Fic: We Belong

[beanside]

More Foo Fic...leading up to Nix's birthday tomorrow.

Title: We Belong
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Don't know them, don't know who they have sex with. I make no claims as this is..you got it. Fiction. Got it? Good.



I fucking hate hospitals. I hate them more when I'm the patient. I've spent too much time in them. At least this time, I didn't put my life in jeopardy with my stupidity. I just put my career there.

When you're a drummer, hearing words like "rotator cuff injury" and "tendon damage" really fucking suck.

I was pretty fucking relieved when they said that it could be fixed with simple arthroscopic surgery. At least I was until my shoulder swelled up to triple its normal size and I spiked a fever of 104. Then, I was pretty fucking pissed.

Three days of IV antibiotics later, I'm pulling on my shirt, and listening to the doctor lecture me on taking my antibiotics on schedule, not drinking while I'm on them, and continuing to put hot packs on my shoulder, except after I do the therapy stuff, then I put cold packs.

Like I'm dumb enough not to? I know the risks, here. If I can't get the infection gone and this tendon re-stretched out to its proper length, I'm out of a job.

It hurts so fucking much that I've picked up the phone no less than eight times to tell Dave that I quit. I never dial though.

I'm not that fucking stupid.

Funny how the voice in my brain tells me otherwise. Why does it always seem to sound like Nate?

Oh, maybe because he's the one who called while I was feverish. Stupid son of a bitch flew down to check on me. Nate. I guess I sounded pretty fucked up on the phone.

He gave me utter hell for not calling anyone to let them know. I told him it wasn't a big deal. He stayed for two days of the antibiotics, until my fever hit a more manageable level. Then, he had to leave for a meeting with Dave.

Okay, then I kicked him out, rather than have him tell Dave that anything was wrong. I can't take Dave here.

He'd be all solicitous smiles, and careful handling, and I think I'd break.

I hate this. I hate that I can't fix how I feel. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to grow up, and be in a rock band, and things were supposed to go good. I wasn't supposed to be gay. I sure as hell wasn't supposed to fall for my bandmate.

But it's Dave. And everyone falls for Dave. There's no way not to. In their own, very straight way, Chris and Nate have, too. It's the Aura of Daveness. Hmm…that fever might be spiking again.

Or, it might just be true. Dave is patron saint of lost souls, the last truly nice front man in rock. Of course, he'll never admit it. Dave likes to think he's a badass. In some ways, he is. Anyone who dares to insult one of his bandmates is summarily dealt with. Record execs who try to force him to do something are quickly told where to get off.

But, to the world at large, Dave is a good guy. He goes under the principle of being nice to everyone until they show you that they aren't worth being nice to.

It's a nice idea. In the real world, it gets your ass kicked soundly. But, we've already established that Dave's real world only vaguely resembles the one the rest of us live in.

It's kind of cool, actually.

Ah, the cab is here to take me home. Go me.

Nate offered to come back after his lunch with Dave, but really. I'm thirty-one years old. I'm more than able to wipe my own ass. Even with one arm. I hate this fucking sling.

Thankfully, my dad is taking care of my lab, Sam. I don't think I'd be much use at walking him right now. Of course, without him in the house, it's too fucking quiet.

If I was prone to that sort of shit, I'd probably be getting spooked right about now. But I'm not. Okay, maybe a little. Give a guy a break here, I was attacked in a public bathroom. I'm skittish as all hell. Every sound makes me jump.

I am such a fucking pussy.

Of course, sitting here watching cheesy horror flicks probably isn't helping. But come on, Cinemax is doing back to back showings of JasonX and Nightmare on Elm Street 3. You just can't buy schlock like that.

Of course it's not helping the overall jumpiness, but the big-ass stick I have sitting next to my side is. I would normally have the rifle, but it's not made for one handed shooting. Mental note. Must get a handgun. So, I have an old hockey stick that's missing the blade. It's got a good whip to it.

Especially if the tendon won't stretch out, and I'm stuck with a gimp shoulder for good.

But I'm not thinking of that. I'm going to sit here and enjoy the hell out of Jason in spaaaace. It's amazingly bad, but the chick from Andromeda is in it. Whoohoo. Proof that I'm not entirely gay, I guess. She does turn me on, even if I do think Dave would look awfully hot in the leather corset. You'd have to pad the ass of the pants, though. Dave has no ass. If he laid on his stomach, you could totally rest your beer on it--oh, there's a mental image.

Which I am going to get the fuck out of my mind right this second. No.

What was that?

Shit. Am I paranoid, or did that sound like the front door opening? I did lock it, right? Right?

Another quiet click, and I'm out of the bed, stick in hand. Fuck. Someone's breaking in. I should call 911. I should run. I should--go down there and kick their ass.

I am a Texan, after all.

I creep down the stairs, pausing at the landing to peer into the hallway. Yup, one guy, not too big. I can kick his ass just fine.

He makes a startled sound when I slam the stick into his head, stumbling forward onto the floor. Good, easier target for me.

I hate to say it, but I'm actually enjoying this. All my pent up frustration is coming out as I beat him unmercifully.

He's got his hands up to ward off my blows. And he's making little noises, cursing between the "ows."

The words penetrate at about the same moment I see the tattoo on his wrist.

"Taylor! Ouch! Fucking stop! It's me! Dave!"

Just for good measure I whack him a few more times. "What the fuck are you doing here? And how did you get in?" I toss the stick down, breathing hard. "You're so lucky I didn't have the rifle handy. You stupid fuck you're in Texas. I could have killed you for stepping on my property! Where's your car?" I flip the light on, looking down to make sure that I didn't really hurt the dumb shit.

"Jesus Christ! I came to talk to you, since you've been doing a damned good job of not returning calls. And I picked up your key from Nate. And my car fucking died about a mile from here. If I'd known you were going to beat the shit out of me, I'd have hired a brass band to announce me, and--shit!" He breaks off, as he comes to his feet, staring at my shoulder.

Fuck, I forgot to put a shirt on.

I know what it looks like. It's still swollen, with dark red streaks radiating from the wound. I know it's ugly looking. I see it every day when I dump peroxide on it.

Dave's staring at it with this utterly horrified look on his face. "God, why didn't you call me? Jesus, Taylor, you shouldn't have been drumming all that time. Sit down, can I get you something? You should have called me."

"Dave, I'm fine-"

"No, you're not. Look at you! You look like hell. Have you eaten anything?"

"I had some leftover Rice Krispie treats."

"Jesus, Tay!"

"I-"

That's about the last word I get in edgewise, as Dave herds me into the living room and onto the sofa. "Stay. I'm going to see if there's any food in here that isn't growing sentient mold."

I sit, glaring at the kitchen as I hear him banging around. Less than five minutes later, he's back with a plate heaped with roast beef. "Why in the fuck were you eating Rice Krispies with a roast in your fridge?"

Fucking Nate. Tell a guy if you're going to stock his kitchen. I shrug, one shouldered. Even that hurts. God, I'm so tired. "To be honest, I've been kind of nauseous," I admit quietly. "The antibiotics are shredding my stomach."

His face softens a little. "If you eat, it'll probably help," he offers. "Here, just try a little. Then, we'll work on getting you cleaned up, cause dude, you reek."

I glare at him. "Let's see. Infection, hospital, not really able to work the shower thing with one arm….."

"Hospital?"

"What, you thought this was from me shooting up?" I nod towards the bruises at the bend of my elbow. "I needed an antibiotic drip." I shrug again.

"How long."

There's a note in his voice, something deadly quiet and a little scary. "Not--"

"How fucking long."

"Three days."

He turns without a word and walks into the kitchen. A moment later, I hear a loud thump, accompanied by cursing. Then Dave comes back, face totally composed. "Three days."

"Yeah. It wasn't a big deal-"

"Just fucking eat. I'm going to strip your bed. I'm not cleaning you up to put you in stinky sheets," he growls.

"Haven't been sleeping in them since I got back, they were pretty gross." I sigh, rubbing my cheek. "You don't have to do that, dude. I've been sleeping on the couch or on top of the comforter okay." If by okay, you mean less than three hours a night.

He shakes his head. "I can take it, and you're going to sleep in a bed. Your couch sucks, dude." I sigh as he disappears up the stairs. Shit. I so don't need this.

I'm nibbling at my second piece of roast beef when he comes back down, face ashen. "Jesus Christ. It looks like someone was murdered in your bed."

I nod a little, chewing slowly. "It was kind of oozing for a while."

He swallows hard. "Yes, I saw the pus, thank you." He sits on the arm of the couch. "How bad is it?" he asks softly.

"Not horrible, not great. I'm doing physical therapy four days a week, trying to loosen the tendon back up, but I lost a week with the infection, so I'm sure it's going to be a bitch when I get back to it tomorrow. But I'll be fine for the tour," I assure him.

For a second, I think he's going to say something, but he doesn't, just nods. Probably already going over his list of replacements.

Fuck that. I'm going to be ready.

My stomach rolls ominously, and I carefully sit the food on the table. "Okay, that's all I can eat without puking."

"C'mon, then. Let's get you cleaned up. Can you get the incision wet, or no?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's past the no water point."

It's not 'til he's pushing me into the bathroom and pulling his shirt off that it occurs to me what he's proposing. "I can-"

"Not wash your hair with one arm," he says firmly. "Look, I've seen it before, Tay. We've been on a bus together for how many years now?"

"Too fucking many," I mutter.

"So quit with the blushing virgin shit and drop 'em."

What the hell else am I going to do? I strip, slipping off the sling with a slight noise of pain.

"Okay, into the tub, and can you kneel down, so I can get your hair first?"

I nod, and he offers his hand as I lower myself. Which puts me right on level with Dave's--oh, so not going there. The first touch of warm water feels better than sex, I swear. And then, he starts shampooing my hair. Jesus, Dave should have been a massusse. He's got great hands--oh, there's that thought again. Dammit.

Oh, yeah, that's nice. Hot water, rinsing away all the sweat, the smell of sickness, infection. I'm pretty sure I'm making some little noises of pleasure, but it still startles me when Dave turns the water off with a laugh. "Jesus, you're your own porno soundtrack, dude."

"Sorry. It felt good," I mutter, feeling the blush rising in my face.

"Not a problem. Can you stand up now? I can get your back, I'll let you take care of the rest, if you think you can?"

I nod a little, and he runs the soap over my skin gently. I'm just going to ignore what my cock thinks of all this; it's safer for everyone.

Especially me.

When I step out, Dave is waiting patiently with a large towel. "Do you have to wear the sling in bed?"

"Not if I can get a pillow under my arm, I don't, but I haven't been able to, so….." I gingerly touch the raw spot on my neck, and he winces.

"I'll help you."

He dries my hair off and wraps the towel around my hips before guiding me to the bedroom. I'm going along quietly, zombie like. I'm too tired for this fight.

Tomorrow, if he's still here, I'll worry about it. He won't be. Once he's tucked me in, he'll get the fuck out of here as fast as he can get AAA here to fix his car.

I'm so not worth this kind of trouble.

The comforter is pulled back, and I can see my old burgundy jersey sheets on the bed. I'd forgotten that I still had them, to be honest. My last girlfriend tossed most of my old stuff, redid the house the way she liked. Which explains why my sheets were Laura Ashley shit, and rough as sleeping on a burlap sack.

She was all about appearances. The sheets have lasted longer than she did.

I let Dave tuck me in, propping me carefully up on pillows, like I'm some sort of china doll. I manage to behave myself until the door clicks behind him. Then I close my eyes and rub angrily at my watery eyes. Fucking Dave. Must have gotten shampoo in my eyes.

I fall asleep to the sound of my mental voice, roundly cursing me for my utter stupidity.

Normally, I'd wake up around four in the morning, sweating and shaking, and in pain, but I guess Dave worked some kind of magic, because the sun is on my face when I open my eyes.

Remind me to thank the fuck. I can handle emotional trauma if it means a good night's sleep.

I stretch slowly, opening my eyes a crack.

Dark brown eyes stare back at me. "About time you woke up," Dave mutters, offering me a coffee mug.

"You're still here?"

He looks affronted. "Of course I am. I'm not going to just leave you when you can't cook for yourself."

I sigh, letting my head drop back to the pillow. "Dave, I can take care of myself. Really."

"Yeah, I saw. Come on, I've got breakfast warming in the oven."

Okay, I'm only following him because the thought of breakfast is making my stomach growl. That'll last until I take the next antibiotic.

"Try eating first," Dave suggests gently. "It might coat your stomach."

I nod mutely, going along with him for now. He pulls a casserole dish I don't remember having out of the oven, and slides it into a wicker holder, cursing as the heat bleeds through the potholder.

It's some sort of omelet/quiche thing, and yes, it disturbs me that Dave can cook it. I can see ham and cheese, and mushrooms. As the smell reaches me, my stomach gives an even more ominous snarl. Dave just smiles and scoops some onto my plate. "Dig in."

Oh, good. Cheesy, and hot and oh, man. "I love you, dude. You would make such a good house bitch."

He flashes me a wicked smile. "Is that an offer? Think you can keep me in the manner which I'm accustomed?"

I'm saved from answering by the shrill ringing of the phone. Bless whoever the fuck that is.

Dave picks it up, handing it to me and going back to eating breakfast.

"Hello?"

"Hey, how's it going?" Nate asks.

"Pretty good. How're you?"

"Not bad. Shoulder any better?"

"Yeah. It's doing much better."

"How's Dave?" he asks, a quirk of amusement in his voice.

"He's fine. You could have warned me, you know. I totally beat the shit out of him with my hockey stick, dude."

Nate's silent for a moment, then he laughs. "Y'never know. With Dave, that might actually constitute foreplay."

"What?"

"Settle down, dude. Look, the two of you need to get back on the same page, or this tour is gonna blow. So, do what you've gotta do, but get it together."

I stare at the receiver as it clicks into silence. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah, Nate's being a mother hen. He-" I catch sight of the clock over the fridge. "Shit. I've gotta get dressed and call the cab. I'm going to be late for rehab."

"If you trust me with your truck, I'll drive you, you putz."

"Yeah, thanks. I'm going to go pull on some clothes." I hurry upstairs, digging out a loose pair of pants and a tank top.

Dave's got the stuff in the sink and is dressed when I come back down. "You can just drop me off," I offer.

"Would you mind if I come in? Maybe if I watch, I could help you with the exercises," he offers.

"If you really want to."

He nods, and I sigh. I'm only allowing this because it's too much trouble--okay, that's a lie. I'm allowing it because as pathetic as it is, it lets me be close to Dave.

God, I suck.

He climbs in my beat up truck ten minutes later, and fiddles with the stations. "You get shit for music out here," he observes.

"I know. Which is why I've got a tape deck, duh." I know the moment the words are out of my mouth that I've made a dumb mistake. I know what tape is in there.

"So I see." Without looking, he pops in the tape, and the Bee Gees smooth voices fill the car.

Dave blinks a bit, then smiles at me. "I didn't know you liked them."

"A little bit, here and there," I shrug, looking out the window. With a sigh I open it, letting the stifling heat blow into the car. It's already warming up outside.

Dave starts to sing, little melodies, half lyrics at first. Then, his voice pulls free, soaring with the harmonies, and I close my eyes, remembering.

We love you, come back to us, Taylor. I can't do this without you. Don't die. God, please, don't die.

Comas are funny things, or so I'm told. I don't remember everything, just half snippets, bits of Dave's voice, the way he sang so softly that only I and the night nurses could hear, the way he kept the darkness from swallowing me.

The heat is biting into my face, drying the tears before they fall, keeping me safe from discovery. This isn't a crush, or anything like that. I love him. I am so fucking screwed.

Finis

Comments

[katzb101.livejournal.com]

Oh lord.

This one is beyond stubborn with his issues isn't he?

I can understand why he'd be so twitchy, having been attacked but over react a little. Then there's the little problem of him being able to face everyone 'cept Dave. And him becoming ill cause he's stubborn and... and... :-)

I'm glad that's your muse and not mine I have enough trouble with drummers. *g*

I'm really looking forward to seeing how this works out.