I firmly believe Copia would love the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame so could you write a drabble around that? He seems like he'd be wow'd by everything (also I just know he'd be annoyed a band like Iron Maiden isnt in)
Little Something (GN! Reader x Copia)
You and Copia love little sidequests on your days off. You have a few hours to kill before soundcheck in Cincinnati and so Copia rounds up you and the ghouls for a tour of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Immediately the ghouls scatter to thirst over legendary guitars, perhaps spending their two hours chatting about a single Les Paul. You already know Cirrus is going to gag at all the Elton John artifacts. But now it's you and Copia striding arm and arm across the entrance floor of the curiously shaped building.
"You know Who is here at the Music Hall of Fame," you say.
"Who?"
"Yes."
"I know, they got in in 2017 and that's all I er--know about about them."
"No, I mean The Who!"
"Who are you talking about?"
"Yes."
"I already told you. Yes is in here."
"Who! The Band The Who!" You gasp through tears.
"Are you going to be this cheeky the whole time?" He growls a little but his mouth is quirked into a smile.
"Maybe."
He gives your nose a little flirty pinch for that.
You descend to the lower floors which are set up with exciting walk through displays of old dive bars and grungy historic clubs. They've never looked better. You wonder if the conservators left all the ancient chewing gum for future anthropologic study. At last you find yourself at the iconic facade of CBGB. The classic domed awning with the western style font. The owner had high hopes for it to be a honky-tonk haven but instead turned into one of the great birthplaces of punk and alt music.
"Did you know I went to the final concert at that place?" Copia says. " I went with Primo. Patti Smith."
"I didn't know you liked her. I thought she was folk. Is she not--"
"Rock? My dear, please! Rock is em-- rock is a state of mind! And she is quite rock, thank you very much." It feels like you're going through her whole discography on the bus to the next gig but you don't mind at all.
He's a bit of a snob here but it amuses you how much he puffs up about it. You throw him silly questions and he adds more fascinating quips and personal lore. Like the time he swore he stepped on Billy Idol's foot in a nightclub bathroom in Leeds once. Absolutely swore and you give it to him, giggling.
You each pick your favorite Elvis look from the costumes, then move over to Bowie's collection. "You know your legs would look great in those heels," you say as you come across these impressively tall groovy white platforms."
"They would, wouldn't they," he mutters. "Although I'm sure I'd trip and spill hot coals on the front row if I did."
"Fair enough."
"Maybe next tour--ah! Now look!"
The gift shop lays before you.
The thing about Copia is whenever he's out he always needs to get something. Doubly so at a place like this. A little trinket, a little treat. He calls it a "collection" but you've teased him about his rat-like tendencies before. So his eyes glitter a little when you approach the wall of record-shaped keychains. He bats at a few experimentally, hemming and hawing and muttering to himself. He gasps. "Ah! Look! I found your name!" And yes, there it is: your name in sparkly cursive on plastic record.
"When I was a kid they never had my name," chuckles Copia as he hands it to you.
"Hold on, maybe this time they will have it..." Your eyes scan the wall, then zero in on the target. "Oh! Look, here it is!"
"R-really?!" His mousey eyes get close to yours. You flip over the keychain, smirking.
It says BORT.
"No! Don't be-eh-- don't be fucking with me!" He stammers and his flustered little ramble is what always gets your motor running. You reach out a hand to his face and laugh again.
"Oh don't worry Cardi I have this one though." You drop it in his hand and give his cheek a peck.
It says what matters:
I 💓PAPA
****
PG-13 Asks for Copia and maybe other characters
