ALWAYS WITH THE BAD AUS.
ACTUAL FIC THIS TIME! It's short and not actually very good but there are Time Lords, and I owe this to Reili, so, here, have some more Time Lords.
Things Have Changed (or, I Like Your New Face)
RATED PG FOR MIKEY FUCKIN WAY. IT'S AN ACRONYM.
Fandom: THE BANDOM/DOCTOR WHO CROSSOVER THAT SHOULD HAPPEN ON TELEVISION LIKE, YESTERDAY. BBC, GET ON THIS.
Pairing: Past Pete/Mikey, NOT ACTUALLY PETE/PATRICK BECAUSE THE TSUNTSUN IS A BIT TOO MUCH IN THIS UNIVERSE, JESUS CHRIST.
Warnings: Crack! Riots! War! Mikeyway!
Summary: MyChem covers Bob Dylan, and a pair of spacemen go to their concert. In the same universe as my other two fics about cities at war and stoner Daleks, so it might be a good idea to read those two first. They're funnier.
“I am not going back to that concert.”
“It’ll be fun, promise!”
“No, it won’t, they’ll try to crowd surf me again, and I’ll fall, and get trampled, and you’ll just sit there in your spaceship and laugh.”
“I will not laugh!”
“But the rest, that’ll happen.”
“Maybe?”
Somehow, after lots of pouty faces and pleas and threats of blowjobs (which started as promises of blowjobs, but after seeing Patrick’s horrified reaction Pete turned it into a threat, the bastard), Pete finally convinces Patrick to leave his corner and follow Pete out the door. At least this time he’d managed to park the box in the theater’s lobby, instead of on top of the crowd shouting in the next room. Seriously, he’s going to need therapy for that experience.
The music, muffled through the door but still pretty damn loud, isn’t terrible-a bit more hardcore than what he plays, but not ear-gratingly so. He’s just starting to recognize the tune when Pete has to interrupt his train of thought by grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him to the door. “I didn’t take you to a concert so you could listen to live music through a wall, Patrick.”
Outside of tugging his arm back-if Pete drags him around one more time-Patrick doesn’t argue. Music is music, and even if it is alien rock, he’ll probably enjoy it.
The door opens, and the raging guitars hit him like a wall of sound, the drumbeats following up as projectiles, and the bass line hitting him in waves that shake him to the bone.
Patrick’s about to relay this hurricane of metaphors back to Pete-he could probably make a song out of it-but Pete just pulls him into the crowd, shoving past kids with too much makeup and accessories that end up poking Patrick in the side a few times, until they’re close enough to actually see the band playing.
The kids, as rough and tough as they are, are nothing compared to the band-one guitarist could kill someone with his hair, and the other probably is going to kill someone if he doesn’t stop moving. Patrick glances at Pete, expecting him to be caught up in the energy of the crowd, but he’s just standing there, gaping up at the stage like he’d been expecting an entirely different band.
Which, well, is pretty likely, with his track record.
Then Pete grins, raises an arm, and starts jumping to the rhythm of the crowd around him, mouth wide open and probably shouting something, but Patrick can’t hear anything over the roar of sound.
He isn’t dead yet, and a concert is a concert no matter what planet he’s on, so Patrick decides to join him, looking back up to watch the lead singer shriek.
It doesn’t last long; they’d shown up halfway through their set, and the goddamn police end up shutting down the show before they can get through three songs. The band almost gets arrested, but somehow (after a lot of smooth-talking and waving of some weird piece of blank paper) Pete manages to talk the officers out of dragging them into the back seat of a truck. The crowd’s eventually driven off (sometimes literally, in the aforementioned truck) until it’s just two time travelers and a hardcore rock band left.
So now they’re hanging outside a theater on yet another dingy and mostly empty street, sirens blaring a few miles away, Patrick’s trying to calm down after almost getting beaten by a nightstick or twelve, and Pete’s just hanging off the bassist’s arm like they were old college buddies.
“Mikey Fuckin’ Way, how long’s it been?” Oh, maybe they were old college buddies.
“A while,” the bassist-Mikey, apparently-deadpans, “I actually thought you were dead.”
“Me? Nah, a little defenestration never hurt anyone.”
“You can’t even pronounce that,” Mikey says, a little teasing.
“Don’t need to, that’s why I have my Patrick to say words for me.” Pete grins over at him. Patrick pulls his hat a little over his eyes.
“So, how’d you recognize him?” says the singer, who’s been staring warily at Pete from the moment he latched on to Mikey.
“Oh, come on, I can spot another one of us a mile away. Just a thing, you know?”
“You mean you’re-“ he squawks, then crosses his arms, looking over at Mikey. “You never told me your ex was a Time Lord.”
“You never told me you had another Time Lord friend,” Pete says into Mikey’s neck (he couldn’t get a proper look at his face, with his head currently resting on Mikey’s shoulder).
“Brother, actually,” Mikey says. “I thought I mentioned him.”
“You might’ve. I might’ve been drunk.”
“Or high,” Mikey adds, “The kids in that park you took me to had a lot to share.”
“Is this the same park with the nesting dolls in it?” Patrick asks. He’d liked that park, there weren’t any aliens or deadly pies or chimpanzees.
“That’s the one.” Mikey nods at Patrick. “It was a good summer.”
“It was three years of summer.” Pete sighs dreamily.
“Three years?” Gerard balks at them.
“Time Lord. Remember when I went out to get you a pack of smokes?”
“So that’s why you never actually brought them back.”
Pete finally detaches himself from Mikey and takes a step back. “So,” he says, looking him up and down, “What happened to you?”
Mikey cocks his head.
“Last time I saw you, your hair was longer, and you couldn’t go anywhere without your glasses. I can’t even steal them now!”
Patrick raises an eyebrow at Pete. He doesn’t see why a haircut and contacts were something to make a point about.
“Oh, that. I got shot.”
Oh.
“There was a war,” Gerard says, running a hand through his hair. It looks like a nervous gesture. “We tried not to get caught up in it, but…”
“Gerard has a hero complex,” Mikey finishes, waving off Gerard’s immediate protests. “Tried to save some lives, I got caught in the crossfire-don’t even start, Gee, it’s not your fault-and had to regenerate.”
“Regenerate,” Patrick repeats.
“Time Lord thing. Mikey wasn’t always this hot,” Pete waggles his eyebrows, “Well, he was always hot. But now he has a new and improved face.”
“Right, so if we run into angry aliens and they shoot you, you’ll get a new face?” Patrick’s eyebrow never lowers.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
This Time Lord thing never got any less confusing.
~~~
“So, you like them?” Pete asks as he starts flipping switches later. They’d talked for a little while longer before Gerard mentioned that they had another gig tomorrow and should probably start heading to the van, and Pete had another probably doomed plot to take Patrick somewhere “fantastic,” so they’d said their goodbyes and promised to see each other again.
“Yeah, when they’re not getting us in trouble with the police.”
Pete laughs. “You should see them in their parade.”
“We’ve done the parade thing already, you’re running out of ideas.”
“Yeah, but this is the parade of the damned.”
Patrick’s eyes widen, but before he can protest, Pete pushes the last button (hopefully the right one this time) and sends them on their way.
Things Have Changed (or, I Like Your New Face)
RATED PG FOR MIKEY FUCKIN WAY. IT'S AN ACRONYM.
Fandom: THE BANDOM/DOCTOR WHO CROSSOVER THAT SHOULD HAPPEN ON TELEVISION LIKE, YESTERDAY. BBC, GET ON THIS.
Pairing: Past Pete/Mikey, NOT ACTUALLY PETE/PATRICK BECAUSE THE TSUNTSUN IS A BIT TOO MUCH IN THIS UNIVERSE, JESUS CHRIST.
Warnings: Crack! Riots! War! Mikeyway!
Summary: MyChem covers Bob Dylan, and a pair of spacemen go to their concert. In the same universe as my other two fics about cities at war and stoner Daleks, so it might be a good idea to read those two first. They're funnier.
“I am not going back to that concert.”
“It’ll be fun, promise!”
“No, it won’t, they’ll try to crowd surf me again, and I’ll fall, and get trampled, and you’ll just sit there in your spaceship and laugh.”
“I will not laugh!”
“But the rest, that’ll happen.”
“Maybe?”
Somehow, after lots of pouty faces and pleas and threats of blowjobs (which started as promises of blowjobs, but after seeing Patrick’s horrified reaction Pete turned it into a threat, the bastard), Pete finally convinces Patrick to leave his corner and follow Pete out the door. At least this time he’d managed to park the box in the theater’s lobby, instead of on top of the crowd shouting in the next room. Seriously, he’s going to need therapy for that experience.
The music, muffled through the door but still pretty damn loud, isn’t terrible-a bit more hardcore than what he plays, but not ear-gratingly so. He’s just starting to recognize the tune when Pete has to interrupt his train of thought by grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him to the door. “I didn’t take you to a concert so you could listen to live music through a wall, Patrick.”
Outside of tugging his arm back-if Pete drags him around one more time-Patrick doesn’t argue. Music is music, and even if it is alien rock, he’ll probably enjoy it.
The door opens, and the raging guitars hit him like a wall of sound, the drumbeats following up as projectiles, and the bass line hitting him in waves that shake him to the bone.
Patrick’s about to relay this hurricane of metaphors back to Pete-he could probably make a song out of it-but Pete just pulls him into the crowd, shoving past kids with too much makeup and accessories that end up poking Patrick in the side a few times, until they’re close enough to actually see the band playing.
The kids, as rough and tough as they are, are nothing compared to the band-one guitarist could kill someone with his hair, and the other probably is going to kill someone if he doesn’t stop moving. Patrick glances at Pete, expecting him to be caught up in the energy of the crowd, but he’s just standing there, gaping up at the stage like he’d been expecting an entirely different band.
Which, well, is pretty likely, with his track record.
Then Pete grins, raises an arm, and starts jumping to the rhythm of the crowd around him, mouth wide open and probably shouting something, but Patrick can’t hear anything over the roar of sound.
He isn’t dead yet, and a concert is a concert no matter what planet he’s on, so Patrick decides to join him, looking back up to watch the lead singer shriek.
It doesn’t last long; they’d shown up halfway through their set, and the goddamn police end up shutting down the show before they can get through three songs. The band almost gets arrested, but somehow (after a lot of smooth-talking and waving of some weird piece of blank paper) Pete manages to talk the officers out of dragging them into the back seat of a truck. The crowd’s eventually driven off (sometimes literally, in the aforementioned truck) until it’s just two time travelers and a hardcore rock band left.
So now they’re hanging outside a theater on yet another dingy and mostly empty street, sirens blaring a few miles away, Patrick’s trying to calm down after almost getting beaten by a nightstick or twelve, and Pete’s just hanging off the bassist’s arm like they were old college buddies.
“Mikey Fuckin’ Way, how long’s it been?” Oh, maybe they were old college buddies.
“A while,” the bassist-Mikey, apparently-deadpans, “I actually thought you were dead.”
“Me? Nah, a little defenestration never hurt anyone.”
“You can’t even pronounce that,” Mikey says, a little teasing.
“Don’t need to, that’s why I have my Patrick to say words for me.” Pete grins over at him. Patrick pulls his hat a little over his eyes.
“So, how’d you recognize him?” says the singer, who’s been staring warily at Pete from the moment he latched on to Mikey.
“Oh, come on, I can spot another one of us a mile away. Just a thing, you know?”
“You mean you’re-“ he squawks, then crosses his arms, looking over at Mikey. “You never told me your ex was a Time Lord.”
“You never told me you had another Time Lord friend,” Pete says into Mikey’s neck (he couldn’t get a proper look at his face, with his head currently resting on Mikey’s shoulder).
“Brother, actually,” Mikey says. “I thought I mentioned him.”
“You might’ve. I might’ve been drunk.”
“Or high,” Mikey adds, “The kids in that park you took me to had a lot to share.”
“Is this the same park with the nesting dolls in it?” Patrick asks. He’d liked that park, there weren’t any aliens or deadly pies or chimpanzees.
“That’s the one.” Mikey nods at Patrick. “It was a good summer.”
“It was three years of summer.” Pete sighs dreamily.
“Three years?” Gerard balks at them.
“Time Lord. Remember when I went out to get you a pack of smokes?”
“So that’s why you never actually brought them back.”
Pete finally detaches himself from Mikey and takes a step back. “So,” he says, looking him up and down, “What happened to you?”
Mikey cocks his head.
“Last time I saw you, your hair was longer, and you couldn’t go anywhere without your glasses. I can’t even steal them now!”
Patrick raises an eyebrow at Pete. He doesn’t see why a haircut and contacts were something to make a point about.
“Oh, that. I got shot.”
Oh.
“There was a war,” Gerard says, running a hand through his hair. It looks like a nervous gesture. “We tried not to get caught up in it, but…”
“Gerard has a hero complex,” Mikey finishes, waving off Gerard’s immediate protests. “Tried to save some lives, I got caught in the crossfire-don’t even start, Gee, it’s not your fault-and had to regenerate.”
“Regenerate,” Patrick repeats.
“Time Lord thing. Mikey wasn’t always this hot,” Pete waggles his eyebrows, “Well, he was always hot. But now he has a new and improved face.”
“Right, so if we run into angry aliens and they shoot you, you’ll get a new face?” Patrick’s eyebrow never lowers.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
This Time Lord thing never got any less confusing.
~~~
“So, you like them?” Pete asks as he starts flipping switches later. They’d talked for a little while longer before Gerard mentioned that they had another gig tomorrow and should probably start heading to the van, and Pete had another probably doomed plot to take Patrick somewhere “fantastic,” so they’d said their goodbyes and promised to see each other again.
“Yeah, when they’re not getting us in trouble with the police.”
Pete laughs. “You should see them in their parade.”
“We’ve done the parade thing already, you’re running out of ideas.”
“Yeah, but this is the parade of the damned.”
Patrick’s eyes widen, but before he can protest, Pete pushes the last button (hopefully the right one this time) and sends them on their way.