Chapter Text
"Come on, Kazzy, you can at least convince him to give me an audition."
There's a long sigh at the other end of the call, so Bradley's pretty sure he's winning Tom over. "No one's called me that in years," Tom says, and Bradley knows he means since your dad. "Okay, kid, no promises. I will talk to Mav - but you know as well as I do how he felt about this the last time."
"I'm a grown man, Kaz."
"I know, Rooster."
No one's called Bradley that in years. "I swear I won't get my hopes up," he tells Tom. "Scout's honor."
"Yeah... don't."
He can't help it, though, just a little. Ever since Maverick-the-band announced Slider was retiring, his hearing almost shot, his wrists fucked up after fifteen years of drumming and the almost non-stop touring - Bradley had to try. For his dad. Even if he and Mav do end up screaming at each other, like the last time they'd been in the same room.
Bradley puts it out of his mind, concentrates on the occasional jam session with Phoenix and going to his day job, and almost a week passes before his phone buzzes with a text from Tom.
Tuesday 8pm at the Hangar - if you're late he won't give you another shot, no matter what I say.
*
Bradley hasn't been to the Hangar in years. He was eighteen the last time, three months past his high school graduation, sticks in hand and determined to win the temporary fill-in spot while Slider stayed home with his brand-new baby for a few months. He auditioned with two drum solo pieces - an old Gene Krupa and a modern Glenn Kotche, then played "Fortunate Son", one of Maverick's usual covers, and the band's own "Negative Ghostrider" with Hondo on Bass and Kazzy on guitar. That was before Tom retired to spend more time with Sarah and the kids, and he was still rocking the Fender.
Mav sat out in the pit on a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching intently.
Frowning almost the whole time.
It was enough to make Bradley fuck up during the fill in "Ghostrider", too busy being confused at why Mav was practically glaring at him to entirely focus on the music. Then he busted his knuckle, and bled all over his kit. He was still bleeding when Mav looked at Tom and shook his head.
The fight had started from there - Bradley barely remembers what was said, now.
He does remember feeling ashamed at how much he cried out in the truck, after.
*
"Hey, Rooster!" Hondo calls, as Bradley puts the Bronco in park. "Lemme help you unload, man."
Bradley hops out and bumps Hondo's outstretched fist. "Nice to see you, Hondo. Looks like this place hasn't changed much."
Hondo shakes his head. "Same as ever."
"How about Mav, is he the same as ever?" Bradley asks, grabbing the first of his cases from the back.
"You guys really haven't talked?" Behind his glasses, Hondo's gaze looks apprehensive. At Bradley's head shake, he adds, "I was there when Ice told him you were coming in to play. I wasn't supposed to be there, but I was there."
"And?"
Hondo picks up a couple cases and starts leading the way to the side door. "He said okay."
"Just okay?"
Hondo shrugs, then nods. He holds the door open with his foot. "You remember where to go, right?"
The inside of the Hangar still smells the same as it did when Bradley was younger - people, beer, the patchouli incense that Slider used to burn, and that indefinable scent that Bradley always associates with instruments. Guitars still line the wall just where they used to. The upright bass is gone from the corner, but no one ever played it anyway. The practice/performance space is still a wide-open stretch of wood flooring, with a raised platform at one end, and ringed by comfortable old chairs. Those still look the same, too.
He doesn't see Mav.
The office door opens and Tom is there, smiling with his arms outstretched. Bradley welcomes the hug, and tolerates Ice ruffling his hair. "Thanks," Bradley murmurs. "For getting me this shot."
"You sure you want it?" Ice asks, pulling back and looking him in the face.
"I do." Bradley nods. "Hondo says Mav didn't argue."
"He didn't."
Bradley sees Mav then, over Ice's shoulder in the office. He's wearing an old Guns 'n Roses tee, with the sleeves cut off, and battered jeans that might be as old as Bradley is, if not older. His hair is a little shorter than Bradley remembers, and there's some silver in there. There are a lot more lines around his eyes, when his gaze meets Bradley's.
He nods, just once.
"Let's get you set up," Ice says.
Bradley doesn't look at Mav this time. He doesn't mess up, and he doesn't bleed. He lets the beat tick through him and concentrates on that, and only that. When the last chords from Merlin's guitar fade out, he slumps on the stool, breathing heavily. He doesn't look past the snare. The music is still pounding his blood. There's the sound of chairs moving, then footsteps.
"That was great, Rooster," Hondo says, clapping him on the shoulder. Then Hondo hesitates briefly before adding, "Mav, he's -"
"He's Mav," Bradley finishes. He looks up and gives Hondo a tired smile. "I got other things lined up if this doesn't work out, don't worry about it."
"Rooster," Mav calls from the open office door.
Bradley stretches out his hands and stays sitting on the stool a moment longer, wiping the sweat from his face. Mav calls, "Bradley."
"Here goes nothing," Bradley says to Hondo. He gets up and heads for the office.
Inside, Mav's sitting on the desk. He gestures towards the chair across from it. "I'll stand," Bradley says.
Mav nods. He's got a guitar pick in his hand, and he's moving it across his fingers like a magician moves a coin. "Job's yours," he says. "For now. Rehearsal starts tomorrow. Tour starts in two weeks. We kick off here, then eight dates across the country to New York City. Double back through the south on another five shows, ending in Phoenix."
Bradley blinks at him, surprised. He'd honestly started to think Mav was going to reject him again, hire someone like Seresin instead. Cool relief sweeps through his chest. For a moment, he feels like he can't even speak. "I -"
"It's what you want, right?"
Bradley nods, swallowing hard.
"Make it through the tour and we'll talk about making it permanent. Now," he gestures with the pick towards the door, "get out."
"Mav -"
"Practice starts at ten. You can leave your kit set up. See you tomorrow, Rooster," Mav says firmly, turning away.
Bradley goes. Behind him, he hears the shuffle of people, Mav yelling for Hondo.
Is this how it's going to be? he texts Tom, once he's back at his apartment.
It'll get better.
Bradley's not so sure about that.