FFVII/Green Day, Walking Contradiction
And lo, there was fic. Extremely specialized fic that I think has taken over the title of weirdest crossover in my own writing. Given that that particular crown was previously resting with my Dobby/Gollum matchup, I am vaguely pleased and a little concerned.
Title: Walking Contradiction
Summary: Surprises happen on tour. Green Day/FFVII crossover.
Warning & Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy. None of the actions portrayed by the people herein are reflective of real life. FFVII and all affiliated characters belong to Squeenix. Apologies to David Brin.
Notes: So, uh, feels_like_fire asked me for a Green Day/FFVII crossover with a prompt of "PBR" in a drabble meme some time ago. And I laughed, wrote about five paragraphs of it, and then forgot it for a long time, except when she would remind me of it during the occasional lj comment or drunk texts. And a couple days ago, I realized that holy shit, she's moving to Australia and/or Hawaii really soon, and I had better get off my ass and finish it or the guilt would be unbearable.
Kat, you classy bitch, this crossover is for you. I adore you, and I am horribly sad that the time zones will soon make our drunk texting that more difficult. But I am sure we will find a way to overcome that.
***
Billie Joe is sniff-checking an array of shirts, trying to work out if any of them can stand for one more wear and haven't been sweated in, pissed on, or balled up and left to mildew too badly, when Mike taps him on the shoulder and asks, "Were you the one who left the corpse on the couch or was it Tré?"
"Tré," Billie Joe says automatically, and then, "wait, corpse, what the fuck?"
"On the couch," Mike says patiently. "I think there's a dead guy on the couch. If this isn't a prank, than I wish to register I am extremely creeped out and am about to call security and then the cops, so you maybe should also hide your pot and put on some pants."
"You know you want a piece," Billie Joe says. He grabs a green shirt that has a big stiff patch from where he used it to wipe up some spilled orange juice, but was otherwise okay.
"The corpse just farted," Tré says from the other room of the tour bus. "I think he might be alive, actually."
Mike hasn't put his cell phone away yet. "Maybe it's a drunk fan," he says dubiously. "He did have dyed hair. Though usually, we just get the sixteen year old girls who want to rape you."
"Corpse is drinking all our PBR," Tré reports from the other room. "You guys better get in here."
"Oh for fuck's sake," Billie Joe says, pulls the shirt over his head, and then he and Mike go join Tré.
There is indeed some strange person drinking all their shittiest beer, and he does have luridly red dyed hair, and he appears to be taking no notice of them whatsoever. There's a weird smell wafting about him, sharp and funky, like ozone and alcohol but not. More like if lightning struck an abandoned beer factory full of skunky brew. Tré and Mike both look at Billie Joe like, what next? And Billie Joe might be the frontman and vocalist, and he may have a lot of opinions, but he doesn't think it's fair that they're electing him to deal with this.
This so seems like the kind of thing Mike should deal with. Mike is taller. Mike has intimidating biceps, and a lot more body mass to spare than Billie Joe does. Billie Joe doesn't even have pants on.
He suppresses a sigh and steps forward. "Uh, hey. Hey, you."
The stranger grunts and flaps the hand that isn't holding the beer he's chugging at them, like he's shooing away a pigeon or something. Okay, that's just not on.
"Hey, fuckwad, cut it out," he says, and grabs for the remaining three cans in the six-pack. The stranger fucking hisses at him and snaps his teeth; Billie Joe jumps back and hides behind Mike. "Okay, fine, keep it. How the hell did you get in there? If we give you an autograph, will you go away?"
"You shouldn't reward crazy people with autographs," Mike whispers irritably, "it's positive reinforcement for negative behavior."
"I think he's peeing on the Wii," Tré says, leaning around Mike. "Heh. Pee. Wii."
"Stop narrating his every action, I can see what he's doing." Billie Joe does a complicated little two-step to stay behind Mike, who is trying to force them both out from behind him; he grabs Mike's arm and is able to stay pressed up in his armpit. "Okay, I think you can call security now."
"I can't if you're going to hang off my arm," Mike complains.
"Do we really have to?" Tré asks. "I mean, it's not like he's trying to attack us or anything. In fact, he's kind of acting a lot like you when you've had a couple."
"I have never pissed on any electronics," Billie Joe says, offended. "Deliberately, anyway. That I remember."
"The word remember being key here."
"Yeah, as long as we're being all judgmental here, let's not forget the time you got drunk and put the can of spaghetti-os in the goddamn microwave at, like, three in the morning, and the place almost caught on fire and there was that really bad smell like scorched ass in here for, like, forever-"
"I wasn't drunk when I did that," Tré says.
"Yeah, that makes it worse."
"Shut up," Mike says, and manages to finally pry himself away from both of them. "I'm calling security."
"Don't leave me with crazy strangers and Tré," Billie Joe begs, "I'll blow you, c'mon," and he scrabbles to get another grip, but Mike pushes Tré into his arms instead. Billie Joe halfheartedly latches onto Tré, but that's not gonna be good for long; Tré isn't really big enough to make a good shield. Tré grabs him right back, so there's that.
"You'd blow me anyway," Mike says, not unkindly, and pats his shoulder. "You're kind of a slut. It's cool. Just, you know, hang on and I'll go find security."
"You can blow me," Tré offers, and Billie Joe considers it, and shakes his head.
"Positive reinforcement for negative behavior," he says.
His legs are kind of cold. He wishes he was wearing more than the shirt and his plaid boxers; he checks to make sure nothing's hanging out where it shouldn't be. The stranger drops an empty can and burps loudly. He sways slightly on his feet, and then goes back to fumbling at the plastic can rings that hold the last two cans in place.
There's a sudden knock, and then some blue-suited security guy is at the door, with Mike right behind him. "I didn't have to call. Security was already on their way," Mike says, looking a little bemused.
"The Shinra company is always concerned with prompt and effective responses to our clients and their security needs, sir," the man says. His voice is low but modulated; he's some mix of Asian that Billie Joe can't quite pin down except that he's kind of ridiculously hot and lethal looking at the same time. Fantastic. He lets go of Tré and steps forward to shake hands.
Except-Billie Joe frowns, mid-handshake. "I thought we were using the Atlas company for this venue."
"We are a contracting sub-division, sir," the man says smoothly. "My coworker will be along shortly to help deal with this. In the meantime, I'll remove him from your premises so you can continue getting ready for your… concert."
The hesitation is minor, but noticeable; Billie Joe figures that the guy probably deals with all kinds of security gigs and maybe had a brain blip about which one. "That's fine, that's cool," he says. "Uh. Well. He's over here. He doesn't seem to want to leave, so if you could just…"
"If you'd like to hit him before I remove him, that can be arranged," the man offers. "The only stipulation is one hit per person, and nothing to the face. Or, I can do it for you and you can watch, if that would be more satisfactory to you."
"What? No, Jesus, just, you know move him. Don't hit him. I guess. Seriously?" Billie Joe asks.
"Quite. We have a stick that we've designated for the purpose," the man says absently, as he carefully circles the red-headed guy (who's down to the last can in the six-pack, Billie Joe notes), rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"For the hitting or the moving?" Mike asks.
"It's multi-purpose," the man says, and then, "please stand back."
It happens so fast that Billie Joe can barely follow the blurred arc of the guy's arm as he reaches into his jacket and removes a really fucking enormous gun; his balls don't even have time to properly flee upwards into his body before the man does some deft little twitch of his fingers that shifts the gun around in his hand, and he brings it down and pistol-whips the redhead in a move that's incredibly graceful and horribly violent and really, really practiced-looking. Hiding behind Mike suddenly seems sort of inadequate, but Billie Joe does it anyway because, Jesus.
Beer-thief stranger drops like a stone. Impressively, he's still holding onto the last can of PBR.
"Rude," the pistol-whipping, possible homicidal maniac security guard says calmly, and Billie Joe doesn't know whether to agree with him frantically or even more frantically say, no, not rude at all, perfectly natural, when the door opens and there's another suited guy coming in. He's even taller than Mike. This guard looks slightly more like he belongs at a rock concert, with the bulk and the shaved head and the earrings and the sunglasses. No gun coming out, at least not yet, but he's got actual brass knuckles on one hand, and they're really hard to ignore, especially since they too look like they've gotten a lot of use in the past.
"Tseng, sir," the newcomer says respectfully, and nods his head just slightly. "Elena and I have contained the rift. She's back with it, holding it stable until we return, and then we can close it up completely."
"Does a rift mean there're more fans sneaking in?" Tré whispers to Billie Joe, and he shrugs.
"Thank you, Rude," the man-Tseng-says, and nudges the unconscious man with one foot. "Did we establish what caused it in the first place?"
Rude-which makes a little more sense, Rude seems like the kind of nickname a concert security guy tends to get, like Tiny, or Lou, or whatever, something short and distinct that can be yelled when overenthusiastic fans are trying to climb over the barriers, or strangers show up drunk in your bus. Rude makes a vague motion with one hand towards the guy on the floor.
"Heard the professor saying something about crystal spheres, materia spheres, explosion, something getting broken," he says. "Reno maybe had something to do with that. Hard to say."
"Did you break the crystal spheres, Reno?" Tseng asks, and shakes his head. "Never mind, don't answer that."
"It was like that when I got here," Reno says muffled into the floor-they all flinch in surprise, even Mike-and then lapses back into silence.
"Hey, he's awake," Tré says, but Rude just shrugs.
"Not necessarily," Rude says. "It's more like an involuntary reflex."
"I… didn't think we had any spheres of any kind in our special effects lineup," Mike says, frowning. He looks at Billie Joe. "Did you arrange for a disco ball or something?"
"No way," Billie Joe says. He's beginning to feel even more creeped out; aside from the sudden explosion of violence, there's just something about these people that's weirder than usual, even for him, and he dresses up in a goddamn pink bunny suit before shows. They seem… alien. "You said something about explosions? Is he a tech? Did he get hurt or shocked setting something up, like the firepots or the wiring, and that's why he's so… uh…"
"It's highly possible he was touching something he shouldn't have, and something happened," Tseng says, which isn't exactly an answer to the question, but it's the most logical explanation available in a night that's been pretty much lacking them so far. "We do apologize."
"It's fine, it's cool," Billie Joe says. "We just, you know, we want everyone to be safe. Maybe you should take him to get some help or something."
"Oh, that's a very high priority for us," Tseng says, and then nods to Rude. "Why don't we get back to Elena now before things get any worse, and leave these gentlemen alone."
"You're not going to fire him, are you? Or, uh, kill him?" Tré asked. "Because he wasn't so bad. I mean, he did drink all our beer, but it was only PBR. And you already hit him kind of hard."
"He'll be fine." Tseng smiles a little. "He's lived through much worse. As we all have."
Mike's been staring at something across the room; he finally crosses over, kneels down, and starts rummaging under the couch. Billie Joe stops paying attention to him though, because it's much more entertaining to watch Rude bending over and trying to yank the beer can out of Reno's hand; Reno's not letting go, even though it looks like he's pretty clearly unconscious again and Rude has some major muscle. Billie Joe kind of has to admire that. "Just let him have it," he says. "He looks like maybe he needs it more than us." He certainly wants it more.
Rude nods and lets go; he grabs Reno by the ankles-he's wearing a green sock on his right foot, and no sock on his left foot-and starts dragging him to the door. His arms trail out behind him, the one hand clenching the beer can bumping along the floor triumphantly. Tseng follows him; at the door, he turns and bows very slightly, and Billie Joe once again can appreciate the guy's looks, even if he does want him to also stay at least fifty feet away.
"Thank you for your patience," Tseng says. "Please accept our most sincere apologies. We also suggest you use a personal sanitation gel on anything he touched, or burn it. Good night."
"Hey, you forgot this!" Mike calls, and holds out whatever he must have been trying to get out from under the couch. It's a black rod of some kind; it looks like a modified cop's nightstick.
Rude glances back over his shoulder. "Keep it," he says. "Call it an exchange. Be fun watching him try to remember where it is when he's awake."
And then they're gone, and Billie and Mike and Tré are the only ones left in the bus, though there's kind of a weird smell still lingering in the air. They all stand there in silence for a while.
"Did you ever think that was going to be the kind of stuff that happened to you when we became rock stars?" Billie Joe finally asks.
Tré shrugs. "It's not the weirdest thing that's ever happened," he says. "Remember the thing in Vancouver?"
And oh, yeah. Vancouver. It took practically three weeks for him to stop chafing after that little escapade. He still gets twitchy around parrots, thanks to that.
Mike hands Billie Joe the nightstick. "Take it onstage when you wear the cop hat," he suggests, which is actually kind of an awesome idea.
Tré starts to pick up the empty cans on the floor. "Put more PBR on the rider next time," he says, "or better yet, maybe just forget the PBR and get something decent."
"Fuck that, PBR kept some weird dude more interested in drinking it than attacking us with his stick," Billie Joe says. "I'm putting a whole goddamn case of it on the rider next time."
"Yeah," Mike agrees, and then grins at Billie Joe, the sudden, blinding smile that still sends a jolt to his chest, even after twenty years. "Hey. We’re not due onstage for another hour. We still have time for blowjobs."
"Aww, honey, you say the sweetest things," Billie Joe says, and pokes him in the chest with the nightstick. "You seriously up for it?"
"Sure," Mike says. "Nothing like celebrating a home invasion-"
"Bus invasion," Tré corrects.
"Bus invasion," Mike concedes. "There's nothing like using oral sex for celebrating a bus invasion that ended calmly and without a standoff with the cops. We'd be finding new value and appreciation in being alive."
"I dunno." Billie Joe pretends to think it over. "You called me a slut. That hurt my feelings, you know."
"It's okay to be a slut if you're a musician," Mike says, "Then, you know, you're just fulfilling the stereotype."
"Yeah," Billie Joe says, and hooks his thumbs into Mike's waistband, tugging him close. Tré flops down on the couch, grinning. "After all, we're rock stars."
Title: Walking Contradiction
Summary: Surprises happen on tour. Green Day/FFVII crossover.
Warning & Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy. None of the actions portrayed by the people herein are reflective of real life. FFVII and all affiliated characters belong to Squeenix. Apologies to David Brin.
Notes: So, uh, feels_like_fire asked me for a Green Day/FFVII crossover with a prompt of "PBR" in a drabble meme some time ago. And I laughed, wrote about five paragraphs of it, and then forgot it for a long time, except when she would remind me of it during the occasional lj comment or drunk texts. And a couple days ago, I realized that holy shit, she's moving to Australia and/or Hawaii really soon, and I had better get off my ass and finish it or the guilt would be unbearable.
Kat, you classy bitch, this crossover is for you. I adore you, and I am horribly sad that the time zones will soon make our drunk texting that more difficult. But I am sure we will find a way to overcome that.
***
Billie Joe is sniff-checking an array of shirts, trying to work out if any of them can stand for one more wear and haven't been sweated in, pissed on, or balled up and left to mildew too badly, when Mike taps him on the shoulder and asks, "Were you the one who left the corpse on the couch or was it Tré?"
"Tré," Billie Joe says automatically, and then, "wait, corpse, what the fuck?"
"On the couch," Mike says patiently. "I think there's a dead guy on the couch. If this isn't a prank, than I wish to register I am extremely creeped out and am about to call security and then the cops, so you maybe should also hide your pot and put on some pants."
"You know you want a piece," Billie Joe says. He grabs a green shirt that has a big stiff patch from where he used it to wipe up some spilled orange juice, but was otherwise okay.
"The corpse just farted," Tré says from the other room of the tour bus. "I think he might be alive, actually."
Mike hasn't put his cell phone away yet. "Maybe it's a drunk fan," he says dubiously. "He did have dyed hair. Though usually, we just get the sixteen year old girls who want to rape you."
"Corpse is drinking all our PBR," Tré reports from the other room. "You guys better get in here."
"Oh for fuck's sake," Billie Joe says, pulls the shirt over his head, and then he and Mike go join Tré.
There is indeed some strange person drinking all their shittiest beer, and he does have luridly red dyed hair, and he appears to be taking no notice of them whatsoever. There's a weird smell wafting about him, sharp and funky, like ozone and alcohol but not. More like if lightning struck an abandoned beer factory full of skunky brew. Tré and Mike both look at Billie Joe like, what next? And Billie Joe might be the frontman and vocalist, and he may have a lot of opinions, but he doesn't think it's fair that they're electing him to deal with this.
This so seems like the kind of thing Mike should deal with. Mike is taller. Mike has intimidating biceps, and a lot more body mass to spare than Billie Joe does. Billie Joe doesn't even have pants on.
He suppresses a sigh and steps forward. "Uh, hey. Hey, you."
The stranger grunts and flaps the hand that isn't holding the beer he's chugging at them, like he's shooing away a pigeon or something. Okay, that's just not on.
"Hey, fuckwad, cut it out," he says, and grabs for the remaining three cans in the six-pack. The stranger fucking hisses at him and snaps his teeth; Billie Joe jumps back and hides behind Mike. "Okay, fine, keep it. How the hell did you get in there? If we give you an autograph, will you go away?"
"You shouldn't reward crazy people with autographs," Mike whispers irritably, "it's positive reinforcement for negative behavior."
"I think he's peeing on the Wii," Tré says, leaning around Mike. "Heh. Pee. Wii."
"Stop narrating his every action, I can see what he's doing." Billie Joe does a complicated little two-step to stay behind Mike, who is trying to force them both out from behind him; he grabs Mike's arm and is able to stay pressed up in his armpit. "Okay, I think you can call security now."
"I can't if you're going to hang off my arm," Mike complains.
"Do we really have to?" Tré asks. "I mean, it's not like he's trying to attack us or anything. In fact, he's kind of acting a lot like you when you've had a couple."
"I have never pissed on any electronics," Billie Joe says, offended. "Deliberately, anyway. That I remember."
"The word remember being key here."
"Yeah, as long as we're being all judgmental here, let's not forget the time you got drunk and put the can of spaghetti-os in the goddamn microwave at, like, three in the morning, and the place almost caught on fire and there was that really bad smell like scorched ass in here for, like, forever-"
"I wasn't drunk when I did that," Tré says.
"Yeah, that makes it worse."
"Shut up," Mike says, and manages to finally pry himself away from both of them. "I'm calling security."
"Don't leave me with crazy strangers and Tré," Billie Joe begs, "I'll blow you, c'mon," and he scrabbles to get another grip, but Mike pushes Tré into his arms instead. Billie Joe halfheartedly latches onto Tré, but that's not gonna be good for long; Tré isn't really big enough to make a good shield. Tré grabs him right back, so there's that.
"You'd blow me anyway," Mike says, not unkindly, and pats his shoulder. "You're kind of a slut. It's cool. Just, you know, hang on and I'll go find security."
"You can blow me," Tré offers, and Billie Joe considers it, and shakes his head.
"Positive reinforcement for negative behavior," he says.
His legs are kind of cold. He wishes he was wearing more than the shirt and his plaid boxers; he checks to make sure nothing's hanging out where it shouldn't be. The stranger drops an empty can and burps loudly. He sways slightly on his feet, and then goes back to fumbling at the plastic can rings that hold the last two cans in place.
There's a sudden knock, and then some blue-suited security guy is at the door, with Mike right behind him. "I didn't have to call. Security was already on their way," Mike says, looking a little bemused.
"The Shinra company is always concerned with prompt and effective responses to our clients and their security needs, sir," the man says. His voice is low but modulated; he's some mix of Asian that Billie Joe can't quite pin down except that he's kind of ridiculously hot and lethal looking at the same time. Fantastic. He lets go of Tré and steps forward to shake hands.
Except-Billie Joe frowns, mid-handshake. "I thought we were using the Atlas company for this venue."
"We are a contracting sub-division, sir," the man says smoothly. "My coworker will be along shortly to help deal with this. In the meantime, I'll remove him from your premises so you can continue getting ready for your… concert."
The hesitation is minor, but noticeable; Billie Joe figures that the guy probably deals with all kinds of security gigs and maybe had a brain blip about which one. "That's fine, that's cool," he says. "Uh. Well. He's over here. He doesn't seem to want to leave, so if you could just…"
"If you'd like to hit him before I remove him, that can be arranged," the man offers. "The only stipulation is one hit per person, and nothing to the face. Or, I can do it for you and you can watch, if that would be more satisfactory to you."
"What? No, Jesus, just, you know move him. Don't hit him. I guess. Seriously?" Billie Joe asks.
"Quite. We have a stick that we've designated for the purpose," the man says absently, as he carefully circles the red-headed guy (who's down to the last can in the six-pack, Billie Joe notes), rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"For the hitting or the moving?" Mike asks.
"It's multi-purpose," the man says, and then, "please stand back."
It happens so fast that Billie Joe can barely follow the blurred arc of the guy's arm as he reaches into his jacket and removes a really fucking enormous gun; his balls don't even have time to properly flee upwards into his body before the man does some deft little twitch of his fingers that shifts the gun around in his hand, and he brings it down and pistol-whips the redhead in a move that's incredibly graceful and horribly violent and really, really practiced-looking. Hiding behind Mike suddenly seems sort of inadequate, but Billie Joe does it anyway because, Jesus.
Beer-thief stranger drops like a stone. Impressively, he's still holding onto the last can of PBR.
"Rude," the pistol-whipping, possible homicidal maniac security guard says calmly, and Billie Joe doesn't know whether to agree with him frantically or even more frantically say, no, not rude at all, perfectly natural, when the door opens and there's another suited guy coming in. He's even taller than Mike. This guard looks slightly more like he belongs at a rock concert, with the bulk and the shaved head and the earrings and the sunglasses. No gun coming out, at least not yet, but he's got actual brass knuckles on one hand, and they're really hard to ignore, especially since they too look like they've gotten a lot of use in the past.
"Tseng, sir," the newcomer says respectfully, and nods his head just slightly. "Elena and I have contained the rift. She's back with it, holding it stable until we return, and then we can close it up completely."
"Does a rift mean there're more fans sneaking in?" Tré whispers to Billie Joe, and he shrugs.
"Thank you, Rude," the man-Tseng-says, and nudges the unconscious man with one foot. "Did we establish what caused it in the first place?"
Rude-which makes a little more sense, Rude seems like the kind of nickname a concert security guy tends to get, like Tiny, or Lou, or whatever, something short and distinct that can be yelled when overenthusiastic fans are trying to climb over the barriers, or strangers show up drunk in your bus. Rude makes a vague motion with one hand towards the guy on the floor.
"Heard the professor saying something about crystal spheres, materia spheres, explosion, something getting broken," he says. "Reno maybe had something to do with that. Hard to say."
"Did you break the crystal spheres, Reno?" Tseng asks, and shakes his head. "Never mind, don't answer that."
"It was like that when I got here," Reno says muffled into the floor-they all flinch in surprise, even Mike-and then lapses back into silence.
"Hey, he's awake," Tré says, but Rude just shrugs.
"Not necessarily," Rude says. "It's more like an involuntary reflex."
"I… didn't think we had any spheres of any kind in our special effects lineup," Mike says, frowning. He looks at Billie Joe. "Did you arrange for a disco ball or something?"
"No way," Billie Joe says. He's beginning to feel even more creeped out; aside from the sudden explosion of violence, there's just something about these people that's weirder than usual, even for him, and he dresses up in a goddamn pink bunny suit before shows. They seem… alien. "You said something about explosions? Is he a tech? Did he get hurt or shocked setting something up, like the firepots or the wiring, and that's why he's so… uh…"
"It's highly possible he was touching something he shouldn't have, and something happened," Tseng says, which isn't exactly an answer to the question, but it's the most logical explanation available in a night that's been pretty much lacking them so far. "We do apologize."
"It's fine, it's cool," Billie Joe says. "We just, you know, we want everyone to be safe. Maybe you should take him to get some help or something."
"Oh, that's a very high priority for us," Tseng says, and then nods to Rude. "Why don't we get back to Elena now before things get any worse, and leave these gentlemen alone."
"You're not going to fire him, are you? Or, uh, kill him?" Tré asked. "Because he wasn't so bad. I mean, he did drink all our beer, but it was only PBR. And you already hit him kind of hard."
"He'll be fine." Tseng smiles a little. "He's lived through much worse. As we all have."
Mike's been staring at something across the room; he finally crosses over, kneels down, and starts rummaging under the couch. Billie Joe stops paying attention to him though, because it's much more entertaining to watch Rude bending over and trying to yank the beer can out of Reno's hand; Reno's not letting go, even though it looks like he's pretty clearly unconscious again and Rude has some major muscle. Billie Joe kind of has to admire that. "Just let him have it," he says. "He looks like maybe he needs it more than us." He certainly wants it more.
Rude nods and lets go; he grabs Reno by the ankles-he's wearing a green sock on his right foot, and no sock on his left foot-and starts dragging him to the door. His arms trail out behind him, the one hand clenching the beer can bumping along the floor triumphantly. Tseng follows him; at the door, he turns and bows very slightly, and Billie Joe once again can appreciate the guy's looks, even if he does want him to also stay at least fifty feet away.
"Thank you for your patience," Tseng says. "Please accept our most sincere apologies. We also suggest you use a personal sanitation gel on anything he touched, or burn it. Good night."
"Hey, you forgot this!" Mike calls, and holds out whatever he must have been trying to get out from under the couch. It's a black rod of some kind; it looks like a modified cop's nightstick.
Rude glances back over his shoulder. "Keep it," he says. "Call it an exchange. Be fun watching him try to remember where it is when he's awake."
And then they're gone, and Billie and Mike and Tré are the only ones left in the bus, though there's kind of a weird smell still lingering in the air. They all stand there in silence for a while.
"Did you ever think that was going to be the kind of stuff that happened to you when we became rock stars?" Billie Joe finally asks.
Tré shrugs. "It's not the weirdest thing that's ever happened," he says. "Remember the thing in Vancouver?"
And oh, yeah. Vancouver. It took practically three weeks for him to stop chafing after that little escapade. He still gets twitchy around parrots, thanks to that.
Mike hands Billie Joe the nightstick. "Take it onstage when you wear the cop hat," he suggests, which is actually kind of an awesome idea.
Tré starts to pick up the empty cans on the floor. "Put more PBR on the rider next time," he says, "or better yet, maybe just forget the PBR and get something decent."
"Fuck that, PBR kept some weird dude more interested in drinking it than attacking us with his stick," Billie Joe says. "I'm putting a whole goddamn case of it on the rider next time."
"Yeah," Mike agrees, and then grins at Billie Joe, the sudden, blinding smile that still sends a jolt to his chest, even after twenty years. "Hey. We’re not due onstage for another hour. We still have time for blowjobs."
"Aww, honey, you say the sweetest things," Billie Joe says, and pokes him in the chest with the nightstick. "You seriously up for it?"
"Sure," Mike says. "Nothing like celebrating a home invasion-"
"Bus invasion," Tré corrects.
"Bus invasion," Mike concedes. "There's nothing like using oral sex for celebrating a bus invasion that ended calmly and without a standoff with the cops. We'd be finding new value and appreciation in being alive."
"I dunno." Billie Joe pretends to think it over. "You called me a slut. That hurt my feelings, you know."
"It's okay to be a slut if you're a musician," Mike says, "Then, you know, you're just fulfilling the stereotype."
"Yeah," Billie Joe says, and hooks his thumbs into Mike's waistband, tugging him close. Tré flops down on the couch, grinning. "After all, we're rock stars."