santa buddies [banshee]

The boys had been around his place before, of course— it was eleven years since they’d started the band, this year, or something like that, of course they had— and so Sam didn’t particularly need to neaten it up or to make it appear as though he wasn’t living in it, but he did anyway, in a sort of lazy, meandering fashion. Picked up all the couch cushions, one by one, and straightened them out. If he were dedicated to making his home presentable, he’d have dusted or something, but instead he waved his wand to float all the empty glasses he’d left out into the kitchen, then flopped onto his couch and leafed through his mail until the turned up.

They’d waffled a bit over when and where to meet, since they all had things going on (Sam being single, Charlie being married, Liam being Liam) but Charlie was going to America to visit Kate’s family in a few days, which had rushed the decision. December was coming around the corner; if they wanted to do something, they’d better do it quickly. Unfortunately, Banshee hadn’t ever been great with easy, unanimous decisions.

Sam, a good host, offered them water first, so they could pretend they were working, but had decided almost immediately that they needed beer, too; as he set a six-pack down carefully on the table he frowned, trying to catch himself back up in the conversation. “Nah, I reckon it’d be cool to do a real orchestra,” he said. “If we’re going for classic sounding, I mean. Christmassy.”

He got one for himself and pointed his wand to pop the cap off. “I mean, doesn’t have to be a real Christmas classic or nothing, we could do classy and Christmassy sound and do that Wham! thing.”

Liam hadn’t seemed especially interested in doing a Wham! song, and admittedly Sam couldn’t see Charlie doing a great George Michael, but the point stood. He frowned back down at his notepad, tried to think of Christmassy songs they could sing without butchering that he hadn’t already written down.

“I saw Mum kissing Santa, or whatever that one is,” he suggested. “Or… Charlie, what’s the one…”

Charlie was their Muggle music expert; Sam could probably whistle the shit out of a lot of Christmas tunes that he couldn’t remember anything else about. He plodded through a few bars of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” before he realised that the only bit he could remember of the song was the first line.

He rapped a simple rhythm on the polished wood and tried to figure what sort of sound they could do with Charlie’s voice and a full orchestra— and, most worrying, what he would do. Were there drum kits in full orchestras? That was a Liam question, probably— Sam sure didn’t know.

@Charlie Baker @Liam Thompson

Charlie was fully on board with the idea of an orchestra – he’d always wanted to use one, and this was as good an excuse as any he was likely to get without making diva-ish demands. He supposed next album, maybe, they could experiment a bit. If they didn’t veto the idea here and now. “Orchestra would be boss,” he said, in what he hoped was a ‘decision-made’ sort of tone, looking at Liam for approval – Sam was already in, obviously.

He barked out a short, sharp laugh. “There’s no way I could do Last Christmas,” he grinned, knowing better than to bite off more than he could chew – at least when it came to his vocal ability. “Anyway, bit depressing for a charity single, ain’t it?”

Charlie stared at Sam expectantly, waiting for some sort of clue before he started whistling. Charlie listened, then grimaced, shaking his head, “Nah, too far the other way. Sickly.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees with his beer bottle held loosely by his fingertips, thinking.

After a brief moment, Charlie leant to grab the notepad and pen from Sam. He sat up and crossed his leg over his knee, using his thigh as a rest upon which to write. He took a sip of his beer, then chewed on the pen for a minute. “What’ve we got,” he asked semi-rhetorically, as he began scribbling. “Last Christmas, I saw mum snogging Santa... Band Aid – you know, Do they know it’s Christmas at all?” he sung quietly, then wrinkled his nose up to show he’d already decided that that wasn’t them.

Charlie sighed, then carried on writing as he tried to think back through the list of options, humming under his breath. Typical, really, that every Christmas he was convinced there were only like, maybe ten songs that everyone just reused – covered or put their own spin on – and now he couldn’t remember them. “White Christmas is too jazzy for us, and too slow.” He wet his lips, “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” he wrote as he spoke, then immediately crossed it out as he said “too happy, I can’t fake that shit.” He frowned, “War is Over is like, a great tune – Lennon –“ he added, as if that was all that was needed by way of explanation, “but,” he glanced up at them, “bad taste? Given the whole… Sweden malarkey?”

“Reckon you could do a good Mariah,” he smirked at Sam, only half-joking. Then, as he took another swig of beer, the possibility hit him that maybe, because it was a one-off, he didn’t have to be the one singing – or not the only one, at least. A small part of him was reluctant to suggest it because what if they decided they ought to sing lead on future tracks – actual Banshee records – too? Then he’d not be as irreplaceable as he currently was. Wouldn’t, perhaps, have the same unspoken sway over decisions as he did now. Nah, Sam wasn’t in for that sort of thing, and as much as Liam might like the limelight Charlie immodestly knew himself to be the better singer.   

“What about like, some of the duets? Baby, It’s Cold Outside?” he lowered his voice – doing his best Tom Jones impression, the most recent version and the one he’d heard when he’d last been home for the holidays in Sheffield. “Bit of a laugh, you know.” He bit his lip, “It doesn’t like, have to just be me, you know?”

Liam languidly re-crossed his legs on Sam’s coffee table. “Don’t reckon we could ever sound classic,” he said. “Not with that voice of Charlie’s.” Not that it didn’t have its charm, but Charlie Baker was no Sinatra. “Isn’t that sort of the point? That’s why I like the orchestra.” Liam picked up a beer and inclined it toward Sam. “It’s our, y’know, our spin on it. Grunge up something people’ll expect from Christmas. Like we did Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me.” Celestina Warbeck had a Christmas record, but Liam wasn’t sure that was really their brand anymore. He’d even grimaced at first at the thought of an orchestra. Only wizard bands had rock fucking clarinetists.

He watched over his beer bottle as Charlie went down the list again. None of it was really inspiring. Most Christmas music was absolute shit, lyrically, even if it was catchy. Catchy wasn’t even really their brand either. He’d been told before that their music had to grow on you, that the unusualness of it put you off at the start. Liam had always sort of loved that.

He nodded as Charlie did, not bothering to argue until he was done. “I’d like to bleedin’ think war is over,” he muttered under his breath with a bitter scoff. Charlie was right, though. It was probably best they avoid politics, at least while nobody was getting murdered under their noses. He wasn’t about to make a target out of their Muggle-born frontman.

“Not sad, but not happy, not jazzy. Right, then.” Liam sighed heavily. “You don’t think we could write our own? I mean, if all these idiots can do it, can’t we?” Of course, that’d be a lot to put on Charlie. Their resident lyricist did great work, but rarely on command and rarer still about the holiday season. He’d hardly been around much lately to begin with. Sam and Liam had been jamming every other day, but there was only so much they could do without Charlie.

The thought of co-writing again was getting him all excited. Liam settled his guitar across his lap and picked out a simple, gentle melody. “I’ve been rolling this around for a bit. Could be Christmassy, yeah?”

Charlie had other ideas. Liam arched his eyebrows. “Aren’t those all for women, though?” He replied with a laugh. “Don’t make Sam do that, mate.“ He elbowed Sam and shot him a grin. “Even if he wouldn’t be half bad at it.”'

Last Christmas was too depressing, and yet Charlie’d suggested that Band-Aid thing a moment later; Sam was inclined to believe with Liam about this. They couldn’t afford to be too finicky— Christmas songs came in like five flavours (sappy, creepy, boring, peppy, and depressing) and even the combination of angry guitar and Charlie’s singing voice was not likely to do much for that.

But no way were they going to write their own song— “I dunno,” he said, slowly, trying to parse out his thoughts in his head. Christmas was, you know, a big deal— Sam didn’t particularly want his mouth running away from him. “Doesn’t feel much like Banshee.” He prodded Charlie with a foot, imagining what kind of Christmas song their frontman could have written— “Sides, feels like all the good Christmas song concepts are taken. Holiday breakups and sleigh rides and Saint Nick and baby Jesus being born and all that. Everything’s been done already.”

He let Liam play his bit, though— “It’s nice,” he said, clicked his fingers a few times— “Easy. Maybe once we start the next album, yeah?” He settled even more comfortably into the couch, propped one foot on the coffee table, glanced at Charlie in a protracted effort to not be pointed.

“Oi,” he added, not really offended. He shot Liam an amused look— “C’mon, Lee, I do the best Tom Jones. Charlie has to be the woman.”

There was merit to what Charlie had said, though, and not just because Sam was sort of extremely into the idea of singing a real part. Not that the doo-doos in the background weren’t fun. They were a lot of fun. Sometimes Sam liked to improvise on them, riff a little in concerts. That was the benefit of being in the background on the drums, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He still wore his nine-year-old chicken t-shirt with the holes in the armpits during some shows and not even the agency had told him to stop.

“I’d be cool with it, maybe,” he said, as though he were not raring at the bit for a solo, “But not Mariah. Bust your eardrums, most likely.”

Charlie reached for his beer and grinned at Liam. He’d like to think war was over, too. The last thing he needed was more reasons to support Kate’s unspoken desire to move them both to California. If Britain became the mess it had been a few years ago, again, it’d be a hard corner to fight to remain on English soil.

He took a sip from his bottle and blinked. “I can’t write a Christmas track,” he shook his head, “the fuck would I sing about? Snow in California?” That had been where he’d been last Christmas, anyway. At least this year he’d be in London, even if it meant Kate’s immediate family would be staying with them, in his home. Christ. Maybe he would have something to write about after this year, but that would require feeling inspired in any way at the moment. He’d been distracting himself with renovations, but that was mostly an excuse to not feel bad about having written nothing new since… well, since before the wedding. Best the boys didn’t catch wind of that.

“Sam’s right, we’ve got enough baby Jesus,” he smirked. A holiday breakup was probably a sore spot, too, for both him and for Sam. He didn't want to have to deal with Kate taking anything the wrong way – apparently even being married didn't fill her with complete confidence in their relationship.

Charlie relaxed into Sam’s old sofa and listened to Liam’s tune, shaking his head ear-to-shoulder in a way that said, before he actually said it, “I like it mate, but I can’t just whip out a song for us now, not for this.” He met Sam’s gaze, then drank again. At least Sam hadn't pushed for new music – well, neither of them had yet, but he was sure it wouldn't be far off, especially if they'd gone down that road with this.

He laughed, then shrugged, “I’ll fuckin’ do the bird if I have to.” They’d done Celestina, after all, and he wasn’t a stickler for changing pronouns in songs unless he was really trying to make it his own. Classics ought not to be messed with, or something. Even so, what did it matter? Wasn't like anyone was gonna suspect him of not liking women with his track record.

“Ah, come on,” he grinned, then sat up again in his seat. “Alright, no Mariah, but there’s gotta be something funny we can do – funny and classic.” He really wanted that orchestra. "Is Baby, It's Cold Outside off the table?" He bit his lip and frowned softly, wracking his brain for any other Christmas songs.

Charlie pushed back, understandably, when Liam asked if he could write something new in time for the Christmas charts, but Liam still felt compelled to stick up for his idea anyway. “I mean—why not?” he replied stubbornly. “Christmas being different somewhere new, that’s...a feeling, I think. There’s something there.” All of them knew the odd melancholy of a familiar holiday spent someplace foreign. They’d spent one all together during the war: in his house in Los Angeles, horridly depressed, drinking like fishes with tinsel round their necks. Liam would write a song about that Christmas if he could. But war was over now, he guessed they’d decided, and Charlie wanted something light.

Liam wasn’t sure he would be much help. His feelings on Christmas had been a lot of things, but always heavy. He took his hands off the guitar strings and sighed heavily at Charlie’s awkward dismissal, sinking back into Sam’s couch and staring silently at his beer.

He couldn’t make his silent treatment last as long as he’d hoped, though, as his bandmates started running with the most terrible ideas they’d set out. “Lord almighty,” cut in Liam. “Don’t make me listen to Charlie try and be the woman. Especially not Baby it’s Cold Outside, that’s the most boring song ever written.” He’d gladly have taken on the challenge of making it interesting, but only if he were keen on the lyrics, or anything about it at all. Them singing a couple’s duet with each other—well, it might have been his idea of a good joke once. These days Liam preferred to stay away from that sort of humor. He’d have shot it down even if it were something good.

Sam and Charlie, though, still found it hilarious. “Merlin’s sake,” said Liam, shaking his head with a chuckle at their enthusiasm. “Really want to make a fool out of yourself, you may as well go all in and do Santa Baby.”'

Christmas someplace new— that was a sort of different take on it, Sam supposed: there couldn’t be that many songs that would encapsulate what he assumed Liam was talking about. (Liam could have been talking about anything, though. Sam’d stopped asking what he did for Christmas, out of respect for his bandmate’s pride and dignity and also his own need to not be madly depressed about it.) Even so, this didn’t seem like the time for a song about the anxiety of Christmas far from the home front of a war.

Besides, Sam couldn’t make himself feel that, even if he’d tried: he’d be home this year. It’d been a flaky few years and he was too excited to see his overbearing family to dwell on miserable wartime memories.

“Something there,” he agreed. “Doesn’t even have to be Christmas, either, we can sit on it for the next album. ‘Specially with what’s going on right now— it seems like it’d speak to some people, right?”

That had been a little more pointed than he’d meant it, so he shrugged and had a sip of beer. “Like, whenever, I mean.” Things were awkward now— band growing pains, he reckoned— and he wasn’t liking it. First Charlie blowing off Liam and now Sam thinking too much about more music. (Of course, he was bored. There wasn’t much to do except think about more music.)

At least the next protest Liam raised was a little less of a big deal; Sam snorted and said, “I’d put it off the table. Don’t reckon anybody wants to hear my Tom Jones impressions, anyway, don’t they? Bit of a laugh or not. Network can only take so much.”

Liam was less jokingly opposed to it than Sam was, though; his next suggestion was Santa Baby, which was absurd enough that Sam cracked up a little into his beer, slapped Liam on the shoulder instead of respond. They’d done the Celestina one, so he supposed Eartha Kitt wasn’t too far out of the question.

“If I had joyous tidings and shit to croon about mate, I would,” he said, perhaps a little firmly. Too firmly, judging by the awkward silence that briefly descended over the group. “Maybe next year,” he relented, for once feeling bad for biting Liam’s head off. Sam suggested they hang onto the riff for the next album, and Charlie felt equal parts optimistic and ill at the thought. Having some material so soon was good, obviously, but he’d kind of been hoping to avoid ‘next album’ talk for as long as possible.

Sounded, unfortunately, like Liam and Sam were already keen to get their teeth sunk into it. “Yeah,” Charlie agreed vaguely, taking a longer drink from his beer, shrugging noncommittally, “I’ll let you know when I’ve got some ideas to try with it.”

Liam – despite best efforts – had quickly receded into sulking toddler territory, but thankfully Charlie and Sam’s (somewhat silly) suggestions were enough to draw him back out just as fast. Charlie shrugged. “You can be the woman if you want, mate,” he smirked, shooting a telling glance at Sam as he took another swig of his drink. “Alright, no Tom Jones,” he conceded, crossing it out dramatically from the notepad.

Santa Baby. Charlie’s face lit up. He looked up from where he was holding the pen to paper to look at Sam and Liam like they’d just given him the best Christmas present he’d had in years. “Yeah,” he said, a lot more animatedly than he’d reacted to any other suggestions so far. “No, we could—” he defended his position, aware that they’d both been joking about it. “Look, we split the verses up, sing it properly – but it’s a bit of fun, innit?” He grinned, “What you reckon?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” said Liam, his laughter turning nervous at the delight on Charlie’s face. It took him a few seconds, though, to come up with a better argument than I don’t want to. “Who do you think our fans are, mate?” he asked, eventually. “You think these girls want to hear you flirt with Santa Claus?”

Well, to be fair, a not insignificant amount of the girls did seem to be into the thought of queer stuff. Liam knew this from experience—and, of course, so did Charlie. He quickly shut up. This was a decent argument, though: Liam would bet the fans would be far more interested in a couple’s duet between two of them than a proposition for Santa, at least given the effort he’d seen people in fan magazines put into describing their fictional Banshee members’ abs. Unfortunately it’d be a cold day in hell before he admitted to knowing Banshee fanfiction existed. If that was the best argument he had, it looked like he’d have to suck it up.

At least they were being a democracy right now.

Liam took a long sip of beer and rolled his eyes. “Fine, I s’pose,” he said. “If you, y’know, lean into the humor of it.” People did find something inherently hilarious about a man singing something so flagrantly feminine. He shook his head and forced himself to laugh. “‘Least it’s you singing and not me.”

This was apparently not Charlie’s plan. “Oh, absolutely not,” said Liam again.

“Well,” said Sam, taken a bit aback, “What, seriously?”

He wasn’t against it, he decided after a moment. Bit of a laugh, for sure. They could have fun with it. It was classic. As classic as a song about seducing Santa Claus could be, at least— a nice level of classic for them. He shrugged at Charlie, not particularly interested in backing him up, but at least not taking Liam’s side, and leaned back in his seat, had a drink and tried to imagine what a Banshee cover of Santa, Baby would be like.

He probably had the Eartha Kitt version somewhere, but he couldn’t be arsed to get up and look, so he tried instead to remember how it went. It didn’t seem to lend itself well to his usual style of playing. He couldn’t imagine it had a drum kit at all, frankly. Again he tried to decide what on earth he’d do with an orchestra. Play the bloody triangle, probably.

Absolutely not, said Liam; not quite willing to let Liam fuck up their chances at solos, Sam said, hastily, “Oi, c’mon, be fun to sing a bit, wouldn’t it?” In case this wasn’t enough, he added, "We’d let you pick your verses. You can ask him for the car.” Liam had always had a fascination with cars that Sam didn’t quite get; not that cars weren’t cool, just that they also seemed more or less murderous.

He rolled it over in his head again— Santa, Baby, that would be fun, even. He was antsy just thinking about recording again— it’d been a moment since they’d come out with anything new. “I’m all in,” he said, unnecessarily. “Can I have the verse about the yacht?”

[out]