Work Text:
He’d heard it a million times before – ‘they don’t feed you at those things!’ – and figured it was one of those bad anti-jokes decrying the absolute excess of the industry, the kind of bourgeois bullshit all the friends he’d made playing the smaller clubs used to scoff at when a bigger act would come around, shrieking over unmet demands in their riders. Like, of course they wine and dine you. It’s The Grammys.
It turns out, they really don’t. Combine an empty stomach with being seated for no less than five hours for what amounted to a broadcast taping of a self-aggrandizing, industry-wide circlejerk sprinkled with the occasional live performance, surrounded by the kinds of people that made him rue the day he ever thought of picking up a guitar…and you’d begin to understand why he was determined to salvage the experience for his beautiful Plus One, who sat so politely and clapped when the signs said ‘applause’ and smiled with far too much kindness while she listened to agents and producers and hangers-on try to one-up each other through name-drops and net worths.
His label reps had mentioned an afterparty at the Beverly Hilton, and it seemed like a natural enough way for the night to progress – you go to the stuffy ceremony, then you hit the afterparty as a reward for your good behavior, right? Like some kind of marshmallow test performed en masse?
Wrong!
Eddie wouldn’t exactly call his behavior a tantrum, but he’s not particularly proud of how he handled the doorman’s inability to locate ‘Munson, party of two’ on the guest list. It was tantrum-adjacent, at worst, nothing an apology and a generous tip couldn’t fix, and he did genuinely believe this snub was initially a mere misunderstanding, that his name was missing on this particular document (the true and complete form tucked away in some back office, naturally) but Eddie’s persistence eventually resulted in a FIRM and DIRECT request for him to step aside…because he was, according to security, ‘holding up the line for the individuals on the guest list’.
Fucking ouch.
Chrissy, meandering behind him in a seashell dress and her shiniest, clackiest pair of heels, folded her arms and made her way to the valet with her head down. That’s when the plan first came into his mind – she looked way too good, was far too patient with her time for him to let her not enjoy the fruits of their labor tonight.
This particular ballroom couldn’t be any harder to get into than the Shrine Auditorium, could it?
“Not so fast, baby,” he murmured beside her as she dug through her clutch for the valet ticket. “I have an idea.”
There was worry in her eyes, sure! But there was also that glint of mischief that made his heart sing. “You don’t want to go home?”
“Fuck no, not yet at least. I want you to have the night I promised you.”
“But what if we get caught?!” She whispered.
“We leave the way we came. C’mon, you think you’re the only one who wants to rub elbows with Ms. Jackson? Besides, I could use the kinda cred that comes with crashing an industry party.” His small come-hither gestures lead them sauntering around the corner, where a gaggle of young men in black-tie adjacent catering uniforms leaned against the fence, already fatigued, already on their second or third smoke break of what would be an unbearably long evening.
And opposite them, the kitchen door was propped open with an overturned milk crate. Easy peasy lemon-fuckin’-squeezy.
“The doorman might not want to let me in, but you know who will? You know who's gonna be happy to see us? The guys who have to wash these rich asshole’s dishes. That’s who.”