TNT Short Fics

Oftentimes, it doesn't feel so glamorous to be me

The first time he really sees the reality of years of touring is the last night in Singapore. Sure, he's seen the recovery station. Winced in sympathy at the sight of her blistered feet when she came home from Brazil. Hell, the first time they ever spoke on the phone instead of texting had to wait until after the LA shows because she needed to save her voice for filming. He'd teased her that he'd heard that excuse before.

She'd seemed fine the night before as they walked around, talking to the team at dinner. She'd sleepily talked his ear off on the way back to the hotel, telling him all about the new bed for the LA house that got delivered so his feet wouldn't hang off the end. Not quite down from the adrenaline high of four shows, with one more to go.

Until this morning.

Or maybe it's afternoon. Jet lag has caught up with him, and he turns toward the warmth of Taylor's body beside his, her golden hair the only part of her visible above the covers. He considers tucking his face between that hair and the pillow and going back to sleep, but the buzz of her phone and his at the same time stops him. Reaching for his, he sees a text from Erica letting them know she'll be up in twenty.

"Tay," he whispers, running his hand over the crown of her head, trying to ease her into the waking world.

"No," comes the muffled voice of his girlfriend, her head disappearing fully under the covers.

"Hey, sweetie, I know you want to sleep, but Erica's about to come in and get this whole party started. We overslept."

He expects her to grumble and sigh before getting a move on. What he does not expect is tears.

She turns to him with eyes awash, and the sight makes his own sting in sympathy.

"Hey, what's this? What's wrong?"

She just shakes her head as the tears spill over onto her cheeks.

"Hey, come here," he says, pulling her close, hoping to give her some comfort for whatever this is.

She comes willingly, taking shuddering breaths.

"I just..." she starts, and then a sob takes over.

He pushes her hair from her face, taking in her tired eyes and tense shoulders. Suddenly, he realizes the past month has caught up with her. Endless shows, criss-crossing the globe, jet-lagged nights out, even the adrenaline-fueled fear from the parade. It's all there. Each thing manageable on its own, but together, too much. And it's all been on her shoulders.

He rubs her back, feeling the knots from three-and-a-half-hour shows, four nights in a row.

"I'm so tired, Trav," she whispers, like she doesn't want anyone to hear. Because she doesn't. She wants to be the person who can do this effortlessly. Don her supersuit each night and give it her all. And she will. But right now, she's given him the immense privilege of seeing the tired girl behind it all.

Travis loves the larger-than-life woman on stage. Loves to watch her mesmerize the crowd, just like she did that summer night in KC. But he has always wanted the privilege of knowing the woman behind it all. The real, beautiful, fallible human that is Taylor Swift.

"I know, baby. I do. You've been going fucking nonstop." He doesn't try to appease her or tell her she should do less. That isn't what she does. It isn't how they're built. They don't stop.

Doesn't mean she shouldn't get to complain about it a little. "Tell me... please?"

She pulls back to wipe at her face.

"I'm so fucking tired, even my hair hurts. I want to sleep for a week and wake up at a normal time."

She sits up and hugs her knees, and he follows, laying a hand on her back, hoping to ground her.

"I love this, but the thought of another night feels impossible. I still have cramps in my toes. The thought of that red bodysuit makes me itchy. I have a charley horse in my left ass cheek and a big zit on my forehead."

He stays quiet, lets her get it out.

She turns her head to look at him before whispering, "Sometimes it's not so glamorous to be me."

"No, it's not," he agrees, not trying to make this anything but what it is. In their line of work, that's the worst part—people wanting only the highs of stardom, not the lows.

She sighs and tugs on his hand, propping it on her knees before laying her head on it. Getting it out seems to have helped.

"It's hard. It feels impossible," he says, squeezing her knee. "But you're going to do it anyway."

"I am," she agrees firmly.

"You're going to go out there and give it your all. Make it look effortless. All sequins and smiles and vanilla perfume." He doesn't say it as a platitude. She doesn't need one.

He remembers what she said to him in a similar moment the night after the Raiders game at Christmas. He gives those words back to her.

"You're Taylor fucking Swift, and no one is going to do this better than you."

Her eyes light up in recognition of his callback, and she nods with a smile, giving her cheeks one last swipe.

"Thanks, Trav."

He shrugs. "That's my job."

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah. This is just practice for the summer. Getting my reps in."

She smiles widely and tugs him close once more. "I can't wait."

He kisses the top of her head. "Me either. Now, before Erica gets here, can I help with any of those complaints?"

He holds her out, giving her an appraising look. "Rub that charley horse, maybe?"

She rolls her eyes, giggling. "Anything to get your hands on my ass."

"You already know, girl," he says with a smirk. "But seriously, want me to get the doc? Or help with a stretch?"

"Maybe a stretch?" she says, lifting her arms slightly. "They won't go any higher than this."

He reaches to run his hand down her shoulder. "One more night, Tay. Then you and me playing house in LA. And some time on the beach."

He watches as her shoulders straighten. As Taylor Swift comes back online. She nods. "One more night."

Later, he watches her rise from the stage, all red lipstick and sequins, with not a flash of pain in sight.