Stand up and Step Forward, a Metalocalypse ficlet
Title: Stand Up and Step Forward
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Rating: PG
Pairings: none really, just vague references
Warnings: none
Spoilers: set immediately after the season finale
Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and its characters are owned by Small and Blancha. I make nothing from the stories.
A/N: I warned you I fell headlong into another fandom, didn't I? ~_^.
Pickles was drowning in a turmoil of emotion. Their manager/lawyer/protector was seriously injured if not already dying. A large portion of their home was nothing more than a smoldering mass of scorched timber and red hot stone. The members of the band were at least all gathered together although they were shaken and filthy, soot and dirt and char smudging their faces in a more realistic mask than even the best efforts the make up artists could portray with the corpse paint.
Murderface was standing with his arms crossed watching Mordhaus burn. Nathan was crouched over Ofdensen's broken, bloody body like some wild beast protecting a fallen member of the pack. Every so often he would extend a hesitant hand as if he wanted to touch Ofdensen and reassure himself that the lawyer was still there and still alive, but he always drew back with a savage snarl before making contact, only slightly shifting his stance and seeming to grow even larger with rage.
Toki knelt beside them, still sick and intoxicated, clinging to the hem of Nathan's torn shirt. His befuddled mind couldn't handle any thought more coherent than he was safe where he was and moving would be a bad idea. Pickles didn't approach them. The gurgling, gasping sound of Ofdensen's breathing was enough to let him know that the man was still alive and in desperate need of medical attention. Self preservation instincts also told him that getting anywhere near Nathan or his two charges at the moment would be suicidal.
Pickles was surprised to find his hands shaking. Even more surprising was the reason. For the first in longer than he could remember Pickles was stone cold sober. Facing down assassins and narrowly escaping with your life had a way of doing that to a man. He stumbled back to where Skwisgaar sat with the album master. The Swede's eyes were red, swollen and suspiciously wet. His empty arms curved like they were holding something and his fingers twitched. Pickles almost sneered something derogatory about the guitarist being more concerned over the loss of his instruments than the state of the band, Ofdensen's possible death, but a memory made the words dissolve on his tongue. Skwisgaar, the vain, self centered peacock who had easily agreed that none of them should care about any of the others, had stood up tall and strong and told Pickles to get behind him when they were confronted with death.
Pickles didn't say anything, just looked at Skwisgaar until the other man noticed him watching.
"It's de smoke and ashes what are makings my eyes waterings!" Skwisgaar snapped and dipped his head so that his dirty, tangled hair covered his face.
"Yeah," Pickles agreed and made a show of mopping his own eyes with one of his wristbands.
He sat down with Skwisgaar, very close but not touching and stared at the ruin before them. The air was chokingly thick with smoke and the sounds of shouts, explosions and gunfire. His throat ached and his chest grew tight. What the fuck, man? Just...what the fuck?
Pickles nearly started violently from his pained thoughts when he felt Skwisgaar's shoulder pressing into his. After only a moment's hesitation he pressed back, giving in to his own wordless need for reassurance.
They needed to get out of there. They needed to get Ofdensen to help. They needed to get themselves and the album master somewhere safe. They needed to regroup and figure out what to do next. They needed a drink, hell, a hundred drinks. Someone needed to take charge, only...who was it gonna be? Murderface? The bass player looked to be unhurt but totally transfixed by the destruction and chaos around them. Toki? The man was still too sick to stand on his own and clung to his rescuer like a tick. Nathan? The singer was still snarling softly and watching the shadows with a deadly air about him. Skwisgaar? All Pickles could see was a fall of blond hair, but he could feel faint tremors in the arm pressing more firmly into him.
Pickles rubbed his burning eyes again before letting his hand drop to Skwisgaar's knee for a second. Then he stood up.
"Hey! Listen t'me, ya douchebags."
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Rating: PG
Pairings: none really, just vague references
Warnings: none
Spoilers: set immediately after the season finale
Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and its characters are owned by Small and Blancha. I make nothing from the stories.
A/N: I warned you I fell headlong into another fandom, didn't I? ~_^.
Pickles was drowning in a turmoil of emotion. Their manager/lawyer/protector was seriously injured if not already dying. A large portion of their home was nothing more than a smoldering mass of scorched timber and red hot stone. The members of the band were at least all gathered together although they were shaken and filthy, soot and dirt and char smudging their faces in a more realistic mask than even the best efforts the make up artists could portray with the corpse paint.
Murderface was standing with his arms crossed watching Mordhaus burn. Nathan was crouched over Ofdensen's broken, bloody body like some wild beast protecting a fallen member of the pack. Every so often he would extend a hesitant hand as if he wanted to touch Ofdensen and reassure himself that the lawyer was still there and still alive, but he always drew back with a savage snarl before making contact, only slightly shifting his stance and seeming to grow even larger with rage.
Toki knelt beside them, still sick and intoxicated, clinging to the hem of Nathan's torn shirt. His befuddled mind couldn't handle any thought more coherent than he was safe where he was and moving would be a bad idea. Pickles didn't approach them. The gurgling, gasping sound of Ofdensen's breathing was enough to let him know that the man was still alive and in desperate need of medical attention. Self preservation instincts also told him that getting anywhere near Nathan or his two charges at the moment would be suicidal.
Pickles was surprised to find his hands shaking. Even more surprising was the reason. For the first in longer than he could remember Pickles was stone cold sober. Facing down assassins and narrowly escaping with your life had a way of doing that to a man. He stumbled back to where Skwisgaar sat with the album master. The Swede's eyes were red, swollen and suspiciously wet. His empty arms curved like they were holding something and his fingers twitched. Pickles almost sneered something derogatory about the guitarist being more concerned over the loss of his instruments than the state of the band, Ofdensen's possible death, but a memory made the words dissolve on his tongue. Skwisgaar, the vain, self centered peacock who had easily agreed that none of them should care about any of the others, had stood up tall and strong and told Pickles to get behind him when they were confronted with death.
Pickles didn't say anything, just looked at Skwisgaar until the other man noticed him watching.
"It's de smoke and ashes what are makings my eyes waterings!" Skwisgaar snapped and dipped his head so that his dirty, tangled hair covered his face.
"Yeah," Pickles agreed and made a show of mopping his own eyes with one of his wristbands.
He sat down with Skwisgaar, very close but not touching and stared at the ruin before them. The air was chokingly thick with smoke and the sounds of shouts, explosions and gunfire. His throat ached and his chest grew tight. What the fuck, man? Just...what the fuck?
Pickles nearly started violently from his pained thoughts when he felt Skwisgaar's shoulder pressing into his. After only a moment's hesitation he pressed back, giving in to his own wordless need for reassurance.
They needed to get out of there. They needed to get Ofdensen to help. They needed to get themselves and the album master somewhere safe. They needed to regroup and figure out what to do next. They needed a drink, hell, a hundred drinks. Someone needed to take charge, only...who was it gonna be? Murderface? The bass player looked to be unhurt but totally transfixed by the destruction and chaos around them. Toki? The man was still too sick to stand on his own and clung to his rescuer like a tick. Nathan? The singer was still snarling softly and watching the shadows with a deadly air about him. Skwisgaar? All Pickles could see was a fall of blond hair, but he could feel faint tremors in the arm pressing more firmly into him.
Pickles rubbed his burning eyes again before letting his hand drop to Skwisgaar's knee for a second. Then he stood up.
"Hey! Listen t'me, ya douchebags."