Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Murray Hewitt is unhappy. His job was mundane and monotonous, the days blurring together and the nights increasingly lonely. The gigs he’s managed to snag have all either been canceled or so minimal that even Mel wasn’t up for. Although Murray had to admit, the porta potty gig wasn’t going to be appealing to the general public.

Still, and he didn’t like to admit it, being a band manager was the only thing he had at this point. His on and off relationship with his wife finally came to a screeching halt when she decided to travel to Monaco to meet her new online boyfriend. It wasn’t easy being loyal, Murray always managed to stick with her, but this was where he drew the line. He couldn’t take it anymore. He would rather be totally alone than force himself to live with someone who made him feel more like nothing than he already believed himself to be.

Murray daydreamed at his desk, wondering how much different his life would have been if he chose a different path, maybe became a rockstar himself. Maybe if he married a different girl, or he found different friends, or pursued different interests and hobbies. Just about anything could have been better than what he was dealing with now.

“Murray?” Greg asked, popping his head in Murray’s office with a work question, but observed that he wasn’t in fact in a good headspace to focus on work. Murray was face down on his desk, one arm sprawled out across the desk, the other one bent covering his face.

“Not now, Greg,” Murray mutters. “I’m busy.” Greg obeys and slowly trudges out Murray’s office. He sighs in discontent. Things were never going to get better, were they? It was too late. He was 35, how could they? He’s felt constantly between a rock and a hard place for the past ten years, perhaps this is how it was meant to be. He wouldn’t be surprised if he got fired from his job or Bret and Jemaine lose their sliver of respect they have for him, deeming him uneeded. He could see it happening, it was only a matter of time.

“Alright… Band meeting. Jemaine, present. Bret, present. Murray, present. Let’s get on with it, yeah? Item One–”

“What? What’s the matter, Murray?” Bret questioned.

“Yeah, how come you didn’t let us say present?” Jemaine added.

“Is the prime minister coming over again?”

“No, the prime minister is not coming over. He only cares to talk to important people,” Murray answers blankly. Bret and Jemaine understand the implication with that sentence.

“Murray, er, you’re important to us. I mean, we need our band manager.” Bret glaces at Jemaine for approval. “Although we probably could handle it on our own, you… handle it better?” Bret stammers, attempting to comfort Murray, which was convincing enough for him.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate it. But don’t forget what happened last time you tried to manage yourselves, with the green cards and job permits? You want that to happen again? Look, I didn’t tell you then because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but you two looked absolutely silly in your toothpaste costumes,” Murray shrugs, in attempt to sway the conversation away from his personal emotions. They sit in silence for a moment, expecting the either of them to say something, anything, but nothing happens.

“Come on, Murray, you love these meetings, let’s get a move on,” Jemaine grimaces, in his own attempt at comforting him. It was true, these meetings were the highlight of Murray’s days.

“Sorry, I’m just not up for it, guys. Today hasn’t been a great day for me,” Murray sighs, finally admitting, but not going so far to say that every day hasn’t been a great day for him. Murray sighs. The days have been all too lonely, and he’s blowing it with the minimal enjoyable social interaction he gets lately. “Item One. You guys got a gig this Friday at the restaurant at the corner of the same street as your apartment, alright? Item Two…” Murray stifles a sniffle. “Item Two, just get out please.”

Bret and Jemaine instantly leap out of their chairs and leave the room to give Murray the space he needs. “What was that about?” He can hear Jemaine mutter to Bret on the way out.

“Greg?” Murray pleads. Greg’s head pops in the doorway in response. Murray sniffles. “Close the door for me, please.”

Murray shows up to the gig Friday night. It was just a few minutes before Bret and Jemaine were supposed to go on, so he pulls out his phone to scroll mindlessly on. He surveys the crowd. Typical. Mel and a few stragglers who probably ended up here on accident but were too drunk to find the door to leave.

Once they walked on stage, Murray’s cloudy mood slightly faded away. He felt at ease with the familiar, “Who likes to rock the party?” line that he’s heard so many times. He closes his eyes, finding himself lost in the music, daydreaming of himself rocking the party.

Once they finish their set, before Murray leaves to regroup with the boys, he receives a tap on the shoulder.

“Hey mate, I don’t mean to bother you, but who are these guys?” The man asks. Based on his accent, he could clearly tell he was a New Zealander. Murray had seen a lot of interesting people in his life, but it was rare to meet someone like him, so he couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement.

“Well, they’re my band. I’m the manager. They’re called Flight of the Conchords!” Murray blabs out, feeling like whatever he’s saying is some otherworldly nonsensical language. He looks the man up and down. He appears to be of Maori descent, he’s tall, but not much taller than Murray. He has long salt and pepper hair, half of it loose and wild, the other half tied up in the back. He wore a white button down shirt, enough buttons open for it to be distracting to the ladies but not enough for the intentions to be too obvious. He wore black leather pants and leather fingerless gloves. Black dress shoes contrasted with a beaded necklace and bracelet.

“They’re brilliant, man! How do they not have a bigger crowd than this? I almost feel bad, they’re so underrated.” Murray wells up with a joy he almost forgot existed. Someone was actually interested in the band? Not as a mockery, not for sex, and not to pay for their drinks? God, his whole look was cool. This cool of a guy is interested in their band?!

“Would you by any chance be interested in joining the fan base?”

“Obviously! Do they have a CD or anything?” The man asks. This was simply too much to handle for Murray.

“Yes! Yes, we do,” Murray’s head rapidly jerks towards the approaching Bret and Jemaine. “Guys, you got a cool new fan! Meet, er…”

“Jeff,” Jeff smiles.

“Jeff. See, even his names cool. Like Cher.”

“By the way, I don’t want to seem creepy, but it’s been killing me. I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before, I can’t quite place where,” Jeff inquires with a thoughtful expression.

“I don’t believe I recognize you, I happen to be good at remembering faces,” Murray responds, giving himself more credit than he deserved. It’s true though, he had no memory of ever seeing this man before.

“Ah, oh well. Perhaps we just met in another lifetime.”

Chapter Text

Monday morning, Murray was more upbeat this morning with the satisfaction of the new addition to the fan base. A little bit more willing to work today, he called Greg into his office. They conversed for roughly fifteen minutes, Greg catching Murray up on the work he hadn’t had the energy to do yesterday, before getting interrupted by a strangely familiar voice outside.

“Hey Greg, I’m gonna go on my break, yeah?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Greg responded. Murray stared at the man in the doorway, leaning in his direction to see who was on the other side of the desk.

“Oh my god, you’re that guy from last night,” The man says, eyes wide. Jeff.

“Jeff?” Murray smiles in disbelief, feeling full with the same excitement as the night before. “What are you doing here?”

“I started working here about a week and a half ago. I’m the new accountant,” Jeff explains. “Sorry for not introducing myself sooner, I was still trying to get adjusted and all. Maybe that’s why I thought you were familiar, I think I saw you leaving to your car a couple of times.”

Murray scolded himself in his mind for never noticing this man. Now that his existence has been clearly laid out in front of him, he can recount seeing him around. He had just looked that much different in casual attire, but how did he still manage to look just as cool in the suit? Or, perhaps he had just been too in his head lately. Too foggy to notice any sort of change or glimmers of opportunity, too lost to care.

“Well that’s lovely. Greg, Jeff came to our gig last night! He’s our first fan who isn’t Mel or whose intentions aren’t exploiting everybody!”

“If I’m honest with you, mate, I didn’t even mean to end up there in the first place. I had meant to meet with a friend at a bar the next street over. I’m fairly new to the city, and I accidentally ended up in the little joint you guys were playing at last night. As soon as they started playing, I chose to stay. They were pretty damn good. Funny too,” Jeff explained. There was a moment where the two of them stared at each other, smiling on the other sides of Greg, before Murray extended his arm.

“Murray Hewitt. New Zealand consul by day, band manager by night.” Jeff leaned over to shake his hand.

“Glad to be a fan, Murray,” Jeff grinned. Their warm intertwined hands fall loose, as Jeff steps backwards to take his aforementioned break, eyes still intensely fixed on Murray.

Murray zones out at his empty doorway for a few moments before clearing his throat. “Now where were we?”

The next day, Murray arrived at his office, fussy with the desperation of landing a solid record deal. He again feels incompetent in his ability as a manager, as a worker, as a person in general. It was becoming a real drag to start his mornings with a call from yet another record company with the same spiel of, “We listened to your demo but…”

He gets interrupted from his mental decomposition when he sits down at his desk and discovers a note on it.

“Won’t be at the office today, wanna meet tomorrow? Wanna talk about the band. - Jeff :)”

Murray can’t explain the elation he feels. He reads it and reads it again. And again. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s happy about a stranger’s genuine interest in what Murray has to show for, or that he has something to look forward to tomorrow.