Foo Fighters One Shots

Shut up, Dave (Kurt)

** Requested from someone I adore. Hope this lifts your spirits a bit, kitten!** ugh-nirvana

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Nothing, shut up, fuck off."

"Fine, okay, jesus," Dave defensively raised his hands and retreated down the aisle lined with brightly colored candy packaging. He hadn't known Kurt for very long, but he knew better than to hassle him while he was comparing prepaid phone cards in a corner of a dimly lit convenience store.

All gas stations smelled the same, Dave decided as he filled his arms with various bags of chips and candy. They all reeked of gasoline and sweating hotdogs and cleaning solution and the sticky sweet remnants of spilled slurpies. But they were like little oases along the seemingly endless stretches of lush forests and wheat fields the band traversed to get from one venue to the next. And it was always funny to him, how through thousands of miles of different people and places and politics and philosophies that things were always fundamentally the same.

He and Kurt often discussed that exact topic at length, how strange and yet how comforting it was that their turbulent childhoods, though thousands of miles apart, were essentially identical. They'd grown close over those fourteen or fifteen months, finding comfort in practical jokes and bad cartoons and shitty gas station food... and each other. 

But Kurt had grown somewhat distant the past few weeks. 

He'd spent more time hunched over a notebook he'd cradled in his lap, scribbling words that he'd immediately hide from prying eyes and would scuttle away any time a payphone sprung up from the sidewalk. He was also smiling a lot lately. 

Dave watched him out of the corner of his eye as Kurt plucked card after card off the rack, scanned the cardboard back and ultimately shoved them back on their hooks. Apparently sensing that he was being watched, his blue eyes flashed up to Dave's and then flooded with embarrassment, his cheeks tinging a bright red to reveal that he knew he'd been caught.

"What?" he barked across the shoulder-height racks of junk food.

Dave steadied the piles of crinkly bags in his arms and shot back a terse, "Nothing! Christ!" before turning on his heel for the register still grumbling under his breath about someone needing to chill the fuck out.

He dumped the first armload onto the counter next to Krist, matching his lazy half-smile when he reached for a handful of jerky in a plastic bucket near his elbow. Krist had his lanky frame folded over the counter next to the lottery chalkboard and was having what appeared to be a friendly conversation with the clerk in rapid Croatian. Dave's smile widened as he snagged another fistful of dehydrated meat, thinking that only Krist would find the one person in a thousand miles that spoke his language and of course it would be in the dive bar equivalent of a gas station. 

"Shit's gonna stop your heart, Grohl," he said, easily switching from Croatian over to English.

"Can't come soon enough, man."

The bassist's half-smile bloomed into a grin as he jutted his chin toward the back corner of the shop. "He find a good one yet?"

"Fuck, I don't know, but don't go near him. He's tried to bite my head off twice now," Dave warned, then flashed an apologetic smile at the nervous-looking clerk for their profanity. 

"Like she's gonna give a shit which calling card he uses," Krist muttered.

"I can hear you assholes!"

Both Dave and Krist ignored Kurt's yell from across the store and continued their assessment of the guitarist, though Dave lowered his voice to a whisper, "Wait, who's 'she'?"