Chapter Text
The passion was gone.
There was no fire, no spark, no emotion behind his playing anymore. The zing that had run through his blood when he'd first picked up that big-bellied bass didn't seem to run through his blood anymore, and it made the well practiced chords echo empty and distant in his cotton-filled brain. He could still make that huge instrument sing, that was his magic, but where it had once filled him to the brim with a deep stirring beauty that resonated through him like he'd just plucked one of the bass' thick strings, it left him feeling empty and cold. He wondered at length about things missing that might fill the yawning chasm, and where they might fit, but between the cracks, he had no idea. At rights, he had everything he could ever need. There was a band of good friends around him, including his best friend and pianist Sam Chisolm, he had a roof over his head for the first time since wandering back from the Great War after which Sam had picked him up off the side of the street hustling his music for spare change. He had a paid gig damn near every night he could want one, and it paid the bills. But in the end, he was alone.
His music, at first, could channel all of this in it's deep, thrumming tones as he held the neck of the bass against his shoulder, plucking at the strings as if they could tell all the story running just below his skin and deep into his soul. They reverberated his tale, sad and lonesome, and it resulted in great music that kept the beat better than Faraday's occasionally erratic drum solos, or the stirring, dulcet tones of Vasquez, whether he chose to play guitar or hitch up the heat with his trombone. But his listlessness had become painfully clear the night their manager, the wisened old Jack Horne, pulled him aside. A cold chill crept through him as he watched the rest of the players make their way from the stage, Faraday clapping him on the shoulder as he passed and Chisolm passing him a long, soulful look.
Once they were alone in the back hallway to the band's lounge, Horne threw a friendly arm around his shoulder and began to walk him back. "Noticed a few things out there, son," he wheezed in that strange, high pitched voice of his.
Goodnight knew he had been flagging, knew he had been hitting a few more flat notes than usual. Was this the end of his tenure? His body froze up beneath the other man's affable embrace, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He could barely take breath enough to stem the shaking that began from below as he turned towards Horne, stopping in the hall to look at one another. He couldn't seem to get a word out before Horne began again. "Now, listen to me, Goodnight, we're not running you off. Your playing is some of the best I've ever had the distinct pleasure to experience, hand to God. But is something haunting you?"
The shakes remained, very real in the tremors of his hand as he drug them down his face and looked up at the rafters, fighting his body to breathe. After he finally, finally sucked in a breath, he looked down the hall towards the room where the rest of his bandmates rested after the night's set. "Don't rightly know, to be completely honest with you, Jack." He was usually affluent, so eloquent, but the words to describe his waking inner demons had robbed him.
Truth of the matter was, he did know. It was a dark cold that had sent him to the streets after the Great War, searching for something that had existed before he'd gone off to France to fight the murderous menace that threatened the world. It had sent him out into homelessness when he had returned home and faced too much hero worship and false platitudes that it had made him sick, with just his instrument and a duffel full of clothes. It had had him playing his soul out for change when Sam Chisolm had found him, broken and alone on a street corner in New York, a lone Southerner surrounded by Yankees that, regardless of origin, could still appreciate the sultry tones of a well played bass. It was something that he couldn't put to words, but burned so frigidly, that it affected his art. Jack was just not the one he could talk to.
Jack nodded sagely, his hand on Goodnight's shoulder heavy and grounding. "Just so you know, I'm not letting you go, son," the older man murmured softly. With one large finger, he poked Goody in the chest. "But I know something ain't quite right here. I can hear it when you play. If you ever need anything, let me know. God would never forgive me letting one of my boys go amiss beneath my very nose."
And wasn't that a thing? Having someone give a damn about him. Here was something that he could never get used to, even if Sam had tried to make it clear to him with every heartfelt chat they'd had. There were no words for it. No words for anything. So Goodnight merely nodded, pressing his lips together before softly saying, "I'll keep that under advisement. Should I need anything, I'll come to you."
Horne nodded, seemingly pleased with the conversation, and offered Goody a smile. "Please do. I'm not going anywhere, and were it my will, neither will you. You're too good, son, and it would be shameful of me to turn away your talent or see it spent and burned away like so much chattel." With that, the man patted Goody on the shoulder and turned towards the stage, leaving Goodnight alone in the hall.
Goody shivered, a chill running through each muscle and vein as he thought about facing the men in the break room. There, there would be questions, there would be accusations about each flat note he had played, each missed note that had nearly thrown them off beat. Faraday, with his endlessly loud mouth, would be first, despite the pleas to quiet himself from Sam, asking him what his deal was. Vasquez would sit quietly, listening and offering up the occasional advice, and as much as the trumpeter wanted to help, it would be totally useless. And Sam, Sam would offer thoughtful looks spliced with a few pitying glances that he didn't need nor want, waiting to catch him alone to discuss his deepest emotions. And Goodnight Robicheaux felt no interest in that.
Instead, cowardice prevailed and instead of stepping into the break room to grab his coat, he turned towards the exit and fled out of the staff entrance into the dark, dingy alleyway into the cool New York evening.