After the gig | 3rd person POV

  The bus stop reeked of rain and hot concrete.

  David sighed and ran a hand through his hair like it personally betrayed him.

  “The van’ll be ready next week,” he muttered, more to the universe than to anyone else.

  “Mechanic says it was just the engine overheating. Minor issue. Y’know… smoke, sputtering, the lungs of a 50-year-old smoker.”

  Nickie snorted, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt. “Minor. Right. Like arson is minor if you’re quick enough with a bucket.”

  “At least we didn’t have much gear,” David added.

  “Fonfobia covered most of it.” He glanced at the cymbal case Nickie was clutching a little too tightly.

  “...Except that.”

  Nickie scowled. “Don cracked my cymbal.”

  Adam, slouched nearby and looking like someone had unplugged him from life, didn’t even lift his head.

  “Not Don. The guy I dropped on it. For shoving you.”

  “Right,” Nickie deadpanned. “That totally makes it better.”

  “Never again,” Adam muttered. “I don’t care if he’s twice my size. Next time I’ll aim for the floor.”

  David sighed. “Next time, let’s aim for less lawsuits.”

  They managed to cram themselves and their gear onto the last bus back to town.

  Soaking wet with sweat.

  Smelling like punk and victory.

  Dead on their feet.

  And satisfied as hell.

  Adam sat next to Nickie.

  "Hey, rock star. You want me to take you home?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Can I crash? I'm fucking beat."

  "You can crash," she said.

  Nickie was acutely aware of Adam’s knee touching hers. Then she felt his head tip onto her shoulder.

  She let it stay there until she fell asleep herself.

  When David woke them up, her head was somehow in Adam's lap, his hand supporting her shoulder.

  ‘Warm. I don't want to move. Just a few more moments. A few more. A few-’

  "GUYS! We gotta get off the bus now!"

  David loaded the guitar and bass cases onto himself, then grabbed the cymbal bag.

  "Night, guys. Great gig. Get Nickie home safe," he told Adam.

  Nickie was falling asleep where she stood and stumbled off the curb.

  Adam caught her by the arm.

  "Hey, watch it," he said, brows creased.

  She swayed slightly, still half-asleep.

  "M’fine… Totally fine…"

  Adam suddenly noticed how thin her shoulders were. Her shirt was soaked through.

  She looked like she’d wrung herself dry just to finish the set.

  "Here, sit down."

  She sat on the edge of a bench and almost tipped over.

  Adam steadied her, this time keeping a firm grip… just in case she decided to test gravity a third time.

  "Nickie," he sighed, smirking. "You trying to stage dive with no audience, or is this just a cry for help?"

  Nickie let out a weak laugh, lips twitching into a tired smile.

  "Maybe both."

  "Yeah… well."

  He kept a hand on her shoulder, pulling out his phone.

  "For now, you're officially banned from walking. Taxi it is."

  ***

  Inside the Taxi universe

  The taxi smelled vaguely like fried onions and despair.

  Adam guided Nickie into the back seat like she was made of glass and immediately followed after, shutting the door with a soft but decisive thunk.

  "Don’t sit on me," Nickie slurred, her head already finding his shoulder. "I’m fragile."

  "You’re sitting on me."

  "Mmm. Lies." She yawned mid-word. "I’m incorporeal."

  Adam chuckled and adjusted her position so she didn’t accidentally fold in half.

  She’d slumped sideways across the seat like a drunk ragdoll, one arm draped over his thigh, the other curled under her head like a cat.

  “You’re banned from walking, banned from talking, and banned from thinking you can carry your own snare case ever again.”

  Nickie poked weakly at his stomach with one finger. “That’s drummer discrimination.”

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  “That’s called ‘you almost died three times on the same sidewalk.’”

  “Pff,” she huffed, “I’ve played sets with a sprained wrist and a cracked cymbal.”

  “And I’ve seen David cut onions with a bread knife. Doesn’t mean it’s smart.”

  Her eyes blinked open, barely, and she turned her head to look up at him, her cheek squished against his hoodie.

  “I only went that hard ‘cause I knew you’d get me home after.”

  Adam blinked. “What?”

  “Mmhmm.” Her voice was syrupy now. “You’re like… the aftercare tank. Big bass goblin ambulance. Emotional Uber.”

  He made a choked sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

  “That’s the worst nickname I’ve ever been given. And I’ve been called a goth support animal.”

  “Accurate,” she mumbled.

  Adam shook his head, grinning despite himself. Her wrist had gone limp again over his leg. He shifted slightly, and she made a soft, offended noise.

  “Don’t move,” she said, without opening her eyes. “You’re warm. You’re like a human microwave burrito.”

  “I think that makes you the burrito.”

  “Shh. Don’t ruin it.”

  He sighed and carefully adjusted her again, tucking one arm around her shoulders and the other around her knees. “You’re literally sliding down the seat.”

  “Gravity’s a liar,” she muttered. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve been through worse. Remember that gig we went to in the parking garage?”

  Adam frowned. “The one with no bathrooms and the lead singer who set his pants on fire?”

  “Yup,” she mumbled. “That wind tunnel mosh pit almost dislocated my spine. And I survived that.”

  “You also ate a hot dog off a trash can.”

  “It was on the wrapper,” she whispered defensively.

  Adam raised a brow. “You cried afterward because it ‘tasted like betrayal and carpet glue.’”

  “Exactly. And look at me now. Thriving.”

  Adam smirked. “This is what thriving looks like?”

  “Don’t judge my process,” she whispered, eyes closed.

  The driver didn’t say a word the whole ride, but Adam could feel him judging them silently in the mirror.

  He didn’t care.

  Nickie’s weight against him felt weirdly comforting. Familiar. Like the silence after a perfect take.

  Halfway through the ride, she made another sound, this one almost a whimper.

  “Everything hurts,” she whispered. “Except you. You don’t hurt.”

  Adam froze.

  She didn't notice.

  She was already drifting off again, her hand gripping a fistful of his shirt like a blanket.

  ***

  I GOT YOU, DRUMMER GIRL

  When they got out of the taxi, Nickie could barely stand. Her legs felt like jelly, and her vision swam.

  ‘I’m gonna fall’, she thought, panic flickering through her exhaustion. But before she could collapse, she was being scooped up by a pair of steady arms.

  “Thanks. I mean... Thanks…” she whispered weakly, relaxing in Adam's hold. He looked down at her, her face pale and her eyelids heavy.

  “I got you, drummer girl. Rest.” He replied softly.

  ‘She’s so light… and fragile. How can she drum like this machine yet be so delicate right now?’

  He adjusted her in his arms, feeling her head rest against his chest.

  “Where are the keys?”

  “Right… pocket,” she mumbled.

  Adam hesitated for a second.

  ‘Okay, don’t overthink it. Just get the keys, get her inside.’

  Carefully, he reached into her pocket and pulled out the keys, managing to unlock the door while still holding her.

  ‘How am I even doing this?’

  He wondered, a faint sense of amazement at his own coordination.

  The house was empty aside from the cat, and quiet. Elanya had the night shift at the hospital again, so it was just them.

  Adam carried Nickie straight to her room, wobbling slightly as he tried not to slam her elbow into the doorframe.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “You’re surprisingly hard to carry when you’re this floppy.”

  She mumbled something in response, half breath, half nonsense.

  “...No more shrimp ghosts...”

  Adam blinked. “What?”

  No answer.

  Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder.

  He gently kicked the door open and shuffled inside, trying to ignore the fact that he was sweating through his shirt from nerves more than exertion.

  “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Bed. Blanket. Mission: Not Drop Her.”

  He knelt to lower her onto the bed, trying not to jostle her.

  It worked. Mostly.

  Until his knee hit the corner of the bedframe with a loud, meaty thud.

  “Fuck!” he hissed through his teeth. “Shh. Go back to sleep. Nothing happened.”

  Nickie didn’t stir.

  He took a deep breath and reached for her shoes. One came off easily. The other got stuck halfway, and when he tugged, her leg jerked up like a reflex kick.

  “Jesus… okay. Foot trap. Fine. You win.”

  Eventually, he got the blanket over her. It wasn’t a neat tuck.

  It was more of a cautious draping, but it covered the essentials.

  He reached to pull her hoodie hood up for extra warmth, paused, then just gave up and fluffed the pillow under her head.

  Just as he was about to step back, she murmured again, softer this time.

  “...’s warm… bass goblin...”

  Adam froze, halfway standing.

  ‘Did she just… Nope. Not thinking about it. Not interpreting that.’

  He crouched again, brushing a stray lock of hair off her face with two fingers, trying not to think about how natural it felt.

  ‘Just leave. She’s fine. She’s warm. She’s breathing. That’s all that matters. You don’t need to hover like some deranged nursemaid.’

  He hovered anyway.

  He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Elanya:

  Adam (1:30 AM):

  Got her home safe. She crashed. I’ll stay close.

  Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and focused on her again.

  Then he whispered, “Good night, drummer gremlin,” and backed out of the room like he was defusing a bomb.

  In the hallway, he let out a long breath, still clutching his phone. Elanya’s text buzzed a second later.

  Elanya (1:32 AM):

  That girl never paces herself. Tell her she’s grounded. And thank you, Adam.

  Adam stared at the screen, then typed:

  Adam (1:33 AM):

  She said something about shrimp ghosts. I think she’s already being punished.