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The rain over London hits the tall sash windows of the Westbourne Hyde Park Hotel in a relentless, muffled hiss. Inside the warm suite, the air smells of rich dark-rosted coffee, damp wool, and the faintly sweet, toasted-tobacco scent of the Silk Cut cigarettes Kurt keeps lighting and letting burn out in the glass ashtray by the couch. Tomorrow, the acoustic *Skin and Bones* tour kicks off—an ambitious, intimate joint run between Nirvana and Foo Fighters that has taken months of precise logistical coordination to arrange.
Everything is theoretically set. Courtney, Kurt’s lifelong best friend and the surrogate who proudly carried both of their daughters, is staying behind in the spacious London flat they rented for the summer. She is more than ready to hold down the fort with thirteen-year-old Frances, who is currently obsessing over art supplies and indie zines, and baby Violet, who is just two months old. To make the tour even smoother, twenty-one-year-old Maxie Bailey—Earnie’s daughter, who grew up crawling around Nirvana's amp road cases and is currently on summer break from her university—is coming along as part of the touring crew to run merch and manage stage setups. Maxie is as much family as anyone bound by blood.
That is not the problem. The problem is the subtle, alarming warmth radiating from Violet’s tiny forehead.
The fever isn't high—the doctor they called to the suite an hour ago assured them it is just a routine, mild infant reaction to her recent immunizations—but for Dave, logic has completely detached itself from reality.
“Don’t run away from me.” The words loop through Dave’s mind with the jarring, repetitive velocity of an unmedicated ADHD hyperfixation. He stands near the heavy velvet drapes, his knuckles white against the mahogany frame of an armchair, his chest tight. The rhythmic drop of the rain morphs in his memory into the rain falling over Springfield, Virginia, decades ago.
He feels thirty-seven going on seventeen. He remembers the cold, sterile weight of his father James’s disapproval—a man whose rigid pragmatism had no room for a boy whose brain moved in hyperactive, lightning-fast fits and starts, a boy who tapped on every surface until his knuckles bled. When Dave was seventeen, just a week before he was scheduled to leave home and tour Europe with Scream, he had caught a severe flu. James hadn't just nursed him; he had locked Dave in his childhood bedroom under the pretense of strict quarantine.
James had blamed the illness on Dave’s hyperactivity, on his chaotic energy, on his unwillingness to settle down. He had even brought up the slight, lifelong curve in Dave's spine—the structural asymmetry that had forced Dave to wear a corrective left shoe since he was seven years old—as proof of some fundamental, internal defect. James used the confinement to play the overbearing caretaker, systematically picking apart Dave’s dreams, dissecting his self-worth, and telling him he was physically and mentally unfit to survive on the road. Don't run away from me. You aren't built for the world. You're broken.
Dave snaps his jaw shut, his hands shaking slightly as he stares down at his own worn sneakers. His breathing is shallow, his mind racing through a dozen catastrophic scenarios about Violet’s temperature spiking in the middle of the night.
“Come back to me.” The familiar voice is low, gravelly, and instantly grounding.
Dave snaps his head up, blinking hard against the warm light of the hotel lamps. Kurt is no longer holding the baby. He is standing a few feet away, dressed in a faded, oversized cardigan, his blonde hair falling around his sharp jawline. Quisp, their sprawling, oversized black-and-white tuxedo cat who travels almost everywhere with them, is draped lazily over Kurt’s shoulders like a heavy plush scarf, purring softly. Across the room on the plush velvet sofa, Bean sits cross-legged. She rocks two-month-old Violet gently against her shoulder, humming a quiet song, perfectly calm, adept, and deeply comfortable in her role as the big sister.
"There you are," Kurt says softly, stepping closer.
Quisp shifts his weight on Kurt’s shoulders, letting out a sleepy squeak. Kurt reaches out, his thin, calloused fingers resting against the side of Dave’s neck, thumb brushing gently over Dave’s cheekbone. Kurt reads Dave like a open book; after fifteen years of marriage, there is no corner of Dave’s mind that Kurt hasn't gently explored and accepted. He sees the faraway look in Dave’s eyes, the hyper-vigilant posture, and he knows exactly whose ghost is haunting the room.
"Hey," Kurt murmur, his voice steady, anchoring Dave to the present year, to this room, to the life they built together. "Look at me, David. Look at your daughter. She's fine. She's got a tiny flush, her sleep sack is soft, and her sister is holding her."
Dave lets out a long, ragged breath, resting his forehead against Kurt’s shoulder for a second, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of cigarette smoke, lavender soap, and Kurt. "I just... what if her fever gets worse while we're on the plane to Dublin? What if I missed something? What if we shouldn't go?"
"The doctor was just here, man," Kurt reminds him gently, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "She's fine. It's just the shots. You aren't your dad, Dave. You're not trapping her, and you didn't make her sick. You're the best fucking dad those kids could ever ask for. You're allowed to breathe." Kurt reaches up, brushing a strand of dark hair out of Dave’s eyes. "Maxie’s downstairs right now getting the setlists organized with Earnie. She’s coming with us on the bus tomorrow. Courtney’s got the flat stocked with everything Bean and Vi could possibly need, and you know Court—she’d fight a hurricane if one came within ten miles of these girls."
Kurt leans in a little closer, his tone turning sweet and fond.
"And hey... Courtney even reminded me before she left for the store earlier that whenever we're ready for number three, she’s more than ready to carry another one for us. We're safe, Dave. The family is safe."
Dave looks over Kurt’s shoulder at Bean, who gives him a little wave and a confident nod, whispering, "She's asleep, Dad."
The tight knot in Dave’s chest finally unravels. The ghost of James Grohl vanishes back into the damp London twilight. Dave brings his hands up to rest on Kurt’s waist, feeling the warmth of Kurt’s body, the steady beat of his heart, and the soft fur of Quisp brushing against his forearm.
"Okay," Dave whispers, his voice thick with emotion, grounded firmly in 2006, in the family they chose, in the life they survived to create. "Okay. I'm back."
Kurt smiles, leaning up to press his lips against Dave’s in a slow, deep, reassuring kiss that smells of fresh coffee and tastes like home.