Foo Fighters One Shots

Overheard (Dave)

"You're killing me, David!"

"I'm killing you?" he yelled back into the mic. "Do your damn job!"

Her laugh echoed around the empty theater and the buzz from the speakers  near him shifted just so, telling him she was, in fact, doing her job. And she did it well, which was the exact reason why she had been recommended to him by one of his idols. One of the old-timers that had been around the world with her, coveting her incredibly talented ear for acoustics and only reluctantly giving up her name when he realized their tours wouldn't overlap.

The name he had given Dave had been generic, one of those unisex nicknames given to kids of the mid to late 70s and he'd had to bite back his surprise when a confident, attractive brunette showed up at rehearsals. She parked herself behind the sound desk and immediately threw some good-natured barb at Taylor when he hassled her about being female, instantly endearing her to the entire band. It was clear from the beginning that she'd take no shit and kick any one's ass that tried.

And fuck did they try. Night after night Dave would sit back and watch her eviscerate every poor sap that tried his hand at wooing her, reminding them that she was there to work not get laid. 

"Do you want me to say something?" he'd ask her quietly over the table of booze. "One word and I can get all these assholes to leave you alone."

"No," she'd assure him, though it was clear she was grateful for the offer. "They'll all back off eventually. Maybe by Kansas City."

By the third week, everyone had tried, failed and left her alone to do her job. But by the fourth week they'd joined up with another band, a band notorious for their exploits and she had to start all over again with another crew of musicians and roadies.

"One word," he'd remind her every night. 

"I know," she'd reply, sometimes with a gentle hand on his arm if he was lucky. "Thanks, Dave."

In the meantime, soundcheck was becoming his favorite part of the day. They'd bicker back and forth as they perfected the sound, playfully bitching at each other until Dave felt everything sounded right. And then one day, Taylor finally snapped. 

"Just fuck her already!" he grumbled over the table piled with Crown and Jack and Jager bottles. 

Dave narrowed his eyes over his red plastic cup, "What?"

"You two have been flirting nonstop since this tour started. Just get it over with so we don't have to sit through three-hour soundchecks anymore."

"We're not flirting, Hawkins," he scoffed, but a quick glance around the room to Nate and Shifty told him they were siding with Taylor on this one.

So he'd requested an in-ear piece. 

During the show all he'd have to do was look out towards the sound booth and tap a pedal to get her to reply, her solutions to his sound problems coming faster than expected. Then after the show, just after his bow and before he left the stage, she'd be the first voice he'd hear. 

"That was great, Dave."

And he found himself looking forward to it every night.

*

At the mid-point in the tour, they were up against a break. Two days off in some random mid-western city in the depths of winter and the roadies from the support band were across the bar watching her. A bit too closely, a bit too hard for Dave's liking.

"Hey, Gus," he leaned in toward his tour manager so no one would overhear, "Put her room next to mine, will ya?"

"Way ahead of you," he nodded back, "Some of 'em were talking about getting her across town."