Fic: A Player in this Game; Nashville 'verse
Author: rivlee
Title: A Player in this Game
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Gibson, Q-Tip, Team Shorty plus Shifty. Pre-Slash Gibson/Q-Tip.
Summary: Q-Tip appoints himself Gibson’s Hip Hop tutor. Part of Nashville ‘verse.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from 2Pac’s Unconditional Love.
A/N: Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Timestamp meme request ficlet for skylilies
Evan Stafford, called Q-Tip by his friends, fellow Marine buddies, and current colleagues at Screaming Eagle Publishing, never saw himself working in the music business. That probably explained why he worked security and reception. He just never wanted to be a performer. He liked to rap on his own though, making up lyrics to familiar songs and tunes. It helped him get through Afghanistan and Iraq, where they didn’t have any music. The rap verses were a way to pass time, keep their nerves from getting totally shot, and something to make them feel united. He almost missed it, rolling down the highway under the desert sun, asses practically hanging out of the back of a Humvee. He still rapped on his own while doing work, making copies, and answering phones. He had a lot of time to do so while working the desk at Currahee Studios.
“What’s your song of the day?” Ron Gibson asked, stopping by to pick up a stack of demos.
“I’m going old school with a little Tricky by Run-DMC,” Q-Tip said. He handed over a clipboard. “What’s your favorite rap song, Gibson?” he asked.
Gibson laughed. “Can’t say I have one. I pretty much am a born-and-bred country boy.”
“We need to go about fixing that,” Evan said.
“I’m always up for private tutoring sessions,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip tired not to gape at his tone. He’d started to learn over the past few months, that Ronnie Gibson was far from the quiet, innocent-looking dude like he acted. Nah, Ronnie had the kind of smile his momma warned him about. He was even more dangerous, since you’d never guess it passing him on the street.
Q-Tip had started collecting intel on Gibson from day one. Working at the security desk, a lot of gossip passed his way, and Popeye Wynn dropped by at least twice a day to give him new dirt. He liked what he found out and was pretty damn tired of waiting for Gibson to make the first move.
“I’m free tomorrow,” he said.
Gibson fumbled the clipboard. “Seriously?”
Q-Tip nodded. “You should know this stuff, dog. The big man searches for R&B and Hip Hop acts, right? Don’t you have to follow those acts around? Need to know a thing or two about the genre.”
“I’m more in charge of the folk and alternative country acts,” Gibson said.
“Career advancement means expanding your horizons, don’t it?”
Gibson studied him, obviously trying to make sure Q-Tip was being on the level. He wasn’t insulted, nothing wrong with being cautious this day and age. He still tried to give his best innocent smile.
Gibson rolled his eyes in response.
“I’ll meet you here at 6:00pm,” he said.
Q-Tip nodded. “We’ll get you rapping like a MC in no time.”
**************
Q-Tip had pretty much gorged himself on Mrs. Gibson’s homemade coconut and chocolate-chip cookies. He wasn’t used to arguing the finer points of musical composition with a graduate from Berklee College of Music with a baked-good food baby in his stomach, but hell, life was about change.
“Look, man,” he said, pointing to the stacks of Gibson’s old textbooks, “I know I don’t exactly appear as a connoisseur of the classical, but that don’t mean shit. It’s all about expectations. In the Marines, among all my boys, I had to be Q-Tip 100% of the time. Here though, outside of ballsweat smelling fatigues and away from artie? I get to be Evan, with a side of Q-Tip. That’s just how it works.”
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Gibson joked.
Q-Tip laughed. “You could say that.”
Gibson nodded. “We’re all like that too, you know. Not just the typical difference of who you are at work does not equal who you are at home. The music business pretty much forces all of us to put up a front. It’s the only way to survive dealing with all that ego, money and talent. Hell, even Lip doesn’t want this real name or persona attached to half the bullshit that goes down.”
Lip aka Lipton Marshall aka C.C. Winters. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell the man got through a day without a massive headache from all his various identities.
Gibson picked through the stacks of cds and vinyl Q-Tip had dumped on the table. He waved the case of 2Pac’s All Eyez On Me
“So, tell me about it. Tell me why you love his music so much.”
It was an easy question to answer, but not without giving his life story. 2Pac was one of those artists he heard right when he needed it. It made things easier, back in Tampa, hearing someone else out there rapping about the world going to hell, but struggling through with head held high. It wasn’t idealized and Evan Stafford, full of anger and frustration like any teenager, really appreciated the sentiment.
“Because he knew there was a difference between 2Pac and Tupac Shakur. Yeah, he’d give us songs about fucking around, asses shaking, but then there was some honest as hell social commentary, like Keep Ya Head Up and Brenda’s Got a Baby. Hell, I learned more from Words of Wisdom than I did my current events class. On one hand he perpetuated Thug Life but on the other he warned against it. There was a balance, on every single one of his records. It wasn’t just, brags and bullshit about cars, clothes, and pussy.”
“It’s more than that,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip nodded. “It wasn’t really happy home in my trailer park. I identified with some of it, especially the need to break the cycle, you know.”
“You joined the Marines to get out.”
“Didn’t you know we’re the Disposable Generation, dog? No hope to be found in our ranks.”
Q-Tip knew Gibson didn’t get it. He was his parents’ pride-and-joy, a full-ride scholarship kid to Berklee College in Boston. He’d excelled there and come back home to start right away to a job at a record company. Not that his life was perfect, no one’s was, but there was a difference between living paycheck-to-paycheck versus life far below the poverty line. Q-Tip knew what it was like; doing everything the family could to make the food stamps last to the end of the month, trying to scrounge up the change for milk when there was no money left. It fucking sucked and made anything, even hooking up with the drug cartels throughout Florida, seem like a damn good idea.
Q-Tip did trade in poverty for a gun, the only difference was his came with a uniform and USMC tattooed on his soul.
He dug his copy of Me Against the World out of the stack.
“You’re not quite ready for All Eyez on Me Yet. We’ll start you with this one and some of the mainstreamers. Get you some Run-DMC, some Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, a little advanced course in Public Enemy and KRS-One, maybe some Eric B& Rakim, a little Kurtis Blow, maybe some MC Lyte and throw in a little Beastie Boys and you’ll be all good for the starter course.”
“I only know, like, half of those bands.”
Q-Tip shook his head and couldn’t help the screwby that slipped out. Old habits die hard and all that bullshit.
“You know LL Cool J though?”
Gibson nodded earnestly.
“Then maybe we should start with Krush Groove.” Q-Tip pulled the dvd out of the stacks. “Visual learning, man, can’t fault it.”
He probably should’ve bothered explaining the difference between Hip Hop and Rap, but if Gibson could hum The Breaks by the end of the week, he’d count it as a successful mission.
*************
“It helps if I think about it like poetry, the rhyme and meter,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip nodded in agreement as he wolfed down his salad. Nothing made him appreciate fresh vegetables more than a desert war zone.
It was odd to be eating inside the lunch room with everyone else, but Gibson had made the invite sound more like an order, so he figured it was best to show. If only to stop Runner Conley and Popeye from glaring daggers at him. He wasn’t expecting an audience for their lunch meeting, but since Team Shorty plus Shifty had decided to stake out a corner of the room to watch them, Q-Tip knew this was more than about a discussion of the differences and similarities of Rap and Hip Hop.
They’d made a lot of progress on Gibson’s lessons over the past two weeks. He now knew all the words to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s The Message and that wasn’t something to scoff at with lines like can't stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac. Gibson wouldn’t ever love the genre, but he was learning its history and to appreciate its art. Considering what Lip wanted to do with the label, it was pretty essential for him. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell he had faked it up to this point; Runner probably helped if the stories around the office from his time in NYC had an ounce of truth to them.
Q-Tip cocked his head to the side. “Hey, Ron, what’s with Team Eavesdrop over there?”
Gibson ducked his head and his cheeks started to flush red.
“They just need to get a life,” he said, voice rising on the last word.
“Hey, hey, we just want to make sure you’re staying safe,” Popeye said.
“Evan is not dangerous,” Gibson said.
“It’s Q-Tip we’re worried for,” Runner said, wriggling his eyebrows.
Q-Tip laughed when Gibson hit Runner right between the brows with a fry.
“If you start a food fight, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” Shifty said. “And before you ask, Runner, I will not give Skinny an excuse for why you don’t have his demos sorted.”
“This is why normal people don’t eat lunch with their bosses,” Runner told Popeye.
Popeye shrugged. “Burgie said I had to socialize him. He doesn’t want Shifty sitting at his desk all day.”
“Ignore them,” Gibson said, “it’s better for your sanity.”
Q-Tip smiled. “They’re your boys, right?”
Gibson nodded.
“Then I better get used to them.”
Q-Tip had no qualms about moving this along. He got that this was still Tennessee and it was better to be pretty damn sure about these things, but it wasn’t like either one of them was hiding.
Gibson almost choked on his roast beef.
“So, where do you guys go after work? I’ve been to a few of the clubs around here, but I need a good place to chill.”
Gibson was still sputtering, so Runner answered.
“Allison’s. Penk’ll give you a ride there tonight. Ron and I have to go in early.” He turned to Shifty. “We cleared it with Lip last week. We’re helping Andy set-up for the showcase.”
Shifty just nodded.
“So, it’s a date,” Q-Tip said turning back to Gibson.
Gibson, busy gulping down his water, just gave him the finger.
Q-Tip smiled in response. This was going to be fun.
Title: A Player in this Game
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Gibson, Q-Tip, Team Shorty plus Shifty. Pre-Slash Gibson/Q-Tip.
Summary: Q-Tip appoints himself Gibson’s Hip Hop tutor. Part of Nashville ‘verse.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from 2Pac’s Unconditional Love.
A/N: Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Timestamp meme request ficlet for skylilies
Evan Stafford, called Q-Tip by his friends, fellow Marine buddies, and current colleagues at Screaming Eagle Publishing, never saw himself working in the music business. That probably explained why he worked security and reception. He just never wanted to be a performer. He liked to rap on his own though, making up lyrics to familiar songs and tunes. It helped him get through Afghanistan and Iraq, where they didn’t have any music. The rap verses were a way to pass time, keep their nerves from getting totally shot, and something to make them feel united. He almost missed it, rolling down the highway under the desert sun, asses practically hanging out of the back of a Humvee. He still rapped on his own while doing work, making copies, and answering phones. He had a lot of time to do so while working the desk at Currahee Studios.
“What’s your song of the day?” Ron Gibson asked, stopping by to pick up a stack of demos.
“I’m going old school with a little Tricky by Run-DMC,” Q-Tip said. He handed over a clipboard. “What’s your favorite rap song, Gibson?” he asked.
Gibson laughed. “Can’t say I have one. I pretty much am a born-and-bred country boy.”
“We need to go about fixing that,” Evan said.
“I’m always up for private tutoring sessions,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip tired not to gape at his tone. He’d started to learn over the past few months, that Ronnie Gibson was far from the quiet, innocent-looking dude like he acted. Nah, Ronnie had the kind of smile his momma warned him about. He was even more dangerous, since you’d never guess it passing him on the street.
Q-Tip had started collecting intel on Gibson from day one. Working at the security desk, a lot of gossip passed his way, and Popeye Wynn dropped by at least twice a day to give him new dirt. He liked what he found out and was pretty damn tired of waiting for Gibson to make the first move.
“I’m free tomorrow,” he said.
Gibson fumbled the clipboard. “Seriously?”
Q-Tip nodded. “You should know this stuff, dog. The big man searches for R&B and Hip Hop acts, right? Don’t you have to follow those acts around? Need to know a thing or two about the genre.”
“I’m more in charge of the folk and alternative country acts,” Gibson said.
“Career advancement means expanding your horizons, don’t it?”
Gibson studied him, obviously trying to make sure Q-Tip was being on the level. He wasn’t insulted, nothing wrong with being cautious this day and age. He still tried to give his best innocent smile.
Gibson rolled his eyes in response.
“I’ll meet you here at 6:00pm,” he said.
Q-Tip nodded. “We’ll get you rapping like a MC in no time.”
**************
Q-Tip had pretty much gorged himself on Mrs. Gibson’s homemade coconut and chocolate-chip cookies. He wasn’t used to arguing the finer points of musical composition with a graduate from Berklee College of Music with a baked-good food baby in his stomach, but hell, life was about change.
“Look, man,” he said, pointing to the stacks of Gibson’s old textbooks, “I know I don’t exactly appear as a connoisseur of the classical, but that don’t mean shit. It’s all about expectations. In the Marines, among all my boys, I had to be Q-Tip 100% of the time. Here though, outside of ballsweat smelling fatigues and away from artie? I get to be Evan, with a side of Q-Tip. That’s just how it works.”
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Gibson joked.
Q-Tip laughed. “You could say that.”
Gibson nodded. “We’re all like that too, you know. Not just the typical difference of who you are at work does not equal who you are at home. The music business pretty much forces all of us to put up a front. It’s the only way to survive dealing with all that ego, money and talent. Hell, even Lip doesn’t want this real name or persona attached to half the bullshit that goes down.”
Lip aka Lipton Marshall aka C.C. Winters. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell the man got through a day without a massive headache from all his various identities.
Gibson picked through the stacks of cds and vinyl Q-Tip had dumped on the table. He waved the case of 2Pac’s All Eyez On Me
“So, tell me about it. Tell me why you love his music so much.”
It was an easy question to answer, but not without giving his life story. 2Pac was one of those artists he heard right when he needed it. It made things easier, back in Tampa, hearing someone else out there rapping about the world going to hell, but struggling through with head held high. It wasn’t idealized and Evan Stafford, full of anger and frustration like any teenager, really appreciated the sentiment.
“Because he knew there was a difference between 2Pac and Tupac Shakur. Yeah, he’d give us songs about fucking around, asses shaking, but then there was some honest as hell social commentary, like Keep Ya Head Up and Brenda’s Got a Baby. Hell, I learned more from Words of Wisdom than I did my current events class. On one hand he perpetuated Thug Life but on the other he warned against it. There was a balance, on every single one of his records. It wasn’t just, brags and bullshit about cars, clothes, and pussy.”
“It’s more than that,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip nodded. “It wasn’t really happy home in my trailer park. I identified with some of it, especially the need to break the cycle, you know.”
“You joined the Marines to get out.”
“Didn’t you know we’re the Disposable Generation, dog? No hope to be found in our ranks.”
Q-Tip knew Gibson didn’t get it. He was his parents’ pride-and-joy, a full-ride scholarship kid to Berklee College in Boston. He’d excelled there and come back home to start right away to a job at a record company. Not that his life was perfect, no one’s was, but there was a difference between living paycheck-to-paycheck versus life far below the poverty line. Q-Tip knew what it was like; doing everything the family could to make the food stamps last to the end of the month, trying to scrounge up the change for milk when there was no money left. It fucking sucked and made anything, even hooking up with the drug cartels throughout Florida, seem like a damn good idea.
Q-Tip did trade in poverty for a gun, the only difference was his came with a uniform and USMC tattooed on his soul.
He dug his copy of Me Against the World out of the stack.
“You’re not quite ready for All Eyez on Me Yet. We’ll start you with this one and some of the mainstreamers. Get you some Run-DMC, some Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, a little advanced course in Public Enemy and KRS-One, maybe some Eric B& Rakim, a little Kurtis Blow, maybe some MC Lyte and throw in a little Beastie Boys and you’ll be all good for the starter course.”
“I only know, like, half of those bands.”
Q-Tip shook his head and couldn’t help the screwby that slipped out. Old habits die hard and all that bullshit.
“You know LL Cool J though?”
Gibson nodded earnestly.
“Then maybe we should start with Krush Groove.” Q-Tip pulled the dvd out of the stacks. “Visual learning, man, can’t fault it.”
He probably should’ve bothered explaining the difference between Hip Hop and Rap, but if Gibson could hum The Breaks by the end of the week, he’d count it as a successful mission.
*************
“It helps if I think about it like poetry, the rhyme and meter,” Gibson said.
Q-Tip nodded in agreement as he wolfed down his salad. Nothing made him appreciate fresh vegetables more than a desert war zone.
It was odd to be eating inside the lunch room with everyone else, but Gibson had made the invite sound more like an order, so he figured it was best to show. If only to stop Runner Conley and Popeye from glaring daggers at him. He wasn’t expecting an audience for their lunch meeting, but since Team Shorty plus Shifty had decided to stake out a corner of the room to watch them, Q-Tip knew this was more than about a discussion of the differences and similarities of Rap and Hip Hop.
They’d made a lot of progress on Gibson’s lessons over the past two weeks. He now knew all the words to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s The Message and that wasn’t something to scoff at with lines like can't stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac. Gibson wouldn’t ever love the genre, but he was learning its history and to appreciate its art. Considering what Lip wanted to do with the label, it was pretty essential for him. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell he had faked it up to this point; Runner probably helped if the stories around the office from his time in NYC had an ounce of truth to them.
Q-Tip cocked his head to the side. “Hey, Ron, what’s with Team Eavesdrop over there?”
Gibson ducked his head and his cheeks started to flush red.
“They just need to get a life,” he said, voice rising on the last word.
“Hey, hey, we just want to make sure you’re staying safe,” Popeye said.
“Evan is not dangerous,” Gibson said.
“It’s Q-Tip we’re worried for,” Runner said, wriggling his eyebrows.
Q-Tip laughed when Gibson hit Runner right between the brows with a fry.
“If you start a food fight, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” Shifty said. “And before you ask, Runner, I will not give Skinny an excuse for why you don’t have his demos sorted.”
“This is why normal people don’t eat lunch with their bosses,” Runner told Popeye.
Popeye shrugged. “Burgie said I had to socialize him. He doesn’t want Shifty sitting at his desk all day.”
“Ignore them,” Gibson said, “it’s better for your sanity.”
Q-Tip smiled. “They’re your boys, right?”
Gibson nodded.
“Then I better get used to them.”
Q-Tip had no qualms about moving this along. He got that this was still Tennessee and it was better to be pretty damn sure about these things, but it wasn’t like either one of them was hiding.
Gibson almost choked on his roast beef.
“So, where do you guys go after work? I’ve been to a few of the clubs around here, but I need a good place to chill.”
Gibson was still sputtering, so Runner answered.
“Allison’s. Penk’ll give you a ride there tonight. Ron and I have to go in early.” He turned to Shifty. “We cleared it with Lip last week. We’re helping Andy set-up for the showcase.”
Shifty just nodded.
“So, it’s a date,” Q-Tip said turning back to Gibson.
Gibson, busy gulping down his water, just gave him the finger.
Q-Tip smiled in response. This was going to be fun.