I'm good at shooting people, cracking wise, and pretending to know how to fight.

Yes, Jack believed all the Force users in the multiverse could use a few lessons in doing normal people things more often. He had frequently coerced, wheedled, and poked several of them into it over the years. But this? Making Lana Beniko, ex-Sith spymaster, man the merch booth?

Had to be his greatest achievement.

It maybe gave a little extra oomph to his performance that evening.

It was also when, after they were done, one of the first things he did was haul his sweaty ass back to the merch stand. "Sooo," he said, grinning. "How are we doing?"

[[ for a lana ]]

Their first album had been considered uneven, but people had liked it well enough. Something felt different about this go-around, though Jack couldn’t put his finger on it. It was just in the air, that first day. An energy. Something alive, jumping up and down in the corner.

( They rolled into the studio on a Monday with all their gear. Recording time. )

[[ establishy, nfb due to distance as always ]]

In retrospect, planning a karaoke night right after getting up on stage in public to play some particularly loud material wasn't the best decision Jack had ever made. He just hadn't been thinking about it when Summer had asked about hanging out.

Oh well. At least it was a bar.

Which meant that, upon entry, the first thing he did was order a massive bottle of water. The second thing he did was collapse onto the mediocre couch in the tiny karaoke room. The third thing he did was chug the whole thing.

Then he said, "You're up first."

[[ for a summer ]]

Jack let the door fall closed behind him. He looked into the apartment, categorizing the level of disaster it was this time: just a few discarded socks here and there, a stack of magazines on the kitchen counter by the stove (love a fire hazard) and one box of what looked to be Shelley-Murphy-née-Tao's patent-pending steamed roll rice noodles, which he moved carefully into the fridge. And-- okay, he heard the record player clicking in the living room.

( He almost missed the guy sprawled over the sofa. )

[[ open for phone calls et al ]]

So, Cade was still here. And... damned lucky that Dane had the patience of a saint (or at least a guy with crappy coping methods and a history of poor boundary-setting), or he probably would've been out on his ass by now. Hell, Jack had thought about throwing him out on his ass a few times now. The crossing the streams was just kind of weird.

And Cade could be kind of a jackass.

(But he'd also missed the guy and having him here was a good reminder of their misspent youth and space he really was getting old, wasn't he?)

Anyway.

It was show day. And Jack-slash-Atton hadn't slept a wink last night, so he'd just be on the floor of the living room, where he'd been for the last couple of hours. Ugh.

[[ for that guy and some ocd ]]

The streets were crowded with people, yelling and cheering and chatting and eating their snacks as they waited for the floats to pass by. They'd managed to push through to a good position, Jack and Dane and Dane's sister Shelley and her kids, but there was no way forward from here. This was going to be their spot, whether they liked it or not.

( It was fine. All of it was fine. )

[[ open for phone calls et al as always ]]

It had been a pretty good year. Big early summer catastrophe notwithstanding. Weird to think about. Especially when so much had changed. And yet, here Jack was, sitting on the craggly couch of his own apartment on this far-flung world, staring out the window at the rain with a mug of coffee in his hand, and he felt... pretty good.

"I think I'm getting sentimental," he muttered.

"Shit," said Dane, half-bent over his guitar, writing down a few notes without looking at him. "Need me to call 911?"

Jack let out a noise he hoped fully communicated his displeasure. He sipped his coffee. "We should go for a walk or something," he said. "I mean. Not right now, but in a couple hours. Maybe get out of the city, before the parks freeze over."

"Hm," Dane said, righting himself. "Thought you were helping out at Duff's?"

"Not today. This weekend," Jack corrected absently. Though who'd have known his schedule would fill up this quickly, even without a job? And half the people who were asking him for help had actually offered money? He was still doing the math on how much, but it looked like they weren't going to have to dig further into his Jedi savings this month, and that felt weird as hell. "And you're off tonight, so..."

He made a vague gesture with the mug.

"Works for me," Dane said, looking at him. "Glad you finally have the itch back."

"Don't call it that," Jack muttered. "I just want to get some exercise, that's it. I'm not planning to get back into the van just yet."

"Maybe next year," Dane said.

"Maybe next year," Jack agreed.

"...Definitely next year."

"Yeah, definitely."

[[ open for phone calls et al ]]

They'd sat there and listened to Trent for a solid ten minutes. He'd mentioned getting a few more gigs set up. He hadn't mentioned before how many, or where. And-- look, it wasn't like they'd turned into overnight rockstars, with tens of thousands of adoring fans demanding their presence anywhere.

But it was more than anyone had expected. Certainly Atton.

Atton, who now found himself saying, "Are we seriously considering Get In The Vaning it in our middle age?"

( There was a silence. Albeit a brief one. )

[[ nfb, nfi. ]]

"Why the hell did I decide to quit smoking in August?"

"You said you'd be miserable anyway so it wouldn't matter."

"Right," Atton muttered, into his pint of too-expensive soda. "I'm an idiot."

"Aw," Dane said, patting him on the head. "I think you're just an optimist."

Honestly, he had no idea how he'd let himself get dragged out to the usual bar to hang out with the band and some of the other guys from the scene tonight. Or actually, that was a lie; he'd been optimistic (ugh) that maybe, much like TV night and game night, being out with people would actually do something positive for him.

And he'd been doing that thing again, where if left to his own devices he kept looking for the darkness in everything. Couldn't even think 'hey, it was nice hanging out with Summer' without wondering what she'd say or do if he ever told her about what he did to the first woman who'd tried to fix him. The point was that he wasn't that guy anymore, at least not to that extent. He was doing better. Or something.

"Anyway," Dane said, lifting his large glass full of overpriced soda, "Here's to the 30k!"

Atton squinted at him, even as he raised his own overpriced soda like some kind of Pavlovian charhound. ( What? )

[[ can be open for phone calls or visits, otherwise establishy and nfb. ]]