i fucking hope so. there's still fans out in the pit, we can't let them down.
[ Maybe it sounds trite, a cliche, but Eddie can't let her fans down. The nebulous idea of fans, of people who didn't know anything about her but grew to love her because of her music, because of the things she could do and hadn't yet heard the worst stories about her, was one of the main driving forces behind her getting out of her shitty hometown and making something of herself.
She's looked up to so many musicians in her life, has sat in awe as she listened to sounds she didn't know could be produced by human hands, and she wanted to be that person for someone else.
The trappings of fame — the money, the drugs, the sex — are all great too, she's not hypocritical enough to lie about that, but it's not like she's some kind of superstar. She's made enough in her career to make sure Wayne is comfortable and doesn't have to work another day in his life, and she makes enough to make sure her roadies all get paid. Even the ones who eat bad fish and wind up with diarrhea in the middle of this fuck-ass field. ]
i've played in worse.
[ She's half-expecting Chrissy to go on stage with a rain poncho thrown over her clothes. Eddie definitely won't, but that's mostly because she's never owned a raincoat in her life and she's not about to start now. Stevie is more of a toss-up; she's loosened up a lot in the years they've been touring, but there's enough of the pageant princess prom queen left in her that sometimes she gets really difficult about things Eddie thinks are no big deal. ]
i guess if management says no we can just hold an unplugged set out in the parking lot.
[Eddie and the Dead Girls at this bumfuck fest, unplugged in the parking lot in a storm. Fuckin' hysterical.
But turns out it was definitely Jessie; Tommy hears the door slam back open and his brother holler as he storms after her - she's a goddamn teenager, it ain't like she's out there sellin' hardcore drugs! - and sighs to himself. There isn't anything for fixin' something that broken.]
[ It would be sick as hell and would make an incredible story. Eddie's tempted to convince Stevie to get with the program so that they can strong-arm Chrissy into playing along and doing it no matter if they get the OK from the higher-ups or not.
LOL. Capital letters and everything. Who is this guy? ]
Ah what? No, I didn't say that. I dunno. You guys are big. You ain't worried that something's gonna get outta hand? They're not gonna let you do something like that.
[Tommy realizes that the little brother and second-fiddle (figuratively, they don't have a fiddle) in a band just gettin' its legs under itself probably shouldn't go around telling someone like her what she can and can't do.]
Sorry. Listen, my advice doesn't amount to a fart in a whirlwind.
Eddie has a lot of faith in E&tDG's fans, but they're also just people, and Papi's right. People, in large enough groups, tend to do stupid shit. Eddie knows that very well, and only partially because Does Stupid Shit is her middle name. She remembers full well how easy it was to whip up Hawkins into thinking she was some kind of satanic cult leader, a succubus luring their impressionable babies down the dark path of tabletop roleplaying games and too much soda pop.
It's possible if they play a set somewhere without any kind of barricades, someone will try something stupid.
She still kind of wants to do it. ]
nah. you sound practical. like someone i should probably listen to.
[Sure that Joel wouldn't agree; he'd just go and cite all the times he's had to pick Tommy up from the station when he gets into bar fights. It's been a while since that happened, but Tommy's still sure that Joel's not whispering to Sarah that her uncle's the paragon of good decisions.
...guess maybe it's saying something, then, how fast he put down Eddie's idea about an impromptu acoustic session in the parking lot.]
[ She gets distracted by Chrissy slamming back into their green room, steam all but coming out her ears beneath her perfect strawberry-blonde waves, the temper she keeps ruthlessly locked down when dealing with their manager or other executives finally unleashed as she unloads on Eddie and Stevie about just how condescending men in this industry can be.
Eddie, currently texting a Man In This Industry — at least, she's assuming he's a man, he hasn't said, but there were some hints — says nothing to incriminate herself. ]
no dice. chris has sweet talked them into letting us play an abridged set but only as long as there's no lightning.
[Chris? Tommy ain't gonna ask. Eddie's obviously got a right to whoever she wants; he himself is just some grunt who'll help haul speakers after her set while she goes and has fun.]
Well then we say a little prayer to Saint Medardus and you'll be just fine.
[He glances at his watch. The hall, the room next door, they're quiet. Maybe Tommy'll just get himself another beer and catch a show in the rain.]
[ Eddie has always admired the vibes and the aesthetic of Catholicism, but growing up in the armpit of Indiana has kind of soured her on the idea of religion as a whole and Christianity in particular. Which has always been a real bummer. Mass sounds way cooler than whatever bullshit they were spewing from the pulpits of the churches she grew up around. ]
save your prayers for after, papi. i think whoever's in charge here is about to get murdered by a 5'2" ex-cheerleader.
[ Chrissy is still going, on a roll that Eddie finds legitimately impressive. ]
[Catholicism in Tommy looks like a lifetime of ingrained habit and a good helping of general guilt, and he doesn't step into a church unless it's Ash Wednesday or he's holding his mama's elbow and she's leading the way, but to each their own.
This time when she throws papi at him he doesn't choke; it's something more like a rough, embarrassed laugh-snort.]
[ She makes a mental note to look up what the hell tipo and vato mean, because obviously she's going to ask for clarification, but she knows better than to take a stranger's word for anything, especially when it comes to languages. ]
what do those mean? and it's too late, you're already papi in my phone.
Man, dude, guy, kinda interchangeable and don't do that. I take back chica. Señorita from now on, I swear it.
[He's appalled, embarrassed, and even worse, turned on. Shitting hell. Tommy doesn't quite manage a laugh as he pushes his phone screen to his forehead and closes his eyes. Eddie freaking Munson.
eh. i don't like them as much. papi feels good in my mouth.
[ She's not stupid. She knows what she's doing.
But also, she's serious. She likes how the vowels feel when she says them, and tipo and vato are fine, there's nothing wrong with them, but they're not as good. ]
alright papi, wish us luck. we're about to go on after all.
[Does Tommy whisper a little prayer for salvation? Maybe. Habit's a comforting bitch.]
Good luck, señorita.
[He finishes his beer and smacks the bottle onto the dressing table. Scrawls Joel a note, just in case, though he seriously doubts he'll see him before morning - gone to watch the show - and heads out, clapping the door shut behind him.]
[ Stevie's pissed about playing in the rain, but Eddie can tell it's the kind of pissed that's not that serious, that won't have lasting consequences, that's really more for appearances' sake than anything else. Chrissy shrugs into a poncho just like Eddie thought she would, and then they're traipsing up towards the stage, and Eddie lets herself sink into the familiar anticipatory buzz that's filled her veins every single time she gets up in front of a crowd, all the way from when she was playing to a handful of drunks at the Hideout on a Tuesday night.
It's Saturday, now, and there's more than a handful of people waiting for them to get on stage, but they're probably more than a little drunk. It's close enough.
Riding the wave, Eddie steps up to her mic and bellows a greeting into it, her grin splitting wide at the wave of cheers that comes rolling back towards her. She plays a chord or two, just to feel the vibration sizzle up through her, and her mouth keeps moving totally divorced from her brain, buoying her along through her typical pre-show patter until she gets the signal from the girls that they're ready.
Holding up both hands towards the crowd, ignoring the rain pelting down on her and turning her shirt translucent, Eddie waits a few breaths until things are silent enough for her to start. ]
Why can't you look at me in the eye, my friend, [ she starts, just her scratchy voice to start, before she brings her guitar in beneath to support her, ] you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head. Don't got the decency to say it with your chest... you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head, aiming at my head—
[ Stevie comes in beneath her then, the drums thumping so eagerly Eddie finds herself bouncing on her toes in time, and then Chrissy joins and they're off.
It's a rough show, with some of the equipment dying out for a few seconds, just long enough for Eddie to scream at the crowd to sing along — at the do, belting out her own lyrics back at her loud enough that she hardly misses the speakers at all until they come back on — and she slips on the stage and nearly gives herself a concussion at one point, but they manage to pull it off nonetheless. ]
[It's pissing rain, but that doesn't stop Eddie and the Dead Girls from playing and it sure as hell doesn't stop Tommy from watching. And while the crowd starts out smaller than the band deserves, by the time the amassed wet souls are yelling lyrics back at the stage to fill the void left by the speakers (how does she take that so in-stride? when the guitars peel back out across the field it feels like it was maybe intentional, like maybe they all standing there were complicit-) the act has drawn more bodies to fill the open patches where grass has become mud and they're getting closer to each other's shoulders as everyone moves to the heavy rhythm that carries the girls through their set.
Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]
[ It's maybe not their most inspired set, maybe not their most successful, but Eddie and the Dead Girls is an Indiana homebrew band, and even out here in the sticks of her shitty, awful homestate, the misfits and the outcasts turn up for them.
And she was right: playing in the rain made for some excellent moments, and she knows the photos from this set will be bother hilariously bad and incredibly awesome, depending on the lighting and the angle. She knows there will be dozens of shots where she's looking like a drowned poodle, but hopefully there will be just as many where she looks like some sort of avenging Amazon with her wet hair streaming around her and her guitar gleaming in the rain.
For a long time, Eddie had staunchly declared that she didn't care how she looked. And then she met Stevie and Chrissy, and somehow got herself bullied into taking care of her hair and wearing a bra that actually fits, and now here she is. She refuses a hair and makeup team for her shows, though. She can smear eyeliner on better than anyone else can do it for her.
She can also pile her hair on top of her head and lash it into place with a scrunchie borrowed from Chrissy — who's staying in the green room now that their set is over, her injuries from high school that never completely left her still act up when the weather's bad — and troop back up to the state so she can help break down. It's not the first time she's done this, so there isn't much of a reaction from the crew when she slips onto the stage and starts hoisting things up into her arms. There's a little more work to be done than normal with half the crew missing, but there's also some new bodies milling around she doesn't recognize, so she's confident they'll be done in no time. ]
¿Qué carajo está haciendo ella aquí? [Tommy hisses at one of the guys he knows when he realizes - with a feeling that is unnervingly like getting kicked in the chest by a horse - that Eddie's not just back on stage but helping lug equipment with her hair piled up and her shirt sticking to her skin. He makes sure his face is down on his work but... right, she doesn't know it anyway. Christ, she doesn't really have his number saved in her phone, does she?
Trent tells him that it's just something she does every now and then. First time on this tour they thought she was just precious about her guitars but nah. Just helps out. It's cool.
Tommy and Joel always help break down their own sets, but it's not cool, it's necessary because they're small fish, and Joel is definitely precious about his guitars. But it's not necessary for Eddie and yet, christ. Tommy buries himself in some speakers to reach a handful of tricky wiring when she walks by him, almost close enough to brush arms.]
[ Eddie knows the crew well enough to pick them out of a crowd, but she's never been great with names. Surprisingly, for someone who was able to pick out the most obscure demon or magical being from the D&D guidebook, when it came to regular people, names tended to slip through her fingers like sand.
She doesn't need to know people's names to recognize them, though. Which means it doesn't take her long to suss out the new guy in the group, broad shoulders draped in gray cotton that's gone dark in the rain, sharp features glistening in the mist and the floodlights, hair that looks as curly as hers tucked behind his ears and into a low ponytail. He looks familiar, but she can't quite place him. Most of the guys on her crew are babyfaced college kids or seasoned professionals with big shovel beards like they think they're in ZZ Top or something, so the delicacy in his face stands out.
He's cute. She digs the little goatee. But Eddie doesn't shit where she sleeps, and hitting on someone who's on her payroll is a real scumbag move, so when they bump elbows as they pass, she just gives him a little up-nod and a welcoming smile. There isn't time to chit-chat right now, anyway. She'll buy him a beer in thanks later, once they're broken down and dry. ]
[Delicacy - that's not something he'd appreciate if he heard. And sure it could be a little machismo (Texas, Dad who was a cop, Army) but mostly just him being the baby of the family and touchy about it. Anyway, doesn't matter does it? She doesn't say it, just nods like he's part of crew and gives him enough of a smile to show slightly crooked teeth and make his heart do its best damn imitation of a hooked fish.
Tommy glides through the night on one helluva delusional cloud, but hey. A man's gotta eat. Besides it's Joel who pulls all the chicks - whether he wants em or not - so it's nice to maintain a fantasy for a little while, even if he knows it's going nowhere, not even sitting on the damn tracks.
When someone yells, different than the directions being tossed back and forth or the jocular calls of people getting things done together, Tommy knows it's wrong in a way that stands the hair up on the back of his neck. He's a vet and his head won't ever be so far in the clouds or up his ass that he doesn't react fast, and react right. Means he turns quick enough to see one of the brawny guys up in the top scaffolding go down, hard, onto the small catwalk with his legs flailing over the side but safe; another guy's already grabbed him and is hauling him to his feet. Tommy's damn heart feels jacked on adrenaline. The rest of the crew on the ground are just starting to look up, still trying to locate the problem that's already over.
The second Tommy hears the high scream of metal he's moving. It's not PTSD, not like that; just muscle-memory wired so damn far down into his bones that even though his brain's done all the math, he's acting on what he knows before he realizes he knows it. As the fresnal light the crewguy kicked in his fall shears off its mount and sends up a blinding shower of sparks Tommy's hauling heavy boots across the stage. He saw the light, knows where it's hanging - or was hanging - knows how damn heavy it is, knows where it's going. And he's already there, shoulder-first into Eddie, bowling her down like he's still in high school football.
They don't hit the stage easy and for one blaring heartbeat he's looking down at her and nothing he expected is happening, just a crazed silence and her big fucking dark eyes below his and Tommy draws breath to say all the apologies he knows because he's such a fucking idiot when the light hits the stage just behind them with enough force to shatter, blowing the lens out and twisting the metal canister.]
[ Eddie surrounds herself with loud noises. She kind of has to, in this line of work, and when she's up on stage, she's got a little speaker tucked in one ear and the other stoppered up with a custom-molded earplug so she can keep what's left of her natural hearing. She's used to noise, is what she means, very much used to the general hum of working men going around doing their thing.
The tenor of the shouts this evening are different.
The rain has made everything slippery, as Eddie can attest to from when she nearly brained herself on stage not even twenty minutes ago, and the scaffolding is not exempt from that.
Everything happens so fast. The shout, a thump of something hitting the scaffolding. Silence. A godawful screech that she can't quite place. The sound of boots hitting the stage. The brief second of seeing that new guy much closer to her than before. The realization he's going to run into her just before he actually does it, the way he tucks his shoulder like he's doing one of those sports moves that Stevie has tried (and failed) to teach her. The impact of his body into hers. The swoop in her belly when she realizes she's no longer in control of her own gravity. The impact of her body against the stage.
She doesn't even have time to shout, just gets knocked right off her feet, skidding a few feet back along the wet stage and hitting her head in the process, stars exploding behind her eyes as her lungs let go of all their air. The sparkles in her vision might also be from the fact that a fucking light has broken free, sparks lighting up the darkening sky like a firework, and then there's the sound of the whole unit hitting the stage, just a few scant feet away from where she's lying with the new guy still hovering over her.
She flinches, hard. Her legs draw up, or they would have if he wasn't lying across them, and her arms lift to protect her head, her body trying to curl up to protect itself in a way that drags her wet shirt even higher up her back, displaying the spread of silvery-pink scars that spread across her middle.
There's silence, after, just long enough for her to twist her head a little and peek up at the man still hovering over her, pieces of his hair having escaped their tie and hanging around his face to drip down onto hers, his eyes huge and dark and scared, his face pale beneath its tan. She's just opening her mouth to say something — probably what the fuck? because she's nothing if not predictable — when the rest of the world comes rushing back in to fill the buzzing silence in her ears and the shouting of the crew comes back into focus. ]
[To Tommy, the reaction to protect her beneath him from the small, if not controlled, shrapnel, is just as knee-jerk as the move to bowl her out of harm's way. (You don't pull people in danger, the body's instinct is to say no so you make yourself as much of a force as what's coming for them.) It leaves him rucked up around Eddie against the stage, a human shield, noses inches from each other when it's over and people start yelling, his hand splayed against her exposed side having drawn her in close. His nerves are all firing in the right way as he stares down at her for few forever heartbeats it takes for other hands to reach down and pull them to their feet, but once he's standing he starts feeling like there's a one-man pyrotechnics show underneath his skin. Something warmer than the rain dribbles down the back of his neck and Tommy kinda wishes it hurt because it would help him focus.
Someone's hand is on his shoulder, fighting for his attention, and Tommy knocks it away a little too hard before apologizing and shaking his head. He's fine. Fine. He looks at the scattered remains of the fresnal on the ground, a few feet away. Up to the scaffold, where a couple sets of wide eyes stare back. His hand forms an A-OK without his brain's conscious consent.
She'd been jokingly cavalier about the danger of performing in the parking lot, but here they are, and...] Chica? [Tommy moves away from the touch of someone saying something about the back of his neck and finds Eddie still close, surrounded by a small crush of bearded men, Terry doing his best to move people back and give them space while confirming that everything else up top is locked down tight. Tommy steps in slow, like she might bolt from him.] Hey - you good?
[ The tremors starting to shimmy through her are impossible to suppress; Eddie's heart is thundering in her chest, louder and stronger than it does even when she's performing, and she feels like she can feel all the muscle fibers between her ribs, how tightly they've locked together, how difficult it is to convince them to stretch and relax so she can breathe, the knot her diaphragm has twisted itself into reluctant to release. Being knocked to the ground and a light falling on the stage is not very much like the terror of Spring Break her final senior year at all, except for how it absolutely flooded her system with adrenaline, and she feels a little bit like she was just discovered in Rick's boathouse beneath that tarp, her hands shaking as she tried to light a cigarette with Stevie Harrington staring at her with blood on her neck from Eddie's panicked attempt to fight back.
Stevie is safe in their green room with Chrissy. The only person with blood on their neck is the guy who tackled her.
It's the detail she focuses on first as she looks over the heads of the men crowding around her, checking her over, asking her if she's okay. Her rescuer is similarly dealing with a small crowd of concerned roadies. He shakes his head, but she can't hear what he says. They're probably asking him if he's okay, too.
Her head is still reeling, her brain feeling like it's sloshing around in her skull, so by a doctor's definition she probably isn't okay, but by her own skewed metrics, she's fine. She says so, actually, knocking away the solicitous hands trying to soothe her, her shoulders lifting defensively as she tries to regain her equilibrium.
He's stepped into the circle around her, resolutely ignoring Terry just as much as she is, and at first she smiles reflexively at him as he carefully sidles in close, but then the fact that he called her chica filters through her muddled-up thoughts and her eyes sharpen. ] Papi?
Tommy's wheeze of a laugh is confused and edged with adrenaline and he shakes his head before nodding.] Tommy. [The second laugh is less of a punched-out sound as his own ribs remember how to work properly, the bottled-up stress bottoming out and leaving him momentarily exhausted.] Tommy Miller. Christ, don't - don't call me that but, yeah. I'm that idiot. Are you okay? I -
[Fucking pile-drove her into the stage.]
Uh. Just acted. Should have... listen, you should see the medics. Think you knocked your head pretty good. Sorry. [At his side, Tommy's thumb slides against the outer edge of his index finger. He's breathing more regularly but his head's still half on autopilot as he reaches out with the intention of dragging the wet, stuck folds of Eddie's bunched up shirt down her side again.]
The name sounds familiar to her, but she's having a hard time getting her brain to cooperate with her right now and the little wisp of recognition are impossible to hang on to. She'll remember why she should know him later, probably after he's left and she'll never see him again.
Thinking of him as papi is easier. ]
Hey, hi. I'm Eddie. [ Wow. Real smooth, Munson. The Stevie in her head is judging her, hard, but Eddie resolutely ignores her and tries to focus on something other than the fact that the guy she'd been idly flirting with over text this afternoon actually turned out to be hot. And, apparently, made of fucking rock or something. She's pretty sure she's going to get a bruise on her sternum from where he collided with her. Which is great, because she's definitely going to get a bruise all down her back to go along with the lump on the back of her head from where she impacted into the stage. ] No, you don't—
[ She takes a deep breath, visibly trying to center herself before she tries again. ] Don't apologize, please. I think you saved my life.
[ Maybe that's a little hyperbolic, but those lights are fucking huge, and the shrapnel radius is impressively wide. It hit the deck hard. She'd have a lot worse than a little bump if he hadn't tackled her.
His hand reaches in for her, going for her waist, and for a second she doesn't realize what's happening, her own hand lifting, and then she realizes what he's doing and an embarrassed flush stains her face. The scars on her waist are a sort of well-known secret among the fans, something that's impossible to hide thanks to how much Eddie jumps around and contorts herself as she plays, but she refuses to talk about them in interviews and the girls have backed her up on that stance. Stevie has them too, but she doesn't even bother trying to hide them, wearing cropped shirts in the summer when they play like she doesn't even notice the marks on her skin. Tommy Miller reaches in like he's about to touch them, and she almost flinches, but then his fingers are plucking at her wet shirt instead, and her hand settles on his forearm. ]
I'm fine. Because of you. [ Her hand tightens, fingertips pressing into firm muscle beneath warm skin. ] Thank you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Maybe it sounds trite, a cliche, but Eddie can't let her fans down. The nebulous idea of fans, of people who didn't know anything about her but grew to love her because of her music, because of the things she could do and hadn't yet heard the worst stories about her, was one of the main driving forces behind her getting out of her shitty hometown and making something of herself.
She's looked up to so many musicians in her life, has sat in awe as she listened to sounds she didn't know could be produced by human hands, and she wanted to be that person for someone else.
The trappings of fame — the money, the drugs, the sex — are all great too, she's not hypocritical enough to lie about that, but it's not like she's some kind of superstar. She's made enough in her career to make sure Wayne is comfortable and doesn't have to work another day in his life, and she makes enough to make sure her roadies all get paid. Even the ones who eat bad fish and wind up with diarrhea in the middle of this fuck-ass field. ]
i've played in worse.
[ She's half-expecting Chrissy to go on stage with a rain poncho thrown over her clothes. Eddie definitely won't, but that's mostly because she's never owned a raincoat in her life and she's not about to start now. Stevie is more of a toss-up; she's loosened up a lot in the years they've been touring, but there's enough of the pageant princess prom queen left in her that sometimes she gets really difficult about things Eddie thinks are no big deal. ]
i guess if management says no we can just hold an unplugged set out in the parking lot.
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But turns out it was definitely Jessie; Tommy hears the door slam back open and his brother holler as he storms after her - she's a goddamn teenager, it ain't like she's out there sellin' hardcore drugs! - and sighs to himself. There isn't anything for fixin' something that broken.]
LOL, [he picks out and sends.]
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LOL. Capital letters and everything. Who is this guy? ]
you don't think it's a good idea?
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Ah what? No, I didn't say that.
I dunno. You guys are big. You ain't worried that something's gonna get outta hand? They're not gonna let you do something like that.
[Tommy realizes that the little brother and second-fiddle (figuratively, they don't have a fiddle) in a band just gettin' its legs under itself probably shouldn't go around telling someone like her what she can and can't do.]
Sorry. Listen, my advice doesn't amount to a fart in a whirlwind.
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[ Potentially.
Eddie has a lot of faith in E&tDG's fans, but they're also just people, and Papi's right. People, in large enough groups, tend to do stupid shit. Eddie knows that very well, and only partially because Does Stupid Shit is her middle name. She remembers full well how easy it was to whip up Hawkins into thinking she was some kind of satanic cult leader, a succubus luring their impressionable babies down the dark path of tabletop roleplaying games and too much soda pop.
It's possible if they play a set somewhere without any kind of barricades, someone will try something stupid.
She still kind of wants to do it. ]
nah. you sound practical. like someone i should probably listen to.
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[Sure that Joel wouldn't agree; he'd just go and cite all the times he's had to pick Tommy up from the station when he gets into bar fights. It's been a while since that happened, but Tommy's still sure that Joel's not whispering to Sarah that her uncle's the paragon of good decisions.
...guess maybe it's saying something, then, how fast he put down Eddie's idea about an impromptu acoustic session in the parking lot.]
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[ She gets distracted by Chrissy slamming back into their green room, steam all but coming out her ears beneath her perfect strawberry-blonde waves, the temper she keeps ruthlessly locked down when dealing with their manager or other executives finally unleashed as she unloads on Eddie and Stevie about just how condescending men in this industry can be.
Eddie, currently texting a Man In This Industry — at least, she's assuming he's a man, he hasn't said, but there were some hints — says nothing to incriminate herself. ]
no dice. chris has sweet talked them into letting us play an abridged set but only as long as there's no lightning.
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Well then we say a little prayer to Saint Medardus and you'll be just fine.
[He glances at his watch. The hall, the room next door, they're quiet. Maybe Tommy'll just get himself another beer and catch a show in the rain.]
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[ Eddie has always admired the vibes and the aesthetic of Catholicism, but growing up in the armpit of Indiana has kind of soured her on the idea of religion as a whole and Christianity in particular. Which has always been a real bummer. Mass sounds way cooler than whatever bullshit they were spewing from the pulpits of the churches she grew up around. ]
save your prayers for after, papi. i think whoever's in charge here is about to get murdered by a 5'2" ex-cheerleader.
[ Chrissy is still going, on a roll that Eddie finds legitimately impressive. ]
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[Catholicism in Tommy looks like a lifetime of ingrained habit and a good helping of general guilt, and he doesn't step into a church unless it's Ash Wednesday or he's holding his mama's elbow and she's leading the way, but to each their own.
This time when she throws papi at him he doesn't choke; it's something more like a rough, embarrassed laugh-snort.]
It's tipo. Or vato. Not papi.
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[ She makes a mental note to look up what the hell tipo and vato mean, because obviously she's going to ask for clarification, but she knows better than to take a stranger's word for anything, especially when it comes to languages. ]
what do those mean? and it's too late, you're already papi in my phone.
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[He's appalled, embarrassed, and even worse, turned on. Shitting hell. Tommy doesn't quite manage a laugh as he pushes his phone screen to his forehead and closes his eyes. Eddie freaking Munson.
He's such an asshole.]
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[ She's not stupid. She knows what she's doing.
But also, she's serious. She likes how the vowels feel when she says them, and tipo and vato are fine, there's nothing wrong with them, but they're not as good. ]
alright papi, wish us luck. we're about to go on after all.
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Good luck, señorita.
[He finishes his beer and smacks the bottle onto the dressing table. Scrawls Joel a note, just in case, though he seriously doubts he'll see him before morning - gone to watch the show - and heads out, clapping the door shut behind him.]
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It's Saturday, now, and there's more than a handful of people waiting for them to get on stage, but they're probably more than a little drunk. It's close enough.
Riding the wave, Eddie steps up to her mic and bellows a greeting into it, her grin splitting wide at the wave of cheers that comes rolling back towards her. She plays a chord or two, just to feel the vibration sizzle up through her, and her mouth keeps moving totally divorced from her brain, buoying her along through her typical pre-show patter until she gets the signal from the girls that they're ready.
Holding up both hands towards the crowd, ignoring the rain pelting down on her and turning her shirt translucent, Eddie waits a few breaths until things are silent enough for her to start. ]
Why can't you look at me in the eye, my friend, [ she starts, just her scratchy voice to start, before she brings her guitar in beneath to support her, ] you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head. Don't got the decency to say it with your chest... you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head, aiming at my head—
[ Stevie comes in beneath her then, the drums thumping so eagerly Eddie finds herself bouncing on her toes in time, and then Chrissy joins and they're off.
It's a rough show, with some of the equipment dying out for a few seconds, just long enough for Eddie to scream at the crowd to sing along — at the do, belting out her own lyrics back at her loud enough that she hardly misses the speakers at all until they come back on — and she slips on the stage and nearly gives herself a concussion at one point, but they manage to pull it off nonetheless. ]
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Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]
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And she was right: playing in the rain made for some excellent moments, and she knows the photos from this set will be bother hilariously bad and incredibly awesome, depending on the lighting and the angle. She knows there will be dozens of shots where she's looking like a drowned poodle, but hopefully there will be just as many where she looks like some sort of avenging Amazon with her wet hair streaming around her and her guitar gleaming in the rain.
For a long time, Eddie had staunchly declared that she didn't care how she looked. And then she met Stevie and Chrissy, and somehow got herself bullied into taking care of her hair and wearing a bra that actually fits, and now here she is. She refuses a hair and makeup team for her shows, though. She can smear eyeliner on better than anyone else can do it for her.
She can also pile her hair on top of her head and lash it into place with a scrunchie borrowed from Chrissy — who's staying in the green room now that their set is over, her injuries from high school that never completely left her still act up when the weather's bad — and troop back up to the state so she can help break down. It's not the first time she's done this, so there isn't much of a reaction from the crew when she slips onto the stage and starts hoisting things up into her arms. There's a little more work to be done than normal with half the crew missing, but there's also some new bodies milling around she doesn't recognize, so she's confident they'll be done in no time. ]
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Trent tells him that it's just something she does every now and then. First time on this tour they thought she was just precious about her guitars but nah. Just helps out. It's cool.
Tommy and Joel always help break down their own sets, but it's not cool, it's necessary because they're small fish, and Joel is definitely precious about his guitars. But it's not necessary for Eddie and yet, christ. Tommy buries himself in some speakers to reach a handful of tricky wiring when she walks by him, almost close enough to brush arms.]
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She doesn't need to know people's names to recognize them, though. Which means it doesn't take her long to suss out the new guy in the group, broad shoulders draped in gray cotton that's gone dark in the rain, sharp features glistening in the mist and the floodlights, hair that looks as curly as hers tucked behind his ears and into a low ponytail. He looks familiar, but she can't quite place him. Most of the guys on her crew are babyfaced college kids or seasoned professionals with big shovel beards like they think they're in ZZ Top or something, so the delicacy in his face stands out.
He's cute. She digs the little goatee. But Eddie doesn't shit where she sleeps, and hitting on someone who's on her payroll is a real scumbag move, so when they bump elbows as they pass, she just gives him a little up-nod and a welcoming smile. There isn't time to chit-chat right now, anyway. She'll buy him a beer in thanks later, once they're broken down and dry. ]
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Tommy glides through the night on one helluva delusional cloud, but hey. A man's gotta eat. Besides it's Joel who pulls all the chicks - whether he wants em or not - so it's nice to maintain a fantasy for a little while, even if he knows it's going nowhere, not even sitting on the damn tracks.
When someone yells, different than the directions being tossed back and forth or the jocular calls of people getting things done together, Tommy knows it's wrong in a way that stands the hair up on the back of his neck. He's a vet and his head won't ever be so far in the clouds or up his ass that he doesn't react fast, and react right. Means he turns quick enough to see one of the brawny guys up in the top scaffolding go down, hard, onto the small catwalk with his legs flailing over the side but safe; another guy's already grabbed him and is hauling him to his feet. Tommy's damn heart feels jacked on adrenaline. The rest of the crew on the ground are just starting to look up, still trying to locate the problem that's already over.
The second Tommy hears the high scream of metal he's moving. It's not PTSD, not like that; just muscle-memory wired so damn far down into his bones that even though his brain's done all the math, he's acting on what he knows before he realizes he knows it. As the fresnal light the crewguy kicked in his fall shears off its mount and sends up a blinding shower of sparks Tommy's hauling heavy boots across the stage. He saw the light, knows where it's hanging - or was hanging - knows how damn heavy it is, knows where it's going. And he's already there, shoulder-first into Eddie, bowling her down like he's still in high school football.
They don't hit the stage easy and for one blaring heartbeat he's looking down at her and nothing he expected is happening, just a crazed silence and her big fucking dark eyes below his and Tommy draws breath to say all the apologies he knows because he's such a fucking idiot when the light hits the stage just behind them with enough force to shatter, blowing the lens out and twisting the metal canister.]
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The tenor of the shouts this evening are different.
The rain has made everything slippery, as Eddie can attest to from when she nearly brained herself on stage not even twenty minutes ago, and the scaffolding is not exempt from that.
Everything happens so fast. The shout, a thump of something hitting the scaffolding. Silence. A godawful screech that she can't quite place. The sound of boots hitting the stage. The brief second of seeing that new guy much closer to her than before. The realization he's going to run into her just before he actually does it, the way he tucks his shoulder like he's doing one of those sports moves that Stevie has tried (and failed) to teach her. The impact of his body into hers. The swoop in her belly when she realizes she's no longer in control of her own gravity. The impact of her body against the stage.
She doesn't even have time to shout, just gets knocked right off her feet, skidding a few feet back along the wet stage and hitting her head in the process, stars exploding behind her eyes as her lungs let go of all their air. The sparkles in her vision might also be from the fact that a fucking light has broken free, sparks lighting up the darkening sky like a firework, and then there's the sound of the whole unit hitting the stage, just a few scant feet away from where she's lying with the new guy still hovering over her.
She flinches, hard. Her legs draw up, or they would have if he wasn't lying across them, and her arms lift to protect her head, her body trying to curl up to protect itself in a way that drags her wet shirt even higher up her back, displaying the spread of silvery-pink scars that spread across her middle.
There's silence, after, just long enough for her to twist her head a little and peek up at the man still hovering over her, pieces of his hair having escaped their tie and hanging around his face to drip down onto hers, his eyes huge and dark and scared, his face pale beneath its tan. She's just opening her mouth to say something — probably what the fuck? because she's nothing if not predictable — when the rest of the world comes rushing back in to fill the buzzing silence in her ears and the shouting of the crew comes back into focus. ]
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Someone's hand is on his shoulder, fighting for his attention, and Tommy knocks it away a little too hard before apologizing and shaking his head. He's fine. Fine. He looks at the scattered remains of the fresnal on the ground, a few feet away. Up to the scaffold, where a couple sets of wide eyes stare back. His hand forms an A-OK without his brain's conscious consent.
She'd been jokingly cavalier about the danger of performing in the parking lot, but here they are, and...] Chica? [Tommy moves away from the touch of someone saying something about the back of his neck and finds Eddie still close, surrounded by a small crush of bearded men, Terry doing his best to move people back and give them space while confirming that everything else up top is locked down tight. Tommy steps in slow, like she might bolt from him.] Hey - you good?
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Stevie is safe in their green room with Chrissy. The only person with blood on their neck is the guy who tackled her.
It's the detail she focuses on first as she looks over the heads of the men crowding around her, checking her over, asking her if she's okay. Her rescuer is similarly dealing with a small crowd of concerned roadies. He shakes his head, but she can't hear what he says. They're probably asking him if he's okay, too.
Her head is still reeling, her brain feeling like it's sloshing around in her skull, so by a doctor's definition she probably isn't okay, but by her own skewed metrics, she's fine. She says so, actually, knocking away the solicitous hands trying to soothe her, her shoulders lifting defensively as she tries to regain her equilibrium.
He's stepped into the circle around her, resolutely ignoring Terry just as much as she is, and at first she smiles reflexively at him as he carefully sidles in close, but then the fact that he called her chica filters through her muddled-up thoughts and her eyes sharpen. ] Papi?
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Tommy's wheeze of a laugh is confused and edged with adrenaline and he shakes his head before nodding.] Tommy. [The second laugh is less of a punched-out sound as his own ribs remember how to work properly, the bottled-up stress bottoming out and leaving him momentarily exhausted.] Tommy Miller. Christ, don't - don't call me that but, yeah. I'm that idiot. Are you okay? I -
[Fucking pile-drove her into the stage.]
Uh. Just acted. Should have... listen, you should see the medics. Think you knocked your head pretty good. Sorry. [At his side, Tommy's thumb slides against the outer edge of his index finger. He's breathing more regularly but his head's still half on autopilot as he reaches out with the intention of dragging the wet, stuck folds of Eddie's bunched up shirt down her side again.]
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The name sounds familiar to her, but she's having a hard time getting her brain to cooperate with her right now and the little wisp of recognition are impossible to hang on to. She'll remember why she should know him later, probably after he's left and she'll never see him again.
Thinking of him as papi is easier. ]
Hey, hi. I'm Eddie. [ Wow. Real smooth, Munson. The Stevie in her head is judging her, hard, but Eddie resolutely ignores her and tries to focus on something other than the fact that the guy she'd been idly flirting with over text this afternoon actually turned out to be hot. And, apparently, made of fucking rock or something. She's pretty sure she's going to get a bruise on her sternum from where he collided with her. Which is great, because she's definitely going to get a bruise all down her back to go along with the lump on the back of her head from where she impacted into the stage. ] No, you don't—
[ She takes a deep breath, visibly trying to center herself before she tries again. ] Don't apologize, please. I think you saved my life.
[ Maybe that's a little hyperbolic, but those lights are fucking huge, and the shrapnel radius is impressively wide. It hit the deck hard. She'd have a lot worse than a little bump if he hadn't tackled her.
His hand reaches in for her, going for her waist, and for a second she doesn't realize what's happening, her own hand lifting, and then she realizes what he's doing and an embarrassed flush stains her face. The scars on her waist are a sort of well-known secret among the fans, something that's impossible to hide thanks to how much Eddie jumps around and contorts herself as she plays, but she refuses to talk about them in interviews and the girls have backed her up on that stance. Stevie has them too, but she doesn't even bother trying to hide them, wearing cropped shirts in the summer when they play like she doesn't even notice the marks on her skin. Tommy Miller reaches in like he's about to touch them, and she almost flinches, but then his fingers are plucking at her wet shirt instead, and her hand settles on his forearm. ]
I'm fine. Because of you. [ Her hand tightens, fingertips pressing into firm muscle beneath warm skin. ] Thank you.
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