Title: Perspective

Author: necessary angel

Fandom: Hard Core Logo

Pairing: Billy/Joe

Rating: PG-13 for language and imagery, m/m implications

Disclaimer: These guys belong to a hell of a lot of people. Suffice it to say I'm not one of them.

Archive: Ten Buck Fucks

Spoilers: Yep. Don't read this if you haven't seen the film and don't know how it ends.

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Perspective

by necessary angel
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I take the Jenifur deal and you end up in a coffin with half your head missing.

Jesus.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Me standing here on the slushy, piss-ridden, snow-covered ground; you underneath it. It was over, yeah, but not this, like this. Never like this.

One last gig. That's what I wanted. Finish the fucking train-wreck of a reunion tour and tell you, while you're still high. In my own time, you know, and then get the fuck out of there. A clean getaway. It's the best way with you, with us; trust me on that one.

Yeah, I walked out five years ago, but that was the only time it worked. I tried before that, but I never got far enough out of orbit. L.A. was fuckin' far enough.

Just.

You were fired up and fuckin' evil on stage, but you've been like that before. Didn't mean shit.
Anything could have set you off. You're…were… always angry on stage. Angry and mean really worked, though; it just poured out of you and the whole thing flew, we all flew. That was the best gig of the whole fucking tour.

Good way to end it. The Hard Cores going out in some kind of fuckin' style, you know what I mean?

Then you're all over me and it turns out we're ending it at the other end of the scale. It's not the first time we've finished a gig covered in blood as well as sweat. Why should the last one be any different?

Most of the time I've never known why you started whaling on me. No difference this time. I didn't fucking guess, either. I didn't know shit until I'm kneeling in your brains, trying to figure out if the hole in your head is real and Bruce comes clean. Jesus Christ, great fuckin' timing, eh? At least he didn't get that on tape, the cameraman was too busy puking. Too bad he missed me putting Bruce flat on his fuckin' back as well.

I might have known those fuckheads would tell you. Should have known. I figured that Bruce wouldn't fuck me over. Stupid fucking cunt, ain't I, Joe?

He was still so pissed with you for the whole benefit fraud. Can't blame him, really. And the bastard was stirring it the whole fucking tour. Not that the Hard Core Logo family needed any help with the lying and fighting.

My hands are almost shaking too hard for my lighter to work, but it does, at last. It's freezing out here. Everyone else is long gone, the four other people who showed up to see what was left of Joe Dick put in the ground.

Pipe and his bitch of a girlfriend - she always hated you, Joe. At least she's honest - told you to your face the first time you head-fucked Pipe in front of her. You didn't care, of course. You liked it, loved it. Got off on it.

Ed - which was a fucking surprise, until he opened his mouth and started talking. He wasn't here to pay his last respects, or even to make sure you were really dead and this wasn't the Bucky stunt taken to the next level. Actually, he might have been okay with that. No, Ed was looking out for his fucking percentage. Big surprise, eh?

Some asswipe of a reporter, only one, but that was more than enough. He had the sense to keep well away from me. Not exactly the funeral of a legend.

Celine didn't show up. She is in town - she got John into a rubber room the day after the gig. He's still there. Pipe must have called her. He kept it together. He was the only one who did in the end.

I grind my foot over the still glowing end of my cigarette. My boot keeps moving, grinding, rubbing, until there's nothing but half-melted snow left. The Toronto gig is off. Ed wanted us to play anyway. Jesus. Yeah, with John even more fucked in the head than ever, and you gone. Like that was going to happen. Ed wanted us to ride some sick publicity wave, farewell gig or some such shit. Well, fuck that.

He doesn't get it. He never did. The Hard Cores, especially you, Joe fucking Dick, had their farewell gig. Five years too late, but we did it, in Edmonton in some shitty club we'd played a million times before. Fits, don't it?

It was going to be over one or way another after Edmonton. End of the fucking road, Joe. John had lost it, even more than he ever had in the past. He'd looked good at the benefit. He had his shit together. Two fuckin' days with us and he's off the planet again.

Yeah, it was over. John was fucked, totally fucked. I was out of there. I was gone. Hard Core Logo was done. All over but the crying. Except you, fucker, got there first, finished it for good. Talk about fuckin' game over.

I still can't wrap my head round that, even though every time I close my eyes I see you lying there. And I can smell you, booze and blood and meat.

I can taste it, that smell… you.

Shit.

I pat my pockets, looking for my smokes. Christ, that was my last fuckin' one. My hands are shaking, all of me is shaking. It's dark now and I can only just make out the fresh earth that's covering your grave. I should move. I should get out of here. I've a plane to catch.

But I don't.

You always were one for the grand fucking gesture. I didn't see this one coming, though. Just like I didn't see it coming five years ago. Jesus, you'd think I'd learn. I'm just as big a dink as you, Joe… worse, maybe.

I was so pissed after I walked away that night, leaving the wreck of my guitar, leaving everything. I haven't been that fucking mad since… well, the last time you pissed me off.

I knew you'd be holed up somewhere getting shitfaced in one way or another. Nothing changes, right? I couldn't face going to find you though; couldn't see the point. I made my way through the stash of booze in the dressing room, instead. I never drink like that in L.A., never need to, never angry enough, never anything enough to need…

Jesus, I knew you had that gun. You always carried it, never used it, though you'd waved it in a few guys' faces over the years. I thought it wasn't fucking loaded; it never used to be back in the old days. I used to steal your ammo whenever you got some, remember? I didn't want you killin' something or someone when you were too loaded to know any different. You gave up loading it after a while. Bucky had given you ammo at the farm, but the gun was empty the next day. I checked.

You had it that night, the night we made our deal. You hid it from me. I didn't think about it at the time. You'd never bothered before.

"Fuck!"

I should have… my mind was on the Strat, gorgeous guitar, no fuckin' limits. And then you started talking. New deal. You were listening, really listening, for the first time since I got to Vancouver. Music, no coke. You and me. New deal. We were going to take it somewhere this time.

I know I'd heard it before. This time you seemed different. You meant it, I'm sure of that. I had
choices. Yeah, Jenifur was out of the picture, but I had a life in L.A, options, you know. I haven't been fucking pissing my life away for the last five years.

"But you and me, Joe; the music was there, the new stuff was working, *we* were working. Five years on and we still had it; we were better than ever. I had the contacts…."

We had our shit together, the Toronto gig lined up.

'Cept it only took you a couple of hours after we got to Edmonton to score some blow. You knew I'd notice, not that you exactly hid it. Never did. Nothing ever changed with you. Joe was the great fucking Joe Dick - the way you'd been since I was thirteen.

"You never asked, Joe. You never did. Bucky never fucking meant shit to me. You had to know that. But you never asked, you stupid fucking freak. I should have walked away then, after the benefit. Christ, I should never have got the fucking plane in the first place. You fucked me over five years ago and I turn up for a benefit gig for a washed up bastard I always hated. Didn't you ever wonder why? But you never did ask, did you Joe? Not if you could just take. Fucking coward."

The knees of my jeans are soaking, cold, and I realize I'm kneeling in the snow. I'm talking, no… fuckin' shouting in the middle of a fucking graveyard but I can't stop myself.

"Truth, Joe. Never was the booze or the coke or even the smack. Just you. You always were the one nasty habit I couldn't kick. Five years. I thought I was clean. I should have known fuckin' better. I had my way out. I was cool, until Regina."

I draw in a deep breath and almost choke on it. Christ, I need a drink, a smoke, something.

"One little taste and I was back down there. I thought I could handle it, walk away any time. Didn't know shit, did I? By the time I figured out I was hooked again, you were fucking over our new deal. Nothing changes; Joe fucking Dick never changes. Then the Jenifur offer came through. I had a choice. Music, a life, or the old days every fucking day. Know what, Joe? Easiest fuckin' choice I've ever had. It never was about models and limousines, Joe. It never was…."

Fucking hell. I rub one bare hand - I've no idea where my gloves are - across my face, and my fingers come away wet. I’m losing it; I’ll be joining John at this rate. Kneeling in snow, in the dark, talking shit at a dead man. I glance around but there's no one here.

No one at all. Joe Dick's dead, after all.

I've a plane to catch. I push myself to feet and shoulder my bag. I made my choice; we both did. "Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you."