And Supernatural Bollocks Galore!

or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Band

For Trisha.

-

"Need a pick?"

"Yeah," said Remus, twanging a thick bass-string. The amp he was seated on rumbled appreciatively. "My thumb's a bit sore." Something small and hard bounced off the back of the head; he bent over, swept it off the gritty concrete floor, curling his fingers round the nub of plastic with a mumbled word of thanks.

"Calluses," said Sirius, matter-of-factly. "Said you'd need them."

Remus peered at his fingertips, as though if he looked hard enough, calluses would bubble to the skin surface, kraken-esque. But it was dark in James's garage and raining outside, so he couldn't make out much besides the fact that he had fingers- roughly five of them, give or take a few.

Sprawled across from Remus on a ratty armchair was James, complacently stoned. There was already a round dark burn mark on the armrest from how he tapped the end of his cig there when he was thinking, and it was getting darker still as he fidgeted with it.

Nursing a troubled expression, he looked across at them for a while (but mostly at Sirius), like he was sizing them up. Smoke curled up around his face, skirting cheekbones and hooded eyes. Finally, a random neurone fired somewhere in his brain, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"You know what we have to do?"

Sirius glanced up from tuning his beloved guitar - it had craptastic action but for twenty-five quid you couldn't really complain. "What now, Potter?" he grinned. "Because if this'll be like the time you got right properly pissed and suggested we all charge down the street starkers, then..." He turned his amplifier on with a deft flick of the hand, and started twiddling the volume knobs.

"Nah, not like that," James said hastily, flicking ash at Remus, who was failing to choke down a traitorous laugh. "Just that- we need to get laid, you see."

"Drunk," Peter corrected him, after a moment's thought. "We need to get drunk. You need to get laid because you swore off birds last week when Evans told you she'd taken a vow of celibacy-"

"- Rub salt in my wounds, why don't you?" James said, sighing in such a way as to let them all know he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. "But don't tell me you're all regularly getting some, you lot all put together are not half as good looking as my handsome self." He took a puff; wheeze-coughed, faintly. Rain rattled the garage roof and window-panes, dripping dismally through cracks in the ceiling, and the cig in his hand hissed as a fat raindrop hit its smoking end.

"I could have Evans if I wanted," added Sirius. "You just spend half your time flailing about and the other half rowing with her. And put out that fucking fag will ya- you need your voice for tomorrow."

"Don't be a girl, Black."

"Remus, hit him."

"Can't have you coughing and hacking your way through our next gig, ruin your chances with Evans," Remus tried, diplomatically. He didn't think it'd do to have them in a snit with each other again; last time they near came to blows onstage, which had put a bit of a damper on the performance. They'd just been having a bit of fun, but the bouncers didn't find it quite as amusing as they did.

This gave Peter pause for consideration. While thinking, he absent-mindedly tapped out a drum riff on the side of the armchair - almost, but not quite, in sync with Sirius's spastic stomping on his distortion pedal.

"... Remus is right, y'know," he said finally, looking up from beating the stuffing out of the chair. "We need this gig. Won't get it if they think you'll break out in giggles halfway and take a swing at Sirius again."

"Was funny though, wasn't it?"

James stared hopefully from one reproachful look to another, and at Sirius, who seemed somewhat distracted. (His amp was crackling and hissing in a most discouraging manner.) In melodramatic despair, he tossed his hands up, and nearly dropped his cig into Peter's lap. "All right. All right! I see how it is. Won't smoke. Can't I even drink though?"

"Not after what happened last time," replied Sirius serenely, leaning back over the amplifier with a long-suffering look. "D'you know, I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, dreaming about what you did?"

"So I spilled beer in your amp. What's all the fuss? It was only about half a pint!" Silence, broken sparsely by Peter's enthusiastic practising. "... Come on Remus, not you too?"

"Sorry, James," Remus told him gently. "An amp is an amp."

James gaped at him open-mouthed for a few moments, and then remembered to shut it because he is not a codfish. "Fine. Fine. All right then. All right-" He swung his feet off the armchair onto the dusty concrete, and made his way over to a window, throwing it open to the torrential rain. With a little flick of his hand, the cigarette was lost from sight. "There. See? 'Sgone. Are you going to take my bollocks now too, or is it enough just depriving me of all my other worldly comforts?"

"Have a drink down the pub later," said Peter comfortingly, rising from his seat on the floor. James shot him a dirty look, diving back into the armchair before Peter could usurp his place.

"Anyway it's my garage," he said sullenly, putting his feet up on the bass amp, against Remus's back. Remus thrust a bony elbow back in silent protest, but said nothing; it wasn't worth winding him up again over something small and wasting more time. The string slaps the body of his bass guitar with a satisfying 'thwock' every time he pulled at it, and Sirius gave him a questioning glance, having finally coaxed his amp back to life.

"We going to get around to practising, or just going to fuck about the rest of the day?"

"I'm ready," muttered Remus, lurching to his feet in an ungainly manner. He'd yet to get used to holding it up with the strap; it felt as though his arm was going to snap right off. Sirius smirked at him, and he flipped Sirius the bird and looked away.

"All right lads," said James, after Peter had hauled him back to his feet. He grabbed at the microphone stand and crooned into it, wildly off-key, "Let's do this."

(It occurred to Remus that there was nothing else he'd rather be doing than this: crumbling under the weight of a bass guitar, listening to the rain and wind and James's "singing"; Peter's unsteady drum rolls; Sirius's curses as his amp fizzles in and out of consciousness punctuating his heady guitar licks. He imagined being at home alone, doing crossword puzzles, and was suddenly exceedingly glad he has friends.)