(A/N: Sometimes guys need a little push. This one might just stand on its own, so I never did anything else with it. This is set right after the beginning of Daria's last summer in Lawndale before leaving for Boston. I was thinking that three months of talking and relationship development while Trent recuperates and gets his priorities straight (and getting the roaches out of the kitchen) would be enough to move forward with a credible romance.)
Try Again, Dude
Trent Lane stood front of the stage at the Zon, screaming his long-expired teen angst into a dented and smelly microphone. Yeah, we got it right tonight, he thought, the neck of his battered pawn-shop Charvel slick from sweat; even that buzzy fret at the high E wasn't bothering him now. Glancing over at the far corner table, he smiled as he noticed the two familiar heads nodding to the beat. The new stage lights that the club finally put in had shifted the atmosphere for the better, and it made him feel just a little bit more like a real rocker.
Hell, even Daria had a smile on her face. He leaned into the turnaround, pushing even more energy into the lick and closed his eyes as the tired old tubes in his crappy Univox amp managed miraculously to hit that right chime and grind. Oh yeah, he grinned, lost in the groove, not noticing the edge of the stage until he stepped off.
He instinctively moved to protect his guitar, not realizing until a split second later that it might be a better idea to protect himself and to hit the ground with something other than his skull. He began to curl, trying to tuck his head forward, but it was space already occupied by the damn guitar. He felt the lower bout hit the ground, and then the impact shot through and drove the horn and strap pin into his chin. As it snapped out of his grip the floor suddenly went vertical, slamming him upside the head.
Fuck Damn, went his brain, as the blood drained out of it onto the beer and puke stained floorboards, and the noise around him thankfully settling down into a dull rushing in his ears. This is likely not a good thing.
Tunnel, light, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.
"Trent Lane?"
"Yo." He was about to say something clever, until it occurred to him that sassing St. Peter was probably not the best thing he could do under the circumstances.
St. Peter shot him a look, and went back to the large book in front of him.
"Hmmm." He tilted his head slightly, bringing a curled finger up to his lip that was somewhere under a scraggly, kind of unkempt beard. He could use a manicure, or at least find a nail clipper, Trent thought. After a long while, he looked up. "Interesting. What to do with…you…"
He noted the one lifting eyebrow, his mind racing at what that tell might mean. He quashed that line of thinking, not unlike the uninvited cockroach that had made an ill-timed appearance when he had impulsively prepared that meal for the girl of his dreams. That had gone to hell in a heartbeat, Trent thought ruefully.
Trent snapped his point of focus to the eyes, and regretted that instantly.
He felt the gaze penetrating to his core, and it was turning over memories that had been swept under long forgotten carpets, and buried under heavy nondescript boulders by the side of misty roads. Nothing could be burned or shredded in time to avoid detection and analysis, all of which had already happened by the time he could arrange the electrochemical molecules in his brain in order to form the realization.
This was not good.
Not good at all.
Trent waited as patiently as he could under the circumstances, now following the motion of those ill-manicured fingertips as they idly stroked at the beard. Another slight change in the visage brought Trent's attention to the slowly deepening furrow of the forehead, and then back to that roachlike eyebrow.
"Hang on, kid," Saint Peter growled, reaching into his flowing raiment to retrieve a cellphone that was older than dirt. With a glare from the gatekeeper, Trent's hearing switched off, the sounds of the conversation now muffled and unintelligible.
The book that was up on the podium looked kinda familiar. When he first saw it, it was a big, immense thing, like one of those big reference thesaurus things at the library, but even bigger.
Somehow, it had turned into a dog-eared, spiral bound notebook.
"Dammit, Lane," rumbled a voice. Trent noticed that Saint Peter had finished his call and was about to rip him a new one, by the looks of things. "You're early, and you were supposed to go and do some pretty important stuff for us before packing it in."
"Now explain to me," Saint Peter continued, holding up his lyric book. "If you really felt this way about this young woman, why the hell didn't you do anything about it?"
Trent flushed, embarrassed. Hey, I was taking it slow, dude. I didn't want to spook her. She was kinda nervous around me. "Um, well, I made her a peanut butter sandwich?" Oh, yeah, that sounded kinda lame. Saint Peter rolled his eyes and tossed the lyric book back to Trent.
"One more chance, Lane. Don't screw this up."
"TRENT!"
Janey was screaming at the top of her lungs.
Slowly, painfully, he managed to open his eyes a tiny, tiny bit. Two pairs of black combat boots were inches away from his face.
A moment later, a black skirt hem appeared, and he felt the cool touch of small, delicate fingers trembling at his neck. They pushed softly into his skin, held for a moment, and then withdrew. He felt fingertips brushing his ear, and lightly running through his hair, as if examining him closely.
Warm droplets splashed on his cheek.
"Thank you," he heard a soft voice whisper.
"Ow."
"TRENT!" Janey's voice. "You fucking moron! Thank GOD you're not dead!"
"Don't move him, Jane, the EMTs will be here in a minute." Daria's quiet voice, tremulous, barely controlled. She had been crying. "And stop screaming at him, he probably has the mother of all headeaches."
Moments later, he felt himself lifted onto a gurney, strapped to a backboard.
"Are you related, miss?" Trent heard the EMT hesitate, not sure if he should let the girl aboard the ambulance.
"Sister," snapped Jane, pulling herself aboard with the handrail, the other hand pulling Daria.
"Okay," The EMT barked, "But you-"
"Let her come, please," croaked Trent, reaching as best he could for her.
"Please, I'll stay out of the way," the smaller girl said firmly.
"Look," the EMT spoke to Trent as he secured the door, "I didn't notice your girlfriend behind me, okay?" He motioned to the driver, and they took off into the night, the lights and the siren sort of giving Trent an idea for a song.
