not falling together (1/2). alison mosshart/jamie hince (& others), hard r.
Holy crap, I finished this.
Title: not falling together
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Alison Mosshart/Jamie Hince, and Alison Mosshart/various (Jack White, Noel Fielding, Brian Molko, and sort Kate Moss) plus mentions of Jamie Hince/some of those same people.
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: Real people. Violence (occasionally during sex and including a bit of breathplay), drug use, and slightly excessive infidelity.
Summary: It used to be just the two of them in this tiny room, and now they're letting others in. It feels like they're coming apart at the seams, and Alison doesn't know how to fix it.
A/N: This basically deals with speculated changes/struggles in Alison and Jamie's relationship brought about by Kate and The Dead Weather. The timeline spans from September 2009 to December 2011, so not surprisingly, it is LONG. Thank you to the people who encouraged me-you know who you are. ♥ ( 2/2)
Jamie shows up the day after Alison gets back, lets himself in with the key he still has and scares her half to death when she wakes up to his grinning face. Jetlagged and bewildered, she hits him, knocking the cup of coffee he's made her out of his hand. The hot liquid spills over her bed, burning her, and she shrieks and hits him and then lies there shaking slightly as he whips off the sheets.
"Missed you too," he grumbles as he carefully picks up the shattered shards of a mug he gave her six years ago.
He wants to start writing, and she has to remind him that she got back from a three-month tour just last night and isn't quite ready yet. He leaves in a bit of a huff and comes round the next day instead, knocks on the door this time in a way that seems to Alison slightly passive-aggressive. She is sympathetic, though-she has to remember that while she might have been writing and playing all summer, he's had to wait for her return in order to do either properly.
So they sit on the floor in the middle of the living room, and pool everything they've created in each other's absence. Notebooks and sketchbooks and tapes and scribbled-on scraps of paper form a sort of moat around them. Alison finds the sight of it overwhelming but Jamie seems giddy, picking things up at random and reading them intently, his legs tucked into his chest.
It is clear from this moment that the next album is going to be a challenge. There is nothing wrong with what either of them has written, but putting any of it together seems like an impossible task. Jamie's words are beautiful but they seem meaningless to her-she used to be able to understand all of it, even when he tried to be cryptic, but now none of it makes any sense. He seems to have the same problem finding a connection with her lyrics; they speak of things he hasn't experienced, of times she hasn't shared with him. 'Dead Weather rejects', he calls them once, offhand but hurtful, and Alison seethes because they're not-anything she wrote that Jack shot down went straight into the trash; these are Kills songs through-and-through.
They meet up every few days and try, anyway, to make something from what they have. They attempt to write the way they used to, in separate rooms, but they may as well still be in separate countries for all the difference it makes. Alison suggests writing together, playing together, jamming like she does with the others-but that's never worked for the two of them and she knows it. It takes them weeks to be able to even form the beginnings of what might be a song, and then Alison has to leave, off on tour again, at the end of the month.
***
A week later she's soundchecking with The Dead Weather in Mexico and before they even realise what's happening, they've written a new song. Jack is feverishly scribbling down lyrics and making sure they got it all on tape and Alison is just blown away by how quick it was, how effortless, how the words just came out of her mouth and fit the music so perfectly and she didn't even think about it. It felt psychic, the four of them just picking up on each other's wavelength and playing what came naturally. It used to be like that with Jamie all the time and she can't believe she's been lucky enough to experience it again.
She's still high on it when they perform, and onstage she feels powerful, like she could do anything. She sets her eye on Jack and stands closer than she's supposed to, gazes at him and gets lost in the music and swears she can feel the heat coming off his body. By Will There Be Enough Water, he's so tense that she thinks he might shove her away any second now, his shoulders set and hard and his eyes refusing to meet hers.
They've only been offstage for about five minutes when he grips her tightly by the arm and drags her into the men's room, locking the door behind them and then fucking her up against it, biting into her collarbone and clutching her hips hard enough to bruise. She has his sweaty hair in her face and he's so deep inside her it hurts, and it feels so good.
It always goes like this; teasing him 'til he gives in. It makes her feel like she's in control, but she knows she never truly is. For all the times Jack's caved in, there are twice as many occasions when she's been left hanging, stung by a cruel remark and left feeling pathetic, like a fool. But it's worth it for the times when she really gets to him, when he snaps at her and pushes her away. Because the second they're alone he'll shove her up against a wall or throw her down on the floor and fuck her 'til she can't breathe, and he'll do it like he fucking hates her, and she loves it. She loves it.
***
Jamie is different when she returns home again the following month. Before, he was frustrated, and would get surly and sulky when things weren't going his way. This didn't surprise Alison; he's often like that during the writing process, has thrown fits and broken equipment before, and it's the passion of it that tells her how much he cares. But now, he's almost serene, dropping by a few days after she gets back and suggesting they give it another go. It's much the same, and this time Alison is the one who's aggravated by it, the contrast between this and the easy, almost-accidental songwriting of The Dead Weather more obvious than it's ever been. She wishes he would just get it, but he doesn't-he just furrows his brow at her and shakes his head a lot and crosses out the lines that she likes best.
The worst part is that he acts like this is all her fault, like it's some mistake she's made and they're just going to have to grit their teeth and try to fix it. Alison wants to point out that she's not the only one who's changed, that maybe he's the one to blame for moving out and leaving her, that maybe that's why she went off with the others in the first place. It's all petty and she bites her tongue, but she can't stand it, his attitude, the way he's acting like he has to clean up her mess.
Some days, he comes round even when they haven't planned to work. She thinks he's checking up on her, seeing how she's doing. And she hates that, it feels like pity. He moved out quite a while ago, but she's been so busy that she hasn't spent much time in the house alone and it does feel odd without him here. Even so, there's no reason for him to act like she can't survive without him. She wants to scream at him sometimes, shout about how she's doing just fine, how she went on tour without him, onstage without him, stayed in hotels without him, did interviews without him, went halfway round the fucking world without him and she can live on her own just fine, thank you, she doesn't need him checking in on her like a parent leaving a teenager home alone.
Still, it wouldn't be quite true. It hurts every time he leaves. The place is such a mess that their belongings have merged to a ridiculous degree over the years and the task of splitting them was an impossible one when it came time for Jamie to pack and leave for good, so Alison still has at least half of his clothes in her closet and trips over his trinkets in every room. They haven't even bothered trying to separate things like books and records-Jamie takes a handful of each whenever he comes and goes, not bothering to check what or whose they are. He takes things every time he leaves and the house always feels noticeably emptier, aches with his absence. It makes Alison itch for touring again, just to get away.
After a couple of weeks it begins to feel like they might be on their way towards something, with about three half-formed songs and plans for more. But there is still something missing from the way that they work-it takes so much effort and yet Jamie is more patient than ever. When Alison tries to voice it, makes a little comment about how hard it is, he just frowns at her in bemusement and says "That's why it's so rewarding, though, isn't it? The challenge is part of what makes it fun." He gives her a look that seems to say, don't you remember? and honestly, she's not sure that she does. It used to be challenging and fun, but now it just feels like an uphill struggle and he's not even there to support her.
Usually, with writing being this difficult, they would be fighting every day-bickering about word choice at the very least, if not actively attacking each other to vent their frustrations. But Jamie is as calm as she's ever seen him, and when she gets pissed off he just gives her some space. Once, he tries to hug her to comfort her and she thrashes violently, bewildered, and instead of grabbing hold of her arms and pinning her to the sofa until she calms down, he just leaves, telling her to call him when she feels better.
It's so strange to be out of sync with him like this. She can't believe that he simply doesn't feel what she feels, so she convinces herself he's keeping it bottled up inside of him, denying the fact that there's an issue at all. It makes her want to bring it out of him-at least if they yell and scream at each other it's out in the open and out of their systems, and maybe they can move past it and be able to work like they used to. But Jamie is like a locked door and no matter how hard she tries, he stays the same. She begins to think that maybe they're not on the same page at all; maybe she's the only one with a problem.
***
"Choke me."
Noel's voice sounds quiet, gentle, as though he's speaking to a wild animal when he says, "What?"
Alison lifts her chin, takes his hands and puts them around her throat. "Choke me," she repeats. She tries to make it sound casual but her voice comes out sore and aching and desperate.
"I-don't know how." Noel's voice is still small and Alison hates it. He never sounds like this. She doesn't want to be the one to make him sound like this, all timid like she's crazy.
"Just-" Alison says-snaps-pushing his hands down against her throat, against the column of trachea, and the pressure is good but too expected and familiar with her orchestrating the movement. She squirms and little and lets go, and Noel's hands immediately slacken.
He's not good at this. It's not that he's a stranger to it-far from it, in fact-but he's always been on the receiving end, takes that place naturally, and doesn't know how to flip it. He's there for Alison to slap around when she needs, he doesn't mind (likes it, she thinks) when she gets rough with him, when she needs to take out all of her frustrations. But this time that's not what she wants. She needs something more, and Noel isn't the one to give it to her.
"Come on," she pleads. She hates the way he's looking at her, like he's judging her, when he's let her do this (and worse) to him. And she doesn't like having to beg for it; that's not her.
"Alison..." Noel says, gentle, uncertain.
"Fine. Fuck you."
It comes out suddenly and startles her, and he looks crestfallen and worried and all of a sudden she can't stand it, shoves at him, pushing him off her as she sits up. She fumbles for her cigarettes, wishing he wouldn't just sit there and stare at her like that, like a scolded child. He snatches the cigarette packet from her just as she's taken one out. She kind of slaps at his hand in response but she lets him take it; it's more like siblings squabbling than anything else, anything real that she could hold onto.
They sit there smoking in silence until their cigarettes have burned right down, and then Noel wordlessly takes Alison in his arms. They lie together on the bed and she lets him wrap himself around her, holding her tight. She thinks about how she doesn't need this, shouldn't need it, a man to hug her and make her feel better. She wouldn't tolerate it from anyone else right now, not even Jamie-perhaps especially not Jamie-but it's okay, because it's Noel, and this is not something that comes naturally to him either. And he won't think her weak, or think of her any differently at all. So she just buries her face in his chest and closes her eyes.
It's the first time they really sleep together.
In the morning she's embarrassed, waking up with him still tangled up around her, and she starts to squirm her way free. She's supposed to meet Jamie to try writing some more today, and she doesn't really want to show up late and in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday. Noel wakes up and grins sleepily, and she gives him a tight smile back. He props himself up on his arm, studying her, and then reaches out, puts his hands around her throat.
"Like this?" he asks, voice all scratchy from sleep.
She nods and smiles brightly. "Y-yeah."
He climbs on top of her, and he's hard as he shifts her legs apart with his knees. "Yeah?" he asks, tightening his grip.
"Yeah," she says breathlessly. His grasp on his neck isn't quite strong enough, but even so she feels light-headed and excited as he fucks her, his hips like a jackhammer as he holds her down by the throat, and she comes from it and ends up gasping for breath when he rolls off her.
"What was that for?" she asks dizzily as he reaches for her cigarettes from the bedside table.
"I dunno," he says with his lips around the filter, "you tell me."
It's a simple question that she probably should've asked herself sooner, but it catches her off guard. Jack, she thinks. Probably Jack. She hasn't seen him in a while and she doesn't know when she's going to see him again, and perhaps on tour she grew accustomed to being thrown around like a ragdoll. She misses it.
She doesn't say that, though. She looks at Noel sidelong and asks, "What do you think?" because sometimes, on very rare occasions, Noel will say something startlingly brilliant that puts her entire life into a perspective she could never have envisioned on her own, seemingly without even realising it.
This chilly December morning in Highgate, though, Noel just shrugs and guesses, "You had a baby duck-billed platypus stuck in your windpipe?"
Alison blinks at him, smile curling across her lips. "I don't think choking me would've dislodged it."
"No," Noel says, considering this. "I probably killed it instead. You want Pop Tarts for breakfast?"
Alison bursts out laughing and plucks Noel's cigarette from between his fingers, takes a long drag and then coughs a lot before croaking out, "I really do."
***
"Don't throw yourself at me. It's pathetic."
Alison blanches. "Throw myself at you?" she sneers. She'd just leaned in a little bit, trying to get a look at the lyrics. Casual. Holding her drink in one hand and getting closer just so she could see better.
"Oh, it's just a coincidence that you wait 'til we're the only ones in the room and then you come over and invade my space?" Jack shifts her aside gently with his shoulder, strikes something else out on the crumpled paper in front of them.
"Uh, yeah," Alison says. She takes another gulp of her whiskey. Jack says nothing more, which means the conversation is over, and another time Alison might respect that-but right now she's tipsy and frustrated and she can't stand letting him have the last word. "Kinda conceited, huh? Thinking I just wanna get close to you."
Jack's jaw clenches. He flips pages in the notebook agitatedly, but she can tell he's not really focusing on the lyrics anymore, just pretending.
Alison, in a dangerous move, nudges him with her hips. "Oooh, Jack," she makes her voice higher-pitched, obnoxious, sarcastic. If she makes it all into a joke she can maintain her dignity when he shoots her down. "I just can't control myself around you."
"Alison." Oh, Alison loves it when he says her name like that. Like it's a warning. It always tells her she's on the right track.
She laughs and it comes out as a sort of drunken cackle. "I just want-" she loses the voice and tries to find it again, still half-giggling, "I just miss your cock, it's been so long-"
Jack snaps, whirling round and snatching her glass out of her hand. "I think you've had a little too much of this." He takes a sip and raises his eyebrows. "Thought you could handle it, but clearly not."
Alison makes to grab the glass back from him, but he holds it out of reach. She punches at his stomach half-heartedly and it's like rock under her fist. Fuck.
"I'm not gonna fight you, Alison," Jack says, and the anger's gone. Now he just looks amused. Like he's mocking her. That's the worst-when she can't rile him up properly and he just absentmindedly swats at her like she's an annoying little fly. She thinks of Jamie, treating her like a kid having a temper tantrum when he used to join right in until they both ended up with bruises.
"Suit yourself," she says, and coughs. "Can I have my drink back, please?"
"If you can keep your hands to yourself."
Alison says nothing, looking at him skeptically. She's quiet for so long that he relents, leaning in and saying in an undertone, the words crisp and clear, "We don't do this here. All right?"
The words make her heart sink. She wants to pout and say why not? but she won't give him the satisfaction. She's trying to figure out what she should say when the door opens and Dean comes back in.
"Hey," he says, slightly awkwardly, heading over to the keyboard. He's clearly able to sense the tension in the room, but he and LJ have grown used to it, have learned to turn a blind eye when necessary.
"Hey," says Alison brightly, reaching for her glass from Jack's hand while Dean's back is turned. Jack lets her have it and she quirks an eyebrow at him. All she gets in return is a tiny, sharp shake of his head.
She still thinks she could wear him down. It's months before they go on tour again and anticipation has lost all of its appeal; she just wants, and wants now. She's all impatience and greed and it makes her feel vaguely disgusted with herself whenever she stops to think about it.
Suddenly she thinks of Jamie back at home, probably still poring over the lyrics she left him and trying to make something of them. She thinks of the way he looked at her when Jack phoned to tell her to get her ass to Nashville, the way he'd studied her quietly and figured out the gist of the call from what he could hear. He made her tell him, asked "What was that about?" even though he knew, because he wanted her to admit that she was leaving again, to record an album with Jack before she'd even managed to write one with Jamie.
And then he'd looked at her that way that made her heart ache, full of some broken sort of longing that he covered quickly by setting his jaw and nodding sharply at her. "All right," he'd said shortly, and then, "go," like she needed his blessing.
***
By some sort of magic, Sea of Cowards is finished by mid-January, and Jack throws a party at his house to celebrate. Jamie and Kate even fly over, which Alison thinks should make her feel flattered, but instead it just makes her antsy and uncomfortable. It's starting to wear away at her nerves, this whole thing, as though she's leading a double life. Having everyone under one roof just seems like too much.
She thinks of the first time they came to see The Dead Weather perform, and how weird Jamie got afterwards, how he'd barely look at her. She thought, triumphantly, that she had managed to shatter his calm façade, but instead of blowing up at her he just stayed quiet, even when she tried to confront him. Kate, meanwhile, was like a gossipy schoolgirl, picking up on the tension with Jack and daring to mention it in front of Jamie. Alison had brushed her off, irritated. "It's part of the show," she'd said with a roll of her eyes, and ignored the doubtful look on Kate's face she got in return, looking at Jamie instead and finding that she couldn't even read his expression, possibly for the first time in her life.
Tonight, she sits on a sofa in Jack's living room, smoking listlessly and watching the celebrations go on around her. Kate has had too much to drink and has chosen to be overly friendly on a night when Alison most wishes to be left alone. She's been murmuring things in Alison's ear, but Alison has barely been listening, watching Jamie and Jack deep in discussion across the room and wishing she could hear what they were saying.
"Don't fuck around, Kate," Alison snaps suddenly when she feels Kate's glossy lips brush her ear again. Her voice is low, scratchy. She's been smoking too much tonight; she's starting to feel a little sick. "I'm not in the mood."
"Who's fucking around?" Kate asks, snuggling closer to her on the couch, resting her head on Alison's shoulder. She smells sweet, like some sort of fruity perfume. It's not her usual scent and it makes Alison feel sicker.
"You're drunk," Alison says tightly around her cigarette.
"'m not," Kate responds, nuzzling into Alison's fur coat, which suddenly feels far too hot around her. "Listen, it's perfect, yeah? You and me and Jamie. Happy little family."
For a long moment, Alison says nothing, wondering what she missed. Kate doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer, particularly, but eventually Alison says, "What do you mean?" anyway.
Kate laughs, and it's her genuine one, and Alison loves the silly, crazy sound of it. But then she says, "I don't know," a little hoarsely, "I don't know, I'm drunk. Sometimes I get drunk and then I want to fuck you. Sue me."
She sits up straight again, sort of huffing to herself like she's in a mood now, folding her arms. Alison can tell she's looking at her, out of the corner of her eye. She's not massively shocked, but maybe it's because she's not taking Kate seriously. She does this, has been doing it ever since the two of them met. Just little flirty things at first, getting more blatant when she'd had more to drink. Alison always assumed it was a way to get one up on her, because it made her blush and feel awkward and Kate needed a way to feel secure, to be sure that Alison was intimidated.
When she's friendly, when she's reasonably sober, the two of them get on just fine, but Kate can switch over in an instant, and she has the ability to make Alison feel like a teenager again, painfully shy and awkward, wanting to dye her hair bright colours or shave it all off just so no one looks at her face anymore.
Alison just says "Kate," in warning. She doesn't know what she's warning for. She knows what Kate's going to say before she says it.
"Fine. Jesus, you're boring." It's always that, that sudden rejection, always you're so boring, you're so uptight, you're such a prude, Alison, why can't you take a joke? Why don't you let yourself have some fun for once? Loosen up, Alison, fuck. No wonder you haven't had a boyfriend in so long.
No fucking wonder.
"Have you fucked any of them yet?" Kate asks. Alison doesn't even dignify this with an answer, and Kate goes on, her voice low. "I've seen the way you look at him, Alison."
"His wife is standing about six feet away from you," Alison says flatly, lighting another cigarette.
Kate makes a sort of pshh noise. "Divorced within two years. I'd bet on it."
Alison frowns at her. "You're grossing me out," she says, and feels safe in saying it, if only because she knows Kate won't remember in the morning.
Kate laughs. "All right. Whatever," she says, and gets up, swaying her way across the room and slipping her arm through Jamie's and kissing him on the cheek. Jamie, clearly mid-conversation, laughs a little awkwardly, and Jack looks Kate up and down, amused, before shooting a glance at Alison. Alison just slumps, throws her head against the back of the sofa, blows a smoke ring and watches it drift towards the ceiling.
She and Jamie go into the studio next month, which is probably Kate's reason for marking her territory so obnoxiously-a little reminder to Alison before they disappear off together. She's saying: Jamie's mine and you're mine too. Telling them she's in control of both of them and they'd better not forget it when they're in cold, lonely Benton Harbor with their music and their bunk-beds and their romantic little bike rides around town.
Alison settles down into the sofa cushions, shuts her eyes and thinks wistfully of Michigan, of the magic that takes place there when they make their records. It'll get better, she tells herself. They just need something familiar, some time away, just the two of them and their music like it always used to be, and then everything will be okay.
***
Everything is not okay.
The surroundings are familiar but nothing else is; it feels like returning to a childhood home as an adult. It feels wrong, in some vague and unsettling way that she can't even pinpoint, let alone try to fix. And Jamie, it seems, is oblivious, getting lost in his drum machine patterns for days on end and leaving Alison to work on entire songs all by herself. Even in the music, there is something missing, some fundamental part of The Kills that won't come through.
They try to make up for it by making everything bigger, expanding the sound until it's almost absurd, until there are seven amps and a choir in the studio with them, and they're messing around with other instruments like they've never bothered to before. Alison realises, too late, that this is going in the wrong direction, that all they've succeeded in doing is making themselves sound less like The Kills than ever. It used to be just the two of them in this tiny room, and now they're letting others in. It feels like they're coming apart at the seams, and Alison doesn't know how to fix it.
They don't really talk about it. Jamie is too focused, getting obsessive about all the little details the way he usually does, and Alison feels lost and distant, just doing what he tells her the majority of the time. The songs she writes just come out of her and she doesn't think about it, doesn't analyse anything she's written, but Jamie's words are suddenly an enigma, a code to crack. They used to be so beautiful and simple to her, like they came from a different part of her own brain.
He writes songs about Kate now-she figures it out even when he tries to disguise it-and she belts them out at the top of her lungs. She screams like Jack's pounding away on the drums behind her, yelling at her to turn it up a notch if she doesn't wanna get drowned out. Jamie gets pissy then, asks her what she's trying to prove. He likes it when she sounds gentle and vulnerable, when her voice has that cracking quality like she's close to tears.
Sometimes, spiteful, she makes her lyrics sound like Dead Weather songs on purpose, sings the way she does when she's got the band around her just to get on his nerves. But he doesn't ever fight with her, just snaps a bit and goes off on his own. It never comes to anything. She forces herself back into Kills mode but ends up with pages and pages of ballads instead, stuff she thinks is totally unusable until it turns out Jamie's written one too, and in a singular moment of clarity it sounds like a counterpart to one of her own.
That night, feeling closer to him than she has in a while, she whispers to him in the dark. "Jamie. Jamie," until he stirs, and then, "Jamie, why is it so hard?"
Silence, for so long that she thinks he must be asleep after all. And then, "It's always hard."
She feels her eyes beginning to sting with tears; she can't stand that he doesn't get it. "But-Jamie," she says weakly. The words burst out of her. "I'm struggling. I can't get comfortable and I don't feel right, I feel trapped and lost and crazy-"
"That's what makes it good," Jamie interrupts, and the bedsprings creak as he rolls over. She wishes she could see his face. "That's how we make music."
Is it? Alison wonders frantically, thinks back to Midnight Boom and remembers-distantly, as if in a dream-the days of paranoia and claustrophobia and mad road trips and the week that they didn't open the curtains and only ate raw food and cut each other's hair and thought they were going to die if the sunlight touched their skin. She remembers the crazy road trip to Mexico, the drugs, that one night they got totally off their heads and ended up half-naked and clinging to one another on the bathroom floor, scared to let go.
All of that was different. They were one then, everything was shared.
"We're halfway there," Jamie whispers softly, trying to comfort her but she wishes he could just come over and get into bed with her instead, hold her 'til she falls asleep.
She says nothing, buries her face in her pillow.
She leaves for New Zealand the very next day, for another month and a half of touring with The Dead Weather, and she's not sure she can even take it, this back-and-forth. She gets Jack to fuck her repeatedly, gives up her dignity and fucking begs for it. It reaches the point where it happens after almost every show, and they can no longer kid themselves that they're keeping it a secret. Every night Alison thinks it's going to bring her some salvation and she slinks around Jack like a cat, sings so close to him that she swears she feels their lips brush. Every night she thinks he ought to have resigned himself to it, but he still resists until absolute breaking point. It starts out so fucking good but by the last leg of the tour she just feels guilty, and whenever Jack is on the phone to Karen she wants to puke, and the worst part is that even this is easier than making music with Jamie these days.
She arrives back in Michigan in May and feels like she can't wash the stench of it all off her; she feels like Jamie can see it in her eyes. The first few days back she is skittish and restless, feeling like she has cabin fever after travelling to a different country every week, and Jamie largely leaves her alone to deal with it. When they're together, he regards her carefully like she's something feral, and for an entire week she bursts into tears every single morning at breakfast.
It doesn't help that Sea of Cowards gets its release that month, and when she's not in the studio she's taking call after call of interviews, having to talk about one record while working on another. The back-and-forth never stops.
It's made even worse by her certainty that Jamie absolutely doesn't get it, but then one afternoon, mid-song, she sinks down to her knees in front of the microphone and stays there, hands over her face-and Jamie stops playing and gets down on the floor with her, holds her close and whispers, simply, "Jack?"
Alison falls against him, sobs into his chest. Jamie's body is stiff against hers as he soothes her through it, neither of them saying a word.
***
They finish recording, and festivals with The Dead Weather come next. It never really stops, but there is a short break between Bonnaroo and Glastonbury when she and Jamie meet up with Brian Molko. It's been a long time since either of them have seen him, and so they invite him round for drinks at Red Meat Heart, to catch up.
It's always a little odd when they see each other, especially when it's all three of them. Alison is always very aware of the fact that they have both fucked him. She did so a few times, in fact. For Jamie, it was just the once, but they did it within a few hours of each other at a party many years back. Alison stumbled into an upstairs room that she thought was the bathroom and found Jamie and Brian in a bed together, clearly high on something, dressed but significantly dishevelled. They had beckoned her and Jamie had scrunched up a handful of her hair and kissed her on the forehead. They both looked wild-eyed and the atmosphere in the room was charged with something, and Alison had just laughed at them in a sort of nervous, bemused way.
Jamie nuzzled into her shoulder and whispered, "We had sex," voice hushed with disbelief, and Brian let out a loud hoot of laughter.
"You're kidding," was all Alison could say as she shook her head at them. "Jamie." She looked into his eyes. "You didn't." But he didn't have to say anything more; she knew it was true. He'd talked often of their time at university together, of the times they'd fooled around when Jamie had gotten a little too drunk. He always tried to brush it off as youthful experimentation, but Alison wasn't so sure.
She doesn't remember what happened next, exactly, except that the three of them laughed a lot and then Jamie left the room, supposedly to get some water but he never came back. In his absence, Brian had said filthy things about threesomes that made Alison squirm, and then he offered her a joint and fucked her on that very same bed, taking her slow and nibbling at her earlobe. She remembers wanting to ask about Jamie, ask what it was like, and even though she knew that Brian would quite happily regale her with the details, she couldn't quite get the words out.
Afterwards, he had traced the lines of her face and whispered, "You're like twins, you know."
Alison had coughed out a laugh and told him he was stoned, because she and Jamie didn't look anything alike-but later, she realised that he must have meant something else. Something only he was in a position to compare.
When she came back downstairs Jamie was deep in conversation with somebody and she dragged him away to tell him what had happened, approaching it in the same giddy, childish way that he had, tugging on his sleeve with her face all flushed and her knees wobbly. But his face had gone harsh and he shrugged her off, said he didn't want to talk about it. She hasn't told him about the other times, but she knows that he knows, in the same way she's sure it was just a one-off for him.
Tonight, it's awkward because it's been so long, and Alison finds that she feels instantly more comfortable when Jamie disappears to the bathroom and she and Brian head into the kitchen to mix some more drinks. She realises then that she wants to kiss him, that it's been too long since the last time.
"Brian," she murmurs, trying not to let her voice edge into 'pleading' as she brushes her cheek against his, kisses his skin gently.
"Alison," Brian sing-songs back at her.
She has him pinned up against the counter, and his hands are wrapped around the rim of it. Her own hands are on his hips, clutching tightly at him.
"I have a family now," he says to her, softly like she doesn't know that, like he's trying to let her down easy.
"Yeah, you and everybody else," she snaps, and it comes out so hostile, so bitter and brutal that she even surprises herself.
Brian lets out a shocked little laugh and she pulls back, looks at him apologetically-but he kisses her for it, hands smoothing up her back. She almost moans with the relief of it and kisses him harder, but he eases off, gentle.
"He fucked you," Alison blurts out, and finds that she wanted to say that even more than she wanted to kiss him.
"What?" Brian says, bemused, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Alison's ear. Before Alison manages to clarify, Brian gets it, and he smiles-maybe a little too brightly, because it makes Alison feel like she's being mocked. "Oh. Many moons ago, yes."
"What was it like?" Alison demands, fingers curling into his belt loops, still holding him close as though he might run.
Brian's smile freezes and fades, and something else comes over his face, another sort of realisation, one that he keeps to himself. "Wonderful," he says instead, with a sly grin. "Always wondered why you never asked."
Alison hears the bathroom door creak open from down the hall and she draws back slowly. Neither of them say anything and they don't need to; he understands. She thinks he understands even better than she does, and she longs for him to explain, but then Jamie is there, standing anxiously before them with his hands in his pockets. The vague, complex tension that has surrounded the three of them all night intensifies in this moment, becomes unbearable.
"It's getting late," Brian smiles brightly, checking his watch. "But it's been a delight. Always is."
He kisses them both on the cheek, and is gone with a wink. Jamie decides to sleep over, pours himself a glass of water and disappears off to his bedroom without a word. Alison is glad of it, somehow, just to have him in the house. It feels like a comfort.
***
Glastonbury is trying. Alison and Jack have burnt out, reached an unspoken agreement that this needs to stop, but it doesn't mean the tension between them automatically dissipates. Alison still longs for him, and has to try and ignore the aching in her chest as she stomps about the stage. She hates performing in the daytime and everything feels too hot and bright, and even with crowds of people stretching out as far as the eye can see, she feels strangely isolated. She's been with Jamie so much over the past couple of months that she adjusted, once again, to being with him instead of with the others, and now it's reversed and the whole thing is just so stressful, she doesn't know how she's supposed to cope. When she collapses on the stage floor in front of the drumkit, it's less for dramatic effect and more because she can't fucking do this anymore.
But then, unexpectedly, halfway through their set, Jamie shows up. She just whirls around and suddenly he's there, sitting by the side of the stage as though he was here all along. She doesn't care that they're in the middle of a song, just rushes off stage and kisses him, and she has his hand firm on the back of her head and his lips on hers and it doesn't matter that it can only last a split-second-it gives her all the strength she needs. Jack is glowering as she trots back in front of the crowd, but she feels lighter on her feet and more able. Now she feels as though she's performing for Jamie, and that's something familiar, something she's always been able to do.
Will There Be Enough Water makes her blood thrum though, as she and Jack sing to each other right in front of Jamie's eyes. She has her back to him but she's so aware of him watching, and she thinks of what she told Kate-it's part of the show. That's all it can be now. She and Jack can't let themselves slip back into their habits, let this lead to anything more.
But it's so hard to look him in the eye, to be so close to him and to know that there's no chance of him fucking her ruthlessly backstage afterwards, to know that this moment, this song, is all she's going to get. It makes her want to wring it dry, but with Jamie standing just a few feet behind her it feels impossible. She feels torn again. She bumps Jack semi-accidentally, and, weak, ends up slumped against his back, pushing him closer to the mic and inhaling the smell of his sweat on his t-shirt, feeling the firm warmth of his back against her cheek. She ricochets from him and is back in Jamie's arms while the last note of the song is still ringing out across the crowd. He cradles her wordlessly and it almost seems like he understands, though they will never speak of it, and though it clearly tears him apart to even imagine. There might be a strange satisfaction in that knowledge, she thinks, but it is buried so deeply under so many other things that it's almost negligible. All that matters now is the time they have, the next few days before she leaves, again, for the umpteenth time.
Because then comes further touring in Europe, all the way through to August.
It's easier than before, though. With each show she feels a little stronger, and spending time with Jack day-in and day-out again leads to a growing sort of comfort between them. A less volatile relationship blossoms where it never had the chance before. Twice more, they have sex, after a pair of particularly intense shows when Alison doesn't even behave any differently but Jack clearly cannot fight the temptation anyway and gives in. But it does not destroy anything-they are shaky for a week and then their own strange version of fine, and before she knows it she's back home with all of it behind her. That's the end-no more Dead Weather shows for the foreseeable future-and for now, at least, Alison feels okay about it.
***
"I want a ciggie. Come out with me, Alison," Kate says, tugging at Alison's sleeve like a toddler.
It's Alison's birthday. She has spent the night having dinner with friends, and now they're in a little secret speakeasy in Soho-both establishments chosen by Kate, who explained that it was her responsibility to keep the paparazzi in the dark. It's worked out so far, thank god, but Alison has a rather unsettling feeling that the night is going to end badly. It's nothing she can be too specific about, just an odd feeling of tension and impatience in her bones, something that has been quietly trying to settle there since she came off tour. It's been nearly four months and that's about as long as she can last, she thinks, sitting around at home going stir crazy.
Jamie has been coming over less and less, spending more time with Kate than ever, the two of them putting plans in place for their wedding next year. Alison has been lonely and agitated, prowling around the house in the early hours and wishing Jamie still lived with her so they could be insomniacs together. Sometimes they used to stay up all night, go out at four in the morning and try to spot animals (and Jamie would always hold her hand if a fox ran in their path and she got scared). They'd try and cook gourmet dishes together and get all dressed up for their own private midnight dinner parties, or stay up laughing at the porn channels on TV that Noel once signed them up for.
She thinks it's okay that he moved out, but only so long as she's not there to notice. Being home, it's blindingly clear how alone she is. Nights out with friends only serve to make it more obvious when she comes home to an empty house. She's been staying over at Noel's more-he's dating someone now, but Noel says she doesn't mind, that she'd probably get on quite well with Alison and he'll have to hook them up. Jamie treats the whole thing like it's a joke, says she's going to pick up some disease or other, and only shuts up when she brings up the time he let Noel suck him off a couple of years ago.
Noel is fun, anyway, and he's a decent replacement for Jamie when it comes to having someone to talk to, someone to have silly little adventures with when she's bored. But he's no substitute for the violent, desperate sex she had with Jack-they've been sleeping together for so long that she's used to it, and it's too comfortable, predictable. Half the excitement with Jack was that sometimes she wanted to and he wouldn't, but Noel is up for it all the time. It's become almost boring.
In general, she feels bored. Lonely, and listless. Most of the time she flat-out refuses to factor Jamie into the equation, because when they do see each other it's lovely, and it's fine, even when Kate is there as well. So she puts it all down to Jack, reads stupid true-life stories in trashy magazines about women who had affairs with married men, and transfers all her feelings onto that. Sure, that's how she feels. It makes her feel more normal, like there's some prescribed way for her to behave. It's all explainable, excusable, which makes it seem like maybe nothing is wrong after all.
"Alison," Kate nags, and Alison looks up sharply, snapped out of her daze.
Before she has a chance to respond, though, Jamie looks up from his conversation, says, "Yeah, go ahead. We'll be out in a minute."
Alison fixes her gaze on him, tries to communicate with her eyes, get him to ask her to stay-but he goes back to his conversation, ignores her. She thinks that in the past that might have worked, but it's so hard to say. Half the time she thinks she's just making shit up these days. Warping memories.
She gets her bag and her jacket and makes a big show of it, for no particular reason, making Kate wait. Outside the restaurant, they wander in silence, end up in an alleyway where Kate leans against the wall and smokes. Alison wraps her arms around herself even though it's not particularly chilly, looks around even though there's nothing to look at. Kate is watching her, studying her, and it's making her uncomfortable.
"What's up with you?" Kate asks eventually, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth.
"What's up with me?"
"You've been weird for weeks," Kate says with a shrug. Takes another drag. "Is it Jack?"
"What?" It hits her suddenly that Jamie might have told Kate something, and she can't stand the thought of that. It's embarrassing.
Kate shrugs again. "Is it Jack?" she repeats, dragging the words out obnoxiously and then grinning in a way that makes Alison want to deck her.
"Fuck off. I don't know what you mean." Alison kicks at the pavement and then turns, looking off into the distance.
Kate sort of chuckles. "All right. Touchy." A pause. "Is it me?"
"What?"
"Are you mad at me?"
Alison looks back at her, frowning. "Why would I be mad at you?"
Kate shrugs, flicks ash from her cigarette. "You tell me. You're mad at something." She holds out her cigarette packet and Alison takes one, lets Kate light it without saying anything. Kate sighs and says, "You probably just need a good shag."
Alison inhales too sharply and coughs. "I've had one recently, thanks."
"Oh, Noel," Kate rolls her eyes. Great, so Jamie does tell her these things. "He doesn't count."
"Fuck off," is all Alison can come up with in response. She stomps her way over to the wall a little further down the alley and leans against it. Kate follows, to Alison's dismay.
"See what I mean? So much anger," Kate trills, giggling to herself. She comes in closer, looking Alison up and down in a way that makes her feel uneasy. "Maybe you'd get a boyfriend if you made more of an effort," she says, thoughtfully. "I mean-don't get me wrong, you're gorgeous, but you try really hard to hide it."
Alison is momentarily left speechless, trying to work out whether she's being complimented or insulted. She takes a drag of her cigarette, decides it's making her feel sick and drops it on the ground, stamps it out angrily. She moves to walk away, but Kate closes in on her.
"I mean, you're always in these fucking jeans and t-shirts," Kate hisses, gathering up a handful of cotton in her fist, pulling it away from Alison's body. Alison's stomach quivers as Kate's cold knuckles brush her skin. "Makes me want to see what's underneath." Alison twists, uncomfortable. Kate's voice is low and she speaks around her cigarette as she takes a last drag and then sends it the same way as Alison's. "Jamie says your body's beautiful. I don't understand why you don't show it off."
The words make Alison's heart ache. Jamie's the only person-the only person in the world-who's made her feel completely comfortable when she's naked. Even with her longest-term boyfriends, even with Noel, she's never felt quite at ease but Jamie-Jamie is different. If she's changing or if he wanders into the bathroom while she's showering, neither of them even bat an eye. And if she's bemoaning something, some part of her body, he'll always tell her to shut up because she's perfect.
One morning, when they were sharing a bed in some shitty hotel room way back when, she sat up and peeled off her sweaty t-shirt to start getting dressed for the day, and she stretched, arms held high above her head. Jamie, half-asleep, leaned in close to her and pressed his lips to the skin of her underarm. Alison's arms snapped down in an instant, nearly clocking him on the head, and she was stunned speechless. He just smiled sleepily at her and rolled over. It was so intimate, she could hardly believe it.
It's been a long time since he's seen her naked now.
"If you were wearing a dress right now I'd have my hand under it," Kate murmurs. "You could wear a dress one day, you know. Wouldn't kill you. You gonna wear one at my wedding?"
Alison scoffs at her, and it sounds stupid-she doesn't sound like she's in control and she hates that. This is all Kate's doing and she feels like she's lost her footing on a high ledge. She doesn't know what her next move should be. She considers shoving Kate away, and instantly realises that she doesn't want to. She wants to slump against the wall and see what happens next. Fuck.
It's a realisation that catches her off-guard-she's never really taken Kate seriously, interpreted all these come-ons as nothing more than strangely-veiled insults, and the thought of something coming from them is startlingly exciting. Suddenly she pictures Jamie and Kate in bed together-she walked in on them once, back when they'd just started dating and Kate slept over at the house and Alison foolishly wandered in to say goodnight without knocking. She'd mostly blocked the image from her memory but it comes back now; Kate straddling him, her red-painted nails stark against his chest, her hair flowing down her back, Jamie's bare thighs and the stunned, embarrassed look on his face when he saw Alison in the doorway.
A part of Alison wants to go through with this, but Jamie links them in every way, and she just can't. Even the underwear she's wearing tonight belonged to him once-a ragged old pair of boxers she nicked from him years ago, that used to lie forgotten in the back of her underwear drawer but lately have been worn more and more often. She pictures Jamie now as she looks at Kate, and in a flash, she's pushing her away. She wants to light another cigarette just for something to do, waiting for the scathing remark-but to her surprise Kate says nothing. Alison doesn't want to turn around and look at her, but the silence feels like victory.
It's literally only about a second before they hear Jamie's voice, making them both jump, and then he appears, standing there at the entrance to the alleyway. He has his hands stuffed in the pockets of his grey peacoat and a puzzled expression on his face as he looks at them, at his two girls. He calls them that sometimes, usually when he's had a bit too much to drink-slings his arms around the both of them and slurs soppy stuff about his two girls, his best girls-and Alison blushes and laughs and hates herself for it, squirms out of reach and tells him he's had enough.
"You all right?" Jamie calls, doesn't wait for an answer before adding, "ready to go?"
"Yeah!" Kate calls back. "Ali's just being a little bitch. Says she's gonna quit."
"What?!" Jamie and Alison's responses are one, and Kate shoots Alison a look that she can't interpret.
Kate skips down the alley towards Jamie and slips her arm through his. "She keeps going on about it, she hasn't told you?"
Alison simply glowers, and says nothing.
***
They work some more on the album throughout December, only coming home for Christmas. Jamie is weirdly tense-even more than he usually gets in the studio-obsessing over which version of which track to choose, saying repeatedly that Alison's vocals are too loud when they sound just fine to her. She can't help but be stressed out too, but it's mostly due to the fact that she now has to go along with Kate's lie and pretend she's quit smoking. She has to resort to sneaking the odd cigarette whenever she happens to be outside on her own, and then covering up later like a rebellious teenager. It's ridiculous and she's smoking a lot less than usual which makes her crabby, nervous, nauseous. Neither of them are particularly pleasant to be around.
It's not until New Year that they begin trying to think of a name for the album, and Alison struggles more than ever, unable to come up with a single suggestion. She listens to the record through a few times, but it feels incoherent to her, disjointed. She doesn't know how to sum it up in a few words; she can't find a common theme.
On New Year's Eve, Jamie gets extremely drunk. This might bother Alison, ordinarily, but tonight she's just relieved to see him chill out. He's lurching around, chatting excitedly to the friends who've joined them for the night, smothering Kate with kisses. In the early hours of the morning, the party still in full-swing, he suddenly appears beside Alison and announces that he's got it. The album title. Sex Tapes.
There is a shocked pause and then Alison bursts out laughing. "Sex Tapes?" she echoes in disbelief. "Jamie. You're drunk."
He looks hurt. "You don't get it," he says, but it's more of an observation than an accusation.
Alison shakes her head, still laughing a little. He gazes off in the other direction, watching the festivities continue, and he looks thoughtful and a little sad. On instinct, she strokes his arm, and is surprised to see him jolt slightly at the touch. "It's okay. We'll come up with something."
She keeps thinking about it all night, wondering where the fuck it came from. She'd been trying to find a topic, a common thread between all the songs on the record-she wonders if that's what Jamie did, and how all he got out of it was sex. After everyone finally stumbles off to bed at 5am, Alison stays up, shuts herself in the studio and listens to the album from start to finish once again, trying to understand. Jamie's lyrics make no more sense to her now than they did when she read his first drafts, but from what she can gather there's no more sex in this record than any of their others. A line here or there, as there's always been.
She sits there, hunched up small in one of the huge leather chairs with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, listening and listening and finishing off a bottle of brandy from the party. She wakes up there several hours later with the headphones playing nothing more than a static hum in her ears, and the phrase blood pressures scribbled on a notepad in front of her.
It seems to fit.
part two.
Title: not falling together
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Alison Mosshart/Jamie Hince, and Alison Mosshart/various (Jack White, Noel Fielding, Brian Molko, and sort Kate Moss) plus mentions of Jamie Hince/some of those same people.
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: Real people. Violence (occasionally during sex and including a bit of breathplay), drug use, and slightly excessive infidelity.
Summary: It used to be just the two of them in this tiny room, and now they're letting others in. It feels like they're coming apart at the seams, and Alison doesn't know how to fix it.
A/N: This basically deals with speculated changes/struggles in Alison and Jamie's relationship brought about by Kate and The Dead Weather. The timeline spans from September 2009 to December 2011, so not surprisingly, it is LONG. Thank you to the people who encouraged me-you know who you are. ♥ ( 2/2)
Jamie shows up the day after Alison gets back, lets himself in with the key he still has and scares her half to death when she wakes up to his grinning face. Jetlagged and bewildered, she hits him, knocking the cup of coffee he's made her out of his hand. The hot liquid spills over her bed, burning her, and she shrieks and hits him and then lies there shaking slightly as he whips off the sheets.
"Missed you too," he grumbles as he carefully picks up the shattered shards of a mug he gave her six years ago.
He wants to start writing, and she has to remind him that she got back from a three-month tour just last night and isn't quite ready yet. He leaves in a bit of a huff and comes round the next day instead, knocks on the door this time in a way that seems to Alison slightly passive-aggressive. She is sympathetic, though-she has to remember that while she might have been writing and playing all summer, he's had to wait for her return in order to do either properly.
So they sit on the floor in the middle of the living room, and pool everything they've created in each other's absence. Notebooks and sketchbooks and tapes and scribbled-on scraps of paper form a sort of moat around them. Alison finds the sight of it overwhelming but Jamie seems giddy, picking things up at random and reading them intently, his legs tucked into his chest.
It is clear from this moment that the next album is going to be a challenge. There is nothing wrong with what either of them has written, but putting any of it together seems like an impossible task. Jamie's words are beautiful but they seem meaningless to her-she used to be able to understand all of it, even when he tried to be cryptic, but now none of it makes any sense. He seems to have the same problem finding a connection with her lyrics; they speak of things he hasn't experienced, of times she hasn't shared with him. 'Dead Weather rejects', he calls them once, offhand but hurtful, and Alison seethes because they're not-anything she wrote that Jack shot down went straight into the trash; these are Kills songs through-and-through.
They meet up every few days and try, anyway, to make something from what they have. They attempt to write the way they used to, in separate rooms, but they may as well still be in separate countries for all the difference it makes. Alison suggests writing together, playing together, jamming like she does with the others-but that's never worked for the two of them and she knows it. It takes them weeks to be able to even form the beginnings of what might be a song, and then Alison has to leave, off on tour again, at the end of the month.
***
A week later she's soundchecking with The Dead Weather in Mexico and before they even realise what's happening, they've written a new song. Jack is feverishly scribbling down lyrics and making sure they got it all on tape and Alison is just blown away by how quick it was, how effortless, how the words just came out of her mouth and fit the music so perfectly and she didn't even think about it. It felt psychic, the four of them just picking up on each other's wavelength and playing what came naturally. It used to be like that with Jamie all the time and she can't believe she's been lucky enough to experience it again.
She's still high on it when they perform, and onstage she feels powerful, like she could do anything. She sets her eye on Jack and stands closer than she's supposed to, gazes at him and gets lost in the music and swears she can feel the heat coming off his body. By Will There Be Enough Water, he's so tense that she thinks he might shove her away any second now, his shoulders set and hard and his eyes refusing to meet hers.
They've only been offstage for about five minutes when he grips her tightly by the arm and drags her into the men's room, locking the door behind them and then fucking her up against it, biting into her collarbone and clutching her hips hard enough to bruise. She has his sweaty hair in her face and he's so deep inside her it hurts, and it feels so good.
It always goes like this; teasing him 'til he gives in. It makes her feel like she's in control, but she knows she never truly is. For all the times Jack's caved in, there are twice as many occasions when she's been left hanging, stung by a cruel remark and left feeling pathetic, like a fool. But it's worth it for the times when she really gets to him, when he snaps at her and pushes her away. Because the second they're alone he'll shove her up against a wall or throw her down on the floor and fuck her 'til she can't breathe, and he'll do it like he fucking hates her, and she loves it. She loves it.
***
Jamie is different when she returns home again the following month. Before, he was frustrated, and would get surly and sulky when things weren't going his way. This didn't surprise Alison; he's often like that during the writing process, has thrown fits and broken equipment before, and it's the passion of it that tells her how much he cares. But now, he's almost serene, dropping by a few days after she gets back and suggesting they give it another go. It's much the same, and this time Alison is the one who's aggravated by it, the contrast between this and the easy, almost-accidental songwriting of The Dead Weather more obvious than it's ever been. She wishes he would just get it, but he doesn't-he just furrows his brow at her and shakes his head a lot and crosses out the lines that she likes best.
The worst part is that he acts like this is all her fault, like it's some mistake she's made and they're just going to have to grit their teeth and try to fix it. Alison wants to point out that she's not the only one who's changed, that maybe he's the one to blame for moving out and leaving her, that maybe that's why she went off with the others in the first place. It's all petty and she bites her tongue, but she can't stand it, his attitude, the way he's acting like he has to clean up her mess.
Some days, he comes round even when they haven't planned to work. She thinks he's checking up on her, seeing how she's doing. And she hates that, it feels like pity. He moved out quite a while ago, but she's been so busy that she hasn't spent much time in the house alone and it does feel odd without him here. Even so, there's no reason for him to act like she can't survive without him. She wants to scream at him sometimes, shout about how she's doing just fine, how she went on tour without him, onstage without him, stayed in hotels without him, did interviews without him, went halfway round the fucking world without him and she can live on her own just fine, thank you, she doesn't need him checking in on her like a parent leaving a teenager home alone.
Still, it wouldn't be quite true. It hurts every time he leaves. The place is such a mess that their belongings have merged to a ridiculous degree over the years and the task of splitting them was an impossible one when it came time for Jamie to pack and leave for good, so Alison still has at least half of his clothes in her closet and trips over his trinkets in every room. They haven't even bothered trying to separate things like books and records-Jamie takes a handful of each whenever he comes and goes, not bothering to check what or whose they are. He takes things every time he leaves and the house always feels noticeably emptier, aches with his absence. It makes Alison itch for touring again, just to get away.
After a couple of weeks it begins to feel like they might be on their way towards something, with about three half-formed songs and plans for more. But there is still something missing from the way that they work-it takes so much effort and yet Jamie is more patient than ever. When Alison tries to voice it, makes a little comment about how hard it is, he just frowns at her in bemusement and says "That's why it's so rewarding, though, isn't it? The challenge is part of what makes it fun." He gives her a look that seems to say, don't you remember? and honestly, she's not sure that she does. It used to be challenging and fun, but now it just feels like an uphill struggle and he's not even there to support her.
Usually, with writing being this difficult, they would be fighting every day-bickering about word choice at the very least, if not actively attacking each other to vent their frustrations. But Jamie is as calm as she's ever seen him, and when she gets pissed off he just gives her some space. Once, he tries to hug her to comfort her and she thrashes violently, bewildered, and instead of grabbing hold of her arms and pinning her to the sofa until she calms down, he just leaves, telling her to call him when she feels better.
It's so strange to be out of sync with him like this. She can't believe that he simply doesn't feel what she feels, so she convinces herself he's keeping it bottled up inside of him, denying the fact that there's an issue at all. It makes her want to bring it out of him-at least if they yell and scream at each other it's out in the open and out of their systems, and maybe they can move past it and be able to work like they used to. But Jamie is like a locked door and no matter how hard she tries, he stays the same. She begins to think that maybe they're not on the same page at all; maybe she's the only one with a problem.
***
"Choke me."
Noel's voice sounds quiet, gentle, as though he's speaking to a wild animal when he says, "What?"
Alison lifts her chin, takes his hands and puts them around her throat. "Choke me," she repeats. She tries to make it sound casual but her voice comes out sore and aching and desperate.
"I-don't know how." Noel's voice is still small and Alison hates it. He never sounds like this. She doesn't want to be the one to make him sound like this, all timid like she's crazy.
"Just-" Alison says-snaps-pushing his hands down against her throat, against the column of trachea, and the pressure is good but too expected and familiar with her orchestrating the movement. She squirms and little and lets go, and Noel's hands immediately slacken.
He's not good at this. It's not that he's a stranger to it-far from it, in fact-but he's always been on the receiving end, takes that place naturally, and doesn't know how to flip it. He's there for Alison to slap around when she needs, he doesn't mind (likes it, she thinks) when she gets rough with him, when she needs to take out all of her frustrations. But this time that's not what she wants. She needs something more, and Noel isn't the one to give it to her.
"Come on," she pleads. She hates the way he's looking at her, like he's judging her, when he's let her do this (and worse) to him. And she doesn't like having to beg for it; that's not her.
"Alison..." Noel says, gentle, uncertain.
"Fine. Fuck you."
It comes out suddenly and startles her, and he looks crestfallen and worried and all of a sudden she can't stand it, shoves at him, pushing him off her as she sits up. She fumbles for her cigarettes, wishing he wouldn't just sit there and stare at her like that, like a scolded child. He snatches the cigarette packet from her just as she's taken one out. She kind of slaps at his hand in response but she lets him take it; it's more like siblings squabbling than anything else, anything real that she could hold onto.
They sit there smoking in silence until their cigarettes have burned right down, and then Noel wordlessly takes Alison in his arms. They lie together on the bed and she lets him wrap himself around her, holding her tight. She thinks about how she doesn't need this, shouldn't need it, a man to hug her and make her feel better. She wouldn't tolerate it from anyone else right now, not even Jamie-perhaps especially not Jamie-but it's okay, because it's Noel, and this is not something that comes naturally to him either. And he won't think her weak, or think of her any differently at all. So she just buries her face in his chest and closes her eyes.
It's the first time they really sleep together.
In the morning she's embarrassed, waking up with him still tangled up around her, and she starts to squirm her way free. She's supposed to meet Jamie to try writing some more today, and she doesn't really want to show up late and in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday. Noel wakes up and grins sleepily, and she gives him a tight smile back. He props himself up on his arm, studying her, and then reaches out, puts his hands around her throat.
"Like this?" he asks, voice all scratchy from sleep.
She nods and smiles brightly. "Y-yeah."
He climbs on top of her, and he's hard as he shifts her legs apart with his knees. "Yeah?" he asks, tightening his grip.
"Yeah," she says breathlessly. His grasp on his neck isn't quite strong enough, but even so she feels light-headed and excited as he fucks her, his hips like a jackhammer as he holds her down by the throat, and she comes from it and ends up gasping for breath when he rolls off her.
"What was that for?" she asks dizzily as he reaches for her cigarettes from the bedside table.
"I dunno," he says with his lips around the filter, "you tell me."
It's a simple question that she probably should've asked herself sooner, but it catches her off guard. Jack, she thinks. Probably Jack. She hasn't seen him in a while and she doesn't know when she's going to see him again, and perhaps on tour she grew accustomed to being thrown around like a ragdoll. She misses it.
She doesn't say that, though. She looks at Noel sidelong and asks, "What do you think?" because sometimes, on very rare occasions, Noel will say something startlingly brilliant that puts her entire life into a perspective she could never have envisioned on her own, seemingly without even realising it.
This chilly December morning in Highgate, though, Noel just shrugs and guesses, "You had a baby duck-billed platypus stuck in your windpipe?"
Alison blinks at him, smile curling across her lips. "I don't think choking me would've dislodged it."
"No," Noel says, considering this. "I probably killed it instead. You want Pop Tarts for breakfast?"
Alison bursts out laughing and plucks Noel's cigarette from between his fingers, takes a long drag and then coughs a lot before croaking out, "I really do."
***
"Don't throw yourself at me. It's pathetic."
Alison blanches. "Throw myself at you?" she sneers. She'd just leaned in a little bit, trying to get a look at the lyrics. Casual. Holding her drink in one hand and getting closer just so she could see better.
"Oh, it's just a coincidence that you wait 'til we're the only ones in the room and then you come over and invade my space?" Jack shifts her aside gently with his shoulder, strikes something else out on the crumpled paper in front of them.
"Uh, yeah," Alison says. She takes another gulp of her whiskey. Jack says nothing more, which means the conversation is over, and another time Alison might respect that-but right now she's tipsy and frustrated and she can't stand letting him have the last word. "Kinda conceited, huh? Thinking I just wanna get close to you."
Jack's jaw clenches. He flips pages in the notebook agitatedly, but she can tell he's not really focusing on the lyrics anymore, just pretending.
Alison, in a dangerous move, nudges him with her hips. "Oooh, Jack," she makes her voice higher-pitched, obnoxious, sarcastic. If she makes it all into a joke she can maintain her dignity when he shoots her down. "I just can't control myself around you."
"Alison." Oh, Alison loves it when he says her name like that. Like it's a warning. It always tells her she's on the right track.
She laughs and it comes out as a sort of drunken cackle. "I just want-" she loses the voice and tries to find it again, still half-giggling, "I just miss your cock, it's been so long-"
Jack snaps, whirling round and snatching her glass out of her hand. "I think you've had a little too much of this." He takes a sip and raises his eyebrows. "Thought you could handle it, but clearly not."
Alison makes to grab the glass back from him, but he holds it out of reach. She punches at his stomach half-heartedly and it's like rock under her fist. Fuck.
"I'm not gonna fight you, Alison," Jack says, and the anger's gone. Now he just looks amused. Like he's mocking her. That's the worst-when she can't rile him up properly and he just absentmindedly swats at her like she's an annoying little fly. She thinks of Jamie, treating her like a kid having a temper tantrum when he used to join right in until they both ended up with bruises.
"Suit yourself," she says, and coughs. "Can I have my drink back, please?"
"If you can keep your hands to yourself."
Alison says nothing, looking at him skeptically. She's quiet for so long that he relents, leaning in and saying in an undertone, the words crisp and clear, "We don't do this here. All right?"
The words make her heart sink. She wants to pout and say why not? but she won't give him the satisfaction. She's trying to figure out what she should say when the door opens and Dean comes back in.
"Hey," he says, slightly awkwardly, heading over to the keyboard. He's clearly able to sense the tension in the room, but he and LJ have grown used to it, have learned to turn a blind eye when necessary.
"Hey," says Alison brightly, reaching for her glass from Jack's hand while Dean's back is turned. Jack lets her have it and she quirks an eyebrow at him. All she gets in return is a tiny, sharp shake of his head.
She still thinks she could wear him down. It's months before they go on tour again and anticipation has lost all of its appeal; she just wants, and wants now. She's all impatience and greed and it makes her feel vaguely disgusted with herself whenever she stops to think about it.
Suddenly she thinks of Jamie back at home, probably still poring over the lyrics she left him and trying to make something of them. She thinks of the way he looked at her when Jack phoned to tell her to get her ass to Nashville, the way he'd studied her quietly and figured out the gist of the call from what he could hear. He made her tell him, asked "What was that about?" even though he knew, because he wanted her to admit that she was leaving again, to record an album with Jack before she'd even managed to write one with Jamie.
And then he'd looked at her that way that made her heart ache, full of some broken sort of longing that he covered quickly by setting his jaw and nodding sharply at her. "All right," he'd said shortly, and then, "go," like she needed his blessing.
***
By some sort of magic, Sea of Cowards is finished by mid-January, and Jack throws a party at his house to celebrate. Jamie and Kate even fly over, which Alison thinks should make her feel flattered, but instead it just makes her antsy and uncomfortable. It's starting to wear away at her nerves, this whole thing, as though she's leading a double life. Having everyone under one roof just seems like too much.
She thinks of the first time they came to see The Dead Weather perform, and how weird Jamie got afterwards, how he'd barely look at her. She thought, triumphantly, that she had managed to shatter his calm façade, but instead of blowing up at her he just stayed quiet, even when she tried to confront him. Kate, meanwhile, was like a gossipy schoolgirl, picking up on the tension with Jack and daring to mention it in front of Jamie. Alison had brushed her off, irritated. "It's part of the show," she'd said with a roll of her eyes, and ignored the doubtful look on Kate's face she got in return, looking at Jamie instead and finding that she couldn't even read his expression, possibly for the first time in her life.
Tonight, she sits on a sofa in Jack's living room, smoking listlessly and watching the celebrations go on around her. Kate has had too much to drink and has chosen to be overly friendly on a night when Alison most wishes to be left alone. She's been murmuring things in Alison's ear, but Alison has barely been listening, watching Jamie and Jack deep in discussion across the room and wishing she could hear what they were saying.
"Don't fuck around, Kate," Alison snaps suddenly when she feels Kate's glossy lips brush her ear again. Her voice is low, scratchy. She's been smoking too much tonight; she's starting to feel a little sick. "I'm not in the mood."
"Who's fucking around?" Kate asks, snuggling closer to her on the couch, resting her head on Alison's shoulder. She smells sweet, like some sort of fruity perfume. It's not her usual scent and it makes Alison feel sicker.
"You're drunk," Alison says tightly around her cigarette.
"'m not," Kate responds, nuzzling into Alison's fur coat, which suddenly feels far too hot around her. "Listen, it's perfect, yeah? You and me and Jamie. Happy little family."
For a long moment, Alison says nothing, wondering what she missed. Kate doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer, particularly, but eventually Alison says, "What do you mean?" anyway.
Kate laughs, and it's her genuine one, and Alison loves the silly, crazy sound of it. But then she says, "I don't know," a little hoarsely, "I don't know, I'm drunk. Sometimes I get drunk and then I want to fuck you. Sue me."
She sits up straight again, sort of huffing to herself like she's in a mood now, folding her arms. Alison can tell she's looking at her, out of the corner of her eye. She's not massively shocked, but maybe it's because she's not taking Kate seriously. She does this, has been doing it ever since the two of them met. Just little flirty things at first, getting more blatant when she'd had more to drink. Alison always assumed it was a way to get one up on her, because it made her blush and feel awkward and Kate needed a way to feel secure, to be sure that Alison was intimidated.
When she's friendly, when she's reasonably sober, the two of them get on just fine, but Kate can switch over in an instant, and she has the ability to make Alison feel like a teenager again, painfully shy and awkward, wanting to dye her hair bright colours or shave it all off just so no one looks at her face anymore.
Alison just says "Kate," in warning. She doesn't know what she's warning for. She knows what Kate's going to say before she says it.
"Fine. Jesus, you're boring." It's always that, that sudden rejection, always you're so boring, you're so uptight, you're such a prude, Alison, why can't you take a joke? Why don't you let yourself have some fun for once? Loosen up, Alison, fuck. No wonder you haven't had a boyfriend in so long.
No fucking wonder.
"Have you fucked any of them yet?" Kate asks. Alison doesn't even dignify this with an answer, and Kate goes on, her voice low. "I've seen the way you look at him, Alison."
"His wife is standing about six feet away from you," Alison says flatly, lighting another cigarette.
Kate makes a sort of pshh noise. "Divorced within two years. I'd bet on it."
Alison frowns at her. "You're grossing me out," she says, and feels safe in saying it, if only because she knows Kate won't remember in the morning.
Kate laughs. "All right. Whatever," she says, and gets up, swaying her way across the room and slipping her arm through Jamie's and kissing him on the cheek. Jamie, clearly mid-conversation, laughs a little awkwardly, and Jack looks Kate up and down, amused, before shooting a glance at Alison. Alison just slumps, throws her head against the back of the sofa, blows a smoke ring and watches it drift towards the ceiling.
She and Jamie go into the studio next month, which is probably Kate's reason for marking her territory so obnoxiously-a little reminder to Alison before they disappear off together. She's saying: Jamie's mine and you're mine too. Telling them she's in control of both of them and they'd better not forget it when they're in cold, lonely Benton Harbor with their music and their bunk-beds and their romantic little bike rides around town.
Alison settles down into the sofa cushions, shuts her eyes and thinks wistfully of Michigan, of the magic that takes place there when they make their records. It'll get better, she tells herself. They just need something familiar, some time away, just the two of them and their music like it always used to be, and then everything will be okay.
***
Everything is not okay.
The surroundings are familiar but nothing else is; it feels like returning to a childhood home as an adult. It feels wrong, in some vague and unsettling way that she can't even pinpoint, let alone try to fix. And Jamie, it seems, is oblivious, getting lost in his drum machine patterns for days on end and leaving Alison to work on entire songs all by herself. Even in the music, there is something missing, some fundamental part of The Kills that won't come through.
They try to make up for it by making everything bigger, expanding the sound until it's almost absurd, until there are seven amps and a choir in the studio with them, and they're messing around with other instruments like they've never bothered to before. Alison realises, too late, that this is going in the wrong direction, that all they've succeeded in doing is making themselves sound less like The Kills than ever. It used to be just the two of them in this tiny room, and now they're letting others in. It feels like they're coming apart at the seams, and Alison doesn't know how to fix it.
They don't really talk about it. Jamie is too focused, getting obsessive about all the little details the way he usually does, and Alison feels lost and distant, just doing what he tells her the majority of the time. The songs she writes just come out of her and she doesn't think about it, doesn't analyse anything she's written, but Jamie's words are suddenly an enigma, a code to crack. They used to be so beautiful and simple to her, like they came from a different part of her own brain.
He writes songs about Kate now-she figures it out even when he tries to disguise it-and she belts them out at the top of her lungs. She screams like Jack's pounding away on the drums behind her, yelling at her to turn it up a notch if she doesn't wanna get drowned out. Jamie gets pissy then, asks her what she's trying to prove. He likes it when she sounds gentle and vulnerable, when her voice has that cracking quality like she's close to tears.
Sometimes, spiteful, she makes her lyrics sound like Dead Weather songs on purpose, sings the way she does when she's got the band around her just to get on his nerves. But he doesn't ever fight with her, just snaps a bit and goes off on his own. It never comes to anything. She forces herself back into Kills mode but ends up with pages and pages of ballads instead, stuff she thinks is totally unusable until it turns out Jamie's written one too, and in a singular moment of clarity it sounds like a counterpart to one of her own.
That night, feeling closer to him than she has in a while, she whispers to him in the dark. "Jamie. Jamie," until he stirs, and then, "Jamie, why is it so hard?"
Silence, for so long that she thinks he must be asleep after all. And then, "It's always hard."
She feels her eyes beginning to sting with tears; she can't stand that he doesn't get it. "But-Jamie," she says weakly. The words burst out of her. "I'm struggling. I can't get comfortable and I don't feel right, I feel trapped and lost and crazy-"
"That's what makes it good," Jamie interrupts, and the bedsprings creak as he rolls over. She wishes she could see his face. "That's how we make music."
Is it? Alison wonders frantically, thinks back to Midnight Boom and remembers-distantly, as if in a dream-the days of paranoia and claustrophobia and mad road trips and the week that they didn't open the curtains and only ate raw food and cut each other's hair and thought they were going to die if the sunlight touched their skin. She remembers the crazy road trip to Mexico, the drugs, that one night they got totally off their heads and ended up half-naked and clinging to one another on the bathroom floor, scared to let go.
All of that was different. They were one then, everything was shared.
"We're halfway there," Jamie whispers softly, trying to comfort her but she wishes he could just come over and get into bed with her instead, hold her 'til she falls asleep.
She says nothing, buries her face in her pillow.
She leaves for New Zealand the very next day, for another month and a half of touring with The Dead Weather, and she's not sure she can even take it, this back-and-forth. She gets Jack to fuck her repeatedly, gives up her dignity and fucking begs for it. It reaches the point where it happens after almost every show, and they can no longer kid themselves that they're keeping it a secret. Every night Alison thinks it's going to bring her some salvation and she slinks around Jack like a cat, sings so close to him that she swears she feels their lips brush. Every night she thinks he ought to have resigned himself to it, but he still resists until absolute breaking point. It starts out so fucking good but by the last leg of the tour she just feels guilty, and whenever Jack is on the phone to Karen she wants to puke, and the worst part is that even this is easier than making music with Jamie these days.
She arrives back in Michigan in May and feels like she can't wash the stench of it all off her; she feels like Jamie can see it in her eyes. The first few days back she is skittish and restless, feeling like she has cabin fever after travelling to a different country every week, and Jamie largely leaves her alone to deal with it. When they're together, he regards her carefully like she's something feral, and for an entire week she bursts into tears every single morning at breakfast.
It doesn't help that Sea of Cowards gets its release that month, and when she's not in the studio she's taking call after call of interviews, having to talk about one record while working on another. The back-and-forth never stops.
It's made even worse by her certainty that Jamie absolutely doesn't get it, but then one afternoon, mid-song, she sinks down to her knees in front of the microphone and stays there, hands over her face-and Jamie stops playing and gets down on the floor with her, holds her close and whispers, simply, "Jack?"
Alison falls against him, sobs into his chest. Jamie's body is stiff against hers as he soothes her through it, neither of them saying a word.
***
They finish recording, and festivals with The Dead Weather come next. It never really stops, but there is a short break between Bonnaroo and Glastonbury when she and Jamie meet up with Brian Molko. It's been a long time since either of them have seen him, and so they invite him round for drinks at Red Meat Heart, to catch up.
It's always a little odd when they see each other, especially when it's all three of them. Alison is always very aware of the fact that they have both fucked him. She did so a few times, in fact. For Jamie, it was just the once, but they did it within a few hours of each other at a party many years back. Alison stumbled into an upstairs room that she thought was the bathroom and found Jamie and Brian in a bed together, clearly high on something, dressed but significantly dishevelled. They had beckoned her and Jamie had scrunched up a handful of her hair and kissed her on the forehead. They both looked wild-eyed and the atmosphere in the room was charged with something, and Alison had just laughed at them in a sort of nervous, bemused way.
Jamie nuzzled into her shoulder and whispered, "We had sex," voice hushed with disbelief, and Brian let out a loud hoot of laughter.
"You're kidding," was all Alison could say as she shook her head at them. "Jamie." She looked into his eyes. "You didn't." But he didn't have to say anything more; she knew it was true. He'd talked often of their time at university together, of the times they'd fooled around when Jamie had gotten a little too drunk. He always tried to brush it off as youthful experimentation, but Alison wasn't so sure.
She doesn't remember what happened next, exactly, except that the three of them laughed a lot and then Jamie left the room, supposedly to get some water but he never came back. In his absence, Brian had said filthy things about threesomes that made Alison squirm, and then he offered her a joint and fucked her on that very same bed, taking her slow and nibbling at her earlobe. She remembers wanting to ask about Jamie, ask what it was like, and even though she knew that Brian would quite happily regale her with the details, she couldn't quite get the words out.
Afterwards, he had traced the lines of her face and whispered, "You're like twins, you know."
Alison had coughed out a laugh and told him he was stoned, because she and Jamie didn't look anything alike-but later, she realised that he must have meant something else. Something only he was in a position to compare.
When she came back downstairs Jamie was deep in conversation with somebody and she dragged him away to tell him what had happened, approaching it in the same giddy, childish way that he had, tugging on his sleeve with her face all flushed and her knees wobbly. But his face had gone harsh and he shrugged her off, said he didn't want to talk about it. She hasn't told him about the other times, but she knows that he knows, in the same way she's sure it was just a one-off for him.
Tonight, it's awkward because it's been so long, and Alison finds that she feels instantly more comfortable when Jamie disappears to the bathroom and she and Brian head into the kitchen to mix some more drinks. She realises then that she wants to kiss him, that it's been too long since the last time.
"Brian," she murmurs, trying not to let her voice edge into 'pleading' as she brushes her cheek against his, kisses his skin gently.
"Alison," Brian sing-songs back at her.
She has him pinned up against the counter, and his hands are wrapped around the rim of it. Her own hands are on his hips, clutching tightly at him.
"I have a family now," he says to her, softly like she doesn't know that, like he's trying to let her down easy.
"Yeah, you and everybody else," she snaps, and it comes out so hostile, so bitter and brutal that she even surprises herself.
Brian lets out a shocked little laugh and she pulls back, looks at him apologetically-but he kisses her for it, hands smoothing up her back. She almost moans with the relief of it and kisses him harder, but he eases off, gentle.
"He fucked you," Alison blurts out, and finds that she wanted to say that even more than she wanted to kiss him.
"What?" Brian says, bemused, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Alison's ear. Before Alison manages to clarify, Brian gets it, and he smiles-maybe a little too brightly, because it makes Alison feel like she's being mocked. "Oh. Many moons ago, yes."
"What was it like?" Alison demands, fingers curling into his belt loops, still holding him close as though he might run.
Brian's smile freezes and fades, and something else comes over his face, another sort of realisation, one that he keeps to himself. "Wonderful," he says instead, with a sly grin. "Always wondered why you never asked."
Alison hears the bathroom door creak open from down the hall and she draws back slowly. Neither of them say anything and they don't need to; he understands. She thinks he understands even better than she does, and she longs for him to explain, but then Jamie is there, standing anxiously before them with his hands in his pockets. The vague, complex tension that has surrounded the three of them all night intensifies in this moment, becomes unbearable.
"It's getting late," Brian smiles brightly, checking his watch. "But it's been a delight. Always is."
He kisses them both on the cheek, and is gone with a wink. Jamie decides to sleep over, pours himself a glass of water and disappears off to his bedroom without a word. Alison is glad of it, somehow, just to have him in the house. It feels like a comfort.
***
Glastonbury is trying. Alison and Jack have burnt out, reached an unspoken agreement that this needs to stop, but it doesn't mean the tension between them automatically dissipates. Alison still longs for him, and has to try and ignore the aching in her chest as she stomps about the stage. She hates performing in the daytime and everything feels too hot and bright, and even with crowds of people stretching out as far as the eye can see, she feels strangely isolated. She's been with Jamie so much over the past couple of months that she adjusted, once again, to being with him instead of with the others, and now it's reversed and the whole thing is just so stressful, she doesn't know how she's supposed to cope. When she collapses on the stage floor in front of the drumkit, it's less for dramatic effect and more because she can't fucking do this anymore.
But then, unexpectedly, halfway through their set, Jamie shows up. She just whirls around and suddenly he's there, sitting by the side of the stage as though he was here all along. She doesn't care that they're in the middle of a song, just rushes off stage and kisses him, and she has his hand firm on the back of her head and his lips on hers and it doesn't matter that it can only last a split-second-it gives her all the strength she needs. Jack is glowering as she trots back in front of the crowd, but she feels lighter on her feet and more able. Now she feels as though she's performing for Jamie, and that's something familiar, something she's always been able to do.
Will There Be Enough Water makes her blood thrum though, as she and Jack sing to each other right in front of Jamie's eyes. She has her back to him but she's so aware of him watching, and she thinks of what she told Kate-it's part of the show. That's all it can be now. She and Jack can't let themselves slip back into their habits, let this lead to anything more.
But it's so hard to look him in the eye, to be so close to him and to know that there's no chance of him fucking her ruthlessly backstage afterwards, to know that this moment, this song, is all she's going to get. It makes her want to wring it dry, but with Jamie standing just a few feet behind her it feels impossible. She feels torn again. She bumps Jack semi-accidentally, and, weak, ends up slumped against his back, pushing him closer to the mic and inhaling the smell of his sweat on his t-shirt, feeling the firm warmth of his back against her cheek. She ricochets from him and is back in Jamie's arms while the last note of the song is still ringing out across the crowd. He cradles her wordlessly and it almost seems like he understands, though they will never speak of it, and though it clearly tears him apart to even imagine. There might be a strange satisfaction in that knowledge, she thinks, but it is buried so deeply under so many other things that it's almost negligible. All that matters now is the time they have, the next few days before she leaves, again, for the umpteenth time.
Because then comes further touring in Europe, all the way through to August.
It's easier than before, though. With each show she feels a little stronger, and spending time with Jack day-in and day-out again leads to a growing sort of comfort between them. A less volatile relationship blossoms where it never had the chance before. Twice more, they have sex, after a pair of particularly intense shows when Alison doesn't even behave any differently but Jack clearly cannot fight the temptation anyway and gives in. But it does not destroy anything-they are shaky for a week and then their own strange version of fine, and before she knows it she's back home with all of it behind her. That's the end-no more Dead Weather shows for the foreseeable future-and for now, at least, Alison feels okay about it.
***
"I want a ciggie. Come out with me, Alison," Kate says, tugging at Alison's sleeve like a toddler.
It's Alison's birthday. She has spent the night having dinner with friends, and now they're in a little secret speakeasy in Soho-both establishments chosen by Kate, who explained that it was her responsibility to keep the paparazzi in the dark. It's worked out so far, thank god, but Alison has a rather unsettling feeling that the night is going to end badly. It's nothing she can be too specific about, just an odd feeling of tension and impatience in her bones, something that has been quietly trying to settle there since she came off tour. It's been nearly four months and that's about as long as she can last, she thinks, sitting around at home going stir crazy.
Jamie has been coming over less and less, spending more time with Kate than ever, the two of them putting plans in place for their wedding next year. Alison has been lonely and agitated, prowling around the house in the early hours and wishing Jamie still lived with her so they could be insomniacs together. Sometimes they used to stay up all night, go out at four in the morning and try to spot animals (and Jamie would always hold her hand if a fox ran in their path and she got scared). They'd try and cook gourmet dishes together and get all dressed up for their own private midnight dinner parties, or stay up laughing at the porn channels on TV that Noel once signed them up for.
She thinks it's okay that he moved out, but only so long as she's not there to notice. Being home, it's blindingly clear how alone she is. Nights out with friends only serve to make it more obvious when she comes home to an empty house. She's been staying over at Noel's more-he's dating someone now, but Noel says she doesn't mind, that she'd probably get on quite well with Alison and he'll have to hook them up. Jamie treats the whole thing like it's a joke, says she's going to pick up some disease or other, and only shuts up when she brings up the time he let Noel suck him off a couple of years ago.
Noel is fun, anyway, and he's a decent replacement for Jamie when it comes to having someone to talk to, someone to have silly little adventures with when she's bored. But he's no substitute for the violent, desperate sex she had with Jack-they've been sleeping together for so long that she's used to it, and it's too comfortable, predictable. Half the excitement with Jack was that sometimes she wanted to and he wouldn't, but Noel is up for it all the time. It's become almost boring.
In general, she feels bored. Lonely, and listless. Most of the time she flat-out refuses to factor Jamie into the equation, because when they do see each other it's lovely, and it's fine, even when Kate is there as well. So she puts it all down to Jack, reads stupid true-life stories in trashy magazines about women who had affairs with married men, and transfers all her feelings onto that. Sure, that's how she feels. It makes her feel more normal, like there's some prescribed way for her to behave. It's all explainable, excusable, which makes it seem like maybe nothing is wrong after all.
"Alison," Kate nags, and Alison looks up sharply, snapped out of her daze.
Before she has a chance to respond, though, Jamie looks up from his conversation, says, "Yeah, go ahead. We'll be out in a minute."
Alison fixes her gaze on him, tries to communicate with her eyes, get him to ask her to stay-but he goes back to his conversation, ignores her. She thinks that in the past that might have worked, but it's so hard to say. Half the time she thinks she's just making shit up these days. Warping memories.
She gets her bag and her jacket and makes a big show of it, for no particular reason, making Kate wait. Outside the restaurant, they wander in silence, end up in an alleyway where Kate leans against the wall and smokes. Alison wraps her arms around herself even though it's not particularly chilly, looks around even though there's nothing to look at. Kate is watching her, studying her, and it's making her uncomfortable.
"What's up with you?" Kate asks eventually, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth.
"What's up with me?"
"You've been weird for weeks," Kate says with a shrug. Takes another drag. "Is it Jack?"
"What?" It hits her suddenly that Jamie might have told Kate something, and she can't stand the thought of that. It's embarrassing.
Kate shrugs again. "Is it Jack?" she repeats, dragging the words out obnoxiously and then grinning in a way that makes Alison want to deck her.
"Fuck off. I don't know what you mean." Alison kicks at the pavement and then turns, looking off into the distance.
Kate sort of chuckles. "All right. Touchy." A pause. "Is it me?"
"What?"
"Are you mad at me?"
Alison looks back at her, frowning. "Why would I be mad at you?"
Kate shrugs, flicks ash from her cigarette. "You tell me. You're mad at something." She holds out her cigarette packet and Alison takes one, lets Kate light it without saying anything. Kate sighs and says, "You probably just need a good shag."
Alison inhales too sharply and coughs. "I've had one recently, thanks."
"Oh, Noel," Kate rolls her eyes. Great, so Jamie does tell her these things. "He doesn't count."
"Fuck off," is all Alison can come up with in response. She stomps her way over to the wall a little further down the alley and leans against it. Kate follows, to Alison's dismay.
"See what I mean? So much anger," Kate trills, giggling to herself. She comes in closer, looking Alison up and down in a way that makes her feel uneasy. "Maybe you'd get a boyfriend if you made more of an effort," she says, thoughtfully. "I mean-don't get me wrong, you're gorgeous, but you try really hard to hide it."
Alison is momentarily left speechless, trying to work out whether she's being complimented or insulted. She takes a drag of her cigarette, decides it's making her feel sick and drops it on the ground, stamps it out angrily. She moves to walk away, but Kate closes in on her.
"I mean, you're always in these fucking jeans and t-shirts," Kate hisses, gathering up a handful of cotton in her fist, pulling it away from Alison's body. Alison's stomach quivers as Kate's cold knuckles brush her skin. "Makes me want to see what's underneath." Alison twists, uncomfortable. Kate's voice is low and she speaks around her cigarette as she takes a last drag and then sends it the same way as Alison's. "Jamie says your body's beautiful. I don't understand why you don't show it off."
The words make Alison's heart ache. Jamie's the only person-the only person in the world-who's made her feel completely comfortable when she's naked. Even with her longest-term boyfriends, even with Noel, she's never felt quite at ease but Jamie-Jamie is different. If she's changing or if he wanders into the bathroom while she's showering, neither of them even bat an eye. And if she's bemoaning something, some part of her body, he'll always tell her to shut up because she's perfect.
One morning, when they were sharing a bed in some shitty hotel room way back when, she sat up and peeled off her sweaty t-shirt to start getting dressed for the day, and she stretched, arms held high above her head. Jamie, half-asleep, leaned in close to her and pressed his lips to the skin of her underarm. Alison's arms snapped down in an instant, nearly clocking him on the head, and she was stunned speechless. He just smiled sleepily at her and rolled over. It was so intimate, she could hardly believe it.
It's been a long time since he's seen her naked now.
"If you were wearing a dress right now I'd have my hand under it," Kate murmurs. "You could wear a dress one day, you know. Wouldn't kill you. You gonna wear one at my wedding?"
Alison scoffs at her, and it sounds stupid-she doesn't sound like she's in control and she hates that. This is all Kate's doing and she feels like she's lost her footing on a high ledge. She doesn't know what her next move should be. She considers shoving Kate away, and instantly realises that she doesn't want to. She wants to slump against the wall and see what happens next. Fuck.
It's a realisation that catches her off-guard-she's never really taken Kate seriously, interpreted all these come-ons as nothing more than strangely-veiled insults, and the thought of something coming from them is startlingly exciting. Suddenly she pictures Jamie and Kate in bed together-she walked in on them once, back when they'd just started dating and Kate slept over at the house and Alison foolishly wandered in to say goodnight without knocking. She'd mostly blocked the image from her memory but it comes back now; Kate straddling him, her red-painted nails stark against his chest, her hair flowing down her back, Jamie's bare thighs and the stunned, embarrassed look on his face when he saw Alison in the doorway.
A part of Alison wants to go through with this, but Jamie links them in every way, and she just can't. Even the underwear she's wearing tonight belonged to him once-a ragged old pair of boxers she nicked from him years ago, that used to lie forgotten in the back of her underwear drawer but lately have been worn more and more often. She pictures Jamie now as she looks at Kate, and in a flash, she's pushing her away. She wants to light another cigarette just for something to do, waiting for the scathing remark-but to her surprise Kate says nothing. Alison doesn't want to turn around and look at her, but the silence feels like victory.
It's literally only about a second before they hear Jamie's voice, making them both jump, and then he appears, standing there at the entrance to the alleyway. He has his hands stuffed in the pockets of his grey peacoat and a puzzled expression on his face as he looks at them, at his two girls. He calls them that sometimes, usually when he's had a bit too much to drink-slings his arms around the both of them and slurs soppy stuff about his two girls, his best girls-and Alison blushes and laughs and hates herself for it, squirms out of reach and tells him he's had enough.
"You all right?" Jamie calls, doesn't wait for an answer before adding, "ready to go?"
"Yeah!" Kate calls back. "Ali's just being a little bitch. Says she's gonna quit."
"What?!" Jamie and Alison's responses are one, and Kate shoots Alison a look that she can't interpret.
Kate skips down the alley towards Jamie and slips her arm through his. "She keeps going on about it, she hasn't told you?"
Alison simply glowers, and says nothing.
***
They work some more on the album throughout December, only coming home for Christmas. Jamie is weirdly tense-even more than he usually gets in the studio-obsessing over which version of which track to choose, saying repeatedly that Alison's vocals are too loud when they sound just fine to her. She can't help but be stressed out too, but it's mostly due to the fact that she now has to go along with Kate's lie and pretend she's quit smoking. She has to resort to sneaking the odd cigarette whenever she happens to be outside on her own, and then covering up later like a rebellious teenager. It's ridiculous and she's smoking a lot less than usual which makes her crabby, nervous, nauseous. Neither of them are particularly pleasant to be around.
It's not until New Year that they begin trying to think of a name for the album, and Alison struggles more than ever, unable to come up with a single suggestion. She listens to the record through a few times, but it feels incoherent to her, disjointed. She doesn't know how to sum it up in a few words; she can't find a common theme.
On New Year's Eve, Jamie gets extremely drunk. This might bother Alison, ordinarily, but tonight she's just relieved to see him chill out. He's lurching around, chatting excitedly to the friends who've joined them for the night, smothering Kate with kisses. In the early hours of the morning, the party still in full-swing, he suddenly appears beside Alison and announces that he's got it. The album title. Sex Tapes.
There is a shocked pause and then Alison bursts out laughing. "Sex Tapes?" she echoes in disbelief. "Jamie. You're drunk."
He looks hurt. "You don't get it," he says, but it's more of an observation than an accusation.
Alison shakes her head, still laughing a little. He gazes off in the other direction, watching the festivities continue, and he looks thoughtful and a little sad. On instinct, she strokes his arm, and is surprised to see him jolt slightly at the touch. "It's okay. We'll come up with something."
She keeps thinking about it all night, wondering where the fuck it came from. She'd been trying to find a topic, a common thread between all the songs on the record-she wonders if that's what Jamie did, and how all he got out of it was sex. After everyone finally stumbles off to bed at 5am, Alison stays up, shuts herself in the studio and listens to the album from start to finish once again, trying to understand. Jamie's lyrics make no more sense to her now than they did when she read his first drafts, but from what she can gather there's no more sex in this record than any of their others. A line here or there, as there's always been.
She sits there, hunched up small in one of the huge leather chairs with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, listening and listening and finishing off a bottle of brandy from the party. She wakes up there several hours later with the headphones playing nothing more than a static hum in her ears, and the phrase blood pressures scribbled on a notepad in front of her.
It seems to fit.
part two.