Title: Okay
Fandom: The Libertines
Characters: Carl Barât, Peter Doherty
Rating: Mature (language)
Length: 750
Notes: Part of an AU but stands alone as well.
Content notes: None



One of the less fun things about being poor and almost-but-not-quite squatting in a badly maintained house was the lack of a telephone. Carl suspected there had been a payphone in the downstairs hallway once, judging by the missing rectangle of plaster and the strip of faded taxi flyer that stubbornly refused to peel off the delightful nicotine-coloured wall.

Instead, once a day, he traipsed down to the corner shop, where in return for Carl's meagre custom and the occasional spare bag of something or other he might happen to have on his person, Big Chris (hilariously only 5'5" in the worst tradition of British comedy) took messages for him.

"Some girl called Minky, your boy's mum--"

"He's not my boy," Carl said automatically. It was even sort of true. Sort of. They hadn't really talked about it. Carl had no idea how to even start. Sleeping with a man was new to him, shouldn't Peter be doing all the work?

"Minky? Minky who? D'you mean Mandy? From the Lion?" That might be about a gig. Not that they were ready, but realistically that wasn't going to stop them if there were some free pints in it.

Chris squinted at the scrap of paper in his hand and shrugged. "Could be. Morning kid took the call, not me, his handwriting's a bugger to read. Your-- Peter's mum again. She's phoned twice a day for three days running now, you know," he said, as if it was Carl's fault Peter was being an arse.

"I can't make him collect his fuckin' messages."

Big Chris just laughed. "He did. She's asking for you now."

The barman put him on hold when he rang the Lion, so Carl perused the noticeboard as usual.

Hoover for sale, £10. Mostly works.

Six foot tank, £20. Fish included.

Usual crap.

'Wanted – new boyfriend. Lee, you're dumped.'

Carl snorted. Then leaned closer. Someone had scribbled on the bottom 23 Mortimer St, Flat 5. Fuckin' Peter. He yanked the lid off his pen with his teeth and changed the 5 to an 8. He owed old Mrs Lincoln for conning him into cleaning out her cat's litter box for a week with her fake bad back.

He was still on hold. The idiot barman had probably forgotten all about him. He sighed, resigned himself to going down there later to see Mandy in person, and dialled the next number on the list.

It was possible he needed some advice.



The door to Peter's flat was unlocked, and the man himself was a lump under the duvet when Carl escaped the Lion and wound his way home.

"Peterrrr," he whispered, climbing clumsily onto Peter's bed and poking at the lump. "Peee-terrrr,"

The lump wriggled, but not much.

"Three things," Carl said, sneaking a hand under the quilt. The ends of Peter's hair tickled his hand as he found a warm neck. "All you have to do is say 'okay' to them."

"'Kay," Peter mumbled, and Carl pinched his shoulder. "Three more things, smartarse. We've got a gig. So you gotta practice, 'kay?"

"'Kay." Peter's voice was muffled and sleepy.

"And I rang your mum." He felt Peter squirm under his hand. "She's not mad, but you have to ring her tomorrow. I promised you would."

"'Kay. I will."

"We had a long chat." Carl started to crawl under the duvet. "She says I'm as hopeless as you, and you're a bloody idiot."

"Wow." Peter turned over, eyes suddenly wide open and his hair sticking up on end in a way that wasn't adorable in the slightest. Carl brushed some stray strands out of his eyes anyway. "Thanks, mum. What else did she have to say?"

"She wanted to know when I'm going to make an honest man of you, but I told her I can't perform miracles."

Peter squirmed. "Ah. I didn't mean to tell her, I just--"

"Can't keep a secret to save your life. Like I don't know." Carl paused and took a deep breath. She also says all I have to do is tell you you're mine, and you'll stop trying to pick up random girls on the newsagent's noticeboard."

To be fair, she'd said probably, but this was Peter they were talking about. There were no guarantees to be had of anything.

Peter just stared at him.

"This is where you say--" Carl started, but never had chance to finish.

"Okay," Peter murmured against his lips, over and over, between kisses, until Carl forgot the word probably even existed.