Chapter Text
Los Angeles. March 19th, 1975
They’ll love it. I’ll love it. I’ll survive. Outside his window, the neon signs and rows of bulbous lights roll along Sunset Boulevard. His head aches. Elton John will arrive at the premiere of “Tommy”, dressed immaculately as always, and the press will get a few good publicity shots. He will watch his first motion-picture role in a theater full of eyes and step out to cameras trained on his face, watching his reactions. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. George said it might help, but Elton has not gotten very good at the skill. He could do better. Elton inhales even more deeply, a sharp do-over of the last mediocre breath.
Plink!
His chest does feel a bit less constricted, but not in the way he expected. His waistcoat now has a gap, making just as much of a “V” as the shirt beneath it. “Shit!” Elton scavenges the floor between his feet, finding the fabric-covered button at the toe of his boot. “Fuck!” He says, as pressing the button pathetically onto the dangling pieces of thread near his sternum does not magically reattach it.
Elton’s driver gives a few concerned, but eye contact-avoiding glances in the rearview. He takes his own measured breath, more so to brace himself than for any attempt at spiritual regulation. While he hasn’t been at this job for long, he has learned that surprises are rarely good for his chances of getting his dinner on time. “Is everything alright back there?”
“No! It’s not bloody alright, Bob! My button just flew off! We have to turn around.”
“Don’t turn around.” John Reid has also learned a great deal about surprises in his time with Elton John.
“You’re not suggesting that I walk in like that! They’ll notice, they notice everything these days, can’t scratch my bloody-”
“You won’t, we’ll find a tailor.”
“-without some damned reporter writing a– at 7 PM? They’ve all closed, what are we going to do, knock down the door and steal a fucking needle and thread? I’m not letting you near me with a needle, you–”
“There! Pull over.” John grins, pointing a triumphant finger at Alterations on Sunset, whose large windows show a light still shining on moving figures, despite the hour.
Carl’s evening could not possibly get any more dramatic. Five minutes before closing, a tall brunette burst in holding a wedding dress. Carl and his sisters glanced anxiously at each other. The customer was accompanied by another woman, who, her gold jewelry jangling, approached the desk. “Good evening, would you be so kind as to help my daughter with a few alterations on her dress?”
Suzan, his oldest sibling, sighed, “The head seamstress is out already, she usually does the wedding dresses.”
The mother gave an expression that could have been a pleasant smile if she were still able to move those muscles correctly. “I understand that it’s late, dear, but it would mean so much to us.” She reached for Susan’s hand and held it pleadingly.
Suzan’s eyebrows raised as she felt a wad of cash being pressed into her palm. She examined it briefly behind the counter. “We can certainly try our best, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”
The wedding dress no longer fit correctly, and the wedding was in two days. The reason for this, it turned out, was that the bride was pregnant. And she had just discovered it tonight. Carl and his younger sister, Lisa, do their best to hold the dress in place as Susan concentrates on pinning and marking the dress. Well, Carl does his best. He attempts to ignore the icy stare of the mother, the shuddering breaths of the customer, and Lisa’s fumbling attempts at comfort, metaphorically putting her foot deeper in her mouth with each word.
“Well, maybe one day the baby will get to wear the dress too! Because there’ll be room no matter how she grows up, since the dress has some extra fabric…” Lisa trails off. “Oh, if it’s a girl, I mean, I suppose you don’t know yet.” Carl stares hard at the glossy white fabric and prays for an escape.
The door chime rings–they’d forgotten to lock up in all the commotion. Thank God. “I’ll get it! Lisa, could you hold this?” He doesn't wait for a reply, spinning around to face the door.
A short, well-groomed man in a wide tie stands with false patience at the entrance. Carl says, “How can we help you, sir?”
“We have a button emergency. Could you spare a minute to sew it back on?” Carl can’t tell if it’s just the thick accent, but it doesn’t seem like the man is really asking.
Suzan, with a pin in her teeth, grits out, “Umforunay, we’re cwos-”
“Of course! I’d be happy to!” He thinks of the wad of cash in Susan’s hand and tries not to look at the gleaming watch on this new customer’s wrist. He shouldn’t think that way.
“Excellent, one moment.” The man walks back to his car, and Carl tries to figure out which accent he’s hearing. He thinks he heard it at a march once. The woman with a megaphone, rallying them. The crowd repeating back her chants, their elbows bumping up against each other, fists reaching up towards the sky. But no, she was Irish, and it sounded different anyway. Mentally, he goes back to the old globe in his childhood home’s attic. He used to spin it around, watching the cobwebs tear and trying to read the names of the countries as they flew past. He must remember something.
He is pulled out of thought by a short commotion outside, followed by the door swinging open. Behind him, Lisa squeaks.
“Could we get my client to a fitting room, please?” The man in the wide tie is followed by a man in an even wider collar. And- oh. From the glitter on his bowler hat to the heel of his shoes, there is no mistaking who he’s looking at.
“Yes of course! Right this way!”
Carl has dealt with celebrities before, even singers. But usually, they were background celebrities, who had already walked the most glamorous of their red carpets and had passed their era of personal tailors. (However, they did remember what it was like to have a personal tailor, which they would remind Carl of at any opportunity.)
Needless to say, Carl has never worked with a celebrity like Elton John. As Carl holds open the curtain, he meets the man’s eyes through those huge gold frames. His heart pounds. He thinks that maybe there has never been a celebrity like Elton John.
Once all of them–even the man in the wide tie–are in the fitting room, Carl sees where Elton John’s magnificently crafted waistcoat is missing a button. The star forlornly holds out the button to Carl, cradling it in his palm like a child with a broken toy. Carl takes it gingerly. It is a large half-shank button, covered in shimmering green fabric. Thankfully, the attachment point is undamaged. “I can get this back on in no time. I’ll pick out a good thread for it, one moment Sirs.”
Clearly, his sisters and the bride’s mother have also noticed their new guest. Lisa stares with envy as Carl reaches into the drawer for a strong thread. He wills his cheeks to stop blushing. They don't.
As he enters the dressing room, he hears whispering come to a halt, and Elton John takes a step back from Wide Tie, whose hand falls back to rest by his side. Oh. He thinks of when he was a teenager, the way he would jump back from his date when his mother walked into the room, even though they were just cuddling. He pretends not to have seen.
“Listen, we’re in quite a hurry, could you just sew it on like this? This takes a while to get in and out of.” Elton wiggles the flap of fabric at him.
“Of course, Sir.”
Elton looks down. “You don’t have to call me that. Really, please don’t.” Elton is not faking humility–not the way some customers do, saying, “Ha! Oh no, please, call me Barbara,” in a way that makes one think they really just like to hear their own name–Elton just seems genuinely uncomfortable with the term.
Carl threads his needle and removes the loose threads from the flap of fabric. “Yes, S– Yes. Okay.” So, what should I call you? Mr. Pinball Wizard? Carl can think of a lot of things that would lighten the mood, but none of them make their way out of his mouth. He prays that years of muscle memory will keep him from fumbling and poking Elton in the chest.
Wide Tie checks his watch. With a snip of his scissors, Carl finishes his work and stands up from the stool. Somehow, his hands are steady as he re-buttons the waistcoat, but he can feel the adrenaline in his fingertips. Elton’s shirt is open up until just above the waistcoat, showing a mass of thick, dark hair. Carl could touch it…
He doesn’t.
If the tailor had looked up, he would have seen that Elton saw him looking, and in fact, he would have seen that Elton was looking back, hungrily. He would have also seen John Reid roll his eyes, potentially multiple times.
The young blond walks them to the counter. “What do we owe you?” John asks.
The boy laughs and searches around for something in the drawer. “For sewing on one button? Nothing, really, just tell your friends about us, if you could. That would help out a lot.”
John takes the offered business cards and pockets them with a polite nod, “We will.” He walks out to the sounds of Elton handing the protesting tailor some cash and thanking him again before following John back outside.
“Could I see one of those cards?” Elton asks, in the voice he always uses when he’s trying to sound casual about something, but really isn’t feeling casual at all. “Have you seen your present yet?” ; “So, who was he?”
John glances at him, with a look that he hopes conveys how subtle Elton isn’t . “Let’s get you to your premier.” He climbs back into the front seat.
Behind him, Elton opens the door before remembering that Janet, the beautiful friend-of-a-friend whom they had chosen to accompany him tonight, is in fact present. “Oh! Thank you for waiting, dear!” He settles back into the seat without fastening his seat belt. Adopting a corny mobster accent, Elton cries, “Floor it, Bob!”
Janet had a small emergency sewing kit in her clutch purse, not that anyone had asked. If they had, it would have been the first thing of substance anyone had said to her all night. But she was glad no one did. After they were nearly crushed by the mob of screaming, desperate fans while getting into the premiere, and after sitting through the cinematic horror that is Tommy, the trip to the tailor's turned out to make Elton quite entertaining. In between visits from various male celebrities who understood that she is not at all taken, Janet watches Elton bumbling throughout the party. He fidgets with his hands up close to his chest, unsure of what to do with himself, and he wanders between conversations and behind filmed interviews. When he manages to find a conversation himself, Elton swiftly ends it by launching into the tale of the incredible late-night tailor's shop. People really want to know about the film, of course, or about his music, but they are entertained enough by Elton's storytelling that they forget to ask before he wanders away again. After pestering John (who had apparently only been present for emotional support on the ride over and did not show his face at the premiere), Elton had acquired several of their business cards. He gave out all but one of them.