Chapter Text
She’s biting her thumb so hard she’s drawing blood, but Yelena hardly cares when the rambunctious crowd begins filing into the bar space with excited, expectant chatter. She shifts uneasily from foot to foot as she peaks out from behind the velvet purple curtain, her hands tapping the ends of her wooden drumsticks rapidly against her thigh. The steady rhythm is the only sensation anchoring her to reality; a comfortable, familiar tick that keeps her senses sharp and her mind from tumbling completely over the edge into oblivion.
It’s not that she hasn’t ever performed before- nine years playing in garages and dingy bars has given her plenty of hands-on live performance experience- it’s just that she’s never performed when there’s a real chance that they could actually go somewhere with it.
It’s just another show, she keeps repeating to herself between ragged breaths that rattle her chest, just another fucking show.
“Yo, Lenny,” Bob sing-songs sweetly next to her, slinging his lanky arm casually over her tense shoulders as his other hand reaches down to grab her wrist gently, the gesture purposefully delicate as he tenderly unravels her fingers from straining around the wood. His shaggy brown hair tickles the nape of her neck as he rests his chin comfortably over her shoulder, “You good, dude?”
She tilts her chin to look up at him, her eyes narrowing in inspection at his half-grin. Robert Sentry has been one of her best friends since sophomore year of high school, a time that feels like an entire lifetime ago when she tries to think of what it was like before he was stuck to her side like glue. A decade of constantly being in each other’s orbit has garnered them both with an intimacy that is both invigorating and exasperating in equal measure. He knows her better than she probably knows herself, as infuriating as that is to admit, and she knows that despite her best effort, he absolutely senses the sickly ooze of anxiety bleeding off of her.
“Fuck you,” she bites back instead, unwilling to unpack that particular black box of feelings, and Bob laughs, straightening up to his full towering height as his curls bounce in tandem with the motion. She glares with a scowl at him when he raises a single eyebrow with thinly-concealed amusement, the light in his eyes playful as she reads his unspoken words with clarity. Is that the best you can do?
“Fuck you,” Bob chuckles back with pointed emphasis as Walker and Ava approach them both lacksadasically from behind, Ava pushing herself easily to her preferred spot under Yelena’s arm, “What the hell put you in such a pissy mood?”
“Don’t go poking our black widow,” Ava deadpans, raising a perfectly plucked dark eyebrow at Bob’s cheeky grin pointed back at the long haired brunette, “You know how sensitive she gets when she hasn’t gotten laid recently.” Ava flicks her gaze over and grins knowingly at her, white teeth glistening almost as brightly as her emerald eyes do under the fluorescent lights of the stage. Yelena holds up her middle finger wordlessly in response, scoffing half-heartedly at the only other person besides Natasha that she knows can take one look at her and follow her headfirst into whatever shit she always gets herself into. They’ve always been that way, ever since they were girls chasing each other through the schoolyard playground, and by now everybody knows that where Yelena is, Ava is not far behind.
“I can’t help it,” Bob shrugs easily, his wide shoulders surprisingly massive when he flexes the muscles hidden just beneath the vest he’s cut into a measly crop top, turning to Walker with a pensive look, “She’s so poke-able.” He reaches across to poke playfully at her cheek, her wrist flicking outwards as she swats lamely at him in protest.
“She plays better when she’s pissed too,” Walker smirks next to Ava, the blonde crossing his arms smugly over his chest, the outgrown stubble on his angular face making his grin look more feral than she knows it is, while Yelena rolls her eyes, “So maybe some celibacy won’t hurt.”
“You all are a bunch of dickheads,” she retorts, and Walker throws his head back in unbridled laughter, the curve of his jaw becoming more pronounced with the motion. John Walker is, surprisingly, the most loyal friend she’s ever known- never hesitating to step up behind her and ensure that she knows she has backup, should she need it. He has a streak of deep-seeded anger that Yelena deeply understands; they both can get that way at times, and their synchronization of that knowledge always seems to manifest itself into the lyrics that become the catchy choruses of their songs.
“Pretty much,” he smirks before nudging her shoulder teasingly, his elbow crooked and jabbing when it contacts her, “C’mon, lighten up, Belova. We’re going to kill it tonight. And then, once we rock the fucking stage, you can blow off steam with whatever little honey you want tonight.” He gives her a shit-eating grin: one with all teeth and a wicked glint in his blue eyes as he nods his head knowingly. A bonafide asshole, she thinks endearingly, rolling her eyes despite and resisting the miniscule urge to chuckle at his absurdity. Instead, she simply scoffs, nudging his shoulder back with the crook of her elbow and purposefully digging it into his bicep hard enough that she earns another coy grin from him.
“Fuck you too, actually,” Yelena bites back without any true malice, the sound of her raspiness resonating earnestly despite flipping him the bird.
“I’m not your type,” Walker retorts easily, shrugging his shoulders casually, “But if you ever want to take a test spin on the cock block, I’m all yours.” Yelena throws her head back at his crude humor, a laugh- a real laugh- bubbling up from her chest that loosens the tension clenching around her heart, calming the incessant worry that slowly fizzles away from the peripheral of her vision. She looks around at them all; at Walker’s bearded, wicked half-grin and Ava’s bright, daring eyes, at Bob’s genuinely pure joy expression that she can recognize simply by his tilted chin and the wild curls curtaining his eyes.
They always are able to do this: rip her out of her own head and away from her suffocating thoughts, their mere presence around her seemingly driving away the lingering feeling of wrongness that usually takes root in her very being. They are the anchors that keep her feet tied to the floating ground, the drum line that beats through her more surely than even her own heart does. They are her best friends, her Thunderbolts*. Whatever happens, she can handle it, as long as she has them.
“Feel better?” Ava questions gently, and Yelena can feel the utter relief at being able to genuinely give her the truth, without the incessant fidgeting of her hands. She looks around at them one final time, committing their smiling faces to the deepest crevices of her mind so that she won’t ever forget what it was like to be here, with them, doing the thing they love the most. She basks in it, letting the feeling carve its way into her chest for one heartbeat longer, before she steadies herself.
“Yeah,” she nods, her fingers hanging calmly at her sides, “Let’s fucking do this.”
Vormir is possibly one of the shittiest, dingiest, most disgusting dive bars in the entire city. Which of course, means that Kate Bishop is absolutely in love with it. The rich history of the rickety establishment is filled with musical greatness: Lorna Wu and the Coral Shore, the famed X-Men, even the prolific jazz artist Ramonda Wakanda has graced this stage at least once in their undoubtedly successful careers. Vormir, for all its worn down, gritty charm, has repeatedly turned talented locals into superstar musicians.
It’s also the bar that her mother refuses to step into, which gives Kate the much needed breathing room she is never afforded otherwise. Her reluctant employment at Bishop Recording Label was more willed than willing, her mother demanding that she “learn the family business” as a band recruiter before ultimately inheriting the million dollar company once Eleanor deemed herself ready to gracefully step away into retirement. Privately, Kate thinks her mother never will. She’s too much of a nit-picking control freak to ever let Kate make solo decisions about the company, let alone decisions about her own life. Hence her being here, at her favorite bar in the city, working.
The band currently onstage, The Guardians, is decent. Their lead singer- a woman with a stark green streak through her jet black hair- has a voice that makes Kate’s skin erupt in goosebumps: sultry and soulful with a dash of angst thrown in for good measure. The rest of the band…is there. A wiry, bug-eyed girl follows along swiftly on the keyboard, the curly-haired scruffy guitarist and stick-like scrawny bassist seemingly competing against each other as they send snarling smirks across the stage with each bout of skill they egotistically show off. Even the drummer- a thick, bald-headed man who seems to be screaming into the mic rather than actually singing back-up for the gorgeous woman, seems to simply be performing rather than embodying. They sound good enough together, look good enough as a group and play to the crowd's energy well enough, but there’s just something Kate can’t exactly point out but knows is missing. Something that feels too safe, too guarded to really be something worthwhile. Unfortunately, that is the exact type of band her mother is looking for.
It’s about molding, Katherine, Eleanor had harped to her, Molding a band into something sellable. Something worth something.
Money. That’s what her mother means when she sprouts phrases like worth something or palatable to her when they debate the talent of a prospective band. It’s the inevitable argument they always find themselves circling each other around in, and lately Kate is finding it hard to keep up the fight. She’s about to slide open her phone and text her mother the contact information of this good-enough band when the familiar emcee, her old college classmate Kamala Khan, steps back onto the stage as the Guardians exit the stage slowly, trying to soak in the lasting wave of adoration.
“How about that!” Kamala points out to the crowd as she nods her head enthusiastically, a wave of applause erupting throughout the venue like rolling tides. Kamala bobs her head and bounces on the tips of her toes in response, her dark curly hair bounding around her cherubic face with each little shimmy she gives the crowd. Kate chuckles at the theatrical announcer, her excitement palpable as she straightens herself out and gestures offstage to the band disappearing behind the stage.
“One more round of applause for the Guardians! What a performance, huh?” There are a few whoops and hollers scattered amongst the crowd, hands held up above heads as they clap in agreement, “Well, if you enjoyed listening to that set, go upstairs and check out their official booth for merch and contact information!” Kamala, ever the dutiful host, points towards the upstairs landing that Kate knows is stuffed with crowded booths full of demo CDs, Etsy t-shirts and handmade posters all advertising the bands hoping to make an impact at the legendary Battle of the Bands showcase. She had scoped the area out earlier, shopping around at the various merch stands before ultimately coming down and taking her typical place at the edge of the bar, right next to the stage.
“If you’re still looking for something else, something you haven’t heard before, then you’re going to want to stick around for some gnarly punk rock sounds coming up!” Kamala nods her head, looking briefly at the backstage before continuing, “Don’t go anywhere!” The stage lights dim slightly at her words, the peripheral of the bar becoming brighter as the show shifts into a brief intermission that gives the next band time to set up their instruments and sound check.
Kamala bounds down the stage stairs, clicking the microphone off in her hand before passing it to the blonde stage manager awaiting her and heading towards Kate’s relaxed position against the bar.
“Where the hell have you been, Bishop?” The bubbly girl greets her with a warm smile and an upturned eyebrow, holding open her arms to embrace her tightly in an all-encompassing hug that squeezes the breath out of her lungs. Kate chuckles against the python-hold the shorter woman engulfs her in, her arms squeezed tightly against the torso of her body before Kamala finally releases her grip and looks up at her expectantly. And there stands her wonderfully eccentric friend, owner of the biggest, brownest, most earnest eyes she’s ever looked into wearing deep navy blue jeans and a ruffled red shirt that somehow looks put together despite the comical color palette.
“Working,” Kate shrugs helplessly with a laugh, rolling her eyes at Kamala’s accusing expression, “I’ve been all around the city lately trying to find a new band to sign. It’s been absolute shit.” Not that business had been particularly stagnant, but it was plateauing enough that Eleanor has been sending Kate out every weekend to discover the next big thing, another one of her mother’s incessant sayings.
“Well…” Kamala looks around at the distracted buzz of the bar before leaning in closer to her, lowering her voice and gesturing for Kate to listen carefully, “If you’re looking for new and exciting, this next band is someone you have to check out.” Kamala, like Kate, knows when a band has It. She’s seen enough sets and band acts to determine the good from the great, and Kate trusts her opinion on the local music community more than any other producer or scout in the entire metro area. Kamala Khan, through all the theatrics and teasing and hosting, knows her shit.
“Really?” Kate’s eyebrows lift with interest, Kamala’s unusual secrecy and favoritism peaking her interest, “Better than the Guardians?” Kate can’t help but flick her eyes upwards, watching The Guardians’ lead singer approach the other end of the bar with the brunette guitarist draped heavily around her shoulders, the keyboardist standing next to them as she fidgets from booted foot to booted foot. Kate can’t quite find the other members without giving away her nosiness, turning back to Kamala to lean further into secrecy.
“By miles,” Kamala nods her head seriously, not an inch of hesitation appearing in her features, “Their sound is completely unique, and they have a really strong natural musical talent. They’re performing a few original songs tonight and honestly? Give them some resources and I guarantee you they can put together a kick ass album with them.”
“You’re shitting me,” Kate’s jaw drops, utterly unconvinced that something this cosmically aligned has dropped into her lap, “That good?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kamala nods once more, her brown eyes flickering towards the stage as her grin turns conspiring, “And they’re all hot as fuck too.” Kate erupts in laughter at Kamala’s wiggling eyebrows, her bold, awkward gesture utterly ridiculous considering the circumstances. The girl is absolutely incorrigible, she has been since college, but Kate can’t help but love her unfleeting brashness at trying to get them both some much-needed action.
“What’s their name?” Kate continues, attempting to politely redirect Kamala back to the business that has piqued her desire to learn more about this mystery band that has impressed her friend enough to say something about them.
“The Thunderbolts*,” Kamala answers with a dry smile, “With an asterisk.” Kate furrows her brows, trying to picture the band’s name in her mind and place the conspicuous punctuation somewhere within it. After a minute of silent contemplation that she knows would look insane if someone other than Kamala was watching her, she turns back to her friend with a frown.
“An asterisk?” Kate scoffs with indignation, “Where?”
“The end,” Kamala shrugs casually, noticing Kate’s unamused scrunched expression and sending her back a knowing smirk, “Oh, come on. You can’t deny that it gives the name a flair. Something that sets them apart from all the other bands.” Kamala tilts her head in the way that she does when she wants to get her way, even in something as simple as Kate agreeing that the name isn’t entirely idiotic, a tick that not even she is immune to.
“That’s true I guess…” Kate admits, tilting her head in reluctant agreement while Kamala pumps her fist in resolute victory, “How long until they go up?” The stage is half-barren still, the scattered instruments of The Guardians slowly being unplugged from their wired counterparts and packed carefully into hard-case carriers that will go into the green room assigned to them at the beginning of the gig. Kate tries to see if any of the equipment managers are bringing new props out, her eyes lingering on the way there seems to be a brief flutter of movement at the corner edge of the purple curtains.
“Fifteen minutes,” Kamala answers as she checks the gold watch on her left wrist, Kate’s attention snapping back, “They should be coming out for a sound check soon.” Kate nods, watching as Kamala is whisked away by the stage manager to be prepped on the band that sends out a tall, muscular brunette to set up their instruments. She watches the man move with comfortable ease, his strong arms each carrying a bass and guitar hard case that he sets purposefully at each side of the stage with practiced casualty despite the murmur of the crowd watching his moves carefully. Kate notices the rectangular bass case is covered in fluorescent drawings, scribbles that seem to be colored with the fluorescent fillings of glow sticks they pop so brightly; the guitar case beaten and bruised from the sort of wear and tear that can’t be faked. The brunette disappears back behind the stage, a few lingering seconds ticking by until he returns and Kate can see his face clearly. He’s undeniably good-looking; rugged in a weirdly boyish way that seems to place him in his late twenties, early thirties. He brings out a combination of odd new additions: another guitar hard case that is covered in undecipherable black markings, a new bass drum to screw into the set already provided, a plethora of towels that are hand-embroidered with a yellow marking she can’t quite make out clearly.
Kate watches the stage, then turns to the bar, taking in the ambiance. There is a shift of senses; a growing anticipation that seems to teeter on the precipice of something magical. She can’t quite name it, the gnawing thrill that seems to jolt through the crowd and herself the longer they wait for the band, but she can feel it increasing and intensifying with bated tension, waiting to be unleashed. Finally, the relief explodes in the myriad of cheers that erupt as the curtains peel back and the band emerges.
The lead singer is handsome: a lean muscled, curly-haired brunette whose leather vest hangs open just enough to showcase the row of sculpted abdominals hidden under the black material and disappearing into the waistband of his pants. His smooth skin is decorated with endless black ink, detailed images of snakes slithering over his shoulders and smoking skulls peppered across the slopes of his knuckles; the most notable of them being the pinned butterfly spread across the apex of his stomach that peaks out from behind his vest teasingly. Kate raises an amused brow, vaguely amused at how even her eyes seem to glue themselves to the tantalizing placement of the monarch creature. He runs a hand messily through the mop of curls on his head, the muscles in his arm bulging with the motion before he fidgets with the mic stand and adjusts it to his noticeable height. He seems calm- the calmest of the bunch by far- walking around lackadaisically and chatting up each of the band members with a casual smirk that Kate knows women must fall to their knees for.
She watches him approach the bassist first: a dark haired girl who looks utterly unimpressed by his teasing antics, rolling her eye-shadow-covered eyes when he tries to pluck the strings on her waxy smooth jet black instrument. Her style seems both fitting and out of place within the band: her cropped Fleetwood Mac shirt haloing over the long, flowing patchwork skirt that barely graces the top of her combat boots with each sway of her hips. The skirt blooms with movement when she shifts to swat his hand away from the chords, narrowing her eyes in silent warning as the singer throws his head back to laugh, deep and full from the back of his throat. Kate tips her head, noting the sound. She’s realized after years of watching performers, that she can determine a lot about their voice from a laugh or a scream or the way an artist simply moves their words around in their mouth. It’s a niche skill, a side-effect of a job where she is constantly analyzing everything about a person’s persona and presence.
The lead slowly floats to the other end of the stage, towards the guitarist: a shaggy blonde boy with a scruffy half-beard growing from his stoic face as his fingers pluck at the notes with quiet, focused precision. Kate watches his skillful playing, the ends of his fingers running rampantly over the neck of the guitar as he chases the thrill of the elaborate string of notes he is coaxing from the instrument with expert precision. He hardly acknowledges the lead singer standing next to him, his eyes trained down on his own hands while the lead imitates his wide-legged stance, leaning back as he plays the pretend version next to the real thing. Kate is mesmerized by how intensely the guitarist stays attuned to his craft, his head bobbing slightly before he ends the serenade with a soft whine of notes wiggled out from the instrument.
“Fuckin’ shredding!” The lead singer praises with unveiled awe, fondly pushing the shoulder of the guitarist as the stoic expression cracks just enough for a small smirk to flicker through onto his face. The lead seems to deem this reaction good enough, clasping the guitarist once more on the shoulder affectionately before turning and walking towards the back of the stage.
Kate can admit that the band as a whole is an attractive group, but it’s the drummer: an alluring blonde dressed in a black ratty band tee ripped, cropped, and sleeveless, with her biceps bulging underneath the shifting lights with each movement of her arms, that makes Kate’s throat go dry. She’s gorgeous, with devastating green eyes rimmed with blue liner that make the angles of her cheeks sharper and the slope of her nose even prettier, her slicked back hair falling forward with each bang of her head in time with the beat as she tunes the drums to her personal liking. Kate stares enviously as the lead leans over the drum set notably decorated with a brightly-colored yellow asterisk on the front, flicking the single strand of blonde hanging in her eyes to get her to look up. Kate’s stomach drops, her hands curling tighter around her untouched drink as she watches the blonde give a wicked smirk, dipping her head as the lead grabs her drumstick and rattles the tremble in a faux drumroll. The brassy sound carries over, Kate’s breath shallow as the blonde drummer tilts her head back to laugh. Kate strains her ears to hear, but the rumbling of the crowd noticing the band begin to start is too loud for her to make out anything discernible about her voice.
Kamala appears next to her, a shadowy presence that whispers in her ear, “It’s show time.”