Work Text:
#4 - …where it hurts - Peter/Mike
“Can you pass me that wrench, Pete?”
“Sure, here you go, Mike.”
Passing the small wrench over to Mike, Peter sat back down on the ground outside the pad, pulling his banjo back into his lap. He’d decided to occupy himself with occupying Mike while he made some repairs to the Monkeemobile - on their last trip out, hearing the engine actually scream didn’t instil anyone with much confidence, so Mike offered to take a look at it when he next had the time to. And so the two of them found themselves outside of the pad in the sun, Mike with his head buried under the hood of the car in a vest and jeans, and Peter sat cross-legged on the floor in his pyjamas, banjo in tow.
Watching Mike work, Peter started idly plucking at the strings of his banjo, the sound of the strings somewhat clashing with the metallic clangs that came from Mike and the car. He wasn’t playing anything in particular - in all honesty he just wanted to sit with Mike and keep him company, even if it was in silence - but Mike had told him he could bring it if he wanted to. As Mike emerged from the inside of the car, he wiped his forehead, smearing a rather large oil patch across his face. Peter laughed.
“You’re making a mess, Mike.”
Putting a grubby hand on his hip, Mike turned and looked at Peter disbelievingly. “I’d like to see you fix up a car ‘n’ not get dirty. Besides, you can’t complain about me makin’ a mess,” he pointed out, “you’re sat there doin’ nothin’ but playin’ banjo and lookin’ pretty.”
Peter smiled to himself before grinning wide at Mike. “Thanks Mike, I’ve never been called pretty before.”
Shaking his head, Mike let out a small laugh before wiping his hands down the front of his vest. “So you actually gonna play anythin’ or are you just gonna sit and pretend to play?”
“I’m not pretending, I am playing it, look-” Peter plucked a few strings and played out a little tune he came up with off the top of his head. “See? I’m playing it, it’s making a sound.”
“Play a song, then,” Mike asked, turning his back to Peter and diving back under the hood of the car, “I know you know at least one song, Pete.”
Fiddling with his hands Peter twisted his mouth. “I don’t know what you want me to play. I have a few Beatles tunes I could play, or some folk songs.”
Mike twisted his neck around to look at Peter as best he could, brown eyes peering over his shoulder. “You heard that Jackie Wilson song?”
“He’s released more than one song, Michael.”
“You know the one, your love keeps liftin’ me higher,” Mike sang loosely at him, his voice a bit croaky having not had time to prepare it, “that one.”
Peter sat up and made himself comfortable, adjusting his banjo in his lap. “Oh, ‘Higher and Higher’? I can try that one, if you want. Let’s see…”
As he heard Mike begin tinkering with the engine again, Peter tested a few strings and chords before attempting to play the song, plucking the opening of the song softly. His fingers danced over the strings and produced a satisfying rhythm, and he found himself nodding along to his own playing. He heard Mike laugh.
“Yeah, that’s the one! Good goin’ Pete.”
Peter just smiled happily at the back of Mike’s head, playing his banjo. Eventually, he couldn’t stop himself from singing along. “Your love keeps lifting me higher - than I’ve ever been lifted before-”
As he sang, he saw Mike tapping his foot in time with his playing, and he felt a strange pride bloom in his chest. It was normal enough behaviour when they were playing their own songs together, but when it was him playing something of his own (in a way) with his own twist on it, to see Mike enjoying it and grooving along made him feel like he was sat in the sun, bathed in golden light. The feeling he experienced when he heard Mike start singing along completely dwarfed those previous emotions.
“...keep it up… which is my desire…”” Mike muttered from under the hood of the car, and Peter could see him bobbing his head along softly..
“-and I’ll be at your side forever more-” Peter continued, and the two of them sang together as Mike tinkered with the car, Peter feeling himself growing more and more immersed in the song as they went along. It didn’t take long for the two of them to be performing what could essentially be described as an impromptu show outside of their pad, Mike and Peter belting out the words to the song without shame.
“I’m so glad that I finally found you, that one in a million…” Mike trailed off, not quite finishing the line fully.
Hopping to his feet, Peter skipped over to Mike while still playing. “When I wrap my loving arms around you, well I’m ready to face the world-”
He suddenly heard a banging sound and saw Mike hit his head on the hood of the car, his hand recoiling from inside the bowels of the Monkeemobile while the Texan swore. “Fuck, shit-”
Peter stopped playing and set his banjo down nearby on the floor, swiftly returning to Mike to see what was wrong. “Mike? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I just…” Lifting his hand, Mike showed Peter his finger, which was coated in a mixture of oil, grease, and blood. He’d cut himself on one of the clasps within the car - that probably made him hit his head, too. “Ah, shit, this stings like a bitch,” Mike hissed, and Peter watched as Mike went to put the finger in his mouth, but stopped just shy of it touching his lips, the man grimacing, “it’s all covered in gunk, I can’t do that-”
Without hesitation, Peter grabbed Mike’s hand, his only concern being to help his friend and not a single other thought being present behind his almond eyes. “That’s OK, I can do it-”
Peter opened his mouth and shoved Mike’s finger inside, closing his lips around the digit and sucking it. Mike’s eyes went wide, and Peter scrunched his nose at the taste - oil and grease did not taste good. Using his tongue to clean it, Peter continued to work on Mike’s finger until he felt that the metallic taste of blood was no longer as prevalent, letting the digit rest on his tongue. Mike just stared at him, his face extremely red.
“P-Peter… I, uh,” the Texan started, not really sure how to respond to the situation, “I’m- that’s my, uh, finger you’ve g-got there.”
“Mhm,” Peter acknowledged, nodding and looking at Mike innocently. “Cleaning it,” mumbled Peter, although it was barely intelligible given he had a finger stuffed in his mouth.
Mike let his free hand rest on Peter’s hip, the dark haired man diverting his gaze and seeming to have trouble staying still. “I- uh. Peter?”
“Hm?”
“Can I- Can I have my finger back please?”
Wrapping his hands around Mike’s wrist, Peter slid the digit from between his lips, the finger leaving his mouth with a wet ‘pop’ sound. “There you go, Michael. I think the bleeding has mostly stopped now.”
Very slowly, Mike retracted his hand and let it rest on Peter’s shoulder. “You… You didn’t have to do that, Peter.”
Peter tilted his head in confusion. “Your finger was hurting, Michael. I just wanted to help. I don’t mind.”
Mike let out a nervous laugh, his face still pink. “Next time, j-just kiss it better, alright? No just stickin’ fingers in your mouth. My hand was real dirty there Peter, god knows what you’ve just licked off me.”
“As long as your finger’s alright, I’m more than happy to help. I can kiss it better now if you want?” Peter offered, genuinely curious.
Mouth agape, Mike just stared at him before sighing and nodding. Peter gently took Mike’s hand again and raised his fingertip to his lips, brushing a soft kiss to the wound there - the skin was red and sore, but the cut itself wasn’t anything too dire. Planting one last additional kiss to the cut, Peter let Mike withdraw his hand, the Texan looking flustered. “There,” Peter hummed, “all better - well, mostly. I’ll get you a band-aid for it, alright?”
“I can get my own band-aid, Peter.”
“I know, but I want to help. If you hurt yourself again, let me know and I’ll kiss it better,” Peter spoke, smiling at Mike and tilting his head to the side, “alright?”
“...Alright.”
With that, Peter made his way into the pad to retrieve some minor first-aid equipment, emerging with a packet of band-aids. As he closed the door to the pad behind him, he saw Mike looking… sheepish.
“Are you alright, Michael?” Peter asked, making his way over to where Mike stood by the car.
Mike winced. “I, uh, hurt myself again.”
“Oh Michael, where? Let me see it, I’ve got the band-aid box here-”
Face pink, Mike turned to Peter and pursed his mouth before pointing at his bottom lip, a small blotch of red forming. “Bit my lip when I hit my head,” he muttered, before eyeing Peter nervously. “...Kiss it better?”
Giving him a soft and adoring look, Peter sighed before leaning in, gently holding Mike’s chin and pulling the Texan towards him, softly locking their lips together in a gentle embrace. He felt Mike smile into the kiss, and just as he tried to reach a hand into Peter’s hair the dark haired man winced, swearing against Peter’s mouth.
Pulling away, Peter eyed him worriedly. “What’s wrong, Michael?”
Mike raised his hand, his finger still red. “Caught my finger in your hair.”
“We’ll get that patched up now for you alright?” Peter ordered, before tapping Mike on the nose: “and we can see about patching that lip of yours up, too.”
Mike smirked. “Yes sir - although there is one thing.”
“Hm?”
Poking his bottom lip, Mike sighed. “It still hurts. Might need you to kiss it again.”
Pulling Mike closer to him by his waist, Peter pecked him on the cheek. “Of course, Michael.”