OCTOBER 10th, 1993, SEATTLE, WA
REAGAN'S EYES PARTED open slowly as she felt a gentle pulling through her hair, her scalp tingling with the sensation. It was Dave's fingers, caressing her head as she dozed in his lap despite it being almost five in the afternoon.
"Are you sleeping?" he asked quietly.
"No," Reagan said. She wrenched her mouth closed around a building yawn. "Just resting my eyes."
"Looked like sleeping to me."
She sat up, throwing her legs over in a heap into his lap. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a dull brightness into the living room from the glass doors that led out back. The glowing shards of faded gold were a stark contrast from the fuzzy grayness that had been clouding the horizon.
"I'm not sleeping," she said adamantly. "I don't think I'm going to sleep at all for the next few days, if we're being honest."
"Taking care of G is going to be real fun when all you're running on is coffee and hot showers," Dave grinned.
"Not even hot showers," Reagan groaned. "I never get to shower anymore. Not with Gracie around, anyways."
"We hired a nanny so you could do those kinds of things. Like shower. And eat," Dave hinted, offering a prodding reminder as to why Sarah was at the house during the weekdays.
"I didn't want a nanny. Gracie is ours, not someone else's kid."
"You still need a break, Reags. Don't burn yourself out."
"No breaks. Not now. Just you and me."
She curled inwards to his chest, clinging to the light cotton of his t-shirt and sending up a quick prayer of thanks that he was still there with her. In a matter of days, Dave was leaving again, headed to Phoenix to kick off the first leg of Nirvana's tour. He would be gone until April at the very least, and unless Reagan planned on flying out to see him, there was no telling when they would have a moment like this again — just them on the couch, enjoying the silence of their home in each other's company.
It had taken all the trust that she could muster, but Reagan had let Kimberly take Gracie for the day. Kate was with her, and Richard too, which eased some of Reagan's anxiety, but it didn't seem reasonable enough yet to be away from Gracie for that long. Reagan had to remind herself that Kimberly was Gracie's grandparent, and Gracie deserved to have her grandparents in her life like a normal kid. Even if one grandparent in particular happened to be as grating as nails on a chalkboard.
Kate was bringing Gracie back to Seattle that night since she had to return for her classes the next day. She'd been the one to suggest that Gracie spend time with someone else besides Reagan and Dave, making a decent point that with Dave leaving so soon, Reagan had limited time left with him. Specifically, limited alone time.
"You okay?" Dave asked. He stroked Reagan's arm with the backs of his fingers, his voice soft and scratchy, sounding exactly the way home would sound if it could have been made into such.
"Yes. I was just thinking about everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
She looked into his eyes and willed herself into stillness, hoping that the moment wouldn't escape her before she had the chance to properly appreciate every fine detail of his face. That image would surely haunt her dreams for the next six months, though she welcomed the idea of dreaming about him in his absence. She wouldn't have wanted to dream of anything else.
"Is that a good or bad thing?" he pressed.
"A good thing. It's like I forget how far we've come and then I snap out of it and remember," she explained.
Dave gave her a smirking smile. "You sound like you're reciting lines from a bad romantic comedy. Are you sure you're Reagan? Or did someone kidnap my wife?"
"Excuse me for being romantic, then," Reagan returned hotly.
He knotted his fingers into hers and laughed, ever amused by the easy way he could poke fun at her. "You're allowed to be romantic. Most of the time you show it in a different way, though."
"What do you mean? I tell you that I love you all the time."
"You do. But I know that you really love me when I steal the sheets at night and instead of pulling them back, you just get closer. And when you leave before work, you always start a new pot of coffee for me."
"Now who sounds like the character in a bad movie?" Reagan said tauntingly.
"Okay, so it sounds cheesy in theory, but it's all true. I know that you love me because of the things you do. It's always been that way. Ever since the beginning. You loved me way sooner than you're willing to admit and I knew it from the get-go."
"Bullshit!" She smacked his thigh and scrunched her face in a failed attempt to disguise the warmth pooling in her cheeks. Dave didn't know what he was talking about. She'd fallen in love with him on her own terms and she'd made sure of it. Her love had been secret, her own private truth that she'd kept under lock and key until the time had come to reveal it to him.
"Not bullshit," Dave corrected. "Remember when I came back from that first tour? You ran right into my arms. I was thinking to myself, yep, she loves me. I had you wrapped around my finger."
"Really? Is that so? Then how come you were a total mess over dinner that night?" Reagan challenged. "And that doesn't even count. I was already planning on telling you that I loved you that day. I knew I had to, or else you were going to run off with some groupie from a different state."
"I was never going to leave you. I realized it on that tour. I was absolutely fucked," Dave chuckled, threading her fingers in and out of his. "It was 'so long' to a life of sex, drugs and rock n' roll. You had me whipped."
"Yeah, as if you were really investing your time into those first two things anyways," Reagan said, rolling her eyes.
"Maybe not, but I was definitely under the impression that I was the baddest motherfucker in Seattle. The title comes with perks, you know. Can you blame me for not knowing what to expect?"
"And then you ended up with me." Reagan's voice lowered, adopting a small ring of disappointment that she assumed Dave must have felt when he'd committed to being tied down in the prime of his youth.
"Yep. It was the best thing that ever happened to me," Dave replied. He spoke proudly, cancelling out Reagan's note of defeat. "I'm pretty much convinced that I didn't come halfway across the country to join a band. The universe was doing its weird, intuitive thing. I was supposed to meet you. That's why it happened."
She flushed and smiled, looking away so that he couldn't catch the way her lips abruptly turned up with joy. If another man had said that to her, Reagan was sure that she would have gagged in disgust at such sticky tenderness, but it was different coming from Dave. It was more real, concrete with an authenticity that was a once in a lifetime sort of thing.
"Corny bastard," she muttered around her smile. She jumped off of the couch, untangling her limbs from his. Their night alone called for a small celebration, and by celebration, Reagan was thinking along the lines of two beers drank straight from cold cans. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd been truly, totally drunk, but the thought of getting drunk with Dave on their night off from being parents wasn't half bad.
"Hey, will you grab my guitar while you're up?" he asked, slouching lower into the couch cushions.
"Which one?"
"Mhm, an acoustic. And can you grab my notebook from our room? The green one with the black Sharpie on the front?"
"Anything else?" Reagan said sarcastically.
"Well, if you're really asking, you could put on some sort of sexy costume and give me a lap dance."
"Or I could just bring you your beer, naked."
"Shit, even better!"
"That was sarcasm, by the way."
Reagan went to their room first, digging through a tattered Jansport backpack on the floor until she found Dave's notebook. With it tucked under her arm, she located his acoustic, grabbed it by its neck and returned the items to Dave in the living room.
"Thanks," he said happily, accepting both into his hands. When she saw him knit his eyebrows together and pat his pockets down, she knew automatically what he was looking for.
"Pen?" she guessed.
"Yes, please."
She retrieved their beers as well as a stray pen from one of the kitchen drawers, going back to him and dropping down onto the floor by his legs. Leaning back against his kneecaps, she took a long pull from her beer and tilted her head backwards to stare at him, upside down.
"Are you writing something?"
"It's already written," Dave said. "I wrote it forever ago, back in Olympia. I'm adding some changes."
"Are you that bored with me already?" Reagan teased, wedging her beer can between her thighs.
"Nope," Dave said with a content smile. "You're gonna' help me. Take the guitar."
"Huh?"
He held the guitar out to her, its long, wooden body bumping into her shoulder. Reagan casted a sideways glance at it, blinking as if she'd never quite seen such a thing in her life. She locked eyes with Dave again and frowned.
"Come on," he urged, nudging the guitar against her arm again. "You can do it."
"No I can't," Reagan said, leaning away. "I haven't even picked up a pair of drum sticks in weeks. Months, maybe. You expect me to play guitar?"
"I think you can handle this one. I've taught you well."
"Dave," she whined. "You don't need me. Just play. I'll listen."
"We're supposed to spending time together," he reminded her chidingly.
"This is spending time together. You play, I listen. It's all the dynamics of a perfect relationship."
"Are you or are you not the musically inclined girl that I know and love?"
She grumbled, neglecting to answer his question right away. He always knew what to say to irk her into just the right place, well aware that she would cave into his demands in order to prove herself. Looking at the guitar warily, she sighed and slammed her beer down onto their coffee table and got to her feet.
"Look," she began, "if you want me to play with you, I'll get on the drums."
"That's too easy," he grimaced.
"Easy because my drumming kicks your drumming's ass?"
"That has nothing to do with it."
Reagan crossed her arms and raised her chin, beckoning him with a challenge. "Scared that I'll prove you wrong?"
"No," Dave snorted. "I was being literal. This will be easy to play on the drums."
"So what? Were you planning on putting on a concert performance for the drapes?"
"Get over there," he instructed, waving his hand dismissively. Reagan grinned and followed him over to her drum set, its occupancy still limited to the living room, and watched him sit down behind it before she could take her place.
"I'll show you first," he said. "Then you can play it."
She nodded and patiently stood aside as he began to play, thudding out a slow beat that was relatively softer than anything else she'd heard him play on stage. Her foot tapped in time to the movement of his drum sticks and within seconds, she had the rhythmic pattern down. He hadn't been kidding. It was pretty easy — even Robbie could have done it after watching him the first time.
"Think you can do the beginning?" he asked, pausing to offer her the drum sticks. She knew he was kidding, but that didn't stop her face from twisting in disbelief.
"Are you messing with me? All you did was monopolize the hi-hat and snare. I'm insulted."
"You're the one who was bitching about not having played in weeks."
"Gimme' those," Reagan quipped, snatching the sticks out of his hands and nudging him out of the way with her hip. He got up and returned to the couch as she adjusted herself behind her drums, wiggling comfortably in her seat and rolling the sticks against her palms.
Dave picked up his guitar and wordlessly counted her off, looking into her eyes and bobbing his head before he strummed out an E5. She pumped her foot against the hi-hat pedal, pleased that so far, the sound they were creating was melodic. It was always a relief to know that in more ways than one, they were connected. They'd always been that way, physically and emotionally, but Reagan was unashamedly prideful that they could also blend together with their mutual love for music. It made her feel special, as if her claim on him was strengthened even more so by the little quirk that made them both unique.
She was already comfortable playing, slipping right back into her usual confidence behind a drum set, but then Dave started singing.
"He's scared, in case I want it all," he sang softly, staring down at the coffee table rather than into Reagan's eyes. It didn't matter that he wasn't looking at her. She was looking at him and listening over the harmony of their instruments, and it had the same effect on her, all the same.
There was only one thing that could unnerve her focus when she was playing, and that was Dave singing. She'd always loved his voice and loved listening to it, especially when he crooned out songs to Gracie before bed, but it was somehow different when she was trying to back him up on the drums. Her brain was diverged into two different directions, one part concentrated on maintaining a beat while the other softened into jelly listening to Dave sing.
He made her feel all kinds of things, and all at once. Her emotions became a messy, jumbled ball of self-doubt, heartbreaking adoration, and awe that the person singing so beautifully in front of her was entirely hers. It made it all the more difficult to control the movement of her feet and keep a grip on her drumsticks in between hands growing slick with sweat.
It was another piece of proof that he alone could make her feel this way. They were feelings served up on a silver platter, practically jumping out with declaration that Reagan had found the one person in the world who made her hesitate.
That was something akin to a sheer miracle. She couldn't remember ever being of the hesitant kind. She spoke her mind, charged forward with whatever feeling or thought she formulated first, and never acknowledged that someone might have existed who would make her bite her tongue and actually blush red.
Somehow, Dave had managed to be that person.
He stopped singing before the chorus, cutting off abruptly. Reagan laid her drum sticks into her lap, reaching out to steady the hi-hat as she watched him put his guitar down next to his legs.
"That was really good," she told him. The shyness of her compliment felt foreign. It was just Dave, for crying out loud.
"Thanks. You really like it?"
"Of course I do. How come you didn't show me earlier?"
"I guess I had better songs to show you at the time. Gracie's heard that one before, though."
"Gracie got to hear it before me?"
"She's my best critic."
Abandoning the drum set, Reagan didn't do anything to stop herself from scrambling over to Dave and folding herself into his lap. It was a vulnerable state to be in, but she was overcome with a distinct need to be held by him, to feel his heartbeat thumping against her own skin. Touching him was another physical confirmation that they were together and that her luck had burned brighter than ever on the day that she'd met him.
"You could try singing it," he suggested, tucking a piece of Reagan's overgrown bangs behind her ear.
"I'm an awful singer," she said. "You already know that."
He laughed nervously. "Is there a right or wrong answer to that?"
"It's okay. You can admit it. I suck."
"You don't suck. You're just not used to it. It's not like you're practicing using your singing voice."
"You told me that my singing made your ears bleed at the Aerosmith concert in August," Reagan reminded him with a deadpanned certainty.
Dave winced. "Did I?"
"Yep. Right after I hit the high note in 'Dream On.'"
"How much did I have to drink that night?"
"Enough to make that comment, so I'll let it slide."
He hugged her tightly and planted a loving kiss on her shoulder. "It's okay. I forgive you for not being able to sing."
"Does it make you sad?" Reagan murmured.
"Why would it make me sad?"
"Don't you wish that you were with someone who was as talented as you are? Someone you could sing with, or write songs with?"
"Reagan," Dave said seriously. He pushed her back so that he could give her a stern look, clasping his hands around her neck and holding firmly to her gaze. "Do you hear yourself right now? You almost took my job when I met you."
"It's not the same," Reagan said, twisting her face away though Dave angled it right back into place. "It would be nicer if you were in a relationship with someone who could actually keep up with you."
Something about their playful banter regarding her singing had wounded her. She could have sworn that only moments earlier, she'd been relishing in their musical synchronicities and how it made them ideal for one another, but now that pride had fallen flat. She was picturing him with someone else, someone who was on par with all the talent that he possessed. Someone who might have complimented him in the way that Courtney complimented Kurt, no matter how irritating she could be. She had a band, wrote her own music, sang and played guitar. No matter what Reagan had told herself previously, she knew that she simply wasn't on that kind of level when it came to Dave.
The memory of his singing didn't help matters. It made it worse, contemplating the loveliness of his voice when caught in the midst of a melody. What made it really dreadful was knowing that without a doubt, they did have so much in common musically, but there was a piece missing. There always would be. He could have either had a partner who didn't know music at all, or one that was just as good of a musician as he was. Reagan fell unfortunately somewhere in the middle, remaining mildly talented, but not quite enough to truly bury her hands into his soul with said talent.
"You're talking crazy." He shook his head and cradled her again, tucking her face right into the crook between his shoulder and neck.
"I know you would secretly love it if you were with someone else who could make music with you. Or at least impress you with music of their own."
"Then you don't know anything, because there is no 'someone else.' There's you. Only you. I don't want anyone else."
"Not even someone who you could write a song with?"
"Reags, Stevie Nicks could walk through that door right now and say that she wants to make a whole damn record with me under the condition that I become her lover and I'd say no. That's because of you."
"Really?" Reagan asked lightly. "I don't know if I'd say no to that. Stevie Nicks is pretty hot."
Dave chuckled, placing one hand on Reagan's head and pushing it back so that he could touch his lips to her forehead. "My point exactly. And if you're worried about songwriting, then I'll write a song about you. I've written so many about you already."
"You have?" She snuggled closer to him, her fears slowly evaporating and her desire for reassurance becoming sated.
"Uh huh. You knew that. You've heard some of them." He kissed her head again, seemingly unable to keep his lips away from every inch of her face. "And by the way, we could write a song together if you want."
"I don't know. Isn't that a little . . . cliche?"
"You just said you wanted to write a song with me!" he cried out.
"I know, but now that I think about it, it would be like David Bowie asking a bum to collaborate with him on his next record. It doesn't make sense."
Dave pressed the back of his hand to Reagan's forehead and masked his face into an expression of faux concern. "I'm not catching your drift. Are you okay, because you're not making any sense. Are you pregnant again? Is it pregnancy brain?"
"I'm not pregnant," Reagan said, pushing his hand away. "I'll admit that I'm not making any sense, though."
"Good, because then I know I'm not the one going crazy."
He picked up his guitar again and positioned it against one knee, grabbing his notebook and flipping to a new page. Reagan tilted her head to the side in curiosity.
"What are you doing?"
"You're gonna' help me write a song. It will make you feel better."
She bristled automatically. It was just like the old saying — be careful what you wish for. She'd accidentally manifested one of her wishes, one that she hadn't honestly thought through. Now, Dave was expecting her to spout off ideas in a display of lyrical genius.
"I thought we agreed that you're Bowie and I'm the bum," she said nervously. "It's not exactly an ideal match for songwriting purposes."
"Who said that the bum didn't give Bowie a stroke of random brilliance?" Dave questioned. "I won't even make you come up with anything. Just sit there. I'll be inspired, trust me."
"Uh, are you saying that you're going to take inspiration from me sitting on the couch, drinking a beer?"
"There's nothing more inspiring than just looking at you. At least for me."
Reagan didn't protest. Instead, she crossed her legs and sat quietly, nursing her beer and figuring that if Dave was being honest, then she wouldn't have to do much for the next hour. It was quiet as he jotted down random words onto his blank sheet of notebook paper, crossing some out with slashes before scrawling out another lyric.
Once he started playing, Reagan loosened up, though she couldn't rule out that this might have been from the beer. She was a lightweight, nowadays. A whole nine months without alcohol, the longest she'd ever gone without it since turning twenty-one, had dwindled her tolerance down to nothing.
As the evening stretched on, she became more comfortable offering her advice. Somewhere in the haze of her buzz, she was aware that Dave probably didn't need her advice at all, but was likely humoring her for the occasion. Surprisingly, it didn't bother her. It wasn't comparable to pity and there did appear to be a genuine interest behind his eyes when he asked for her opinion on a certain verse, or if he ought to change one word to another.
A few beers in, he transitioned from the couch onto the floor, allowing Reagan to stretch out onto her back. A bag of Doritos was on her lap and she closed her eyes contentedly as he played, marking up another new sheet of paper with ideas. The whole process was nowhere near as stressful as she'd imagined it would be. He kept her laughing, so much so at times that her stomach hurt and tears rolled down her face, and he was doing an excellent job at rectifying her silly worries from before.
"Throw me a chip," Dave called from the floor. He stopped strumming and looked up at Reagan.
"Only if you catch it in your mouth," she insisted.
"What? That's physically impossible. It's a triangular chip."
"I thought you could do anything. That was the whole point of me marrying you. You're supposed to be multi-talented."
"Fine. Try me."
She stuck her fingers into the bag and came up with an especially cheese-dusted Dorito. With one flick of her hand, she lobbed it towards Dave's open mouth, but it bounced off his nose and fell directly onto his notebook.
"Jesus. Did anyone ever tell you that your aim sucks?" he said, picking the chip up and crunching down on it.
Reagan giggled harder than necessary at his blight, her amusement exaggerated by the buoyant drunkenness that had filled her bloodstream. "My aim was perfect. Your mouth just isn't big enough."
He scoffed at her and lowered his head, starting to pluck at the guitar's strings again. She turned to look at him, rolling onto her side and sliding both hands beneath her cheek. She watched for a moment and was satisfied to realize that she could distinguish between the effects of her drinking and the love that she felt for him right then. They both left her feeling a little breathless, but there was no mistaking the two, as one was by far more powerful than the other.
"I love you," she said softly.
Dave raised his gaze, his hand falling away from the guitar's neck. His eyes softened when he saw her face, dreamy and smiling at him with a discernible kind of affection. She looked peaceful, made that way by her very declaration to him.
"I love you too," he replied, smiling wide in proof that he meant it — he meant it with all of his heart.
a/n: my perfectionist ass realized that i made an oops in one of the previous chapters . . . kurt and courtney didn't move into their lake washington house until january of '94, so please take this an apology for the mistake. i already knew this, but my brain decided to short circuit on me when i was writing. also, i have a feeling that this dorito-eating excerpt will go down as one of my most 'what the fuck' plot points of all time.