OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

ninety-four.

MARCH 28th, 1994, SEATTLE, WA 

          REAGAN'S CHEST TIGHTENED painfully as she stood on the Cobain's front doorstep, her raised fist falling lifelessly to her side once she'd knocked. The sound of her knock seemed to ricochet around her ears, louder than it actually was.

She knew why she had come. She did not have to reiterate that to herself. 

There had been little to no questioning from Dave that morning as she'd tugged on her jeans and sweater, silently avoiding his eyes though she didn't have to. Dave had understood completely as he'd laid in their bed, hands folded across his chest while staring up at the ceiling.

Reagan had very nearly asked Dave to go with her -- he was still Kurt's friend, the best drummer Nirvana had ever had, after all. But she hadn't asked and Dave hadn't inquired why.

It was a trip she needed to make alone. 

After all this time, Reagan had finally broken the rules of her and Dave's relationship. Whatever happened on the outside of their protectively shielded marriage was not their concern. Gracie was their concern. Their love was their concern. Making it work when Dave was an ocean away was their concern.

All the collective days of March had taken that firmly set rule, shaken it up and scattered it violently into pieces. It had taken the worse jolt of her life for Reagan to understand that the matter of Kurt did not exist outside of her and Dave's sanctuary of happiness. Kurt had been immersed in it from the beginning. 

When the front door finally opened, it was Cali who stood waiting to greet Reagan. She pulled down the sleeves of her thickly-woven sweatshirt over her knuckles. 

"Is Kurt here?" she asked slowly. The wind picked up and her hair feathered into her eyes.

Cali looked unsure of what to make of Reagan. She was certain that the house had become a fortress, impenetrable when it came to protecting Kurt from the roar of media attention that  shone upon him after the month's reported overdose. 

And surely, Cali had been warned that on the top of the list of those banned from seeing Kurt was Reagan's name. That was a list curated by Courtney.

"Well," Cali drawled. Perfectly round, purple circles curtained his eyes and Reagan wondered if the Cobain's nanny was on his own self-destructive bender. The thought made her shudder with buzzing anger. How could Cali do that with Kurt in his presence, battling addiction right in front of him?

"Please," Reagan urged. "I won't be long. It's important."

Cali said nothing, angling his chin skyward with an air of mistrust, but he eventually sighed and parted the door open.

"She's not home," he said in clear reference to Courtney. "But she will be."

"Thank you," Reagan breathed with relief. She slunk into the house, out of the drifting wind and inhaled the immediate scent of cigarettes, flowery perfume and a kind of cold dankness that could have only come from poor household upkeep. Even when it was decorated with mess, the house was still hauntingly beautiful. 

"He's in the kitchen with Bean," Cali said, walking around Reagan to assume his stretched out place on the couch.

Reagan nodded, trying not to make it obvious that she was side-eyeing her surroundings. There were cigarette butts littering the floor next to half-tipped ash trays, mismatched pieces of Courtney's lingerie, stockings and shoes, and guitars that looked like they were on their last standing leg propped into corners. 

The sound of a guitar strumming snagged her attention, forcing her to glance up from the messy floor. Cali was no longer paying mind to her, busy trying to light a cigarette, so Reagan allowed the melody of guitar strings being plucked to lead her into the kitchen.