This was originally written for brutalbusiness'' February 2010 challenge, "Romance is Brutal". That it was forcibly removed from said community for, er, not being strictly Charles/Nathan enough should not water down the original intent of the story. At best, it is an observation on Charles' behalf of Nathan's relationship with someone else, in the same way that Charles might observe Nathan playing a musical instrument or learning French. At worst, I am a terrible person for sneakily shoehorning canon het and plot points into my Nathan/Charles friendship 'fic. Your mileage may vary.

Summary: Charles observes the celebrity supernova that is Natebecca.

The Ballad of Natebecca

Charles runs a full background check on Rebecca Nightrod the moment he gets wind of the fact that she and Nathan are dating. His job description as Dethklok's CFO does not explicitly state that he ought to keep meticulous records on everyone from assistant microphone cleaners to potential girlfriends; that said, he revels in the twinge of satisfaction that comes from peering at credit card spreadsheets and dental records that his eyes were never meant to see.

A bit disappointingly, Rebecca is clean, aside from some driving tickets and a drug possession charge (coke; he smirks a bit) that was mysteriously dropped. Charles closes the tab on his desktop and throws himself into balancing one of the band's many expense accounts.

Nathan lurks at his door several hours later. Charles nods him inside his inner sanctum, already pretty much having guessed what he wants. "So uh, I'm dating Rebecca now," he mumbles, scuffing the toe of his boot on Charles' favorite rug. "So she'll be here a lot. Can you like, get her some security so she doesn't get mauled by any of my stupid fans?"

When he leaves, Charles peruses a news Web site that's proudly responsible for coining the "Natebecca" moniker. He catches himself scowling and, surprised at his own vitriol, forces his face back into its usually placid arrangement.

Nathan's sort of an overgrown eighth grader when it comes to romance. He writes moody song lyrics about bloody hearts and succubae in his notebook; chews on his hair; scribbles things on himself with permanent marker. The other guys can't stand it, as Charles is frequently informed. "He's just naht himsehlf," Pickles frowns, hackles raised, looking around for something to break. "That son o' a douchebag." Charles steers him away from his tiny, desk-sized rock garden.

Charles turns a blind eye to any efforts Dethklok makes to cure Nathan of his relationship with Rebecca. Short of murder, he simply pretends he doesn't notice Toki in the security camera, lugging a baseball bat into Nathan's bedroom. He also makes a point of commenting politely, yet obtusely on Nathan's twin black eyes the next morning. "I, uh, ran into a door," the front man grunts unhappily. Sitting opposite the singer at the breakfast table, Murderface smirks.

"You don't like her, do you?" Nathan is drunker than usual and swaying a bit. He props himself against Charles' doorframe and squints, his eyes bleary. He's just spent five hours on the phone breaking up with Rebecca, and then getting back together with her.

Charles fingers a pen he's been using to sign contracts. "I don't dislike her," he says carefully. "She's nice." In truth, he finds Rebecca unapproachable – perhaps because their first and only interaction was him getting her to sign a pain waiver – but he's dealt with less pleasant people before.

Nathan frowns at him. "You're s'posed to be different," he accuses. "You're not s'posed to be one o' them." He blinks slowly, like he's not sure what he's doing. "Why can't you jus' be cool?"

"Sorry?" Charles shrugs. He makes sure one of the Klokateers keeps an eye on the singer until Nathan manages to stumble into bed.

The circumstances of Rebecca's coma are strange, but Charles barely bats an eye. Dethklok has a somewhat disproportionately high ability to make uncanny things happen. He supposes that he's just used to it by now.

The rest of the band is thrilled when Nathan tells them; Pickles and Murderface high-five, while Toki gushes about "gettings to makes outs with alls the nice ladies nows" and Skwisgaar fingers his guitar in smug satisfaction. "Dood, that's so great! I mean, uh, tragic," Pickles says sweetly. "But hey, s'long as she's outta the picture, I guess you can go to the Pornography Awards, huh?"

"She's not like, out of the picture, okay." Nathan is tensely postured on the edge of his chair. Charles senses that his brooding period will last longer than the time it took for Rebecca to trip down twelve flights of stairs on six-inch heels. "Her opinion still matters."

"Okay," Pickles says quickly.

"She's still alive," Nathan rumbles.

"Yeah, dood, I know."

The night after the United States Pornography Awards, Dethklok hosts its own private, impromptu after-party-cum-naked-pillow-fight back at Mordhaus. The festivities carry on well into the morning; Charles keeps to himself, but is gratified to catch glimpses of Nathan joining in on the fun.

Charles forgets all about Rebecca until he hears that she's being visited, albeit still coma-ridden, by some blond tennis star pretty boy. He's pretty sure Nathan has forgotten all about her until then, too. Nonetheless, he's prepared for the bout of sulking and moping around that he's sure will follow.

Unsurprisingly, Nathan shoves himself into one of Charles' spare chairs as he's putting the finishing touches on the band's weekly internal newsletter. "How's it going, Nathan?" he says congenially, highlighting "Dethklok employees, all" and hitting "send."

Nathan doesn't answer right away. His eyes sweep the contents of the manager's desk. "Does that really work?" he asks dubiously, pointing at Charles' rock garden.

Charles shrugs. "Sometimes."

"Oh."

Charles folds his hands in front of him. "So you're, uh, doing all right?" he asks placidly. "Everything's okay?"

Nathan doesn't say anything. Finally: "It's not metal to write songs about love, is it?"

"No, probably not."

"Huh." Large fingers pick up one of the tiny rock garden pieces. "What are you doing for Valentine's Day?" he asks. Charles raises an eyebrow, and then Nathan presses on as if he's already been given an answer. "I got Rebecca a card," he grumps. "And some matching necklaces that say 'Natebecca' on them and are shaped like skulls. They're really brutal."

"Ah."

Nathan uses the little rake to comb the sand in the makeshift garden. "I guess I should burn them," he shrugs. "I mean, I could keep them in case I ever date anybody named Rebecca again, or in case we ever get back together."

"You could," Charles nods.

Nathan puts the rake down. "Valentine's Day sucks," he says decidedly.

"I'm sorry about that, Nathan," Charles says sincerely.

"Hmm. Oh, I almost forgot." He pulls a small, slightly crumpled box out of the pocket of his jeans, tossing them onto the desk: Conversation Hearts. "They're my favorite," Nathan explains defensively. Then he picks up the box and dumps the contents on the much-abused mahogany surface. "See, they have words on them."

Charles peers down. "'U R a Q T'" he reads aloud.

Nathan begins sorting the candy pieces. "I like the yellow ones," he tells Charles, popping 'Call me' into his mouth, crushing it noisily with his small, sharp, triangular teeth. "You can't have those." He pushes a little pile of white hearts towards the CFO. "Do you like them?" he asks.

"Uh, sure." Privately, Charles thinks they taste a little like chalk, but he senses that it's important to Nathan. He turns one of the proffered candies right-side up. "'Be mine,'" he reads.

Nathan holds up a green piece. "'U R 2 Gud 2 B Tru'." He frowns. "I bet Rebecca wouldn't have liked them, anyway," he shrugs. He stays in Charles' office until the entire box has been eaten.