Work Text:
You get the idea out of the blue one day while driving the Corvette. Being that it only fit two people, three when cramming, you offered to take Les and Stormy back to Sharon’s house while Mick worked on some new riffs for the upcoming album.
You smirk thinking about how much trust he must put in you to allow you to drive his prized possession. He cleaned the car religiously, installed custom Mötley Crüe floor mats, and kept the Jeff Beck cassettes on standby. You could hear it now “1976 red on red Corvette.”
You imagine he would have a hard time picking between you and the Corvette if he had to…which gives you the idea.
You pull over at a local store not far from Mick’s place. You shut the door with a thud and flinch a bit at the summer heat nipping your neck. You scrounge for a quarter in your pocket and make your way to the pay phone. You easily dial in his number after inserting the quarter, pressing the receiver to your ear.
It takes four rings before he answers; you imagine he was too lost into whatever composition he was in the middle of strumming.
“Yeah? Who is it?” His voice comes through. You smirk and roll your eyes thinking he feared it was another fan who got his number or, worse, the record company yelling about something.
“Hey, baby, it’s me,” you reply sweetly, holding back a laugh at your mental script.
”What’s up? The kids home?”
”Yeah, I dropped them off, but I got gas afterwards because the tank was low.”
”Uh huh.” He says, not knowing where this is going. “I could’ve gotten it. Didn’t have to spend your money on it.”
You insist, however, that you wanted to help out. “I got the good kind, too.”
”Oh?”
You grin, knowing Mick had some experience working with cars before joining the band.
”But here’s the weird thing: the car started acting all jerky and stuff.”
”Jerky? What do you mean? You hear the concern slowly creeping into his voice.
”Yeah, it didn’t wanna start after I got gas.”
”Might need to replace the ignition coil. Or spark plugs,” he muses thoughtfully.
”I had to pull over. It kept acting weird, so I didn’t wanna drive it anymore. I’m a few blocks over.”
”Shit. Where did you get the gas?” You hold back a giggle knowing you’re about to drop the reveal. You can see him crafting a complaint to some gas station selling watered gasoline.
You name the place he usually gets gas.
”Babe, there’s gotta be somethin’ else wrong.” You can sense him shaking his head, black strands flying, even through the phone.
”Well, I tried that festive gasoline. It was more expensive, so I thought it would make the car run better,” you say with a Valley Girl-esque voice.
The line goes quiet for a few seconds.
His voice is deadpanned. “You what?”
”I used the green thing. I thought it was pretty and unique, like, Christmas themed or something.”
“Christmas? It’s July! And…” He breaks off with a deep sigh, definitely pacing around now. “How long did you drive it around for?”
“A few miles.”
“Oh my God,” he mutters, voice hollow.
”I guess the gas was faulty,” you add dumbly.
He laughs without humor, “that wasn’t gas.”
”What do you mean? I got it as the gas station, silly.”
”You’re fuckin’ with me, right? Please tell me you’re fuckin’ with me?”
”Mick, calm down. We can go yell at these guys for selling bad gas.”
He takes another deep sigh. You hear him sink into his recliner. “Baby…that was diesel.”
”Yeah…?”
”Diesel is for trucks. Like, big trucks.” You nearly fall over as he calmly explains this like you’re a child. “Diesel doesn’t work in cars. It messes them up.”
”Then they should have a sign or something!” You pout with a dramatic flair.
”Baby girl…how did the nozzle even fit in the gas tank? They make ‘em like that on purpose.” You hear the exasperation in his voice.
”I thought they were just testing out new sizes! I had to, like, force it in.”
You quickly add in another quarter to keep the conversation going.
A moment goes by in silence. You hear him light a cigarette. Poor baby must be so stressed, you think.
”Mick, don’t be mad,” you say in your best pitiful tone. You give a sniff. “I know you love that car more than me.”
”That’s not true. I’m not—I’m not mad, okay, just…I’m gonna have to come pick you up and call a tow truck or somethin’.”
”A tow truck? What?”
“Yeah, they’re gonna have to clear all that shit out. Messes everything up.”
”Fuck!”
”Yeah…”
”Well…” you give a dramatic pause, “maybe you don’t have to.”
”Yeah, I do,” he gives another low laugh. “You can’t drive it.”
”Sure, I can!” You reply eagerly.
”No, no, no, that will mess it up more. Do not drive it,” you can hear him stand up and begin pacing again.
”Mick…”
You grin.
”I’m fucking with you.”
His voice goes flat. “What?”
”Baby, do you think I’m really that fucking dumb? To put diesel in a car?”
He scoffs, but his voice screams relief. “Hey, I had to teach you how to even drive stick.”
”Uh huh, uh huh, you got pranked, bitch!”
You can see those big blue eyes rolling even miles away. “Just get your ass home.”