#Sobriety Shirt Recovery

[nadal-designer]

[cleanaf]

[ivystoryweaver]

With You part 4

<- prev   next ->  ||  Fic Masterlist   ||  My Masterlist

Summary: The truth is out. Will you see Jake again? Is Moon Knight back in business?

Pairings: Jake Lockley x reader, (Marc Spector x reader, Steven Grant x reader). Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings/notables: Angst, comfort, references to alcoholism and recovery, cursing, a little bit of voice-raising I guess, some arguing, some touching/grabbing but no one is getting hurt i promise. Let me know if I missed a warning. Probably inaccurate DID, based on the show.

Dividers by saradika

PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...

The two of you held one another in the middle of your drafty little kitchen, the shared answers between you only raising more questions.

��I think you should talk to Steven,” you suggested gently, “if you feel ready.”

Resting his forehead against yours, (Marc) rubbed your back soothingly. “Yeah. And maybe...maybe Jake too.”

It occurred to you, over the next two nights, that perhaps you were a heavy sleeper. 

Marc and Steven had a little heart-to-heart about “that bloody stupid pigeon” - Steven’s words, obviously. Steven made it to class and to his university library shifts. Marc’s two years of hard work and sobriety paid off, because he was now equipped with a wonderful support system - you, Steven, a close friend of his, and he even called his old sponsor. 

Then he attended a meeting (his idea). It was also his idea for Steven to keep his normal schedule. Marc felt guilty enough for getting Steven fired from the museum those years ago. (That, plus all the secrets.) So he changed his mind about hiding out in the flat with you. Routine was key. Routine and communication. 

You were so proud of your guys, but there were still a couple of glaring issues: Jake and the bloody stupid pigeon. 

Three nights after you first met Jake, you were determined to talk to him again. Marc had tried, Steven had tried, but Jake was used to operating completely alone. You got the feeling that this alter rarely did one damn thing he didn’t want to do. 

So you set three of the loudest, most blaring alarm sounds to go off on your phone - one at 2am, 3am and 4. You warned Marc and Steven, of course. In the event that Jake fell asleep, one of them would most likely wake up. Or Jake might not even front that night. 

But in case he did, you wanted to be awake for it. The alarm wasn’t for him anyway. It was because you had apparently slept through Jake’s entire existence, and you would never get to know him if things went on this way. You had to try.

So, tonight you made the effort to sleep in actual pajamas - black satin ones - a gift from Steven, instead of one of Marc’s comfy undershirts. The outfit wasn’t particularly revealing - you weren’t trying to seduce anyone, you just wanted to look a little more presentable than the worried, frantic mess from the first night you met Jake. 

Exhaustion overtook you easily and you did fall into a deep sleep, only to be jolted awake by your blaring 2am alarm, which scared the shit out of you. This could possibly be your worst idea ever. But you quickly realized, while trying to calm the hammering of your heart, that your fiancé was not in bed with you. 

Sitting up and pushing off the bed, you trudged to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face before checking the apartment for signs of life. Nothing. 

So you waited. 

You were alllmost back to sleep when he arrived - through the damn window, again. 

Sitting up, you flipped on the bedside lamp, just as he pulled his flat cap from his head and raked his fingers through his lustrous, chocolate waves. Sporting what you were starting to believe was his signature look - this alter carried himself with a self-assurance you had never seen from your fiancé. 

His expensive but worn leather jacket stopped at his waist, meeting well-fitting, sleek black pants. The same crisp, white shirt and dark tie, along with black, leather driving gloves completed his style. These weren’t clothes off a rack - they were tailored to fit him perfectly. He had chosen his look for a purpose...you assumed. 

“Jake?” you softly greeted, easing off the bed. 

Warm brown eyes stared at you, flashing as if momentarily caught off guard, before he pulled at the fingers of his gloves, just like he had done the first night.

“Go back to bed, cariño,” he implored, his voice rich, alluring, and much deeper than Steven’s. “It’s late, you should sleep,” he added, forcing himself to look away from the black satin draping itself over your body. 

“I don’t respond well to orders,” you nonchalantly replied, easing toward him. “I was waiting for you.”

Clenching both of his removed gloves in one hand, he stopped and turned to glare at you. “Why?”

“Why not?” you shrugged. “It’s the middle of the night. I was worried.”

He scoffed. Dropping his gloves, he peeled off his leather jacket, turning his back to you. “Well, don’t. I can take care of myself.”

“Apparently not,” you shot back, reaching down to gather his discarded hat, gloves and jacket, domestically picking up after him, as if it were completely natural to you. “Not since Marc woke up in an alley the other night, in the Moon Knight suit.”

Jake was not sure what was more infuriating at the moment: you touching his shit, or you running interference for Marc. 

“I get it - can’t let anything upset Marc,” he growled, jerking his clothing out of your arms, a little more dramatically than he intended. You didn’t even flinch. “Believe me, muñeca(o), I’ve been dealing with him my whole life.”

You rolled your eyes, bristling in Marc’s defense. “Okay, first of all, I am not your doll.” You matched his glare with your hands on your hips, “and secondly, you can fuck right off.”

“Happily,” he sarcastically agreed. “You’re the one who ambushed me.”

True. You were in rare form tonight. However...

“Oh. I didn’t realize walking around my own bedroom was considered an ambush,” you fired back. “I was worried about you, Jake!”

“You were worried about him,” he sneered, dropping the pile of clothes onto the bed. “And I get that. You two are getting married, or whatever. Just let me do my job in peace.”

“And what is your job, exactly? Being Khonshu’s slave? Almost getting yourself killed?”

Dragging a hand down his face, he groaned.

“I fucked up, okay? It’s never happened before.” Angrily jerking off his tie, he silently cursed himself for coming in the window again, without making sure you were asleep. Although part of him knew, deep down, that he was dying to see you. And now this. Now you knew what had happened to Marc, that night, in the alley. 

“Jake, I can’t control what you do,” you admitted, your voice softening. You rarely ever raised your voice, let alone argued like this with Marc or Steven. But Jake just got under your skin. The heat in your cheeks and the heaving of your chest was definitely all worry. Nothing else, not at all...right?

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” you started again, boldly reaching for the tie clenched in his strong fist, which he held tightly to. “Your choices are yours. I respect that.”

He waited for a moment. “But?” He prodded. 

“But,” you added, swallowing hard, “You could have seriously been hurt. Khonshu is not obviously not protecting you. He doesn’t care what happens to you.”

“No one cares what happens to me,” he snapped, jerking away from you, tossing his tie carelessly. “That’s how it works. I protect them. That’s my job. That’s my only job.” 

“Bullshit,” you challenged, following him closely. “I care what happens to you, Jake. I care!” Reaching out, you desperately took hold of his forearm. “I’ve been waiting three nights in a row to see you again. I set my alarm just to wake up and see you. I’m yelling at you, Jake, and I never yell, ever. You’re driving me crazy!”

“Is that right?” He lowly growled, grabbing your arm - the one connected to him - and walking you back toward the wall. If you wanted his attention, you damn sure had it now. “You’ve known me for three days and I’m driving you crazy?”

All the air rushed out of you as one grip became two. Jake grasped your shoulders and pressed your back up against the wall, bending his knees slightly to descend to your height. “I’ve been sleeping next to you for years, mi amor. So believe me when I say that I know how you feel.”

“Jake, I...” you struggled to breathe normally as his dark eyes burned into yours, the grip of his fingers unyielding, yet somehow tender. “I didn’t know,” you finally uttered. “I didn’t know you were there, all this time. We don’t even know each other.” 

“I do know you,” he confessed, his voice softening as his thick fingers loosened their grip. “I know you. Marc and Steven too. So I can protect you.”

“But who will protect you?” you whispered, placing your palms on his chest to brace yourself, the heat of his firm body seeping through his dress shirt.

His searing gaze faltered, eyes dropping, his jaw clenching in determination. “Doesn’t matter. I have to do this for them. You have no idea how many enemies Marc has. Nothing else can happen to him.”

“What do you mean?” You asked him, your voice softening. “Doesn’t being an avatar make more enemies? Marc was trying to leave all that behind.”

Shaking his head, Jake turned his face away, sighing loudly. Why was he even doing this with you? As foreign as a personal conversation felt to him, he couldn’t deny how good it felt to be looked after - to be worried about, to be touched. 

“He can’t - leave it behind. It’s not safe,” Jake finally explained, his head still turned to the side, avoiding your pleading gaze. “We’re not safe without Khonshu.”

You wanted to protest, but in all honestly, how would you know? 

“Jake,” you whispered, pushing your fingers up the definition of his chest, over the length of his neck to trace the sharp edge of his jaw. God, he was beautiful. So like the men you loved, yet completely his own, complicated person. You knew next to nothing about him. He could have his own life, his own family - someone of his own to come home to.

...but why, then, had he spent years sleeping next to you? And why were you drawn to him like this - following him, touching him, shouting...your emotions wild and unpredictable?

“Jake,” you began again, your breath faltering as his eyes met yours.

He couldn’t take it - being this close to you. “What?” he rasped, his voice softly betraying the stern pinch of his dark eyebrows. “What do you want from me?”

Releasing your shoulders, finally, he took hold of your hips, pulling you flush against his chest. “Tell me, cariño,” he whispered darkly. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want -” you hardly recognized the plea in your own voice, you fingers still dancing over the angles of his handsome face. 

Jake’s eyebrows shot up inquisitively, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. You realized, then, that he seemed pleased to see you falter - to see you speechless. 

Well, fuck that. 

“I want to know you,” you finally admitted, returning the press of your fingers to his chest, your gaze dropping. “I want to know who you are, and if...if you have anyone. Someone - a family. And I want Marc and Steven to know you.”

Ah, he should have known. Releasing his grip on your hips, he pulled away, nodding as he headed toward the edge of the bed. Pushing his discarded pile of clothes aside, he sat down on the edge, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” he finally responded, “but...this is my only home.” His eyes met yours from across the room. “You’re my only family.”

Your whole world stopped.

All at once, you were both devastated and thrilled. Jake had no one else to answer to in his life - he could be a family with you and Marc and Steven, if he was willing. Even if he didn’t want to be involved with you romantically, you wanted him to be a part of your life. But what kind of lonely existence had he led? Out at night, the avatar of a god, bringing vengeance to the vilest of men...protecting the system, but getting nothing in return? 

But the two of you couldn’t solve everything in one night. You would try, once more, to take what was in front of you, one step at a time. 

“I am,” you finally answered, crossing the room to ease down on the edge of the bed beside him. “I am your family. And this is your home. You don’t have to hide from us, Jake, or sneak in through windows.”

“I’m not...hiding,” he attempted, eyes downcast as his shoulder rubbed up against yours. “I just don’t want to take any more of their life. Of yours.”

“They’re trying to talk to you, you know. You don’t have to shut them out.”

He said your name then, and it almost felt strange to hear him say it. Different, but...good. 

He waited until you turned your head to look at him. “What I have...the way we are,” He tapped a finger to his temple, “in here...it’s not like a phone call. It doesn’t always work like that. It’s not always a sure thing.”

Shit. You violated the my-man-has-DID rules somehow. “I-I’m sorry, Jake, you’re right. It’s not my place to tell you how to...I don’t know, interact with your alters. I’m really sorry.”

Scowling, he paused, making you wonder if you really offended him. 

“Are you always this damn infuriating?” He cracked a smile, letting you know it was all right. 

“Actually, I’m usually a very calm and reasonable person,” you chuckled, leaning against his arm and giving him a little shove. “You just bring it out in me.”

Oh, he liked the idea of getting under your skin. He liked it a lot. 

“Really?” He teased. “You mean you don’t scare the shit out them in the middle of the night? Follow them around? Drive them crazy...wearing that?” He threw your words back at you. 

What a little shit. 

“No,” you steadily answered him, your gaze open and honest. “I guess I’m just here to drive you crazy.” 

@stormydaysxx laaundromat @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra this--is--music @i-still-dont-like-your-face​

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

lip and ian / frank and monica

i have so many feelings about them- specifically in 7x08. that episode was very ian and lip, and i think the best part of that episode was this still of ian’s face after lip grabs him and screams at him

his face here is barely visible but it’s so telling. he’s breathing heavily and in shock and overall just seems almost scared. and like, i get it, i would react the same way because who wouldn’t, but something about the way he looks at lip reminds me of this

and i just know that he saw a little bit of frank in lip when he did that. maybe he thought of the story lip told about frank being sober when they were 9 & 10 and then going back to being a drunk, maybe for a second he just associated that with lip.

and not like this was purposeful (or was it?) but ian’s literally wearing the same shirt just in a different color.

lip isn’t frank, just like how ian isn’t monica. they both know this, but still the way they look at their parents vs at each other is similar.

(lip looking at monica when she was manic)

(lip looking at ian when he was manic)

or take lip’s monologue about ian from season six for example,

“you know, he thinks… being bipolar means he’s doomed to be a piece of shit like our mother. maybe it’s true.” “maybe it’s not.”

and just the whole dummy & alcoholic gene thing from season 1 made it so clear that something would happen to both of them.

and the fact that ian is always told he looks like monica and lip is always told he looks like frank, it’s just soul crushing.

and they both date people like their parents. ian dates older guys to fill the void frank created. lip dates unstable (usually blonde) women to fill the void monica created.

in ways, they are like their parents.

both frank and lip were academically smart, both of them were poor but had promising futures, and both of them are attracted to craziness/crazy women. (plus they’re alcoholics).

both monica and ian are caring people. they both have been used by people, specifically used in a sexual way. they’re both queer. (and they’re both mentally ill).

but the similarity between the two brothers is that they want recovery. they don’t want to be like their parents. ian wants his stability back. lip wants his sobriety back. monica was unmedicated, frank was beyond repair, but lip and ian wanted to change and they didn’t want the lives that frank and monica lived.

[chronically-ghosted]

a cute megalomaniac (recovery road - chapter i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | chapter ii

chapter rating: T (series: E)

word count: 6K

chapter summary: dieter's first day on set

chapter warnings/tags: mentions of rehab/addiction/withdrawal, language, no one gets along

a/n: My FC for Heidi is Sarah Goldberg and Timothy Olyphant as Mark (low hanging fruit, I know)

It’s getting hot inside the car. 

If he was going to sit this long in the fucking car, he should have left it running. Summers in LA are sneaky. Desert air is cold in the dark, but piercing in the day. He had purposefully parked in the shade, but it was still too much. He feels sweat break out across his hairline and he knows that won’t be a good look. He needs to look completely put together, completely at ease, relaxed. Unflinching. Unrufflable. Like he does tai chi every thirty minutes and can harmonize with the universe during rush hour traffic. 

He’s got to keep it together. 

But he can’t take his fucking palms down from his eyes. The heel of his hands dig into his eye sockets and for all the pressure it builds, it feels good. The pressure flushes out every other thought in his head and he needs to go into this clear-headed. If he fucks up again, it’s not just his ass on the line. 

He wants to believe things are going to be different this time. He wants to believe he’s going to be different. He’s worked his ass off to get here– sweated and shook and vomited into his own lap as the withdrawals tightened every muscle in his body– and now he just needs this one chance. Chloe – patient, perfect Chloe – was counting on him. If she said he could do it, he probably could. 

His left hand, fourth finger, twinges and that’s what brings his hands down from his face. He looks at the ring there. That gold beautiful ring. A promise made real. He swallows. 

Today, it’s a table read. Done it a thousand times. He’s actually early, for fuck’s sake. He glances down, triple checking he’s not wearing slippers or that mangy robe. Jeans. Black shirt. Easy. Chloe warned against the rings, but he’d sooner part with those than his right hand entirely. Sure he fucked up, sure he was a fuck up, but there were parts of Dieter Bravo that just had a right to exist. People wouldn’t recognize him without his rings. 

He did cave about the earring though. 

You’re almost thirty-six, darling. Nobody but rockstars can wear earrings at that age. 

When he went into rehab, he was thirty-three. He had lost two years of his life in that prison and he was not about to do it again. He had left his sobriety token at home, but he wished he had it now, just for something to squeeze, something to soothe his feverish palm. Again, Chloe had quietly nudged him: “do we need to get you a fidget spinner, baby?”

He wanted to joke, “that’s what the adderall is for,” but given that his doctor was forced to prescribe him something else for his ADHD after they found a dozen empty pill bottles under his bed, it probably wasn’t all that funny. 

He breathes, counting down just like the nice lady at the rehab center taught him to. 

Your self-destructive habits formed out of necessity. It’s time to reshape them. 

Today, it’s just a table read. He can do this.

He pops his sunglasses out of their holder on the console and slips them over his eyes. He takes one more glance out of the rearview mirror, half-expecting to be staring down the long lens of a TMZ reporter. He grabs the script from the passenger seat, curls it under his fingers— and still doesn’t move.

He likes this script. He likes the writer, seen their work in the past and it rocks. It’s good. It’s a good part. It’s actually better than good. It’s Oscar bait, the internet buzz says, and he has the lead part. An aging musician struggling to rebuild his life after a drug addiction ruined his band’s final tour. The scriptwriter didn’t actually say that he had Dieter in mind when he wrote the part, but Jesus– suffice it to say, he understood the material. 

The aging musician was going to help a young upstart find her way in the music scene. She joins the band. They flirt, they fuck, they fall in love, and everything is ruined by their own egos. End credits. Lights up. Oscar in his hand. 

He didn’t recognize the name of his co-star when his agent sent over the cast list. He honestly didn’t even ask about her. He had known the director, Heidi, for years, had worked with her in the past, and thought she had a real eye for scenecraft and a knack for finding that beating heart of a moment. He trusted her with casting the right part for his opposite, just as she had casted him. But it wasn’t even about his co-star– he was ready to dig in and see what the director could pull out of him. 

And fuck, if it worked for RDJ, then it could work for him. 

This had to work for him. He feels the pressure return behind his eyeballs. 

“Fuck it,” he hisses and nearly kicks the door open. The script curled up in his hand like a baseball bat, Dieter Bravo strolls across the hot parking lot to the studio sound stage and into the rest of his life.

He is used to being stared at. He is used to all eyes on him, but not like this. This feels too much like that last party when the cops showed up and found all of his illegal prescriptions. It makes him itch.

The empty stage is filled mostly with crew and staff, setting up lighting and testing the sound recording. They’re all busy, getting ready for next week to start filming, but they still have time to send him a worried glance. Because if he fucked up, they’d all be out of a job. They had enough courtesy to not actually whisper in front of him, but he knew exactly what they were saying just after he’s out of earshot:

“Oh, fuck, this is a Bravo flick? Shit, I gotta get another gig.”

“That asshole is here? Oh my God, this thing’ll be shut down in two weeks!”

“Fuck that guy and his stupid hair.”

Okay, that last one might have been projecting. He catches his own gaze in a pane of glass while he waits for the director’s assistant to return. His hair, despite his best attempts, would not lie flat, would not stay unrumpled. Another thing Chloe thought a man of his age should have a better grip on. 

He hasn’t seen another cast member and now he’s worried he got the time wrong and he’s missed it and he’s already started all of this off all wrong —

“Dieter! Oh my God, you’re here!”

Heidi, the director, beams at him so bright he actually feels himself go warm. She has her arms out open for him and he rushes to her, picks her up in his arms and twirls her. Her hair is back to her natural silvery blonde, cut short and kept out of her face with a tornado of bobby pins. He’s never seen her without her jean jacket, even at premieres. 

Early on in their careers, he found he had too much respect for her to try and sleep with her and they formed the closest thing he could call a healthy relationship over the years. She was like his sister, since his own didn’t seem like she’d ever pick up the phone again. 

It also helped that she was a raging lesbian, happily married, and wouldn’t go near his dick for all the money at Warner Brothers Studios. 

“Dieter, you look so fucking good, dude.” She pats his face and scrunches up her nose, those black headphones knocking around her neck. “Fuck, it’s been too long.”

“I know, Di, I know.” He always liked that their nicknames sounded alike. Dee and Di. A team. “How’s Lucy?”

“Pfft, you know her. Taken the kids up to Canada for the summer. Says the trees are more ‘real’ there,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I miss the little buggers, but shit, it’s nice to have a quiet house.”

He laughs, the knot in his chest easing. “Before school starts up again, you’ll have to come by the new place.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. You just moved back into the neighborhood, didn’t you? I heard about that. You and, uh . . .”

He hides the blush in the tips of his ears with his hand, acting like he’s scratching an itch on the side of his head. “Yeah, Chloe and I are still together. Been married for a little over two years now.”

At that, Heidi’s bright green eyes snap open wide. She nearly launches herself at him to grab his hand, gawking at the only gold ring on his finger. “Shutthefuckup. You got married?! You asshole, why wasn’t I invited?”

He swallows past the hard knot in his throat. “It was a small thing. Could hardly call it a party.” 

Heidi, as she usually does, takes not a lick of his bullshit. “Uh huh. Well, shit, I guess we have to double date now.” 

“I’d like that.” He grins.

Her shock softens, and she punches his shoulder softly, her smile wide across her face. “You fuckin’ dork. I can’t believe you got married. Who knew Dieter Bravo would settle down?” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what’s going to come out of his mouth if he tries to answer, so he just shrugs. Her eyes linger on him for a second more, before looping her arm through his and leading him away from the stage. 

“So have you read the script?”

He nods eagerly. “Yep. The whole thing. Front to back. It’s fucking incredible, Heidi.” 

“Yes it is! There’s so much to work with. It’s a little hoity-toity for my taste in some places, but I think there’s a way to balance the shmaltz with genuine emotion, you know? It’s so raw and real, I know you can get to those places.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t already,” he jokes off-handedly. They’re standing in the big open bay, where the crew can wheel in giant cranes for lighting or special effects, when Heidi freezes. A frown is growing over her face as though realizing something for the first time. A wind blows in and he thinks he can smell the desert in it.

“Oh, fuck, Dee,” she murmurs, not even looking at him. “This script, the material . . . you just got out of fucking rehab, and—”

He shakes his head, a bit frantic. He’ll get on his hands and knees if that’s what it takes to keep him on this project. “Heidi, this is fine. I’m fine.”

He takes her by her shoulders and makes her look him in the eye. 

“I want this part. I want this part so fucking badly. I know I can do it too. I’m going to do this project and it’s going to blow your fucking socks off. You can count on me. I’m responsible now, I promise.”

At that, her green eyes soften. “Responsible and married? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Dieter Bravo?”

Early on in their careers, she had been right by his side, doing line after line of coke off hookers and strippers. But then she grew up. If she can have a family and a beautiful wife, then why can’t he? 

“Dee, look,” she says softly and touches the hand around her shoulder. “I’m not worried about any of that. I always knew you were something special, if you could just get out of your own way.” She glances away, shame making her mouth tick. “But I should have checked in more. I knew you were still in rehab, even after those times I called. I should have stayed in touch. I’m sorry.”

Something about her pity was unbearable. “Don’t. Please. It’s in the past. It’s over and I want to move on. This time, it’s going to be different.”

Heidi nods, smiling. “For sure, dude. We’ll do this together.”

He can fucking breathe again. She sees this and takes him by the arm, letting him get his feet under him. The air is warm, and Heidi’s hand is firm against his forearm. 

“I know the email said to meet at the sound stage, but everyone’s working out here, so I just put us in the back of the studio. Much more quiet. C’mon, I think I saw Mark’s car up front.”

She leads him to the next building, chattering on and on about the composer they got. How the music is gonna fuck so hard, they’re even trying to convince the studio to let them record a full fake album for the movie — “if you don’t wanna sing, Dee, that’s totally fine but I am begging you to do at least some of the guitar,” — and the building door opens.

It’s a squat building, probably more offices than anything to do with production, but it’s where Heidi is taking him, and a man, much younger than he is, stumbles out of the doorway, giddily laughing over his shoulder. He looks to be a PA of some kind — wiry, a little strung out, probably with dreams of writing the next Citizen Kane someday — but he’s looking at something over his shoulder. 

Or rather at someone. 

A woman, barely that but with all the cosmic designs of one, steps out after him. Her white cowboy boots hug just below her knee, her smooth legs, rich with the sun, curl up into a men’s white collared shirt. She walks and only a flash of denim shorts peek out the shirt tails.

She isn’t laughing, but smirking. Knowing something this poor PA has no concept of. Her black aviators push her lush hair out of her face and her fingers glitter with silver jewelry. She’s smiling at the PA like a leopard seal smiles at lemmings. 

She chews something in the back of her teeth and then blows a bright pink bubble. The PA’s smile falls off his face, watching, wide-eyed, as the gum snaps in her mouth. 

Dieter immediately and, without question, dislikes her. Dislikes her so much, he can feel it burn in his chest.

Her wicked eyes slide from the PA, over his shoulder, and land squarely on Dieter. She blinks. Heidi walks up to her and shakes her hand. 

“Oh, hey, kiddo, you found the right place.” 

That sharp-toothed glint in her eye is gone as she eagerly chats up Heidi, and the PA might as well have disappeared off the face of the earth. 

Heidi waves Dieter over and it takes a full two seconds for him to remember how walking works. The sun is hot on his back. 

The woman — the girl — is looking him up and down, calculating and cool. As if she, unlike him, hasn’t quite made up her mind about what she thinks of him. 

Heidi waves a hand in between you two. She says your name and his mind suddenly locks onto it. He suddenly knows who you are before Heidi says it. He skimmed it on the cast list, barely memorable, at the time insignificant because he didn’t recognize it. Still doesn’t, but that name is embedded in his brain now, nailed down spikes and taken up residence. 

“This is your new co-star, Natalie Lorraine. The other lead. You two will be working very closely together for the next couple of months.”

You’ve stopped chewing gum. Either you’ve swallowed it or tightly packed it to the back of your gums, because there’s no slur, no crumpled edge to your words, when you extends your hand and says:

“Hi, Dieter. Nice to meet you.” 

Your hand is soft in his and your lotion reminds him of lilac. 

Today is just a fucking table read.

He tries to unclench his jaw when he says, “Nice to meet you too.” 

He’s on his third bottle of water and he’s eyeing the trashcan in the corner, wondering how many plastic bottles he could throw away before it looks weird. He’s got the script out in front of him on a long, white plastic table and a few people have stopped by to say hi. He had gotten up to stand and shake their hand, and several of them had blinked up at him, as if they had forgotten how tall he was when he wasn’t hunched over, fighting a hangover. Heidi was gathering the last of the castmates before the table read and had been gone for twenty minutes or so. Maybe — 

In the corner, she laughs, the sound brilliant and loud. In a world full of perfect, practiced laughs, hers is noticeable but not entirely bad, and a few people turn to look at her. She’s got a hand on Mark Bronson’s arm, clearly delighted at something he said, and he is obviously starstruck. 

Dieter actively fights the scowl on his face. He’s known Mark for a while. Good guy, little vices, always put in the work. Been married to the same waitress he met out in Oregon on a shoot a decade and a half ago, and never once stepped out. Dieter had been thrilled to see him, to catch up on old times, purposefully making a joke that referenced the one time they were on that old cop show together when they first got to Hollywood. “Nobody would really believe we’re gangsters, now, eh, Dee?” Mark had said with a grin. “Too fuckin’ old.” 

Mark had stayed and talked and that again eased the tension in his chest. If Mark actually hated his guts and that easy smile and loose handshake were fake, then the Oscar really should go to him.

But as more people filed in, he excuses himself to catch up with one of the directors of the art department and Dieter takes the opportunity to grab as many bottles as a reasonable person would from the cooler. He likes ice cold water. The colder, the better the burn. 

But here Mark sidles  up to that girl, laughing it up like they were old friends. Traitor, he muses glumly, and thumbs the white plastic cap. He’s thought about Googling her — who the fuck is this girl — but didn’t know how to justify it if someone caught him.

The back door to the room opens and Heidi steps in.

“Alright, five minutes. Take your final smoke breaks, your pee breaks, your whatever breaks. Hopefully not all at the same time, but I ain’t here to judge.” 

He keeps his eyes trained on the water bottle as bodies weave around him, chairs squeaking as they are pulled out and sat on. The atmosphere is relaxed, easy, everything he wanted. So why is he so fucking tightly wound?

“Thirsty?” 

It takes him a second to unstick his gaze from the bottle. He knows you’re talking to him. 

He glances up at your face from under his lashes. You aren’t exactly smiling at him, but there’s a light in your eyes that feels . . . playful. What a normal, innocent question. But when he doesn’t respond, you lean forward on your elbows, your rings interlocking on your fingers. Your gaze drops his and nudges the two empty plastic bottles around his script.

“And there’s two more full ones under your chair. So are you—”

“I like to keep hydrated,” he says, cutting you off. “It’s summer in LA and . . . uh, it’s hot.” 

“Uh huh,” you reply, slowly. “Can I have one? You know, since it’s hot.”

His mouth twitches — get off your perky ass and get one yourself — but then he’s liable to see your bare legs again. And he knows a comment like that would get him some stares, which would not be good. 

He swears you know all of this too by the way your eyes glitter at him, daring him. That’s the worst– he’s figured it out. You look at him from under your thick eyelashes like you want to play a championship round of Truth or Dare, but it would only ever be Dare. You want to see him dance on hot coals, eat a sword, kiss a snake. You want to watch him squirm and it’s so obvious, he clenches his jaw.

He swallows and bends down. He holds out the water bottle by the very end to you, but you somehow manage to brush your fingers up against his anyway. He doesn’t physically recoil but he feels like he needs to go wash his hands.

“Thank you,” you say as you unscrew the cap then drink heavily from the bottle. It’s halfway empty when you put it on the table. Your tongue laps up the water from your lip. 

He grunts as a response. You’re opening your mouth to bother him further when Heidi calls the start of the read. Dieter pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket and sees you’ve done the same. Silver, though, to his black, they’re perched on the edge of your nose, and you’re looking down at the script as if trying to divine lighting rods. You’re focused, the playful, tempting air gone, and there’s an intensity to your eyes that wasn’t there before. You look . . . almost normal. 

He slides his glasses on and looks back to his pages, the tips of his ears burning.

The table read goes well. 

Sort of. 

There’s a handful of scenes Heidi has picked out for the majority of the cast to read together. Mark does well as the manager who is trying to hold all the egos together but struggling with demons of his own. He’s funny when he needs to be, but serious enough to flip a line read that deepens his character. God, he’s so fucking talented, Dieter thinks as the table laughs at one of his character’s jokes. 

The other members of Dieter’s band in the movie are made up of three guys, two girls. They have a natural chemistry that makes it seem like they’ve been friends for years. Dieter makes a note to try and get to know them better as people off set to hopefully find his own rhythm with them. A few smile at him as he’s doing his own line reading and he feels good about it. 

Everything is fine and easy . . . until there are a few scenes specifically between him and you.

You’re putting too much emotion into it for just a table read and it’s making him uncomfortable. These things are just to get to know everyone, to see how the cast can play off each other, but you’re out here acting like there’s cameras ten feet back. Have you ever even been to a table read before? Shouldn’t you know this?

After you deliver a heartfelt monologue about feeling lonely in the world, he hears a few sniffles. The two girls of the band are red-eyed and Mark is intentionally stone-faced. Even Heidi looks affected. 

What the fuck is going on? Is he the only one not swayed by your bullshit? 

All of a sudden, you take his hand from across the table, your eyes pouring into his, and he’s caught off guard. 

“Tell me you understand,” you say, your voice wet with emotion. “Tell me you understand why you can’t ever leave me.”

He wets his lips and sits up straighter in his seat. He squeezes your hand, opening up the light in his eyes. Fine, two can play that fucking game.

“I’m no good for you, baby,” he croons. “There’s a million of me out there and only one of you.”

“But you’re the only one I want. The only one I need.” 

Fuck, you’re good. But he’s better. He turns your hand over, exposing your wrist to the cool air and thumbs your pulse gently. He smiles wistfully at you.

“What we want can kill us. I love you, darling, but that’s not enough.”

The room is silent.

He glances down and read the next stage action:

They meet in a passionate kiss.

His eyebrows raise and he glances back at you, halfway expecting you to throw yourself at him from across the table. 

But, no. Instead of looking at him with love in your eyes, you are fucking furious. Your mouth is pulled into a tight line, and he can see you mentally picture strangling him.

“Alright,” Heidi calls out, her voice gruff. “Alright, let’s move on. Page one-fifteen.” 

The room fills with the fluttering of paper and a few people sniff, rubbing their eyes.

You yank your wrist out of his grip but don’t move to turn the page. And neither does he. 

Oh, you’re mad that I did the exact same thing you were doing, but better? Sorry, hot tits, you have no idea who you’re fucking with. Welcome to the real world.

You look like you want to sink your fangs into him. You’re kind of cute with your nostrils flared, in that megalomaniac kind of way.

A woman to his right asks what page they’re starting on, and it forces him to break eye contact with you. He tells her and thumbs to the correct page himself, where Mark is having an argument with one of the guys in the band.

He glances up at you. Tension still lines your body but you aren’t looking at him anymore. In fact, you’re making a clear point not to. His chest soars. 

He is definitely counting that as a win.

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

After the reading, Mark came over and congratulated him again on getting the part. He makes sure Dieter has his number before saluting him and announcing he’s heading home for the night. The band is hanging out in the corner, but the talk dies down as he approaches. One of the guys looks positively horrified as he smiles and waves at them.

“You did a great job today,” he says to their half circle. He’s never seen anyone’s eyes so wide in their heads. “Have you all worked together before?”

“We’re an actual band and you’re really Dieter Bravo,” one of the girls blurts out. Her friend, presumably, elbows her and she blinks as though slapped. “I mean, we play real music. We’ve been on the radio a few times, but you’ve probably never heard of us . . .” She trails off, glancing helplessly at her friends to make her shut up.

The other young woman with hair so red it had to have been fake, rolls her eyes. “We’re The Sixers. We started out here in LA and we’ve been on the Strip a few times. Our agent said that it would be great publicity if we were in a movie.” 

“Oh, shit,” Dieter mutters, as surprised as they are, “The Sixers – yeah, I have heard of you before. I’m fucking old as hell, but I still listen to the radio.” 

“You’ll have to give us some acting pointers,” one of the other guys offers up, his hands in his jean pockets. He seems less obviously starstruck but still trying to play it cool. 

“Only if you help me to remember how to play the guitar,” Dieter grins. 

“You know how to play?” The first girl gawks.

He winks at her. “When everyone else around me is too drunk to notice I’m terrible.” 

They laugh, the girl’s face whiter than a sheet, and then the redhead introduces everyone. “That’s Nick, Cooper, and Samuel. Our resident ghost here is Marie, and I’m Roxie.”

He vaguely wonders which of those are stage names, but is absolutely sure that’s not Roxie’s real name. But she seems like the kind of person who’d like it that way. 

“You all are in good hands with Heidi,” he nods to where she’s chatting with Mark and the art director. “She’s a visionary and really knows her shit. You’re lucky you get to have her as your first director.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Cooper, a guy with legitimate beatnik hair, asks. 

Dieter nods. “Several times, actually. She’s fantastic.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Roxie asks as you walk across the room to pick up your purse. Dieter can feel that burn in his chest again as you bend over. He shakes his head. 

“Is she new to the scene? Is that why she can’t afford any pants?” Roxie mutters and both Cooper and Samuel chuckle. Marie glares at her. 

“I heard she was a child actress in the early 2000s,” Marie says as if trying to re-right the ship. “Was pretty successful, but then dropped off the face of the earth. Until now, I guess.”

“Maybe she went the Bella Thorne way of child actresses,” Nick murmurs, shamelessly watching your ass as you turn to speak with Heidi for a moment. 

Roxie snorts. “She’s not that slutty. No one is that slutty, to sleep with even the likes of you, Nicholas.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you –” 

Roxie slams a hand over his mouth. “I will junk-punch you so hard if you say what I think you’re going to say.” 

They’re like siblings, Dieter muses. Five very talented, outrageous siblings. 

“It was great to meet all of you,” he says and Marie’s eyes flutter back to him. “But I gotta split. We should all go out some time. Meet up outside of work.”

“Oh, I think we’d looove that,” Cooper sing-songs, his eyes on Marie. She flushes bright red and pinches his shoulder, while Samuel laughs. “Ow!”  

Despite himself, this could actually be a fun shoot. He waves but none of them really see it, having devolved into a squabble that makes him grin. 

You’re gone, he notices, and the art director has left too, but Heidi is sitting alone at the table, going over her notes. 

He slides into the seat next to her and she lifts her head, smiling.

“Hey, Dee, you fucking crushed it today. Everyone’s been coming up to me to say how impressed they are with you.” 

He huffs and rolls his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, and did they follow it with, ‘especially after how much of a fuck up we thought he’d be’?” 

Heidi playfully frowns at him. “C’mon, man, give yourself some credit. You earned the right to be here. I didn’t have to approve your audition.” 

His throat tightens. No, she really didn’t. He shakes his head.

“You’re right. As always.” 

Heidi grins, pleased, and drops her head back to her notes, marking things in a red pen. 

“So what did you think of your co-star?” 

Be nice, Dieter. “She’s . . . fine.” 

Heidi smirks, but doesn’t look up. “Wow, I don’t think you’ve ever used less words to describe someone, much less a woman.” 

He doesn’t like the way she says woman, as if there’s this cosmic reckoning that’s started and he just doesn’t know it yet. Sam and Diane, Bones and Booth – a destined sort of thing. 

He rolls his jaw. 

“She just acts . . . uppity, is all. Like she’s better than everyone else.” 

Heidi snorts. “Okay, tell me how you really feel.”

“I don’t like her.”

At that, Heidi pauses and looks up, genuine concern on her face.

“Really? You don’t like her? She came recommended by an old friend of the studios and I know she’s a bit much, but I didn’t think you’d actually dislike her.”

He back-pedals as fast as he can. This day is so close to being perfect. 

“I mean, I don’t not like her . . . I just . . . I don’t know her.” If he is being honest, the best time to tell her exactly what’s been on his mind all day is probably right now. “And, fuck, Di, isn’t she a bit . . . I don’t know . . .” He swears he can hear the old Dieter laughing at him. “. . . young?” 

Heidi grimaces, taking his concern seriously, and he loves her even more for that. 

“It was a studio note. Execs say it makes the central conflict feel more . . .”

“Predatory?” His eyebrow lifts, disdain evident in his drawl. She frowns at him.

“Transcendent.”

There is nothing about that girl that is transcendent, he thinks bitterly. 

He sighs and leans closer. Heidi notices his change in body language and leans forward too.

“I just cannot fuck this up, Di. I have to come out on top with this. It’s really important.”

That pity flashes across her face again and his stomach curdles. But she soothes a hand over his, her eyes serious. 

“Dee, I know. I really do. I’m not going to let anything bad happen here. She starts acting up, she’s out. We don’t need her that badly.”

He couldn’t be sure if she actually had the power to kick a co-star off the set, but he wanted to believe she did. More importantly, she wanted him to believe she did. 

“Thanks, Di,” he sighs. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

She chuckles and pulls her hand back. 

“Go home to your wife at a normal hour.” She pauses, making a face as if she tasted something sour. “Your wife – God, I will never get used to that.”

“Hey, I got used to it, after my best friend left me for some brunette out in Bali,” he teases as he stands up. 

Heidi scoffs. “That wedding was sick as fuck and you know it.” 

“You know, I never did bill Lucy for the piercing I got there. Sober Dieter would never have made the decision to look like a Keith Richards knock-off.”

“Oh shut the fuck up and go home. To your wife.” 

He’s laughing as he waves her good night. 

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

He’s thumbing through his keys when he smells smoke. Acidic smoke. Like those disgusting American Spirits he used to choke down. 

You’re leaning by the trunk of your car, one heel kicked over the other, smoking a white cigarette through your fingers. That would be fine with him except your car is parked tightly in the space next to his and you’re blocking the way to the driver’s seat. He’d rather crawl through the trunk than have to bend around you.

You’re biting on your thumbnail and staring directly at him with unabashed contempt. 

“Your reading was stilted,” you announce and then take a long drag. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your reading today,” you say slowly as though talking to a particularly stupid child, “it was stilted.” 

He pops his jaw. 

“That’s because it was a fucking . . .” He remembers to breathe. “That’s because . . . it was a table read. Have you ever been to one?”

“Yes.” You tap the ash off your cigarette on the heel of your boot, drawing his gaze to the flush of your thigh but he’s not going to fall for it. “It can be a great opportunity for actors to find their chemistry. To find their rhythm.”

“I know that.” 

“Then where was yours? Huh?” You lift your eyebrows. Did you ever not want to play Dare?

“What are you talking about? I had a fine time with the band. We’re actually going to hang out outside–,”

“I mean with me.” 

That burning sensation returns to his chest. You look at him as if you could sear a hole right through him. Your cigarette is left smoking, forgotten, between your fingers at your hip. 

“The only time you ever gave me anything was after I touched you, and even then your performance was so saccharine, it made my teeth ache. I’m out here to prove I belong here, on this big budget film, and you’re stonewalling me. What do you have against me? What did I ever do to you?” 

He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth, guilt smothering the fight you aroused in him. He drops your gaze and puts his hands on his hips. He’s too old to be scolded like this.

“Nothing, alright? You didn’t do anything,” he says quietly. “It’s not you–”

“Of course it fucking isn’t but thank you for saying so,” you snap. 

You take one more drag before flicking the white butt onto the pavement at the edge of the gathering darkness.

“This is going to be a long shoot if you can’t get your head out of your ass.” You step forward and he instinctively takes a step back, but you come close anyway and shove a finger at his chest. “I don’t know what your deal is and I don’t care. We’re going to get through this even if I have to grab you by your hair and pull you to the finish line. Got it?” 

Your eyes are shining, fierce, powerful. Your mouth could crush rocks. 

He nods. 

Maybe it’s the trick of the failing light, but he thinks your pupils are a little too unnaturally wide. 

“Great. See you Monday.” 

You turn away from him, stalking back to your car and hurling your purse into the side seat. The car, a Chevy that’s possibly older than he is, roars to life with just as much vitality as you possess. He leaps back a second before the wheels squeal as the car lurches backwards and darts off into the dark. 

He stands, watching the car pull away onto the road until it’s gone. He can still hear the engine screaming in the distance. He thumbs his keys, shaking his head. 

For the first time in months, he would literally kill someone for a cigarette.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b: I Sing A Song of Love ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 15C: You Can Do This If You Try

Wilmington, North Carolina

Labor Day Weekend, 1988

Oh, take your time, don't live too fast Troubles will come and they will pass You'll find a woman, and you'll find love And don't forget, son, there is someone up above…

 - “Simple Man”, Lynyrd Skynyrd (1973) [click here to listen]

“I really appreciate you helping me with this.”

Jamie shrugged, and took a long drink from the thermos of Gillian’s sweet tea. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me and Claire a place to stay this weekend. Away from everything. That’s a true gift.”

Dougal set his toolbox on a stump. “Thought you could use a bit of peace and quiet, here in the back country.”

Jamie nodded, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “I think I’d forgotten what trees look like. Or the inside of a building that wasn’t an arena or a hotel.” He draped the t-shirt over the unbroken part of the fence, and bent to pick up one of the boards he’d hauled across the field in Dougal’s battered wheelbarrow. “The last time we were at a house was for our wedding – and it was Joe’s house, and we didn’t even stay there overnight.”

“I’m sure you’re staying in top of the line hotels, in their biggest suites. My guest room must be too normal for you and your bride.”

Jamie smiled, just a bit sadly. “I don’t know what normal is anymore, Dougal.”

Dougal fished in his pocket for a nail. “I won’t even pretend to understand what your life is like right now.” Carefully, methodically he hammered the nail, fastening the board to the fence post. “But I have to tell you, I’m so impressed you’re still sober.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dougal rolled his eyes. “Oh, I can think of some reasons. Like, every single thing you were addicted to, is front and center of your life on the road. We talked about this a lot last year when you were with us at The Ridge. You’re back on the road – meaning, that all that shit is in front of you all the time again.”

Jamie nodded. “I remember. You said it wasn’t me you were worried about – it was everybody around me. That I was surrounded by people who enabled me.”

“Exactly.”

“Well – things are different now. I fired the bloodsucker that was my manager. I found Colum. I had some very honest conversations with him, and now all of those people and all the shit they used to put in front of me are out of my life. Plus, one very important new person is now in it.”

“And what does she make of everything?”

Jamie held up another board, and Dougal hammered it into place.

Giving him space.

“I thought I was ready to be back on the road,” Jamie added, after a while. “I really did. But I had no idea just how fucking hard it would be.”

He set the board against the fence post. Dougal began hammering another nail.

“And?”

“And…this time, I decided to just be open about it with everyone. It’s definitely gotten easier to talk about it – addiction, and sobriety, and recovery. And people do respect what I ask. They keep the substances and the groupies away from me. Obviously it’s still there – I just can’t see it.” He paused, thinking. “On the one hand I think they understand why I can’t be around that anymore, and they understand how terrible addiction is, and how fucking difficult sobriety is. But on the other hand – let’s be real, they know they have to listen to me and do what I ask. I’m the star of the show. I get what I want.”

Dougal took a nail out of his mouth, and hammered the other side of the board. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jamie leaned against the fence post. “I think about it all the time. Drinking. Cocaine. Being in my dressing room with three girls at once.”

Dougal stood up straight, stretching. Squinting in the harsh midday sun.

“I don’t want to do any of that shit anymore, of course. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with your wife?” Dougal asked patiently.

Jamie’s eyes were inscrutable behind his aviators.

“Because I flash back to the shit I used to do, and then I blink and she’s there with me, in the same rooms where I used to get really fucked up. And she holds my hand, and tells me she loves me, and then I tell her everything.” He jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I can be straight with her, and she doesn’t care. She wants to know all of this shit about me, especially the shit I’m really not proud of. Because it helps her understand what I’m working on, and why I don’t want to be that guy anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Why I’m not that guy anymore.”

“What does she say when you bring up all the shit you used to do?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I know it hurts her. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt her. But I’d hurt her more by not telling her the truth.” He ran his fingers through his hair – almost back to shoulder length. “And every time I tell her something, she tells me something. What it was like to go through high school without parents. Or one time when her miserable excuse for an ex-husband hit her and she fixed her own busted lip in the bathroom. How she’d do surgery while high. How she destroyed pretty much all of her friendships when the pills became the most important thing in her life.”

A blue jay settled on the fence, chirping.

“I didn’t want to tell her all the shit about me, and what I’d do when I was using. The man I was. I don’t want that to…to trigger her or anything, and compromise her sobriety. But because we share it, and we talk about it, it makes us accountable to each other to not fuck it up.”

“So as much as you depend on her for sobriety, she depends on you for hers.”

Jamie nodded. “We’re tied together in so many ways, it’s insane. We are addicts. We were at the top of our professions and we were miserable. We’re terrified that one day we’ll wake up and the other person will be gone. And…” he swallowed. “When we’re together, when we love, it’s…I can’t find the words, Dougal. We waited for intimacy until our wedding night. And I’m so fucking glad we did. Because if I knew what kind of magic we can create, there’s no way I would have ever agreed to go on tour and spend even a few hours every day away from her.”

Dougal leaned against the fence post. “You never think that this could all be too much for her? It’s a tremendous amount of pressure. And both of you being in recovery just complicates things.”

Jamie pursed his lips.

“It’s like I told you last night – she’s my high. Knowing she’s there. Touching her. Sleeping beside her. Loving her…all of that keeps me grounded and focused. I wrote a song about it, and it’s the fucking title track of the new album. She’s my addiction.”

“But is that asking too much of her?” Dougal pointed to the tattoo above Jamie’s heart. “You don’t want to develop too much of a dependency. She’s not a drug. I know that love is intense, Jamie – you know my story with Gillian. But neither of you should completely lose yourself.”

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. “If you’re asking if I have other ways to cope with the stress – I have my guitar, and I have my wife. And I have a few people like you, who I trust. Right now I don’t have much time for anything else.”

Dougal crossed his arms. “You need to make the time. If not for you, for her. Especially if you’ll be touring next year. Going all around the world, far from home – your stress levels will be off the charts.”

Jamie sighed. “They already are. I’ve been having panic attacks.”

Dougal sat next to Jamie on the fence. “Has that happened to you before?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not until this tour. And not every day. We’re in early September, and we’ve been on the road since May…maybe fifteen times since then.”

“Is there one particular thing that triggers it?”

“Not that we can tell. Thank God Claire’s a doctor – she’s helped me figure out when it’s starting, and she helps me get to a quiet place away from everyone.” He swiped his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “I usually end up not being able to breathe, and crying, and freaking the fuck out, and my wife is the only thing that physically holds me together. It’s fucking scary, Dougal, and it’s so not fair to her. It’s yet another thing that stresses her out. She has had so much shit in her life these last few years, I can’t fucking stand that she has to see me like that. Deal with yet another level of my bullshit.”

Dougal turned back towards the house. Watched Claire and Gillian on the porch, shaded from the sunshine, enjoying the rocking chairs. Watched William chase around their dog Bram, knowing it would exhaust them both before lunchtime.

“I’ll be straight with you, Jamie, because it’s what you deserve. Claire told Gillian about the panic attacks, and that you were considering bringing a therapist with you on tour next year.”

Jamie crossed his arms. The flames and flowers of his tattoos flexed.

“Gillian and I – let us help you find someone. Someone you can trust implicitly. With the panic attacks, and with your sobriety, and in managing all of the stress. Someone who can help Claire, too. Because the last thing you want, Jamie, is to be in some random city in some random country and it’s two AM after a show and Claire is somewhere else and some asshole backstage has left a baggie of cocaine on your chair and you have a panic attack. And you’re all alone, or with people who you don’t want to see you like that.”

Jamie scuffed his boots in the grass.

“More importantly, you don’t want Claire to start resenting you, for being the person to hold you together.”

Jamie, surprised, whirled to face Dougal. “I don’t think – ”

Dougal raised a hand. “I’m not saying she ever would. I’ve seen you two together. What you have…it can’t be described. But don’t you agree, that you don’t ever want to do anything to fuck that up?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I promise her every day that I won’t.”

Dougal stepped closer to Jamie. Grabbed his sweaty shoulder. “Then let me help you. Please.”

Jamie slipped off his sunglasses to meet Dougal’s eye. “OK. Thank you.”

Dougal smiled. “Consider it our wedding present. Now come on – just a few more boards.”

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 1 of Recovery Road

chapter rating (this will change!): T

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 6444

chapter summary: dieter joins the production of an old friend and meets his new co-star

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of addiction/rehab, smoking, cursing, angst, no use of y/n, named reader but no physical descriptions other than hairstyle/clothing, adult language

a/n: Highly recommend reading the AO3 version. I've been working on doing some fun things with formatting work skins, so please check that out! My FC for Heidi is Sarah Goldberg and Timothy Olyphant as Mark, but yours doesn't have to!

▲ Series Masterlist | Next

▲ AO3 Link

“Despite the meteoric success of their first and only film together, Recovery Road, neither Dieter Bravo nor Natalie Lorraine were present when the film won the Oscar for Best Picture that year— an oddity for the main leads of such a critical and commercial darling. Cobbled together from stories from other cast members, director’s cut commentary, and straight up rumors, there is no clear cut picture of what happened to prevent the two stars from basking in the rewards of the film’s success. Perhaps in twenty years, if we’re all still around and the internet monolith continues to chug forward, we’ll get some tell-all documentary on Netflix where all things will be revealed. Blood shed. Lives lost. The whole shebang. Until then, you can find this old reviewer sitting up in his attic rewatching one of the most poignant and moving depictions of love and addiction we’ve gotten in the last three decades. Recovery Road is not, nor has it ever been, one to miss.” - John Michael David, Rolling Stone, “Why Recovery Road Still Stays With Us Today”

It’s getting hot inside the car. 

If he was going to sit this long in the fucking car, he should have left it running. Summers in LA are sneaky. Desert air is cold in the dark, but piercing in the day. He had purposefully parked in the shade, but it was still too much. He feels sweat break out across his hairline and he knows that won’t be a good look. He needs to look completely put together, completely at ease, relaxed. Unflinching. Unrufflable. Like he does tai chi every thirty minutes and can harmonize with the universe during rush hour traffic. 

He’s got to keep it together. 

But he can’t take his fucking palms down from his eyes. The heel of his hands dig into his eye sockets and for all the pressure it builds, it feels good. The pressure flushes out every other thought in his head and he needs to go into this clear-headed. If he fucks up again, it’s not just his ass on the line. 

He wants to believe things are going to be different this time. He wants to believe he’s going to be different. He’s worked his ass off to get here – sweated and shook and vomited into his own lap as the withdrawals tightened every muscle in his body – and now he just needs this one chance. Chloe – patient, perfect Chloe – was counting on him. If she said he could do it, he probably could. 

His left hand, third finger, twinges and that’s what brings his hands down from his face. He looks at the ring there. That gold beautiful ring. A promise made real. He swallows. 

Today, it’s a table read. Done it a thousand times. He’s actually early, for fuck’s sake. He glances down, triple checking he’s not wearing slippers or that mangy robe. Jeans. Black shirt. Easy. Chloe warned against the rings, but he’d sooner part with those than his right hand entirely. Sure he fucked up, sure he was a fuck up, but there were parts of Dieter Bravo that just had a right to exist. People wouldn’t recognize him without his rings. 

He did cave about the earring though. 

You’re almost thirty-six, darling. Nobody but rockstars can wear earrings at that age. 

When he went into rehab, he was thirty-three. He had lost two years of his life in that prison and he was not about to do it again. He had left his sobriety token at home, but he wished he had it now, just for something to squeeze, something to soothe his feverish palm. Again, Chloe had quietly nudged him: “do we need to get you a fidget spinner, baby?”

He wanted to joke, “that’s what the adderall is for”, but given that his doctor was forced to prescribe him something else for his ADHD after they found a dozen empty pill bottles under his bed, it probably wasn’t all that funny. 

He breathes, counting down just like the nice lady at the rehab center taught him to. 

Your self-destructive habits formed out of necessity. It’s time to reshape them. 

Today, it’s just a table read. He can do this.

He pops the sunglasses out of their holder on the console and slips them over his eyes. He takes one more glance out of the rearview mirror, half-expecting to be staring down the long lens of a TMZ reporter. He grabs the script from the passenger seat, curls it under his fingers— and still doesn’t move.

He likes this script. He likes the writer, seen their work in the past and it rocks. It’s good. It’s a good part. It’s actually better than good. It’s Oscar bait, they say on the internet, and he has the lead part. An aging musician struggling to rebuild his life after a drug addiction ruined his band’s final tour. The scriptwriter didn’t actually say that he had Dieter in mind when he wrote the part, but Jesus– suffice it to say, he understood the material. 

The aging musician was going to help a young upstart find her way in the music scene. She joins the band. They flirt, they fuck, they fall in love, and everything is ruined by their own egos. End credits. Lights up. Oscar in his hand. 

He didn’t recognize the name of his co-star when his agent sent over the cast list. He honestly didn’t even ask about her. He knew the director, had worked with her in the past, and thought she had a real eye for scenecraft and a knack for finding that beating heart of a moment. He trusted her with casting the right part for his opposite, just as she had casted him. But it wasn’t even about her, his co-star– he was ready to dig in and see what the director could pull out of him. 

And fuck, if it worked for RDJ, then it could work for him. 

This had to work for him. He feels the pressure return behind his eyeballs. 

“Fuck it,” he hisses and nearly kicks the door open. The script curled up in his hand like a baseball bat, Dieter Bravo strolls across the hot parking lot to the studio sound stage and into the rest of his life.

He is used to being stared at. He is used to all eyes on him, but not like this. This feels too much like that last party when the cops showed up and found all of his illegal prescriptions. It makes him itch.

The empty stage is filled mostly with crew and staff, setting up lighting and testing the sound recording. They’re all busy, getting ready for next week to start filming, but they all still have time to send him a worried glance. Because if he fucked up, they’d all be out of a job until shooting wrapped. They had enough courtesy to not actually whisper in front of him, but he knew exactly what they were saying just after he’s out of earshot:

“Oh, fuck, this is a Bravo flick? Shit, I gotta get another gig.”

“That asshole is here? Oh my God, this thing’ll be shut down in two weeks!”

“Fuck that guy and his stupid hair.”

Okay, that last one might have been projecting. He catches his own gaze in a pane of glass while he waits for the director’s assistant to return. His hair, despite his best attempts, would not lie flat, would not stay unrumpled. Another thing Chloe thought a man of his age shouldn’t have. 

He hasn’t seen another cast member and now he’s worried he got the time wrong and he’s missed it and he’s already started all of this off all wrong —

“Dieter! Oh my God, you’re here!”

Heidi, the director, beams at him so bright he actually feels himself go warm. She has her arms out open for him and he rushes to her, picks her up in his arms and twirls her. Her hair is back to her natural silvery blonde, cut short and kept out of her face with a tornado of bobby pins. He’s never seen her without her jean jacket, even at premieres. 

Early on in their careers, he found he had too much respect for her to try and sleep with her and they formed, over the years, the closest thing he could call a healthy relationship. She was like his sister, since his own didn’t seem like she’d ever pick up the phone again. 

It also helped that she was a raging lesbian, happily married, and wouldn’t go near his dick for all the money at Warner Brothers Studios. 

“Dieter, you look so fucking good, dude.” She pats his face and scrunches up her nose, those black headphones knocking around her neck. “Fuck, it’s been too long.”

“I know, Di, I know.” He always liked that their nicknames sounded alike. Dee and Di. A team. “How’s Lucy?”

“Pfft, you know her. Taken the kids up to Canada for the summer. Says the trees are more ‘real’ there,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I miss the little buggers, but shit, it’s nice to have a quiet house.”

He laughs, the knot in his chest easing. “Before school starts up again, you’ll have to come by the new place.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. You just moved back into the neighborhood, didn’t you? I heard about that. You and, uh . . .”

He hides the blush in the tips of his ears with his hand, acting like he’s scratching an itch on the side of his head. “Yeah, Chloe and I are still together. Been married for a little over two years now.”

At that, Heidi’s bright green eyes snap open wide. She nearly launches herself at him to grab his hand, gawking at the only gold ring on his finger. “Shutthefuckup. You got married?! You asshole, why wasn’t I invited?”

He swallows past the hard knot in his throat. “It was a small thing. Could hardly call it a party.” 

Heidi, as she usually does, takes not a lick of his bullshit. “Uh huh. Well, shit, I guess we have to double-date now.” 

“I’d like that.” He grins.

Her shock softens, and she punches his shoulder softly, her smile wide across her face. “You fuckin’ dork. I can’t believe you got married. Who knew Dieter Bravo would settle down?” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what’s going to come out of his mouth if he tries to answer, so he just shrugs. Her eyes linger on him for a second more, before looping her arm through his and leading him away from the stage. 

“So have you read the script?”

He nods eagerly. “Yep. The whole thing. Front to back. It’s fucking incredible, Heidi.” 

“Yes it is! There’s so much to work with. It’s a little hoity-toity for my taste in some places, but I think there’s a way to balance the shmaltz with genuine emotion, you know? The script, it’s so raw and real, I know you can get to those places.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t already,” he jokes off-handedly. They’re standing in the big open bay, where the crew can wheel in giant cranes for lighting or special effects, when Heidi freezes. A frown is growing over her face as though realizing something for the first time. A wind blows in and he thinks he can smell the desert in it.

“Oh, fuck, Dee,” she murmurs, not even looking at him. “This script, the material . . . you just got out of fucking rehab, and—,”

He shakes his head, a bit frantic. He’ll get on his hands and knees to let her keep him on this project. “Heidi, this is fine. I’m fine.”

He takes her by her shoulders and makes her look him in the eye. 

“I want this part. I want this part so fucking badly. I know I can do it too. I’m going to do this project and it’s going to blow your fucking socks off. You can count on me. I’m responsible now, I promise.”

At that, her green eyes soften. “Responsible and married? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Dieter Bravo?”

Early on in their careers, she had also been right by his side, doing line after line of coke off hookers and strippers. But then she grew up. If she can have a family and a beautiful wife, then why can’t he? 

“Dee, look,” she says softly and touches the hand around her shoulder. “I’m not worried about any of that. I always knew you were something special, if you could just get out of your own way.” She glances away, shame making her mouth tick. “But I should have checked in more. I knew you were still in rehab, even after those times I called. I should have stayed in touch. I’m sorry.”

Something about her pity was unbearable. “Don’t. Please. It’s in the past. It’s over and I want to move on. This time, it’s going to be different.”

Heidi nods, smiling. “For sure, dude. We’ll do this together.”

He can fucking breathe again. She sees this and takes him by the arm, letting him get his feet under him. The air is warm, and Heidi’s hand is firm against his forearm. 

“I know the email said to meet at the sound stage, but everyone’s working out here, so I just put us in the back of the studio. Much more quiet. C’mon, I think I saw Mark’s car up front.”

She leads him to the next building, chattering on and on about the composer they got. How the music is gonna fuck so hard, they’re even trying to convince the studio to let them record a full fake album for the movie — “if you don’t wanna sing, Dee, that’s totally fine but I am begging you to do at least some of the guitar,” — and the building door opens.

It’s a squat building, probably more offices than anything to do with production, but it’s where Heidi is taking him, and the door opens. A man, much younger than he is, stumbles out, giddily laughing over his shoulder. He looks to be a PA of some kind — wiry, a little strung out, probably with dreams of writing the next Citizen Kane someday — but he’s looking at something over his shoulder. 

Or rather at someone. 

A woman, barely that but with all the cosmic designs of one, steps out after him. Her white cowboy boots hug just below her knee, her smooth legs, rich with the sun, curl up into a men’s white collared shirt. She walks and only a flash of denim shorts peek out from under the shirt. 

She isn’t laughing, but smirking. Knowing something this poor PA has no concept of. Her black aviators push her lush hair out of her face and her fingers glitter with silver jewelry. She’s smiling at the PA like a leopard seal smiles at lemmings. 

She chews something in the back of her teeth and then blows a bright pink bubble. The PA’s smile falls off his face as he watches, wide-eyed, the gum snaps in her mouth. 

Dieter immediately and, without question, dislikes her. Dislikes her so much, he can feel it burn in his chest.

Her wicked eyes slide from the PA, over his shoulder, and lands squarely on Dieter. She blinks. 

“Oh, hey, kiddo, you found the right place.” 

Heidi walks up to her and shakes her hand. That sharp-toothed glint in her eye is gone as she eagerly chats up Heidi, and the PA might as well have disappeared off the face of the earth. 

Heidi waves him over and it takes a full two seconds for him to remember how walking works. The sun is hot on his back. 

The woman — the girl — is looking him up and down, calculating and cool. As if she, unlike him, hasn’t quite made up her mind about what she thinks of him. 

Heidi waves a hand in between you two. She says your name and his mind suddenly locks onto it. He suddenly knows who you are before Heidi says it. He read it on the cast list. He hadn’t given it a second thought. 

“This is your new co-star, Natalie Lorraine. The other lead. You two will be working very closely together for the next couple of months.”

She’s stopped chewing gum. Either she swallowed it or tightly packed it to the back of her gums, because there’s no slur, no crumpled edge to her words, when she extends her hand and says:

“Hi, Dieter. Nice to meet you.” 

Your hand is soft in his and your lotion reminds him of lilac. 

Today is just a fucking table read.

He tries to unclench his jaw when he says, “nice to meet you too.” 

He’s on his third bottle of water and he’s eying the trashcan in the corner, wondering how discreetly he could throw away several plastic bottles before it looks weird. He’s got the script out in front of him on a long, white plastic table and a few people have stopped by to say hi. He had gotten up to stand and shake their hand, and several of them had blinked up at him, as if they had forgotten how tall he was, when he wasn’t hunched over, fighting a hangover. Heidi was gathering the last of the cast mates before the table read and had been gone for twenty minutes or so. Maybe — 

In the corner, she laughs, the sound brilliant and loud. In a world full of perfect, practiced laughs, hers is noticeable, but not entirely bad, and a few people turn to look at her. She’s got a hand on Mark Bronson’s arm, clearly delighted at something he said, and he is obviously starstruck. 

Dieter actively fights the scowl on his face. He’d known Mark for a while. Good guy, little vices, always put in the work. Been married to the same waitress he met out in Oregon on a shoot a decade and a half ago, and never once stepped out. Dieter had been thrilled to see him, to catch up on old times, Dieter purposefully making a joke that referenced the one time they were on that old cop show together when they first got to Hollywood. “Nobody would really believe we’re gangsters, now, eh, Dee?” Mark had said with a grin. “Too fuckin’ old.” 

Mark had stayed and talked and that again eased the tension in his chest. If Mark actually hated his guts, then the Oscar really should go to him.

But as more people filed in, he excused himself to catch up with one of the directors of the art department and Dieter had taken the opportunity to grab as many bottles as a reasonable person would from the cooler. He likes ice cold water. The colder, the better the burn. 

But here Mark is, sidled up to that girl, laughing it up like they were old friends. Traitor, he muses glumly, and thumbs the white plastic cap. He’s thought about Googling her — who the fuck is this girl — but didn’t know how to justify it if someone caught him.

The back door to the room opens and Heidi steps in.

“Alright, five minutes. Take your smoke breaks, your pee breaks, your whatever breaks. Hopefully not all at the same time, but I ain’t here to judge.” 

There’s a collective chuckle before everyone moves to take their seats. He keeps his eyes trained on the water bottle as bodies weave around him, chair squeaking as they are pulled out and sat on. The atmosphere is relaxed, easy, everything he wanted. So why is he so fucking tightly wound?

“Thirsty?” 

It takes him a second to unstick his gaze from the bottle. He knows you’re talking to him. 

He glances up at your face from under his lashes. You aren’t exactly smiling at him, but there’s a light in your eyes that feels . . . playful. What a normal, innocent question. But when he doesn’t respond, you lean forward on your elbows, your rings interlocking on your fingers. Your gaze drops his and nudges the two empty plastic bottles around his script.

“And there’s two more under your chair. So are you—,”

“I like to keep hydrated,” he says, cutting you off. “It’s summer in LA and . . . uh, it’s hot.” 

“Uh huh,” you reply, slowly. “Can I have one? You know, since it’s hot.”

His mouth twitches — get off your perky ass and get one yourself — but then he’s liable to see your bare legs again. And he knows a comment like that would get him some stares, which would not be good. 

He swears you know all of this too, by the way your eyes glitter at him, daring him. That’s the worst– he’s figured it out. You look at him from under your thick eyelashes like you want to play a championship round of Truth or Dare, but it would only ever be Dare. You want to see him dance on hot coals, eat a sword, kiss a snake. You want to watch him squirm and it’s so obvious, he clenches his jaw.

He swallows and bends down. He holds out the water bottle by the very end to you, but you somehow manage to brush your fingers up against his anyway. He doesn’t physically recoil but he feels like he needs to go wash his hands.

“Thank you,” you say as you unscrew the cap then drink heavily from the bottle. It’s halfway empty when you put it on the table. Your tongue laps up the water from your lip. 

He grunts as a response. You open your mouth to bother him further, when Heidi calls the start of the read. Dieter pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket, when he sees you’ve done the same. Silver, though, to his black, they’re perched on the edge of your nose, and you’re looking down at the script as if trying to divine lighting rods. You’re focused, the playful, tempting air gone, and there’s an intensity to your eyes that wasn’t there before. You look . . . almost normal. 

He slides his glasses on and looks back to his pages, the tips of his ears burning.

The table read goes well. 

Sort of. 

There’s a handful of scenes Heidi has picked out for the majority of the cast to read together. Mark does well, as the manager who is trying to hold all the egos together but struggling with demons of his own. He’s funny when he needs to be, but serious enough to flip a line read that deepens his character. God, he’s so fucking talented, Dieter thinks as the table laughs at one of his character’s jokes. 

The other members of Dieter’s band in the movie are made up of a few guys, two girls. They have a natural chemistry that makes it seem like they’ve been friends for years. Dieter makes a note to try and get to know them better as people off the set to hopefully find his own rhythm with them. A few smile at him as he’s doing his own line reading and he feels good about it. 

Everything is fine and easy, until there are a few scenes specifically between him and you.

You’re putting too much emotion into it for just a table read and it’s making him uncomfortable. These things are just to get to know everyone, to see how the cast can play off each other, but you’re out here acting like there’s cameras ten feet back. Have you ever even been to a table read before? Shouldn’t you know this?

After you deliver a heartfelt monologue about feeling lonely in the world, he hears a few sniffles. The two girls of the band are red-eyed and Mark is stone-faced. Even Heidi looks affected. 

What the fuck is going on? Is he the only one not swayed by your bullshit? 

All of a sudden, you take his hand from across the table, your eyes pouring into his and he’s caught off guard. 

“Tell me you understand,” you say, your voice wet with emotion. “Tell me you understand why you can’t ever leave me.”

He wets his lips and sits up straighter in his seat. He squeezes your hand, opening up the light in his eyes. Fine, two can play that fucking game.

“I’m no good for you, baby,” he croons. “There’s a million of me out there and only one of you.”

“But you’re the only one I want. The only one I need.” 

Fuck, you’re good. But he’s better. He turns your hand over, exposing your wrist to the cool air and thumbs your pulse gently. He smiles wistfully at you.

“What we want can kill us. I love you, darling, but that’s not enough.”

The room is silent.

He glances down and read the next stage action:

They meet in a passionate kiss.

His eyebrows raise and he glances back at you, halfway expecting you to throw yourself at him from across the table. 

But, no. Instead of looking at him with love in your eyes, you are fucking furious. Your mouth is pulled into a tight line and he can see you mentally picture strangling him.

“Alright—,” Heidi calls out, her voice gruff. “Alright, let’s move on. Page one-fifteen.” 

The room fills with the fluttering of paper and a few people sniff, rubbing their eyes.

You yank back your wrist out of his grip but don’t move to turn the page. And neither does he. 

Oh, you’re mad that I did the exact same thing you were doing, but better? Sorry, hot tits, you have no idea who you’re fucking with. Welcome to the real world.

You look like you want to sink your fangs into him. You’re kind of cute, with your nostrils flared, in that megalomaniac kind of way.

A woman to his right asks what page they’re starting on, and it forces him to break eye contact with you. He tells her and thumbs to the correct page himself, where Mark is having an argument with one of the guys in the band.

He glances up at you. Tension still lines your body but you aren’t looking at him anymore. In fact, you’re making a clear point not to. His chest soars. 

He is definitely counting that as a win.

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

After the reading, Mark came over and congratulated him again on getting the part. He makes sure Dieter has his number before saluting him and announcing he’s heading home for the night. The band is hanging out in the corner, but the talk dies down as he approaches. One of the guys looks positively horrified as he smiles and waves at them.

“You did a great job today,” he says to their half circle. He’s never seen anyone’s eyes so wide in their heads before. “Have you all worked together before?”

“We’re an actual band and you’re really Dieter Bravo,” one of the girls blurts out. Her friend, presumably, elbows her and she blinks as though slapped. “I mean, we play real music. We’ve been on the radio a few times . . . but you’ve probably never heard of us . . .” She trails off, glancing helplessly at her friends to make her shut up.

Her friend, a young woman with hair so red it had to have been fake, rolls her eyes. “We’re The Sixers. We started out here in LA and we’ve been on the strip a few times. Our agent said that it would be great publicity if we were in a movie.” 

“Oh, shit,” Dieter mutters, as surprised as they are, “The Sixers – yeah, I have heard of you before. I’m fucking old as hell, but I still listen to the radio.” 

“You’ll have to give us some acting pointers,” one of the other guys offers up, his hands in his jean pockets. He seems less obviously starstruck but trying to play it cool. 

“Only if you help me to remember how to play the guitar,” Dieter grins. 

“You know how to play?” The first girl gawks.

He winks at her. “When everyone else around me is too drunk to notice I’m terrible.” 

They laugh, the girl’s face whiter than a sheet, and then the redhead introduces everyone. “That’s Nick, Cooper, and Samuel. Our resident ghost here is Marie, and I’m Roxie.”

He vaguely wonders which of those are stage names, but is absolutely sure that’s not Roxie’s real name. But she seems like the kind of person who’d like it that way. 

“You all are in good hands with Heidi,” he nods to the director, who’s been chatting with Mark and the art director. “She’s a visionary and really knows her shit. You’re lucky you get to have her as your first director.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Cooper, one of the guys with legitimate beatnik hair, asks. 

Dieter nods. “Several times, actually. She’s fantastic.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Roxie asks as you walk across the room to pick up your purse. Dieter can feel that burn in his chest again as you bend over. He shakes his head. 

“Is she new to the scene? Is that why she can’t afford any pants?” Roxie mutters and both Cooper and Samuel chuckle. Marie glares at her. 

“I heard she was a child actress in the early 2000s,” Marie continues as if trying to re-right the ship. “Was pretty successful, but then dropped off the face of the earth. Until now, I guess.”

“Maybe she went the Bella Thorne way of child actresses,” Nick murmurs, shamelessly watching your ass as you’ve turned to speak with Heidi for a moment. 

Roxie snorts. “She’s not that slutty. No one is that slutty, not even to sleep with the likes of you, Nicholas.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you –” 

Roxie slams a hand over his mouth. “I will junk-punch you so hard if you say what I think you’re going to say.” 

They’re like siblings, Dieter muses. Five, very talented, outrageous siblings. 

“It was great to meet all of you,” he says and Marie’s eyes flutter back to him. “But I gotta split. We should all go out some time. Meet up outside of work.”

“Oh, I think we’d looove that,” Cooper sing-songs, his eyes on Marie. She flushes bright red and pinches his shoulder, while Samuel laughs. “Ow!”  

Despite himself, this could actually be a fun shoot. He waves but none of them really see it, devolving into a squabble that makes him grin. 

You’re gone, he notices, but Heidi is sitting alone at the table, going over her notes. The art director has left too. 

He slides into the seat next to her and she lifts her head, smiling.

“Hey, Dee, you fucking crushed it today. Everyone’s been coming up to me to say how impressed they are with you.” 

He huffs and rolls his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, and did they follow it with, ‘especially after how much of a fuck up we thought he’d be’?” 

Heidi playfully frowns at him. “C’mon, man, give yourself some credit. You earned the right to be here. I didn’t have to approve your audition.” 

His throat tightens. No, she really didn’t. He shakes his head.

“You’re right. As always.” 

Heidi grins, pleased, and drops her head back to her notes, marking things in a red pen. 

“So what did you think of your co-star?” 

Be nice, Dieter. “She’s . . . fine.” 

Heidi smirks, but doesn’t look up. “Wow, I don’t think you’ve ever used less words to describe someone, much less a woman.” 

He doesn’t like the way she says woman, as if there’s this cosmic reckoning that’s started and he just doesn’t know it yet. Sam and Diane, Bones and Booth – a destined sort of thing. 

He rolls his jaw. 

“She just acts . . . uppity, is all. Like she’s better than everyone else.” 

Heidi snorts. “Okay, tell me how you really feel.”

“I don’t like her.”

At that, Heidi pauses and looks up, genuine concern on her face.

“Really? You don’t like her? She came recommended by the studio and she’s a bit much, but I didn’t think you’d actually dislike her.”

He back-pedals as fast as he can. This day is so close to being perfect. 

“I mean, I don’t not like her . . . I just . . . I don’t know her.” If he is being honest, the best time to tell her exactly what’s been on his mind all day is probably right now. “And, fuck, Di, isn’t she a bit . . . I don’t know . . .” He swears he can hear the old Dieter laughing at him. “. . . young?” 

Heidi grimaces, taking his concern seriously and he loves her even more for that. 

“It was a studio note. Execs say it makes the central conflict feel more . . .”

“Predatory?” His eyebrow lifts, disdain evident in his drawl. She frowns at him.

“Transcendent.”

There is nothing about that girl that is transcendent, he thinks bitterly. 

He sighs and leans closer. Heidi notices his change in body language and leans forward too.

“I just cannot fuck this up, Di. I have to come out on top with this. It’s really important.”

That pity flashes across her face again and his stomach curdles. But she soothes a hand over his, her eyes serious. 

“Dee, I know. I really do. I’m not going to let anything bad happen here. She starts acting up, she’s out. We don’t need her that badly.”

He couldn’t be sure if she actually had the power to kick a co-star off the set, but he wanted to believe she did. More importantly, she wanted him to believe she did. 

“Thanks, Di,” he sighs. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

She chuckles and pulls her hand back. 

“Go home to your wife at a normal hour.” She pauses, making a face as if she tasted something sour. “Your wife – God, I will never get used to that.”

“Hey, I got used to it, after my best friend left me for some brunette out in Bali,” he teases as he stands up. 

Heidi scoffs. “That wedding was sick as fuck and you know it.” 

“You know, I never did bill Lucy for the piercing I got there. Sober Dieter would never have made the decision to look like a Keith Richards knock-off.”

“Oh shut the fuck up and go home. To your wife.” 

He’s laughing as he waves her good night. 

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

He’s thumbing through his keys when he smells smoke. Acidic smoke. Like those disgusting American Spirits he used to choke down. 

You’re leaning by the trunk of your car, one heel kicked over the other, smoking a white cigarette through your fingers. Which would be fine with him, except your car is parked tightly in the space next to his and you’re blocking the way to the driver’s seat. He’d rather crawl through the trunk than have to bend around you.

You’re biting on your thumbnail, contemplative, and staring directly at him with unabashed contempt. 

“Your reading was stilted,” you announce and then take a long drag. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your reading today,” you say slowly as though talking to a stupid child, “it was stilted.” 

He pops his jaw. 

“That’s because it was a fucking . . .” He remembers to breathe. “That’s because . . . it was a table read. Have you ever been to one?”

“Yes.” You tap the ash off your cigarette on the heel of your boot, drawing his gaze to the flush of your thigh but he’s not going to fall for it. “It can be a great opportunity for actors to find their chemistry. To find their rhythm.”

“I know that.” 

“Then where was yours? Huh?” You lift your eyebrows. Did you ever not want to play Dare?

“What are you talking about? I had a fine time with the band. We’re actually going to hang out outside–,”

“I mean with me.” 

That burning sensation returns to his chest. You look at him as if you could sear a hole right through him. Your cigarette is left smoking, forgotten, between your fingers at your hip. 

“The only time you ever gave me anything was after I touched you and even then, your performance was so saccharine, it made my teeth ache. I’m out here to prove I belong here, on this big budget film, and you’re stonewalling me. What do you have against me? What did I ever do to you? 

He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth, guilt smothering the fight you aroused in him. He drops your gaze and puts his hands on his hips. He’s too old to be scolded like this.

“Nothing, alright? You didn’t do anything,” he says quietly. “It’s not you–,”

“Of course it fucking isn’t but thank you for saying so,” you snap. 

You take one more drag before flicking the white butt onto the pavement of the gathering darkness.

“This is going to be a long shoot if you can’t get your head out of your ass.” You step forward and he instinctively takes a step back, but you come close anyway and shove a finger in his chest. “I don’t know what your deal is and I don’t care. We’re going to get through this even if I have to grab you by your hair and pull you to the finish line. Got it?” 

Your eyes are shining, fierce, powerful. Your mouth could crush rocks. 

He nods. 

Maybe it’s the trick of the failing light, but he thinks your pupils are a little too unnaturally wide. 

“Great. See you Monday.” 

You turn away from him, stalking back to your car and hurling your purse into the side seat. The car, a Chevy that’s possibly older than he is, roars to life, with just as much vitality as you possess. He leaps back a second before the wheels squeal as the car lurches backwards and darts off into the dark. 

He stands, watching the car pull away onto the road, until it’s gone. He can still hear the engine screaming in the distance. 

He thumbs his keys again, shaking his head. For the first time in months, he would literally kill someone for a cigarette.

[ao3feed-narlie]

Broken Boy

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Zb1CFDa by PrincipledStarfish When is it really over? Is it in that final fight when you say things you don’t mean and you look at the hurt in his eyes and hate yourself? You know there’s no coming back from the things you said but you say them anyway. You don’t know how to say what you really mean. Or maybe it's when you see him with another guy. A guy who's so different from you, taller and broader and thicker, and ginger of all things, or strawberry blonde or whatever, dressed in a Leeds Rugby shirt, and you wonder "was he even attracted to me? Or is he even attracted to this guy? Or am I just the pathetic guy watching my ex from afar and reading way too much into little things." or, Sometimes healing is good days, sometimes it's just being sad, sometimes it's crying into ice cream because your ex-boyfriend moved on, and sometimes you don't recognize healing as healing. Words: 4068, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Heartstopper (TV), Heartstopper (Webcomic) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Benjamin "Ben" Hope, Charles "Charlie" Spring (Heartstopper), Nicholas "Nick" Nelson Relationships: Benjamin "Ben" Hope/Charles "Charlie" Spring, Nicholas "Nick" Nelson/Charles "Charlie" Spring Additional Tags: Angst, Breakup, Moving On, Recovery, Depression, complex PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Healing, self-sabotage, Charles "Charlie" Spring is a Good Ex-Boyfriend, Charles "Charlie" Spring (Heartstopper) Needs a Hug, Benjamin "Ben" Hope needs a hug, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sobriety, Family Drama, not your fault but your responsibility, Healing isn't linear, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ben did some of the work on himself before he met Charlie but not as much as he thought read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Zb1CFDa

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

“As a kid, I had a hard time making friends. The guitar was a universal way to communicate where I didn’t have to worry about being cool”: For Nita Strauss, the guitar has been a lifelong ally in battling anxiety and addictions

Playing guitar – and playing it live – can be hugely therapeutic. That’s certainly the case for Nita Strauss, who shares how her love for the instrument has helped her fight her demons

It’s been said that “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step” (Lao Tzu). For Nita Strauss, that step took place in September 2015. Strauss is approaching eight years of sobriety from alcohol – a journey that is, in many ways, reflected on her new album, The Call of the Void. “It’s not a recovery album,” she says, “but there’s a lot of recovery messaging in it because it’s what I think about a lot.”

Last year, Strauss spent six months on the road with Demi Lovato, a move that created media headlines and, of course, heated debates in accompanying comment sections. What many do not realize, however, is the significance of that musical and personal partnership in Strauss’s recovery.

“It was an incredible experience because it was my first time on a tour that prioritized sobriety,” she says. “All the other tours I’ve been on have been respectful of people who don’t partake, but it’s still around all the time. It was such a healthy experience being on a tour that didn’t have alcohol backstage. It wasn’t a dry tour; people could go out and partake at their leisure if they wanted to, but not in the dressing rooms or areas where Demi and the band were going to be. There were a lot of sober people on that tour and a lot of people in recovery to talk to.

“Demi has been a huge ally on my journey. When I was recovering from knee surgery [in December 2022/January 2023], I had to take pain pills for a few days. Demi was the first person to reach out and ask how I was feeling, and whether I was triggered in any way or needed anything. That struck me as incredible, because she’s one of the biggest stars in the world, and she took the time to reach out to one of her band members, check in, and make sure my recovery was doing okay.”

In an interview with Soundsphere Magazine, you shared that you struggle with anxiety.

“Yes, absolutely. I am a chronic over-thinker, and it’s been very difficult to manage my own expectations of what needs to be done, especially on the road. A lot of people are depending on me for this tour to go well – my band, the crew – and I have a new album. There’s a lot of pressure on me, and for somebody who already struggles with anxiety, that added pressure is not helpful.”

How does playing guitar help you cope?

“Guitar is therapeutic. I have always been not the most social person. As a kid, I had a hard time making friends. I found that when I picked up the guitar, it was a universal way to communicate where I didn’t have to worry about being cool. I didn’t have to worry about what people were going to think. All that came later, when I started getting more well known! 

“But when I first started playing, it was a healthy way to communicate and make friends. I could go out and kill it onstage and I didn’t have to worry about anything else at that moment. I could just let loose and enjoy playing. 

“When I’m playing, I’m not worrying about interviews, album numbers, if an email got sent out, if a T-shirt order was placed, or any of the day-to-day things that come with being a musician that are constantly circling around in my mind. All I’m focusing on is the show and my playing and if the audience is having a good time. That, to me, is the best therapy in the world.”

You were on tour during your first year of sobriety. How important was music in getting you through those initial months?

“It was incredibly important. If I was going to make this huge lifestyle change, this sacrifice – I thought of it as a sacrifice at the time – I wanted to become my best and highest-functioning self in the process. I started working out a lot, getting more muscle, losing body fat that came from all the alcohol I was consuming. I was getting better physically, I was getting stronger mentally, and I was playing at my highest level ever at that time. I was improving in leaps and bounds because my mind was clear, my fingers were calm, there were no jitters or shakes, and no hungover, sluggish feeling, so I was firing on all cylinders.”

How soon into recovery did you notice a difference in your playing? 

“Immediately. I used to think it was fun to go onstage inebriated. I treated it like a video game, like it wasn’t even real. I would get off stage, and if I made mistakes, I treated it like a joke – 'Oh my God, I was so hammered! Did you see where I slipped and fell?' Or 'I made this mistake, I totally missed this part, ha ha ha.' Looking back, my God, how unprofessional! 

“It was kind of fine at the time, especially pre-Alice Cooper, touring with club bands. The audience was three sheets to the wind as well, and we all had a good time together. It was never to the point where it got me in trouble, but now, looking back, the level of disrespect for my audience, the people who paid good money to come and see me – I wish I had given them the show I give them now.”

What was your lowest point?

“When I was using drugs. I’ve been sober from drugs a lot longer than I’ve been sober from alcohol. When I was at my highest level of using, it was all day, every day, for a couple of years. That was a dark, dark time in my life. When I look back at old pictures, I see a haunted shell of who I am now, and I am very grateful to have gotten out of that relatively unscathed. 

“It took me a long time to get over it because I was super-high-functioning. I was touring at a very high level, playing at a high level, going overseas with bands for the first time, and keeping this terrible secret. My band didn’t know, my boyfriend at the time didn’t know, only my friends that I used with knew. Being out of that for many years now gives me the mental clarity to realize how much it affected me at that time.”

How has recovery impacted your role as an inspiration for fans, particularly young women who play or want to play guitar, and of course fans who are also in recovery?

“I wish that people understood what a motivator it is for me to hear their stories. Every time someone comes up to me and says my story has been a part of their recovery, it gives me more strength and solidarity in my own recovery. 

“It’s still not easy for me. I’m on a tour right now where I’m the only sober person and there are times… we had a hard show one night and afterward I said, 'Honestly, I really want to have a beer right now.' It would have been nice to be able to have that to relax and unwind after a hard day. 

“So hearing other people’s experiences, hearing them say, 'Because you got sober on tour and you’re maintaining your sobriety on the road, I feel like I can do it too,' gives me that added motivation. I might even be able to let myself down, but I would never let those people down, and because of that, it helps me stay strong in my recovery.”

In your interview with Recovery Today, you discussed the stigmas that women in the music industry still face. There are also stigmas surrounding addiction and recovery. Would you mind addressing that?

“You are very right. Everybody’s recovery is their own, everybody’s journey is their own, no two journeys are exactly the same. Even if you are not an addict, you know somebody who is, or it has affected your life in some way. 

“It’s important, if you are on this path, to give yourself grace to walk at your own pace. If there is someone in your life who is on this journey, you also have to allow them to walk this path at their own pace, because things that trigger some people might not trigger others, and things that don’t seem like a big deal to one person might be a big deal to someone else. 

“So, as you navigate whatever path you’re on, make sure to give grace, kindness, and empathy to the people around you and also to yourself, because we’re all figuring it out together.”

The Call Of The Void is out now via Sumerian.

[deelitefulrecovery]

[nadal-designer]

[addictionfreedomnow]

Exciting news, everyone! We've just added some fresh merch to our online shop. 🎉 Featuring our signature graffiti smiley and the Addiction Freedom Now logo, each piece is a symbol of strength, recovery, and resilience. 💪 Whether you're on your own journey to sobriety or supporting a loved one, our merch is a great way to wear your heart on your sleeve... literally! Plus, every purchase helps support individuals in their recovery process. Check out our newest additions including our comfy, all-black unisex t-shirt and sleek stainless steel water bottle. They're more than just products - they're statements of support for a cause we all care about. 💖

[banyanchicago]

Ring in the New Year Sober in Chicago - Tips for Hosting a Safe and Fun Sober New Year's Eve Party

"New Year’s Eve may be a popular time for gathering, but hosting a sober celebration can be just as rewarding. Allowing the recovering community to come together and create a safe space to ring in the new year is not only beneficial, it’s necessary. We’d like to give our readers some tips on hosting a sober New Year’s Eve in Chicago. You can begin prepping for a sober New Year’s Eve as early as the beginning of December. Start by setting a budget for the event and decide who will be invited. Give yourself enough time to come up with a list of reliable sponsors, volunteers, and venues. Make sure to include some substance-free activities that will appeal to all ages. The next step for hosting a sober New Year’s Eve is to determine a theme and party favors. Choose an upbeat theme to encourage party-goers to have fun and cite recovery as the basis for celebrating. Serve drinks and treats that will complement the overall décor. You can also give away party favors like t-shirts or mugs as a token of your appreciation. To keep the event knowledgeable and engaging, contact local addiction treatment centers. Ask them to provide an educational booth at your sober New Year’s celebration and invite an expert to give a speech. You can also spread awareness by including stories of hope and success from individuals in the recovery community. This will help inspire those in attendance and keep everyone motivated throughout the event. Finally, it is important to ensure that all attendees have a safe ride home after the event. Provide everyone with information about drug rehabilitation centers and sober living homes. Hosting a sober New Year’s Eve is a great way to get a head start on sobriety goals for 2021. Here are a few important takeaways from our tips: • Set a budget and a plan for the event • Include substance-free activities • Contact local addiction treatment centers for an educational booth • Invite an expert to give a brief speech • Provide attendees with information about rehab centers Making these preparations and celebrating the New Year without the temptation of drugs or alcohol is an accomplishment in every sense. We wish everyone a safe, sober and healthy end to 2020!"

[purposefully-lost]

Crucial details of Charlie's recovery:

- schizophrenia diagnosis

- a stronger sense of self

- sobriety, even if it's slow-going

- weight gain

- a returned capacity to do dumb goofy shit like wearing awful Bully Me And I'll Cum t-shirts to black tie events or mailing out unwrapped kraft singles as Christmas cards

[wabastian]

Step back in time with our vintage "Nopioid" shirt, a clever and funny unisex tee celebrating sobriety! This unique tee makes for a perfect gift for those in a 12-step program or members of NA and AA. It's designed to be worn by both men and women, spreading a positive message of recovery in a stylish and humorous way.

[soberdoingit]

This just might be the softest and most comfortable women's t-shirt you'll ever own. Combine the relaxed fit and smooth fabric of this tee with jeans to create an effortless every-day outfit, or dress it up with a jacket and dress pants for a business casual look. Buy it now!