Historical Figures and Ancient Heads
Chapter Seven

Rating: R
Category:
Pairing(s): Nathan/Charles, Toki/Skwisgaar, Murderface/Knubbler, Pickles/OC.
Warnings: Some angst
Summary: The album is out, it’s getting close to tour-time and Granny-Klok is in full swing. Meanwhile Charles learns about gravity the hard way.
Notes: This chapter was co-written with Rei. Erick Fisher belongs to Rei.

You will notice allusions to something involving Pickles and two teenaged boys. (Don’t worry, they were over 18! The Rat does not do under-aged sex.) There is a tale brewing in the works that fills in the considerable gap between a fic I wrote ages ago called Night Moves and this current series.

The name of the album was ‘Crash & Burn Out’, and it blew the critics away. People who had feared it would be nothing but the tired strains of faded glory had their faces clawed off by Dethklok at their hardest and angriest. The album cover was decorated with photos and documents – x-rays of Pickles’ deteriorating spine, Skwisgaar screaming and scraping at his bloody eyes, medical documents warning Nathan he was headed for a massive coronary, and, possibly the most brutal thing of all, Murderface gardening in the nude.

The sheer power of the album brought an immediate attack from numerous sources, and rumours spread like wildfire about how it could not possibly be Dethklok playing their own instruments. For one thing how was Pickles playing the drums with his back in such poor condition? How could Skwisgaar still be playing at such speeds at his age? One man even appeared on a late night show to prove that it was not Skwisgaar playing at all, but an inferior artist whose tracks had been sped up.

“Dildo,” huffed Skwisgaar as he sat in the main hall with Toki and Murderface, listening to the commentary on his playing. “I shows him who is slows an’ olds.”

“You were schtraining pretty hard,” said Murderface.

“I nevers said was easy. All da playing is hards on da joints. Doctor says I has da arter-itis in bot’ hands now.”

Toki looked at Skwisgaar. “Wasn’t Nat’an’s mom in bed wit’ arter-itis?”

“Ja, was terrible,” said Skwisgaar. “Dose Ritis boys is terrible, and dat Art’ur is da worst.”

Murderface closed his eyes and sighed. “I hate you both sho hard right now.”

Meanwhile on the TV, the so-called ‘expert’ continued to ‘expose’ Skwisgaar’s fraudulent guitar playing. Toki felt his outrage at the slandering of his beloved grow.

“Is bullshit!” said Toki. “We didn’ts alters dose tracks! Was all Skwisgaar!”

“Toki…” Skwisgaar began tiredly.

“Buts dey sayings you can’ts plays fast no mores!”

“Ja an’ we is showings dem all when we is goings on tour. Don’ts upset youself.” Skwisgaar raised his head and sniffed. “What is stinkings?”

Toki and Murderface sniffed.

“Yeah I smells somet’ing stinkies too,” said Toki, after a moment.

“Ja is worse dan Murderface,” said Skwisgaar. “Smells likes…. likes ladies’ hair salon, ja?”

“Ja is smellings likes hair dye,” said Toki.

The trio on the sofa sat and sniffed, then exchanged glances. Then Toki asked the million-dollar question.

“Where is Nat’an an’ Pickle?”

Skwisgaar stood up. “Come on. We follows my nose.”

The stink led them to Pickles’ room. There they found Erick, lounging on the bed and grinning as Pickles, with the deftness found only in hair stylists and rockers who survived the eighties, worked at sectioning and painting the hair of the man seated before him with black dye. Nathan had a pink towel draped around his shoulders, and clumps of his long hair were separated with bits of foil, morosely enduring Pickles’ obvious delight at having a chance to play hairdresser again.

Toki simply dropped in his tracks and laughed so hard his face turned purple and no sound escaped. Murderface just stared. Skwisgaar sighed.

“Wish I coulds sees dis.” He paced slowly into the room, approaching the place where he knew Pickles and Nathan to be. Erick very helpfully flicked on more lights to give Skwisgaar a better look at things. Skwisgaar peered closely at Nathan, then nodded. “Ja if I nots alreadies blind, dats would do it.”

“Go bury a fish,” grumbled Nathan.

“Want me to do you next?” Pickles asked happily.

“No, Toki likes da silver. Toki you is wantings Pickle to gives you makes-over? I gets popcorn an’ tea an’ we plays at being grannies.”

“YAY! MAKES-OVER!”

“I’m out of here,” grumbled Murderface, and left.

“I can’t believe I used to think you guys were so bad-ass,” said Erick, grinning.

“We’re plenty bad-ass,” said Pickles. He tugged Skwisgaar’s silver-blonde hair, then rose up on his toes to kiss his face. “You should see this bad boy in action when there’s a fight. Meanest guitar-swinger ever.”

Skwisgaar looked pleased. Erick just grinned.

“Pack ‘o grannies,” he teased gently.

“Watch who you’re calling a granny,” said Pickles. He looked into his pot of hair dye and sighed. “I’ll have to mix more dye. Toki can you tighten my back brace? It’s getting loose.”

“You means corset,” huffed Skwisgaar.

“Just go make tea while Toki tightens the strings and I make more dye. What kind of tea are you making?”

“Earl Grey,” said Skwisgaar.

“Then make sure you slice lemons for it too,” said Pickles, tying his long dreads back. His hair had grown eleven inches by now, and combined with the dreads he looked like some strange wild beast with a mane of fire and spikes.

Erick just chuckled quietly as he watched the man he had loved for years dye Nathan Explosion’s hair while getting his corset….er… back brace… tightened by Toki Wartooth.

“Grannies,” he whispered fondly.

***---***

Charles wondered why he was lying on his back on the floor. Then he wondered why Nathan was screaming. Then he wondered why his shoulder hurt and who was kneeling beside him, asking him his name. Charles swallowed, then licked his lips, having a feeling that he had done something stupid.

“Charles,” he said quietly.

“What day is it?”

“Tue…? No it’s Wednesday.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Charles looked around, feeling his senses slowly return. “At a guess I’d say the bottom of the stairs.”

“Very good,” said the doctor. “And how did we end up at the bottom of the stairs?”

“I have no idea how we did. I fell. I’m assuming that you walked. Why is Nathan so upset?”

“Well he’s having a perfectly understandable reaction to seeing his life partner lying at the bottom of a rather long flight of stairs, as well as a strong sense of déjà vu. Did we not put on our leg brace, Mr. Offdensen?”

“No we did not, Dr. Blackwood.”

“And why not, Mr. Offdensen?”

“Because we didn’t fucking want to, Dr. Blackwood.”

“Well that’s just special, Mr. Offdensen, because now we’ve gone and dislocated our shoulder and broken our ankle. Which means we will not be playing drums on tour with the band now, will we?”

Shit.

Charles was taken to the Mordland hospital, where his ankle was set and his shoulder was seen to, then was taken back to his room and settled in his bed. Nathan was there, waiting, but Charles sensed that Nathan was angry, so angry he couldn’t seem to even put it into words. But once he was certain that Charles was safe and would be all right, he stood up and began to pack. Charles felt a cold rush of terror plummet into his gut.

“Nathan?” he asked in a tiny voice.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting for the next fall. I can’t keep having nightmares about you ending up like Rebecca. I can’t do this. I’m done. It’s only a matter of time before your leg gives out and you really hurt yourself.”

Charles watched as Nathan slammed an armload of clothes into a suitcase, then turned and began grabbing up a few small objects that had sentimental meaning to him.

“Nathan don’t do this. Please.”

Nathan turned on the smaller man with a vengeance. “IF YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME THEN I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU!”

“I do care about you Nathan. I care about you more than I could ever say.”

“Yeah, so much so that you go out without your brace and end up at the bottom of the stairs. I saw you fall! I fucking saw it! Do you have any idea what that felt like?! All because you have some fucking thing in your brain that says if you wear the brace then you’re useless?”

“Nathan…”

“Naw fuck you, Charles. Fuck you right to hell. I thought I was watching you die. AGAIN. How many times do you want me to go to your funeral?”

Charles felt his hands clutch the soft sheets as his stomach grew sick with fear and hurt. “Nathan please don’t go. I’ll wear it. I promise I’ll wear it.”

Nathan slammed another armload of stuff into the bag, and Charles wondered if Nathan was truly beyond caring at this point. But then he paused, and looked at Charles.

“You promise?”

“I promise. I’ll wear it. Every day.”

“AND the cane?”

“I don’t…”

Nathan closed the suitcase.

“ALL RIGHT! The cane too! Although the brace actually makes the cane redundant.”

“I don’t care how redundant it looks. You’re wearing it.”

Charles had a funny feeling that Nathan had no idea what ‘redundant’ meant, but that was fine.

“I’m sorry Nathan. I never meant to frighten you.”

“Yeah well you did. You scared the hell out of me.”

“You've never been a ninja. It's crushing when you can't be a ninja anymore.”

“You're still a ninja,” Nathan said quietly.

Charles just shook his head. “No such thing as a one-legged ninja.”

“Yeah like you still couldn't kick ass.” Nathan unpacked the suitcase, putting everything away before he walked over to the bed to sit down on the edge, facing Charles.

"I know this is hard for you, babe. But I can't lose you. And I can't wait for you to have a fatal accident. And you wouldn't put up with it from me, either. Not if you love me half as much as I know you do."

Charles sighed heavily. "No. No, I wouldn't."

Nathan kissed him gently, then reached up to touch his face. "You scared me today, Charlie. Scared me right through to my soul. I heard the bones break. I can't even begin to tell you how much that terrified me."

He passed Charles his sleeping puppy, smiling as Charles accepted and nuzzled the tiny animal.

"I'm sorry," Charles said softly.

Nathan leaned forward and kissed him. "It's okay. But you're not gonna be playing drums in that condition. So now what do we do?"

Charles quietly grumbled something incoherent. Fuck. He'd actually been looking forward to that. "Well... Murderface is going to tantrum like a five-year-old, but we'll have to bring in someone from outside the family."

"What about that fucking adorable kid from the band Davida manages? The itty bitty power drummer? What's his name? That kid."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "The fifteen-year-old?"

"Yeah! What's his name, it's like..? HAZEL! Like after the rabbit in Watership Down. We can get Hazel."

"Nathan, you can't take a teenager on tour!"

"I don't see why not, we take Murderface. Look any other drummer we contact is gonna have other commitments. You know that. The tour is coming up too soon. No one else is gonna be available."

"Nate..." Charles began, looking very uneasy. "You remember what happened the last time we brought a teenager along on tour?"

"You mean Lyall? Or Erick?"

"Both!"

"Aw come on, you love them and you know it! Things worked out fine! Okay Pickles got the shit kicked out of him and there was enough angst to fill a daytime soap and it cost us tens of thousands of dollars in home repairs, but it worked out!"

Charles sighed heavily. "Oh, but I hate the angst. And the crying and the name-calling and the recurring nightmares of Chris Hansen."

"Hazel's a good kid. And you said yourself he's already on par with some of the great legendary rock drummers. And think what a boost it would be to his own band."

"That's all true, but even putting aside how creepy having a teenager on the tour bus makes me feel, the boy's mother won't let him stay out after nine PM."

"Charlie," Nathan said softly, touching his nose to Charles'. "There is nobody else we can get at this short date and you know it. Unless you can teach your wiener to headbang."

Charles looked down at Rommel. "I could. But his feet wouldn't reach the pedals." He sighed. "And the point I meant to make was that if Hazel's parents don't want him touring with Dethklok, we can't force them."

Nathan handed Charles the phone. "Here. All we can do is ask. If Mrs. Wilder doesn't want Hazel to go then... I guess we're fucked. And do not mention Mr. Wilder at all. He apparently ran off to play chase-the-rabbit with nineteen year old twins."

Charles accepted the phone, giving Nathan a jaded look. “See? Teenagers are nothing but trouble.”

“Make the call or I paint the dog pink.”

“Fine. But you're gonna have to help me bath afterward because this call is going to make me feel so fucking dirty.”

Nathan kissed his nose. "I can't think of anything I would rather do."

Charles fumbled in the bedside drawer for a bottle of brandy, taking a drink from it before dialling Davida's number, deciding he'd try and work this through her initially; he didn't even know the boy's number.

***---***

The phone rang twice in Davida Mundy's new shiny office, complete with a very large multi-level cage for Hazard the company mascot - none other than the rat from the old studio, whose image now graced the company logo. She was just feeding the fat hairy ingrate when the phone rang, and she snatched it up.

"Hazard Records, Davida Mundy speaking."

"Davida, hello. It's Charles." He had finally relented to a first-name basis.

"Charles! Hello!" She slipped in the food bowl and closed the cage door, noticing that Hazard was actually a rather old rodent. Terrific. Now she had to find him a lady rat so there would be little Hazard descendants so Hazel wouldn't cry about his looming demise. "I was just feeding the company logo, how can I help you this fine evening?"

"Well, to be honest, Davida, I was wondering if Dethklok could borrow Hazel for a few months. We've found ourselves in need of a second drummer."

Davida raised an eyebrow. "You want to borrow Hazel? I'll have to discuss it with his mother and the boys in the band but... I can't see that being a problem. Let me call Hazel and his mom and get the ball rolling. Oh and Toki tweeted me about your attempt at break-dancing. Glad to hear you're all right."

Charles mentally cursed Toki. It seemed every six months he had to give the entire band the "Why We Don't Share Charles' Private Affairs with Other People and the Internet" speech. Toki needed it every four months. "Yes, thank you, I'll live. Do you think the boy's mother would be agreeable? This will be a full tour, with shows extending to well after nine o'clock."

"I think she will insist on a chaperone. Hazel is all she has, and the boy's been brainwashed into thinking he's made of blown glass by a woman terrified of losing the only thing of value she has left in her life. But the family can really use the money, and she might be a worrier but she's not stupid enough to pass up something that could provide for her tiny delicate fragile weak baby, who goes out and plays rugby in the back lot with his friends until he remembers that he's tiny delicate fragile and weak."

"A chaperone won't be a problem. In fact, that would make both his mother and myself sleep easier at night."

"Me too. And Hazel I think. All right. Make Nathan look after you and I'll call back in about an hour."

"Thank you, Davida." Charles set the phone down, looking to Nathan. "She'll have an answer in an hour, but she's very optimistic."

"Good. Just enough time for a little make-up sex. And it'll have to be VERY little with all those bruises. Geeze Charlie, you scared the hell out of me. Never make me watch that again.”

"I'm sorry, Nate," he said quietly. "I promise I'll wear the brace from now on. For you, I'll do it."

Nathan kissed him softly. "Good. Because I don't wanna go. And I don't wanna lose you."

***---***

An hour later, Davida called back. "Congratulations, you are the proud owner of one itty bitty drummer. He will be arriving with me in the morning complete with his carrier, litter box, toys, and cardboard box to hide in. He can get right to work practicing on Pickles' set."

Charles restrained a sigh of both relief and defeat. "Thank you, Davida. We promise we'll take good care of him and make sure he gets plenty of exercise."

"Just remember to let him out when he meows. See you in the morning, Charles. Good night."

"Good night. Thank you again." He hung up. "...We have a drummer."

"AWESOME! We're a band again. Oh. And I got you a present."

Charles perked up. “A little female brown dachshund?”

“Sorry. That's for after the tour when we're retired and you can take up wiener-breeding full time. No this is a cheer-up present. Not that you deserve it after scaring the hell out of me.”

Nathan got off the bed and went to the bedroom closet, returning with a long slim box, which he handed to Charles. Inside was a cane; a magnificent black one, hand carved of oak, stained black, and topped with a dragon's head made of solid silver with glittering red gems for eyes. It was likely over three hundred years old, was very solid, and pulled apart to become a thin and deadly sharp fencing sword. Charles discovered this last part with Nathan's assistance, actually shuddering when the blade slid out of its sheath. He swallowed thickly, looking at Nathan.

"If I wasn't lacking the use of two limbs, I would fuck you within an inch of your life."

Nathan grinned. "It's only your ankle and your shoulder. And that's what pain killers are for. So... wanna play helpless patient and the wicked evil orderly?"

"I'd rather just fuck you blind."

"I can handle that."

"Good," Charles nodded, determined to somehow tap that even with his arm in a sling and his ankle in a cast. He'd manage. And afterwards, he'd be able to claim honestly that he could fuck with one hand tied behind his back.