Fic: The Band
Fic: The Band
Fandom: Legend of the Seeker
Pairing: Cara/Kahlan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~5,600
Summary: Kahlan needs a new guitarist. Cara needs a new band. Richard needs to learn to keep his shirt on. It's not exactly Spinal Tap.
The bar smells like every other bar Kahlan has been in-cigarette smoke mixed with spilled beer, sweat from the press of bodies, the faintest whiff of pot if you turn your head just right. Kahlan tries to let it all fall away, even the sight of the guy in the front banging his head like he's at a Megadeth concert, though there's no music playing but the Kenny Rogers lite they feed through the speakers in between sets. Kahlan licks her lips and closes her eyes, wishing she had another Shiner. She can feel the others behind her; can hear the jarring sound of Rahl tuning his guitar, the idle thrum of Richard fiddling with his bass, the whisper of Zedd testing out his wire brush. She feels the slow buildup of tension, the outside noise fading to nothing. Then Kahlan hears Rahl's first chord and she opens her eyes.
Things go well for the first few songs. They start out fast, slow it down for the third song, pick it up again on the fourth. The crowd seems pretty into it. Some of them are regulars, but Kahlan sees a lot of new faces, too. Kahlan usually tries not to pay too much attention to individuals in the crowd, but tonight she keeps being drawn to one face in particular: this chick with chopped off blond hair to her shoulders and the most fuck-you expression Kahlan's ever seen outside of the retail industry. Every now and then the woman narrows her eyes and nods almost imperceptibly, as if any motion on her part is the height of compliments. Kahlan can't help but quirk an eyebrow in her direction, but then she hits that high-octave part of "Stone Tears" and has to focus.
Things stop going well when Rahl begins his solo and doesn't stop. Kahlan tries to cover, tries to nod her head along and act like it's all planned. But then Rahl starts pulling this Stevie Ray Vaughn, guitar-behind-the-back bullshit, and she can't handle it anymore. She sidles over to Rahl, still nodding her head, and hisses, "Come on, Rahl-we've still got half a set."
"I'm soloing Kahlan," Rahl calls above the insistent throb of his guitar, as if Kahlan is interrupting the strings of Jesus, and Kahlan rolls her eyes. She looks over towards Richard for some backup, and then rolls her eyes again.
"Goddammit, Richard. Put your shirt back on."
"What?" Richard responds innocently, his shirt miraculously half-buttoned to expose a long expanse of pecs and abs. Kahlan can only sigh resignedly, as Richard usually manages to lose his shirt about twice a show anyway. He always claims it's half of the reason they have such a large on-campus following, and sometimes Kahlan's afraid he's right. The tumblr some of the Aydindril girls set up - Fuckyeah!Richardsabs - gets an obscene amount of hits, a fact Richard is inordinately proud of. When Kahlan had initially argued that they were in it for the music, not the eyecandy, Richard had helpfully pointed out that Fuckyeah!Kahlansboobs was almost as popular. (Sadly, Fuckyeah!Zeddisold had never really caught on.)
Rahl is still at it, eyes closed and playing like his soul will explode into a million angst-riddled jackrabbits if he doesn’t finish the whole thing. Kahlan can only wait it out, hoping they'll have time to hit at least a bit of their new material at the end of the set.
When they finally finish, Kahlan is slightly damp with sweat, wisps of her dark hair plastered to her forehead. She feels tired, but despite Rahl's self-indulgence, she feels pumped up and satisfied, like she does after every show. She steps up to the microphone. "We're The Confessors. Thanks for being here." Even as she turns to go backstage, feeling the warm presence of applause at her back, she finds herself fruitlessly searching the crowd for a head of ragged blond hair.
Backstage (which is really just a cubby of a room in the back of the bar), she gratefully accepts the Shiner one of the bar staff hands to her, taking a long cool draught.
Rahl is right behind her. "Man, did you hear that? I was on fire!"
Immediately, Kahlan spins on him, her eyes flashing. "We talked about this last time-no more ten-minute solos."
"Fuck that," Rahl says indignantly. "They loved it."
"At least a half dozen people went to get another drink in the middle of it," Kahlan points out, and Rahl scowls. "We've been over this a million times-we're never going to make it big if we can't get our act together."
"Whatever," Rahl says, turning towards Richard. "Back me up, bro."
"I dunno, Darken," Richard says, looking uncertainly at Kahlan. "I think Kahlan might be right. It might have been a lot tighter set if we'd just stuck to what we planned out before."
"So, what-you hate spontaneity?" Rahl sneers. "I'm the only one in this band with any vision." Kahlan sighs, already knowing where this is heading. And, as expected, Rahl launches into a rant, which somehow manages to include Nirvana, Muddy Waters, The Doors, and some random Scandinavian death metal band Kahlan's never heard of. He wraps it up with, "You know, that's fine. You don't want any creativity? Then I quit. There are dozens of better bands in this town who would love to have me. I'm Darken fucking Rahl."
He storms out, guitar case slung across his back. Kahlan looks at Richard, who gives her a shrug, looking uneasy. Then she looks at Zedd, who fell asleep halfway through Rahl's speech and is now snoring softly, his breath causing the graying strands of his hair to float up at regular intervals.
"I guess it's time we look for a new guitar player," Kahlan says. It's far from the first time Darken has "quit" the band after a power-trip, but she hopes fervently this is the time they'll actually find someone to replace him.
***
By the time a third shaggy-haired, rumpled guitarist has butchered "Stairway to Heaven," Kahlan's beginning to regret her determination not to negotiate with Rahl. He may be a douche, but he knows his way around Zeppelin. They're in the garage they use for their practices, the one attached to the co-op where Zedd lives. She, Richard, and Zedd are in fold-up chairs facing a stage that's mostly composed of plywood and duct tape, and she feels uncomfortably like she's participating in a grunge version of American Idol. She politely thanks the latest guy-she can't remember his name, though she thinks it might be something like Axe-and turns to confer with Richard and Zedd.
"Any thoughts?" she asks. "They were all pretty terrible."
"I liked the girl in the beginning," Richard offers helpfully.
"Denna?" Kahlan asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on, Richard. She played 'All Apologies'-it's got, like, four chords."
"I dunno," Richard protests. "I think she had a spark or something."
Kahlan snorts. "You only like her because she's hot."
"I did kind of hear that she's into S&M stuff," Richard admits, and Kahlan can't help but laugh.
She turns to Zedd. "What do you think?"
Zedd blinks, as if he's just now beginning to realize they're talking. His clothes are wrinkled, and he looks like he hasn't bathed in a couple of days (which he probably hasn't). "I liked that one guy who played 'Stairway to Heaven.'" Kahlan sighs. She's about to suggest they take a break for lunch when she hears the unmistakable opening chords of "Voodoo Child." She turns to the stage to see a familiar figure: the blond woman from the show the other night. The woman doesn't even look up. She's already got her guitar plugged in (a beaten-up, cherry-red Stratocaster), and right now she's just watching her own fingers as they tease out that pulsing wah-wah, before she dives straight into the rhythm. Kahlan can't help but watch her fingers too, noting how they dance over the strings in a furious batterie. Kahlan's gaze shifts down to the woman's foot where it occasionally thumps at the pedal, then to her face, where ragged strands of blonde hair almost obscure her eyes. Just then, the woman looks up to meet Kahlan's gaze, and she just kind of smirks at Kahlan. Kahlan finds herself grinning, because damn does that guitar sound good.
Showing good etiquette, the woman doesn't run through the entire song, though Kahlan really wouldn't have minded if she had. As the last notes lie vibrating in the air, Kahlan finds herself on her feet and striding towards the stage. "That was really good," she says, holding out her hand. "I'm Kahlan."
The woman tosses her head to get some of the hair out of her eyes. She slings her guitar behind her back and reaches out to Kahlan's hand. "Cara," she says. Her hands are warm and callused, her grip firm. Kahlan realizes Richard and Zedd are right behind her. Richard eagerly introduces himself, and Zedd manages to mumble out a relatively coherent introduction.
"Yeah, that was really great," Kahlan says again. "What do you think about playing a couple songs with us to see if we click?" Cara only shrugs, which Kahlan takes to be a 'yes.' She, Richard, and Zedd take their positions on stage. Richard tunes his bass, and Kahlan checks the microphone and the keyboard. Cara stands to the side, her expression studiously bored.
Kahlan turns to her. "You know 'Sympathy for the Devil?'" Cara just looks at her, as if she can't believe Kahlan even asked, and Kahlan shakes her head ruefully. "Ok then. Let's go."
Zedd kicks off the drums, and Kahlan lets the keyboard drift in as she begins singing. She knows she can never compete with Mick Jaggar-that her voice is far too sweet for this song-but she loves it too much to care. There's not a lot for Cara to do until they hit the solo, but when they do, man is it a thing of beauty. By the end of the song, they're all just riffing off of each other, and it all feels so good and so right that Kahlan feels a stab of disappointment when it has to end.
She's grinning like an idiot when she turns to Cara, and she can see Richard's smile; even Zedd looks impressed. "I could tell you we need some time to discuss, but I think everyone else would agree: the spot's yours if you want it."
Cara shrugs. "Ok."
***
It turns out Cara is a recent transfer from a school in California. She's vague about what exactly she's studying at Aydindril, but she does grudgingly reveal some of her musical background. She'd been in a vaguely post-punk outfit for a couple of years before it split up (something about the lead singer and horse tranquilizers), and had been bouncing around different bands in L.A. before she relocated to Austin. She'd already auditioned with a couple of other local bands-God knows there were plenty to choose from-but apparently hadn't clicked with any of them. Kahlan is illogically flattered that Cara has chosen them, because while she knows The Confessors are good, she also knows competition is stiff in this town.
They begin practicing almost immediately. It's hard at first to tell what Cara likes and doesn't like, though after a couple of practices Kahlan is getting better at interpreting the minor scowls and subtle nods of approval that seem to be Cara's main mode of communication. After their third practice with some of their newer material, Kahlan invites Cara out for lunch. Cara seems on the verge of declining, but then she hesitates, gives her trademark half-shrug, and says, "Sure."
They go to Kahlan's favorite Tex-Mex place near campus. The food is cheap, and they sell Tecates for a buck between noon and three. They both order the taco special and a beer, and head to a table. Cara immediately slouches down onto her chair, legs sprawled out, right arm casually slung across the chair back. She's wearing a plaid shirt-un-ironically, Kahlan notes-and Kahlan can see the ends of a tattoo peeking out from the V of her shirt; she thinks it might be of chains. Cara's got another tattoo on the inside of her left wrist (words in some language Kahlan doesn't know), and another string of words snaking around her right bicep. Her left ear must have nearly a dozen piercings on it, all curling down the shell of her ear, evenly spaced like the rings of a spiral notebook. As usual, Cara's hair is casually mussed, and Kahlan still hasn't been able to figure out whether it’s a studied messiness or a messy messiness.
"So what do you think of the band so far?" Kahlan asks, leaning back in her chair.
"It sounds alright," Cara says non-committally. "Your old guitarist seemed like an asshole."
Kahlan laughs. "Yeah, well, he was also a pretty good guitar player. He was always lording it over us, but he's Richard's brother, so it was hard not forgive him whenever he screwed up."
"You and Richard," Cara says, lifting an eyebrow. "You two a thing?"
"Me and Richard?" Kahlan says, shaking her head. "No. We used to date, freshman year. But then we decided it would be bad for the band if we ever broke up, so we just ended it peacefully. Well," she amends, "that's what I told him. Honestly, I was ready to end things way before that. He's a great guy, but…I don't know. I think I outgrew him." Cara lets out a little breath of agreement, and Kahlan suddenly wonders why she just told her that.
"What about Zedd?" Cara asks abruptly. "Why's he so old?"
"Because he was born a long time ago?" Kahlan says with amusement.
Cara rolls her eyes, but there's also a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "What I mean is, why do you have such an old drummer. He's like 90."
"He's like 70," Kahlan corrects.
"Whatever," Cara says, waving off Kahlan's objections. "He's old."
"Yeah, but you've heard him play-he's a wizard with the drums. Richard and I met him at a gig a couple years ago when he was playing with some ska band downtown." Kahlan shakes her head at the memory. "It was tragically clear that he was better than everyone there, and was mostly just along because he was buddies with the guys in the band. Our drummer had just dropped out of school, so we asked him if he wanted to join. I think Zedd just kind of goes with the flow, so he said yes. Honestly, I'm never sure whether he'll be there when I wake up in the morning."
Cara snorts. "He is pretty good, but talking to him is like talking to a stoned palm tree. He ever write any songs?"
"Yeah," Kahlan says, meanwhile smiling up at the waitress who's just delivered their food. "He's written a couple of really trippy songs for kids-there's this one about whales in the skies with rubies for eyes. I think he even wrote in a didgeridoo part, but we usually skip that bit."
Cara nods, taking a bite of her taco. She chews leisurely, takes a swig of beer, then picks up the conversation again. "Who writes the other songs?"
"Me and Richard," Kahlan says. "Rahl's written a bunch, but we don't end up playing a lot of them. They're kind of…weird."
"He write that one all the girls are always screaming about-'Lord of Pain' or whatever the fuck it's called?"
"'Pain Lord'?" Kahlan asks with amusement. "Yeah. That's his. He was going through a Slayer stage when he wrote it."
"Well, it sucks," Cara says bluntly. "This is my rule: if you use the words love and heart in the first four lines, your song sucks."
"Huh," Kahlan says, trying to think if any of the songs she's penned fit the rule. "You ever write songs?"
"Sometimes," Cara says indifferently. "Mostly instrumental. Sometimes I add lyrics."
"Where'd you learn how to play?" Kahlan asks curiously, idly swirling a chip in the chile con queso.
"Friends I grew up with," Cara says. "They were all in bands. I can't remember a time when I didn't know how to play."
"Do you miss them-your friends back home, I mean?" Kahlan asks.
Cara looks at her warily, as if to suss out whether Kahlan has some ulterior motive for asking. Then she shrugs. "Sometimes. They had my back, I guess. But they weren't exactly…I don't know, what you might call good influences."
"What," Kahlan asks with evident amusement, "were you in a gang or something?" Cara just looks at her, and Kahlan's mouth drops open. "Wait, seriously? You were in a gang?"
"Sort of," Cara says a bit uncomfortably. "We weren't like Hell's Angels or anything-it was mostly a neighborhood thing. The Mord'Sith. It was what everyone did."
"Did you, like, ride a motorcycle?" Kahlan asks, fascinated.
Cara rolls her eyes. "Occasionally."
"Wow," Kahlan breathes, before grinning. "The only gang I was in was the Girl Scouts. But those little monsters would pop a cap in your ass if you didn't cough up three bucks for cookies." Kahlan's inordinately pleased to see she's teased a smile out of Cara, though Cara dips her head so her hair hides the expression.
Cara reaches over and drains the last of her Tecate. "So how'd you learn to sing?"
"My mom," Kahlan says immediately. "She was classically trained-Juilliard, the whole deal. She wanted me to do opera or something, but I went through a Janis Joplin stage instead and never really recovered."
Cara nods. "You sound good." Kahlan's too surprised to respond, and Cara keeps talking. "I mean, when I first saw you, I didn't think it would work-you looked too sweet to sing the kind of music your band plays, you know?" Kahlan frowns, but Cara is staring at her empty beer, idly peeling off the label. "But I don't know. You make it work. You sound good."
Kahlan finds herself blushing, inexplicably feeling like this glancing half-compliment means more than any number of critics' reviews. "Thank you," she says sincerely, but Cara only shrugs.
***
Kahlan can tell Cara's become comfortable with the band when, after two weeks of practice, her taciturnity gives way to a stinging sarcasm with the force and crack of a bullwhip. Richard, normally easy-going to a fault, is bewildered the first time Cara makes a snide remark about his lyrical prowess. Kahlan smoothes things over, though she has to side with Cara on the atrociousness of the lines, "My heart beats / Love's retreat / It's no mean feat / You're my defeat." Soon enough, Richard accepts Cara's sarcasm in stride, and Kahlan frequently finds herself biting back laughter whenever one of Cara's comments is particularly pointed. Of course, there's the time Cara takes it too far, the time Richard flubs his bass-line on their newest song and Cara snaps out, "You know what they call someone who hangs around with musicians, Richard? A bassist." Richard looks hurt, though he covers by diving immediately into the next song. The next day, Cara shows up looking uncomfortably apologetic. She approaches Richard and shoves a mixed cd entitled "Decent Bass Solos" into his hands. "Thought you might like this. It doesn't mean anything." Richard grins that wide, happy grin of his, and all is forgiven.
Kahlan never sees Cara on campus, which isn't really that strange; it's a big school, and Kahlan's architecture classes are usually held at a separate building further north. Cara is inexplicably adept at avoiding discussions of academics, and usually Kahlan has trouble actually visualizing Cara in a classroom. Mostly due to Kahlan's perseverance, the two of them start hanging out outside the band. They begin to catch live shows on weekends, absorbing what's good about other bands and mercilessly mocking the rest. Kahlan's learned that Cara loosens up with a couple of drinks in her, though her tongue stays just as sharp. When Cara's ire isn't directed at Kahlan, it rarely fails to make Kahlan laugh, and Cara always seems a little pleased with herself in these moments.
During one show, Kahlan's returning from paying her tab when she gets cornered by a very large, very drunk guy who looks like he only got into school because he can tackle other players into a pulp. He clearly recognizes Kahlan from The Confessors, because he uses that as an opening to talk about how he's learning to play guitar, and now he, like, totally gets Cobain. Kahlan is mildly amused at first, but when she tries to move away, the guy grabs her by the wrist, just beginning to squeeze. Kahlan's about to knee him in the balls when the guy yelps in pain and releases her hand. He's yanked back, spun around, and slammed into the wall. Cara stands behind him, one hand digging into his shoulder, the other hand bending his arm backwards in a slightly unnatural angle. The guy is easily twice Cara's weight, but Cara must have him by a nerve or something because the guy is mewling like a kitten. Cara leans in to murmur into his ear: "Don't be a dick, ok?" The guy nods, and with a final shove, Cara lets him go. The guy rubs his shoulder, staring at Cara balefully. Then he slinks away, head hung low and trying to ignore the smirks of those who witnessed the incident. Cara turns to Kahlan. "You ok?" she asks casually, and Kahlan grins.
"I will be if you show me how to do that." Impulsively, Kahlan leans over and plants a kiss on Cara's cheek. Cara scowls in return, but in the dim, smoky light of the bar, Kahlan could swear she detects a blush.
***
On the night of their first show with Cara in the band, Kahlan feels faintly like she's got carbonation in her veins. She always gets butterflies before a gig, but she's been performing so long that she's usually able to ignore them (not like during that first show her junior year in high school, when the butterflies hadn't so much been butterflies as pterodactyls).
Cara saunters in two minutes before soundcheck, wearing boots and jeans and a red top open enough to show the delicate lines of her collarbone. She nods at Kahlan and Richard and begins to set up. Zedd wanders in ten minutes later, much to Kahlan's relief. They run through a couple songs, then leave to get some dinner; the show's not for another few hours, and there's another band opening before them.
When they get back, the venue is packed and loud. They lounge around backstage, not saying much as they listen through the walls to the muffled pulsing of the opening band. Then it's time for them to go onstage. Kahlan feels a calm come over her as she leans in towards the microphone. She's wearing an all-white dress, like she usually does when she performs. She casts a glance Cara's way, and Cara cocks an eyebrow, as if to say, "What are you waiting for?"
So Kahlan stops waiting.
It's good. Kahlan can tell from the first note that it's going to be good. Halfway through the set, she feels like she's floating. Zedd's rhythm is beating little pinpricks through her veins; Richard's bassline is vibrating through her toes; Cara's guitar is a raucous countermeasure sending all her senses jangling. Kahlan feels like she's chasing after the lyrics tumbling out of her mouth; like she's sending them spinning and cavorting through the crowd, which is eating the whole thing up. They end on Kahlan's favorite song, the one that builds slow and worms its way under the skin, before suddenly erupting in a cacophony of sound that sends it galloping to its conclusion. Kahlan, breathing hard with sparks in her eyes, closes with her trademark, "We're the Confessors. Thanks for coming."
They head off stage to cheers Kahlan can hardly register, she's so filled with energy.
"Holy shit," Richard breathes. "That was amazing." Kahlan grins at him, then looks at Cara. There's a strange kind of acrobatics occurring on Cara's face, as her perpetual scowl wars with the sheer exhilaration of the performance; exhilaration wins, and Cara laughs a stunned, unexpected laugh. Kahlan laughs back, pulls Cara in for a hug, then pulls away and spins to clap Zedd on the back.
Zedd is nodding sagely. "Reminds me of that show I did with Jimmy Page in '67." Kahlan can only shake her head. They can hear the calls of "Encore," so they gird themselves again and play another song before taking their final bow.
Kahlan is still humming with energy when they return backstage. Almost immediately, Richard's accosted by several girls who managed to make their way backstage. They tug at his arm pleadingly, and he casts Kahlan a not-very-apologetic, shit-eating grin before stumbling after them. Zedd ran into some buddies of his earlier; he said they knew each other from the war. Kahlan's not really sure which war they're talking about, or even if it's a real war or a metaphorical war, but she suspects they'll soon be ingesting something back at Zedd's place. That just leaves Kahlan and Cara in the small backstage room, its floor littered with their instruments, the walls covered by peeling posters of acts long-gone.
Kahlan turns to Cara, her blood thumping with adrenaline, intending to make some comment about the show. But suddenly Cara's nothing but movement as she takes a step towards Kahlan and yanks her by the front of her dress for a long, bruising kiss. Kahlan leans into the kiss eagerly, feeling her teeth click against Cara's as she wraps an arm around her waist. Without knowing how it happens, she finds herself scrabbling at the hem of Cara's shirt and tugging it over her head, her heart pounding with anticipation. Cara's got her fingers at the back of Kahlan's dress, and Kahlan breathes a silent prayer of thanks that the zipper runs all the way down her back; in a single deft movement, Kahlan's dress is puddled at her feet. Cara grins possessively and then kisses her again, lots of tongue this time, her fingertips warm on Kahlan's waist as she begins propelling Kahlan backwards towards the couch. They don't quite make it; Kahlan trips over a foot-pedal and they literally go crashing down in a jarring clamor of cymbals and metal stands. Despite the amp digging into her back, Kahlan finds herself laughing, though the laugh quickly turns into a groan when Cara closes her mouth around Kahlan's nipple and lets her teeth just brush over the skin.
Kahlan is wet-ungodly, sinfully wet-and when Cara begins to kiss down her belly, she can't seem to resist a needy, "Jesus, please, Cara." Cara looks up at her, smirking the smirk to end all smirks, and Kahlan might have swatted the smugness out of her if Cara hadn't chosen that moment to let the callused tips of her fingers brush along Kahlan's clit. Kahlan jerks up, gasping, and then Cara's mouth is on her, fingers curling into her and beginning a rhythm. Kahlan finds her fingers are twisted through Cara's tousled hair, holding her tight as she bucks up against her mouth and tries not to moan too loud.
Kahlan's got a drumline sliding along her skin, matching the rhythm Cara sets. She's got a whole symphony in her mind to match the senses Cara is pulling out of her, and god knows there might even be a didgeridoo in there too. And as Kahlan comes, she thinks that if she could capture the exact note she makes in that moment, it would make a hell of a song.
***
Things only get better for the band after that. They start booking bigger venues, and their fans start expanding beyond Aydindril students. They're hardly the most popular band in town, but they get some solid write-ups in the city newspaper, and a couple of labels even start sniffing around.
Darken Rahl slinks back to them a month after their first show. They're warming up, Cara practicing a new guitar bit she wrote-a plucking, twangy thing that's not usually her style. She looks up when Rahl enters, narrowing her eyes, and Richard swiftly moves to intercept his brother, tugging him into an adjoining room. Fifteen minutes later, Rahl shoves the door back open, casting Cara a baleful glare. Cara takes a menacing step towards him, and Kahlan suspects Rahl would've ended up with Cara's smashed guitar around his ears if he hadn't stormed outside. Richard is upset at first, but a couple weeks later, Rahl joins a local speed metal band and the two of them reconcile.
Things with Cara are good too. Cara's not exactly the hand-holding type, but she's also not the type to keep a relationship a secret if she's serious about it. They come clean to Richard pretty soon, Cara glaring at him as if daring him to object. Richard only shrugs. "As long as it doesn't break up the band if you two break up, it's none of my business." Then he grins. "You just know this will make our band ten times more popular."
Only a couple weeks after they've begun christening various surfaces of Kahlan's apartment, Kahlan punches a giant pinprick through Cara's studied air of mystery. They're planning on catching a late show downtown, and Cara invites Kahlan to her house for the first time. Cara shares the house with three roommates who rarely seem to actually sleep at the house, though you could hardly tell from the mess littering their common room. As Cara is dressing after her shower, Kahlan idly wanders around Cara's room, examining the expected Hendrix poster, the unexpected Shinohara print. She stops short when she sees the paper lying on Cara's desk. Cara comes out, her hair still damp and sticking out at prickly angles around her face.
Kahlan lifts up the paper. "What's this?" Cara's eyes go wide with something approaching fear as she sees the seminar paper with her name on it. "Cara, are you…are you an English major?"
Cara's lips go thin, and she looks like she's going to bite out something fierce. Then she seems to deflate and offers a muttered, "Yes."
Kahlan looks at her incredulously. "No way."
"Well, what did you think I majored in?" Cara snaps.
"I don't know," Kahlan says, laughing. "Some mythical major where they teach you how to scowl and be a smart-ass?" As if to prove her point, Cara scowls, but Kahlan only grins bigger. "So what's your concentration?"
Cara mumbles something Kahlan can't quite hear, then sighs and enunciates. "Female British writers of the late 19th century."
"So, like, Jane Austen?"
"She was early 19th," Cara corrects immediately, frowning. "But yes, I do happen to like Jane Austen." She says the words defiantly, as if daring Kahlan to laugh. Kahlan takes up the dare and begins giggling.
"Cara, this is too good."
"Shut up."
"No, seriously Cara, this is amazing. I can't wait to tell Richard-he doesn't even think you go to Aydindril; he thinks you're, like, some kind of underground, guitar-playing gang leader who only pretends to go to school for the meal plan."
Cara promptly silences any other comments by tugging Kahlan by the belt and kissing her none-too-gently. Of course, Kahlan ruins the moment by murmuring, "Oh, Mr. Darcy," then yelps when Cara bites her on the shoulder. She finds she doesn't really mind.
***
Their final semester rolls around, the heat of summer with it. Recently, Kahlan has been crumpling up the song lyrics she writes, finding that far too many of them have "love" or "heart" in the first four lines.
She and Cara are lying on Kahlan's bed, the sun slanting through Kahlan's window and falling softly on her back. Cara is lying beside her, tan and lean and naked, her fingers tracing up and down Kahlan's back. She lets her fingers dance down the notches of Kahlan's spine, picking out chords.
"What are you playing?" Kahlan asks lazily, a smile tugging at her lips.
Cara shrugs. "Just something I wrote." She presses a kiss to Kahlan's shoulder, then simulates a complicated progression up and down Kahlan's back, before sliding her hand under Kahlan's hip and almost letting her fingers brush against her. Kahlan breathes in sharply through her nose, but keeps her voice even.
"I got offered that architecture internship in Chicago."
Cara's fingers go still. "Yeah?" she says, her voice suddenly free of inflection.
"Yeah," Kahlan says. She hesitates, searching Cara's face. "But…I was thinking about staying here, seeing if we can really make a go of it with the band. I mean, we don't get paid much per gig, but it's not like I'd be making any money with my internship. What do you think?"
A brightness flickers across Cara's eyes, and there's something almost shy in the way she murmurs, "Yeah. I think that might be good." Then her expression becomes more wicked as she begins to trace light circles just outside of where Kahlan wants her fingers to be. "But I vote you ditch the white dress-the purity thing is way overplayed."
Part of Kahlan wants to protest, but the rest of her wants to say whatever it takes to get Cara to touch her. She grins into her pillow. "We'll see."
The End
Fandom: Legend of the Seeker
Pairing: Cara/Kahlan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~5,600
Summary: Kahlan needs a new guitarist. Cara needs a new band. Richard needs to learn to keep his shirt on. It's not exactly Spinal Tap.
The bar smells like every other bar Kahlan has been in-cigarette smoke mixed with spilled beer, sweat from the press of bodies, the faintest whiff of pot if you turn your head just right. Kahlan tries to let it all fall away, even the sight of the guy in the front banging his head like he's at a Megadeth concert, though there's no music playing but the Kenny Rogers lite they feed through the speakers in between sets. Kahlan licks her lips and closes her eyes, wishing she had another Shiner. She can feel the others behind her; can hear the jarring sound of Rahl tuning his guitar, the idle thrum of Richard fiddling with his bass, the whisper of Zedd testing out his wire brush. She feels the slow buildup of tension, the outside noise fading to nothing. Then Kahlan hears Rahl's first chord and she opens her eyes.
Things go well for the first few songs. They start out fast, slow it down for the third song, pick it up again on the fourth. The crowd seems pretty into it. Some of them are regulars, but Kahlan sees a lot of new faces, too. Kahlan usually tries not to pay too much attention to individuals in the crowd, but tonight she keeps being drawn to one face in particular: this chick with chopped off blond hair to her shoulders and the most fuck-you expression Kahlan's ever seen outside of the retail industry. Every now and then the woman narrows her eyes and nods almost imperceptibly, as if any motion on her part is the height of compliments. Kahlan can't help but quirk an eyebrow in her direction, but then she hits that high-octave part of "Stone Tears" and has to focus.
Things stop going well when Rahl begins his solo and doesn't stop. Kahlan tries to cover, tries to nod her head along and act like it's all planned. But then Rahl starts pulling this Stevie Ray Vaughn, guitar-behind-the-back bullshit, and she can't handle it anymore. She sidles over to Rahl, still nodding her head, and hisses, "Come on, Rahl-we've still got half a set."
"I'm soloing Kahlan," Rahl calls above the insistent throb of his guitar, as if Kahlan is interrupting the strings of Jesus, and Kahlan rolls her eyes. She looks over towards Richard for some backup, and then rolls her eyes again.
"Goddammit, Richard. Put your shirt back on."
"What?" Richard responds innocently, his shirt miraculously half-buttoned to expose a long expanse of pecs and abs. Kahlan can only sigh resignedly, as Richard usually manages to lose his shirt about twice a show anyway. He always claims it's half of the reason they have such a large on-campus following, and sometimes Kahlan's afraid he's right. The tumblr some of the Aydindril girls set up - Fuckyeah!Richardsabs - gets an obscene amount of hits, a fact Richard is inordinately proud of. When Kahlan had initially argued that they were in it for the music, not the eyecandy, Richard had helpfully pointed out that Fuckyeah!Kahlansboobs was almost as popular. (Sadly, Fuckyeah!Zeddisold had never really caught on.)
Rahl is still at it, eyes closed and playing like his soul will explode into a million angst-riddled jackrabbits if he doesn’t finish the whole thing. Kahlan can only wait it out, hoping they'll have time to hit at least a bit of their new material at the end of the set.
When they finally finish, Kahlan is slightly damp with sweat, wisps of her dark hair plastered to her forehead. She feels tired, but despite Rahl's self-indulgence, she feels pumped up and satisfied, like she does after every show. She steps up to the microphone. "We're The Confessors. Thanks for being here." Even as she turns to go backstage, feeling the warm presence of applause at her back, she finds herself fruitlessly searching the crowd for a head of ragged blond hair.
Backstage (which is really just a cubby of a room in the back of the bar), she gratefully accepts the Shiner one of the bar staff hands to her, taking a long cool draught.
Rahl is right behind her. "Man, did you hear that? I was on fire!"
Immediately, Kahlan spins on him, her eyes flashing. "We talked about this last time-no more ten-minute solos."
"Fuck that," Rahl says indignantly. "They loved it."
"At least a half dozen people went to get another drink in the middle of it," Kahlan points out, and Rahl scowls. "We've been over this a million times-we're never going to make it big if we can't get our act together."
"Whatever," Rahl says, turning towards Richard. "Back me up, bro."
"I dunno, Darken," Richard says, looking uncertainly at Kahlan. "I think Kahlan might be right. It might have been a lot tighter set if we'd just stuck to what we planned out before."
"So, what-you hate spontaneity?" Rahl sneers. "I'm the only one in this band with any vision." Kahlan sighs, already knowing where this is heading. And, as expected, Rahl launches into a rant, which somehow manages to include Nirvana, Muddy Waters, The Doors, and some random Scandinavian death metal band Kahlan's never heard of. He wraps it up with, "You know, that's fine. You don't want any creativity? Then I quit. There are dozens of better bands in this town who would love to have me. I'm Darken fucking Rahl."
He storms out, guitar case slung across his back. Kahlan looks at Richard, who gives her a shrug, looking uneasy. Then she looks at Zedd, who fell asleep halfway through Rahl's speech and is now snoring softly, his breath causing the graying strands of his hair to float up at regular intervals.
"I guess it's time we look for a new guitar player," Kahlan says. It's far from the first time Darken has "quit" the band after a power-trip, but she hopes fervently this is the time they'll actually find someone to replace him.
***
By the time a third shaggy-haired, rumpled guitarist has butchered "Stairway to Heaven," Kahlan's beginning to regret her determination not to negotiate with Rahl. He may be a douche, but he knows his way around Zeppelin. They're in the garage they use for their practices, the one attached to the co-op where Zedd lives. She, Richard, and Zedd are in fold-up chairs facing a stage that's mostly composed of plywood and duct tape, and she feels uncomfortably like she's participating in a grunge version of American Idol. She politely thanks the latest guy-she can't remember his name, though she thinks it might be something like Axe-and turns to confer with Richard and Zedd.
"Any thoughts?" she asks. "They were all pretty terrible."
"I liked the girl in the beginning," Richard offers helpfully.
"Denna?" Kahlan asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on, Richard. She played 'All Apologies'-it's got, like, four chords."
"I dunno," Richard protests. "I think she had a spark or something."
Kahlan snorts. "You only like her because she's hot."
"I did kind of hear that she's into S&M stuff," Richard admits, and Kahlan can't help but laugh.
She turns to Zedd. "What do you think?"
Zedd blinks, as if he's just now beginning to realize they're talking. His clothes are wrinkled, and he looks like he hasn't bathed in a couple of days (which he probably hasn't). "I liked that one guy who played 'Stairway to Heaven.'" Kahlan sighs. She's about to suggest they take a break for lunch when she hears the unmistakable opening chords of "Voodoo Child." She turns to the stage to see a familiar figure: the blond woman from the show the other night. The woman doesn't even look up. She's already got her guitar plugged in (a beaten-up, cherry-red Stratocaster), and right now she's just watching her own fingers as they tease out that pulsing wah-wah, before she dives straight into the rhythm. Kahlan can't help but watch her fingers too, noting how they dance over the strings in a furious batterie. Kahlan's gaze shifts down to the woman's foot where it occasionally thumps at the pedal, then to her face, where ragged strands of blonde hair almost obscure her eyes. Just then, the woman looks up to meet Kahlan's gaze, and she just kind of smirks at Kahlan. Kahlan finds herself grinning, because damn does that guitar sound good.
Showing good etiquette, the woman doesn't run through the entire song, though Kahlan really wouldn't have minded if she had. As the last notes lie vibrating in the air, Kahlan finds herself on her feet and striding towards the stage. "That was really good," she says, holding out her hand. "I'm Kahlan."
The woman tosses her head to get some of the hair out of her eyes. She slings her guitar behind her back and reaches out to Kahlan's hand. "Cara," she says. Her hands are warm and callused, her grip firm. Kahlan realizes Richard and Zedd are right behind her. Richard eagerly introduces himself, and Zedd manages to mumble out a relatively coherent introduction.
"Yeah, that was really great," Kahlan says again. "What do you think about playing a couple songs with us to see if we click?" Cara only shrugs, which Kahlan takes to be a 'yes.' She, Richard, and Zedd take their positions on stage. Richard tunes his bass, and Kahlan checks the microphone and the keyboard. Cara stands to the side, her expression studiously bored.
Kahlan turns to her. "You know 'Sympathy for the Devil?'" Cara just looks at her, as if she can't believe Kahlan even asked, and Kahlan shakes her head ruefully. "Ok then. Let's go."
Zedd kicks off the drums, and Kahlan lets the keyboard drift in as she begins singing. She knows she can never compete with Mick Jaggar-that her voice is far too sweet for this song-but she loves it too much to care. There's not a lot for Cara to do until they hit the solo, but when they do, man is it a thing of beauty. By the end of the song, they're all just riffing off of each other, and it all feels so good and so right that Kahlan feels a stab of disappointment when it has to end.
She's grinning like an idiot when she turns to Cara, and she can see Richard's smile; even Zedd looks impressed. "I could tell you we need some time to discuss, but I think everyone else would agree: the spot's yours if you want it."
Cara shrugs. "Ok."
***
It turns out Cara is a recent transfer from a school in California. She's vague about what exactly she's studying at Aydindril, but she does grudgingly reveal some of her musical background. She'd been in a vaguely post-punk outfit for a couple of years before it split up (something about the lead singer and horse tranquilizers), and had been bouncing around different bands in L.A. before she relocated to Austin. She'd already auditioned with a couple of other local bands-God knows there were plenty to choose from-but apparently hadn't clicked with any of them. Kahlan is illogically flattered that Cara has chosen them, because while she knows The Confessors are good, she also knows competition is stiff in this town.
They begin practicing almost immediately. It's hard at first to tell what Cara likes and doesn't like, though after a couple of practices Kahlan is getting better at interpreting the minor scowls and subtle nods of approval that seem to be Cara's main mode of communication. After their third practice with some of their newer material, Kahlan invites Cara out for lunch. Cara seems on the verge of declining, but then she hesitates, gives her trademark half-shrug, and says, "Sure."
They go to Kahlan's favorite Tex-Mex place near campus. The food is cheap, and they sell Tecates for a buck between noon and three. They both order the taco special and a beer, and head to a table. Cara immediately slouches down onto her chair, legs sprawled out, right arm casually slung across the chair back. She's wearing a plaid shirt-un-ironically, Kahlan notes-and Kahlan can see the ends of a tattoo peeking out from the V of her shirt; she thinks it might be of chains. Cara's got another tattoo on the inside of her left wrist (words in some language Kahlan doesn't know), and another string of words snaking around her right bicep. Her left ear must have nearly a dozen piercings on it, all curling down the shell of her ear, evenly spaced like the rings of a spiral notebook. As usual, Cara's hair is casually mussed, and Kahlan still hasn't been able to figure out whether it’s a studied messiness or a messy messiness.
"So what do you think of the band so far?" Kahlan asks, leaning back in her chair.
"It sounds alright," Cara says non-committally. "Your old guitarist seemed like an asshole."
Kahlan laughs. "Yeah, well, he was also a pretty good guitar player. He was always lording it over us, but he's Richard's brother, so it was hard not forgive him whenever he screwed up."
"You and Richard," Cara says, lifting an eyebrow. "You two a thing?"
"Me and Richard?" Kahlan says, shaking her head. "No. We used to date, freshman year. But then we decided it would be bad for the band if we ever broke up, so we just ended it peacefully. Well," she amends, "that's what I told him. Honestly, I was ready to end things way before that. He's a great guy, but…I don't know. I think I outgrew him." Cara lets out a little breath of agreement, and Kahlan suddenly wonders why she just told her that.
"What about Zedd?" Cara asks abruptly. "Why's he so old?"
"Because he was born a long time ago?" Kahlan says with amusement.
Cara rolls her eyes, but there's also a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "What I mean is, why do you have such an old drummer. He's like 90."
"He's like 70," Kahlan corrects.
"Whatever," Cara says, waving off Kahlan's objections. "He's old."
"Yeah, but you've heard him play-he's a wizard with the drums. Richard and I met him at a gig a couple years ago when he was playing with some ska band downtown." Kahlan shakes her head at the memory. "It was tragically clear that he was better than everyone there, and was mostly just along because he was buddies with the guys in the band. Our drummer had just dropped out of school, so we asked him if he wanted to join. I think Zedd just kind of goes with the flow, so he said yes. Honestly, I'm never sure whether he'll be there when I wake up in the morning."
Cara snorts. "He is pretty good, but talking to him is like talking to a stoned palm tree. He ever write any songs?"
"Yeah," Kahlan says, meanwhile smiling up at the waitress who's just delivered their food. "He's written a couple of really trippy songs for kids-there's this one about whales in the skies with rubies for eyes. I think he even wrote in a didgeridoo part, but we usually skip that bit."
Cara nods, taking a bite of her taco. She chews leisurely, takes a swig of beer, then picks up the conversation again. "Who writes the other songs?"
"Me and Richard," Kahlan says. "Rahl's written a bunch, but we don't end up playing a lot of them. They're kind of…weird."
"He write that one all the girls are always screaming about-'Lord of Pain' or whatever the fuck it's called?"
"'Pain Lord'?" Kahlan asks with amusement. "Yeah. That's his. He was going through a Slayer stage when he wrote it."
"Well, it sucks," Cara says bluntly. "This is my rule: if you use the words love and heart in the first four lines, your song sucks."
"Huh," Kahlan says, trying to think if any of the songs she's penned fit the rule. "You ever write songs?"
"Sometimes," Cara says indifferently. "Mostly instrumental. Sometimes I add lyrics."
"Where'd you learn how to play?" Kahlan asks curiously, idly swirling a chip in the chile con queso.
"Friends I grew up with," Cara says. "They were all in bands. I can't remember a time when I didn't know how to play."
"Do you miss them-your friends back home, I mean?" Kahlan asks.
Cara looks at her warily, as if to suss out whether Kahlan has some ulterior motive for asking. Then she shrugs. "Sometimes. They had my back, I guess. But they weren't exactly…I don't know, what you might call good influences."
"What," Kahlan asks with evident amusement, "were you in a gang or something?" Cara just looks at her, and Kahlan's mouth drops open. "Wait, seriously? You were in a gang?"
"Sort of," Cara says a bit uncomfortably. "We weren't like Hell's Angels or anything-it was mostly a neighborhood thing. The Mord'Sith. It was what everyone did."
"Did you, like, ride a motorcycle?" Kahlan asks, fascinated.
Cara rolls her eyes. "Occasionally."
"Wow," Kahlan breathes, before grinning. "The only gang I was in was the Girl Scouts. But those little monsters would pop a cap in your ass if you didn't cough up three bucks for cookies." Kahlan's inordinately pleased to see she's teased a smile out of Cara, though Cara dips her head so her hair hides the expression.
Cara reaches over and drains the last of her Tecate. "So how'd you learn to sing?"
"My mom," Kahlan says immediately. "She was classically trained-Juilliard, the whole deal. She wanted me to do opera or something, but I went through a Janis Joplin stage instead and never really recovered."
Cara nods. "You sound good." Kahlan's too surprised to respond, and Cara keeps talking. "I mean, when I first saw you, I didn't think it would work-you looked too sweet to sing the kind of music your band plays, you know?" Kahlan frowns, but Cara is staring at her empty beer, idly peeling off the label. "But I don't know. You make it work. You sound good."
Kahlan finds herself blushing, inexplicably feeling like this glancing half-compliment means more than any number of critics' reviews. "Thank you," she says sincerely, but Cara only shrugs.
***
Kahlan can tell Cara's become comfortable with the band when, after two weeks of practice, her taciturnity gives way to a stinging sarcasm with the force and crack of a bullwhip. Richard, normally easy-going to a fault, is bewildered the first time Cara makes a snide remark about his lyrical prowess. Kahlan smoothes things over, though she has to side with Cara on the atrociousness of the lines, "My heart beats / Love's retreat / It's no mean feat / You're my defeat." Soon enough, Richard accepts Cara's sarcasm in stride, and Kahlan frequently finds herself biting back laughter whenever one of Cara's comments is particularly pointed. Of course, there's the time Cara takes it too far, the time Richard flubs his bass-line on their newest song and Cara snaps out, "You know what they call someone who hangs around with musicians, Richard? A bassist." Richard looks hurt, though he covers by diving immediately into the next song. The next day, Cara shows up looking uncomfortably apologetic. She approaches Richard and shoves a mixed cd entitled "Decent Bass Solos" into his hands. "Thought you might like this. It doesn't mean anything." Richard grins that wide, happy grin of his, and all is forgiven.
Kahlan never sees Cara on campus, which isn't really that strange; it's a big school, and Kahlan's architecture classes are usually held at a separate building further north. Cara is inexplicably adept at avoiding discussions of academics, and usually Kahlan has trouble actually visualizing Cara in a classroom. Mostly due to Kahlan's perseverance, the two of them start hanging out outside the band. They begin to catch live shows on weekends, absorbing what's good about other bands and mercilessly mocking the rest. Kahlan's learned that Cara loosens up with a couple of drinks in her, though her tongue stays just as sharp. When Cara's ire isn't directed at Kahlan, it rarely fails to make Kahlan laugh, and Cara always seems a little pleased with herself in these moments.
During one show, Kahlan's returning from paying her tab when she gets cornered by a very large, very drunk guy who looks like he only got into school because he can tackle other players into a pulp. He clearly recognizes Kahlan from The Confessors, because he uses that as an opening to talk about how he's learning to play guitar, and now he, like, totally gets Cobain. Kahlan is mildly amused at first, but when she tries to move away, the guy grabs her by the wrist, just beginning to squeeze. Kahlan's about to knee him in the balls when the guy yelps in pain and releases her hand. He's yanked back, spun around, and slammed into the wall. Cara stands behind him, one hand digging into his shoulder, the other hand bending his arm backwards in a slightly unnatural angle. The guy is easily twice Cara's weight, but Cara must have him by a nerve or something because the guy is mewling like a kitten. Cara leans in to murmur into his ear: "Don't be a dick, ok?" The guy nods, and with a final shove, Cara lets him go. The guy rubs his shoulder, staring at Cara balefully. Then he slinks away, head hung low and trying to ignore the smirks of those who witnessed the incident. Cara turns to Kahlan. "You ok?" she asks casually, and Kahlan grins.
"I will be if you show me how to do that." Impulsively, Kahlan leans over and plants a kiss on Cara's cheek. Cara scowls in return, but in the dim, smoky light of the bar, Kahlan could swear she detects a blush.
***
On the night of their first show with Cara in the band, Kahlan feels faintly like she's got carbonation in her veins. She always gets butterflies before a gig, but she's been performing so long that she's usually able to ignore them (not like during that first show her junior year in high school, when the butterflies hadn't so much been butterflies as pterodactyls).
Cara saunters in two minutes before soundcheck, wearing boots and jeans and a red top open enough to show the delicate lines of her collarbone. She nods at Kahlan and Richard and begins to set up. Zedd wanders in ten minutes later, much to Kahlan's relief. They run through a couple songs, then leave to get some dinner; the show's not for another few hours, and there's another band opening before them.
When they get back, the venue is packed and loud. They lounge around backstage, not saying much as they listen through the walls to the muffled pulsing of the opening band. Then it's time for them to go onstage. Kahlan feels a calm come over her as she leans in towards the microphone. She's wearing an all-white dress, like she usually does when she performs. She casts a glance Cara's way, and Cara cocks an eyebrow, as if to say, "What are you waiting for?"
So Kahlan stops waiting.
It's good. Kahlan can tell from the first note that it's going to be good. Halfway through the set, she feels like she's floating. Zedd's rhythm is beating little pinpricks through her veins; Richard's bassline is vibrating through her toes; Cara's guitar is a raucous countermeasure sending all her senses jangling. Kahlan feels like she's chasing after the lyrics tumbling out of her mouth; like she's sending them spinning and cavorting through the crowd, which is eating the whole thing up. They end on Kahlan's favorite song, the one that builds slow and worms its way under the skin, before suddenly erupting in a cacophony of sound that sends it galloping to its conclusion. Kahlan, breathing hard with sparks in her eyes, closes with her trademark, "We're the Confessors. Thanks for coming."
They head off stage to cheers Kahlan can hardly register, she's so filled with energy.
"Holy shit," Richard breathes. "That was amazing." Kahlan grins at him, then looks at Cara. There's a strange kind of acrobatics occurring on Cara's face, as her perpetual scowl wars with the sheer exhilaration of the performance; exhilaration wins, and Cara laughs a stunned, unexpected laugh. Kahlan laughs back, pulls Cara in for a hug, then pulls away and spins to clap Zedd on the back.
Zedd is nodding sagely. "Reminds me of that show I did with Jimmy Page in '67." Kahlan can only shake her head. They can hear the calls of "Encore," so they gird themselves again and play another song before taking their final bow.
Kahlan is still humming with energy when they return backstage. Almost immediately, Richard's accosted by several girls who managed to make their way backstage. They tug at his arm pleadingly, and he casts Kahlan a not-very-apologetic, shit-eating grin before stumbling after them. Zedd ran into some buddies of his earlier; he said they knew each other from the war. Kahlan's not really sure which war they're talking about, or even if it's a real war or a metaphorical war, but she suspects they'll soon be ingesting something back at Zedd's place. That just leaves Kahlan and Cara in the small backstage room, its floor littered with their instruments, the walls covered by peeling posters of acts long-gone.
Kahlan turns to Cara, her blood thumping with adrenaline, intending to make some comment about the show. But suddenly Cara's nothing but movement as she takes a step towards Kahlan and yanks her by the front of her dress for a long, bruising kiss. Kahlan leans into the kiss eagerly, feeling her teeth click against Cara's as she wraps an arm around her waist. Without knowing how it happens, she finds herself scrabbling at the hem of Cara's shirt and tugging it over her head, her heart pounding with anticipation. Cara's got her fingers at the back of Kahlan's dress, and Kahlan breathes a silent prayer of thanks that the zipper runs all the way down her back; in a single deft movement, Kahlan's dress is puddled at her feet. Cara grins possessively and then kisses her again, lots of tongue this time, her fingertips warm on Kahlan's waist as she begins propelling Kahlan backwards towards the couch. They don't quite make it; Kahlan trips over a foot-pedal and they literally go crashing down in a jarring clamor of cymbals and metal stands. Despite the amp digging into her back, Kahlan finds herself laughing, though the laugh quickly turns into a groan when Cara closes her mouth around Kahlan's nipple and lets her teeth just brush over the skin.
Kahlan is wet-ungodly, sinfully wet-and when Cara begins to kiss down her belly, she can't seem to resist a needy, "Jesus, please, Cara." Cara looks up at her, smirking the smirk to end all smirks, and Kahlan might have swatted the smugness out of her if Cara hadn't chosen that moment to let the callused tips of her fingers brush along Kahlan's clit. Kahlan jerks up, gasping, and then Cara's mouth is on her, fingers curling into her and beginning a rhythm. Kahlan finds her fingers are twisted through Cara's tousled hair, holding her tight as she bucks up against her mouth and tries not to moan too loud.
Kahlan's got a drumline sliding along her skin, matching the rhythm Cara sets. She's got a whole symphony in her mind to match the senses Cara is pulling out of her, and god knows there might even be a didgeridoo in there too. And as Kahlan comes, she thinks that if she could capture the exact note she makes in that moment, it would make a hell of a song.
***
Things only get better for the band after that. They start booking bigger venues, and their fans start expanding beyond Aydindril students. They're hardly the most popular band in town, but they get some solid write-ups in the city newspaper, and a couple of labels even start sniffing around.
Darken Rahl slinks back to them a month after their first show. They're warming up, Cara practicing a new guitar bit she wrote-a plucking, twangy thing that's not usually her style. She looks up when Rahl enters, narrowing her eyes, and Richard swiftly moves to intercept his brother, tugging him into an adjoining room. Fifteen minutes later, Rahl shoves the door back open, casting Cara a baleful glare. Cara takes a menacing step towards him, and Kahlan suspects Rahl would've ended up with Cara's smashed guitar around his ears if he hadn't stormed outside. Richard is upset at first, but a couple weeks later, Rahl joins a local speed metal band and the two of them reconcile.
Things with Cara are good too. Cara's not exactly the hand-holding type, but she's also not the type to keep a relationship a secret if she's serious about it. They come clean to Richard pretty soon, Cara glaring at him as if daring him to object. Richard only shrugs. "As long as it doesn't break up the band if you two break up, it's none of my business." Then he grins. "You just know this will make our band ten times more popular."
Only a couple weeks after they've begun christening various surfaces of Kahlan's apartment, Kahlan punches a giant pinprick through Cara's studied air of mystery. They're planning on catching a late show downtown, and Cara invites Kahlan to her house for the first time. Cara shares the house with three roommates who rarely seem to actually sleep at the house, though you could hardly tell from the mess littering their common room. As Cara is dressing after her shower, Kahlan idly wanders around Cara's room, examining the expected Hendrix poster, the unexpected Shinohara print. She stops short when she sees the paper lying on Cara's desk. Cara comes out, her hair still damp and sticking out at prickly angles around her face.
Kahlan lifts up the paper. "What's this?" Cara's eyes go wide with something approaching fear as she sees the seminar paper with her name on it. "Cara, are you…are you an English major?"
Cara's lips go thin, and she looks like she's going to bite out something fierce. Then she seems to deflate and offers a muttered, "Yes."
Kahlan looks at her incredulously. "No way."
"Well, what did you think I majored in?" Cara snaps.
"I don't know," Kahlan says, laughing. "Some mythical major where they teach you how to scowl and be a smart-ass?" As if to prove her point, Cara scowls, but Kahlan only grins bigger. "So what's your concentration?"
Cara mumbles something Kahlan can't quite hear, then sighs and enunciates. "Female British writers of the late 19th century."
"So, like, Jane Austen?"
"She was early 19th," Cara corrects immediately, frowning. "But yes, I do happen to like Jane Austen." She says the words defiantly, as if daring Kahlan to laugh. Kahlan takes up the dare and begins giggling.
"Cara, this is too good."
"Shut up."
"No, seriously Cara, this is amazing. I can't wait to tell Richard-he doesn't even think you go to Aydindril; he thinks you're, like, some kind of underground, guitar-playing gang leader who only pretends to go to school for the meal plan."
Cara promptly silences any other comments by tugging Kahlan by the belt and kissing her none-too-gently. Of course, Kahlan ruins the moment by murmuring, "Oh, Mr. Darcy," then yelps when Cara bites her on the shoulder. She finds she doesn't really mind.
***
Their final semester rolls around, the heat of summer with it. Recently, Kahlan has been crumpling up the song lyrics she writes, finding that far too many of them have "love" or "heart" in the first four lines.
She and Cara are lying on Kahlan's bed, the sun slanting through Kahlan's window and falling softly on her back. Cara is lying beside her, tan and lean and naked, her fingers tracing up and down Kahlan's back. She lets her fingers dance down the notches of Kahlan's spine, picking out chords.
"What are you playing?" Kahlan asks lazily, a smile tugging at her lips.
Cara shrugs. "Just something I wrote." She presses a kiss to Kahlan's shoulder, then simulates a complicated progression up and down Kahlan's back, before sliding her hand under Kahlan's hip and almost letting her fingers brush against her. Kahlan breathes in sharply through her nose, but keeps her voice even.
"I got offered that architecture internship in Chicago."
Cara's fingers go still. "Yeah?" she says, her voice suddenly free of inflection.
"Yeah," Kahlan says. She hesitates, searching Cara's face. "But…I was thinking about staying here, seeing if we can really make a go of it with the band. I mean, we don't get paid much per gig, but it's not like I'd be making any money with my internship. What do you think?"
A brightness flickers across Cara's eyes, and there's something almost shy in the way she murmurs, "Yeah. I think that might be good." Then her expression becomes more wicked as she begins to trace light circles just outside of where Kahlan wants her fingers to be. "But I vote you ditch the white dress-the purity thing is way overplayed."
Part of Kahlan wants to protest, but the rest of her wants to say whatever it takes to get Cara to touch her. She grins into her pillow. "We'll see."
The End