Stand Up and Step Forward, a Metalocalypse fanfic
Title: Stand up and Step Forward
Part Two
Rating: PG this part
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Pairing(s): Pickles/Skwisgaar UST
Spoilers: references to the season ending
Warnings: none this part
Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and characters are owned by Small and Blancha. I make nothing from the story.
Part One
On to the next...
Pickles was tired, so very, very tired. He tried to count on his fingers the number of hours of sleep he'd gotten in the last week, but his blurry vision kept doubling his fingers to make a higher count that he knew simply wasn't true. The redhead had worked hard in his younger days. Hell, before Snakes n' Barrels had made any kind of name for itself it wasn't unusual for him to burn the candle at both ends and still be trying to cram more hours into a day. He had been hungry in those days. The term starving artist was sometimes pretty literal for a teenager who dreamed of being a rock legend and spent more money on hairspray, make up and drugs than he had food.
Trying to tackle Ofdensen's job? That wasn't just hard work. It was pure, unmitigated hell. Who would have thought that the band's joking taunts of calling their manager a robot had any basis in fact? Not having a need for food or sleep, Pickles thought wearily, was about the only way he could have coped. Even while extremely battered and highly medicated over in the hospital wing, Ofdensen's carefully constructed contingency plans were helping Pickles keep from making a total cock up of his efforts. Ofdensen had remained lucid just long enough to gasp the order to find his phone and dial 666.
That number had sent a highly encrypted signal to the pilot and crew of the fourth Hatredcopter. None of the band members had even known of its existence until the massive machine had materialized from seemingly nowhere in the smoky night. The highly specialized crew had descended upon the six men like a swarm of worker bees and removed them to an undisclosed location. Ofdensen had been carted off to surgery immediately. Only Dethklok would ever need transportation equipped with all the services of a small city.
Pickles sat behind the desk in Ofdensen's onboard office and tried again to make sense of the legal documents and carefully worded instructions he'd found on his first venture into the manager's territory. Trying to do it on no sleep combined with mental exhaustion and stone sober made the task all the more difficult. Ofdensen's plans were very thorough and far reaching, and he seemed to have covered every possibility. He *must* have known, somehow, that in the event of an emergency it would be Pickles who stepped to the fore. Not only were the staff deferring to his orders and giving him regular updates, but there was also a personal assistant of sorts plying him like clockwork with a cocktail of vitamins and medications to hold off the possibility of delirium tremens and withdrawal.
That same assistant had just been sent packing from the office by a stream of curses shouted in a Wisconsin drawl so thick it was nearly unrecognizable as English. The man had dared to suggest that Pickles sleep. Pickles dropped his head into his hands and pulled on his dreadlocks hard enough to make his eyes water, trying to use pain as a method to stay awake just a little longer. The scraping sound of a boot tread had him raising his head to snarl just what the fuck someone wanted now?
Skwisgaar stood in the doorway holding a steaming mug and looking awkward and uncomfortable. It was an unusual expression to be on his usually aloof and haughty face. He strode in briskly and thumped the mug onto the desk hard enough that some of the dark liquid slopped over the side to run precariously close to Ofdensen's papers. Pickles silently used the hem of his ratty shirt to wipe up the spill before it could stain anything and raised a questioning eyebrow. Skwisgaar folded his arms over his chest and turned his face away.
"Coffees. Dat man was runnings from here sayings you nots comings out to eat," he said, his bored tone implying he didn't give a shit one way or the other, but he watched for Pickles reaction from the corner of his eye.
"I'm naht hungry," Pickles mumbled.
"Nots hungry? Pfft! You don'ts eat, you don'ts be sleeping,"
"Yeah, so?"
"So? You'll be gettings sick. Who will be takings cares of things, den?"
Pickles choked back some hysterical laughter. Good question, that. He hadn't seen Murderface in days, but he hadn't really gone looking for him, either. It wasn't like the bass player sought anyone's company. Nathan never strayed far from Ofdensen's room. Pickles' three times daily trips to the hospital wing always showed the singer sitting in one of the visitors' chairs. Before entering the room he could hear the low growl of Nathan speaking to Ofdensen, but it was always too quiet for him to make out the words, and Nathan always stopped right before anyone came through the door. For all Pickles knew, Nathan could either be threatening or nagging the injured man towards consciousness. It was even possible the lyrics for a future album were being composed.
Toki had entered into a semi-catatonic state. He walked were he was led, mechanically ate what was placed before him and followed behind Nathan like an empty eyed shadow. The medics had assured that he was physically fine. Mentally? Well, Toki had done this before. Pickles wouldn't worry unless he quit eating which...led him back to Skwisgaar's question.
"I dunno," Pickles finally replied, picking up the mug without thinking about it and taking a sip. "Ofdensen was pretty prepared. It's mostly just following his instructions."
Yeah, simple. Right.
Skwisgaar unfolded his arms and riffled through the stacks of papers on the desk. One look told him all he needed to know.
"Mines English readings is inaddle-quit for dis," he admitted. "I's can'ts be knowings what it means."
Pickles huffed in agreement and cradled the mug with both hands to take a deeper drink. The warmth of the mug was soothing, and the brew was strong enough to wake the dead. In fact, it tasted a little scorched and bitter, but Pickles wanted the caffeine desperately enough to chew the grounds dry, there was even an obviously healthy slug of whiskey in it, and Skwisgaar had brought it. There was something else about the unusually thoughtful gesture, but Pickles was too tired to catch it. He kept swallowing because he got the feeling that if he offended the Swede by refusing Skwisgaar wouldn't do it again. Pickles almost choked on a swallow. Since when did he care if he offended Skwisgaar? He didn't know. Had his own mind always been this fucked up and distracted by stupid, useless musings?
Pickles drained the mug, never noticing the medicinal taste masked by the bitter coffee and even harsher whiskey, and spun it idly between his fingertips. He barely noticed that the Swede had moved closer and was watching him closely. Why doesn't he just go back to his guitar? Pickles' eyes blinked slowly, owlishly. God, he was tired. He felt numb and, until Skwisgaar had come in, he felt very, very alone and overwhelmed. He wanted so badly for Ofdensen to wake him up and tell him to sober up, to tell him that it had all been nothing but a bad dream brought on by too many drugs and too much alcohol.
Pickles suddenly found himself with his head pillowed on his arms on the desktop. Did Skwisgaar leave? He had to sit up. There was still too much shit to be done. He didn't have time for a nap. If he quit trying to forward Ofdensen's plans to do anything it would be to take a shower. He couldn't really remember if he had, everything was starting to run together, but the arm his nose pressed against still smelled of old sweat and char. Pickles tried to raise his head, but it was too heavy. Were his dreads holding him down? God, that was a stupid idea. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute, just a minute, things would start making sense again.
"Sleeps now."
Pickles dimly heard Skwisgaar's voice float through his fading consciousness, but he might have imagined the light touch to his face and hair before everything went dark and silent.
Part Two
Rating: PG this part
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Pairing(s): Pickles/Skwisgaar UST
Spoilers: references to the season ending
Warnings: none this part
Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and characters are owned by Small and Blancha. I make nothing from the story.
Part One
On to the next...
Pickles was tired, so very, very tired. He tried to count on his fingers the number of hours of sleep he'd gotten in the last week, but his blurry vision kept doubling his fingers to make a higher count that he knew simply wasn't true. The redhead had worked hard in his younger days. Hell, before Snakes n' Barrels had made any kind of name for itself it wasn't unusual for him to burn the candle at both ends and still be trying to cram more hours into a day. He had been hungry in those days. The term starving artist was sometimes pretty literal for a teenager who dreamed of being a rock legend and spent more money on hairspray, make up and drugs than he had food.
Trying to tackle Ofdensen's job? That wasn't just hard work. It was pure, unmitigated hell. Who would have thought that the band's joking taunts of calling their manager a robot had any basis in fact? Not having a need for food or sleep, Pickles thought wearily, was about the only way he could have coped. Even while extremely battered and highly medicated over in the hospital wing, Ofdensen's carefully constructed contingency plans were helping Pickles keep from making a total cock up of his efforts. Ofdensen had remained lucid just long enough to gasp the order to find his phone and dial 666.
That number had sent a highly encrypted signal to the pilot and crew of the fourth Hatredcopter. None of the band members had even known of its existence until the massive machine had materialized from seemingly nowhere in the smoky night. The highly specialized crew had descended upon the six men like a swarm of worker bees and removed them to an undisclosed location. Ofdensen had been carted off to surgery immediately. Only Dethklok would ever need transportation equipped with all the services of a small city.
Pickles sat behind the desk in Ofdensen's onboard office and tried again to make sense of the legal documents and carefully worded instructions he'd found on his first venture into the manager's territory. Trying to do it on no sleep combined with mental exhaustion and stone sober made the task all the more difficult. Ofdensen's plans were very thorough and far reaching, and he seemed to have covered every possibility. He *must* have known, somehow, that in the event of an emergency it would be Pickles who stepped to the fore. Not only were the staff deferring to his orders and giving him regular updates, but there was also a personal assistant of sorts plying him like clockwork with a cocktail of vitamins and medications to hold off the possibility of delirium tremens and withdrawal.
That same assistant had just been sent packing from the office by a stream of curses shouted in a Wisconsin drawl so thick it was nearly unrecognizable as English. The man had dared to suggest that Pickles sleep. Pickles dropped his head into his hands and pulled on his dreadlocks hard enough to make his eyes water, trying to use pain as a method to stay awake just a little longer. The scraping sound of a boot tread had him raising his head to snarl just what the fuck someone wanted now?
Skwisgaar stood in the doorway holding a steaming mug and looking awkward and uncomfortable. It was an unusual expression to be on his usually aloof and haughty face. He strode in briskly and thumped the mug onto the desk hard enough that some of the dark liquid slopped over the side to run precariously close to Ofdensen's papers. Pickles silently used the hem of his ratty shirt to wipe up the spill before it could stain anything and raised a questioning eyebrow. Skwisgaar folded his arms over his chest and turned his face away.
"Coffees. Dat man was runnings from here sayings you nots comings out to eat," he said, his bored tone implying he didn't give a shit one way or the other, but he watched for Pickles reaction from the corner of his eye.
"I'm naht hungry," Pickles mumbled.
"Nots hungry? Pfft! You don'ts eat, you don'ts be sleeping,"
"Yeah, so?"
"So? You'll be gettings sick. Who will be takings cares of things, den?"
Pickles choked back some hysterical laughter. Good question, that. He hadn't seen Murderface in days, but he hadn't really gone looking for him, either. It wasn't like the bass player sought anyone's company. Nathan never strayed far from Ofdensen's room. Pickles' three times daily trips to the hospital wing always showed the singer sitting in one of the visitors' chairs. Before entering the room he could hear the low growl of Nathan speaking to Ofdensen, but it was always too quiet for him to make out the words, and Nathan always stopped right before anyone came through the door. For all Pickles knew, Nathan could either be threatening or nagging the injured man towards consciousness. It was even possible the lyrics for a future album were being composed.
Toki had entered into a semi-catatonic state. He walked were he was led, mechanically ate what was placed before him and followed behind Nathan like an empty eyed shadow. The medics had assured that he was physically fine. Mentally? Well, Toki had done this before. Pickles wouldn't worry unless he quit eating which...led him back to Skwisgaar's question.
"I dunno," Pickles finally replied, picking up the mug without thinking about it and taking a sip. "Ofdensen was pretty prepared. It's mostly just following his instructions."
Yeah, simple. Right.
Skwisgaar unfolded his arms and riffled through the stacks of papers on the desk. One look told him all he needed to know.
"Mines English readings is inaddle-quit for dis," he admitted. "I's can'ts be knowings what it means."
Pickles huffed in agreement and cradled the mug with both hands to take a deeper drink. The warmth of the mug was soothing, and the brew was strong enough to wake the dead. In fact, it tasted a little scorched and bitter, but Pickles wanted the caffeine desperately enough to chew the grounds dry, there was even an obviously healthy slug of whiskey in it, and Skwisgaar had brought it. There was something else about the unusually thoughtful gesture, but Pickles was too tired to catch it. He kept swallowing because he got the feeling that if he offended the Swede by refusing Skwisgaar wouldn't do it again. Pickles almost choked on a swallow. Since when did he care if he offended Skwisgaar? He didn't know. Had his own mind always been this fucked up and distracted by stupid, useless musings?
Pickles drained the mug, never noticing the medicinal taste masked by the bitter coffee and even harsher whiskey, and spun it idly between his fingertips. He barely noticed that the Swede had moved closer and was watching him closely. Why doesn't he just go back to his guitar? Pickles' eyes blinked slowly, owlishly. God, he was tired. He felt numb and, until Skwisgaar had come in, he felt very, very alone and overwhelmed. He wanted so badly for Ofdensen to wake him up and tell him to sober up, to tell him that it had all been nothing but a bad dream brought on by too many drugs and too much alcohol.
Pickles suddenly found himself with his head pillowed on his arms on the desktop. Did Skwisgaar leave? He had to sit up. There was still too much shit to be done. He didn't have time for a nap. If he quit trying to forward Ofdensen's plans to do anything it would be to take a shower. He couldn't really remember if he had, everything was starting to run together, but the arm his nose pressed against still smelled of old sweat and char. Pickles tried to raise his head, but it was too heavy. Were his dreads holding him down? God, that was a stupid idea. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute, just a minute, things would start making sense again.
"Sleeps now."
Pickles dimly heard Skwisgaar's voice float through his fading consciousness, but he might have imagined the light touch to his face and hair before everything went dark and silent.