Angie
Rating: R.
Pairing: Mick Jagger/?. Oh yes, I have gone back to some rock n' roll writing! And well, from the title, some seasoned rock trivia fans surely will know already.
Disclaimer: Some magazines say what I'm basing my fic on is true, but nobody really knows that, so let's take this as false.
Summary: The reasons behind the ballad. Song-fic, kinda.
"Why Angie?"
"It's the name o'yer daughter, ya should like it," Mick answered irritably at his guitarist, who was fiddling with his acoustic.
"She's Dandelion Angela, not just Angie."
"I like the name."
"I thought it was because ya were shagging that skinny bitch, the 'un who's married to whosis."
"No'un wants to shag that skinny bitch. Le's just play it, will ya?"
Keith shrugged and started out with the acoustic riff he had made up. Mick, for his part, started singing.
Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear?
Angie, Angie, where will it lead us from here?
Bollocks. Mick had promised the lyrics would not hurt him. That he would not feel bad singing them. It looked like it was not working.
He just went on.
With no loving in our souls
And no money in our coats
You can't say we're satisfied
Well, that was not true. They both had money. Tons of it, actually. It was just one of those verses filled with fake bohemian romanticism. As for the loving...
He was not sure.
What he was sure about is that they were definitely not satisfied. But in a different way. After spending that night together, they hadn't been satisfied.
He would never be satisfied of that lovely form, anyways.
But Angie, Angie, you can't say we never tried
Angie, you're beautiful
But ain't it time we said goodbye
Beautiful indeed. So beautiful that Mick knew that no matter what those verses said, he couldn't really consider that the time to say goodbye had arrived. He certainly couldn't say goodbye to...
Angie, I still love you
Remember all those nights we cried?
Mick was not a man who would shed tears so easily. But he had done it, the nights that came after that party, when they had met, again and again. He still remembered that soft, peculiar voice, shedding tears after their encounters, looking away.
"You know I should not be doing this, right? You know I have a life of my own?"
Or the other phrase, the one that had actually made Mick cry:
"You know you're not the only one, right? You know I have other lovers, right?"
Mick listened to both names. And those were the famous one. Sure enough, he was still missing nameless creatures that probably had been lost in the midst of some party. And well, he could understand why one would want to be the lover of--but the other one? That fucked-up psycho?
The Stone had not even tried to ask what kind of things the other lovers did in bed.
All the dreams we held so close
Seemed to go all up in smoke
Let me whisper in your ear
Angie, Angie
Where will it lead us from here?
Yes, they had had dreams, even though it seemed illogical, with all those mentions of other lovers. But Mick remembered those charmed moments.
"I'd like to be in one of your albums."
"You? In a Stones album?"
"Yes. I wonder how would that sound?"
Perhaps heavenly, as it felt when he was holding that lithe body under the sheets, feeling the heartbeat underneath, the breathing that made that chest move up and down, and there he would whisper something. Not Angie.
Angie, don't you weep
All your kisses still taste sweet
I hate that sadness in your eyes
That was true. Not only the sweet kisses, but also the fact Mick hated to see those eyes when they were sad or teary.
Mainly, because the different-colored irises made those eyes look like two big pools of pain.
They were the pair of most helpless eyes he had ever seen. When they were sad.
But Angie, I still love you baby
Everywhere I look I see your eyes
True. So damn true. Mick was in love, and he still loved the owner of those eyes that haunted him every night, when he laid in bed, listening to Keith's snoring, looking at the ceiling, whiskey pooling inside his stomach, pot and drugs unable to take away the ghost.
There ain't no woman that comes close to you
Come on baby, dry your eyes...
Of course no woman could come close. No woman could ever compare. Because Angie was not even a woman, even though he looked like one. But, let's be fair: no damn bird alive was as beautiful as David Bowie was. In fact, there were no girls who wore that much makeup, or those weird dresses and slacks. Whose body (and Mick had had the best, damnit) was as slim, skin so white and soft, perfect proportions. And of course, the different-colored eyes that added to the Starman's otherwordly charm.
Mick was addicted to him. Ever since they'd fucked at that party. He didn't care if Iggy Pop was shagging him too--that Iggy boy had a penchant for S&M, sure, and was an absolute exhibitionist, dangerous thing--but was still enjoyable, almost childish. And pretty as well. In fact. Mick wouldn't have kicked Iggy out of his bed. The one that worried him was Lou Reed--the fucked-up-in-the-head sadistic Velvet Underground frontman. Just the thought of him submitting David to bizarre sexual practices made Mick cringe. And worry. He sometimes wondered why David cried that much.
Perhaps he hated his lovers. All of them. Even Mick.
Perhaps he had fallen from space, indeed, and missed his homeland.
Perhaps he was sick of that bitch of his wife, that mistreated their son, who was not even pretty. Angela. Angie. The one Keith believed Mick had fucked because she had found him and David in one room, Ziggy Stardust underneath, panting, muttering the Stone's name over and over again. She had screamed, made a scandal. Mick, reluctantly, had run after her and everyone thought he had done something to her.
But Angie, Angie...
Ain't it good to be alive?
It was good. When they were together. When he was inside David, whispering in his ear that there was no creature in the world like him, that no one could be as beautiful, until the frail blonde (or redhead, depending on the hairdye) came, small whimpers escaping his throat.
"Ya sounded pretty good, mate," Keith critically said when the song ended. "This will be a'it, I can say. Ya sounded almost sentimental."
Mick sighed.
"So, ya gunna tell me? We're friends, innit? Who's that bird Angie?"
The vocalist stared at Keith Richards, who was lighting up a cigarette, expectant.
"Well?"
"No'un existent," Mick shrugged. "Just... Angie."
Pairing: Mick Jagger/?. Oh yes, I have gone back to some rock n' roll writing! And well, from the title, some seasoned rock trivia fans surely will know already.
Disclaimer: Some magazines say what I'm basing my fic on is true, but nobody really knows that, so let's take this as false.
Summary: The reasons behind the ballad. Song-fic, kinda.
"Why Angie?"
"It's the name o'yer daughter, ya should like it," Mick answered irritably at his guitarist, who was fiddling with his acoustic.
"She's Dandelion Angela, not just Angie."
"I like the name."
"I thought it was because ya were shagging that skinny bitch, the 'un who's married to whosis."
"No'un wants to shag that skinny bitch. Le's just play it, will ya?"
Keith shrugged and started out with the acoustic riff he had made up. Mick, for his part, started singing.
Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear?
Angie, Angie, where will it lead us from here?
Bollocks. Mick had promised the lyrics would not hurt him. That he would not feel bad singing them. It looked like it was not working.
He just went on.
With no loving in our souls
And no money in our coats
You can't say we're satisfied
Well, that was not true. They both had money. Tons of it, actually. It was just one of those verses filled with fake bohemian romanticism. As for the loving...
He was not sure.
What he was sure about is that they were definitely not satisfied. But in a different way. After spending that night together, they hadn't been satisfied.
He would never be satisfied of that lovely form, anyways.
But Angie, Angie, you can't say we never tried
Angie, you're beautiful
But ain't it time we said goodbye
Beautiful indeed. So beautiful that Mick knew that no matter what those verses said, he couldn't really consider that the time to say goodbye had arrived. He certainly couldn't say goodbye to...
Angie, I still love you
Remember all those nights we cried?
Mick was not a man who would shed tears so easily. But he had done it, the nights that came after that party, when they had met, again and again. He still remembered that soft, peculiar voice, shedding tears after their encounters, looking away.
"You know I should not be doing this, right? You know I have a life of my own?"
Or the other phrase, the one that had actually made Mick cry:
"You know you're not the only one, right? You know I have other lovers, right?"
Mick listened to both names. And those were the famous one. Sure enough, he was still missing nameless creatures that probably had been lost in the midst of some party. And well, he could understand why one would want to be the lover of--but the other one? That fucked-up psycho?
The Stone had not even tried to ask what kind of things the other lovers did in bed.
All the dreams we held so close
Seemed to go all up in smoke
Let me whisper in your ear
Angie, Angie
Where will it lead us from here?
Yes, they had had dreams, even though it seemed illogical, with all those mentions of other lovers. But Mick remembered those charmed moments.
"I'd like to be in one of your albums."
"You? In a Stones album?"
"Yes. I wonder how would that sound?"
Perhaps heavenly, as it felt when he was holding that lithe body under the sheets, feeling the heartbeat underneath, the breathing that made that chest move up and down, and there he would whisper something. Not Angie.
Angie, don't you weep
All your kisses still taste sweet
I hate that sadness in your eyes
That was true. Not only the sweet kisses, but also the fact Mick hated to see those eyes when they were sad or teary.
Mainly, because the different-colored irises made those eyes look like two big pools of pain.
They were the pair of most helpless eyes he had ever seen. When they were sad.
But Angie, I still love you baby
Everywhere I look I see your eyes
True. So damn true. Mick was in love, and he still loved the owner of those eyes that haunted him every night, when he laid in bed, listening to Keith's snoring, looking at the ceiling, whiskey pooling inside his stomach, pot and drugs unable to take away the ghost.
There ain't no woman that comes close to you
Come on baby, dry your eyes...
Of course no woman could come close. No woman could ever compare. Because Angie was not even a woman, even though he looked like one. But, let's be fair: no damn bird alive was as beautiful as David Bowie was. In fact, there were no girls who wore that much makeup, or those weird dresses and slacks. Whose body (and Mick had had the best, damnit) was as slim, skin so white and soft, perfect proportions. And of course, the different-colored eyes that added to the Starman's otherwordly charm.
Mick was addicted to him. Ever since they'd fucked at that party. He didn't care if Iggy Pop was shagging him too--that Iggy boy had a penchant for S&M, sure, and was an absolute exhibitionist, dangerous thing--but was still enjoyable, almost childish. And pretty as well. In fact. Mick wouldn't have kicked Iggy out of his bed. The one that worried him was Lou Reed--the fucked-up-in-the-head sadistic Velvet Underground frontman. Just the thought of him submitting David to bizarre sexual practices made Mick cringe. And worry. He sometimes wondered why David cried that much.
Perhaps he hated his lovers. All of them. Even Mick.
Perhaps he had fallen from space, indeed, and missed his homeland.
Perhaps he was sick of that bitch of his wife, that mistreated their son, who was not even pretty. Angela. Angie. The one Keith believed Mick had fucked because she had found him and David in one room, Ziggy Stardust underneath, panting, muttering the Stone's name over and over again. She had screamed, made a scandal. Mick, reluctantly, had run after her and everyone thought he had done something to her.
But Angie, Angie...
Ain't it good to be alive?
It was good. When they were together. When he was inside David, whispering in his ear that there was no creature in the world like him, that no one could be as beautiful, until the frail blonde (or redhead, depending on the hairdye) came, small whimpers escaping his throat.
"Ya sounded pretty good, mate," Keith critically said when the song ended. "This will be a'it, I can say. Ya sounded almost sentimental."
Mick sighed.
"So, ya gunna tell me? We're friends, innit? Who's that bird Angie?"
The vocalist stared at Keith Richards, who was lighting up a cigarette, expectant.
"Well?"
"No'un existent," Mick shrugged. "Just... Angie."