Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I wrote you something."

Mick raises his eyebrows and scoots forward on his stool until he's really just propped against it, taking the ragged sheet of yellow notebook paper from Joe's proffered hand. He reads the words slowly, mouthing them to himself, finding Joe's rhythm in the lines, keeping in mind the notes Joe has written down in the margins, for chords, doodles and other little ideas.

"Gotta flip it 'round, too," Joe says quietly, and Mick looks up at him.

"Don't have to," Mick tells him, his eyes kind, and Joe looks confused.

"You like it?" he says, head cocked and his hand coming up to rub at his shoulder.

Mick reaches out for him and pulls him over so he's standing between his legs. Joe can smell the Special Brew on Mick's breath, and he grimaces.

"You like it cos you're drunk," he spits, but lets Mick wrap his arms around him anyway.

"Don't get like that with me, Strummer," he slurs in retort. "How many spliffs 'ave you 'ad today?"

Joe shrugs and giggles a little, partly from the weed, partly from Mick's proximity. "Come on," he says, tugging at a handful of Mick's shirt.

Mick sighs and gets up, following him to the spliff bunker and settling in with him behind the flight cases and chairs with various equipment and instruments piled on them.

"Cozy in here," Mick murmurs as Joe snuggles into his side, gathers his materials from all the little crevices in the "walls" of the bunker, and hands them over to Mick.

"Need one?" Micks asks when he's almost done rolling his own.

Joe shakes his head and murmurs something sleepily into Mick's neck as Mick takes his first hit and blows it upwards to the low ceiling. He still has Joe's lyric sheet and he reads it to himself again, this time flipping it over to the back to get the whole picture. The music comes to him through the haze, just the whisper of a tune that Mick hums to himself, feeling it vibrate in his throat against Joe's forehead. Joe briefly stirs, saying something like, "Yeah that's it," before he settles back down against Mick and drifts off again. Mick sets the lyrics down and brings his hand around to card through Joe's hair, kissing his forehead gently and just holding him there until he needs another pull off his joint.

"Love it, Joe," he mumbles as he leans his head back and drops his arm to pull Joe's shoulders in tight.

Chapter Text

Mick walks into the rehearsal room to see Paul sitting alone with his bass, playing it with the volume turned low and a look of concentration on his face. Mick sets his stuff down near his guitar and pulls up a chair, wanting to see how long it will take before Paul gets self-conscious.

Paul gives Mick an irritated look and determinedly finishes his song, some dub reggae that he just mutters the words to. Mick gives him a few semi-earnest claps at the end and Paul's face turns stormy, the bass guitar suddenly looking awkward in his hands as he shuffles his feet and looks down.

"Why aren't you with Joe 'n' Topper?" he asks, absentmindedly fingering a string and not looking at Mick.

"Where'd they fuck off to?" Mick asks, genuinely ignorant.

Paul looks up at him. "Went for an egg sandwich."

"You didn't go with?"

Paul shrugs. "Had breakfast at home. Thought I could make myself more useful over here. Didn't 'spect you to come 'round so early."

Mick raises an eyebrow. "Shall I go?"

Paul scoffs. "Fuck off." He picks up his bass again. "Just don't laugh, alright?"

"Wasn't laughing," Mick protests as Paul starts his next song, another reggae that's deliberately slower. Mick stands up and starts grooving awkwardly to the music, even throwing in a little toasting here and there that makes Paul cringe and shake his head. Mick makes his way over to him, still dancing like a fool now that Paul is grinning and flubbing almost every other note until he gives up completely and tries to shove Mick away.

Mick claps again, still using his horrible Jamaican accent to sing Paul's praises as Paul pokes at him with the head of his bass, and soon they've escalated into an all-out playfight, with Paul's poor bass caught in the middle. When Mick grabs at it, Paul hugs it to his chest protectively, and they settle down, Mick going to pull a chair over to Paul's.

"Lemme show you something," he says, and Paul tries to give the bass over, but Mick refuses.

"You can do it," he assures him before showing him a way to hold his fingers better around the neck, just a tweak in his form that feels so awkward to him he's pretty sure he'll just revert to doing it the wrong way as soon as Mick isn't looking. Much less awkward, however, is the feel of Mick's hands on his, guiding them gently, and Mick's patient, teacherly voice telling him things he has no chance of remembering, as he's more interested in looking at Mick's hands, Mick's eyes, Mick's gold lamé jacket that he gets so much shit for from the lads but that Paul secretly loves on him.

Paul is brought back to earth by Mick flicking his shoulder, and he shakes his head of those thoughts that like to creep up on him in his more maudlin moments. Mick is looking at him with concern and he feels himself blush.

"You alright?" That soft voice again and Paul feels a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He reaches back for the shoulder strap of his guitar and pulls it over his head roughly before setting the bass down in it's cradle with little gentleness even for an instrument as beat up as it is.

"No," he moans, putting his head in hands. "I can't do this. Why don't you just do all the bloody bass lines? Cos unless every song is a fucking reggae, this fucking album is doomed."

Mick sits back, looking shocked. "I can't do that. I can't play like you, Paul."

Paul looks up at him, dropping his hands. "You can play anything."

"Not like you," Mick says again, shrugging. "Can't sound like you. Can't get that aggression, that solidity, that swagger, ya know? Can't have the Clash without any of that, can you?"

Paul regards Mick skeptically and sniffs, looking over at his bass and giving it a glare. "Still wish I could get better," he mutters under his breath. Mick moves to stand up, dropping a kiss to the top of Paul's head and a pat to his shoulder before he goes back over to his spot.

"You will," he says, looking back at Paul and smiling when he ducks his head and blushes to his ears.

Paul stands up and follows Mick over, wrapping his arms around him from behind. "I think I'll need more lessons first," he murmurs, lips brushing against the nape of Mick's neck.

Mick smiles to himself before gently nudging Paul in the ribs with his elbow. "Anytime."

Chapter Text

One of the first things they had hauled up the stairs at Vanilla was one of Mick's record players and the Clash's combined record collection, a motley mix of Joe's 50's music, Topper's funk and jazz and R&B, Mick's complete Mott the Hoople discography and Paul's reggae and rockabilly. Topper's got the run of the place, just waiting for everyone else to show up as he plays The Who Sell Out while lying on the floor, completely sober, when Joe comes in.

The studio isn't exactly spacious, but that doesn't mean Joe should be forced to jump over Topper's still body like he does. He strides over to his spliff bunker and sets his notebook down along with his latest borrowed book, a volume of wartime poetry that Topper cracked open once but couldn't be bothered with.

"Comfy?" he says, squatting down beside Topper and clicking his booted heels together.

"Was," Topper grumbles, "till you came in like a herd of bloody wildebeests."

"Pssh." Joe settles onto the floor and lies down so they're side by side, just looking up at the graying ceiling and listening to the music. It's a while before anything further is said, until Joe's quiet, raspy voice comes crackling through like the beginning of a record.

"It's... probably bad juju or whatever to speak ill of the recently... departed," he whispers haltingly. "But I always thought... ya know... had a theory. That you were a better drummer than Keith Moon."

It's Topper's turn to "Pssh," and he smacks Joe lightly on the stomach without knowing his hands were folded there, so Joe reaches out to grab for him, holding his arm to him like a lifeline.

"Maybe not better," he amends. "But he weren't no Human Drum Machine."

Joe looks over at Topper to see him preen like he always does when someone calls him that, and smiles as he rubs circles into Topper's wrist with his thumb.

Topper shifts over to his side to regard Joe more carefully. "Are you sober?"

"Just as I can be," he replies, looking back at Topper and bringing his hand up to kiss the back of it. "Unless admiration is a - a narcotic or somethin'."

Topper scoffs and pushes at Joe's chest. "C'mon, we better get to work. Paul and Princess will be here soon."

"You want to start without them?"

"No. But they'll want tea, won't they?" Topper says, before he gets to his feet and turns the record player louder, Joe right behind him.

Chapter Text

There's a park within walking distance of Vanilla and Paul and Topper find themselves exploring it on a nice, if chilly autumn day, along with a few other families and the occasional group of kids playing football or horsing around. They walk shoulder to shoulder, Paul itching to reach out and take Topper's hand or at least put an arm around his waist, especially if Topper keeps looking up at him like that, his face bright and his eyes full of mischief.

They walk past a couple doing just that, the man pushing a pram while the woman hangs on to his elbow and barely takes her eyes from him long enough to make room for Paul and Topper. Paul lets out a breath after they pass, always cautious when people see them out in public in full punk regalia, though the both of them have toned it down since 1976, trading spray-painted shirts and multi-zippered pants for sharper suit jackets and simple drainpipe trousers and jeans. Just to be safe, he puts an extra inch between himself and Topper as well, but immediately regrets it when Topper's face goes stony, so he leans back in and loops his arm through Topper's to tug him closer.

"Do you like that stuff?" Topper asks him, jerking his head back towards the couple.

Paul twists his body around to study them a little further before straightening out. "Dunno. I like kids just fine, I guess. I think Joe's more the Dad-type, though."

Topper shrugs. "Gotta find a bird to do all that stuff with anyway." He kicks a rock lying on the path and it rolls into Paul's way just in time for him to kick it as they're walking along. Soon they're playing makeshift football with the little stone, until Paul sends it flying into the street and it lands on some posh car, leaving a sizeable dent on the roof.

Paul exchanges a brief, terrified look with Topper and they both go running, tearing across the park, scattering pigeons and small children alike until they're safe in some residential alley dotted with dumpsters and cars that have long since stopped running. Paul hops up on one of them, an old off-white Ford that bounces a little under his and Topper's combined weight. They catch their breath and huddle together against the chilly breeze whipping through the alley, cheeks and eyes red from the cold and the sudden exertion.

"Yeah," Topper gasps, "we should definitely not have a kid until we all grow up first."

"We all?" Paul asks, voice light and teasing, and Topper's face goes even redder.

"What? The Clash aren't gonna raise a kid all together?"

"Like a communal Clash kid?" Paul stops to think about it for a second. "What would that be like?"

Topper shrugs. "Well, for starters, he'd be..."

"Could be a she," Paul interjected. "Named Iris, like Taxi Driver," he says, a little wistfully.

Topper rolls his eyes but continues. "Fine. Iris then. Iris would have Mick's inflated ego."

Paul nods thoughtfully.

"Joe's weirdo sense of humor."

"I hope not."

"My drumming ability."

"Goes without saying."

"And your... looks."

Paul ducks his head and twists one of his rings around. "Iris is well fucked."

Topper sighs and nudges Paul's shoulder with his before gently turning Paul's chin with his fingertips so they're facing each other, just a couple inches apart. Paul's eyes are unsure but Topper kisses him anyway, barely a brush of lips and enough time to feel Paul's shaky breath like the warm ghost of a sigh.

Topper takes his hand and slides off the hood of the car. "Let's get back. You look like an icicle."

Paul looks away, then down at where their hands are joined. "Not that cold."

Topper tugs at him. "It's getting that way," he insists. Paul nods and hops down as well, trying to take his hand back but Topper refuses to let go. He watches Paul look around the alley nervously but there's nothing but the backs of the houses and their little fenced gardens to see them. They walk slowly and don't let go till the alley ends and they're spilled out onto the street that leads back to Vanilla. It's a short walk but Paul's left hand doesn't warm up again until they're in the door and Mick and Joe are waiting for them.

Chapter Text

It's nearly sundown when the band decide to take a break from rehearsing, and everyone disperses to make tea, smoke cigarettes or spliffs, or get a bite to eat, with Joe and Paul running down the local supermarket for something to replenish their meager food supply, asking Mick and Topper what they want before leaving. Topper, eager to stretch his legs, grabs a football and heads for the door while Mick is still lighting his cigarette.

"Oi! Wait up!" Mick yells, trotting after him until he catches up.

Together they cross the street to the square, fenced-in asphalt playground where Topper runs through the open gate. He passes the ball backwards to Mick, who floats it high and ahead of Topper as he jogs casually across to the far corner. They just pass it back and forth for a while, Mick refusing to give up his cigarette until it's gone and Topper just wanting to loosen his muscles a little.

Finally, Mick flicks his spent cigarette to the asphalt and puts it out with his toe in time to take Topper's pass, returning it with a force that takes Topper by surprise as it goes flying past him to rattle the chain link fence. Mick laughs at Topper's annoyed little form trudging over to get the ball.

"Take it easy, yeah?" he shouts, but Mick shakes his head and gets into a lower stance, wordlessly daring Topper to really put his leg into the ball.

When he does, Mick manages to just barely dodge it as it goes flying past him at head height, and glares daggers at Topper that he hopes can be seen in the fading daylight.

"Alright, point taken!" he yells back, passing the ball very gently so Topper will get the hint. He just keeps it though, preferring to kick it against the fence rather than to Mick, who is waving his long arms and shouting, much to Topper's mischievous delight.

Mick huffs and trots over to him, trying to steal the ball to no avail, as Topper neatly keeps it and goes charging past. They play like that for some time, Mick chasing and Topper using his fairly considerable skill to keep it away, until Mick puts his hands on his knees and gasps for air, holding his stomach as it rumbles insistently.

"You think Joe and Paul got back yet?"

"Oh sure," Topper says absently. "Probably a while ago. Why? You giving up?"

Again Mick glares at him but lets his hands fall to his sides with a slap. "Yeah I am. Satisfied?"

"Yeah. I am." Topper is nodding and grinning, a little goofy, a little bashful, and Mick catches it, ducking his head to hide a fond grin of his own. As Topper comes closer he falls into step beside him and they make the short trip back to Vanilla side by side, Topper holding the football under his arm. When Mick opens the door for him, he manages to sneak in a quick kiss to his temple and push at his back to get him through the door before he can retaliate. Happily, though, Mick sees how pink his cheeks go, how red they get when they enter the rehearsal room to the exasperation of Joe and Paul, and how he looks back at Mick with a smile before he goes to greet them.

Chapter Text

Joe is the first to step inside the studio one morning and he immediately sets about making tea through a foggy headache. His nose is still runny from the chill outside, where he can hear Topper kicking his football against the wall over and over again. He groans, gripping the counter with one hand and his forehead with the other, both hands tightening when the kettle starts shrieking and at the same time, the door opens and gets loudly sucked shut by the wind, announcing Paul's presence.

Joe quickly switches the kettle off and pours a mug for himself, Topper, and now Paul, who gives him a raised eyebrow and the beginning of a little grin that he seems to regret upon seeing the glare Joe gives him as he shoves the mug into his hand.

"It's too hot to drink," he complains, dodging the spoon that Joe chucks at his head and scampering over to his spot in their rehearsal area, where his bass is waiting in its stand. He sets his tea down on an amp and goes back to Joe, who is gripping his own mug with nearly white hands and watching Paul with an unamused expression.

"Why do you already look like that?" he grumbles, gesturing vaguely up and down Paul's body as Paul leans against the counter next to him.

"What do you mean?" he asks innocently.

Joe groans. "The fucking hair, the fucking jacket, the fucking dry fucking feet." Joe runs a hand through his own hair, which is still wild from the wind and the chilly, drizzling rain outside. "I bet you didn't even have that gunk in the corner of your eyes this morning. Bastard."

Paul shrugs, grinning a little at Joe's discomfort. Personally, he thinks Joe looks absolutely endearing, with his hair a mess, his nose and cheeks red, his shoulders all high and tense like he gets when he's uncomfortable in a weird interview or an awkward meeting with some record company suit.

Paul reaches for Joe's tea and gently takes it from him, carefully setting it on the counter before taking Joe's chilled hands between his own. Paul presses Joe's thin body between himself and the counter and leans down to kiss him on the forehead, then down to his nose, then finally to his lips, feeling his shoulders fall under his hands before they stroke their way down his back, stopping at his waist to just hold him while he breathes deeply. His eyes are closed and he sways forward contentedly when Paul finally steps back a little.

"Feel better?" he asks, gently, sincerely, hands massaging Joe's upper arms.

He nods. "Glad you're 'ere," he murmurs, taking his tea back and blowing on it. "Bastard," he adds under his breath, smiling as he takes a tiny, experimental sip.

"Love ya."

Chapter Text

The band is rehearsing in earnest, no one else there but the four of them, no hangers-on, no press, no girlfriends, no nothing. It's well into the night and they're all bone-tired but still plugging away, still loose and tight at the same time, still cooking hot, with ideas and input coming left and right. Joe, Paul, and Mick are in their usual rehearsal positions, facing Topper as well as each other in a circle, so there's no such thing as a private smile. Not that any of them need one.