Work Text:
I'm not really sure about this though, it took kinda different direction than I originally wanted...
Working Process
“Mike, I’m really glad you’ve allowed me to take a look at your working process before I agree on anything. “
“No problem, Rick.”
Rick Rubin. The Guru himself. The man Linkin Park chose to help them re-invent themselves. Or better, to help them make a decent record which will sell some horrendous amount of copies before they can retire and enjoy the luxury their fame brought them.
Rick is the final piece to the puzzle. They believe that with him Linkin Park can really change their sound into something that will sell and allow them successful comeback and well-off retirement. Without him though, they are only capable of writing Hybrid Theory part3 or Meteora vol.2, whatever you want to call it. The fact they realized that themselves is alarming enough. So, yeah, they’re desperate to win Rick over to their side. That means they’ll do anything he asks for. Even show him their process of creating new stuff.
“…and after some time we realized the six of us couldn’t put anything meaningful together while we were jamming as a band. So that’s why we usually split up into three pairs and work like this.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard about such method before, but whatever works for you, right?”
Yeah, right, whatever keeps you with us Rick, Mike thinks. He has his infamous Shinoda grin plastered all over his face and tries to pretend he’s actually not freaking out right now. Rick only rolls his eyes when the MC can’t see him and proceeds to the first door. The smell of pot hitting his nose right away.
“Each pair has its own room to work in. This one would be Phoenix and Joe’s.”
Mike opens the door and Rick follows him inside. There, lying on the couch with joint in each hand, are Joe and Phoenix. Sweetly smelling smoke fills the whole room and the guys have dazed out expression on their faces. Neither of them noticed they have company.
“Er-“
“Oh, Rick, I forgot to tell you about their…erm… habit.”
Suddenly, Mike finds it very hard to master his facial muscles and order them to remain in place. He feels little drops of sweat forming on his forehead and sliding painfully slowly to the side of his nose. Even such simple action as breathing seems to be more difficult with every passing second.
“Habit? You mean they do it more often?”
“Um, yeah. You know, it’s their way of relaxing. You wouldn’t believe what bass lines Phoenix can come up with when he’s relaxed enough.”
Rick raises his eyebrows and glares at Mike. The MC avoids his look though and pretends to be interested in Joe’s saliva dripping from his slightly parted lips. In the end, Rick speaks again first.
“I see. So, uh, we’d better not disturb them any longer and let them work, right?”
“Yeah, let’s move on.”
A wave of relief washes over Mike as he takes one last glance at his friends and closes the door. One down, two more to go. He wonders when they started doing pot again but silently thanks them, the pictures of vomit all over the floor and white lines of coke on the table still flashing in his mind. This is one of the better days really.
Before Mike can open the second door, a loud crash suddenly comes from the closed room.
“You’ll do it again and I swear I will fucking kill you!”
Brad’s voice echoes through the hall followed by screams and another loud bursting noise. Probably Chester’s rib, Mike thinks. On the other hand, it might be skull this time.
“Brad, please…”
“Shut up! Shut up or I will kill you right now!”
Rick’s eyes widen as the door bursts open and Chester falls to the floor with a loud thud. Blood flows freely from his damaged nose and there are already bruises forming on his arms. Brad stands over him, face flushed, panting heavily, his foot ready to kick Chester’s stomach again. This is not such a good day. Normally there’s not so much blood and Chester is able to stand straight after Brad had his way with him. Mike’s sure this time the singer must have done something terrible. He probably forgot that Brad likes two sugars with his coffee. Again.
“Uh, hi, I’m Brad.”
Thousands ways how to save the situation are floating around Mike’s mind right now, but he’s sure he wouldn’t come up with something as simple as saying “hi”. It seems to work though. Rick’s so startled that he even manages to crack a small smile while shaking Brad’s hand.
“Rick Rubin, nice to meet you.”
It is either Mike’s vivid imagination or their hopefully-soon-to-be-producer just shook Brad’s blood stained hand without blinking an eye.
“Well, I think we might take it back inside, what do you think Chester?”
No, Mike’s definitely not seeing things. Rick just stands there frozen in place, dumb smile playing on his lips as he watches Brad pick Chester up and throw him back into the room.
Mike’s waiting for Rick to say something first, hundreds of explanations forming in his head already. However, somewhere in the furthest corner of his mind he dares to hope that Rick just may continue to smile and state how nice guy Brad is. Because they really, really need him right now. Mike makes a mental note to show Brad he has a sadistic side in him as well, if Rick suddenly wakes up from his catatonic state and runs away screaming.
When the silence becomes uncomfortable, Mike clears his throat.
“So…”
“I really like that dude’s hair, you know? I’ve always admired people with afro hair.”
Well, it seems that Mike has all the deities on his side today. Rick just looks at him sheepishly and shifts from side to side. He’s sure nothing can surprise him anymore and silently thanks to his Zen master for teaching him how to be patient. He really wants to add Linkin Park to the long list of celebrities he’s worked with.
“Yeah, Brad’s hair is something we’re proud of. So, shall we move on?”
“Absolutely, I’m curious what, uh, special methods you use to write your stuff.”
Speaking of the devil, well almost, Rob exits the last room in the hallway. When he sees Mike, his eyes lit up immediately and a huge grin forms on his face. Quickly Rob approaches him, slides one arm around his waist and kisses Mike softly on the lips. Mike smiles sweetly at him and turns back to Rick.
“So this is Rob. We make the last pair. Literally.”
“You guys are…”
Rick points the finger hopelessly between Rob and Mike. Well, this starts to be interesting, he thinks.
“Yeah, we’re together,” Rob states smiling.
“But I thought… I thought you were married,” Rick points at Mike.
“Yeah. Yeah I am. But my wife knows about us. She’s really wonderful, you know.”
“I guess.”
The three of them stand in the middle of the hall; nobody’s sure what to say. Mike prays to every deity he knows that Rick won’t run away the same way they previous producer Don Gilmore did. It took him quite some time to discover the true nature of their working process, but when he did, it wasn’t nice.
They are all aware they probably don’t work as any other band, but so far, the results were satisfying. However, they need a change and that’s why Rick is here. That’s also why he must stay here. Therefore, Mike gathers all his remaining courage and dignity and speaks up.
“So Rick, now you’ve seen it all. I guess I might call all the guys here so you can announce your future working with us, right?”
“I-“
“Great.”
Rule number one, the one and only: Do not let them speak too much. If possible, not at all.
Although it’s a result of only ten-minutes long experience, this rule seems to be essential for the further existence of the band. Mike knows that if Rick agrees now he’ll learn to turn a blind eye to certain things. For the good of everyone involved, of course.
“Alright, we won’t wait for Joe, he probably passed out already. So Rick here told me that he was impressed by what he saw and is already looking forward to working on our new record with us.”
“But I didn’t-“
“It’s alright Rick, you don’t have to repeat what you told me before. I know how you feel, don’t think I don’t. Besides, we’re Linkin Park, who wouldn’t want to work with us.”
Yeah, who wouldn’t.
Rick gulps and looks around.
The sight he’s exposed to isn’t much appealing to him. Phoenix is leaning against the wall, too stoned to remain upright without support. Chester, on the other hand, is leaning against Brad. Blood dripping from his cut lips, his arms covered with black and purple bruises that are successfully covering almost all of his tattoos. Some of the purple marks have shape of demanding fingers; the others match sole of Brad’s sneakers. Brad has his hand around Chester’s slim waist, holding him upright. Little cuts are still visible on his knuckles and remains of Chester’s blood adorn his hands.
Rick turns his head to the other side and sees Rob watching Mike with nothing but love shinning in his eyes. He can imagine him following Mike around like a lovesick puppy.
And Mike? He knows he’s won.
However, Rick’s fine with that. He’s prepared to sacrifice more than his sanity to keep his title of a producer who’s worked with all the big stars of music industry. Nobody has to know under what circumstances after all.
Besides, nobody has ever said that a desperate band and a desperate producer cannot do something meaningful together, as unlikely as it sounds.
Linkin Park has always been about angst anyway.