FIC: Hood Rat
Hood Rat
Disclaimer: Not real. Please do not google yourself or friends.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: past Pete/Alicia, implied Pete/Mikey
Summary: Now she's that girl, the one that works for the label and was fucking the bassist on the label because his real girlfriend isn't here, and she's not sure who she's more pissed off at.
Author's Notes: Written on the fly for the lovely burgaw because she had a shitty day at work, and she deserves fic.
'hot' one in the band. She probably could have scored some credit for Joe, since girls don't get credit for drummers or lead singers.'>
She doesn't mean to be that girl on this Warped Tour. Last summer, with Avenge, she was the other girl, the awesome one that didn't hook up and talked about how much she reeked with as much profanity as any of the guys. She belched and threw up her beer on her own shoes at least twice, but there was no rush behind the bus, no hands pressed to her hips and stubble-beard-beer-mouth at her throat. She was respected and awesome, and now.
Now she's that girl, the one that works for the label and was fucking the bassist on said label because his real girlfriend isn't here, and she's not sure who she's more pissed off at. It's probably her, for fucking around and squandering the reputation that she fought for, wasting the times she went back to the tech van alone and too horny every night so she wouldn't become just a lay. She could be pissed at Pete, but it wouldn't matter if he had another girlfriend or not. She still fucked him; he's still the "hot" one in the band. She probably could have scored some credit for Joe, since girls don't get credit for drummers or lead singers.
It sucks, and she makes a vow that if she gets through this tour without ripping someone's face--doesn't matter who, any tech, any fucking guitarist she doesn't know--she is never going to fuck another band guy. She's going to do her job, keep her hoodie closed and jeans zipped and buttoned, and no one is going to think she spread her legs to do any of it.
She checks Pete's bass again, because damned if she isn't going to do her job right, especially now. FBR has some sick shit going, with half their merch staff doubling as techs because it helps pad their bottom line and send out more unknown bands. Alicia sort of hates them for having good business sense and loves them for it a bit more than a lot. It's a good label, even if they're part of the giant clusterfuck that is her reputation.
She steps off the stage and ignores one of the guys that are always hanging around Pete who shoots her a look that could mean anything but she knows means he's trying to evaluate how much he'd have to work to get into her pants. She feels like she's stepping into an oven; she concentrates on the clammy feel of the hoodie on her arms and not the guy's glance. The stage lights for Fall Out Boy haven't kicked up yet, but the backstage is sweltering. One of the other techs, Josh or something, hands her an amp, and she takes it without questioning.
Alicia can feel sweat pouring off her neck and into the once-soft fabric of her hoodie, but she's wearing her last clean tank top (white) with her last clean bra (black) and fuck if she's going to make that statement now. It's like screaming "Look at me, I'm easy," to some sort of swarming testosterone pool. Someone's going to try and take it up, and when she says no, she'll be a tease. She hates the music scene sometimes.
She hooks up the amp, tests the tuning and the sound for what feels like the eighteenth time (probably is, actually), and she's done with her shit, more than ready to go back to the covered tables under the merch tents where there's at least a breeze.
Except now Josh is struggling with Patrick's amp and pedal. She goes to him and fiddles with the wires a little. She's no genius when it comes to wires and sound, what’s the best way to rig them up for the sound guys and all that shit, but she's got quick hands and a general idea. Josh is new blood, picked up somewhere because he knows someone's sister or something, and he doesn't know the tricks.
He smiles at her when she gets it sounding halfway like it's supposed to, and he lets her check the guitar, even though they both know that Patrick will check it himself before he lets the set start. He's a lot more anal about that sort of thing than Pete.
And then she can go, having made Josh's job a little easier. She wants to be pissed off that she did it, because Josh will be able to skate through on his truly atrocious tech skills. She could be a bitch, run and tattle to Pete (whose she's trying not to talk to, not too much, now) or Patrick, maybe Joe, definitely Andy--about how he's going to fuck up something someday, but she won't because then she'll be that bitch instead of just that girl. The other techs will hold it against her, blame her for the fuck-ups when he loses his job. He obviously know what he's doing because he has a dick and that suddenly makes him competent; she's a jealous twat. And if he fucks a merch girl or a lead singer, it's all in a day.
The sun is vicious on the back of her black hoodie, and she unzips it just enough to get some stagnant air on her neck. She wants to start shit, even if there isn't a real person that she can point out and say You. You're fucking this all up. Alicia hates that she started fucking Pete, now that she misses him, when the loss still tingles like a band-aid ripped off too soon.
By the time she's half-way to the merch table when her head is swimming, hoodie clinging like a wet trash bag, and she feels ready to cry because she's just frustrated with herself. She needs to change into a free merch shirt, needs Gatorade or something, and her stomach is cramping because she's the idiot who had to put on a white tank today.
"Fuck," she says, and she leans crouches next to one of the buses. It's not one of her guys, so it's not like she can pop on and ask to borrow a bottle of water, not when she's that girl and they'll probably think she'll get on her knees for a fucking 20oz Dasani.
She stays crouched, and people walk past like she's not there, which is fine, because her head is seriously spinning and she's going to lose her breakfast, all one and a half Poptarts she got before Joe stole the rest.
And then someone stops, just a pair of Chucks and tight jeans in the corner of her eye. "Hey, are you okay?" he says. She doesn't recognize the voice, but that doesn't really mean anything. She's been sticking close to the FBR buses and vans, their little family.
She shakes her head and looks up at the guy. He's sort of unremarkable from this angle, as skinny as a thousand scene kids, glasses, and his light brown hair styled like he did it in the dark. But he doesn't look at her like he knows her or of her, so she might be okay. He looks familiar, too, but everyone stops by Pete's after parties, so that isn't be surprising. "I think I need some water, maybe?"
He cocks his head to the side. "I think you need to take that hoodie off, maybe." He nudges her with one foot. "Are you going to be able to walk?"
She stands up, obviously a little too quickly and defiantly,because her head goes swimmy and she has to put her hand on the bus for just a minute. He doesn't offer his hand or do anything gentlemanly, so she gives him a point there.
"Yeah. It's just the heat."
He steps around her and enters the bus code, and she knows why he stopped. "Yeah, come on up. Someone'll have something." He doesn't look back at her when he climbs the stairs, like he just expects her to follow.
She does because he has water and his bus is out of the sun, even if it's pretty much like stepping into a sauna. "Thanks," she says and sits down on one of the bench seats while he putters over to the bus fridge.
She tips her head back and closes her eyes, listening to the sounds he makes, readjusting and reordering. He talks to himself, too low for her to come up with words or meaning, but it takes the edge off the pounding in her head.
"You really should take that hoodie off," he says without turning around. "I think Avenge would understand."
She scowls, because fucking duh. She's almost twenty-one; she gets it. "You wouldn't understand."
"I understand that heat stroke sucks, like, with puking. I don't like puking." He turns around and hands her an almost empty red Powerade. "This is all we have."
Alicia takes it, looks back up at the guy and his glasses. "I'm Alicia," she says as she pulls off her hoodie and lets him see the wonderful mess she made for himself.
He just nods and barely glances at what she's wearing. It's sort of refreshing. "Mikey," he says and doesn't offer a nod or a handshake. He just steps back. "I'll be right back, okay? Just hang out and if you, like, have to puke, try not to hit Gee's sketchbooks. It's the only thing that'll piss him off."
She blinks at him, and some of the frustration settling in between her shoulder blades is starting to melt out. "Okay." Alicia stares at him as he grabs something off the counter and goes back out of the bus. He closes the door behind him, which means he's actually concerned about wackos getting into his stuff, which means bigger band.
She leans back against the wall of the bus and looks around at everything. Some bands are really bad about personalizing their space, but this one obviously isn't. There are sketches everywhere, tacked up with gum, or maybe the yellow stick-tack she remembers from kindergarten, but she wagers gum. There are magazines, too, and schedules written in horrible handwriting that she won’t even try to decipher.
Alicia picks up an issue of AP and flips through it, and the minute she sees a picture of fucking Gerard Way--who she accidentally tripped with cables on the second night, and he bent over backwards to tell her it was all his fault--that everything sort of clicks because of course that's Mikey, the one that Pete went on and on about but never seemed to bring around when she was in the bunk with him.
It would probably be a good time to vacate, because passing out on Warped from heat stroke was definitely preferable to heart-to-hearts, other woman to other-other woman. But either because he's a sneaky little fuck, or because he didn't actually have to go that far, Mikey Way comes back on the bus just then.
She wants to say, "Thanks, but I'm good now," even if her head is still sort of pounding and the nauseous feeling hasn't settled, especially when combined with added nerves. But he's got a huge bottle of green Gatorade and a zip-lock baggie of ice.
Alicia stares at them, taking the ice and holding it in her hands for a minute, just until her fingers burn, because it's been almost a month since she's seen that much ice outside of a McDonald's cup. "You are a god among men," she says, and she's completely serious. She opens the bottle of Gatorade, and it's not quite cold, which is probably better. It tastes better than Gatorade has any right tasting.
Mikey gives her a weird lip quirk that she wouldn't call a smile and flops down on the bench across from her. "Not really. I have my sources. And I traded Frank's last pack of Clorox wipes." He taps his fingers against the wall. "Don't drink too fast."
Alicia pulls back from the sports drink and grins at him. "Thanks," she says, and she means it this time. The anger's still there, but Mikey Way is scooting closer to her and dipping into her bag of ice, and it's something else to concentrate on besides how much this whole tour sucks today. Like how unfair this is, because even if he wasn't earmarked for a fuck-buddy turned awkward friend, he was still a band guy and she has her rules now.
"Gee does this for me, when I get all..." He waves his hand vaguely and pushes his glasses up with the side of his thumb. He motions close to her face with the ice. "Do you mind?"
She shakes her head and takes careful sips of the Gatorade while he draws the ice over her forehead and the sides of her cheeks. His pinky finger touches her jaw, but it's a consequence and not a come-on. His mouth is screwed up in concentration.
Now that she's less shaky, she can appreciate his cheekbones and eyes, the curve of his lips as he bites them, concentrating on the task. He pulls out another ice cube and touches it to her neck, cold and wonderful, and fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not what she needs.
She breathes out as harshly as she can, and he leans back, dark eyes surprised behind his glasses.
"I need to get going. I have to man the tables in ten," she lies.
He nods and flicks the half-melted cube toward the sink, misses by half a mile and doesn't bother to pick it up from where it lands. "Okay," he says. He gives her one of those lip twitches again, and she smiles back, stands up, and goes to put her hoodie back on.
He reaches out with one hand but doesn't touch her. "Hey, don't do that," he says. "You'll get sick."
She sighs and tries to explain the whole white-tank-black bra-slut thing to him, even though she really just wants to go back to the merch tables and be able to blessedly sit. She wants to chew on the bag of ice, too, because her skin is still cool from it. She can still feel the ghost of his finger on her jaw, on her neck by the hairline.
Mikey nods. "Hang on," he says before he leans over into one of the boxes on the floor. "You work for Pete's label, right?" There's a casualness in his tone that feels fake, but if they're going to pretend, she can deal with it.
"Yeah," she says, and he nods like he expected it before handing over a shirt still wrapped in plastic.
"This is for Beckett's band. People would probably talk if you left wearing one of our shirts, and that's just more shit, you know?" And then he actually smiles, shows off slightly crooked teeth and his eyes are almost warm behind his glasses, like he knows and fucking understands. She wants to hug him, but settles for taking the shirt. She turns around so she can take off the tank and slide the plastic-scented cotton over her head, dry and mostly cool against her hot skin.
"Fuck," she says and turns around. He has his eyes closed--whoever raised the Ways apparently went a little overboard with earnest politeness--and she flicks his forehead to make him look at her. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
Mikey shrugs like it's nothing that he traded off precious cleaning supplies for ice and an untouched sports drink, to help someone he doesn't know. She tucks her tank into her back pocket and lets it hang like a towel. Her hoodie is a forgotten mess on the bench, and she doesn't want to deal with it.
"You can keep that," she says, pointing. "Repayment for the ice."
He takes the hoodie and puts it on like he isn't sweltering in the heat himself and the fabric isn't absolutely drenched. "Thanks," he says, and he rations her out another smile that sort of makes her heart a little lighter as she gets down out of the bus and closes the door tight.
She chews on the ice as she makes her way to the table and doesn't even think about sharing, just remembering Mikey Way's smile and rethinking, maybe, her position on band boys.
Disclaimer: Not real. Please do not google yourself or friends.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: past Pete/Alicia, implied Pete/Mikey
Summary: Now she's that girl, the one that works for the label and was fucking the bassist on the label because his real girlfriend isn't here, and she's not sure who she's more pissed off at.
Author's Notes: Written on the fly for the lovely burgaw because she had a shitty day at work, and she deserves fic.
'hot' one in the band. She probably could have scored some credit for Joe, since girls don't get credit for drummers or lead singers.'>
She doesn't mean to be that girl on this Warped Tour. Last summer, with Avenge, she was the other girl, the awesome one that didn't hook up and talked about how much she reeked with as much profanity as any of the guys. She belched and threw up her beer on her own shoes at least twice, but there was no rush behind the bus, no hands pressed to her hips and stubble-beard-beer-mouth at her throat. She was respected and awesome, and now.
Now she's that girl, the one that works for the label and was fucking the bassist on said label because his real girlfriend isn't here, and she's not sure who she's more pissed off at. It's probably her, for fucking around and squandering the reputation that she fought for, wasting the times she went back to the tech van alone and too horny every night so she wouldn't become just a lay. She could be pissed at Pete, but it wouldn't matter if he had another girlfriend or not. She still fucked him; he's still the "hot" one in the band. She probably could have scored some credit for Joe, since girls don't get credit for drummers or lead singers.
It sucks, and she makes a vow that if she gets through this tour without ripping someone's face--doesn't matter who, any tech, any fucking guitarist she doesn't know--she is never going to fuck another band guy. She's going to do her job, keep her hoodie closed and jeans zipped and buttoned, and no one is going to think she spread her legs to do any of it.
She checks Pete's bass again, because damned if she isn't going to do her job right, especially now. FBR has some sick shit going, with half their merch staff doubling as techs because it helps pad their bottom line and send out more unknown bands. Alicia sort of hates them for having good business sense and loves them for it a bit more than a lot. It's a good label, even if they're part of the giant clusterfuck that is her reputation.
She steps off the stage and ignores one of the guys that are always hanging around Pete who shoots her a look that could mean anything but she knows means he's trying to evaluate how much he'd have to work to get into her pants. She feels like she's stepping into an oven; she concentrates on the clammy feel of the hoodie on her arms and not the guy's glance. The stage lights for Fall Out Boy haven't kicked up yet, but the backstage is sweltering. One of the other techs, Josh or something, hands her an amp, and she takes it without questioning.
Alicia can feel sweat pouring off her neck and into the once-soft fabric of her hoodie, but she's wearing her last clean tank top (white) with her last clean bra (black) and fuck if she's going to make that statement now. It's like screaming "Look at me, I'm easy," to some sort of swarming testosterone pool. Someone's going to try and take it up, and when she says no, she'll be a tease. She hates the music scene sometimes.
She hooks up the amp, tests the tuning and the sound for what feels like the eighteenth time (probably is, actually), and she's done with her shit, more than ready to go back to the covered tables under the merch tents where there's at least a breeze.
Except now Josh is struggling with Patrick's amp and pedal. She goes to him and fiddles with the wires a little. She's no genius when it comes to wires and sound, what’s the best way to rig them up for the sound guys and all that shit, but she's got quick hands and a general idea. Josh is new blood, picked up somewhere because he knows someone's sister or something, and he doesn't know the tricks.
He smiles at her when she gets it sounding halfway like it's supposed to, and he lets her check the guitar, even though they both know that Patrick will check it himself before he lets the set start. He's a lot more anal about that sort of thing than Pete.
And then she can go, having made Josh's job a little easier. She wants to be pissed off that she did it, because Josh will be able to skate through on his truly atrocious tech skills. She could be a bitch, run and tattle to Pete (whose she's trying not to talk to, not too much, now) or Patrick, maybe Joe, definitely Andy--about how he's going to fuck up something someday, but she won't because then she'll be that bitch instead of just that girl. The other techs will hold it against her, blame her for the fuck-ups when he loses his job. He obviously know what he's doing because he has a dick and that suddenly makes him competent; she's a jealous twat. And if he fucks a merch girl or a lead singer, it's all in a day.
The sun is vicious on the back of her black hoodie, and she unzips it just enough to get some stagnant air on her neck. She wants to start shit, even if there isn't a real person that she can point out and say You. You're fucking this all up. Alicia hates that she started fucking Pete, now that she misses him, when the loss still tingles like a band-aid ripped off too soon.
By the time she's half-way to the merch table when her head is swimming, hoodie clinging like a wet trash bag, and she feels ready to cry because she's just frustrated with herself. She needs to change into a free merch shirt, needs Gatorade or something, and her stomach is cramping because she's the idiot who had to put on a white tank today.
"Fuck," she says, and she leans crouches next to one of the buses. It's not one of her guys, so it's not like she can pop on and ask to borrow a bottle of water, not when she's that girl and they'll probably think she'll get on her knees for a fucking 20oz Dasani.
She stays crouched, and people walk past like she's not there, which is fine, because her head is seriously spinning and she's going to lose her breakfast, all one and a half Poptarts she got before Joe stole the rest.
And then someone stops, just a pair of Chucks and tight jeans in the corner of her eye. "Hey, are you okay?" he says. She doesn't recognize the voice, but that doesn't really mean anything. She's been sticking close to the FBR buses and vans, their little family.
She shakes her head and looks up at the guy. He's sort of unremarkable from this angle, as skinny as a thousand scene kids, glasses, and his light brown hair styled like he did it in the dark. But he doesn't look at her like he knows her or of her, so she might be okay. He looks familiar, too, but everyone stops by Pete's after parties, so that isn't be surprising. "I think I need some water, maybe?"
He cocks his head to the side. "I think you need to take that hoodie off, maybe." He nudges her with one foot. "Are you going to be able to walk?"
She stands up, obviously a little too quickly and defiantly,because her head goes swimmy and she has to put her hand on the bus for just a minute. He doesn't offer his hand or do anything gentlemanly, so she gives him a point there.
"Yeah. It's just the heat."
He steps around her and enters the bus code, and she knows why he stopped. "Yeah, come on up. Someone'll have something." He doesn't look back at her when he climbs the stairs, like he just expects her to follow.
She does because he has water and his bus is out of the sun, even if it's pretty much like stepping into a sauna. "Thanks," she says and sits down on one of the bench seats while he putters over to the bus fridge.
She tips her head back and closes her eyes, listening to the sounds he makes, readjusting and reordering. He talks to himself, too low for her to come up with words or meaning, but it takes the edge off the pounding in her head.
"You really should take that hoodie off," he says without turning around. "I think Avenge would understand."
She scowls, because fucking duh. She's almost twenty-one; she gets it. "You wouldn't understand."
"I understand that heat stroke sucks, like, with puking. I don't like puking." He turns around and hands her an almost empty red Powerade. "This is all we have."
Alicia takes it, looks back up at the guy and his glasses. "I'm Alicia," she says as she pulls off her hoodie and lets him see the wonderful mess she made for himself.
He just nods and barely glances at what she's wearing. It's sort of refreshing. "Mikey," he says and doesn't offer a nod or a handshake. He just steps back. "I'll be right back, okay? Just hang out and if you, like, have to puke, try not to hit Gee's sketchbooks. It's the only thing that'll piss him off."
She blinks at him, and some of the frustration settling in between her shoulder blades is starting to melt out. "Okay." Alicia stares at him as he grabs something off the counter and goes back out of the bus. He closes the door behind him, which means he's actually concerned about wackos getting into his stuff, which means bigger band.
She leans back against the wall of the bus and looks around at everything. Some bands are really bad about personalizing their space, but this one obviously isn't. There are sketches everywhere, tacked up with gum, or maybe the yellow stick-tack she remembers from kindergarten, but she wagers gum. There are magazines, too, and schedules written in horrible handwriting that she won’t even try to decipher.
Alicia picks up an issue of AP and flips through it, and the minute she sees a picture of fucking Gerard Way--who she accidentally tripped with cables on the second night, and he bent over backwards to tell her it was all his fault--that everything sort of clicks because of course that's Mikey, the one that Pete went on and on about but never seemed to bring around when she was in the bunk with him.
It would probably be a good time to vacate, because passing out on Warped from heat stroke was definitely preferable to heart-to-hearts, other woman to other-other woman. But either because he's a sneaky little fuck, or because he didn't actually have to go that far, Mikey Way comes back on the bus just then.
She wants to say, "Thanks, but I'm good now," even if her head is still sort of pounding and the nauseous feeling hasn't settled, especially when combined with added nerves. But he's got a huge bottle of green Gatorade and a zip-lock baggie of ice.
Alicia stares at them, taking the ice and holding it in her hands for a minute, just until her fingers burn, because it's been almost a month since she's seen that much ice outside of a McDonald's cup. "You are a god among men," she says, and she's completely serious. She opens the bottle of Gatorade, and it's not quite cold, which is probably better. It tastes better than Gatorade has any right tasting.
Mikey gives her a weird lip quirk that she wouldn't call a smile and flops down on the bench across from her. "Not really. I have my sources. And I traded Frank's last pack of Clorox wipes." He taps his fingers against the wall. "Don't drink too fast."
Alicia pulls back from the sports drink and grins at him. "Thanks," she says, and she means it this time. The anger's still there, but Mikey Way is scooting closer to her and dipping into her bag of ice, and it's something else to concentrate on besides how much this whole tour sucks today. Like how unfair this is, because even if he wasn't earmarked for a fuck-buddy turned awkward friend, he was still a band guy and she has her rules now.
"Gee does this for me, when I get all..." He waves his hand vaguely and pushes his glasses up with the side of his thumb. He motions close to her face with the ice. "Do you mind?"
She shakes her head and takes careful sips of the Gatorade while he draws the ice over her forehead and the sides of her cheeks. His pinky finger touches her jaw, but it's a consequence and not a come-on. His mouth is screwed up in concentration.
Now that she's less shaky, she can appreciate his cheekbones and eyes, the curve of his lips as he bites them, concentrating on the task. He pulls out another ice cube and touches it to her neck, cold and wonderful, and fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not what she needs.
She breathes out as harshly as she can, and he leans back, dark eyes surprised behind his glasses.
"I need to get going. I have to man the tables in ten," she lies.
He nods and flicks the half-melted cube toward the sink, misses by half a mile and doesn't bother to pick it up from where it lands. "Okay," he says. He gives her one of those lip twitches again, and she smiles back, stands up, and goes to put her hoodie back on.
He reaches out with one hand but doesn't touch her. "Hey, don't do that," he says. "You'll get sick."
She sighs and tries to explain the whole white-tank-black bra-slut thing to him, even though she really just wants to go back to the merch tables and be able to blessedly sit. She wants to chew on the bag of ice, too, because her skin is still cool from it. She can still feel the ghost of his finger on her jaw, on her neck by the hairline.
Mikey nods. "Hang on," he says before he leans over into one of the boxes on the floor. "You work for Pete's label, right?" There's a casualness in his tone that feels fake, but if they're going to pretend, she can deal with it.
"Yeah," she says, and he nods like he expected it before handing over a shirt still wrapped in plastic.
"This is for Beckett's band. People would probably talk if you left wearing one of our shirts, and that's just more shit, you know?" And then he actually smiles, shows off slightly crooked teeth and his eyes are almost warm behind his glasses, like he knows and fucking understands. She wants to hug him, but settles for taking the shirt. She turns around so she can take off the tank and slide the plastic-scented cotton over her head, dry and mostly cool against her hot skin.
"Fuck," she says and turns around. He has his eyes closed--whoever raised the Ways apparently went a little overboard with earnest politeness--and she flicks his forehead to make him look at her. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
Mikey shrugs like it's nothing that he traded off precious cleaning supplies for ice and an untouched sports drink, to help someone he doesn't know. She tucks her tank into her back pocket and lets it hang like a towel. Her hoodie is a forgotten mess on the bench, and she doesn't want to deal with it.
"You can keep that," she says, pointing. "Repayment for the ice."
He takes the hoodie and puts it on like he isn't sweltering in the heat himself and the fabric isn't absolutely drenched. "Thanks," he says, and he rations her out another smile that sort of makes her heart a little lighter as she gets down out of the bus and closes the door tight.
She chews on the ice as she makes her way to the table and doesn't even think about sharing, just remembering Mikey Way's smile and rethinking, maybe, her position on band boys.