The Kids Are Alright

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Nathan/Charles, Toki/Skwisgaar.
Warnings: Unfair mention of rock gods.
Summary: Just where does Charles Foster Offdensen go when he gets a night out…?
Notes: For quantum_witch, who requested a nice Gen.fic. Sorry it took so long, hon.

“Badger?”

“Yeah boss?”

“Where are the boys?”

“Out on a pub crawl, boss.”

Charles breathed a sigh of relief. On the other end of the intercom, Charles heard Badger turn the page of the magazine he was reading.

“Y’know it’s sad that a man of your age has to sneak out of the house.”

“I am not sneaking,” said Charles.

“No of course not. You’re just trying to leave the house without the kids seeing you doing it. That’s not sneaking at all.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “They get upset when I leave. You know that. They have separation anxiety.”

“No that would be your wiener-dog.”

Charles reached down to pet the female long-haired dachshund. “She does not! She’s perfectly well-adjusted!”

“Which is why every time you leave she shits in your slippers.”

“She’s just confused.”

“She must be damned near delusional if she’s mistaking your slippers for the lawn.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Do you know what pub the boys went to?”

“No, but probably either the club or that road house out on I-90. Those are their favourite haunts.”

“All right, thanks.”

Charles released the button on the intercom, set his small dog in her bed, grabbed his leather jacket and his guitar and hurried out of his apartment, heading down to the car port. He leapt into a small dark blue convertible, tossing his guitar into the back seat and took off, speeding out of the car port and vanishing into the night.

It was so damned hard having a life of his own.

He arrived at a club called The Blue Pony – a retro club that featured only the best cover bands. It did great business, and the line-ups always went on for blocks every night. It was a tense and scary feeling to know that tonight the line up was there for him and his Who cover band, ‘Who’s Next’. He wondered how Nathan and the boys dealt with it. He could scarcely breathe and the crowd was not even a tenth the size of the audiences Dethklok drew.

He darted in through the door for the performers, heading to the dressing room, where he was greeted brightly by their Keith Moon – James Oldman.

“Charlie! You’re late! I was getting worried!”

Charles set his guitar down, opening the case to check on the distinctive custom 1966 Rickenbacker. “Sorry Jimmy. I was playing a game of ‘sneak past the housemates’, only to find out they were already gone.”

Jimmy was busy getting into his make-up, speaking to Charles as he studied himself in the mirror. “Why? Aren’t you allowed to go out?”

“I am allowed to go out. The problem is getting out without Toki having some sort of nervous attack and the other four boys following to see what I’m up to. They’re like guinea pigs. One guinea pig heads left and all the other guinea pigs follow to see where the first guinea pig is going. And it has no idea.”

“Awww, you love them,” said Jimmy.

“I do love them. At times it’s the only thing stopping me from choking them in their sleep.” Charles looked around as he began changing his clothes. “Where are Entwistle and Daltrey?”

“Entwistle is getting a drink. Daltrey is off having his first shit-fit of the evening.”

Charles sighed. “Terrific. Look… I think it’s time we talked about replacing Randy.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me, Charlie,” said Jimmy. “I mean I hate to admit it but the tantrums are overshadowing the talent. And I have seen better Roger Daltrey impersonators with fewer issues.”

“Is he still refusing to do ‘My Generation’ and ‘My Wife’?”

“Yup,” said Jimmy, putting on his sun glasses and turning to face Charles. “How do I look?”

“Perfect. Now let’s see you drive a limo into a pool.”

“Buy me a limo and I will.”

Charles laughed, then glanced up as the door to their changing room opened and in stepped their John Entwistle – Tony Aspen.

“Randy’s in prime form tonight. Hello Charlie.”

“Hi Tony. What’s he doing now?”

“Oh he’s fucking pitching a tanty because your boys are in the audience and he’s screaming about how fucking dare you bring them in to make yourself look better.”

Charles spun sharply to look at Tony, brown eyes huge. “They’re here?”

Tony nodded. “Yup. I take it you didn’t know.”

“NO! I had no idea! That last thing I want is them watching me perform!” Charles was very nearly flapping in his panic. “I DON’T WANT THE BIGGEST BAND IN THE WORLD WATCHING ME PRETEND TO BE PETE TOWNSHEND!”

“Charlie, relax,” said Jimmy. “Those guys adore you!”

“You don’t live with them,” said Charles. “If they think I have a life outside of Mordhaus they won’t let me out of their sight for a moment. They’ll be sleeping in my bed again.”

Jimmy and Tony exchanged glances.

“It’s the ‘again’ part of that statement that worries me the most,” said Tony.

“Charlie,” said Jimmy, “Chances are they won’t even know it’s you once you’re in costume and on stage. And why are they so worried about you having a life?”

“They all have serious abandonment issues,” said Charles, knowing his friends would not spread information about his boys behind his back. “Any time something in their world changes, they panic. Me playing in a band will be interpreted as me leaving them. So despite Randy’s belief that I brought them in to watch, that is the exact opposite of what I really wanted. I do NOT need five highly insecure children, three of whom are over six feet and well over the two hundred pound mark, in one case three hundred, taking up my bed and finding new ways to worry themselves into stomach issues. Skwisgaar has enough trouble keeping down food; I don’t need him ralphing all over my sheets like a huge Swedish house cat.”

Jimmy and Tony blinked at him. “Charlie do you get paid extra for putting up with this shit?” asked Tony.

Charles resumed changing into his stage outfit. “I don’t do it for money. I did at the start, yes, but I don’t do it for the money any more. I do it because they love me. There is something oddly comforting about knowing I am needed, not just required.”

The door banged open, and Randy strode in; young and sexy with a lot of long blonde hair. He did not look exactly like Roger Daltrey, but there was enough of a resemblance that, legend had it, he had once given Pete Townshend a bit of a shock. Charles had met Townshend and doubted he was stupid and near-sighted enough to mistake Randy for a man he had known for decades, but it was a good little myth to draw in the public.

“Hi Randy,” said Charles.

“Don’t talk to me. I can’t believe you brought those assholes here.”

“I did NOT bring them here. Pickles is a Who fan. It’s more than likely he heard about…”

Randy stormed out. Charles sighed.

“He needs to go.”

“Agreed,” said Tony. “He’s not even that great a singer.”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” said Jimmy. “He’s pretty good.”

“All I know is when Roger Daltrey sings “I don’t need to be forgiven,” I hear strength and defiance,” said Tony. “When Randy sings it I hear a quarter-tone flat. Anyway we’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.”

“And won’t that just be the most fun we’ve ever had,” said Jimmy. He picked up his drum sticks and sighed. “C’mon, let’s give the people what they want.”

“Unless what they want is ‘My Generation’ or ‘My Wife’,” said Charles.

***---***

Charles stood on the stage holding his guitar, blinking into the darkness of the club. Damn it was impossible to see almost anything past the stage because of the lights. Those were set up so the audience could see him, not the other way around. He had no idea where his boys were sitting, and he couldn’t worry about it right now. Being a young Pete Townsend took up a lot of energy, and the crowd had come to see a Who cover band. They had not come to see Charles Offdensen squint owlishly into the dark. He listened closely to Randy sing the immortal phrase “I don’t need to be forgiven,” and realized Tony was right – Randy was a quarter-tone off. Then Charles heard a yelp of disdain that was all too familiar. Skwisgaar. Dammit. Charles had been hoping they left. Randy’s head snapped in the direction of the derisive sound, but he kept singing. Charles just sighed inwardly. This was gonna be a long night.

Things did not improve when a group of people near the stage left, and the boys instantly took the table, eyes bright, grins wide, well armed with tequila. Charles had no idea what they were up to, at least not at first. However it soon became very clear. They were playing a drinking game. Every time Randy missed his note, they took a swig. Charles just squeezed his eyes shut. After tonight they might not have to fire Randy. Chances were very good he would quit, if he didn’t just storm off the stage.

The song ended. The audience responded well; it seemed most people were not hearing the off-notes, or were choosing to ignore them. The applause seemed to placate Randy, who promptly trotted out his favourite myth.

“You know I was once mistaken for Roger Daltrey by Pete Townshend.”

Pickles blinked, then hauled out his cell phone and began calling a number. Charles suspected he was calling Pete Townshend. Oh fucking terrific, that was ALL they needed. Charles pretended not to notice as Pickles sent Townshend photos of their lead vocalist. Suddenly Pickles looked up.

“Pete says you’re off your fucking nut. His eyes aren’t THAT bad.”

Randy stared subatomic death at Pickles, who had returned to his phone call. Nathan was doing his damndest not to fall off his chair laughing. Charles offered a prayer to the Rock Gods that Pete was nowhere near enough to actually show up. He didn’t care what the aged god of rock thought of Randy, he just didn’t want Pete to see him. Randy turned to the crowd, trying to contain his anger.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are fortunate to have Dethklok in the audience tonight.”

There was a roar from the crowd. Randy smiled snidely.

“Perhaps we could talk them into a song.”

The roar turned to a deafening scream. Pickles jumped and looked around, then hastily ended his call, wondering what the noise was. When it finally died down, Nathan shouted back to Randy.

“Fuck that, we hear us all the time. We came to hear the Who.”

“One song,” wheedled Randy.

Nathan gave Pickles a gentle shove on the shoulder, and Pickles shrugged and got up. The crowd went mental as Pickles approached the stage. Randy handed him the mic, then walked off stage. Charles suspected he was not coming back. Pickles looked around, clearly having fun.

“I have no idea what I’m doing up here.”

“How is that any different from any other time you’re on stage?” yelled Nathan.

“Gets dat doushbags outs of here!” yelled Toki.

“Takes it off!” yelled Skwisgaar.

Pickles just grinned, then looked at the band. “I’m assuming you guys know ‘My Wife’.”

Fuck yeah. Charles had no idea why Randy refused to do this song, but Charles loved it. Pickles couldn’t pass for Roger Daltrey by any stretch of the imagination, but he could sure as hell sing. The tone of the show became completely different as soon as Pickles took over. People began to get up and dance, and to interact with the band. When they did ‘My Generation’ it was like a scene straight out of Quadrophenia, with people jumping and screaming ‘fuck off!’ at the appropriate places. Tables were shoved aside, and the party began to spill into the street. At one point the club began to run out of booze, but no one was complaining, especially not Charles as he thrashed and windmilled his way through each song as if he had been born to it. He forgot about being Charles Offdensen, forgot about worrying if his boys found out who he was, forgot about everything except why he got into the rock business in the first place – the love of the music.

Charles had no idea how long they played; time seemed irrelevant. He was shocked when he heard Pickles address the crowd.

“Okay I’m getting told we need to wrap it up. The club owner wanted to close an hour ago and apparently they’re running out of booze.”

There were complaints and boos, but Pickles motioned for quiet.

“Yeah I’m having fun too but the club owner has been awesome throughout this, he coulda kicked our asses out an hour ago and he didn’t. Let’s let the poor guy get home. Okay? One last tune then we split.”

Charles just shook his head. He had no idea how Pickles managed a huge crowd so easily; he would have been shaking in his boots. Pickles looked back to the band.

“Behind Blue Eyes?”

The crowd cheered. Charles began to play, looking down at his hands and realizing his fingers were bleeding. He’d have a heck of a time explaining that at the breakfast table. At least he’d managed to get through the night without his cover being blown. The crowd was silent as Pickles sang the first words of the song.

“No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man,
To be the sad man behind blue eyes…”

Charles let his head fall back and just went with the music, exhausted but unwilling to let the night end; it had been such a wonderful evening. He could do it again a thousand times over, and he hoped they did. They could get a new lead vocalist, and bring the magic back into this band, and just have fun. It didn’t matter they wouldn’t go anywhere with just a cover band. This was all about pure enjoyment of the music.

The song broke, and Jimmy began drumming. Charles raised his head, and found to his complete horror Pickled had turned, and was staring straight at him as he sang the next part. Charles just stared back, feeling an odd knot of terror in his stomach, and something else, he wasn’t sure what. But he knew that as Pickles sang the next verse, it was directed right at him.

“When my fist clenches, crack it open,
Before I use it and lose my cool.
When I smile, tell me some bad news,
Before I laugh and act like a fool.
And if I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat.
And if I shiver please give me a blanket,
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat.”

‘Busted,’ Charles thought, but smiled.

***---***

“C’mon, Pete,” said Pickles, waiting for Charles at the bottom of the short flight of stairs that led down to the street where the limo awaited. Murderface, Toki and Skwisgaar waited with him, looking up at their manager who stood uncertainly at the top of the steps.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Charles. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

“I got ya,” said Nathan. He scooped Charles up and carried him down the steps, then set him on his feet when they reached the sidewalk. “There. You okay?”

Charles looked down at his bandaged hands. “I have no idea how I am going to get any work done tomorrow.”

“At least you didn’t slam a whammy bar through your hand,” said Pickles.

“I mean it,” said Charles. “How do you guys do it? You play all night, drink through the day and then do it all again! I’ll be lucky if I can stand up in the morning!”

“Helps if you nevers gets old,” said Skwisgaar.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Look the fan sites may not know your true ages, but I do. The only spring chicken here is Toki.”

“We’re only old on the outside,” said Pickles. “Mentally we’re hanging in at about 12.”

Truer words were never spoken.

They left Charles’ car in the car park; they would send a gear to claim it in the morning, likely Angie. They got into the limo, where Charles settled against Nathan, too stiff and sore to do anything more than sink against the big body and close his eyes.

“So how long have you guys been onto me?”

“Soon as we is saw that old 1966 customs Rickenbacker of yours,” said Skwisgaar, eyes closed, an arm around Toki, who was settled against his chest. “I nevers forgettings a guitar.”

“Terrific,” said Charles. “Outted by my own guitar.”

Toki yawned. “Well at least wasn’ts because you suck.”

“Yes there is that,” said Charles. He looked up Nathan, smiling. “I had a terrific night.”

Nathan lowered his head to kiss Charles on the nose. “Me too.”

“And you’re okay with me playing in a band?”

“Well…. I was kinda upset at first, ‘cause… well you know what we’re like. I was just glad to find out you weren’t having an affair.”

Charles sat bolt upright, brown eyes huge. “An affair?!”

“Well what am I supposed to think when my boyfriend begins sneaking around? I guarantee if things were reversed the first thought that came to your mind would not be ‘Oh, Nathan’s sneaking around and going out at night, he must be in a Who cover band’. I mean I’m dumb, but… yeah.”

Charles laughed, then leaned forward to kiss him. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you boys to think I was abandoning you. I would never do that to you, Nathan.”

“Just… next time… tell us, okay?”

“Okay. Promise.”

They settled together in the back of the limo, Charles with his face against Nathan’s neck, his bloodied hand on Nathan’s shoulder. They dozed in peaceful silence as the limo sped them home.