Ficlet: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot (Girl!Bob) PG13
Image by Itsy
Title: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Character: Girl!Bob
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2044
A/N: This is a snippet of something larger that I'm desperately trying to wrangle into order and develop a story line for.
Summary: The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
*
"Wear the fucking outfit, Bob. They ran the entire concept by me and I approved it."
Bob stares at the skimpy skirt and corset hanging on the wardrobe rack. "Brian--"
And of course he fucking hangs up on her. Of course. Bob curses, kicks the fucking four-inch heeled boots, then curses some more before actually getting dressed. The stylist has to help her because Bob doesn't wear thigh high stockings much less fucking corsets.
She's not sure what they do to her hair and face, but she accidentally catches sight of herself in the mirror and sees slicked back hair, whore red lipstick and matching eye shadow. After that she closes her eyes anytime she's in sight line of a mirror because if she actually looks at herself for any length of time she might fucking cry.
The stylist, hair person, and make up woman all say she looks "hot" and the only thing Bob can think is that she wants to skewer someone's goddamn nuts with the stilettos. And by someone she means Brian.
The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
*
The stylist helps her out to the shooting area because Bob literally cannot walk more than two steps in the boots. As it is, she thinks she managed to twist her ankle on her first step and she's not looking forward to getting the damn things off.
The stylist is eight inches shorter than Bob in stocking feet, and Bob towers over her like a giant freak of nature in her too-high heels, with her whore lips, and her breasts which have been pushed into the shape of a shelf that can easily accommodate two six packs without trouble. Bob won't even think about the skirt, which she thinks is flashing her panties with every step, it's that short.
Bob is stiff and uncomfortable and halfway wishing she'd never joined this fucking band when she finally gets to the others, who are dressed in pants and flat shoes and shirts that cover their fucking chests. The stylist lets her go and Bob flails her arms around a bit until she's as balanced as she can be.
Bob stays where she is, mostly because she doesn't have a choice, but also because she's sort of at a loss. She wants to be anywhere but here. She wants to sit down, take these ridiculous boots off, and then stomp back to the dressing area and change into her own clothes. She wants to be behind a board, on a bus with a half dozen techs, or back in that skeavy ass club she got her first regular gig at.
She doesn't know when the guys catch sight of her, but suddenly Ray is at her side, telling her to, "Okay, shit, calm down." He touches her hand, quick and easy, and Bob realizes that somewhere along the way she curled her hands into fists without realizing it. "Breathe, Bob."
She can't. The corset is tight and restricting, cinched to within an inch of its and her life. She does unclench her fists, though, because she's a fucking professional and she will not haul off and hit someone just for the fuck of it. She won't. Even if she really wants to.
She takes a shallow breath, the most she can manage, and Ray nods encouragingly. Bob looks away and sees Frank scrambling across the set to Mikey and Gerard, who are sitting on the floor and sharing a set of ear buds, their backs to the rest of the room.
Frank tugs the buds off their ears and when they start to bitch he says, "Shut up, we have a fucking problem." He shoves at their shoulders until they turn around. Gerard and Mikey share a few common facial expressions that give them away as brothers, but until this moment Bob never knew that stone-cold horror is one of them.
The photographer moves to the center of the set and announces they're ready to start.
Gerard shakes his head. "No. We've got a fucking problem." He shoves his hands in the pockets of his wardrobe pants. "Shit, I don't have--"
"I've got mine," Ray says and holds up his Sidekick.
Mikey looks from Bob to Ray. "Call Brian."
"I already did." Bob's voice sounds weak and faint, which just pisses her off. "He said to get it done."
"Yeah, no," Frank says, staring right into Bob's eyes with a fierce look. "Ray, tell him to--"
"Brian, get your ass over here now," Ray says into his phone, then hangs up.
Gerard says something to the photographer, and then the guys gather around Bob. They stand close but are careful not to touch her or look anywhere but at her face.
It's nice, sweet even, but Bob doesn't need nice or sweet. She's not that kind of girl, all right? "Guys, let's just do this and get it over with."
Frank rolls his eyes. "No."
"Brian told me--"
"Shut the fuck up, Bryar," Gerard says flatly.
They stand just like that for about twenty minutes. Bob almost falls at one point--fucking boots, goddamn corset--and steadies herself by fumbling out a hand and grabbing a fistful of Frank's hair.
Frank pouts and says, "The fucking indignities, man."
Bob stares at him and considers punching him, because, seriously. "I think I've got the market on indignities cornered, you tiny little bitch."
And for some reason that sets everyone off, so that when Brian does finally show up they're laughing hysterically. It's sort of agony for Bob on account of the corset, and she bends at the hips, clinging to Frank's hair and Ray's shoulder to keep from falling down.
Bob's mostly hidden by the others because of the way she's leaning over, so Brian doesn't see her right away. He looks pissed off, from what Bob can tell from her view, but his face goes slack when Ray tugs her into a full upright position.
"Tell me you didn't actually approve this," Mikey says.
Brian opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head. "Wait right here."
Brian and the photographer are too far away to hear, but Brian's face is set like stone, and the photographer turns purple at one point, and eventually the stylist is pulled into the mix.
When Brian comes back over, his first words are, "No, I didn't fucking sign off on this." He looks at Bob. "I wouldn't have."
She shrugs and looks away. The movement almost topples her, but Gerard puts a hand at her waist and keeps her on her feet.
*
Bob goes back to the dressing room, is re-dressed in tight, low riding black dress-pants that match the guys', and an equally tight black button down shirt that's undone enough to show off the top of a red lace bra. They give her a set of industrial boots with stacked heels, and if Bob maybe tears up in relief, well, no one can prove anything.
They redo her make up to something that's only two steps above what she does for herself on an average day. Her eyes pop, and her cheeks look contoured, and her lips are shiny and neutral. Her hair is tussled out of the slicked down style that went with the corset--and later Bob is going to have fucking nightmares about whatever concept they were trying to go for because, god, she has to live with the guys and she never needed thoughts like this in her goddamn head--and curled subtly so that it's not as pin-straight as usual.
When she gets back to the set the guys look at her and then grin, like their world makes sense again. Bob breathes.
*
After the shoot Bob is back in her own clothes: black cargo pants, her eight-year old Docs with the faded remnants of silver permanent marker dotting them, and a worn t-shirt. She shoves her sunglasses on her face and wishes she'd brought a hoodie with her because she's still feeling exposed and tarted up even now that everything but her arms is covered.
Brian keeps trying to catch her eye but Bob pretends that she doesn't notice. He tries to talk to her when they're waiting for the van to pick them up outside the shoot location, but someone always gets between them. Bob's not sure that's a coincidence; on the rare occasions when Bob and Brian fight, it's ugly. They don't yell and scream, but it's all low blows and shanks in soft spots. The band witnessed it once and Bob doesn't think they're all that eager for a second viewing.
Bob stands with her arms crossed and her hands splayed over as much of her upper arms as she can manage. She's exhausted, her head is pounding, her jaw aches from clenching it earlier, and she needs about five ibuprofen and an hour in a hot shower.
Frank hangs off of one of her shoulders and shares a cigarette with her, holding it to her mouth when it's her turn. His other hand is wrapped comfortably around the side of her neck, and every so often he scratches his nails at her hairline, or tugs at her ear.
Before they get into the van, Gerard strips his hoodie off and gives it to her. It smells like unwashed Gerard, stale old smoke, and bitter post-show adrenaline. Bob slumps in her seat, the hood tugged over her head, her hands shoved into the pockets. Mikey tucks his right knee over Bob's left thigh and leaves it there while he focuses on his Sidekick. On her other side, Ray is pressed tight against her at the shoulder, hip, thigh and knee.
Bob closes her eyes behind her sunglasses and listens absently to the tap of Mikey's fingers on his keypad and the seven different conversations that Frank, Gerard and Ray are managing to have at one time. No one tries to draw Bob out, and they don't ask her how she's doing, and Bob's really glad she didn't have to kill any of them.
She shifts lower in her seat and leans her head on Ray's shoulder.
*
Back at the hotel, Bob avoids Brian until he finally comes into her and Gerard's room and kicks Gerard out.
"You thought I'd agree to that?"
Bob shakes her head. "I know you better than that."
Brian blinks. "Then why are you--"
"You hung up on me."
Brian winces, then sits down on the end of Gerard's bed. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't say anything else, and Bob appreciates the lack of excuses or rationalizations. Brian fucked up, simple as that, and they both know it. Normally Bob would have more to say about that, but Brian had sounded ragged when she called him. She figures that he probably had about twenty crisis balls in the air at the time and Bob was one too many things to deal with when he thought he'd covered his bases for the shoot.
She gets it, and she'll get over it, but that doesn't mean she's not pissed or that he shouldn't own the blame.
Bob shrugs and nods simultaneously, then goes to her bag and starts getting her shit ready for the morning. They have an ass-early bus call and she prefers to have everything organized beforehand so that she can stumble out of bed and just go.
"Ray said--they're worried you're going to bail. Because of this."
Bob doesn't look up from what she's doing. "If that shoot had gone the other way, I'd probably already be gone."
She's not lying. For years Bob has fought an uphill battle to be more than just a pair of tits in a dick-heavy scene. In some ways the grade's been even steeper since she joined My Chem. Bob loves the band, loves being in it, but she'll walk before letting herself be reduced to a piece of ass.
Brian makes a choked noise. "Jesus, Bob."
She lifts her head and meets his eyes squarely. "But it didn't, and I'm here."
Brian nods. "It won't happen again."
"Good."
.End