so somehow I fell fully down the hellcheer rabbit hole despite only watching 1-2 episodes of ST s1 before that point (I have since caught up) but anyway these two nerds have such a hold on me that I started writing fic. so woe. WIP be upon ye
Eddie opens the door for Chrissy, gives her a hand up into the cab, and points out the battered shoebox sitting on the floor in front of the passenger seat that holds a decent fraction of his music collection. "Pick whatever you like."
She has the box in her lap by the time he hauls himself into the driver's seat, looking through all the tapes. "Do you have any Billy Joel?" she asks.
"Uh," he says, trying to come up with a polite way to say I'd rather kill myself, actually.
"Sorry, that was a dumb question, I guess that's not really your… scene," she says, her fingers pausing for a second on Ride the Lightning, then continuing on.
"No, hey, it's fine," he says quickly. "I just don't have the Piano Man in my catalog, here. It tends to skew, uh. Metal," he finishes, with a laugh. "You a big fan of his?"
Chrissy smiles. "Jenny and I went to go see him in concert in Indianapolis sophomore year, and Jenny's big brother drove us. My parents didn't know, or they would've never let us go. It was such a fun night. He played 'Uptown Girl.'" She shoots a glance over at him with an unreadable expression on her face. "That's always been my favorite song of his."
"Cool, cool," Eddie says, desperately trying not to read into that particular revelation as he twists the key in the ignition; in the same moment, he ejects the current tape before she can be assaulted by whatever he has in there— Iron Maiden, today. "I have heard that one, at least."
Not all of them, anyway. Some are far enough removed from reality for me to enjoy. The Fallout series takes place in an impossible future, where everybody lost the Cold War; the various games and movies and stories about zombies comfort me with the assumption that we’ll be well prepared for the possibility of a world war Z. Even the dystopian novels I enjoy could be considered apocolyptic-Brave New World shows an apocalypse of the mind and integrity, Fahrenheit 415 shows the apocalypse of knowledge and the ability to fight against our government’s decisions. And yet I would read them over and over again.
The other stories? The ones about volcanic destruction and government incompetence and plagues and environmental degradation? I can’t read those anymore. I tried picking up a short story, about a mother who was living in a world ravaged by volcanoes and storms and pollution, and I couldn’t finish it. Perhaps I’m weak in that way. But the story didn’t feel like a ‘what if’; it felt like a ‘what will’. It felt certain that this would be the world I ended up in, one where I couldn’t even go outside without a respirator and I couldn’t listen to birdsong anymore and the sun would be hot, always so hot.
I couldn’t handle it.
These stories certainly have done well in warning me of a potential future. A little too well. I look at the news and I see the storms getting bigger, the violence getting bloodier and the government getting nastier. I see chaos happening all around the world with little reprieve, and people die and people are born and people kill each other, and I think: is there anything I can do? Do I have any power at all? Or am I a side character in one of those disaster stories, doomed to watch as the author writes away the polar ice caps and coral reefs and rainforests?
I know that things aren’t as glum, and that humans are naturally primed to look for suffering. It helps us survive and avoid a similar fate. But the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and the powerful who could help don’t take the subways. Doesn’t it say something about the state of the world, that escapism feels less like a thrill and more like a chore?
Or maybe it’s just me.
Maybe I don’t need to write off the stories that wonder about alternate universes where everything’s gone to hell.
Maybe I don’t need to stay and twiddle my thumbs and watch as our governments continue to bumble everything.
Maybe I can pick myself up. Maybe I can turn off the television and ignore the news and try to find a solution.
Volunteer at an animal shelter, perhaps. Or spread awareness about how people can help the turtles. Vote. Petition. Protest. Make my voice heard no matter how many people try to silence it.
I’m not just a side character. I’m the author of my own story.
And I’m going to write a future where I can walk outside and breathe in the clean air.
Why are we all here?
Why do the things we hold dear...
So different?
I don’t know.
Should I?
I’m told I’m very cold.
Am I?
They say they’re trying to help me.
But the pain I go through makes it seem like they’re lying...
What should do? Who should I listen to?
The voices...they tell me I don’t deserve happiness.
That there’s no sleep for the wicked.
But have I been wicked?
What have I done to deserve this?
Nothing...nothing...nothing.
I’m so tired.
But I can’t sleep.
I want some help.
But there’s no one.
I can scream, shout, yell.
But nothing I say can tell.
The unspeakable pain.
Of this game.
There is no help
There is no hope
There is no resolution
Only the unstated urge to end this.
here's my first prompt fill for the @hellcheeranniversaryweek bingo!
Rating: T (for language)
Prompt: B3 - Coming in for a chemistry read
Name on Card: Fool
Word Count: 3403
Also on AO3
Note: A chemistry read is when actors intended to play on-screen love interests do pre-show screen tests to see if they actually have chemistry :)
-0-
Eddie’s not entirely sure how Rick hooked him up with this audition, but he is absolutely not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. It’s a TV role, for one, and on a show that gets pretty decent watch numbers (that he has actually contributed to on occasion. Okay, look, he’s a huge fantasy nerd, of course he watches Sword of Annaris) AND it looks like it’s a recurring character role. Jack-goddamn-pot, baby. If he can land this role, he definitely owes Rick, like, a really fuckin’ nice steak dinner or some shit, for being the best agent of all time. Plus, it’ll be nice to branch out a little. His theatre roles have been pretty varied (if nothing really show-stopping) but any film stuff he’s done— which has been a reasonable amount, okay, he’s not complaining or anything— he’s usually the faceless villain in some B- or C-list slasher, luring hapless teens down dark alleys to murder them with an appropriate amount of gore and mad laughter.
(It’s your eyes, Munson, a casting director had told him once, both of them a little high at the tail end of the wrap party. You got— psycho killer eyes, you’re scary good at it. And that shit had kind of stuck with him, never mind that it was a good six years ago now.)
It’ll be nice to play one of the good guys for once, that’s all. The role he’s throwing his cap in the ring for— Lyr Scattergood— seems to be a lovable rogue sort of archetype: rough around the edges, but a heart of gold beneath. He can play the shit outta that. He throws his heart and soul into the audition, pulling from his days of ruling the high school DND club with an iron fist.
Rick calls him four days later and tells him he’s in for callbacks, and if he makes it through those they want him to do a chemistry read with a couple of the actresses being considered for a character that could end up as Lyr’s love interest before they make any final calls. Eddie agrees immediately, of course. Rick’s managed to secure the list of actresses, and he faxes it over to Eddie. Eddie skims it— he recognizes most of the names, but he stops dead at one.
Chrissy Cunningham.
-0-
Sword of Annaris is Chrissy’s last chance. If she can’t land this part— which Patrick has assured her is miles away from all the cutesy tweenage sweetheart roles that first put her in the spotlight— she’ll have to settle back into the box her mother built for her all those years ago and admit that Laura Cunningham was right— that all Chrissy was ever good for were preteen pageants and painted-on performance smiles, all pep and glitter and pretty things for pretty girls, so be pretty, Chrissy! We’ve got to keep up our image, sweetie.
Chrissy desperately does not want her mother to be right.
She channels that desperation into her audition for a princess forced into visions and madness by an evil sorcerer. She picks a more dramatic monologue than her usual fare: gasping, sobbing, decidedly not her mother’s definition of pretty at all. Afterward, the casting director’s face is hard to read, but the director looks pleased, and one of the— producers? He certainly looks familiar, she’s sure she’s seen him around before— is writing something down on a little notepad, which she decides to take as a positive.
She goes home and deletes three messages off the answering machine from a number that security has flagged as likely to be her mother.
The next morning, over coffee, Patrick informs her that she's got a callback for Sword of Annaris this afternoon, and if she makes it through that, they want her doing a couple chemistry reads with a few actors later in the week.
"Which actors?" Chrissy asks, and Patrick smiles, already pulling out a handwritten list.
"This is who they were considering," her agent explains, passing the list over to her. "Now, I don't know how many of them will end up in the final round of callbacks, but at least you'll have an idea of who you might be working with."
Chrissy looks over the list, but most of the names are unfamiliar. She's been away from the scene for several years (putting herself together after she'd finally made it out the door of her mother's house with just the clothes on her back and the number of a lawyer her acting coach had given her had taken… some time), but she hadn't thought it had been that long. Or maybe they're trying to pull in someone a little more unknown for the role?
"Oh, thank God," she says, almost involuntarily, upon seeing a name she actually recognizes, and Patrick does laugh at her this time.
"I thought you might be happy about that," he says. "Even if you or Harrington don't get the part, you'll get to have a nice Hawkins Phys. Ed. reunion, right?"
Chrissy nods, taking a thoughtful sip of her coffee. Steve Harrington had been one of her co-stars in her younger years, most notably in the show Hawkins Phys. Ed. Her career-defining character, sugar-sweet cheerleader Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Lee, had had a seasons-long crush on his character, the team's star basketball player who was a couple years older than her (a phenomenon that had been both on- and off-screen at the time for her). She and Steve had always gotten along reasonably well on set, and just having someone she knows better than met-at-a-party-once-maybe potentially involved in the project relieves a lot of her nerves.
She'll have to give him a call. Just to catch up a little.
-0-
The first actress they have Eddie read with is Robin Buckley, who Eddie knows of but hasn’t worked with before. She's a fast talker, and funny as hell, and Eddie likes her right away. When they finish the scene, though, the casting director— Kathleen— is pursing her lips thoughtfully, and Robin winces when she catches sight of the expression.
"It's not me, it's you," Robin calls dramatically as she heads out the door after Kathleen’s polite dismissal, and Eddie sticks his tongue out at her. She cackles, and he hears it traveling down the hall with her as she goes.
Then they have him read with Nancy Wheeler, who he has worked with before, way back when she was still doing theatre. They get along fine, and Kathleen looks marginally more pleased than she had at the end of Eddie and Robin's read, but she still doesn't say anything definitive.
"Take five," Kathleen tells Eddie after Nancy heads out, and he does as he's told. There's a little break area a ways down the hall, and he fixes himself a cup of coffee— one sugar packet and one splash of creamer, just like Wayne always did when Eddie was growing up.
There's a little group of people sitting around a table on the far side of the room. One of them is Robin, and Eddie's about to wave and maybe try and join the conversation when the other two people she's sitting with register: Steve Harrington and Chrissy Cunningham, big-name Disney-Channel darlings who are both apparently somehow still involved in this show.
Goddamn. Okay. He takes a big gulp of his coffee and turns the other way, heading back to the audition room.
-0-
Steve insists on taking her to lunch the day of the read when Chrissy calls him, and they spend a pleasant hour and a half or so reminiscing over BLTs at a cute out-of-the-way sandwich shop that Steve apparently frequents. It's less painful than Chrissy expected, although that's mostly because Steve has apparently heard at least a little of what went down in the Cunningham household after Chrissy got out from under her mother's thumb, and tactfully refrains from bringing up Laura at all.
Steve goes with her to the studio, though he’s already explained he won't be playing opposite her. "I wasn't really what they were looking for," he says, a little sheepish.
"I appreciate the moral support anyway, Steve," she tells him, settling in at a little coffee table-slash-lounge area. Her call time isn't for another half an hour, but LA traffic (and her mother) instilled in her a pathological need to be early.
"Hey, Stevie!" says a voice from behind them, energetic and somewhat mischievous. A woman with her hair cut in a bob and a big grin perches her elbows on the back of Steve's chair. "What're you doing here? I thought you didn't make the final round of callbacks— oh, wait, is it too soon? Sorry if it is, I only kind of meant to rub it in your face—"
"Hi, Robin," Steve says, looking long-suffering, but the smile he gives the woman is affectionate.
Robin comes around Steve's chair and drops into the one beside him. "It's okay, Steve, I don't think the casting director was feeling the ol' Buckley charm, either," she says, then seems to realize Chrissy is there for the first time. "Oh my God! I'm sorry, you probably think I'm a total freak. Hi, I'm Robin Buckley," she says, sticking her hand out. Chrissy shakes it, feeling bemused. Before she can say Nice to meet you, Robin continues on. "And you're Chrissy Cunningham— oh, wait, that was probably weird, too, that I just know your name? Um— I've literally done this so much, you'd think I'd be used to it by now—"
"It's okay," Chrissy says, valiantly trying to hold back a laugh— not at Robin, really, because there's an earnestness to her that Chrissy really admires, but just because the situation is a little ridiculous. "How do you know Steve?"
"We're partners in crime with a capital P," Robin says, and Steve laughs.
"We met when we were both working on Kearney, PI," he explains. "They had me as, like, a villain-of-the-week, and Robin had a part as like— my accomplice?"
"Better-looking henchman," Robin suggests.
Steve snorts. "Sure. Anyway, she kept me from getting too big for my britches on set—"
"And they had this guest director and he fucking sucked," Robin puts in. "Steve and I totally formed a trauma bond—"
"— and she's been plaguing me ever since," Steve says, rolling his eyes.
"Wow," says Chrissy, looking between the two of them.
"So, wait, Chrissy, are you here for the— the princess part, God, I forgot her name already—"
"Aleida," Chrissy says.
"Yes! Anyway, were you coming for the read?"
Chrissy nods. Robin jerks her chin in the direction of a fairly tall young man with long, curly, dark hair. "That's Eddie Munson— I think he's the main one they're considering for the rogue guy."
"Lyr," Chrissy can't help but add, then registers what Robin's saying. "Wait, really?" She looks at him with new eyes. He'd been one of the names she hadn't recognized. He certainly looks a little roguish, Chrissy thinks.
It’s not a bad thing.
Eddie Munson, seemingly oblivious to their stares, throws back an entire cupful of coffee in one go and heads back down the hallway.
"Yeah," Robin says, sitting back. "Steven," she says, with an air of imperiousness. "You should get me one of those little bagel things from the cafe down the road."
"Get one yourself," Steve says.
"No," says Robin. "I've had a long, exhausting, and quite frankly kind of disappointing day, and I’m almost a hundred percent sure the only cure is a mini bagel bought with someone else’s money."
Chrissy checks her watch as the two continue to bicker, and politely excuses herself, though she’s not sure they even hear her. It's five minutes until her call time, and she'd rather be early.
-0-
Chrissy Cunningham is the next actress to walk through the door, and Eddie is suddenly very, very nervous. Kathleen looks archly at him, and he does his best to play it casual.
"Hi," he says, sticking out a hand for her to shake and then instantly regretting it. He's so fucking lame, a handshake? "Uh— I'm Eddie."
"Chrissy," she says, smiling and shaking his hand, lameness notwithstanding. She's got a cute smile— of course she does, it's Chrissy Cunningham— and he gets the feeling she's amused. That's— good? He hopes? God, he's acting like he's never been in a movie before. He's gotta get a grip. It's just—
Okay, he'd kinda had a thing for Lizzie Lee, back when Hawkins Phys. Ed. was airing, and it might have kinda sorta defined his "type" for a long fucking time, but coming face to face with his childhood celebrity crush is fine. He's fine. He can deal.
"All right, let's get this going. We'll have you run through Aleida and Lyr's first meeting," says Kathleen, and Eddie does his best to dial in. He's done this scene twice through already today— he can slip into playing Lyr pretty easily.
He's trying to avoid too much official notice. Dogged, but not quite desperate, not yet. The woods, however, are his domain, and he should be safe— but wait! There's a stranger near his hideaway!
And thus begins the scene.
"Well, now," he says, moving toward Chrissy. "I can't say I was expecting to see anyone so far in these woods."
Chrissy looks up at him, and her face is wet with tears. Damn. She's fantastic. She's already playing it differently than either Nancy or Robin, and he has to admit, he's into it. "My apologies," she says. "I didn't mean— I'll go."
"No, wait, my lady—" He lets his eyes widen in 'realization' as he recognizes her; infuses a little bit of desperation, a little bit of urgency into the lines. "It's a long way back to the town, and treacherous." He offers her his hand. "Let me go with you?"
"And why should I trust you— a stranger, who seems to live in these woods and goes about armed?" Chrissy's eyes— he doesn't know how she does it, but they seem to take up half her face. She's got her arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold herself together, and all he wants to do is give her a hug and tell her everything will be okay.
In the script, it reads: LYR (Mock-hurt): You wound me. A stranger? We've met before— though I'm sure I wouldn't remember me either.
Eddie decides to make an Acting Choice.
He slams one fist against his chest as if he's holding a dagger, collapsing to the ground in his best impression of a marionette getting his strings cut. Chrissy lets out a sound that's halfway between a laugh and a cry of dismay. "You wound me," he gasps out, and sits back up. Chrissy's got her hands over her mouth, very clearly hiding a laugh. "A stranger? We've met before! Though I'm sure I wouldn't remember me, either."
-0-
Eddie Munson, Chrissy thinks, is going to be a problem if he's going to keep making her laugh like this. He's bright and charming and seems genuine, unlike a lot of people she's encountered in the business (an umbrella she would have also put herself under, just a few years ago). He's also pretty clearly star-struck, at least a little, but he's at least trying to pretend like he's not, which she appreciates.
He throws himself onto the floor unexpectedly, and she struggles to hold in her laughter. He's certainly doing a good job of someone trying to convince a desperate woman he's not a threat. She rushes to her next line before she loses her train of thought completely.
"Oh, no, I'm sure I would—"
He jumps to his feet. "Ah, my lady, it was years ago," he tells her, and there's a sort of wistful expression on his face that she thinks is a very nice touch. She steps closer to him, letting tension drain away from her posture. Aleida would be convinced by now that he was safe— or at least safer than the nightmares that have been chasing her. "You were in a procession, and I was only on the side of the road." He looks down, smiles. It's adorably shy, and definitely unexpected coming from him.
Chrissy cocks her head to one side, taking another step toward him. "No," she says, slowly. "No, I do remember you. You played the fife, and I—"
"Danced," Eddie finishes, and takes her hand, smiling more broadly this time. "Well, I am glad to have made such an impression, your highness." He raises her hand to his lips with a quirked eyebrow, hesitating imperceptibly. Chrissy gives him a small nod and he completes the action, pressing a quick kiss to her knuckles.
She likes that. That he asked.
"It occurs to me, sir, that you know me, but I don't know you," Chrissy says, doing her best to affect a regal air. "What is your name?"
"They call me Lyr Scattergood, my lady," he says, letting go of her hand and sweeping into a bow that she giggles a little at, not bothering to hide it this time. "And I think it's high time you left this forest, don't you?"
"I think so," she says, then tucks her arm through the crook of his, staying closer to his side than is perhaps necessary. If he can embellish the script, so can she. “Lead on, Sir Scattergood.”
“Oh,” he says, voice low and dark brown eyes intense when he looks at her, “I’m no knight, your highness.”
“Well,” she says, meeting his eyes squarely. “I’m sure I could do something about that.”
They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Chrissy doesn’t want to be the first to look away, and apparently neither does Eddie, because they just keep staring— him looking down at her, her still holding on to his arm. Chrissy can feel her cheeks getting warm.
“That,” says Kathleen, jolting them both out of whatever moment had been going on, “was the exact fucking thing I’ve been looking for. Munson, whatever you're doing with those big cow eyes of yours needs to keep happening, it's perfect.”
"Oh," says Eddie. "Uh. Great?"
"Thank you," Chrissy says, giving Eddie's arm a squeeze before letting go (which she does with some reluctance). His cheeks are pink and she'd like to think it's maybe got something to do with her. "Does this mean we're both in?"
"Oh, absolutely," Kathleen says, gathering up her things. "You two are perfect. I'll get all the relevant details to your agents; filming for this season should start in the next few weeks here."
"Wow," says Eddie, sounding taken aback. "Well! Thanks a bunch, Kathleen!"
"Yes, thank you," Chrissy repeats.
"Thank you," Kathleen says, smiling at them. "I look forward to working with you more in the future." She evens up the papers and notes sitting on her clipboard, then heads out.
"Well," says Eddie, after she's gone, turning to look at Chrissy with wide eyes. He looks a little shell-shocked. Chrissy is less shocked: more just pleasantly surprised, with a growing excitement. She did it. She has the part. She's finally going to break out of the shell her mother built around her image and start building something for herself.
"We should go for coffee sometime," she says, and his eyes get— somehow— even rounder. She grins. "What? I'd like to get to know you a little."
"Yeah, fuckin'— why not," he mutters, under his breath. Then, louder, "Yes! That sounds fan-tastic, Chrissy Cunningham."
"I'll need your number," she says, and really she doesn't know what's gotten into her. Normally she's not this… forward. But she's already going to be working with him, and while Steve Harrington is lovely, she'd like to make some friends that aren't also just Steve's friends in the business.
He scrambles around for pen and paper and they exchange phone numbers, him promising to call when he gets back to his apartment.
"Looking forward to it," Chrissy says. "It was nice to meet you, Eddie."
"It was very nice to meet you, Chrissy," Eddie says, with a theatrical bow. When he straightens up, he's smiling. "Actually," he says, and there's some hesitation in his voice. "If it's not too much… we could go get that coffee right now."
"You know what," she says, slowly. "I think that's a really good idea."
gonna jump on the hellcheer wip wednesday wagon!!!
I had to look up one of the things on my bingo card ("chemistry read," which is when two actors playing characters that are meant to have romantic tension do a screen test to see if they... have chemistry) which then sparked a WHOLE plot bunny (which is good!) so I started working on that one right away hehe
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Eddie’s not entirely sure how Rick hooked him up with this audition, but he is absolutely not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. It’s a TV role, for one, and on a show that gets pretty decent watch numbers (that he has actually contributed to on occasion. Okay, look, he’s a huge fucking fantasy nerd, of course he watches Sword of Annaris) AND it looks like it’s a recurring character role. Jack-goddamn-pot, baby. If he can land this role, he definitely owes Rick, like, a really fuckin’ nice steak dinner or some shit, for being the best goddamn agent of all time. Plus, it’ll be nice to branch out a little. His theatre roles have been pretty varied (if nothing really show-stopping) but any film stuff he’s done— which has been a reasonable amount, okay, he’s not complaining or anything— he’s usually the faceless villain in some B- or C-list slasher, luring innocent virgins down dark alleys to murder them with an appropriate amount of gore and mad laughter.
(It’s your eyes, Munson, a casting director had told him once, both of them a little high at the tail end of the wrap party. You got— psycho killer eyes, you’re scary good at it. And that shit had kind of stuck with him, never mind that it was a good six years ago now.)
The phone keeps on ringing, and Eddie heaves himself up from the couch, setting the guitar to the side before he answers. "Munson's Munchables, I don't do pick-ups but I will do delivery if you ask really, really nicely—"
"Eddie?"
He drops the joke immediately; it is Chrissy, and she sounds… shaken. "Hey, sweetheart, what's going on?"
"Could you— if you're busy then you don't have to— and, um— please don't put yourself out or anything—"
"Chrissy," he interrupts, genuinely alarmed now, "what do you need me to do?"
"Chrissy Cunningham!" he announces, bursting into their clearing after school.
"Eddie Munson!" she parrots, raising her eyebrows and making a confused but already excited face.
"You are looking at a bona fide, 100-per-cent fucking guaranteed high school graduate, baby!" He grabs her hands and pulls her to her feet, swinging her around. "O'Donnell told me today— long as I keep it up, she can't see a reason I should fail, and that was the only class I had to worry about, so—"
Chrissy gasps. "Eddie! That's fantastic!"
"All thanks to you, sweetheart," he says, letting her go and grinning down at her. "I feel like we should go out and celebrate, or something. Get milkshakes. Paint the town red. What d'you say, Cunningham?"
Her eyes are rabbit-looking-at-a-fox-wide, like she’s panicked by something, but he can't figure out what the fuck he said— or did— wrong. The expression is gone in a moment, covered by a quick smile, but he saw it. He saw it. "I would say…" she begins slowly, "that you should probably still focus on school, still? For now. I mean, you don’t want to trip at the finish line, right?”
Ah. He feels like he's just been shot down, which— okay, he kind of has, but not exactly like that. It's not like he was asking her out, he was just… asking. For her to go out and do stuff with him. Right. Just because you hang out kind-of-secretly doesn't mean she wants to be seen with you anywhere else, asshole.
@zanibotzani howdy! a little down to the wire, but I was your Secret Santa this year! hopin' this is a fun little piece to ring in the new year with :D
(note: all timeline continuity should be considered to be under the influence of Vide Noir and therefore highly malleable; this is in fact an AU ;)
Frankie only vaguely remembered when Fleur first showed up. She'd been performing at the time, lights low in the lounge as the haze of cigarette smoke filled the air. Nights like these, she was lucky to get even a third of the audience's attention; by this time almost everyone was lost to either the alcohol or some of Z'Oiseau's stronger stuff.
She wasn't much better, of course. Z'Oiseau kept her dressing room well-supplied with a little glass bottle of his "Vide Noir" before every performance— a poor replacement for everything he'd promised her when she'd agreed to come sing for him, but it was the thought that counted, right? And a drop (or two, or seven) on her tongue before she went on stage made her sing sweeter, everyone agreed.
"It gets under your skin," a waitress had told her one night, clearing empty tables of glasses as the morning sun streamed in through the doors, stripping the lounge of all its late-night mystique. "Your voice. It's like it sits there and curls up in my ears. Not every night, but more often than not— tonight was like that."
That night, of course, being one where she'd given in to the ever-present temptation and done some sky-gazing as she sang.
The night Fleur first stopped in, Frankie was at the tail end of her set. Z'Oiseau came in first, and Frankie's traitor heart jumped up and did a little bit of a tango, because it was still early days — long enough that he'd begun to let her down, but not yet so much that she'd lost the wool she'd helped him pull over her own eyes.
He was followed by a little blonde slip of a thing, almost a blur to Frankie's eyes, wearing a knee-length black dress and a grey cardigan. Frankie kept half an eye on her as she finished out the song. It seemed like the girl couldn't find one place to keep looking, her gaze skipping from the people to the stage to Z'Oiseau and back again.
Z'Oiseau caught Frankie's eye at the end of the song and raised one eyebrow; she returned the look and swept off the stage with a smile to scattered, sleepy applause.
He met her in the dressing room not long after. She kept her back turned to the door, undoing her heavy earrings with more care than was strictly necessary, pretending to be surprised when she met his gaze in the mirror.
"You were wonderful," he told her, and she smiled.
"Thank you," she said, graciously, and couldn't help but add, "It's been a long time since I saw you in here. I almost thought you forgot about me." It was maybe a little childish, but if he cared half as much about her as he said he did, it would be a gentle enough reminder.
"Forget about you? Never," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She let him. "In fact," he continued, shifting his hands to her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze, "I think I've found you some relief, so you can spend more time in the studio, if you wanted."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. Studio time hadn't really been an issue up to this point, but she supposed this was… thoughtful.
"Fleur, come in, come in," he called, stepping over to the doorway and calling into the hallway. The same girl he'd come in with appeared in the door. "Fleur, this is Frankie Lou, our shining star."
Frankie laughed. "Flatterer." He still had all the nerve he'd had at their first meeting.
"Frankie," Z'Oiseau continued, "this is Fleur. She just got here from Detroit, and I think she's a very promising young talent."
"It's very nice to meet you," Fleur said, offering her hand to Frankie. Frankie shook it, smiling. "You sounded just beautiful up there."
"Thank you," Frankie said. "I look forward to hearing what you can do."
~VNVNVNVN~
Frankie thought, later, that she should have tried to warn Fleur somehow, during that first meeting. Could have spared her some of the heartbreak, maybe— but then again, Frankie had been young and stupid, and even by the time she met Fleur, she hadn't been so jaded as she was now. She couldn't have done much good, anyway.
The new singer took the Monday and Thursday slots — slow nights, usually— which did leave Frankie more time for recording, though the album was coming along slower than she really liked.
Fleur was also the breaking point for Frankie when it came to Z'Oiseau. Not anything the girl herself did, no— but Frankie stopped in one Monday night to pick up something she'd left behind in the dressing room and overheard the two of them talking.
Every line he gave Fleur, he'd given her, once upon a time, with only a substitution here and there for flavor.
With a voice like yours, you'll be on the biggest stages in the city in no time, and I'll help get you there.
He was good at that, Z'Oiseau. Telling you what you wanted most to hear. It helped deafen you to everything else he wasn't saying, but you ended up giving up to him anyway.
So that was when Frankie's rose-colored glasses shattered, and she quietly began packing away the pieces of her life that Z'Oiseau had had his fingers in, getting them set away out of his reach. That was, unfortunately, quite a lot, however— everything from her music contract to the goddamn Vide Noir that hung onto her just as tenaciously as he did.
She tried to speak to Fleur a couple times, trying her best to run into her at the studio or after performing, but every time either Z'Oiseau or one of his men were hovering over her, or Fleur herself was dreamy and strung-out, eyes blacked out with Vide Noir, and Frankie was sure she wouldn't remember any conversation anyway— she'd been there enough times herself to know.
Frankie skipped town six months later. She took her master records, all her savings, and one emerald necklace that Z'Oiseau had given her that she planned to sell as one final send-off to their… working relationship, such as it had been.
The only word she left was a letter to Tubbs Tarbell, because she knew he'd worry, and she left it vague enough that he wouldn't get in trouble should Z'Oiseau or his men come knocking.
Much to her surprise, however, her flight from the big city only lasted a few weeks. Word got around to her that there'd been a dust-up between Z'Oiseau and that gang down by the river— the World Enders— and he'd actually ended up dead.
Part of her couldn't believe it. Just like that?
The other part of her was eager to go back to her old haunts and make them over with new memories that he couldn't tarnish.
~VNVNVNVN~
"Frankie? Frankie Lou?"
Frankie turned from the poster of Remy Fusil's smiling face, keeping Quentin King's smirking portrait company on Tubbs's office wall. Tubbs himself was in the booth listening to a new band he'd picked up a little while ago— some rockabilly outfit that called themselves the Phantom Riders— and the session was apparently going a little long, as he wasn't usually late for their appointments.
Standing in the doorway was a woman with a short blonde bob and a pretty, flower-patterned dress, a green cardigan buttoned neatly up to her collarbones. It took Frankie a moment to place her face, which seemed strangely familiar.
"Fleur?"
The woman laughed, a little sheepishly. "Yes. It's um— Leigh, actually. Leigh Green. Fleur is… not me anymore."
Frankie smiled at her, stretching out her hand. "Leigh. It's really wonderful to see you again. I heard very good things about your debut album, you know."
"Really? Thank you!" she exclaimed. "You know, I drew some inspiration from your earlier albums."
Frankie felt her cheeks heat as she thought of who some of the songs on her earliest albums had been written about. "Oh, well—"
Leigh's smile turned a little wry. "Trust me, I feel the same way about some of the, um— inspiration for my earliest songs after coming out here…"
Frankie gave her a long look. "He really screwed us both over, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Leigh, after a moment, "but here we are, making it big without him."
Frankie spared a glance for the open decanter of whiskey and tray of glasses on the sideboard. "I'd drink to that," she suggested, and Leigh laughed.
"Why not?"
So Frankie took the decanter, poured them each a finger of Boot Heel, and raised her glass. "To us," she said quietly.
"And to our respective, independent futures," Leigh added.
The clink of the glasses as they tapped them together and then drank was music to Frankie's ears.
