“So what do you think?” Freddie’s eyes are shining when he accosts Ash on her way back from the bathroom. Giving a gentle shove, she weaves through the crowd, picking up various empty glasses scattered about the room while there’s a lull between sets.
“Yeah they go pretty alright.” She concedes, pretending like she didn’t have Doing Alright’s harmony running through her mind. That seemed to sate Freddie well enough, and he followed along behind her, picking up a few glasses here and there before she headed back to the bar.
“Hey, Pocket Rocket,” the way the nickname is said makes Ash’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she fixed her best ‘customer service’ smile on her face. Roger’s grinning back at her, almost completely ignoring Freddie, who turned sharply to Ash and mouthed the nickname at her with raised eyebrows. His incredulity, which she catches out of the corner of her eye, still making unwavering eye contact with Roger, makes her sharply professional smile crack as she represses a genuine grin.
“Yes, Roger? Can I help you?” Voice sweet, she sees Freddie’s eyes widen even further, if it were possible, recognising the poison in her voice from a mile away.
“Me and the boys are about to start our next set, could I grab some beers?” There was nothing innocuous in his words, and he kept his gaze focused on hers, but he’s grinning like it’s a challenge. She doesn’t back down.
“Of course.” She sets about her work, grabbing three bottles from the refrigerator behind the bar, uncapping them, and handing them over. His fingers brush against hers where he’s quick to pick them up, and Ash retracts her hand like his touch burns. “Well, if you need anything else-” Tone chipper, she’s quick to fold her hands behind her back, bouncing quickly on the balls of her feet.
“I know where to find you.” Roger agrees, his gaze lingering just a little too long on the tightness of her smile before turning away.
“You guys are playing really well, tonight.” Freddie adds, and Ash chuckles at his earnestness, the sound fond and sincere where she were artificially bright only moments ago.
“Yeah, thanks mate.” Roger looks over his shoulder, her soft, genuine laughter catching him off guard, but she’d moved to start washing up the glasses she and Freddie had collected.
As soon as Roger had gone, Freddie rapped his knuckles against the bar top to get her attention, practically bursting with questions. With the band starting up, however, she can barely hear him over the buzz of the music and the crowd, and so she offer to take her break early. Waving off her offer, Freddie seems far more content listening to the music, but she knows that he’d bombard her with questions at the next given opportunity.
By the time the last set is winding up, Freddie’s had to head home, like Cinderella before the strike of midnight, and a lot of the crowd had dispersed.
“You boys did such a good job.” Maureen’s voice carries over from where she’s uncapping three bottles of beer for the guitarist. Ash, tries not to eavesdrop, but Maureen’s speaking loud enough so he can hear her across the bar, over the jukebox.
“Yeah, we’ve never really played here before, what made you guys try and find us?” Brian, leaning against the bar, takes a sip of his own beer, letting the other two sit patiently beside him, getting gradually warmer.
“Ash is the one who asked, actually.” As soon as she hears her name come from Maureen’s mouth, Ash freezes. “Yeah, apparently her little friend is a fan.” And there’s a fond note in her voice that has Ash smiling abashedly.
“He around? Should thank him for getting us a gig.” Brian’s smile is bright as he turns, gaze roving over the crowd, though Ash joins them, grinning faintly.
“I think you’re talking about Freddie; he’s left.” And at the sound of her voice, Brian’s turning back, though Ash’s attention shifts to Maureen. “’Reen, I’m gonna have a smoke, can you manage this lot for ten minutes?” Grinning, she doesn’t even need to cast her gaze around the bar to know that everyone at the bar was too busy fawning over Tim, the singer, to be bothered to order much.
“I think I can manage, my little Pocket Rocket.” Maureen ruffles her hair, stepping out of the way as Ash went to swat at her, making a beeline for the back door.
“Ash, could you do us a favour?” Calling out after her, Brian holds out one of the beers as she turns back with a half smile. “Rog is out by the van, can you take this to him?” After a beat of hesitation, she forced a smile on her face and took the beer, heading much slower towards the back door.
He’s sitting in the open back of his van, leaning against the side door, wearing shorts that exposed way too much of his thigh. He’s got one leg hanging down to the ground while the other was drawn up to him, where he’s propped his hand which held a gently smoking cigarette. His head was leaning back, his eyes closed, and after a beat of watching him, so relaxed, taking a moment in the cool night air, Ash watches him exhale a lung full of smoke, watches the smoke turn rose gold in the glow of the streetlight. There was something pretty, even calming, about the sight, his aura of easy confidence apparent even without his usual posturing.
“This is yours.” Breaking the silence, Ash steps from the back doorway, onto the gravel of the back car park, letting the door swing closed behind herself. He doesn’t start when he hears her, just cracks open his eyes and gives her a once over, eyes zeroing in on the beer. Neither of them move for a long moment, and then he’s turning, grinning at her as he legs hung over the edge of the back of the van, holding out a hand for the drink.
“Thanks, love.” The crunch of the gravel sounds so loud in the silence created by the closed door. Once he has the beer, she’s moving back to the door, pulling one of the crates from the stack by the bins, and sitting on top of it, patting down her pockets. Part of her knows he’s watching, curious, possibly a little amused, watching as she finally pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one, stashing both the remaining smokes and her lighter in her back pocket.
“Where’s Pocket Rocket come from?” Roger’s the one who breaks the silence. Ash looks like she’s trying to melt into the brick wall, head back, shoulders loose, heels resting in the gravel where she’s got her legs straight out in front of her. Smoke drifts from her lips, eyes looking up at the stars, and at first she doesn’t answer him, he thinks perhaps she didn’t hear him, and he opens his mouth, but she speaks over the top of him.
“Me or the nickname?” Unsmiling, she digs her heels further into the gravel, listening to the stones shift against one another. Roger takes a long draft from his cigarette, gaze wandering across the back of the building, along the parking lot that was mostly empty, save for the staff cars.
“Surprise me.” He finally says, and Ash makes a noise in the back of her throat that he can’t identify, though it does sound a little amused, but not necessarily in a good way.
“Why?” She snorts, finally looking at him, smiling sharp and uncooperative.
“Why what?” He asks, frown creasing his brow, and her smile widens.
“Surprise me.” It’s a challenge not an answer, and he knows he met her a few hours ago, but he thinks her grin has turned a little more genuine, a little more playful. Or maybe he’s imagining things. Either way, he finally looks away, goes back to leaning against the inside of the van with one leg up, looking up at the sky.
“I’m just trying to make conversation, aren’t I? We’re probably going to be working together again, after all.” He lets himself smile at her snort of amusement, or perhaps derision, but continues anyways. “Fine; you first, then the nickname.”
For a long time, Ash is quiet, watching him, trying to discern his intentions, and he waits patiently for her to respond, sipping his beer, flicking his ashes onto the gravel.
“Fife.” After a beat, she sighs, knowing before he even opens his mouth that he has no idea where that is. “Northern Scotland.”
“Hence the accent,” Roger muses, squinting up at the sky.
“Hence the accent.” she agreed, taking a moment to breathe in another lung full of smoke and lean back against the wall of the pub, joining him in his stargazing. “And I’m Pocket Rocket because I am.” It takes a long moment for her words to sink in, Roger flicking his cigarette butt away.
“That’s not an answer.” He scoffs, and Ash makes a hum of agreement, cigarette hanging from her lips as she pulls out her notebook. Her answer was incomprehensible to him as she spoke both through her accent and around the cigarette between her lips. “What?” He actually turned to her, brow furrowed, trying to decipher what she’d actually said. After a beat, and without looking up from her work, she takes the cigarette out and breathes out.
“‘s not like I owe you my origin story.” The way she drew out her annunciations made Roger feel a little bit like a fool, though there was something about her accent that he found charming. “What are you even doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside with your groupies and whatnot?” Not even letting him get a word in edgewise, she goes back to speaking normally, which he can decipher easily when she’s not mumbling around a dart.
“Can’t a man have a smoke and get ready to load his van in peace?” Roger grinned, standing and stretching. Ash mumbled something else, too quiet for Roger to even hear, though it was accompanied by an eye roll where she was looking at what she was drawing. “Oi, watch it.” He went out on a limb trying to call her out, and when she looked up at him, flush with embarrassment, he at least knew what she’d said hadn’t been exactly polite.
“Watch yourself, drummer boy.” Despite the retort, she was bright red. Her gaze met his and she could see the triumph in his eyes. She could feel it rising within her, that anger from before at his sheer arrogance, even as he stepped out of the shadow of his van, haloed by the streetlight, smiling at her despite the situation, perhaps challenging, though, she thought it looked more playful than anything else.
Breaking the look, she turned away, face still warm with embarrassment having been caught shit talking under her breath. Stubbing out her cigarette, she put away her notebook and pencil, standing and taking a moment to kick the crate back to the stack beside the bin. Roger watches her all the while, his arms folded over his chest, as if analysing her; she doesn’t look back at him. The only sound is the aggressive crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she makes her way back to the back door of the pub, pulling it open to fill the night with the sounds of people talking and laughing, and the jukebox playing. They don’t exchange any more words, and when he comes back inside to start loading the van, she’s nowhere in sight.
“Ash, the band wants to see you!” Maureen calls when Roger leans against the bar, asking about their pay for the night once everything’s been loaded into his truck. All the bands get paid cash in hand, and Dave had left Ash in charge.
“If I have to talk to some long-haired muppet about how I owe him more than what I promised, I’m gonna retire on the spot.” Dave had said to her, looking exhausted at the mere prospect and putting a stack of notes in the till with a rubber band securing them together. “This is how much they get; no more, no less.” He’d been very serious about that part, and Ash took pride in the fact that he’d trusted her after so little time.
The smile she gives Roger is tight as she passes him the money, and he raises his eyebrows at her, finally picking up on her strained professionalism.
“Thanks again for the gig, uh, Pocket Rocket, was it?” He asked, feigning innocence, something inside of him delighting at the way her jaw tightened.
“Sure,” Ash said, working to untense her jaw, “it was lovely having you play.” After a beat, he gave her a nod, his own grin now just amused as he leaves to join the other members of the band where they’re talking to some, what Ash assumed to be, fans.
Roger catches her humming Doing Alright as she wipes down tables a little later in the night, and, for reasons he’s not quite certain of yet, he smiles.
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ask your destiny to dance [2] {Roger Taylor}
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