(no subject)
He goes upstairs to room 525 like he's been doing every night for the past seven days, thumbing his key out of his front pocket, hoping (but not expecting) that maybe the fucking thing will work this time and he won't have to stake out the couch for another night. When the deadbolt slides back with a loud thunk, though, Roger actually twitches back a step, uncomprehending. Then, with a frown, he reaches forward and twists the knob.
The door swings open as easily and silently as if he hasn't spent the past week struggling to get inside.
Barking out a laugh, Roger quickly steps into his room before the Bar can change its mind; he flicks on the light, strips off his shirt as he heads for his closet. "It's about fucking time," he mutters to himself, but with more relief than rancour. "Thank Christ."
He tosses his shirt onto the bedspread and pulls open the closet door.
An acoustic guitar is leaning against the back wall.
Roger's heart stops. Dimly, he's aware that his mouth's fallen open. Because, unmistakably -- and he knows before he's even touched it, before his brain's even fully processed what his eyes are telling it -- that's his Fender, right there.
He knows exactly how its scratched-up pick guard will sound if he were to run his nails over it. He knows that if he turns it over, he'll find one shallow gouge in the otherwise unmarred wood, left over from that bad night at CBGB's a year and a half ago.
He knows that there'll be tiny flecks of dirt and dust that he'll never quite be able to get off the wood (because he never could) and that it'll smell like smoke and varnish and a little bit of burned plastic from the time a melted bit of Mark's latest failure dripped on the back of the neck.
He knows.
His hands don't shake as he eases them around the guitar and pulls it out. It's not for lack of their wanting, though. This can't be his, not when he's this far across time and space and God knows what else, but it feels like his Fender, and smells like it, and when he turns it over, oh, God, it's got that gouge just like he knew it would.
(The Bar provides, something whispers in the back of his mind.)
As if he's dreaming, Roger sinks onto the bed and settles the Fender in his lap. Carefully, he plucks the strings one at a time -- and winces. Back home, his guitar's been stuffed in a hall closet for eleven months now. Of course this one will be out of tune.
But after a long moment of debating silence, he cracks the stiff joints in his fingers with sudden decisiveness and starts to tune up.
The door swings open as easily and silently as if he hasn't spent the past week struggling to get inside.
Barking out a laugh, Roger quickly steps into his room before the Bar can change its mind; he flicks on the light, strips off his shirt as he heads for his closet. "It's about fucking time," he mutters to himself, but with more relief than rancour. "Thank Christ."
He tosses his shirt onto the bedspread and pulls open the closet door.
An acoustic guitar is leaning against the back wall.
Roger's heart stops. Dimly, he's aware that his mouth's fallen open. Because, unmistakably -- and he knows before he's even touched it, before his brain's even fully processed what his eyes are telling it -- that's his Fender, right there.
He knows exactly how its scratched-up pick guard will sound if he were to run his nails over it. He knows that if he turns it over, he'll find one shallow gouge in the otherwise unmarred wood, left over from that bad night at CBGB's a year and a half ago.
He knows that there'll be tiny flecks of dirt and dust that he'll never quite be able to get off the wood (because he never could) and that it'll smell like smoke and varnish and a little bit of burned plastic from the time a melted bit of Mark's latest failure dripped on the back of the neck.
He knows.
His hands don't shake as he eases them around the guitar and pulls it out. It's not for lack of their wanting, though. This can't be his, not when he's this far across time and space and God knows what else, but it feels like his Fender, and smells like it, and when he turns it over, oh, God, it's got that gouge just like he knew it would.
(The Bar provides, something whispers in the back of his mind.)
As if he's dreaming, Roger sinks onto the bed and settles the Fender in his lap. Carefully, he plucks the strings one at a time -- and winces. Back home, his guitar's been stuffed in a hall closet for eleven months now. Of course this one will be out of tune.
But after a long moment of debating silence, he cracks the stiff joints in his fingers with sudden decisiveness and starts to tune up.