When I Come Around
Author: timrod
Rating: NC17 overall
Pairing: Billie Joe/other
Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day.
PART 1
The supple leather pants squeaked against the motorcycle’s seat as Billie dismounted, cutting the engine of the sleek black and chrome machine, pulling off one gauntlet with his teeth and tucking it under his arm to get a decent grip on the ignition key. It was another cool Oakland morning, and he only undid the top press stud of his jacket, resolving to wait until he was inside and cradling a cup of of something warm before removing any more insulation. Still, it was very late in November and his friends out east had been wearing thermals for a few weeks now - northern California wasn’t that extreme a climate, but he had always been one to feel the cold, even as a child. He turned the building’s corner and walked briskly towards the front entrance, humming quietly to himself.
He was rarely the first to arrive - usually a couple of sound engineers or music techs beat him to the ‘office’, and he was used to walking in to the welcoming aroma of brewing coffee. Today, inspired during the night and eager to finish a project, his was the only vehicle in the studio’s back parking lot, and he hoped that there were some instructions as to how to get that fucking complex-looking machine going. He jangled the keys, concentrating on finding the one that would open the high-security lock amongst a dozen others, stopped in his tracks by the activity in front of him.
Two police cars, parked nose to nose and with doors flung wide were the first thing he saw, three officers leaning against them, talking and - bastards - drinking from huge paper cups emblazoned with the logo of the local coffee shop. Then he noticed the fourth officer, crouching over a man, sprawled across the step and with his eyes closed. Billie undid his chin strap and pulled off his helmet, shaking his flattened hair free.
“Morning, gentlemen. Drunk?” This corner of the city had a fair sized population of bums, tramps and crazies, and it wasn’t unusual to find one taking shelter under the porch, especially after a rainy night like last night. The crouching officer rose to his feet, and answered the question with a question. Billie fucking hated that.
“This your property?”
Billie nodded. Well, technically his and his producer’s, but the wordless answer was enough to appease the policeman. “You taking him in?” Suck on that - I can do the question after question thing, too ....
“Not us, no. Waiting on some medics. We had some calls about gunfire an hour back, searched the area, found him.” Now that he wasn’t looking through a tinted visor, Billie could make out the huge bump on the man’s forehead and the thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face, into about a week’s growth of beard. “Can’t smell liquor on him, anyway.” Well, that was refreshing. Hah, the man has been shot and Billie thought that was more acceptable than him being a passed-out drunk. Good old Oakland. “Do you know him?”
Billie bit his tongue. He was right now holding the keys to several expensive vehicles and a mansion five times the size of the police station house - fuck, his biking leathers cost more than the cop’s monthly take-home pay - and he was being asked if he was friends with a hobo? His answer was, nevertheless, charmingly polite. “No, sorry. Never seen him around here before. Has he got ID?”
The policeman shook his head. “Nothing. No money, cell, weapon, ...” He nodded to the bunch of metal in Billie’s hands. “ ... and he seems to live somewhere that you don’t need keys for.”
“Yeah. You don’t get many cardboard boxes with locks.” Billie squatted and took a good look at the grubby skin, the grimed fingernails and shaggy, matted hair. “How bad is he?”
The policeman shrugged. “The bullet just grazed him - looks like he was lucky. The concrete did him a lot more damage than the gun. Found him face down right there.”
“We normally find them round the back. More shelter - lots of dumpsters.”
“What is this place? A factory?”
“Kind of.” Billie stood and undid the lock, stepping inside to quickly turn off the bleeping alarm and drop his gloves and helmet on the reception desk.. “Studio. I’m a singer-songwriter.”
“Yeah? Any I woulda heard of?”
“Possibly. I sold forty-three million of my own albums last time I checked. More if you count the stuff I write for other artists.” Billie pointed up the street to the approaching ambulance. “I think his ride’s here. D’ya mind if I go in ...? This weather’s not good for my voice.”
“Yeah, go in - that’s fine. You other guys can go, too. Me and my partner here got this covered.”
**
Billie usually spent very little time in the office part of the studio, leaving the business side to the professionals, but this morning, he stayed close to the entrance, door left ajar, listening to the activity outside. He got the coffee maker going with minimal swearing and spillage, before curiosity got the better of him and he went back outside, just in time to see the gurney being wheeled into the ambulance.
“How is he?”
“He’s still out cold, but they seem to think he’s gonna be okay. No broken bones, they said, just a bump.” The cop’s colleague had taken refuge in the one remaining car, sheltering from the fine rain that had started again. “It’s an easy one for the end of the nightshift - he’s the hospital’s problem now.”
“Yeah, I suppose it could have been worse for you - and for him. Where will they take him?”
“Mercy. Guys like that don’t tend to have insurance.”
“I guess not. Okay, I’d better get back to work.”
“We’re going now, too - we gotta do some paperwork for the hospital and then we’re off home.” The cop slid into the police car’s driver’s seat. “Hey, you never said the name of your band. I’ll listen out for you.”
“No band, just me. Billie Joe Armstrong.”
“Make a note of that, Ray, will ya? We might need to get back to you about the John Doe. Have a good day, sir.”
Billie watched until the red lights faded into the rain-grey distance and went inside to wrap himself around that coffee.
**
Jake tore off his headphones and threw them onto the mixing desk, frustrated and looking like he was on the verge of exploding.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry ...I fucked up again, I know.” Billie unplugged his guitar and laid it in its stand. “Gotta take a break. Now’s a good time for lunch, guys.” He dropped heavily into the second chair behind the mixing desk and apologised again, the room emptying save for him and his producer.
“Billie, what the fuck is wrong with you this morning? What have you done with One-Take Armstrong?”
The singer shook his head, picking at a hanging thread in the seam of his tight-fitting jeans. “Dunno. I sorta lost the plot today, haven’t I?”
“Four hours on the same song? It’s unheard of. We should be packing up for the day right now, not still working on the same fucking track. Are you okay, man? Are we working you too hard?”
Billie snorted. “Impossible. I fucking love working.”
“You still sore about Carrie? I mean, she only moved out on Tuesday. Do you need some time to get your head together? We can put this on hold for a week or two.”
“If she hadn’t left, I would have thrown her out. Jake, my friend, I promise you I am not dying of a broken heart because of an ex-girlfriend. I just got something on my mind.”
“Spill. If you want to, that is ... or tell me to butt out if it’s none of my business.”
“This is your business. My music - your production skills. Partners, remember?”
“How could I forget? You’ve made me a very rich man, Billie. My ex-wife thanks you, too.”
The singer smiled to himself. Money was something he took for granted these days. Jake and he had been friends since they were kids, since sixth grade, in fact, both from families where there was too much week between paydays. In his early twenties, Billie’s talent had got him noticed and now, at 40, he had the world at his feet, taking Jake along with him to share in his success. He’d stood by him two years ago, when the producer had been caught having an affair with a journalist who was looking for the skeleton in the closet of someone whose face was known all over the globe, and Billie, unreasonably, blamed himself for the ensuing messy divorce. He looked up from his lap and smiled at his best friend.
“Exes aside. we got it good ..”
“Yeah, now we have. We worked hard for this, Billie.”
“Yeah. There was some luck in there, too, but yes, we worked for this. It’s just ... “
“Go on. I’m listening.” Jake lowered his voice, a reaction to the sudden sadness in Billie’s eyes.
“You heard about the cops today, yeah?”
“One of the techs mentioned it - some guy got shot outside here.”
“He’d got nothing, absolutely nothing. No money, phone or any place to call home, probably no friends, either. He was about our age, too. Jake, that could have been me.” Billie took a huge breath before he continued dragging up a whole lot of memories that still stung. “After Dad died and Mom married that .... that jerk-off, I ran away from home, remember? We were what, eighth grade? They found me, of course, took me back and Mom threw him out because he was more like another child than a husband to her, and that was so not what she needed after having six of us ..... but if they hadn’t found me - if Mom hadn’t taken me back .... that bum this morning could have been me, Jake.”
“You wouldn’t have let that happen, Billie. I wouldn’t have let that happen to you.”
“Somebody let it happen to him.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, and poured two coffees from the machine, breaking his own strict no liquids near the desk rule. “Do you wanna call it a day? Or how about meeting up for a beer or twelve tonight? We could go find a bar, get shitfaced drunk, pull some moves on some ladies, get our faces slapped and spend tomorrow feeling like crap and apologising.”
“No. No. As attractive as that sounds, I’m not in the mood, thanks for the offer. I think I will go home, though. Watch a movie, grab a pizza, an early night ... “
“Go, Bill. I got some stuff we can finish up here without you, so the day won’t be a total waste. Have a good, relaxing weekend and I’ll see you Monday.”
“Fuck, yeah, Friday.” Billie threw back his head and laughed. “Some fucking rock star lifestyle. Call me Mr Party.”
“If that’s what you want to do, do it. You only got yourself to please. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you are.”
“Thanks, man.” Billie squeezed Jake’s shoulder, eager to leave this place that he normally loved. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps we can paint the town puke green tomorrow. Just don’t call me too fucking early.”
Billie idly revved the motorcycle’s engine, wondering why the fuck he had chosen it in on such a wet and miserable day over any one of his warm, dry cars. His leathers were already glistening from the rain, and he made the decision to take the long route home, avoiding the freeway. It would only add a few miles to his journey, and his concentration span at the moment was on a par with that of an amnesiac goldfish. Fast, multi-lane roads greasy from the rain, bikes and a wandering mind were not a good combination. He made a right at the junction where he would normally go straight ahead - and found himself on the street where the hospital was located.