This Is the Ballad of The Replacements || Gerard & Paul || PG-13
Title - "This Is the Ballad of The Replacements: A Band That Fired Me Not Long Ago"
Author - runthegamut
Pairing - Gerard Way & Paul Westerberg
Rating - PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 1661
Summary - In which Gerard has ridiculous red hair and Paul is grouchy. So basically, not AU. Also, nothing happens.
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - Written for lotrnhp4eva's birthday. Title straight from Paul's mouth when drunkenly demoing "Treatment Bound" on an outtakes recording. Not Beta'd.
Paul detested going in to deal with record execs and label bullshit, which is one of the (several) reasons he hadn’t released an album in four years. Another reason involved not being able to play guitar for nearly a year after impaling his hand with a screw driver while trying to remove wax from a candle holder but whatever. The point was that he was getting antsy and had recorded over an hour’s worth of music, so it was time to go in and see the suits. Fine.
Except for the part where it wasn’t at all fine because they were talking ‘promotion’ and ‘tour’ and oh, by the way, since he and Tommy were talking again, how about that ‘Mats reunion? “Fuck this bullshit,” he thought as he stepped on the elevator, jamming his thumb into the button marked ‘Lobby’ while rummaging around in his jacket pocket for a smoke with his other hand. He deftly pulled one out of the narrow opening in his soft pack and rolled it between his fingers as he watched the building floors tick down on the elevator display through his tinted frames.
The elevator slowed to a stop on the 4th floor and Paul made an exasperated sigh because whoever was slowing his journey for a much-needed nicotine fix could surely walk down a lousy three flights of stairs. When the doors opened and a guy with bright-red hair stepped on, Paul couldn’t suppress his eyeroll. He kept his eyes fixated on the display as he jabbed the Lobby button three times, trying to get the doors to close faster.
Paul ran his fingers through his hair a couple times as the doors finally shut. “Fucking smoking bans,” he thought to himself as he pulled his hand from his pocket and dangled the unlit cigarette from his lips. A snort sounded from behind him and Paul glanced back at the other guy who was leaned back into the far corner of the elevator, propped up against the railing.
“You look like you need a smoke even more than I do,” he laughed and Paul completely agreed because if this asshole could manage a laugh, he was doing a lot better than Paul was at that moment.
“Probably,” Paul mumbled and turned back toward the doors.
The guys stepped up next to him and Paul could see him shaking his head from the corner of his eye. “Fucking smoking bans,” he sighed, his red hair brushing against the collar of his jean jacket.
Paul rolled his eyes a second time. It was something he did a lot when he was in this building. “Yeah,” he muttered and strode out of the elevators as the doors opened, moving across the lobby with his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. He pushed through the revolving door with one hand as the other searched the pocket of his jeans for his lighter.
“Fuck,” he grumbled, coming up empty. He glanced around, but other than a few suits walking in the building, there was no one. He heard the revolving door behind him moving again and a moment later the red-head was back beside him, cupping one hand over the end of a cigarette as Paul heard the familiar noise of the lighter wheel turning.
Looking back, Paul tried not to glare at the guy. He was going to ask him for a favor so he tried to put on his most pleasant face, which as it turned out, was a neutral expression.
“Oh, hey,” the guy said as he took his cigarette out of his mouth, the cloud of smoke he was exhaling blowing directly at Paul and filling his nostrils with the pleasant aroma of burning tobacco. “You need a light?” he asked and leaned forward, offering the lighter to Paul.
“Yeah, thanks,” Paul mumbled around his cigarette, accepting the lighter and striking his thumb across the metal to produce the flame. He held his cigarette in front of it, tugging in a hard breath and watching the fire get pulled into the end. Still inhaling, he handed the lighter back with a nod.
The guy was grinning at Paul and Paul had no idea why. Maybe he was being recognized, but that was doubtful. Maybe the guy was always this fucking happy, which would be annoying as hell. Paul took another drag on his cigarette and tried to see if he could recognize the guy, but hell if he knew any of the shit music that was being produced these days.
“You play in a band?” Paul wondered. He wasn’t going to stand there with some weird kid watching him smoke for the next five minutes. He might as well have a conversation.
The guy nodded, still happy as fucking ever. “Yeah, yeah. My Chemical Romance?” he replied tentatively.
Paul gave a weak shrug because the only other option was to mention what a fucking retarded name that was. Not that ‘The Replacement’ had been a stroke of brilliance or anything, but at least there was a story behind it. My Chemical Romance sounded like a bunch of junkies going to the prom.
“Yeah, anyway,” the guy continued, apparently undeterred by Paul’s vacant expression. “We’re from Jersey.” He paused to take another drag and exhaled slowly, looking up at the sky as he did. “How about you?”
“Eh, just meeting people,” Paul replied, not even wanting to get into it. Big Red wouldn’t know who he was or who the Mats were, even though his band was probably influenced by someone who was influenced by Paul’s music. Not that he was bitter or anything. “Who are your influences?” he asked, just to make sure.
The guy shrugged and scraped his toe across the concrete and for a fleeting second, Paul felt kind of bad that he didn’t know his band. He got over it quickly. “Queen… The Smiths…” he started.
“That’s some fucking gay shit,” Paul chuckled, unable to keep it in.
The guy looked up, not appearing startled or even offended by the comment. “Yeah, well,” he said smiling. “I’ve kissed Frank, my guitarist, on stage sometimes. That’s some pretty gay shit, too.”
“Jesus,” Paul said under his breath. Sure, Bob had played on stage naked, wearing a tutu, and even in women’s clothing during their one performance on Saturday Night Live before being banned from the show forever. But fuck, he’d never have kissed that sweaty dipshit on stage. As Paul lowered his head to take another puff on his cigarette, his eyes caught the guy’s left hand. “Does your wife know about that?” he wondered. “Or are you married to your guitarist?”
The guy was laughing now. “Oh yeah, she knows. Her band was on tour with us.”
Paul couldn’t say much to that. “Well, shit…”
“Gerard, by the way,” the guy said, putting his cigarette between his lips and extending his hand to Paul.
Paul looked at it a moment before giving it a shake. “Paul,” he replied.
They stood in silence for a time, smoking and looking around the plaza. “So, I have to ask,” Paul said at last. “What the fuck is up with the hair color?”
Gerard laughed and shook his head. “Lost a bet,” he replied. Followed quickly by, “Don’t ask.”
“I was gonna say, you look like fucking Ronald McDonald. You’re making me want a fucking burger.”
“Trust me,” Gerard chuckled, “our fans have already photoshopped my head on his body.”
Paul had no idea what ‘photoshopped’ meant, but he laughed anyway. He took one final drag on the last bit of cigarette and walked over to drop it in smoking receptacle. “Fucking smoking ban,” he sighed as Gerard came up behind him to do the same.
“I know, right?” Gerard said, sounding incredulous. “The only fucking substance I can use and they make me feel like a leper for using it. And it’s legal.”
Paul raised his eyebrows as he turned toward Gerard. “Your band’s name is something about loving chemicals and you only smoke?”
Gerard cleared his throat, coughing into his fist as he looked away. “Yeah. Been sober a few years now,” he answered, looking back to Paul and yeah, Paul could see it now, that dark look behind his eyes that signaled he’s probably been to his share of AA meetings. In fact, in a blue collar area, Paul could pick out the drunks and addicts by just looking at them. They all looked like him.
“Good for you,” Paul said quietly, and in all seriousness. The memories of needles and syringes weren’t that distant and he wondered what Gerard’s vice had been, what poisons he’d filled his body with. Not that it mattered. It was all the same in the end.
Paul trudged slowly back into the building, Gerard a step behind him. They stood and waited for the elevator in silence, both of them watching the numbers tick down as they watched its descent. When they stepped on, Paul pressed the button marked ‘7.’ “Four?” he asked Gerard, not waiting for a response before hitting the button.
“Yeah, thanks,” Gerard replied, resuming his post in the corner.
Paul faced the forward as the elevator rose. “So, good luck with your band stuff,” Paul said to the doors. “I’ll have to check it out. My Chemical… Romance?” And he was mostly sincere about doing so.
“Yeah,” Gerard, replied, stepping forward as the elevator passed the third floor. “It was nice to meet you, Paul.”
“You too, Gerard,” Paul said turning and managing to get half of his mouth to cooperate with a smile.
“By the way,” Gerard added as the elevator doors opened. “’Bastards of Young’ is a great song.” He stepped off the elevator and headed down the hall without looking back, his red hair disappearing from view.
Paul smiled and made a surprised laugh before. Quickly recovering, he punched the ‘7’ button, muttering, “C’mon” under his breath.
Author - runthegamut
Pairing - Gerard Way & Paul Westerberg
Rating - PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 1661
Summary - In which Gerard has ridiculous red hair and Paul is grouchy. So basically, not AU. Also, nothing happens.
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - Written for lotrnhp4eva's birthday. Title straight from Paul's mouth when drunkenly demoing "Treatment Bound" on an outtakes recording. Not Beta'd.
Paul detested going in to deal with record execs and label bullshit, which is one of the (several) reasons he hadn’t released an album in four years. Another reason involved not being able to play guitar for nearly a year after impaling his hand with a screw driver while trying to remove wax from a candle holder but whatever. The point was that he was getting antsy and had recorded over an hour’s worth of music, so it was time to go in and see the suits. Fine.
Except for the part where it wasn’t at all fine because they were talking ‘promotion’ and ‘tour’ and oh, by the way, since he and Tommy were talking again, how about that ‘Mats reunion? “Fuck this bullshit,” he thought as he stepped on the elevator, jamming his thumb into the button marked ‘Lobby’ while rummaging around in his jacket pocket for a smoke with his other hand. He deftly pulled one out of the narrow opening in his soft pack and rolled it between his fingers as he watched the building floors tick down on the elevator display through his tinted frames.
The elevator slowed to a stop on the 4th floor and Paul made an exasperated sigh because whoever was slowing his journey for a much-needed nicotine fix could surely walk down a lousy three flights of stairs. When the doors opened and a guy with bright-red hair stepped on, Paul couldn’t suppress his eyeroll. He kept his eyes fixated on the display as he jabbed the Lobby button three times, trying to get the doors to close faster.
Paul ran his fingers through his hair a couple times as the doors finally shut. “Fucking smoking bans,” he thought to himself as he pulled his hand from his pocket and dangled the unlit cigarette from his lips. A snort sounded from behind him and Paul glanced back at the other guy who was leaned back into the far corner of the elevator, propped up against the railing.
“You look like you need a smoke even more than I do,” he laughed and Paul completely agreed because if this asshole could manage a laugh, he was doing a lot better than Paul was at that moment.
“Probably,” Paul mumbled and turned back toward the doors.
The guys stepped up next to him and Paul could see him shaking his head from the corner of his eye. “Fucking smoking bans,” he sighed, his red hair brushing against the collar of his jean jacket.
Paul rolled his eyes a second time. It was something he did a lot when he was in this building. “Yeah,” he muttered and strode out of the elevators as the doors opened, moving across the lobby with his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. He pushed through the revolving door with one hand as the other searched the pocket of his jeans for his lighter.
“Fuck,” he grumbled, coming up empty. He glanced around, but other than a few suits walking in the building, there was no one. He heard the revolving door behind him moving again and a moment later the red-head was back beside him, cupping one hand over the end of a cigarette as Paul heard the familiar noise of the lighter wheel turning.
Looking back, Paul tried not to glare at the guy. He was going to ask him for a favor so he tried to put on his most pleasant face, which as it turned out, was a neutral expression.
“Oh, hey,” the guy said as he took his cigarette out of his mouth, the cloud of smoke he was exhaling blowing directly at Paul and filling his nostrils with the pleasant aroma of burning tobacco. “You need a light?” he asked and leaned forward, offering the lighter to Paul.
“Yeah, thanks,” Paul mumbled around his cigarette, accepting the lighter and striking his thumb across the metal to produce the flame. He held his cigarette in front of it, tugging in a hard breath and watching the fire get pulled into the end. Still inhaling, he handed the lighter back with a nod.
The guy was grinning at Paul and Paul had no idea why. Maybe he was being recognized, but that was doubtful. Maybe the guy was always this fucking happy, which would be annoying as hell. Paul took another drag on his cigarette and tried to see if he could recognize the guy, but hell if he knew any of the shit music that was being produced these days.
“You play in a band?” Paul wondered. He wasn’t going to stand there with some weird kid watching him smoke for the next five minutes. He might as well have a conversation.
The guy nodded, still happy as fucking ever. “Yeah, yeah. My Chemical Romance?” he replied tentatively.
Paul gave a weak shrug because the only other option was to mention what a fucking retarded name that was. Not that ‘The Replacement’ had been a stroke of brilliance or anything, but at least there was a story behind it. My Chemical Romance sounded like a bunch of junkies going to the prom.
“Yeah, anyway,” the guy continued, apparently undeterred by Paul’s vacant expression. “We’re from Jersey.” He paused to take another drag and exhaled slowly, looking up at the sky as he did. “How about you?”
“Eh, just meeting people,” Paul replied, not even wanting to get into it. Big Red wouldn’t know who he was or who the Mats were, even though his band was probably influenced by someone who was influenced by Paul’s music. Not that he was bitter or anything. “Who are your influences?” he asked, just to make sure.
The guy shrugged and scraped his toe across the concrete and for a fleeting second, Paul felt kind of bad that he didn’t know his band. He got over it quickly. “Queen… The Smiths…” he started.
“That’s some fucking gay shit,” Paul chuckled, unable to keep it in.
The guy looked up, not appearing startled or even offended by the comment. “Yeah, well,” he said smiling. “I’ve kissed Frank, my guitarist, on stage sometimes. That’s some pretty gay shit, too.”
“Jesus,” Paul said under his breath. Sure, Bob had played on stage naked, wearing a tutu, and even in women’s clothing during their one performance on Saturday Night Live before being banned from the show forever. But fuck, he’d never have kissed that sweaty dipshit on stage. As Paul lowered his head to take another puff on his cigarette, his eyes caught the guy’s left hand. “Does your wife know about that?” he wondered. “Or are you married to your guitarist?”
The guy was laughing now. “Oh yeah, she knows. Her band was on tour with us.”
Paul couldn’t say much to that. “Well, shit…”
“Gerard, by the way,” the guy said, putting his cigarette between his lips and extending his hand to Paul.
Paul looked at it a moment before giving it a shake. “Paul,” he replied.
They stood in silence for a time, smoking and looking around the plaza. “So, I have to ask,” Paul said at last. “What the fuck is up with the hair color?”
Gerard laughed and shook his head. “Lost a bet,” he replied. Followed quickly by, “Don’t ask.”
“I was gonna say, you look like fucking Ronald McDonald. You’re making me want a fucking burger.”
“Trust me,” Gerard chuckled, “our fans have already photoshopped my head on his body.”
Paul had no idea what ‘photoshopped’ meant, but he laughed anyway. He took one final drag on the last bit of cigarette and walked over to drop it in smoking receptacle. “Fucking smoking ban,” he sighed as Gerard came up behind him to do the same.
“I know, right?” Gerard said, sounding incredulous. “The only fucking substance I can use and they make me feel like a leper for using it. And it’s legal.”
Paul raised his eyebrows as he turned toward Gerard. “Your band’s name is something about loving chemicals and you only smoke?”
Gerard cleared his throat, coughing into his fist as he looked away. “Yeah. Been sober a few years now,” he answered, looking back to Paul and yeah, Paul could see it now, that dark look behind his eyes that signaled he’s probably been to his share of AA meetings. In fact, in a blue collar area, Paul could pick out the drunks and addicts by just looking at them. They all looked like him.
“Good for you,” Paul said quietly, and in all seriousness. The memories of needles and syringes weren’t that distant and he wondered what Gerard’s vice had been, what poisons he’d filled his body with. Not that it mattered. It was all the same in the end.
Paul trudged slowly back into the building, Gerard a step behind him. They stood and waited for the elevator in silence, both of them watching the numbers tick down as they watched its descent. When they stepped on, Paul pressed the button marked ‘7.’ “Four?” he asked Gerard, not waiting for a response before hitting the button.
“Yeah, thanks,” Gerard replied, resuming his post in the corner.
Paul faced the forward as the elevator rose. “So, good luck with your band stuff,” Paul said to the doors. “I’ll have to check it out. My Chemical… Romance?” And he was mostly sincere about doing so.
“Yeah,” Gerard, replied, stepping forward as the elevator passed the third floor. “It was nice to meet you, Paul.”
“You too, Gerard,” Paul said turning and managing to get half of his mouth to cooperate with a smile.
“By the way,” Gerard added as the elevator doors opened. “’Bastards of Young’ is a great song.” He stepped off the elevator and headed down the hall without looking back, his red hair disappearing from view.
Paul smiled and made a surprised laugh before. Quickly recovering, he punched the ‘7’ button, muttering, “C’mon” under his breath.