops and keeping up with the latest fashion." Of course, nothing would change overnight, there would still be lots of people mindlessly clicking and shopping, while others started to wake up to what had happened. "Maybe you'll find your husband brain-drained, I'm sure he'll be easier to manage that way.
"Khashoggi's gone!" That cut deep. "Even if he is alive somewhere he isn't himself, he'll never be himself ever again. He spent all those years trying to protect me from you lot, trying to keep me away so I could ignore the stupid sounds in my head. I should have stayed away."
"Stupid sounds?" Cliff asked but you didn't hear him, too tired of it all.
"And what do I do when he's gone, come to you. Some help you all are.
"What kind of stupid sounds do you hear?" Cliff interrupted and you looked at him. Sighing, you shrugged.
"I hear beats, melodies. Snippets of songs," you told them. "I tried to programme them but no matter what I did, I couldn't make anything close enough."
"I thought Galileo was the only one who could do that," said Cliff. "Do you hear words too?"
"Not really, just a few words here and there, just bits of melodies like..." You started humming one, trying to make your voice as deep as you could to match what you heard.
"I know that song." You looked up to see Galileo, standing on some stairs leading to who knew where. "I've heard it, I dreamt it before." He started humming along a melody that matched what you hummed and then he started singing.
"I've been with you such a long time," he sang. "You're my sunshine and I want you to know-"
"That my feelings are true," you said. I really love you. Those were the next words, you'd heard them before. You'd said them before, to Khashoggi. Ooo you make me live.
Galileo looked at you, slightly upset you interrupted him. "I'm not the singing type. I just like cool funky beats.
"You ever heard of Queen?" asked Cliff and you looked at him, eyebrows raised. You shook your head.
"See, you had Freddie Mercury, a legend that died far too young. A singer, a dreamer, a bit like our Galileo," he said and you nodded. "Then you had Dr Brian May, astrophysicist and rock legend. Scaramouche has his guitar, and he apparently delayed his death by three and a half days after requesting one last guitar solo."
"Must have been some guitar solo," you said with a shrug.
"Oh, it must have been," he said, nodding. He walked over and put his arm around your shoulders. "Then there was Roger Taylor, the drummer. Died in his own jacuzzi surrounded by babes and chicks galore."
"And that was Queen?"
"Well, there was one more. He didn't want much to do with it after Freddie died, and disappeared into obscurity. No one noticed he'd died for sixteen years." Cliff winced and you frowned. That sounded a little familiar. Everyone always forgot you, even as Khashoggi's partner, no one could remember your name or what you looked like or... or anything really.
"You can't be serious Cliff," said Meat with a scrunched up nose. "Them?"
Cliff sighed. "An engineer with a knack for making funky beats?" That was similar to what Khashoggi had said years before, many years before, when you'd first told him about the noises in your head. "He used to just blend right in, John Deacon was his name."
"And you think...?" You were missing something.
"Well, Galileo's our Freddie, and Scaramouche is our Brian..." said Cliff. He trailed off and looked at you.
"You think I'm your John Deacon?"
"He did write some lovely songs, very emotional. He just wanted to do Queen on the side, as a weekend sort of thing. Just wanted a normal life."
Had he known? Had Khashoggi figured out that years before? Was he hoping if you never met the Bohemians, you'd never figure it out? That you'd just keep ignoring the music in your head and continue the normal life you'd lead until now? Maybe you would have if he wasn't gone. Pulling his jacket closer to you, you looked at Cliff, and then at Galileo. Meat looked a little less angry but still not entirely happy with the situation.
"I've spent all my life trying to be normal. I guess I'm doing it in reverse. Now he's dead, I'll stop living the normal life." You'd spent too many years trying to fit in to go back to following trends just because and only ordering the popular drinks on social media.
"You could still go back to it," said Meat but you shook your head at her. You weren't happy at home, it was empty and wrong and everything reminded you of him.
"No, I can't. If he didn't want me to do something with it, he would have sent me to be processed like the others when I told him." Instead, he'd wanted you to keep making music, to make something close to it. It had been to keep you occupied, to keep you working, and to keep you safe. No one questioned good, hard working employees, especially not the ones who were married to the head of the police.
"He wanted me to make it on the computers but computers aren't live music. I need to make these sounds, I need to do it for him, he always encouraged me and I'm fairly sure he knew, knew how much I was like... John Deacon. He figured it out years ago, I'm sure of it."
Galileo looked pleased, he likely didn't hear how your husband was the head of the Globalsoft police until recently. Or maybe he just didn't care.
"I better tell Scaramouche that we have our John Deacon."
"And I need to find an instrument."