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Stone	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 701 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Stone
- 1
On a Tuesday morning in August 1976, an increasingly irritated Roger Waters sat in the lounge of Britannia Row waiting for his cohorts to appear and when one of them finally did, in a fit of cognitive dissonance worthy of Syd Barrett he realized he did not recognize the man in the doorway. Not initially.

It was patently obvious David Gilmour had been gaining weight – had gained more than a bit of weight – incrementally since he had decided to quit smoking during the sessions for Wish You Were Here, but it struck Roger all at once in that moment. He was sure there were other contributing factors - going through a sympathetic pregnancy with Ginger, for example - and David had never been a svelte man even at his most thin. He possessed strong arms and thighs, and a natural bit of pudge in his gorgeous face. It was but one facet of attraction driving Roger’s desire, Dave was so very solid to him. But this broad, heavily-bearded man who walked into the room seemed a completely different person and he experienced the prickling of a goose walking on his grave. It was too reminiscent of something else which had happened the last time they made an album.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“Have a care, mate,” David sighed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Alice was up all fucking night.”

“You know, you don’t have to get up with the sprog every night, regardless of what Ginger tells you.”

“It’s not even a matter of getting up. The kid’s got lungs like bloody Maria Callas, I’m sure half of Essex could hear her.”

He seated himself across the table and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Look at this,” Roger snapped, tossing a copy of the Daily Mail to David.

“What, I’ve already read the Mail.”

“Mary fucking Whitehouse, that’s what. Shining symbol of Empire morality.”

David flicked his fingertips at the newsprint in a dismissive gesture. “Well that’s what politicians do, Rog, they tell us how utterly savage we are and how they can set us right.”

“But she is the most insufferable cunt –“

“Rog, please – don’t give yourself an ulcer. She’s just prattling on as usual. Getting worked up like this, it ain’t healthy, mate.”

Roger snorted. “And you’re a fine one to be talkin’ ‘bout health.”

David’s eyes widened. “What’s that mean, then?”

Roger put his elbows on the table and glared at him full bore. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? Ever since you bagged your American trophy –“

“Steady on, mate,” David interjected sharply.

“ – you’ve positively let yourself go.”

David’s mouth became as wide as his eyes. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything? We’re ‘faceless,’ remember?”

“To them,” he replied, his arm waved out, hand splayed, as if the audience of his reference were just outside the door. “But I still have to look at you.”

“Oh and lookin’ at you’s a bloomin’ walk in the garden, is it? More like a trip to the stable.”

Two sets of blue eyes glared as if one pair could set the other aflame. However there was seemingly no lasting malice in the exchange. Nick had once succinctly typified their spats as being “like table tennis, but with sarcasm.”

Their engineer chose that moment to intercede, politely clearing his throat and leaning into the doorway. “So then gents, what’s say we, I dunno. . .record something today?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” David cracked, displaying the sly sexy grin which made Roger bite his lip with salacious envy.

Brian chuckled. “Can’t think of anything better.”

David looked pointedly at Roger. “I can.”

“So can I,” Roger retorted, giving him an equally sharp look. “But we’re here, aren’t we?”

David extended his hand with a flourish, mugging in an “after you” expression. Roger rolled his eyes and unfolded his lanky body from the chair. As David followed him Brian whispered, “It’s gonna be one of those days, eh?”

“More like one of those years,” David murmured.

Watching the two of them going down the stairs to the control room Brian let out a breathy Oh bloody hell.

Nearly an hour had passed and they had yet to accomplish anything concrete as they each voiced suggestions and the other dismissed them. David remained in shock; throughout their relationship - such as it was – Roger had made few specific comments about David’s appearance other than to mock his attractiveness with a tone that was always equal parts lust and spite. Whenever Roger told David he was attractive it was usually in a begrudging sort of way, which could apply to everything he said in the greater scheme of things.

“Shall I work on ‘Crazy,’ then?” David asked, the two of them slouching in chairs pulled up to the mixing console in their dour-looking control room. “Add another layer to the backing track?”

Roger grunted at him, reading over the log from the previous day.

Rick walked in, looking decidedly guilty.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Roger demanded, whirling around in his chair to glare at their errant bandmate. Rick blanched as usual, David felt reflexive sympathy but kept his mouth shut.

“For your information I was here before you but after waiting half an hour I decided my time would be better spent running some bloody errands.”

Roger looked at the ceiling in exasperation. “You could have worked on something!”

“Only to have you completely tear it to shreds later? I’m not entirely a masochist, Rog.”

“He’s referring to the perception that he is one because he works with you,” David noted, sotto voce as he pretended to be fascinated with the settings on the board.

“Oh do shut up,” Roger sneered.

Rick exchanged a mocking raise of eyebrows with David, and Roger caught him.

“Get your arse in there,” he commanded, and Rick went into the live room without protest, sitting down at the grand piano.

“So what’s doing gents?” Brian finally asked after running out of things to tidy up.

“Let’s go back to ‘Raving,’ the intro is still wrong,” Roger replied.

“Right then,” Brian answered, and went down the hall to the safe where the master tapes were stored at night.

Consulting the log, Roger began checking the faders on the board while David stared at him, glancing at the talkback mic to ensure it was turned off. His arms were folded across his chest and he supposed he did provide a marked contrast to his partner. Jack Sprat and his wife had nothing on them.

“So I’m not beautiful any more, is that it?”

“More like –“ Roger snapped his fingers and his gaze moved up towards the window separating the live room from the control room “ – what’s that beastie from the Channel Three programme?”

David laughed in disbelief. “You’re not seriously comparing me to fucking Sasquatch?!”

“You’re a bloody greasy-haired sow either way. And that beard, how does Ginger stand it?”

“She can stand anything well enough. Unlike you.”

David then glared at him for a long moment, which Roger chose not to acknowledge.

“Oh don’t pout,” Roger countered, but without meeting David’s icy gaze. “It’s not like I said I’d never fuck you again.”

David laughed again, but from embarrassment. “Oh no, let’s not be discreet, for Christ’s sake.”

“As if they actually pay attention to what we say when we fight.”

David caught movement on his periphery, Rick was waving his arms at them. He turned on the mic and held down the talk button.

“Yeah Rick?”

“What are we doing, exactly?” he asked, just the slightest bit miffed. He generally never rose above that level of pique without stammering.

“Waiting on the tape. What say I have Arthur make us some tea?”

“Right then,” he replied, and began noodling around on the Hammond.

David rose to find the studio’s caretaker He came up behind Roger and placed his hands on his shoulders, leaning to whisper in Roger’s left ear.

“Fat or not, I can still make you forget your own name.”

“Not bloody likely,” Roger replied, continuing to stare at the controls, “considering how many pieces of paper it appears on now.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” David taunted, bringing out that posh inflection Roger could never resist, “from a man who knows he’ll lose.”

“Steady on, mate,” Roger said, turning his face towards David, close enough to kiss. He almost smiled.

“Steady on,” David echoed. He did smile, then left the room.

Rick, for the sake of his sanity, pretended there was nothing untoward at all going on in their control room, or in any other room Rog and Dave occupied at the same time. But all the same he wondered how long any of them could continue with such a weighty ruse.
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Stone