Chapter Text
“You’re lookin’ just like after that bender, remember? The afterparty in Phoenix — same ghostly pallor, same ‘barely-standing’ vibe! Though back then, you were pukin’ for days straight…” Marty plastered on a carefree grin and took a hesitant step into the hospital room. Nick, pale and disheveled, sat half-propped on his bed with a book in hand. Before he could surface from his thoughts, he lifted a distant gaze, then caught himself, snapped the book shut, and flashed his signature big, easy smile.
“Still got to do it, man — better watch out,” Nick laughed, patting the edge of the bed with a pleading look, urging him to sit.
“Nah, I’ll just… hang back here for now.” Marty smirked, edging further from the doorway. “So… how’s… y’know. Hurt much?” He jabbed a finger toward the post-op bandage.
Nick shrugged, nodding at the IV pumping painkillers into his veins. “Got myself a 24/7 shootin’ gallery. Jealous much?”
“Let’s snap a pic. Show Dave when you get back — he’ll die of envy!”
Nick’s smile vanished. He stared straight ahead.
“Not gonna happen.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say… my services aren’t required anymore.”
“What services? What’re you even—” Marty frowned.
“Almost a direct quote from what Dave told me this morning.”
“I don’t get it… He said what?!”
“For fuck’s sake, Marty, how dense can you get?” Nick snapped, sick of the clueless gasps. “I’m out of the game.”
“Wait, he can’t just—”
“I don’t wanna talk about this now,” Nick cut him off, sinking back into the pillow like a deflated balloon.
“Want me to leave you alone?”
Nick said nothing. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone. But he had no strength left — every emotion seemed jammed in his windpipe, choking off words, even breath. For a split second, he cursed his lack of telepathy. If only someone could just get it without this goddamn dance of explanations.
“Alright, buddy, I’ll swing by tomorrow, yeah? Don’t go vanishin’ on me!” Marty smirked, aiming for levity, but Nick's face stayed carved in stone.
“Yeah. Sure.”
***
“You lost your fucking mind or somethin’?!”
Marty blurted as his greeting, bursting into the studio through the half-open door. Junior caught the scent of incoming drama and immediately began edging toward the exit, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
“Didn’t catch that?” Dave didn’t bother turning away from the monitor he’d been glued to.
“I said: have you completely lost your fucking marbles?!”
Dave finally peeled his attention from the screen, though his tone dripped with disinterest. “What’s your point?”
“Nick!”
“Oh. That.”
Dave’s eyes snapped back to his work like a magnet.
Marty closed his eyes, sucking in a few ragged breaths to keep from exploding, then shot a sharp glance at Junior—still doing his best impression of wallpaper. He just shook his head, signaling he was just as lost.
“Dave, this is bullshit! What’s your grand plan now, huh?”
“Same as always.”
“Without Nick? Give him a goddamn minute—he’ll pull through!”
“We’re fresh outta minutes.”
“You’ll waste months scouting some replacement!”
“Got two lined up already. Just as solid.”
“Just as solid?”
“Marty. Stand down.”
“Y’know what, Dave? Take your ‘solid’ and shove it up your ass.”
Marty had run out of arguments. Not that he’d had many to begin with. But in truth, his argument boiled down to a single truth: Because it’s Nick. Though there were others, too—ones that should’ve mattered. His chops, his style, the unspoken chemistry, the vision for the tracks, the way he carved space into arrangements that made their music theirs. It was their rhythm section—Megadeth’s fucking backbone—that let fans worldwide bleed the same raw, jagged feelings into their veins, exactly how they were meant to. But Marty already knew Dave wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about logic, reason, or even legacy. Because ‘I want it this way’ bulldozed every argument, every time.
Marty stepped outside and slumped into his car. The thought of going back in made his skin crawl. Yet walking out mid-session? That wasn’t him. Then again, neither was imagining a single goddamn take without Nick.
The engine growled to life outside, then roared as tires screeched against asphalt.
“He’s gone, Dave,” Junior stated, having watched Marty’s agitated pacing from the studio window the entire time. Dave merely clicked his tongue, still fixated on the audio tracks glowing on his monitor.
“Call Jimmy. Tell him to get here now.”
“Call him yourself. And Marty’s gone anyway.”
“Without Marty.”
“Whatever,” Junior shrugged, not even trying to argue. Dave in a bad mood was the worst thing that could happen to you in a day, and David sure as hell wasn’t about to make it worse.
“I’ve only ever done what’s best for the band. For all of us,” he finally tore himself away from his monitor. “You think I’d shoot myself in the foot?”
Junior shrugged again.
“We’ve got a mountain of work and deadlines. If I’d told Nick, ‘Take all the time you need,’ he’d show up tomorrow. How’s he supposed to play like that? We’d waste a day—hell, a week—babysitting his recovery. What if his knee blows out mid-tour? Then what?”
“Could’ve just benched him temporarily.”
“You think I’m all about self-preservation too?”
“Not saying that. Just… sometimes you forget there’s more at stake than your own agenda.”
Dave’s brow furrowed, the distinction lost on him.
“You hired him. You make the call, Dave.”
“Clearly, I’m the only adult here actually working. You got some life-or-death crisis brewing, or you just wanna play hooky too?”
“Life-or-death like a leg tumor or somethin’? Or is that not urgent enough for you?” The Junior’s smartass remarks often outran his brain’s veto power. But to his surprise, Dave didn’t bite—just grabbed his phone, jaw clenched like a steel trap.
***
“You hauled ass over to Dave’s yesterday, didn’tcha?” Nick narrowed his eyes slyly, perched in his hospital wheelchair and stubbornly trying to pop a wheelie without using his legs, while Marty haphazardly tossed his belongings into a duffel bag.
“Me? Nah, why would I?” Marty shook his head with forced conviction. “You’ll snap your neck, dumbass!” he barked as Nick—again—latched onto his arm mid-tilt, clinging like a barnacle to avoid face-planting.
“So… how’d it go?”
“Not sure. Pretty sure I told him to go screw himself and walked out,” Marty muttered with a shrug.
Nick was skeptical. “Wish I could’ve seen that.”
“What, me getting the boot right after you?” Marty smirked bitterly.
“Look—I’m expendable. But you? You’re not exactly replaceable. Dave won’t risk it.”
“Don’t say that, Nick, you’re—”
“Yeah, yeah, spare me the eulogy!” Nick cut him off. What did it matter now, how much Marty insisted he’d been valued? Clearly, Dave hadn’t given a damn—not after everything Nick had poured into him and Megadeth. He clung to one cold comfort: you can’t erase a goddamn record. Those songs, those shows—they’d meant something. Even the brightest days burn out, he told himself. But the darkest nights fade too. Silver linings and all that bullshit.
“Thank God they’re springing you this fast,” Marty veered sideways, desperate to derail the conversation.
“Strict supervision only. Told ’em my wife’s on babysitting duty,” Nick snorted.
“What wife?” Marty blinked.
“Meant you, genius. Keep me entertained—or I’ll relapse outta boredom.”
“What, I’m your full-time clown now?”
“Got nothin’ better myself,” Nick shrugged. Marty suddenly felt like he was chomping a steak in front of fifty starving kids.
“Quit the guilt trip and haul this crap to the car already.”
“You mean haul you?”
“Ha! Ha!” Nick deadpanned, then kicked off in his wheelchair, using his good leg to nudge the door open like a battering ram.
“Wait up, let me help!”
“Catch me first!” Nick grinned, jolting his wheelchair into a wobbly sprint down the sterile hallway.
“Jerk,” Marty snorted, strolling past him as Nick’s wheels skidded helplessly near the elevator.
“Hey—gave you a handicap! You’re leg-powered, remember?” Nick barked, already rewriting the rules. Marty just chuckled, steering him toward the exit with a barely-touchеd hand on the chair’s back.
***
Marty rolled into the studio early, as usual. He always made a point to arrive first—craving that silent stretch to warm up, jamming and letting the caffeine kick in before the chaos. Nick or Junior would show up next, hauling in their gear, their dumb inside jokes, and, most crucially, whatever greasy carbs they’d scavenged for breakfast. Dave? Dave operated on his own cosmic clock. Sometimes he’d waltz in at noon. Sometimes he’d camp out overnight, red-eyed and wired. And sometimes—the worst sometimes—he’d already be there at dawn, pacing like a caged wolf, ready to unleash a torrent of coke-fueled “genius” on Marty’s sleep-deprived skull.
Keys jangled in Marty’s hand as he prayed to every god he didn’t believe in: Don’t let Dave be here. Explanations were inevitable, sure. But right now, all he needed was to stay grounded. To remember he was right. To remember they were right.
“Marty!”
He didn’t need to turn. That hesitant bark could only belong to one person. Junior.
“You’re early,” Marty replied flatly, already flicking switches and booting up rigs out of muscle memory. But halfway across the room, he froze. The studio felt… hollow. “Or is it just me?” He scanned the space—same scuffed floors, same tangled cables. But the air hung heavier now. Was the mere idea of Nick’s absence enough to turn these walls into a stranger’s garage?
His eyes locked onto the drum kit. He’d memorized Nick’s setup years ago—but now it glared back at him like an abandoned carcass.
“Where’s the—”
“We cleared it out,” Junior blurted. “Nick can… y’know, grab his gear. When he’s back on his feet.” A pause too long to be casual. “If.”
“Got it.” Marty turned his back.
“Look—Dave’s not gunnin’ for Nick, you know how he is—does what he thinks’s right. And honestly, it’s for the best…”
“Why you whiteknighting him?” Marty cut in, zero patience left. “What’d Nick ever do to you?”
“We don’t wanna hurt him, Marty. It’s for his own—”
“For Dave’s own good, you mean. For his goddamn ego.” Marty’s voice cracked, frayed at the edges. “Nick’s putting on a brave face. Barely talks. They’ve got him on enough painkillers to sedate a horse. That shit worries me.”
David scowled, staring at his sneakers like they held the meaning of life. He looked too guilty for someone who’d done nothing wrong.
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Jimmy’s solid. Nick’ll land on his feet. It’s not apocalyptic, Marty.”
“Go fuck yourself, Junior.” The words surprised even Marty, rage hissing out of him like steam from a busted pipe.
“What’s your damage, man? Chill the fuck out!” Junior’s attempts to decode him were still hitting brick walls. “I’ll talk to Nick, if that’ll help.”
“Don’t. Even. Think about it.”
“What?”
“I said: don’t.”
The silence between them turned leaden. The thought of never seeing Nick again was eating Marty alive, though he kept swatting those thoughts away. Of course they’d still hang out, crash at each other’s places—same as always. They were friends. Nothing would change.
But there’d be no more midnight jam sessions at the studio, just the two of them chasing riffs until sunrise. No more endless tours. No more shows. No more hogging the hotel shower for 90 minutes—half of it just blow-drying his damn hair. No more playing together. Not ever again.
The anger surged back, white-hot. Marty refused—refused—to make peace with this. Some stranger’s drums would thud behind him now. Some stranger’s fills stepping all over his riffs, stomping where they should’ve slithered. Clumsy. Predictable. Nothing like the way Nick’s sticks used to dance around his solos—anticipating every bend, every silence.
“Look who’s actually on time—shocker!” Dave’s voice jolted Marty from his brooding. The man’s unnervingly chipper mood somehow made the whole thing worse.
“Mornin’, guys.”
Marty turned toward the new voice but stayed silent, watching the replacements exchange fist bumps and forced grins.
“Let’s fucking work already.” He’d waited long enough. Marty flicked his guitar’s power switch. The amp shrieked feedback before settling into a low, accusatory hum—silenced only by a light brush of his fingers over the strings.
***
Marty jabbed the doorbell, waited ten agonizing seconds, then slammed it again—only to yank his hand back like it’d burned him. Shit.
“Sorry, man—wasn’t thinkin’,” Marty blurted the second the knob creaked.
“You sure you don’t squat here? Want me to cut you a key?”
“FYI, I raided the store for your ass, so maybe show some gratitude!” He hoisted two bulging grocery bags like trophies.
“Complaint retracted! Get your ass in here.” Nick swung the door wide, eyeing the bags like a kid at Christmas.
“So… where’s the damn beer?”
Marty rolled his eyes, shoving groceries into the fridge.
“Dave called two minutes before you showed up. Went on about how ‘indispensable’ I am.”
Marty clicked his tongue irritably and began nervously crushing the packaging paper in his hands. Nick smirked.
“Rehearsal tanked, didn’t it?”
“Jimmy’s… not total garbage,” Marty muttered, crumpling a chip bag with unnecessary violence.
“You mean ‘not totally good,’ right?” Nick wheezed, already losing it.
“He’s… functional.” Marty squinted.
“Functional? More like a MEGA-dysfunctional!”
They both cracked up, laughter echoing through the kitchen.
***
“Look, it’s late,” Marty glanced at his watch, already dreading the drive home. They’d lost too many nights like this.
“Don’t go.” Nick suddenly grabbed his arm. Marty stiffened at the unexpected touch. Nick held his gaze for just a second—eyes pleading—before snapping back to himself. “Forget it. You’ve got work tomorrow anyway,” Nick muttered, withdrawing his hand like it burned him.
“Quit the bullshit. I’m staying. Still your babysitter, remember? Hell, I’m basically your wife now!” Marty snorted, shedding his jacket and collapsing onto the living room couch. “And this time? Sober. In a real bed. Historic first!”
“This calls for a celebration!” Nick chirped, hopping one-legged toward the fridge with alarming agility.
“No booze for you—seriously!” Marty side-eyed him, wary of Nick’s sudden manic energy.
“Celebrate this,” Nick flung the fridge open, yanking out kale, mangoes, and every meticulously labeled container Marty had stacked hours earlier. “We’re drinkin’ this overpriced health goop!”
Nick dumped nearly the entire contents of his fridge into the blender and hit the switch without hesitation. A kaleidoscope of fruit chunks erupted into the air as blades mauled through pulp, spraying the kitchen—and Nick—in a technicolor explosion.
“Holy shit!!” Nick yelped as chaos erupted from the blender.
“Put the fucking lid on!” Marty lunged to help tackle the kitchen monstrosity.
“I don’t fucking know where it is!”
Marty yanked open a drawer, and the lid clattered into place just in time to shield them from a fruit-apocalypse.
“You literally need a fucking babysitter.”
“I couldn’t reach it,” Nick grumbled. “And why the hell’s this crap even up there?”
“Because that’s where lids live,” Marty deadpanned, slamming two giant cups on the counter. “What’s even in this?” He eyed the murky green-brown sludge with floating clumps.
“Uh…” Nick’s face scrunched as he mentally retraced his steps. “No fucking clue.” He grabbed a cup, downed two defiant gulps, and slammed it down. Marty watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated.
“Gonna hurl,” Nick concluded. Marty lost it laughing.
***
Marty tossed on the living room couch, sleep slipping further away with every turn. The harder he fixated on the new lineup, the clearer it became—he’d taken his time with Nick for granted. “Maybe I thought it’d last forever.” Nick was already Megadeth’s backbone when Marty first walked into that audition. He’d assumed the four of them were immovable: Dave’s razor-wire riffs, Junior’s steady thrum, Nick’s thunder, his own fire. How could it all collapse overnight? What even was Megadeth now?
Memories clawed at him—sweat-soaked stages, studio marathons, dive-bar raids, biking through suburbs with Nick howling Slayer lyrics at stray dogs. “Everything we built… will strangers really just… step into our boots?”
Marty sat up. “Nick’s probably out cold. All those painkillers. What if he’s hurting even in his sleep?” He padded to the bedroom door, fingertips brushing the wood before easing it open—
The hinge betrayed him with a creak.
“Hell,” Marty gritted through his teeth, the curse a whisper.
“Can’t sleep, so you’re busting into my bedroom?” A drowsy voice floated from the darkness. “What if I was in the middle of something?”
“Okay, you’re fine—I’m out!”
“Marty.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Silence hung between them, thick and unyielding.
Before he could second-guess himself, Marty stepped into the room and slid under the covers beside the blanket-wrapped figure. He wrapped his arms around Nick, pulling him close. His hands shook—adrenaline spiking through his veins—even though Nick didn’t resist.
Marty lifted his head, meeting the achingly familiar face inches from his. Nick didn’t look startled. Didn’t look scared. He looked… happy?
Marty tangled his fingers in Nick’s hair, burying his face against his neck. The anger, the frustration that had gnawed at him for days—gone. Fuck Megadeth. Fuck Dave. Fuck Junior. Marty wasn’t letting go. Not this time. Not ever again.
“Marty, I—”
“Shut up. Just—shut up,” Marty hissed, panic clawing at his throat. If Nick came to his senses, if he pulled away, if he decided this was a mistake—if he vanished like those ghosts that haunted Marty’s nightmares…
“Marty,” Nick tried again, laughter threading his voice.
“What?”
“Just kiss me already.”