Work Text:
The studio after-hours, compared to the thick intensity of daytime practice sessions, was eerily liminal. One lamp remained on near the back office. Other ambient light sources spilled here and there to illuminate more of the green shag carpeting that hadn't been shampooed since 1973. Yellow and orange streetlights peered in through the high windows, while the weak red glow of the power strip by the wall clashed and blended in to create a lopsided rainbow effect.
Ripley let herself in with her shoulder and eased the door shut behind her. She'd only come back for the guitar; the black Dean Cadillac that Hicks lended her indefinitely some years back, and had just become hers over the years. She'd abandoned it leaned up on an amp in the back after their afternoon session. Partly because she'd been distracted, needing to pick Newt up from school and get back to the shop in time to start her evening radio spot. Mostly, though, it was nerves. She hadn't wanted to carry it back home while the feeling of playing with a group again still felt so anxiously surreal.
She was three steps in when she heard the obvious feedback of a stereo system. At first she thought it was the radio in the office, left on from one of Hudson's intermittent snack breaks, but… no, it was live. She paused. The carpet muffled her combats well enough, but she still eased her steps, a force of habit. Everything was quiet again for a small moment. When the sound returned, it was only a pulse at first. A deeper note slid under slowly, being lifted by a slider in increments, something buoyant and round at the edges that added a nice baritone backbone. It was followed by a patterned input higher in tone that rose overtop of both tracks. The composition progressed with enough confidence that it couldn't have been improvised. This wasn't someone messing around, killing time. It sounded written. It wasn't polished all the way through, maybe, but it was natural and real. Something with earnest intent behind it.
The music was coming from around the bend where the hall curved into the line of computers and equipment in the back, all the racks and spare cases and the little island of junk Sulaco had collected over the years. Hicks' (her) guitar was back there anyhow, so she followed it, silent as a cat. She couldn't help the slight rise of her brows at the reveal.
Bishop sat on a swivel-stool in front of a synth rig, a standard Roland System (100M, if she had her models right — she often didn't). He was bent forward in concentration, one hand poised at the keys and the other working the controls. Cables looped between the modules in red and gray lines. Knobs caught lamplight when he turned them. A single page of paper sat beside him on the stand. She could see it was marked up with neat, compact notation, extra notes in the margins written with a blocky pencil (timing, settings, little looping arrows pointing to corrections).
Ripley watched him for a moment longer than she meant to. She didn't know him quite that well enough yet to tell if this was a usual occurrence, or if she'd stumbled in on something secret. He looked different like this, not like the guy always hovering near the edge of the room with an aux cable over one shoulder and a screwdriver in his pocket, waiting for someone to call his name. He looked… settled. In his element. Ripley was no stranger to the feeling. She understood deeply how an instrument, in any form, could make more sense to someone in a way being around other people often didn't.
The melody shifted and went fuzzy. He frowned slightly, reached up, adjusted one cable, then another switch. The line opened up, devoid of static, no longer conflicting with other inputs.
"Hey."
Bishop jolted, just enough that his hand slipped off the control. He turned too quickly on the stool, eyes wide. He was wearing thick-framed aviators with clear prescription lenses, a little old-fashioned and a smidge too large for his face in a way that, admittedly, suited him.
"Oh —" He started, taking a second to recover. He pushed the glasses off with one hand, folded them, and tucked them into his back pocket. "Ripley. Apologies, I didn't hear you come in."
She shook her head gently to reassure him, leaning against the hall corner. "That's all right." After all, she'd been quiet on purpose.
He looked at the rig, then back to her, half-bracing to explain himself.
"That sounded really good." Ripley nodded with approval towards the system before he could come up with something.
His mouth pulled sideways in an awkward almost-smile that gave up halfway. "Ah, well… I'm only testing a few things."
She grinned knowingly. "Sure you are." A little color came up into his cheeks. He looked down at his notes instead of her. She lifted off the wall and came fully into the room. The guitar was where she'd left it, by the amp near the wall. She didn't pick it up yet.
"What is it?" She asked, curious to keep him talking.
He glanced up again. "Sorry?"
"The piece."
"Ah..." He touched the edge of the heavily marked paper with one finger. "Nothing formal, really. Just a sequence. I was trying to settle the top line without thinning the composition out too badly. The input, it kept… drifting."
Ripley gave the desk a brief once-over, then him. "And the notes?"
He looked faintly embarrassed by that too. "I like to keep a record of the settings. It saves time later."
"Every setting?"
"Wherever possible."
She snorted softly. Very Bishop, she was coming to realize. "That tracks."
That got a real smile out of him, finally. He turned one of the knobs down and the white noise in the room went with it. The pattern still cycled idly, providing an easy backdrop to their conversation.
"Why don't you play with them?" Ripley hooked her fingers through the guitar strap, but otherwise stayed put.
He looked back at the keys. "I do play with them. I adjust sound levels for every show, amongst other —"
"You know what I mean." She raised a faintly teasing eyebrow. He didn't continue right away. She said nothing, just let him have the room to process.
"It's simply timidity." He started, deep voice dipping into an even more subdued tone. "Which I know isn't a very dignified confession at my age, but… self-awareness is the first step to any kind of progress, I believe."
Ripley nodded quietly, listening. Bishop folded his hands, then unfolded them again. "And I think I may be a little too old for… the 'scene.' At least for the version of it they're in."
"What do you mean?"
He motioned vaguely, which she could approximate the meaning of instantly. It was this. Everything. The band, the posturing, the speed, the youth of it. "They've already found their sound. They have a history with one another. I have a function where I am."
"Function. Hm."
He heard it returned in her voice and realized the self-deprication of it. He looked away.
"I've always been… the technician." He took his time finding the words. "The mature associate who makes certain nothing explodes, and equipment gets where it's meant to be on time."
Ripley glanced over at the board, the machine running quietly in its nest of wires. "That does seem important —"
"It is."
"— but it's not all you are."
His fingers jerked at that. He curled them into his palms and sat them flat against his knees in an effort to calm, or at least put on the mask of it. He was kinda cute, Ripley thought, in his own flustered kind of way. Not anything like what that Burke prick from the label probably meant when he talked 'marketability' to the guys. But there was something curated there, in how he presented himself. He had some humility about him that drew a look once you stopped expecting pomp and flash, the sort of thing one usually got from rock bands (and their crew). He struck Ripley as the kind of guy who probably disappeared into a crowd until he suddenly spoke, some intelligent or enriching comment, and made you feel a little silly for not noticing him sooner.
"I'm not sure that what I do would suit the outfit as presently configured, either way." Bishop fiddled with the seam on his corduroys, then gave her that abortive little smile again.
"You're wrong." She looked at all the evidence of his devotion in the notes just behind him. He was doing work far beyond the level she'd seen even Hicks do in the midst of production. That alone was merit enough for her, but beyond that, these machines could do just about anything. He could be enhancing Sulaco's music in ways he (or any of the rest of them) might not have considered.
He let out a short breath through his nose, barely a laugh if it was trying to be one. "That is entirely possible."
"It sounds good, Bishop. Better than good.""
He swallowed, the slightest movement of his throat, and nodded. "Well.. thank you." He ducked his head, clearly wanting that to be the end of it.
Ripley lifted her guitar the rest of the way. "I just came by for this. I'll get out of your hair."
"Oh. Right, of course."
She started to head out, but kept her pace slow just in case he had something more to say. He didn't. Behind her, she could hear him click the controls again, not playing yet, just resting his hand there. At the hall to the front room, she stopped.
"Bishop?"
He swiveled on the stool just enough to look over his shoulder at her, eyes curious.
"Keep it up."
He only stared back for a moment. She thought that might be it, that he wouldn't reply further, so she turned to leave. Mid-hall, she heard his breath catch, making his words come out a little too soft. "I will."
She smiled to herself. When the door shut behind her, the synth started up again a few seconds later. The music was quiet, shy, in recovery. It got surer of itself the further she walked away from it.