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rsadelleTitle: Long Way Down
Author: Ruth Sadelle Alderson
Fandom: Metallica
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Summary: There is no summary. You must read.
Warning: Will give away the story. Just know that it's angsty.
Author's Note: Thanks to Amatia for the read through and help with headers.
The church is plain, Midwestern, Protestant. Like him.
We arrive together and get out of the car. Kirk reaches his hand out. I let him grasp my fingers. I'm sure he's doing the same thing to Lars on the other side. I squint against the sunlight and the camera flashes. I wish I'd gone with Lars' usual fashion statement and worn sunglasses. Hiding sounds pretty good to me right now.
We go into the church and take our place, across the aisle from his parents. It's mostly a blur. I try to blink my tears away. Kirk cries openly. Lars gets up to speak.
"Jason," he starts. He has to stop and clear his throat. His glasses hide his eyes. "Jason wasn't just our bassist. He was part of our family." I know that if he weren't wearing the damn glasses, his eyes would be meeting mine. Or Kirk's. Lars stops and grips the podium tightly. "We can't replace him." For once, he doesn't have anything more to say. He comes back to us and sits as close to Kirk as he can without actually being in his lap.
We go from the church to the graveyard. The minister says more meaningless words while everyone weeps. We go forward and I mechanically drop a handful of dirt into his grave. It clunks against the coffin. It's such a final sound.
We go back to his house and drift through the crowd. We get separated and come back together again, our group of three forming and reforming. There's an eerie ring of familiarity to this.
Lars comes up to me. He's dragging Kirk by one hand and holding a bottle of Jagermeister in the other. I follow them out to the studio, Jason's blessedly soundproof studio. My fingers itch to pick up a guitar, but we have things to do first. We sit on the floor together. I twitch Lars' glasses off. His eyes are red-rimmed and bruised looking. He didn't get much sleep last night. None of us did.
Kirk sets down the glasses and Lars pours. We pick up the glasses. "To Cliff," Kirk says.
"To Cliff," Lars and I repeat. We drink. Lars pours a second glass. We stare at each other for a long minute.
"To Jason," Lars finally says.
"To Jason" Kirk and I choke out. We drink. The alcohol burns a path down my throat.
Lars pours us a third glass. "To Metallica," he says. He meets my eyes and I can see my own pain reflected there.
"To Metallica," I manage.
Kirk's black-tipped fingers tighten around his glass. He looks from Lars to me. "To Metallica." His voice breaks on the last syllable, but he forces the liquor down anyway.
We set down our glasses. "That's it," I say dully.
Lars, ever the businessman, offers, "We have enough material for the new album."
"That's true," I say. The words seem to stick in my throat. The matter of fact way we're talking about this breaks into the knot of despair that's been gathering in my chest. I double over, pressing my hands into the floor. How could this happen to us?
Kirk and Lars press against me. We cling to each other. It's just the three of us now. We're crying now, together, our tears falling to mix on the floor of the studio. Eventually it's too much, and I pull back, scrub at my eyes. I get up, find a guitar, turn on an amp. The other two stay on the floor, wrapped tightly in each other's arms as if that can make things all better.
I pull a pick out of the jar Jason always keeps-- *kept* sitting around. I draw it down across the strings of the guitar, make a few adjustments, do it again. I make my shaking fingers behave and it tunes, eventually. I play, not following a tune, just playing what I feel, pouring out my hurt, anger, grief into the music.
I hear Kirk tune another guitar and then he joins me. Lars bangs out his hurt on the drumset. We drift like that for a while. My fingers come back to a set of notes again and again. I give in to it and start to play the song. They pick up on it and join me. We play through "Outlaw Torn." It sounds empty without Jason.
The last notes fade out. We put down our guitars, the drumsticks, turn off the amps. Lars picks up the Jagermeister and his sunglasses. Kirk grabs the shot glasses. I turn off the lights on our way out.
--END--
Author: Ruth Sadelle Alderson
Fandom: Metallica
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Summary: There is no summary. You must read.
Warning: Will give away the story. Just know that it's angsty.
Author's Note: Thanks to Amatia for the read through and help with headers.
The church is plain, Midwestern, Protestant. Like him.
We arrive together and get out of the car. Kirk reaches his hand out. I let him grasp my fingers. I'm sure he's doing the same thing to Lars on the other side. I squint against the sunlight and the camera flashes. I wish I'd gone with Lars' usual fashion statement and worn sunglasses. Hiding sounds pretty good to me right now.
We go into the church and take our place, across the aisle from his parents. It's mostly a blur. I try to blink my tears away. Kirk cries openly. Lars gets up to speak.
"Jason," he starts. He has to stop and clear his throat. His glasses hide his eyes. "Jason wasn't just our bassist. He was part of our family." I know that if he weren't wearing the damn glasses, his eyes would be meeting mine. Or Kirk's. Lars stops and grips the podium tightly. "We can't replace him." For once, he doesn't have anything more to say. He comes back to us and sits as close to Kirk as he can without actually being in his lap.
We go from the church to the graveyard. The minister says more meaningless words while everyone weeps. We go forward and I mechanically drop a handful of dirt into his grave. It clunks against the coffin. It's such a final sound.
We go back to his house and drift through the crowd. We get separated and come back together again, our group of three forming and reforming. There's an eerie ring of familiarity to this.
Lars comes up to me. He's dragging Kirk by one hand and holding a bottle of Jagermeister in the other. I follow them out to the studio, Jason's blessedly soundproof studio. My fingers itch to pick up a guitar, but we have things to do first. We sit on the floor together. I twitch Lars' glasses off. His eyes are red-rimmed and bruised looking. He didn't get much sleep last night. None of us did.
Kirk sets down the glasses and Lars pours. We pick up the glasses. "To Cliff," Kirk says.
"To Cliff," Lars and I repeat. We drink. Lars pours a second glass. We stare at each other for a long minute.
"To Jason," Lars finally says.
"To Jason" Kirk and I choke out. We drink. The alcohol burns a path down my throat.
Lars pours us a third glass. "To Metallica," he says. He meets my eyes and I can see my own pain reflected there.
"To Metallica," I manage.
Kirk's black-tipped fingers tighten around his glass. He looks from Lars to me. "To Metallica." His voice breaks on the last syllable, but he forces the liquor down anyway.
We set down our glasses. "That's it," I say dully.
Lars, ever the businessman, offers, "We have enough material for the new album."
"That's true," I say. The words seem to stick in my throat. The matter of fact way we're talking about this breaks into the knot of despair that's been gathering in my chest. I double over, pressing my hands into the floor. How could this happen to us?
Kirk and Lars press against me. We cling to each other. It's just the three of us now. We're crying now, together, our tears falling to mix on the floor of the studio. Eventually it's too much, and I pull back, scrub at my eyes. I get up, find a guitar, turn on an amp. The other two stay on the floor, wrapped tightly in each other's arms as if that can make things all better.
I pull a pick out of the jar Jason always keeps-- *kept* sitting around. I draw it down across the strings of the guitar, make a few adjustments, do it again. I make my shaking fingers behave and it tunes, eventually. I play, not following a tune, just playing what I feel, pouring out my hurt, anger, grief into the music.
I hear Kirk tune another guitar and then he joins me. Lars bangs out his hurt on the drumset. We drift like that for a while. My fingers come back to a set of notes again and again. I give in to it and start to play the song. They pick up on it and join me. We play through "Outlaw Torn." It sounds empty without Jason.
The last notes fade out. We put down our guitars, the drumsticks, turn off the amps. Lars picks up the Jagermeister and his sunglasses. Kirk grabs the shot glasses. I turn off the lights on our way out.
--END--