Work Text:
The hum of the ATV 10 Studios in Melbourne is a low-frequency vibration against the soles of their boots, a stark contrast to the humid Australian summer waiting just outside the heavy soundproof doors. Trey Fanjoy stands in the center of the tracking room, her hands moving in sharp, rhythmic gestures as she directs the flow of the afternoon.
"Keep those scales moving, ladies," Trey calls out, her voice cutting through the technical chatter of the engineers. "I want that grit in the back of the throat. Don’t let it settle."
Carrie and Miranda exchange a look—a silent, synchronized language honed over seven years of shared stages and private mornings. They are ushered behind the beige accordion dividers, the plastic slats clicking like dominoes as they slide shut, creating two makeshift dressing rooms. Inside her small enclosure, Carrie pulls her hair back, the blonde strands catching the overhead fluorescent glow. She slides into a pair of distressed, light-wash jeans, the denim frayed at the knees, and pulls a soft, charcoal-grey T-shirt over her head. It’s simple, tactical, and grounded—the uniform of a woman ready to do the work.
A few feet away, the rustle of heavy denim and the metallic snap of a button signal Miranda’s progress. She emerges first, shaking out her hair. She’s opted for the classic armor of the South: a crisp plaid button-down tucked into dark indigo jeans that hug her frame. She looks every bit the partner-in-crime, a sharp-shooting counterpart to Carrie’s understated cool.
"You ready to make some noise, Underwood?" Miranda asks, kicking a heel against the carpeted floor.
"Always, Lambert," Carrie replies, stepping out and adjusting the hem of her shirt.
The air in the recording booth is sterile and cold, but Miranda refuses to let the atmosphere dip. As the playback begins, the rhythmic, tribal chant of the background vocals—a repetitive, stomping “Hey!”—thumps through their headsets. Miranda starts to move, her shoulders rolling with the beat, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She strikes a theatrical pose, pointing a finger gun at the sound glass, making a face that elicits a genuine, bright smile from Carrie.
They record their lead lines separately to ensure the cleanest possible tracks for the overlay, but when the bridge hits and their voices finally interlock, the technicality of the room vanishes. It’s a sonic fusion. Carrie’s crystalline, powerhouse soprano wraps around Miranda’s dusty, Texas alto like a velvet glove. It’s more than professional synchronicity; it’s a happy marriage of frequencies, a blend so intuitive it feels like they’re breathing for one another.
Between takes, Trey leans into the talkback mic, her silhouette framed by the glowing monitors of the control room. She begins a rapid-fire explanation of the technical "why" behind the session.
"We’re treating this video like a high-octane cinematic trailer," Trey explains, her eyes bright with the vision. "You two aren't just singers today. You're Belle Boyd and Priscilla Parker. Total icons. We’re talking a high-stakes poker game, roaring down the highway on Indian Motorcycles, a full-scale jewel heist, and a getaway in a Bell Helicopter that’s going to look incredible in the wide shots."
Carrie nods, her mind already cataloging the beats of the performance, the way she needs to tilt her head to sell the "Priscilla" persona. Miranda, however, tilts her head in a different direction. She stares at Trey, her brow furrowed as the director dives deeper into the logistics of product placement, frame rates for motorcycle tracking shots, and the synchronization of audio stems with visual cues.
"Trey, honey," Miranda interrupts, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "You lost me somewhere between the poker chips and the helicopter rotors. I just want to know when I get to go fast and when I get to blow something up."
Carrie lets out a soft laugh, reaching over to pat Miranda’s arm. "She’ll handle the 'how,' Ran. We just handle the 'bad.'"
The session pushes forward until the clock begins to bleed into the late afternoon. They reach a natural stopping point just before the explosive entry of the final chorus. The adrenaline that carried them through the high notes begins to simmer down into a heavy, comfortable exhaustion.
Inside the lounge area, a sprawling black leather sofa sits under a dim lamp. Carrie sinks into the cushions, the cool material sighing under her weight. She looks up at Miranda, her eyes softening, the "Priscilla" persona stripped away to reveal the woman who has spent nearly a decade building a life with the person standing before her. She reaches out, patting her lap in a silent invitation, wanting nothing more than to feel Miranda’s weight against her, to tuck her face into the crook of Miranda’s neck and just *be* for a moment.
But Miranda has a restless energy vibrating in her limbs. She ignores the invitation, though she does catch Carrie’s hand, giving it a firm, playful tug. "Don't get too comfortable, Ace," Miranda says, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "I’ve got something to show you. And it definitely won’t fit in this booth."
"Miranda, we're supposed to be resting our voices," Carrie protests, though she’s already standing up, unable to resist the gravity of Miranda’s excitement.
"My voice is fine. My heart rate, though? That needs a jumpstart."
Miranda leads her through the maze of the studio, past the equipment crates and the scurrying PAs, and out into the bright, sharp glare of the Melbourne afternoon. The back lot is a staging ground for the shoot’s heavy machinery. In the distance, the sleek, predatory silhouette of a Bell Helicopter sits on the tarmac, its rotors still, a testament to the massive product placement deal organized by CMS Nashville.
But Miranda isn't looking at the sky. She leads Carrie toward a pair of machines draped in heavy canvas. With a flourish that borders on the cinematic, Miranda grabs the edge of the covers and pulls. Two Indian Motorcycles, brand new, gleaming with chrome and deep, rich paint, sit shimmering in the sun. They are masterpieces of steel and leather, looking as if they were plucked straight from a vintage dream.
"They're ours," Miranda says, the words coming out in a rush. "I mean, technically, they're part of the 'arrangement,' but I talked to the folks at CMS. I bought 'em. Both of 'em."
Carrie steps forward, her fingers hovering just inches away from the pristine handlebars of the nearest bike. "Miranda... these are incredible. But why?"
Miranda steps into Carrie’s space, the bravado of the "Somethin' Bad" persona melting into something much more vulnerable, something that belongs only to the two of them. She reaches out, tucking a stray blonde lock behind Carrie's ear.
"Because you didn't have to do this," Miranda says softly. "You're the biggest star in this town, and you jumped on this track with me just because I asked. You gave this song your heart, and you gave me your time. I wanted you to have something that felt like... well, like freedom. A 'thank you' for being my partner in everything."
Carrie looks from the motorcycles to the woman standing in front of her. The heist, the jewels, and the costumes are all fiction, but the heat of the sun on the pavement and the steady, unwavering weight of Miranda’s hand on her shoulder are the most real things in the world.
Carrie leans in, pressing her forehead against Miranda’s. "I didn't do it for the bike, Lambert."
"I know," Miranda whispers, a grin breaking through. "But you’re still gonna look real good on it."