OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

seventeen.

         REAGAN AND DAVE stood in the middle of a music store, surrounded by a plethora of guitars, amps, drum kits and other musical components decorating the walls and floors. Dave had led her into one of the specialty rooms of the shop, solely dedicated to drums. The room was void of any other customers.

"We had to come all the way here just so I could watch you play drums?" Reagan asked, folding her arms across her chest. She still donned Dave's old Scream shirt, wearing her blue jeans beneath it.

"I didn't feel like putting my kit together," Dave reasoned, selecting a pair of drum sticks that laid atop another set. "Plus, I like to show off to the locals."

"That doesn't surprise me," Reagan said. She walked around a particularly shiny, new drum set in the center of the show room. As nicely sculpted as it was, she could not picture herself playing it. She did better on the kind of sets that already had wear and tear to them. That way she never felt bad about playing as hard as she could.

"We could have gone to your house," Dave told her. "You said your dad's old kit is there."

"My house is a zoo," Reagan justified automatically. "Don't expect to ever visit any time soon."

"What if I want to meet your dad?" Dave contemplated impishly. Reagan tried not to snort at his suggestion.

"Don't question it because it's not happening," she replied with finality.

The thought of bringing Dave through the threshold of her front door was borderline horrifying — she'd had nightmares that were more pleasant than that.

Reagan could not even begin to think of how she would even introduce Dave to her family members. As her boyfriend? No way in hell. Her friend? That would be offensive to Dave and all that they'd physically been through. Her sexual partner? Too much information for blood relatives. All those options were far out of left field.

"Want me to play on these?" Dave asked. He jerked his chin in the direction of the glossy kit Reagan had been lurking around. She stepped out of his way and panned her arm out towards the kit.

"Go for it, maestro."

Dave sat down on the drum stool with flourish, clearing his throat professionally and side-eyeing Reagan as she watched. She giggled, her newfound weakness being Dave's unrefined silliness. She had not laughed that much in ages.

With his hands wrapped tightly around the drumsticks, Dave confidently launched into his drum solo, banging out the beat of a song that Reagan was quite familiar with. She smiled as she identified it in her head. It was the last portion of John Bonham's drum solo in 'Moby Dick,' and somehow, it sounded even better being played from Dave's hands.

He drummed effortlessly, wearing an expression of ease as he flicked his wrists and bounced each stick flawlessly from one part of the kit to another. He even turned his head to grin at Reagan, needing no visual of where and when he made contact with the drums sitting in front of him.

If she were to compare it her own playing, Reagan would have said that Dave shared her similar trait of using the drums as an extension of the body. He didn't need to focus so much because for him and Reagan both, playing was no different than using their arms or legs.

She felt a conflicting tidal wave of feelings as she watched him, her arms still interlocked across her chest. There was a sensation of intense attraction that fell upon her as she viewed Dave in his element. She'd already assumed that he would be a good drummer, but he'd gone above her expectations -- he was not only good, he was ultimately the best she'd ever seen.

The other feeling, the one that was comparably more nagging rather than warm and fuzzy, was the twinge of jealousy that reared its ugly, green head as Dave pounded out the Led Zeppelin tune leisurely. As much as Reagan would have loved to entertain the idea that she had been the better option for Nirvana, it was obvious who the job was truly meant for.