#can you tell which one off quote stuck to my brain like glue

[professoraurabolt]

I haven’t stopped thinking about them, help

[clumsyclifford]

hi i have some continued thoughts about the gif set i made earlier but i’m just thinking about like baby boys writing nothing personal and jack just like feeling really down on himself one day bc he doesn’t know what he’s contributing and alex tells him he named this song for him bc he is so important i don’t know there are so many THOUGHTS TO BE HAD why are they like this

hi paige i don’t know if this was supposed to be a prompt but i took it as one because i’m me hope that’s okay <3 (also here is the gifset in question, warning for max damage)

read it here on ao3

-

“Hey, where’d Jack go?”

Flyzik looks up from his laptop and glances around the control room. “I dunno,” he says. “I thought he was here.”

“I leave for two minutes,” Alex says, sighing exasperatedly. “We need to put a bell on that kid.”

“Believe me, if I could, I would,” says Flyzik, returning to the all-important task of probably talking shit on Twitter or whatever he does when he’s taking up studio space. 

Squire, whose playing had been arrested upon Alex’s re-entry, starts the guitar line from the top. The unfinished track fills the small room. Alex considers handcuffing him just so he’ll stop playing that one fucking guitar part.

At this rate, he’ll be sick of the song before it’s even released.

“I’m going to find Jack,” he announces, not that anyone cares. In a halfway attempt at defiance, or being annoying, or whatever, he snatches Flyzik’s coffee mug off the table.

“Hey,” Flyzik says half-heartedly without looking up. “Give that back.”

“You’re fired,” Alex informs him.

“Joke’s on you, I quit this morning,” says Flyzik.

Alex rolls his eyes and leaves the control room.

There’s really only one place Jack is likely to be (okay, two places, but Alex has just come from the bathroom and he’d been the only one in there). Alex heads for the lounge. The TV is on, playing a commercial for mattresses. Occupying the entire length of the couch:

“Jack,” Alex says. “Where’d you go, man, I thought we were working on the song.”

Jack makes no indication that he's heard Alex at all.

“Dude,” Alex says, coming into the room and facing Jack. The way Jack is slumped into the cushions, it looks like he’s been lying here all day, not for two minutes. “Were you just waiting for me to go to the bathroom so you could bail?”

Jack shoots him a glare, but again says nothing. Alex frowns.

“Are you good?” he asks, sinking to the floor with his legs crossed. He sets Flyzik’s coffee on the table at his side. “Is something wrong?”

Jack groans. “Can you leave me alone?”

“Hey,” Alex says, hurt. “What —” He breaks off. Obviously Jack doesn’t want company — or at least not Alex’s company, which stings — and if Alex doesn’t want to be a dick, he should leave. 

Except Jack is already kind of being a dick. So.

“Dude,” Alex says again. Jack keeps his eyes on the TV over Alex’s head. “Can you at least look at me?”

“I’m just taking a break, what’s the big deal?” Jack mutters.

“The big deal is you were fine five minutes ago when we were tracking the guitar,” Alex says irritably. “I leave for two seconds and when I come back you’re gone? ‘Taking a break’?”

“Yes, Alex, I came to jerk off in peace,” Jack snaps. “So can you piss off?”

Alex huffs. “Stop being an asshole when I’m just trying to understand what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong, dude!” Jack finally looks at him, though it’s clear he would rather not be. “You don’t need me to finish the song, okay? You have Squire to do the guitar, and if he can’t do it then you will, so I’m just gonna sit this one out, alright?”

Alex stares at him. “The fuck do you mean, we don’t need you to finish the song? You need to learn it. And Squire’s just doing the demo track anyway. Meaning technically he doesn’t need me for it, either.”

“Alex, you wrote the fucking song.” Jack crosses his arms. “It wouldn’t exist without you. Unlike me.”

“You…would exist without me?”

Jack glares at him, again. “No, the song would still exist without me. And it would have a guitar part, without me. I know my role in the band, Alex, I’m not getting any ideas, okay? I’m the one who makes inappropriate jokes on Twitter and collects bras during shows. I don’t contribute in the studio.”

The gears in Alex’s brain grind loudly to a halt. “You don’t — what? What?”

Jack draws his knees up to his chest and looks back up at the TV. “Am I wrong?”

“Uh, yes?!” Alex says emphatically. “Extremely wrong, what the fuck? Since when is this a thing? You really feel this way?”

“Oh my God, it’s not a big deal,” Jack grumbles. 

“It’s a big deal to me,” Alex retorts. “You think you don’t contribute when we’re in the studio? You’re, like, the reason most of these songs get made. If you weren’t here we’d still be on our first record.”

“You don’t need to therapy me,” Jack says dully. “I’m fine with it.” 

Which is obviously not true. Jack’s shuttered expression and bitchy attitude don’t exactly communicate ‘fine.’

“I’m not trying to ‘therapy’ you,” Alex says, making air quotes. “Whatever the fuck that means. I’m trying to tell you something you should already know.”

Jack sighs wearily. Somehow he seems to sink deeper into the couch, like whatever’s weighing him down is only getting heavier. “Alex, it’s fine.”

“Stop saying it’s fine,” Alex says sharply. “It’s not fine. Did someone say something when I left? Is that why the mood whiplash?” There’s no way. Squire would never, and Flyzik hadn’t even been on the same planet. Not that Flyzik ever would, either, but then again, they make a lot of fucking jokes around here. Sometimes the kind of joke that hits a little too close to home. Call it an occupational hazard of living and working with a bunch of guys in their early twenties; none of them really know when to stop.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. 

Jack’s gaze flits between Alex and the TV, which has really been playing commercials for far too long. He seems to realize he’s not going to escape this conversation, and with an almighty sigh grabs the remote and hits mute.

“No one said anything, okay?” There’s a pause. Alex waits patiently while Jack gathers his thoughts. “It was just that, like, you were there, and we were joking around, and then you left, and like…Squire kept playing the part, Flyzik was still on fucking MySpace or whatever, and, like, I don’t know. It just felt like if I left it wouldn’t matter, so I did.” He barks a humorless laugh. “And I was right. It didn’t matter.”

“It mattered to me,” Alex says. “I came back and you had abandoned me with Squire and Flyzik. You think I want to be stuck with them?” 

One corner of Jack’s mouth pulls up, barely, then drops down again. “I’m fine,” he says a third time. “You can go back and finish tracking the lead. Just call me when you need me for something.”

Alex considers this. “You know, I could use a break, while I’m here.” He takes a sip of Flyzik’s coffee, which is absolutely disgusting and also room temperature at this point. Jack frowns at him.

“You’re in the middle of demo-ing a song,” he says flatly. “‘Best Friend Knows,’ right?”

“Well, as you so eloquently pointed out, Squire can track the guitar,” Alex says. “And in fact is tracking the guitar. And has been for half an hour. He doesn’t need me for it, either.”

“But that’s not the fucking same and you know it. You wrote the song.”

“Yeah, so what? It’s not that great of a song. Anyone could have written it. I bet Andrew has fifty better songs in his back pocket.”

“But Andrew isn’t in the band,” Jack says. “The whole point is they’re your lyrics that you write for your band.”

“And you play the guitar,” Alex counters, raising his eyebrows at Jack. “Yeah, there are a billion songwriters and guitarists in the world. Anyone can play guitar, but there’s only one All Time Low guitarist, and it’s you. You’re our guy, Jack. You brought the band together, you keep it together, and you keep us moving forward. So what if you’re not writing lyrics? There’s way more to being in a band than writing the fucking lyrics. I promise you, man, without you we’d still be playing the fucking Dulaney Talent Show. We’d be fucking nowhere. We definitely wouldn’t be in L.A. recording our second full-length studio album.”

Silence falls as Alex’s words hang in the air. They’re both quiet for a moment. The Red Bull fridge buzzes in the background, and even more faintly comes the sound of Squire relentlessly playing the same lead part for what has to be the millionth time. 

“If you say so,” Jack finally says, although he doesn’t really seem to believe it. 

“I do,” Alex says firmly. Jack is the heart of the band more than anyone else, the beating pulse that keeps them alive no matter what shit gets thrown their way. When they were traveling from venue to venue in a shitty van, Jack was the one who kept spirits high. In their earliest days, Jack had held them together like glue, as if he could tell that something really special would happen as long as he didn’t let them go.

And he’d been right. There’s no All Time Low without Jack. That’s always been obvious to Alex.

“I think it’s an awesome song,” Jack quietly adds, as an afterthought. “No one else could’ve written it, so take that shit back.”

“Mediocre at best,” Alex says. “But there’s still time to make it better.”

“I like it,” Jack insists. “It’s cool. You’re a good songwriter.”

Alex waves a hand. “All the good lines are from Squire.”

“Well, I don’t know any of the words,” Jack says, a hint of his usual dry humor making a comeback. “But I bet that’s not true. All the best lines always come from you.”

“They’re meh. There’s not even a good line for a title. ‘What Your Best Friend Knows’ is just the most repeated line, but like, I don’t know. It’s boring.”

“So just call it something else,” Jack says. “The title doesn’t have to come from the song. You might have heard of a little album called From Under The Cork Tree? It’s by this super underground band, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of them.”

Alex laughs a little. “Yeah, okay. I guess.”

Another pause fills the room. Finally Jack says, “If you want to hang out, you can, but stop trying to therapy me.”

“I’m not trying to therapy you! It’s called being your friend, you dumbass.”

“Well, cut it out,” Jack deadpans. There’s the Jack Alex knows. 

Alex smiles at him, even though he knows it makes him look very sincere, more sincere than Jack probably wants from him. “You made your band bed,” he says. “Now you have to lie in it.” He half-stands and clambers onto the couch, and Jack stretches his legs over Alex’s lap. “What are we watching?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, reaching for the remote. “It’s been commercials since I got here.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t these people have anything better to do than advertise all day every day?” Jack unmutes the TV. An episode of a show neither of them know is playing. Alex rolls his eyes. “Which channel is playing Lost reruns, do you think?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jack says, raising the remote like a wand. “Hope you brought a board ‘cause it’s time for some channel surfing.”

“Oh my God, you’re so lame.”

Jack snickers. “Maybe there’ll be a line you can use for the song title. Like a ‘Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner’-type thing.”

“In Lost?” Alex says skeptically. 

“Maybe, you don’t know.”

Alex highly doubts Lost will have any cool one-liners that could double as song titles, but it’s not a bad idea, pulling an iconic movie quote the way Fall Out Boy did on Cork Tree. The gimmick isn’t really the All Time Low style, but there’s a first time for everything.

Besides, Alex thinks, glancing over at Jack, whose attention is trained on the TV, I think I know the perfect movie.

—

“What?”

They’re back in the studio the following day. After yesterday’s minor emotional hurdle, Jack seems to be doing much better. Right now his eyes are wide in surprise as he stares at Alex.

“‘Keep The Change’ —”

“I know the quote,” Jack interrupts, a smile stretching over his face. “That’s the name? Of the song?”

Alex grins. “Has a cool ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? This is the best day of my life,” Jack enthuses, beaming. 

Alex shrugs. “Well, someone gave me the great idea to use a movie quote for a title. This felt fair.”

“Alex, I literally love you so much, you don’t even know,” Jack says. “Just for this, I’m giving you my firstborn.”

“If you ever have children, God save us all,” Flyzik says dryly from the far side of the room. He’s not wrong, but Jack doesn’t even act offended, still caught up in the excitement of the song title. 

“Hey,” Alex says in a low voice, kicking lightly at Jack’s leg. “For the record, I’d never in a million years have thought to use a movie quote title.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Jack says.

Alex gives him a meaningful look. “That’s my point, man. Next time you think you’re not contributing, just remember this, alright?”

The shadow of realization passes over Jack’s face, and he shakes his head incredulously. “You are such a piece of shit,” he says, although he doesn’t seem upset. “This was just to make a point?”

“I didn’t do it to make a point,” Alex says. “I did it because it was a good idea. But it does make a point, because you thought you weren’t contributing in the studio, and this is proof that you are.”

Jack sighs. “Point taken.” A little bit of humility colors his expression. “Thanks.”

Alex gives him a cheeky smile. “You are welcome,” he says airily, and throws an arm over Jack’s shoulders. “And now I think we both have some guitar parts to learn, am I right?”

“Yup,” says Squire, as if he’d just been waiting for his cue. “Jack, you wanna track this?”

Jack glances over at Alex, who grins. “Yeah,” he says, stepping forward and taking the guitar out of Squire’s hands. “I’d love to.”

[tisfan]

Candy Hearts Series

WinterIron - Wine  

Request: @summerpipedream Tags: first date, bad date, drinking, Tony has issues Wordcount: 1,889

Summary:

Tony asks Bucky on a date. This is great, this is wonderful, Bucky is very excited...

Tony discovers that Bucky is not Steve...

(In which a case of mistaken identity involves a LOT of necessary wine) (and in which case Bucky discovers champagne is good for getting red wine out of silk shirts.) (and Tony discovers that Bucky not being Steve is probably a good thing)

Bucky was pretty sure the date was in the toilet about five seconds after he sat down. He’d been running a little late, which meant Tony was already seated by the time Bucky walked over to the table. Bucky caught the man in profile, desperately handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and fucking owning the suit he was wearing, like he spent all day in tailored slacks and a three button jacket. He was absently rocking a glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand and people watching.

Bucky took a seat and watched as Tony blinked. Absolutely zero recognition on those coffee brown eyes.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky tried to prompt him, “good to see you again.” He offered a hand to shake and Tony took it on autopilot.

“Yeah, I… uh… James?”

Bucky nodded. He’d just met the man last week at a three-day, long weekend seminar thing for team building. Kinda like summer camp, but worse, really. Fury’d assigned Steve, Bucky, and Clint to go, since, as Fury always said “the three of you need a map and a compass and a flashlight to find your way out of a wet paper bag.”

Which wasn’t true at all, but none of them were really team players.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Bucky said, awkwardly. How did Tony not know who he was? Tony had called him two days after the seminar and been charming as fuck on the phone for a ten minute conversation, rehashing some of the seminar, and closing off with I was really impressed with your attitude and intelligence. Oh, and humor, very amusing, and I was wondering, you know, if you’re single and everything… you might want to go out for dinner with me?

Tony had sounded a little overeager, his words spilling quickly, as if he was talking from a script in his head that he’d been rehearsing, and it had given Bucky chills and made him feel squirmy at the same time to think he’d managed to impress Tony Stark. He’d said yes without even thinking about it.

“I guess I thought you were blond,” Tony blurted out, and then, seemingly realizing how rude that was, grabbed his menu and buried his face behind it.

Oh.

Oh.

“You got me mixed up with Steve,” Bucky said. Of course that had happened. Of course, of fucking course. It would be easier if Bucky could hate Steve, but he couldn’t. They were best friends, had been for way longer than Steve had been the unobtainable fuck that everyone wanted and no one got, and Bucky was the one occasionally picking up Steve’s leavings. And spent a lot of time nursing a little ball of jealousy that was going to give him an ulcer one of these days.

Bucky sighed, pushed his chair back, folded the napkin back up and threw it on his plate. “No need of us wasting our time or your money.”

Tony’s hand snapped out and caught Bucky’s wrist. “No, no,” he said. “Come on, okay. Wrong first move, I know. I have exactly zero brain-to-mouth filters and I had a ton of business cards at the end of the weekend, and I’d been sorting them into piles when I got them. So… you were still in the left pocket, right? I just, thought you were the other guy, no harm, no foul. I mean, we’re already here, might as well…”

Bucky gave Tony a flat look. Steve would have already walked out if he’d known any of that stuff, hell, Steve probably wouldn’t have said yes to Tony in the first place. Steve had… weird dating requirements, and there was a -- no shit, Bucky had actually seen it -- a 27-item long list of deal breakers to get to a second damn date with Steve Rogers. “If it’s Steve you want, I ain’t him, an’--”

“Come on, just stay, would you? I went through a lot of trouble to get a table here tonight, and--”

“You told someone you had a date, and you don’t want to deal with the fallout if you don’t actually have a date?”

Tony actually blushed, and was all kinds of not fair that he looked damn adorable when he did so. “My ex,” he confessed.

Bucky didn’t quite sigh when he dropped back into the chair, but his hopes for the evening were pretty much shot. On the other hand, as the asker, Tony was still footing the bill. Bucky might as well eat, and then have a really horrible bad-date story to tell at the office on Monday. Anything had to be better than listening to Clint and Sam rehash the plot for the latest Bad Movie they’d watched. (It was one of their things, the bad movies. Which, as Bucky had at least two of them inflicted on him, were truly terrible. The one with the hopping vampires had been so bad that it wrapped around to being good again, and then kept on going right in to what the fuckery territory.)

“And they’re gonna know you didn’t actually go on a date how?”

Tony delivered Bucky’s signature flat look right back to him with a side order of really, were you not paying attention. “Zero. Brain-to-mouth filters.”

Bucky glanced at the menu and didn’t quite choke. The prices, written in neat little calligraphy numbers, were… yeah, ow. Tony must have really wanted to impress Steve. (They weren’t even like normal prices, $22.95 or anything, no decimal places. Bucky did a quick run of numbers and even if he stuck to Pepsi and a main meal, Tony wasn’t getting out of here for less than $200, which was a lot just to not have to lie to an ex.)

“You know, you could just tell them I stood you up? Or that we had a political discussion and you tucked some breadsticks in your bag and made a break for it.”

Tony laughed, bright and clear and obviously amused. “Oh, no, after that joke, you have to stay,” he said, eyes shining. “I insist. I remember laughing all weekend, doing projects and team building bullshit with you and your co-workers.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Then you probably meant to call Clint.” He waited until Tony gave him huge, hurt, wide eyes, before grinning. “Kidding, I kid.”

And it was on from there. Tony was snarky, sarcastic, bitterly cynical about the present, but so full of hope for the future that it was painful. They got some of the first date bullshit questions out of the way, and were deep in a conversation about the Brexit fallout, including some economic implications that Bucky hadn’t even considered, before he realized that they were finishing off their dinners.

Really, for eighty-five dollars a plate, he probably should have paid attention to the food. Or, like the four glasses of wine -- had he really had that much? He did vaguely remember the sommelier coming by with a second bottle. The house chiante was perfect with the braised wild boar and mushrooms that had made up Bucky’s selection.  

Their server came ‘round to see if they had room for dessert and Bucky let Tony talk him into sharing an espresso souffle. While they leaned closer to each other, dipping their spoons into chocolatey coffee goodness, the conversation turned lighter, favorite movies, books, music.

God, Steve would hate this guy, Bucky thought. A strict non-fiction, military memoirs sort of guy, with a side helping of literary fiction, if Steve Rogers ever read a science fiction novel in his life, Bucky would be shocked. When they were kids, Steve was constantly ripping Star Trek novels out of Bucky’s hands to give him books that were practically required reading for school, and what the fuck was up with that? Like anyone actually wanted to read Red Badge of Courage or Wuthering Heights.

Steve certainly wouldn’t be drinking with a guy he’d just met and giggling over bad Star Wars puns.

“Let me top you off, one last time,” Tony said, waving the bottle around. “No sense lettin’ it go to waste.”

Bucky considered it. He was already taking an Uber home, what was the harm?

“Oh, sure.” He went to push his glass, still half full, toward Tony--

Everything happened in that slow motion of a nightmare, where Bucky couldn’t possibly move fast enough to prevent anything. Like swimming in glue, he could only watch, with horrified eyes, as events spooled out.

He bumped the rim of the wineglass with his fingers, tipping the whole thing over. Brilliant red wine poured across the white tablecloth and headed straight for Tony’s expensive silk suit. “Oh, fu--”

Bucky didn’t even get the word all the way out before Tony had a lapful of cold wine and a splatter of red up his white shirt that looked like a bloodstain.

“--ck.”

Tony took a deep breath, looked down at his soaking wet legs.

“Jesus, I am so, so sorry,” Bucky said. He handed Tony his napkin -- even four cups in, Bucky wasn’t brave (or stupid) enough to try to pat Tony’s lap dry -- and bunched up the tablecloth to keep any more of the wine from spilling over.

Tony’s napkin looked like a victim of a crime scene, and the one Bucky gave him didn’t fare much better. He sighed, stood up, grimaced. “Ug, right down my leg into my shoe,” Tony complained, his face bunching up. (Was it wrong that Bucky found that damn adorable? It was wrong. It was so wrong. He was so screwed.) “I’m going to the men’s room and see what I can do about this.” Tony pointed a finger at Bucky. “Don’t you dare leave.”

Bucky considered the mess, the remains of wine in the bottle. Sighed. The server was already over, gathering up the dishes and folding away the tablecloth. Someone already had a fresh one ready. They were probably gossiping about him in the back. “Can I get the check?”

“Mr. Stark has an account here, sir,” the server informed him with just a hint of… sympathy.

“I need to do something, I just practically drowned him in chianti.”

The server considered that for a moment, then made a suggestion, along with quoting him a price. Bucky kept his grimace to himself. “Sure, sounds good.”

A few minutes later, Tony was back. He’d closed up his jacket to hide the wet, still slightly pink stain, and the rumpled fabric was evidence that he’d used the hand dryer in the bathroom to some effect.

Tony was barely back in his seat before the server brought them two slender crystal glasses holding their mid-line champagne, the bubbles clinging to the flutes.

“What’s this?” Tony asked, but he took the stem anyway.

“Get me the dry cleaning bill for your suit, please,” Bucky said, “and… well, I didn’t want to risk dumping more wine on you, but champagne makes everything just a little better.” He held up the glass to Tony. “To a bad first date that you can tell your ex about.”

Tony scowled at the glass, then gave Bucky a huge pair of doe eyes. “I was hoping to toast to a potential second date.”

Bucky almost choked on the champagne, the burned toast flavor dancing over his tongue. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I could drink to that.”