fic: back at one (Patrick/Babyface, 1/1)
So how did I spend my evening, you ask? Besides working on Unnamed Panic Fic That’s Actually Half-Done, Praise God? Writing Patrick/Babyface. PATRICK/BABYFACE. I feel so dirty.
back at one
by Gale
SUMMARY: Babyface gets divorced, Babyface gets laid, Babyface gets a do-over.
How it ends:
"I want a divorce," Tracey says, like there's no further discussion on the matter.
When he thinks back on it later, Kenny's pretty sure that that's true.
Three scenes from a middle, working backwards from the top:
They're in the studio a little later than Kenny expected, late enough that most of the techs have gone home and it's just him and the band, then him and half the band, then him and Patrick.
"Don't work too late," Pete says, and kisses Patrick on the mouth.
Kenny tries very, very hard not to stare.
Patrick waits 'til he's gone, then turns to Kenny and says, "Fuck it, it's late and I'm done. You mind giving me a ride back to the house?"
Kenny checks his watch and realizes holy god, it's almost nine at night and they haven't had anything to eat since lunch -- in Kenny's case, anyway; Patrick hasn't had anything since breakfast, but he doesn't realize it until Kenny asks. A lot of people get like that in the studio, like they go into some kind of trance. It's weirdly reassuring to know that punk rock kids from the Chicago suburbs can do it, too.
"So is that," Kenny starts, and stops. He digs his keys out of his pocket. "You know what? None of my business."
"Was what--" Patrick blinks. "What? No, that was just Pete being Pete. If you're not careful, he'll do it to you." He stops, one hand ready to pull on his seatbelt.
"No," Kenny says, shaking his head. "I just. I didn't know if I was getting in the middle of something. I didn't want to be inappropriate."
"You were planning on being inappropriate?"
Kenny stares at him for a second.
"I was kidding," Patrick says. "Relax."
After a long moment, Kenny hears himself say, "Would you mind? If I was inappropriate, I mean."
Patrick's expression is unreadable. "Define 'inappropriate'," he says slowly.
And that, Kenny thinks, is an excellent idea.
--because here's the thing about Hollywood, and L.A., and the entertainment industry in general that no one ever tells you until you get there: sex is sex. Sex is money, it's power, it's blackmail, it's a comfort; it's even love, sometimes, but that's a lot more rare than you'd think. You call yourself straight, and maybe you trade handjobs with another guy one night after the Grammys. You call yourself gay, and maybe you cheat on your girlfriend with a male parking lot attendant. Sex is sex, orgasms are orgasms, and at a certain point, if you're honest with yourself, you stop thinking about it quite so much.
He opens his mouth to say all this, or some awkwardly-phrased, shortened version of it, but Patrick cuts him off. "You know what, how about this." He lets go of the belt and pushes up the armrest between their seats.
"How about I take the question out of your hands?" he says, and undoes Kenny's belt.
Kenny stares at him for a minute. "I don't think--"
"I do," Patrick says, and undoes Kenny's fly. "So just lie back and enjoy it, okay?"
And that's how Kenny Edmonds leans back in the front seat of his car and lets a kid in his early 20s from Glenview, Illinois give him the best fucking blowjob he's had in four years.
*
Kenny's heard of Fall Out Boy; everyone has. He's managed not to have an opinion of their music mostly because punk-pop isn't really his genre. But lyrically they're tight, and musically they're really, really good. Put those two together and they're catchy as all hell, but again, not really his thing.
"They're never anyone's thing," Neal explains, in the elevator. "They're like fungus. You want to watch someone look startled sometime, ask Jay why he signed them. It's great. It's like watching someone talk about a fucking religious experience, only they're too cool to admit it's a religious experience."
"Uh huh." Neal, Kenny thinks, is occasionally wrong about a lot of shit.
Not about this, though, as he learns a few minutes into the meeting. They're tiny, for a start, and smart, which he honestly wasn't expecting. It's a pleasant surprise to be in a meeting with a band and hear them make actual, impassioned arguments for what they want out of the tracks and what they don't want.
"No offense," the singer -- Patrick -- says, perched in a chair. Kenny's pretty sure he's going to have to physically pry the kid away from the soundboard with a crowbar or something. "We want a Fall Out Boy song, not a Babyface song as performed by Fall Out Boy. That's not -- believe me, I'm not trying to be rude, but that's what we want."
"I can respect that," Kenny says. "Want to hear what I have so far?"
*
So Neal calls him up, because Neal does that sometimes -- they know each other, distantly, the way he knows Butch and Rick and Pharrell, like they're part of some secret organization that only has so many members, and they all speak the same language, forbidden to outsiders -- and says, "Hey, you should come down to the studio. Wentz and his guys really want to work with you."
The name's familiar, but it takes a second to connect in his-- "Fall Out Boy," Kenny says, blinking.
"Yes."
"Want to work with me."
"Yes."
"Neal, it is really early."
"Yeah, and I don't usually kid about giving away fucking tracks," Neal says, "so get down here after lunch and you can at least meet them before you say no thanks, okay? Goddamn." And he hangs up.
How it starts:
7:30 Tuesday morning, Kenny gets to the studio to find Patrick waiting for him, wearing headphones and drinking coffee. He looks completely unruffled, like he didn't slide out of Kenny's car with a flushed mouth less than twelve hours earlier, humming the Jackson 5 under his breath. Actually, he looks a little like the T.A. of a Music Theory class at UCLA, in a Senses Fail t-shirt and a black hat, faded jeans.
That's not really surprising, though. All the really good ones come to the studio dressed like normal people. Not in their pajamas, not in suits and ties or five-thousand-dollar outfits: t-shirts and jeans, maybe a jacket if it's cold.
"You're late," Patrick says without looking up from the board.
"You're early," Kenny shoots back. "Did you get me coffee?"
Patrick pushes a cup over to him. "No. And I didn't get you extra sugar, either." He looks up at Kenny's surprised expression. "I pay attention when people talk. I don't know why they think I don't."
"It's the hats." Kenny settles in next to him, watches him work. Patrick's just messing around; the other guys don't have to be in 'til eight, eight-thirty. "So about last night--"
"Bad Rob Lowe movie," Patrick says, and blinks at him. "--oh. You meant literally."
"I meant literally," Kenny agrees. "Is it going to be weird for you?"
It's a fair question. Things happen, sometimes. He knows that as well as anyone. But sometimes things just happen, and it's "what the hell", like spring break for college kids or a trip to Vegas; and sometimes it's like "oh my god oh my god," and the next day it's time to call in sick, and the day after *that* it's creative differences on the song, no hard feelings. He's been on both sides -- all *four* sides, strictly speaking -- and it's early enough, and empty enough, that they might as well get it out of the way now.
Patrick looks at him for a long minute. Then he leans over and kisses Kenny firmly on the mouth, like he's done it a hundred times before, or a thousand.
He's actually pretty good, Kenny realizes. They hadn't done this last night, mostly because there's no real way of gauging whether or not someone was okay with giving you a blowjob, but not with kissing you. It varied.
Patrick pulls back after a minute and smiles a little. "But I'm not putting out unless I get dinner first," he says, like there's no further discussion on the matter. He goes back to the board.
Kenny watches him for a few minutes. Then he smiles and digs out his cellphone, scrolling through the menu to find someplace he can make reservations.
*
--okay, so i didn't honestly have "make babyface SLIGHTLY GAY" on my list of things to do today, but fuck it, it's thursday.
i completely made up neal avron's characterization, but again, i didn't wake up thinking i needed to have a particular neal avron characterization, so there you go. jay-z does not actually talk about fall out boy like he's having a religious experience, but it never stops being cute hearing him say he was at a show and was shocked because everyone know the words. i really do think he knows all the words to sugar, even if he never admits it.
all my musical knowledge is gacked from four years in popslash and a year here, occasionally accented by wikipedia and articles in spin and rolling stone. also, babyface and his wife are getting a divorce, but i'm reasonably certain p.stump was in no way involved. that we know of.
back at one
by Gale
SUMMARY: Babyface gets divorced, Babyface gets laid, Babyface gets a do-over.
How it ends:
"I want a divorce," Tracey says, like there's no further discussion on the matter.
When he thinks back on it later, Kenny's pretty sure that that's true.
Three scenes from a middle, working backwards from the top:
They're in the studio a little later than Kenny expected, late enough that most of the techs have gone home and it's just him and the band, then him and half the band, then him and Patrick.
"Don't work too late," Pete says, and kisses Patrick on the mouth.
Kenny tries very, very hard not to stare.
Patrick waits 'til he's gone, then turns to Kenny and says, "Fuck it, it's late and I'm done. You mind giving me a ride back to the house?"
Kenny checks his watch and realizes holy god, it's almost nine at night and they haven't had anything to eat since lunch -- in Kenny's case, anyway; Patrick hasn't had anything since breakfast, but he doesn't realize it until Kenny asks. A lot of people get like that in the studio, like they go into some kind of trance. It's weirdly reassuring to know that punk rock kids from the Chicago suburbs can do it, too.
"So is that," Kenny starts, and stops. He digs his keys out of his pocket. "You know what? None of my business."
"Was what--" Patrick blinks. "What? No, that was just Pete being Pete. If you're not careful, he'll do it to you." He stops, one hand ready to pull on his seatbelt.
"No," Kenny says, shaking his head. "I just. I didn't know if I was getting in the middle of something. I didn't want to be inappropriate."
"You were planning on being inappropriate?"
Kenny stares at him for a second.
"I was kidding," Patrick says. "Relax."
After a long moment, Kenny hears himself say, "Would you mind? If I was inappropriate, I mean."
Patrick's expression is unreadable. "Define 'inappropriate'," he says slowly.
And that, Kenny thinks, is an excellent idea.
--because here's the thing about Hollywood, and L.A., and the entertainment industry in general that no one ever tells you until you get there: sex is sex. Sex is money, it's power, it's blackmail, it's a comfort; it's even love, sometimes, but that's a lot more rare than you'd think. You call yourself straight, and maybe you trade handjobs with another guy one night after the Grammys. You call yourself gay, and maybe you cheat on your girlfriend with a male parking lot attendant. Sex is sex, orgasms are orgasms, and at a certain point, if you're honest with yourself, you stop thinking about it quite so much.
He opens his mouth to say all this, or some awkwardly-phrased, shortened version of it, but Patrick cuts him off. "You know what, how about this." He lets go of the belt and pushes up the armrest between their seats.
"How about I take the question out of your hands?" he says, and undoes Kenny's belt.
Kenny stares at him for a minute. "I don't think--"
"I do," Patrick says, and undoes Kenny's fly. "So just lie back and enjoy it, okay?"
And that's how Kenny Edmonds leans back in the front seat of his car and lets a kid in his early 20s from Glenview, Illinois give him the best fucking blowjob he's had in four years.
*
Kenny's heard of Fall Out Boy; everyone has. He's managed not to have an opinion of their music mostly because punk-pop isn't really his genre. But lyrically they're tight, and musically they're really, really good. Put those two together and they're catchy as all hell, but again, not really his thing.
"They're never anyone's thing," Neal explains, in the elevator. "They're like fungus. You want to watch someone look startled sometime, ask Jay why he signed them. It's great. It's like watching someone talk about a fucking religious experience, only they're too cool to admit it's a religious experience."
"Uh huh." Neal, Kenny thinks, is occasionally wrong about a lot of shit.
Not about this, though, as he learns a few minutes into the meeting. They're tiny, for a start, and smart, which he honestly wasn't expecting. It's a pleasant surprise to be in a meeting with a band and hear them make actual, impassioned arguments for what they want out of the tracks and what they don't want.
"No offense," the singer -- Patrick -- says, perched in a chair. Kenny's pretty sure he's going to have to physically pry the kid away from the soundboard with a crowbar or something. "We want a Fall Out Boy song, not a Babyface song as performed by Fall Out Boy. That's not -- believe me, I'm not trying to be rude, but that's what we want."
"I can respect that," Kenny says. "Want to hear what I have so far?"
*
So Neal calls him up, because Neal does that sometimes -- they know each other, distantly, the way he knows Butch and Rick and Pharrell, like they're part of some secret organization that only has so many members, and they all speak the same language, forbidden to outsiders -- and says, "Hey, you should come down to the studio. Wentz and his guys really want to work with you."
The name's familiar, but it takes a second to connect in his-- "Fall Out Boy," Kenny says, blinking.
"Yes."
"Want to work with me."
"Yes."
"Neal, it is really early."
"Yeah, and I don't usually kid about giving away fucking tracks," Neal says, "so get down here after lunch and you can at least meet them before you say no thanks, okay? Goddamn." And he hangs up.
How it starts:
7:30 Tuesday morning, Kenny gets to the studio to find Patrick waiting for him, wearing headphones and drinking coffee. He looks completely unruffled, like he didn't slide out of Kenny's car with a flushed mouth less than twelve hours earlier, humming the Jackson 5 under his breath. Actually, he looks a little like the T.A. of a Music Theory class at UCLA, in a Senses Fail t-shirt and a black hat, faded jeans.
That's not really surprising, though. All the really good ones come to the studio dressed like normal people. Not in their pajamas, not in suits and ties or five-thousand-dollar outfits: t-shirts and jeans, maybe a jacket if it's cold.
"You're late," Patrick says without looking up from the board.
"You're early," Kenny shoots back. "Did you get me coffee?"
Patrick pushes a cup over to him. "No. And I didn't get you extra sugar, either." He looks up at Kenny's surprised expression. "I pay attention when people talk. I don't know why they think I don't."
"It's the hats." Kenny settles in next to him, watches him work. Patrick's just messing around; the other guys don't have to be in 'til eight, eight-thirty. "So about last night--"
"Bad Rob Lowe movie," Patrick says, and blinks at him. "--oh. You meant literally."
"I meant literally," Kenny agrees. "Is it going to be weird for you?"
It's a fair question. Things happen, sometimes. He knows that as well as anyone. But sometimes things just happen, and it's "what the hell", like spring break for college kids or a trip to Vegas; and sometimes it's like "oh my god oh my god," and the next day it's time to call in sick, and the day after *that* it's creative differences on the song, no hard feelings. He's been on both sides -- all *four* sides, strictly speaking -- and it's early enough, and empty enough, that they might as well get it out of the way now.
Patrick looks at him for a long minute. Then he leans over and kisses Kenny firmly on the mouth, like he's done it a hundred times before, or a thousand.
He's actually pretty good, Kenny realizes. They hadn't done this last night, mostly because there's no real way of gauging whether or not someone was okay with giving you a blowjob, but not with kissing you. It varied.
Patrick pulls back after a minute and smiles a little. "But I'm not putting out unless I get dinner first," he says, like there's no further discussion on the matter. He goes back to the board.
Kenny watches him for a few minutes. Then he smiles and digs out his cellphone, scrolling through the menu to find someplace he can make reservations.
*
--okay, so i didn't honestly have "make babyface SLIGHTLY GAY" on my list of things to do today, but fuck it, it's thursday.
i completely made up neal avron's characterization, but again, i didn't wake up thinking i needed to have a particular neal avron characterization, so there you go. jay-z does not actually talk about fall out boy like he's having a religious experience, but it never stops being cute hearing him say he was at a show and was shocked because everyone know the words. i really do think he knows all the words to sugar, even if he never admits it.
all my musical knowledge is gacked from four years in popslash and a year here, occasionally accented by wikipedia and articles in spin and rolling stone. also, babyface and his wife are getting a divorce, but i'm reasonably certain p.stump was in no way involved. that we know of.