FIC: nothing quite like it (Charles and Nathan, R)
TO: lemone
FROM: Your Secret Valentine
Title: nothing quite like it
Pairings: Ensemble with a focus on Charles and Nathan.
Rating: R for canon-typical situations
Wordcount: 4660
Warnings: Nondescriptive medical talk of stab wounds, drug use, plenty of drinking, and it's a Metalocalypse fic so expect lots of swearing?
Timeline: Takes place directly when/after Magnus stabs Nathan in the back.
Summary: "A psychopath just stabbed me in the back and threatened my fucking bandmates. The fuck else was I gonna do?"
Charles gets a call after Magnus stabs Nathan in the back. There's a hospital visit. They go out for Mexican food. Charles knows he's never going to find a job like this again.
Charles has never managed a band quite like Dethklok. He's dealt with his share of emotionally stunted man-children before, of course - he has managed other bands, after all - and he's had more than enough practice working around various personalities that reading each and every one of them isn't exactly a problem. Still, it's his first foray into the death metal scene; he's never tried to sell a band playing something the world at large didn't already at least somewhat enjoy. He's never tried to sell such overtly violent musicians before. They're bitter but still aggressively determined to claw their way up and their music is almost on another plane entirely, so he'll take whatever they send his way.
In all honesty, he'd do pretty much anything for the band that convinced him not to quit the entire music business in the first place. It's been a long time since he's managed people with actual, god given talent, and while he'd never have pegged himself as a metalhead - Jesus, the boys have sure as hell changed his mind on that one. The hurdles he'd originally viewed as potential roadblocks become less and less worrying and more exciting the more he thinks about it. He'd never thought he'd be so enthusiastic about figuring out how to pull this off, but here he is.
He spends a lot of time thinking about it all, actually. He works out contracts and deals and talks Dethklok up and up and up, and then he goes off the clock, goes back to his apartment and thinks about them some more. He thinks about merchandising and album covers and personas, considers how to tweak and change and fix the rough patches and make it all incredibly lucrative for everyone involved. He thinks about it enough that he might be obsessed. He hasn't started to mind it much, though.
Tonight, like all the other nights this past week, Charles goes home thinking about Dethklok, weighing options, trying to figure out how to best advertise a metal band in a world that he's not sure is ready for it. When he settles down, its with two fingers of scotch and a contract an inch thick. It's the best part of his night - not in some small way because he enjoys the minutia of legally binding documents.
He's halfway through his drink - his first, but probably not his last - when the phone rings. It's late enough that he isn't expecting it, but considering how busy today has been, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd overlooked something or forgotten to give a response to someone who now desperately needs his approval or his signature.
Barely even thinking about it, he lifts the receiver to his ear, stuck on a part negotiating a more liberal healthcare budget to accommodate the admittedly brutal lifestyle that's no doubt going to come from five boozing, drug addled metal geniuses. "This is Offdensen," he says.
"No shit," Pickles replies. There's a pitch to his voice that immediately sets Charles on edge, and it doesn't help anything when he continues somewhat hesitantly, "So, there might kinda be a problem here..."
"What happened?"
Even as he asks, Charles can hear the dull roar of Nathan's shouting butting up against Magnus's shrieking. "Dude, I don't know," Pickles starts, and then he goes quiet as Nathan shouts something that sounds very much like a death threat, which, coming from him, is most definitely not hollow. "We were practicin', Magnus flipped out on us an' like, fuckin' -"
"Look at my motherfucking eye!"
"- stabbed Nate an' I'm tryin' ta get him outta here 'fore -"
"Don't take it out!" Murderface shrieks.
"- somethin' happens, so -"
Charles doesn't actually understand what Nathan is shouting, but he knows it's another threat, and he's calculating out how fast he can get to the rental they've hunkered down in while Pickles tells him in no uncertain terms that Nathan has a knife in his back and Magnus might have lost an eye. He stands and looks down at the contract longingly. The health insurance plan needs a lower deductible. Do the boys even have an HMO?
"I'll be right there. Get Magnus out of there. Call the police if you have to."
"Fuck that," Pickles says, and he hangs up. Charles will take what he can get. He grabs his coat, his keys and the unopened emergency travel kit he likes to keep on hand for... well, things like this. Whatever might come up. He's always preferred to be prepared.
It's a minute and a half down the halls and elevator to his car, and another ten to make it to the rig that the boys had insisted was perfect. They haven't quite gotten to the rich and famous part yet; Charles has seen it before, where bands hold on to the harsh life they had just before letting go and embracing clean, well maintained practice spaces and living quarters.
He almost stops off at the gas station to get a pack of cigarettes - for them or himself, he really can't say - but it'd just waste time. He skips it and gets to the place about three minutes earlier than he'd thought he would. The door to their place is wide open and Skwisgaar is standing outside with a cigarette; Charles can tell from his expression that he's tuning out whatever Murderface is excitedly repeating to him.
"What happened?" he asks them as he gets out of the car.
"Look at the boy scout," Murderface laughs, the anxious bouncing on his feet giving him away. "What are you gonna do with that? You can't take the knife outta him without busting an artery."
Charles nods. "The knife is still in, then."
"You shoulds go talks to Pickle," Skwisgaar drawls with a lazy gesture towards the door. Charles nods one more time, notes the four cigarette butts on the cement around Skwisgaar's feet, and heads inside.
Pickles doesn't even try to hide his tension from him, waving a bottle of vodka at him and saying, "You gotta deal with him, I can't even keep my fuckin' hands straight."
"Deal with who? Where's Magnus?"
"I dunno, he just - Nathan went ta beat the shit outta him again fer good measure an' he bailed. Nate's in the bathroom but I ain't, haha, I ain't goin' near him like that, so you have fun dealin' with..." He gestures. "That. Whole thing."
Charles can't help but appreciate the honesty. "I'll take care of it," he says. Because he cares, he adds, "Try not to drink the entire bottle."
"Who are you, my mother?" Pickles laughs, and Charles watches him saunter out before making his way down the hall to the bathroom. This place is awful. He can feel the mold in the carpet through his shoes. He can't wait to get them out of here, if only so he won't ever have to set foot here again. He might very well burn these shoes when he gets home.
He picks the door he hears growling behind and knocks on it. "Mr. Explosion," he says. He remembers that Nathan hates that, so he corrects himself. "Nathan?"
Either there's an angry tiger in there or Nathan's gearing up to legitimately roar at him, but Charles has never been very scared of cats before, so he tests the knob to see if it's locked and then lets the door swing open on its own squeaky hinges. The bathroom is awful. Charles manages to contain his surprise, somehow.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Nathan snarls, which isn't exactly the most menacing thing Charles has ever heard, but the sheer violence in his tone and the fury in his expression does plenty in the way of intimidating him. He hesitates before he closes the door behind him - he hasn't seen Nathan emote before, and despite his stature, he's usually less bloodthirsty than this. If he's really still feeling violent, he wants to limit the number of bandmates he decides to attack.
"I have, as a matter of fact." Charles can see mildew on the shower curtain. The sink has a bloody rag in it and the grout on the tiled floor is patched with brown stains. Nathan has a knife in his back; more specifically, he has Magnus's dagger embedded in his shoulder at a downward angle that implies Magnus probably leapt at him. Charles can pinpoint the moment his blood boils at the thought. "You shouldn't be in here," he says, "You have an open wound and this bathroom is, ah..."
"Fucking gross, I know," Nathan growls. He's still angry but Charles has a feeling that he might be in shock. He slumps momentarily on the closed toilet lid before straightening his shoulders with a hiss through clenched teeth, and Charles comes over to take a closer look at the wound. "Those assholes kept freaking out, though," Nathan continues, his voice significantly tighter. "Needed to try and calm down." He sweeps a hand through his hair and gives Charles a deeply calculating look, like a judge on high. "I told Pickles not to call you."
"I'm glad he didn't listen. I know you won't like it, but I think we should take you to-"
"A hospital? I know. Almost called 911 until Pickles said you were coming."
"I think - ah." Well. That is not what Charles had expected to hear. "You... what?"
"A psychopath just stabbed me in the back and threatened my fucking bandmates. The fuck else was I gonna do?" His head droops as he stares at the floor, trying to flex the tremor out of his hands. "If he wasn't gonna leave, it was either going to be me putting him through the concrete or the cops taking him in, and I know which one reads better to a record label."
"Right. Well. I'm glad you made that choice," Charles says, fumbling for something more. He hadn't expected this amount of rationality from a man who'd just been stabbed by a close friend. He'd expected to see Nathan raging or at least seething, but instead Nathan almost seems calm, despite his deep scowl and the angry hiss in his voice.
"You gonna drive me to the E.R.? Because I'm gonna puke if I have to keep this fucking thing in me much longer."
"Have you had any alcohol or narcotics?" Charles asks. Nathan stares at him long enough for Charles to feel kind of like an idiot for asking, so he takes a breath and adjusts his glasses. "My car is right outside. Would you like anyone to come with us?"
Nathan rolls his eyes and stands. "You think you're gonna stop them from piling into your Benz?"
As it turns out, no, Charles doesn't think he can stop them. He shows the appropriate amount of reservation at the idea, of course, but it's only to give them all an excuse. They aren't coming along because they care - it's just that they don't listen to the word no. When they climb in the back seat, they're just sticking it to the man.
Nathan sits sideways in the passenger seat. Skwisgaar puts out a hand whenever there's a turn to keep the handle from bouncing into the glass and pushing the knife in deeper. Nathan's expression is tight in an attempt not to show weakness, but he doesn't do a very good job; his teeth grit and Charles can practically see his muscles flinching out of the corner of his eye.
Determined to keep everyone distracted from the blood seeping through the wads of paper towels against Nathan's shoulder, Pickles fills the silence with graphic depictions of violence. "If I see that fucker again," he says, still drinking from the bottle of vodka that Charles had tried to refuse him, "I'm gonna punch his teeth through the back'a his skull."
"I'm gonna stab him," Murderface adds, grinning gleefully. "Right in the fuckin' spine, so he never walks again. Then, I'll smash his teeth through his skull -"
"No," Pickles snaps, "I'm supposed ta do that!"
"You cans both punch his teeths out," Skwisgaar sighs. He sounds bored; Charles glances in the rearview mirror and sees him staring at Nathan through the back of the seat. "There ams forty-sevens teeths in a man's head, that ams more than enoughs for the boths of yous."
"Who the fuck told you that?" Nathan asks, exhaling heavily. He gives Charles an exasperated eyeroll, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "That's, like, three times as many teeth as anyone has in their head, what kind of fucking mutants grow in Iceland?"
"Sweden."
"Same fucking thing!"
"There are almost two-thousand kilometers between the two," Charles says, finally giving in to the absolute fucking madness of the situation, easing up on the gas as he checks his speed and realizes he's going just fast enough to possibly catch the police's attention and delay them further. "And there are thirty-two teeth in a human skull."
"See? Icelandic mutants. Forty teeth? Can you fucking imagine?"
Charles sees the way Nathan's boots are moving in the well, one pressing heavily down on the other's toe before they switch positions and repeat. He takes his eyes off the road long enough to see the muscles tensing in Nathan's arm, and then he speeds up just a little bit, potential traffic violations be damned.
"What if we see Magnus at the hospital?" Murderface asks all of a sudden. "I mean, Nathan, you fucking bludgeoned him in the face until his eye popped -"
"What?" Charles asks. He doesn't slam on the breaks, even though his foot hovers over the pedal momentarily.
"It's not a big deal, he fucking stabbed Nathan, he deserves whatever he gets - anyway, what if he shows up?"
"Good," Pickles replies. He drops his voice to a low growl. "He'll need the E.R. after I'm through with him."
Charles checks the rearview mirror and sees the sincerity in Pickles' eyes. He makes a note to call for extra security once he has a chance. There's no reason to start an entire incident over this before the ink dries on their contracts. Nathan's squinting at him when he glances over, so he tightens his hands on the wheel and stares out the windshield, determined to put the contract out of his head until Nathan's at least been seen by a nurse.
"Cut it out," Nathan says, craning his head to look over the seat. "You're freaking the suit out."
That makes Charles laugh. "You are not freaking me out," he says, so matter-of-factly that Nathan can't even pretend to doubt him. He can see the hospital up ahead; he keeps an eye out for the E.R. entrance. "The knife in your shoulder is a lot more pressing than threatening to beat someone to death right now. We're here. If, for whatever reason, Magnus is here, don't engage him. I'll deal with it."
Magnus isn't there in the waiting room, which is probably a good thing, because the moment the doors slide open, Pickles opens his mouth and shouts, "We're fuckin' Dethklok and our singer just got fuckin' stabbed by a psychopath!"
"Buy our music!" Murderface shouts, which would be more helpful if they had an album to sell. Charles takes a steadying breath as an orderly not blindsided by Pickles and Murderface's terrible publicity stunt rushes over and starts calling for assistance.
"You're coming with me," Nathan tells Charles, and when they take Nathan into the E.R. in an awkward procession of people not prepared to deal with a nonchalant stabbing victim, Charles follows dutifully behind. He's not afraid to leave the rest of the boys out in the waiting room - they're in a hospital, after all - but when Nathan glances back at them as the heavy doors swing closed behind them, he looks anxious.
Despite personally requesting him, Nathan doesn't make any effort to engage in conversation - not with Charles, and definitely not with the doctors. It doesn't take long before Charles realizes he doesn't want to have to answer any of the medical questions - he flat out refuses to explain what happened when the doctors ask, and since it's not medically relevant, Charles refuses as well. He tells them that Nathan's not allergic to anything, which is true, and that he doesn't use drugs, which is... less true, and Nathan actually does tell them he'd been drinking all day before they give him anything for the pain. It's a safe bet that none of the other boys would even think about it enough to tell anyone. Charles is duly impressed.
It isn't until they've pulled the knife out, cleaned the wound, taken him to get an x-ray and finally sutured up the damned thing before Nathan even looks directly at Charles. The Demerol is kicking in; his BAC must not have been high enough to warrant concern.
"I only had a couple beers," Nathan admits when the last nurse leaves to check on some test results. "Good thing. Tranquilizers are the shit." His narrowed brow softens a little, his expression growing passive as the drugs finally sap him of his anger. "Way better than getting hammered."
Charles refrains from pointing out the choice of words. "Glad to see you're feeling better."
Nathan shuts up again for a bit, and then he looks up through his hair, the permanent scowl on his face softening with the painkillers and muscle relaxants. "I didn't want them to come back here," he mutters guiltily.
"I wouldn't want them back here if I were you, either," Charles agrees, although he's mostly joking. Nathan glares. "Any reason why?"
"They might..." He hesitates. Charles doesn't think it suits him, but he doesn't say it. "They might wanna leave," he admits, after a quiet stretch.
"I don't think they want to leave," Charles replies gently. "They, ah, were just threatening to bash Magnus's skull in for you. That... Uh, well. I think that's a sign of affection." Nathan makes a face, but he doesn't outright shut down; Charles assumes that has a lot to do with the pain medication.
Nathan's usually relatively sparing with his words, but he's really dragging the silence out right now. Charles takes the time to look over the doctor's clipboard. He's never understood why they just leave them lying around when just anyone could come and take them. And the pen attached? Why not just invite people to falsify medical documents?
"So," Nathan says, voice slugging out of his throat - the medication must be getting to him. He wonders how big a dose they gave him. "What's the next step?"
"Well... It says you won't need surgery, which is impressive, considering the depth... they, ah, might try to hold you until tomorrow, but we'll work something out."
"I meant with, like... the band and stuff. What do we do with Magnus?"
Charles hesitates momentarily, furrowing his brow. "...Fire him?"
"Just - that's it? Fire him? Like, can we..."
"You can do whatever you want. It is your band, after all. You all own it. It's just a matter of holding a vote. Majority rules."
"Oh."
More quiet. Nathan might have fallen asleep sitting up, Charles isn't quite sure.
"...Can you go get them."
It's not really a question, but it's not a request, either. Charles has been impressed with the way Nathan uses his voice since he heard his singing on the demo; he picks his words and his tone without even thinking, but it always feels on point and exact. He wouldn't use the word careful by any means, but there's no way else to describe it.
He doesn't hesitate to get the others from the waiting room. He's left them alone long enough for them to really get into serious trouble; it's probably about time to check in and make sure none of them have started a riot.
Thankfully, attractive nurses, worried grandmothers and an array of somewhat gruesome health issues have distracted the three of them from anything too awful. He hopes Murderface hasn't actually said anything to the man with the bloody hand he's staring at, though. All he can imagine is that any conversation there would leave somebody scarred for life - and it wouldn't be Murderface.
"About time," Pickles says when he sees Charles, and his voice alone pulls the other two away from their distraction. It's not a big show of solidarity, but it's nonetheless a good sign that Nathan has nothing to worry about.
He brings them back to where they have Nathan's bed - ignoring the doctors who say it's not really protocol to have so many visitors at once - and Nathan is lying back against the bed. He looks woozy. "Ohhh," he says when he sees them. "Right."
"What'd they give him?" Pickles asks.
Nathan smiles and Charles is... completely at a loss as to what to do about it. Or with it, for that matter. He just watches Nathan grin dopily, content to be however open he wants with enough painkillers to sedate a horse in his body. He's never seen anything like it in his life.
"I dunno what it's called, but it's really good," he tells them.
"I am so fuckin' jealous," Pickles replies, and then all at once, all four of them say, "Magnus is out of the band," like they desperately need to convince each other of the fact.
"Well," Charles says, when all they do is stare at each other blankly, "I suppose that's settled."
"That was easy," Murderface drawls. "Think we could get some of the shit Nathan's on? I could stab myself-"
"Please don't stab yourself."
"It's not worth it," Nathan says. He frowns at them. "You really wanna kick Magnus out?"
"Uh, yeah," Murderface says. He looks at Nathan like he's an idiot. "What the fuck, you think I want to be around a guy who just stabs people?"
None of them point out the irony. Pickles just rolls his eyes and says, "Duh, what the fuck did ya think we'd wanna do?"
"...I dunno," Nathan hesitates. "...I guess, break up, or something."
"And ruin this sweet gig? Fuck no!"
"We don'ts even need Magnus," Skwisgaar says, bringing it up so casually that it's no surprise when he says, "I've knowns this for... uh, evers, practicallys."
"Fuck Magnus," Pickles says.
There's a moment of silence and Charles realizes they don't exactly know what happens now. He takes pity on them and gives them the illusion of formality, even if there's actually a lot of paperwork he'll need to sort out for them later. "Well," he says, "The motion passes. Fuck Magnus."
Nathan laughs so hard he snorts and Pickles gives Charles a look like he can't believe he even knows a single swear word.
A nurse comes by and Charles pulls her aside to arrange for Nathan's release. They're hesitant to let him go, given the fact that he was stabbed and that it was a fairly deep wound, but Charles has learned how to talk his clients out of a hospital stay and he is very practiced at it.
Four and a half hours after they'd gotten there, Charles and Skwisgaar help Nathan wobble his way out of the hospital with a prescription for pain killers that will no doubt be abused and antibiotics that will, with any luck, actually be taken and not just forgotten in the medicine cabinet. Pickles and Murderface, both too short and one too drunk to help Nathan to the car, trail behind them and argue about whether or not four hours is a long or short amount of time for a stab wound.
Once again, they all pile into Charles' car. Charles takes his time adjusting his mirrors, and Pickles uses the time to switch gears. "I'm fuckin' starvin'," he says.
"Me too," Nathan says, his head lolling.
"Lets get some fucking B.B.Q., man!" Murderface shouts.
"Don't shout in my ear!" Pickles snarls, socking him.
"I think Nathan should decide where we eat," Charles cuts in, before there's bloodshed in his leased car. "After all, he was the one who got stabbed."
"I could have been stabbed back at the hospital, but you wouldn't let me!"
"I want Mexican," Nathan says to Charles, somewhat conspiratorially considering everyone can hear him. "It needs to have a B in the window."
Murderface insists on barbeque but, since Nathan's the one with stitches in his back, Charles takes them to a walk-up Mexican place. It's got cafeteria benches outside and a blue B rating hanging in the window. Nathan surprises all of them by stringing together some Spanish that makes the man working the register laugh, and then they get free sodas with the greasiest Mexican food available in town. It also happens to be next to a twenty-four hour pharmacy, so they eat while Nathan's prescriptions get filled.
At some point, Nathan pulls out a knife and Charles nearly has a heart attack, but instead he just lays the dagger on the table and stares at it. "Magnus," he finally says, caught between talking to them and the dagger, "You are a fucking asshole." He looks up at Murderface, still sulking into his chimichanga because he didn't get stabbed, and then he pushes the blade over to him. "You take it," he says.
"What?"
Skwisgaar and Pickles keep eating like nothing's going on, but Charles knows an important moment when he sees one, so he watches out of the corner of his eye as Murderface takes the dagger and looks at it.
"You have it," Nathan insists. "I don't want it."
Murderface doesn't say anything else. Neither does Nathan, for that matter, but he keeps looking over at Murderface as he presses the tip into the tabletop and twists, working out a little groove with the point. His expression is unreadable.
Charles and Nathan go in to get the prescriptions. By now, the sedatives and painkillers have worn off, and Nathan doesn't need help to balance. He doesn't say anything while Charles pays for everything; he just stands there with straight shoulders and a contemplative frown on his face.
"Hey," he says as they make their way out of the pharmacy. "We need to move out of that place. It fucking sucks."
"All right," Charles says. "I'll have it taken care of."
"And we need security for a few days. Magnus is a creep."
"That too."
"And. Thanks for, uh. Coming."
It takes a second before Charles realizes he hadn't misheard. He looks over at Nathan and only sees his hair as it curtains his face from view. "Um," he says.
"I didn't want to call for an ambulance. It would have sucked. I'm glad you backed us up like that. Makes me think we chose right."
There's no explanation for the swell Charles feels in his chest, but as Nathan all but directly praises him, he feels himself puffing up with something like pride. They're throw away compliments. They're barely even compliments to begin with.
"Ah," he says, and he feels like that covers most of what he wants to say. Nathan looks at him briefly.
"Yeah. Let's go. Need to tell Skwisgaar he's not gonna be our only guitarist for long. He'll fucking hate that."
Nathan keeps moving and Charles, because he is a very smart man, follows in his wake. He's never been in this position before. He's never been so invigorated by his clients' praise of him before. He's never been here, but now he knows; he's absolutely positive that if Dethklok were to walk directly into hell, he would follow them without complaint. He's never managed a band like this before, with a frontman like Nathan, but he's never been more excited to do his job than he is right here and now.
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FROM: Your Secret Valentine
Title: nothing quite like it
Pairings: Ensemble with a focus on Charles and Nathan.
Rating: R for canon-typical situations
Wordcount: 4660
Warnings: Nondescriptive medical talk of stab wounds, drug use, plenty of drinking, and it's a Metalocalypse fic so expect lots of swearing?
Timeline: Takes place directly when/after Magnus stabs Nathan in the back.
Summary: "A psychopath just stabbed me in the back and threatened my fucking bandmates. The fuck else was I gonna do?"
Charles gets a call after Magnus stabs Nathan in the back. There's a hospital visit. They go out for Mexican food. Charles knows he's never going to find a job like this again.
Charles has never managed a band quite like Dethklok. He's dealt with his share of emotionally stunted man-children before, of course - he has managed other bands, after all - and he's had more than enough practice working around various personalities that reading each and every one of them isn't exactly a problem. Still, it's his first foray into the death metal scene; he's never tried to sell a band playing something the world at large didn't already at least somewhat enjoy. He's never tried to sell such overtly violent musicians before. They're bitter but still aggressively determined to claw their way up and their music is almost on another plane entirely, so he'll take whatever they send his way.
In all honesty, he'd do pretty much anything for the band that convinced him not to quit the entire music business in the first place. It's been a long time since he's managed people with actual, god given talent, and while he'd never have pegged himself as a metalhead - Jesus, the boys have sure as hell changed his mind on that one. The hurdles he'd originally viewed as potential roadblocks become less and less worrying and more exciting the more he thinks about it. He'd never thought he'd be so enthusiastic about figuring out how to pull this off, but here he is.
He spends a lot of time thinking about it all, actually. He works out contracts and deals and talks Dethklok up and up and up, and then he goes off the clock, goes back to his apartment and thinks about them some more. He thinks about merchandising and album covers and personas, considers how to tweak and change and fix the rough patches and make it all incredibly lucrative for everyone involved. He thinks about it enough that he might be obsessed. He hasn't started to mind it much, though.
Tonight, like all the other nights this past week, Charles goes home thinking about Dethklok, weighing options, trying to figure out how to best advertise a metal band in a world that he's not sure is ready for it. When he settles down, its with two fingers of scotch and a contract an inch thick. It's the best part of his night - not in some small way because he enjoys the minutia of legally binding documents.
He's halfway through his drink - his first, but probably not his last - when the phone rings. It's late enough that he isn't expecting it, but considering how busy today has been, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd overlooked something or forgotten to give a response to someone who now desperately needs his approval or his signature.
Barely even thinking about it, he lifts the receiver to his ear, stuck on a part negotiating a more liberal healthcare budget to accommodate the admittedly brutal lifestyle that's no doubt going to come from five boozing, drug addled metal geniuses. "This is Offdensen," he says.
"No shit," Pickles replies. There's a pitch to his voice that immediately sets Charles on edge, and it doesn't help anything when he continues somewhat hesitantly, "So, there might kinda be a problem here..."
"What happened?"
Even as he asks, Charles can hear the dull roar of Nathan's shouting butting up against Magnus's shrieking. "Dude, I don't know," Pickles starts, and then he goes quiet as Nathan shouts something that sounds very much like a death threat, which, coming from him, is most definitely not hollow. "We were practicin', Magnus flipped out on us an' like, fuckin' -"
"Look at my motherfucking eye!"
"- stabbed Nate an' I'm tryin' ta get him outta here 'fore -"
"Don't take it out!" Murderface shrieks.
"- somethin' happens, so -"
Charles doesn't actually understand what Nathan is shouting, but he knows it's another threat, and he's calculating out how fast he can get to the rental they've hunkered down in while Pickles tells him in no uncertain terms that Nathan has a knife in his back and Magnus might have lost an eye. He stands and looks down at the contract longingly. The health insurance plan needs a lower deductible. Do the boys even have an HMO?
"I'll be right there. Get Magnus out of there. Call the police if you have to."
"Fuck that," Pickles says, and he hangs up. Charles will take what he can get. He grabs his coat, his keys and the unopened emergency travel kit he likes to keep on hand for... well, things like this. Whatever might come up. He's always preferred to be prepared.
It's a minute and a half down the halls and elevator to his car, and another ten to make it to the rig that the boys had insisted was perfect. They haven't quite gotten to the rich and famous part yet; Charles has seen it before, where bands hold on to the harsh life they had just before letting go and embracing clean, well maintained practice spaces and living quarters.
He almost stops off at the gas station to get a pack of cigarettes - for them or himself, he really can't say - but it'd just waste time. He skips it and gets to the place about three minutes earlier than he'd thought he would. The door to their place is wide open and Skwisgaar is standing outside with a cigarette; Charles can tell from his expression that he's tuning out whatever Murderface is excitedly repeating to him.
"What happened?" he asks them as he gets out of the car.
"Look at the boy scout," Murderface laughs, the anxious bouncing on his feet giving him away. "What are you gonna do with that? You can't take the knife outta him without busting an artery."
Charles nods. "The knife is still in, then."
"You shoulds go talks to Pickle," Skwisgaar drawls with a lazy gesture towards the door. Charles nods one more time, notes the four cigarette butts on the cement around Skwisgaar's feet, and heads inside.
Pickles doesn't even try to hide his tension from him, waving a bottle of vodka at him and saying, "You gotta deal with him, I can't even keep my fuckin' hands straight."
"Deal with who? Where's Magnus?"
"I dunno, he just - Nathan went ta beat the shit outta him again fer good measure an' he bailed. Nate's in the bathroom but I ain't, haha, I ain't goin' near him like that, so you have fun dealin' with..." He gestures. "That. Whole thing."
Charles can't help but appreciate the honesty. "I'll take care of it," he says. Because he cares, he adds, "Try not to drink the entire bottle."
"Who are you, my mother?" Pickles laughs, and Charles watches him saunter out before making his way down the hall to the bathroom. This place is awful. He can feel the mold in the carpet through his shoes. He can't wait to get them out of here, if only so he won't ever have to set foot here again. He might very well burn these shoes when he gets home.
He picks the door he hears growling behind and knocks on it. "Mr. Explosion," he says. He remembers that Nathan hates that, so he corrects himself. "Nathan?"
Either there's an angry tiger in there or Nathan's gearing up to legitimately roar at him, but Charles has never been very scared of cats before, so he tests the knob to see if it's locked and then lets the door swing open on its own squeaky hinges. The bathroom is awful. Charles manages to contain his surprise, somehow.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Nathan snarls, which isn't exactly the most menacing thing Charles has ever heard, but the sheer violence in his tone and the fury in his expression does plenty in the way of intimidating him. He hesitates before he closes the door behind him - he hasn't seen Nathan emote before, and despite his stature, he's usually less bloodthirsty than this. If he's really still feeling violent, he wants to limit the number of bandmates he decides to attack.
"I have, as a matter of fact." Charles can see mildew on the shower curtain. The sink has a bloody rag in it and the grout on the tiled floor is patched with brown stains. Nathan has a knife in his back; more specifically, he has Magnus's dagger embedded in his shoulder at a downward angle that implies Magnus probably leapt at him. Charles can pinpoint the moment his blood boils at the thought. "You shouldn't be in here," he says, "You have an open wound and this bathroom is, ah..."
"Fucking gross, I know," Nathan growls. He's still angry but Charles has a feeling that he might be in shock. He slumps momentarily on the closed toilet lid before straightening his shoulders with a hiss through clenched teeth, and Charles comes over to take a closer look at the wound. "Those assholes kept freaking out, though," Nathan continues, his voice significantly tighter. "Needed to try and calm down." He sweeps a hand through his hair and gives Charles a deeply calculating look, like a judge on high. "I told Pickles not to call you."
"I'm glad he didn't listen. I know you won't like it, but I think we should take you to-"
"A hospital? I know. Almost called 911 until Pickles said you were coming."
"I think - ah." Well. That is not what Charles had expected to hear. "You... what?"
"A psychopath just stabbed me in the back and threatened my fucking bandmates. The fuck else was I gonna do?" His head droops as he stares at the floor, trying to flex the tremor out of his hands. "If he wasn't gonna leave, it was either going to be me putting him through the concrete or the cops taking him in, and I know which one reads better to a record label."
"Right. Well. I'm glad you made that choice," Charles says, fumbling for something more. He hadn't expected this amount of rationality from a man who'd just been stabbed by a close friend. He'd expected to see Nathan raging or at least seething, but instead Nathan almost seems calm, despite his deep scowl and the angry hiss in his voice.
"You gonna drive me to the E.R.? Because I'm gonna puke if I have to keep this fucking thing in me much longer."
"Have you had any alcohol or narcotics?" Charles asks. Nathan stares at him long enough for Charles to feel kind of like an idiot for asking, so he takes a breath and adjusts his glasses. "My car is right outside. Would you like anyone to come with us?"
Nathan rolls his eyes and stands. "You think you're gonna stop them from piling into your Benz?"
As it turns out, no, Charles doesn't think he can stop them. He shows the appropriate amount of reservation at the idea, of course, but it's only to give them all an excuse. They aren't coming along because they care - it's just that they don't listen to the word no. When they climb in the back seat, they're just sticking it to the man.
Nathan sits sideways in the passenger seat. Skwisgaar puts out a hand whenever there's a turn to keep the handle from bouncing into the glass and pushing the knife in deeper. Nathan's expression is tight in an attempt not to show weakness, but he doesn't do a very good job; his teeth grit and Charles can practically see his muscles flinching out of the corner of his eye.
Determined to keep everyone distracted from the blood seeping through the wads of paper towels against Nathan's shoulder, Pickles fills the silence with graphic depictions of violence. "If I see that fucker again," he says, still drinking from the bottle of vodka that Charles had tried to refuse him, "I'm gonna punch his teeth through the back'a his skull."
"I'm gonna stab him," Murderface adds, grinning gleefully. "Right in the fuckin' spine, so he never walks again. Then, I'll smash his teeth through his skull -"
"No," Pickles snaps, "I'm supposed ta do that!"
"You cans both punch his teeths out," Skwisgaar sighs. He sounds bored; Charles glances in the rearview mirror and sees him staring at Nathan through the back of the seat. "There ams forty-sevens teeths in a man's head, that ams more than enoughs for the boths of yous."
"Who the fuck told you that?" Nathan asks, exhaling heavily. He gives Charles an exasperated eyeroll, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "That's, like, three times as many teeth as anyone has in their head, what kind of fucking mutants grow in Iceland?"
"Sweden."
"Same fucking thing!"
"There are almost two-thousand kilometers between the two," Charles says, finally giving in to the absolute fucking madness of the situation, easing up on the gas as he checks his speed and realizes he's going just fast enough to possibly catch the police's attention and delay them further. "And there are thirty-two teeth in a human skull."
"See? Icelandic mutants. Forty teeth? Can you fucking imagine?"
Charles sees the way Nathan's boots are moving in the well, one pressing heavily down on the other's toe before they switch positions and repeat. He takes his eyes off the road long enough to see the muscles tensing in Nathan's arm, and then he speeds up just a little bit, potential traffic violations be damned.
"What if we see Magnus at the hospital?" Murderface asks all of a sudden. "I mean, Nathan, you fucking bludgeoned him in the face until his eye popped -"
"What?" Charles asks. He doesn't slam on the breaks, even though his foot hovers over the pedal momentarily.
"It's not a big deal, he fucking stabbed Nathan, he deserves whatever he gets - anyway, what if he shows up?"
"Good," Pickles replies. He drops his voice to a low growl. "He'll need the E.R. after I'm through with him."
Charles checks the rearview mirror and sees the sincerity in Pickles' eyes. He makes a note to call for extra security once he has a chance. There's no reason to start an entire incident over this before the ink dries on their contracts. Nathan's squinting at him when he glances over, so he tightens his hands on the wheel and stares out the windshield, determined to put the contract out of his head until Nathan's at least been seen by a nurse.
"Cut it out," Nathan says, craning his head to look over the seat. "You're freaking the suit out."
That makes Charles laugh. "You are not freaking me out," he says, so matter-of-factly that Nathan can't even pretend to doubt him. He can see the hospital up ahead; he keeps an eye out for the E.R. entrance. "The knife in your shoulder is a lot more pressing than threatening to beat someone to death right now. We're here. If, for whatever reason, Magnus is here, don't engage him. I'll deal with it."
Magnus isn't there in the waiting room, which is probably a good thing, because the moment the doors slide open, Pickles opens his mouth and shouts, "We're fuckin' Dethklok and our singer just got fuckin' stabbed by a psychopath!"
"Buy our music!" Murderface shouts, which would be more helpful if they had an album to sell. Charles takes a steadying breath as an orderly not blindsided by Pickles and Murderface's terrible publicity stunt rushes over and starts calling for assistance.
"You're coming with me," Nathan tells Charles, and when they take Nathan into the E.R. in an awkward procession of people not prepared to deal with a nonchalant stabbing victim, Charles follows dutifully behind. He's not afraid to leave the rest of the boys out in the waiting room - they're in a hospital, after all - but when Nathan glances back at them as the heavy doors swing closed behind them, he looks anxious.
Despite personally requesting him, Nathan doesn't make any effort to engage in conversation - not with Charles, and definitely not with the doctors. It doesn't take long before Charles realizes he doesn't want to have to answer any of the medical questions - he flat out refuses to explain what happened when the doctors ask, and since it's not medically relevant, Charles refuses as well. He tells them that Nathan's not allergic to anything, which is true, and that he doesn't use drugs, which is... less true, and Nathan actually does tell them he'd been drinking all day before they give him anything for the pain. It's a safe bet that none of the other boys would even think about it enough to tell anyone. Charles is duly impressed.
It isn't until they've pulled the knife out, cleaned the wound, taken him to get an x-ray and finally sutured up the damned thing before Nathan even looks directly at Charles. The Demerol is kicking in; his BAC must not have been high enough to warrant concern.
"I only had a couple beers," Nathan admits when the last nurse leaves to check on some test results. "Good thing. Tranquilizers are the shit." His narrowed brow softens a little, his expression growing passive as the drugs finally sap him of his anger. "Way better than getting hammered."
Charles refrains from pointing out the choice of words. "Glad to see you're feeling better."
Nathan shuts up again for a bit, and then he looks up through his hair, the permanent scowl on his face softening with the painkillers and muscle relaxants. "I didn't want them to come back here," he mutters guiltily.
"I wouldn't want them back here if I were you, either," Charles agrees, although he's mostly joking. Nathan glares. "Any reason why?"
"They might..." He hesitates. Charles doesn't think it suits him, but he doesn't say it. "They might wanna leave," he admits, after a quiet stretch.
"I don't think they want to leave," Charles replies gently. "They, ah, were just threatening to bash Magnus's skull in for you. That... Uh, well. I think that's a sign of affection." Nathan makes a face, but he doesn't outright shut down; Charles assumes that has a lot to do with the pain medication.
Nathan's usually relatively sparing with his words, but he's really dragging the silence out right now. Charles takes the time to look over the doctor's clipboard. He's never understood why they just leave them lying around when just anyone could come and take them. And the pen attached? Why not just invite people to falsify medical documents?
"So," Nathan says, voice slugging out of his throat - the medication must be getting to him. He wonders how big a dose they gave him. "What's the next step?"
"Well... It says you won't need surgery, which is impressive, considering the depth... they, ah, might try to hold you until tomorrow, but we'll work something out."
"I meant with, like... the band and stuff. What do we do with Magnus?"
Charles hesitates momentarily, furrowing his brow. "...Fire him?"
"Just - that's it? Fire him? Like, can we..."
"You can do whatever you want. It is your band, after all. You all own it. It's just a matter of holding a vote. Majority rules."
"Oh."
More quiet. Nathan might have fallen asleep sitting up, Charles isn't quite sure.
"...Can you go get them."
It's not really a question, but it's not a request, either. Charles has been impressed with the way Nathan uses his voice since he heard his singing on the demo; he picks his words and his tone without even thinking, but it always feels on point and exact. He wouldn't use the word careful by any means, but there's no way else to describe it.
He doesn't hesitate to get the others from the waiting room. He's left them alone long enough for them to really get into serious trouble; it's probably about time to check in and make sure none of them have started a riot.
Thankfully, attractive nurses, worried grandmothers and an array of somewhat gruesome health issues have distracted the three of them from anything too awful. He hopes Murderface hasn't actually said anything to the man with the bloody hand he's staring at, though. All he can imagine is that any conversation there would leave somebody scarred for life - and it wouldn't be Murderface.
"About time," Pickles says when he sees Charles, and his voice alone pulls the other two away from their distraction. It's not a big show of solidarity, but it's nonetheless a good sign that Nathan has nothing to worry about.
He brings them back to where they have Nathan's bed - ignoring the doctors who say it's not really protocol to have so many visitors at once - and Nathan is lying back against the bed. He looks woozy. "Ohhh," he says when he sees them. "Right."
"What'd they give him?" Pickles asks.
Nathan smiles and Charles is... completely at a loss as to what to do about it. Or with it, for that matter. He just watches Nathan grin dopily, content to be however open he wants with enough painkillers to sedate a horse in his body. He's never seen anything like it in his life.
"I dunno what it's called, but it's really good," he tells them.
"I am so fuckin' jealous," Pickles replies, and then all at once, all four of them say, "Magnus is out of the band," like they desperately need to convince each other of the fact.
"Well," Charles says, when all they do is stare at each other blankly, "I suppose that's settled."
"That was easy," Murderface drawls. "Think we could get some of the shit Nathan's on? I could stab myself-"
"Please don't stab yourself."
"It's not worth it," Nathan says. He frowns at them. "You really wanna kick Magnus out?"
"Uh, yeah," Murderface says. He looks at Nathan like he's an idiot. "What the fuck, you think I want to be around a guy who just stabs people?"
None of them point out the irony. Pickles just rolls his eyes and says, "Duh, what the fuck did ya think we'd wanna do?"
"...I dunno," Nathan hesitates. "...I guess, break up, or something."
"And ruin this sweet gig? Fuck no!"
"We don'ts even need Magnus," Skwisgaar says, bringing it up so casually that it's no surprise when he says, "I've knowns this for... uh, evers, practicallys."
"Fuck Magnus," Pickles says.
There's a moment of silence and Charles realizes they don't exactly know what happens now. He takes pity on them and gives them the illusion of formality, even if there's actually a lot of paperwork he'll need to sort out for them later. "Well," he says, "The motion passes. Fuck Magnus."
Nathan laughs so hard he snorts and Pickles gives Charles a look like he can't believe he even knows a single swear word.
A nurse comes by and Charles pulls her aside to arrange for Nathan's release. They're hesitant to let him go, given the fact that he was stabbed and that it was a fairly deep wound, but Charles has learned how to talk his clients out of a hospital stay and he is very practiced at it.
Four and a half hours after they'd gotten there, Charles and Skwisgaar help Nathan wobble his way out of the hospital with a prescription for pain killers that will no doubt be abused and antibiotics that will, with any luck, actually be taken and not just forgotten in the medicine cabinet. Pickles and Murderface, both too short and one too drunk to help Nathan to the car, trail behind them and argue about whether or not four hours is a long or short amount of time for a stab wound.
Once again, they all pile into Charles' car. Charles takes his time adjusting his mirrors, and Pickles uses the time to switch gears. "I'm fuckin' starvin'," he says.
"Me too," Nathan says, his head lolling.
"Lets get some fucking B.B.Q., man!" Murderface shouts.
"Don't shout in my ear!" Pickles snarls, socking him.
"I think Nathan should decide where we eat," Charles cuts in, before there's bloodshed in his leased car. "After all, he was the one who got stabbed."
"I could have been stabbed back at the hospital, but you wouldn't let me!"
"I want Mexican," Nathan says to Charles, somewhat conspiratorially considering everyone can hear him. "It needs to have a B in the window."
Murderface insists on barbeque but, since Nathan's the one with stitches in his back, Charles takes them to a walk-up Mexican place. It's got cafeteria benches outside and a blue B rating hanging in the window. Nathan surprises all of them by stringing together some Spanish that makes the man working the register laugh, and then they get free sodas with the greasiest Mexican food available in town. It also happens to be next to a twenty-four hour pharmacy, so they eat while Nathan's prescriptions get filled.
At some point, Nathan pulls out a knife and Charles nearly has a heart attack, but instead he just lays the dagger on the table and stares at it. "Magnus," he finally says, caught between talking to them and the dagger, "You are a fucking asshole." He looks up at Murderface, still sulking into his chimichanga because he didn't get stabbed, and then he pushes the blade over to him. "You take it," he says.
"What?"
Skwisgaar and Pickles keep eating like nothing's going on, but Charles knows an important moment when he sees one, so he watches out of the corner of his eye as Murderface takes the dagger and looks at it.
"You have it," Nathan insists. "I don't want it."
Murderface doesn't say anything else. Neither does Nathan, for that matter, but he keeps looking over at Murderface as he presses the tip into the tabletop and twists, working out a little groove with the point. His expression is unreadable.
Charles and Nathan go in to get the prescriptions. By now, the sedatives and painkillers have worn off, and Nathan doesn't need help to balance. He doesn't say anything while Charles pays for everything; he just stands there with straight shoulders and a contemplative frown on his face.
"Hey," he says as they make their way out of the pharmacy. "We need to move out of that place. It fucking sucks."
"All right," Charles says. "I'll have it taken care of."
"And we need security for a few days. Magnus is a creep."
"That too."
"And. Thanks for, uh. Coming."
It takes a second before Charles realizes he hadn't misheard. He looks over at Nathan and only sees his hair as it curtains his face from view. "Um," he says.
"I didn't want to call for an ambulance. It would have sucked. I'm glad you backed us up like that. Makes me think we chose right."
There's no explanation for the swell Charles feels in his chest, but as Nathan all but directly praises him, he feels himself puffing up with something like pride. They're throw away compliments. They're barely even compliments to begin with.
"Ah," he says, and he feels like that covers most of what he wants to say. Nathan looks at him briefly.
"Yeah. Let's go. Need to tell Skwisgaar he's not gonna be our only guitarist for long. He'll fucking hate that."
Nathan keeps moving and Charles, because he is a very smart man, follows in his wake. He's never been in this position before. He's never been so invigorated by his clients' praise of him before. He's never been here, but now he knows; he's absolutely positive that if Dethklok were to walk directly into hell, he would follow them without complaint. He's never managed a band like this before, with a frontman like Nathan, but he's never been more excited to do his job than he is right here and now.
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