|
newee
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Neweleen
Location: Manila, Philippines
Birthday: 2/26/1990
Gender: Female
Interests: Books, Science, Harry Potter, Neopets, WITCH, Pristontale, FlyFF, Gunbound, GoPets, FreeStyle, Pangya, my crush, my crush's crush, my bezfriend's crush, other people's crush....jowk
Expertise: SINGING!!!!
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Yahoo:  newee_co
Member Since:
5/3/2006
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| Purgatorio
Bands: My Chemical Romance with AAR, CS, FOB, PATD, THS, TU, and others
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Word Count: 27,112
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for violence and sexual content. Character deaths.
Author's Notes: Cara, Kate, Marie, and Stevie...thanks for being a listening ear whenever I needed one! And I owe ![[info - livejournal.com]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif) snarkyrainbow big-time for countless readthroughs, for her competent beta skills, and also for making sure I didn't accidentally turn anyone into an asshole.
Summary: While on leave from the police force, Detective Frank Iero occupies himself with three things: drinking, brawling, and being alone. But when a series of brutal murders calls him back to active duty, he must find a killer while confronting people from his past, including estranged best friend turned businessman Mikey Way, and deal with his unwilling attraction to Mikey's enigmatic older brother Gerard.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
Two illustrations by yanjara
Fanmixes:
Fanmix by shoemaster
Better Things by spuzz
A splash of icy water in the face took Frank Iero from passed out to wide awake and sputtering in three seconds flat. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the pain in his knuckles, and opened his eyes. A merciless shaft of light made him hiss and squint, till he could make out the source - a small barred window set high in an institutional-grey wall. He looked around the bare cinder block walls till he reached the uniformed figure standing in the doorway. "Dammit, Toro," he rasped, "you threw me in the drunk tank?"
"No, Allman threw you in the drunk tank after you started busting heads in the Quiet Riot last night. I don't think he was happy he had to skip out on the second set. Also, you owe Brian for two bar stools now. He says he's putting it on your tab."
"Fuck. I don't remember that." Frank flexed his right hand experimentally. Probably not broken. Small favors. He sat up gingerly, swinging his legs over the edge of the narrow cot and waiting for a wave of nausea. When all that came was a slight head rush, he considered himself lucky.
He looked up, and Toro continued, "You've gotta stop self-medicating, man. The town's gonna run out of booze the way you're going."
Frank laughed. "You know as well as I do that this town'll never run out of booze, Ray." He focused on the styrofoam cups in Ray's hands. One was hanging empty by Ray's side, and the other was steaming gently. "That coffee for me?"
"Black as sin, so it's sure as hell not mine," Ray answered. He handed it over, and Frank took an experimental sip. Better than the precinct coffee he remembered. Chief Toro must have made a few changes. "Now get your ass off that cot and follow me," Ray added. He waved Frank towards the hallway, and he stood slowly, walking into the narrow corridor and grimacing at the metallic rattle and crash of Ray closing the cell door. Ray headed for the squad room and straight into his office, Frank trailing behind. He settled into the big leather chair behind the desk with a sigh. Frank sat gingerly on the edge of one of the visitor chairs as Ray turned and unlocked a drawer in the filing cabinet behind him.
"Do I get my personal effects back now, Chief?" he drawled.
"Yeah, you do," Ray answered, thunking a handful of items on the desk in front of Frank. He looked down. It was his badge and service pistol. The badge glinted teasingly up at him in the sickly fluorescent glare of Ray's ceiling panels. He looked up, slowly, and noticed for the first time how tired Ray looked, pale under his normally olive skin.
"What's this about, Toro? I'm on leave, remember?" he added, as if Ray might have forgotten.
"Well, you're off it now," Ray told him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if he was the hungover one instead of Frank, fixing his eyes on Frank over his hand. "Look, Frank," he continued in a gentler tone, "I know it's only been three months since the shooting. Hell if I know what it was like; I've been lucky. But the doctors say you're healed. And I know you just lost your mom. But I've got bodies, man, and I need someone I can trust on the case."
"And that's me?" Frank said disbelievingly. "Wait, what? Bodies, as in more than one."
Ray nodded. "As far as the responding could tell. I've got Allman and Gaylor on a long-term investigation, and Urie and Simmons are the most senior patrol officers, but they're just too green. I need you on this, Frank."
"Why don't you just hand it over to the boyscouts, Ray?"
"This is my jurisdiction, Frank. The state police don't give a shit what goes on down here, but I do. You can act as tough as you want, but I know you do, too."
"Shows what you know," Frank mumbled, but he picked up the badge, turning it over idly in the palm of his hand. He sighed, pulled his fingers through the tangled hair on the back of his head. "Guess you're gonna nag me to clean up some."
Ray rolled his eyes. "The amount of ink you've covered yourself with in the last few months, no other department in the state would take you at all. You're lucky you're still on the payroll. I don't care what you look like, Frank. Just do the fucking investigation. I'm assigning Simmons to you - she and Urie were doing separate patrols last night, so she's already out at the crime scene. She can fill you in when you get there."
"Where's 'there'?"
"The scrap yard at the Way Foundry," Ray told him hesitantly.
The badge dropped out of his fingers and clunked against the desk blotter. "Fuckin' hell, Ray."
"I'm sorry, Frank," Ray replied.
"Sorry, Ray? That place could burn to the ground and I'd just fucking laugh, and you want me to go help them out?"
"No!" Ray raised his voice for the first time, slapping a hand onto his desktop and leaning towards Frank. "I want you to find out whose parents or spouse or best friend I have to inform about their loved ones being piled in a scrap yard like so much junk, and then I want you to find out who did it!"
"Shit," Frank mumbled, almost to himself. He stood and shrugged off his jean jacket. The shoulder holster snugged across his back and under his arms like it had never left, and the jacket fit perfectly over it all. Ray picked up the badge and handed it over. Frank clipped it to his belt with a sigh. "Personal effects," he said to Ray, extending a hand. Ray jerked his head toward the door.
"Front desk, Iero. Ask Crawford for them." He punched the intercom. "Crawford, Detective Iero needs a car. Find him one." He didn't look back at Frank, just down at the papers on his desk, the set of his shoulders still betraying irritation. Frank walked out. The new kid at the front desk - and he was honestly a kid, Frank felt old just looking at him - was obviously still in the throes of Captain Toro hero worship, right down to the wild hair. Frank snorted; it was obvious that Ray didn't have a leg to stand on in the area of LEO appearance. Frank leaned his forearms on the edge of the desk and waited till the kid looked up.
"Personal effects for Iero," he said, and the kid walked over to a set of cubbies on the other side of the reinforced glass partition, pulling out a large paper envelope.
He handed it to Frank. "Just sign the log, please," he said. Frank scrawled an untidy signature on the log sheet, already fumbling with his other hand to extract his pack of cigarettes. He jammed his wallet and cell phone back into his pockets and stuck a cigarette between his lips. "Um. There's no smoking in here," the kid added.
Frank smirked and stuck the cigarette behind his ear instead. "There's no smoking in the squad cars, either, I bet?" The kid grimaced. "Fuck it. Crawford - that's your name, right?" Crawford nodded. "What Ray doesn't know won't hurt him. Give me one of the unmarked cars, will ya?" He took the set of keys Crawford handed over and headed out into the merciless early-morning sun.
*
Just being back behind the wheel of a squad car made Frank feel like he'd never left. He resented that. Yeah, he'd dealt with the shitty hatchback that had belonged to his mother for the last few months, but there was no reason a Crown Vic should put him at ease like this. No reason the tug of a holster across his back should put him at ease. Damn Ray Toro, anyway. This was the one thing he probably needed, and the last thing he wanted.
He cracked the driver's side window so he could smoke, ashing through the gap as he rolled through town toward the foundry hulking on its outskirts. At least a third of the buildings he passed had boarded or barred storefronts, and the teenagers loitering determinedly on the street corners here and there gave his car a defiant glare as it passed by; the plain wrapper didn't fool them. Frank wanted to tell them that he didn't give a shit whether they skipped Mr. McMahon's first period geometry class. He'd done it plenty himself, in what Ray liked to term his "misspent youth."
Frank didn't want to think about that, either. His memories of high school and the summer after were too tied up in Mikey and Gabe and briefly, Pete; getting drunk, smoking up, driving into the city to hear shitty bands in shittier bars. Gabe was still around, of course; Frank had seen him just last night. He'd been running a Hold 'Em table in Brian's back room, something that Brian pretended vigorously not to know. The Tassels played the Quiet Riot two nights a week, too, but Officer Allman kept his eyes on his guitar and pretended not to know that Brian knew. It was just how this town worked.
Mikey...he was, unfortunately, why three-quarters of this town worked at all. The Way Foundry had been the town's biggest employer for the last thirty years. While Frank had still been in his strange teenage limbo between avoiding truant officers himself, and earning his stripes as a beat cop, Mikey'd been shipped off to college. He'd finished and gotten some sort of fancy internship, Frank had heard, but cut his newly minted career short six months ago, to come home and take over the family business when his parents retired abruptly to Arizona. The first thing he'd done as CEO was cut at least a third of the staff. Linda Iero had been among them. Frank hadn't been eager to reunite with his old buddy after that.
She'd died a couple months later, about a month before he'd been shot during a drug bust gone sour. The Parkinson's had progressed much more quickly than the doctors had expected. The medical bills were sky-high, but Frank had never wanted her to be the one to go. Surely a nice lady who'd helped out at the homeless shelter over at Our Lady every week was worth more than a cop. He'd sort of lost it for a while, although Ray never so much as suggested that Frank had been careless. Frank knew it, though.
He scrubbed a palm over his face. This was really not what he should be thinking about right now. Not his mom, not any of it; not when he had to walk into Mikey Way's foundry today. Not if he wanted to be able to keep himself from punching the skinny little fucker right in the face.
As he made the turn onto River Road the foundry filled the windshield, belching smoke into the clear morning sky. The merciless sun glinted off the twisted piles of scrap metal in the yard behind the building. Frank could see the red and blue lights of the squad car over on the other side, and he spun the wheel, heading down an access road instead of through the main gates. He parked behind the CST truck and climbed out of the car, walking through an access gate and heading towards the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze some 20 yards away.
He could see Alicia talking to the crime scene technician. He squinted; it looked like Walker. They were both wearing coveralls, and Frank grimaced for a second. Bodies, Ray had said. How messy was this going to be? A few feet away, back turned and cell phone pressed to his ear, was a blond man who Frank recognized as Bob Bryar, the foundry foreman. When Frank ducked under the tape, he saw a white-faced young man sitting on the ground near the perimeter and recognized Mike Kennerty, a regular over at Brian's place.
"Simmons," he called out in greeting. She turned around and waved him over. "Hey, Alicia," he continued when he reached them. "Jon." He nodded at the CST.
"Iero," Jon returned, distractedly. "I've got to keep working on these photographs; let me know if you need me." He wandered away, and Frank looked at Alicia.
She looked relieved to see him, if a bit wary. "Ray radioed to tell me you were on your way. Didn't know you were coming back to the force, to be honest."
"Neither did I," Frank mumbled, then added in a louder voice, "Fill me in?"
"The foreman, Bryar, called it in," Alicia told him, gesturing to Bob. "The kid over there with him, Kennerty, was doing a once-over of the scrap yard, as per procedure, and he saw...well, I'll show you. He freaked and radioed it in to Bryar. That's who called it in to us. I asked him to keep the kid out here for questioning. They're both waiting for us. Do you want to take a look now?"
"Might as well get it out of the way," Frank replied. He walked over to where a bright blue tarp canopied the edge of a scrap metal pile. "Hey, Walker, you done over here?"
The tech nodded. "Photographed everything I could already. We're still waiting for the ME. You can move the tarp, though."
Frank lifted the corner of the tarp to reveal the body of a young woman, half hidden by what looked like a car hood. She'd been blond, thin. Now, she was sprawled in the dust, eyes open and dull. Cause of death wasn't immediately apparent, though a bloody head wound was present. He wasn't sure that was the COD, though. Her arms and neck were damaged, marked with..."Ligature marks?" he asked aloud.
Simmons, who had been hovering behind him, replied in the affirmative. "That's what it looks like."
"When's the ME supposed to get here?"
"Soon, hopefully," Alicia told him. "They put a call in to Hurley already, but he was at some sort of convention this weekend, so he's coming straight here."
Frank sat back on his heels, staring in at the body. "She looks familiar. Any ID on her?"
"Nothing that Walker or I found. We'll have to hope for a fingerprint or dental match for a positive ID."
"Toro said...there was more than one body?"
"Yeah. Bryar was the one who spotted that, when he came down here with Kennerty. Here." Alicia tapped him on the shoulder with her flashlight. "Use this. If you shine it in past her, under that one piece of re-bar or whatever...you'll see."
Frank did as Alicia directed. The beam played over the surfaces of rusty metal, then picked up the sharp glint of - "Is that a hand?"
"Some sort of ring, yeah. And she's got both her hands. Judging by the decomp, it's been here for much longer than her, anyway."
"Fuck," Frank said succinctly. "We're gonna need some sort of equipment to clear this scrap away and get in there. Walker's going to have a fit."
"I already talked to Bryar about that. He'll bring around some equipment for us to use when we're ready. And Walker called Scimeca from the lab to come out and assist."
"Okay. Let's go interview Bryar and the kid while we're waiting. How long do you think we have till the press gets wind of this?"
"Hard to say. The seven to three shift is in there right now, but someone's bound to notice this circus sooner or later."
Frank tugged at the back of his dirty hair. "On second thought, why don't you head back and run some more tape around that gate? That may be our guy's access point, anyway. We'll need Walker to check it out. Anyway, that'll keep 'em at bay for a while. I'll get started."
Alicia nodded and headed back to her car. Frank stuck his hands in his pockets, ambled over to Bryar. "Bryar." The other man looked up from where he was jabbing at the keys of his cell phone, cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Kennerty. Thanks for waiting. Sorry if I repeat anything Officer Simmons already went over with you. Walk me through your morning, up until we arrived, in your own words. Kennerty first."
The dark-haired man tucked his hair behind his ears and swallowed. "Well. I'm foundry security. Mostly we patrol the employee parking, locker rooms, storage areas, that sort of thing. But we make periodic sweeps of the scrap yard, in the truck." He gestured to the battered tan pickup with the foundry logo on the side parked nearby. "I might not have noticed the, ah, the body, because that piece of scrap was half pulled over her. But it's so sunny today, and...the leg was sticking out. I thought it might have been, like, a bum or a drunk or something...I don't know why. So I ran over to see what they were doing here, because, y'know, it's private property. Well, it's pretty obvious she's dead; I didn't even touch her, just ran back to the truck and radioed the office. Bryar told me to wait, that he was coming down. So I did." He had been twisting his work gloves in his hands as he spoke. Now he looked up at Frank. "I, ah. I already told Officer Simmons, but I moved that car hood. I don't think I touched anything else?"
"Thanks," said Frank. "That'll be all for now. Just make yourself available in case we have more questions." He turned to the foreman. "You want to take over from there, Bryar?"
The blond man took a drag of his cigarette, then looked Frank over with a level gaze. "How's the head this morning, Iero?" he inquired with a slightly mean smile. Frank looked back expressionlessly. Bob was a regular at the Quiet Riot; he was friends with the owner, Brian. He had been, if Frank's memory served, at the bar last night, when Frank had done...whatever it was that he'd done. Shit.
"It's Detective Iero right now, Bryar," Frank said shortly.
Bob rubbed his hand over his beard stubble with a frown and replied, "Okay, then, Detective. Fire away."
"You were the supervisor on duty who took Kennerty's call? This your usual shift?"
"Nah, first shift foreman. But I'm usually in early, to overlap with my night shift. So I was already here when Kennerty called, and I could come down myself."
"And when you arrived? Did you touch the body at all?"
"Yeah, I did. I checked for a pulse. Pretty pointless, probably, but better safe than sorry."
"We'll need a reference print from you as well, then. You can talk to the CSTs later. Now, tell me about access to the scrap yard."
"There are only three entrances. You came in through the truck entrance. There's one for rail cars around the back, but we haven't even used that for months, probably. And, of course, through the foundry itself. They're all kept locked, except for the foundry loading bays."
"Locked how?"
"The rail entrance is chained and padlocked. Keys are in the office. The truck entrance is a code - there's a pin pad outside, and it can be remotely opened from the office as well. And anyone from inside can get out here, as long as they can get into the foundry."
Frank looked around the scrap yard. Piles of metal loomed in a ragged grid pattern on every side. "I know this is a long shot, but...security cameras?"
Bob shook his head. "Mostly inside, in the parking lot, that kinda thing."
"And who were the last few people who've been in here? Other than your own people."
Bob tugged at his earlobe, scratched his cheek. "We had a dump truck in from the salvage yard on Tuesday, but we didn't send him to this part of the yard. Oh...and maybe Gerard. I don't know."
"Gerard?" Frank asked.
"Gerard Way. The older brother. You've never met him? I thought you and Mikey used to be-"
"I never met his brother," Frank interrupted. "I thought he moved away?"
"He's back. Has some sort of agreement with his brother that he can come into the yard whenever he needs scrap...he's an artist," Bob added, when he saw Frank's blank look.
"D'you know the last time he's been in here?" Frank asked sharply.
Bob shook his head. "Nah. Keeps odd hours anyway. But you could go ask him, he lives right across the street." He pointed. "You've never been by the studio?"
"Nope."
Bob chuckled. "You're in for a treat."
Frank didn't like feeling like he was being laughed at. Big blond punk. He narrowed his eyes. "Keep yourself available, Bryar."
"Anything for you, Iero," the other man replied flippantly.
Frank refrained from rolling his eyes until the foreman turned to walk back to his vehicle. Fuck this shit; Ray was obviously out of his mind if he thought Frank'd make a good authority figure these days. He turned and scanned the yard for his people. Alicia was a blue speck in the distance, walking the fence line. Another jumpsuited figure had joined Walker; Frank headed in that direction. "Hello, Scimeca," he called out. The other CST looked up from the screen of Walker's camera.
"Morning, Iero. Walker was just filling me in. So, where do you need me?" Over Nick's shoulder, Frank saw the ME's van pull up.
"Gang's all here now," he murmured. "Jon - fill in the ME. Scimeca, the foreman says they have some surveillance video. It's a long shot, but I want copies of everything." Nick nodded and headed back to his truck. "Walker, I'm headed out to interview the neighbors. Call me or Simmons if you have any problems." Jon nodded. The two men both headed for the gate. Frank shook Dr. Hurley's hand and headed for his car.
The foundry was on the outskirts of town, bordered on three sides by cornfields, railroad tracks, and scraggly woods. The outbuildings across the street were in various states of use and repair. Frank wouldn't have guessed anyone lived there. He pulled his cruiser into the dirt lot behind a battered pickup. Way, it seemed, was at home. He headed around the side of the building, looking for a door. When he finally found it, he gasped. Twin gargoyles fashioned out of twisted metal crouched on either side, menacing grimaces showcasing shiny teeth. Frank looked back. There were more sculptures tucked into corners of the buildings; mostly metal...what looked like trees? It looked like Hell's front garden. If Gerard Way had made those...what kind of crazy person was he, anyway?
Frank knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He tried again, this time adding, "Gerard Way, police." Nothing. Fuck. He tried the door handle. It was unlocked, and Frank eased it open, reaching inside his jacket for his 9mm. Gun drawn, held loosely in front of him and pointed toward the floor, he stepped softly into a makeshift vestibule. He heard a roaring noise from somewhere to his right, and he eased around the barrier, jerking back instinctively at a hiss followed by a spray of sparks. Heart pounding, he shouted, "Way! Show yourself!" The hissing and the sparks stopped abruptly, and a dark haired man stood from a crouching position, flipping up a welding mask and turning around. He tugged a pair of ear buds from his ears with one gloved hand, holding the arc welder in front of himself protectively.
"What the hell?" Way exclaimed. His eyes widened, looking impossibly huge in his grimy face, and he set the torch down slowly on a nearby workbench, carefully raising his empty hands up in front of himself. "Man, you're barking up the wrong tree. I don't have any money, just tools and scrap metal."
Frank laughed mirthlessly, pulling his badge free from his belt and holding it up. "Detective Iero, Mr. Way. I need to ask you a few questions." He holstered his gun, leaving the fastenings unsnapped, and clipped his badge back onto his belt.
The other man tugged off his mask and heavy leather gloves, tossing them onto the workbench and running a hand through his hair. That only served to make it stand up in even more disordered spikes. "Um. Questions, like down at the station?"
"Here is just fine. Unless you know of a reason I should be asking you questions down at the station." Frank raised an eyebrow. "Have you talked to your brother this morning, Mr. Way?"
"Oh, God. Is Mikey okay?"
"Is that a 'no, I haven't'?" Frank replied calmly. "Mikey is fine, as far as I know, Mr. Way. I'm investigating an incident at the foundry, and I have reason to believe you may have some information for me."
Gerard's shoulders had visibly tensed; he relaxed when he heard his brother was all right, but still eyed Frank nervously. Pulling a gun on someone tended to have that effect; but, shit, that was the protocol in that kind of situation. And nervous-innocent looked a hell of a lot like nervous-guilty, anyway; Frank had learned that the hard way. He was frowning, scratching at his forearm. Twitchy. Frank didn't like twitchy. "Mr. Way's my dad, Detective Iero."
"That's cute, Gerard," Frank drawled, rolling the second 'r' a little. "I've got a homicide victim over in your foundry's scrap yard, though, so I'm not really in the mood for cute. You wanna tell me the last time you've been over there?"
"Shit," Gerard breathed, eyes snapping up to meet Frank's, but skittering quickly away. "I...a few days ago, I think?"
Frank stepped closer. "You think you could narrow that down for me?"
Up close, Gerard's face was dotted with flecks of grime. He obviously hadn't seen the inside of a shower for several days. His black sweatshirt was dotted with tiny scorched holes, and his pale, surprisingly graceful fingers were criss-crossed with half-healed scrapes and cuts. He saw Frank looking. "Lots of sharp edges in a metal sculpture. Sometimes I forget myself." His eyes were intensely golden-green, somehow mesmerizing. Frank could barely look away.
He coughed, turning and jerking his eyes to the wall behind them. There was a stack of large paintings leaning against it. Grotesque figures twisted across the topmost canvas, trailing red flames. "Interesting work," he said noncommittally.
"Inspired by Dante," Gerard said, his voice coming from far too close for Frank's liking. "It's a series." Frank eased himself surreptitiously into a better defensive posture; he wasn't sure how he'd let Gerard get so close. Distraction was a death sentence in his line of work. Fuck. Frank was so not ready for this.
"The scrap yard, Gerard," Frank repeated his earlier question, voice rough. "When were you there last?"
"I don't know," Gerard mused. "What's today?" His voice was suddenly farther away again. He was wandering, poking idly at piles of odds and ends, fingers tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.
"Saturday," Frank told him slowly. Seriously? Twitchy didn't even begin to cover it. Frank was going to ignore the fact that probably the only reason he himself knew that was because the Tassels played at the Quiet Riot on Tuesdays and Fridays.
"Must have been Thursday, then," said Gerard after staring at his shoes for a moment. His gaze was open, earnest.
"Can anyone confirm that?" It was highly unlikely that the blond girl had been in the yard for longer than twenty-four hours. The other body, well...he'd wait to hear from the ME on that issue.
"Um. I'm not sure. No, wait. Mr. Cooper was here waiting when I got back. He's the one who commissioned the Garden of Eden vine." Gerard waved a hand at the piece he'd been welding. Frank took a closer look. It was, in fact, a vine-like construction of metal leaves. On second glance, he picked up tiny snakes wound around the stems, dangling with gaping jaws like tiny, deadly fruit. "So...a homicide, Detective?"
"That's right," Frank said. "Have you seen any unusual activity around the scrap yard? You're the closest neighbor to the foundry."
"I...get sort of distracted. When I'm working. I...shit, who was it? Was it someone from the foundry?"
"I can't release that information until the next of kin is notified," Frank said sternly. Thank God for the party line. "Do you spend a lot of time over at the foundry, Gerard?"
"When I was a kid, I was scared to go there; I thought it looked like Hell. Now I moved in across the street." He laughed. "That's sort of funny, don't you think?" He was too close again. A little tingle of nerves arced down Frank's spine, pooling in his guts, and his fingers twitched open, closed. "I know you," Gerard continued hesitantly. "From pictures, I think...you're Mikey's friend Frank? I recognize this." Cool fingers traced the scorpion on Frank's neck, and he jerked away from the touch like he'd been shocked.
"I was," he was surprised into answering, voice raw. He met Gerard's eyes, which flicked down to chest-level and back. Frank realized he'd instinctively reached for his gun. Gerard looked surprised, and Frank narrowed his eyes. "Don't leave town, Mr. Way. I may need to interview you again."
Gerard laughed, softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
*
Gerard watched him leave; Frank could feel it, heavy as a hand between his shoulder blades. He stepped into the tiny vestibule, passed between the snarling metal monsters guarding the door, and rounded the corner of the building. When he reached his car, another vehicle was parked in the dirt lot, blocking his exit. The white '77 Mustang was as familiar to Frank as the lanky figure leaning against the hood. He took a deep breath in through his nose, let it out slowly. "Mikey Way."
"Frank."
"You're up early on a Saturday morning."
"I could say the same for you." He eyed Frank speculatively, obviously taking in the battered jeans and ripped tee, the unruly tangle of hair and hastily donned sunglasses.
Frank crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm on official business."
"Toro let you off the leash, huh? Can't say I understand that, but never mind, I can take that up with him. What I want to know is what you're doing here." Mikey's hands were thrust deep in his pockets. He shuffled his feet, leaned his weight on his other hip, and waited.
"Please, Mikey. Call my boss. Tell him I'm doing my job. I'm dying to hear what he says. Wait, here - use my phone." He held out his cell with a wide, white smile.
Mikey lifted an eyebrow lazily. His eyes were sharp without the former barrier of his glasses; there was a strong resemblance between him and his brother, but Mikey was all edges. "I can see the way this is going. I guess the Ways aren't good enough to get the benefit of the doubt from you this time, either." He sounded annoyed and vaguely sad, but Frank was still in Mikey's space in a flash.
"Watch your mouth. I can make this all go really badly for you," he growled. Mikey straightened up to his full height, which was considerably more than Frank's.
"Evidently you want to. Well, fine. Take your little power trip; just keep it far, far away from here." He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, which - tailored shirt at ass o'clock on a Saturday morning, seriously. It was like Mikey was a completely different person. His voice was careful as he continued, "Whatever you're thinking about my brother...I can imagine what you might think, okay? Just...back off, Frank. I promise you he had nothing to do with anything."
"As hard as it may be for you to understand, I'm just doing my job, and this is not about your family."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it," Mikey drawled, looking disgusted.
Frank's vision glazed red. "You better not be talking about what I think you're talking about. Because you have no right - "
"No, Frank. You have no right. No right to judge me for something you don't even under- " Mikey turned away, suddenly, the set of his thin shoulders tight, hunched like a much older man. "Never mind, okay? Just never mind. You've never listened."
He wasn't listening, now, the roaring of blood in his ears competing with the pressure in his chest. He was craving the sick crunch of bone and cartilage under his fist; the only way he'd found to release the tension. But this was Mikey, and he'd loved him like a brother for a long time. Loved him till he'd hated him, and when it came down to it, he'd never been able to lay a hand on him even then. He turned away, yanked open the door of his cruiser and threw himself inside. The engine turned over with a pitiful shriek as he wrenched the key, and he stared through the windshield for a moment at Mikey's back before jerking the wheel to the left and maneuvering his car around the Mustang and out of the lot.
*
Things didn't improve; careful dissection of the pile of scrap metal at their crime scene had turned up a total of three bodies, not just two. Three. Sure, this wasn't Mayberry or anything, but shit like that just didn't happen here. Two of them were so decomposed that Frank had to wait on the ME's report to know pretty much anything. Frank returned to the precinct with Alicia and the two of them commandeered a vacant office, papering the walls with Walker's photos as fast as he could print them out. Hurley eventually called up with an ID and a COD on the blond - he'd gotten a fingerprint match to Maja Ivarsson, a dancer at Wandering Canvas, the strip joint out by the old tire factory. He'd ruled the head wound superficial; the official COD was strangulation. She had no family; Frank resigned himself to going and breaking the news to her boss instead.
Ray stopped him on the way out the door. "You going to see Stumph?" Ray had been in and out of their office all afternoon, waiting for updates.
"Yeah. On my way."
"You taking Simmons?"
Frank nodded. "She's going to help take statements."
"Well, when you're done, go home, for God's sake. Get some rest, maybe shower?"
He snorted. "You just asked me back, and now you can't wait to get rid of me. Figures."
Ray was wearing his most earnest expression. "I just want to make sure you're okay, Frank."
"Trust me." Ray did; Frank knew that. Probably a bad decision on his part, Frank reflected bitterly.
Frank and Alicia took the unmarked car to the strip club; no need to park a cruiser outside. Stumph had always operated under the letter of the law, and Frank didn't want to be bad advertising for the guy. They were still the bearers of bad news, of course, and salvaging the evening would probably be a lost cause, but Frank was used to ruining people's days at this point. Came with the territory. It was early - the door was still unmanned, and the two bartenders were the only people in sight, pacing back and forth from the storeroom, stocking up on supplies for the evening.
He walked directly to the bar. Frank didn't patronize Wandering Canvas; he preferred the grungy atmosphere and grungy bands at the Quiet Riot, but he still recognized both bartenders' faces. The one who walked over to meet them was Spencer. He had a wary look in his blue eyes, and Frank held up his badge, telling him simply, "I need Patrick. Official business."
Spencer's eyes flicked to Alicia, then back. He nodded tightly. "In his office. Go on back." The other bartender - a dark-haired girl named Victoria, who Frank remembered as a dancer - immediately hurried over and they exchanged a few words. Frank nodded to Alicia, and they both headed toward the curtained doorway to the left of the bar that led to the staff areas.
Frank knocked on the open door marked "Office," and Patrick Stumph immediately looked up from his computer screen. His omnipresent gray fedora was pushed back to the crown of his head, and he blinked myopically up at them for a moment before recognition set in. "Frank. Officer Simmons."
Patrick had a rich jazz-singer voice that matched his rather old-fashioned style of dress and did not match his occupation. His club was classier than the norm, though, and his girls and boys were aggressively healthy and well-groomed; compared to some of the hell holes you'd find in nearby towns, Frank knew they could be dealing with a lot worse. Stumph's people never caused problems for the police. Well, unless turning up dead was a problem. "We've got some bad news, Patrick," Frank said simply.
"Oh?" Patrick's voice was steady, but he was frowning, now.
"It's about one of your people," Alicia added. "Maja. She's...." She hesitated.
"She's dead," Frank finished flatly.
Patrick went white. "Oh, my God. What happened?" He braced his hands on the edge of his desk.
"She was murdered, Patrick. Sometime last night."
"Last night...I...she was here last night! When...what...."
"We're still trying to piece it all together," Frank answered. "What time did she leave here last night?"
The other man had laid his fingers across his lips. He looked shell-shocked. "I...she cut back on her hours a few months ago, so she was only on till ten. Probably hung around for an hour or so afterwards for drinks? Some of the guys and girls who come in, they like to treat my kids - all aboveboard," he added quickly.
Alicia said, "We understand, Mr. Stumph. Was she with anyone in particular last night? Did she leave with anyone?"
"She's not seeing anyone in particular, that I know of," Patrick answered slowly. "And Suarez - my DJ - has the flu, so I was in the booth last night. I didn't really notice if she left with anyone. You should probably talk to Zack." Zack, Frank was pretty sure, was the bouncer. They'd met, though thankfully not under the same circumstances under which he usually met the long-suffering Worm at the Quiet Riot.
"We will. We should talk to all your kids, Patrick," Frank replied.
"Of course. I'll set it up. I...I guess I've got to call them all together and break the news. They'll all be here tonight. Is there...what else do you need from me? I'll help however I can."
They waited till Patrick could gather his employees, minus the flu-ridden Suarez. Two girls, a blond and a redhead, huddled by the bar, murmuring with Victoria. Short, loud-mouthed Pete - his was a familiar face, for more reasons than one - was kicked back in a chair, but his eyes were sharp. A shaggy-haired guy Frank didn't know sat in lotus position on the edge of the stage, a willowy guy Frank thought was named William next to him, swinging his long legs. Zack stood by himself in the middle of the room, arms crossed, and Spencer mimicked the posture from across the room, where he hovered by Patrick's side. They were all alternately darting apprehensive looks at Frank and Alicia. Some looked particularly disturbed; they'd surely noticed Maja's absence, and some seemed to be putting two and two together.
Frank just watched, impassive, as Patrick broke the news. Watched the faces. Shock, disbelief, grief. Anger. Frank had seen it all before. Alicia was watching too, but a frown line had appeared between her eyebrows. She was a good cop, he thought, not for the first time. Like Ray was a good cop. They cared. Frank figured that made him the bad cop. And he'd take the label, really. He'd seen too many supposedly good people do fucked-up things to take anyone at face value.
Eyeing the crowd consideringly, he sent Alicia over to talk to Spencer, who was still glowering. He went to talk to the women - Victoria, the blond, Keltie, and the redhead, Ashlee. Victoria was able to tell him that Maja had left the club around 11:15 last night, but not much more. She was visibly upset, and Frank chose not to pressure her for more. The other two girls, in that chatty state that sometimes followed an emotional shock, had plenty to say on Maja's mental state - busy, with some sort of modeling work in the city that she'd started a few months prior, but generally happy - and on her relationship status - single, apparently. None of it was particularly helpful. He sighed, catching Patrick's eye as he thanked them for their assistance. Patrick had already locked the front door and posted a sign, "Closed Family Emergency" scrawled across the first blank box top he could find. Now he walked over to talk to Victoria, still shadowed by Spencer. Alicia had moved on to Zack, and Frank turned to the two guys sitting on the stage.
Shaggy Hair turned out to be Nick Wheeler, with a sweet face and an easy Midwestern drawl. When Frank asked how long he'd known Maja, he replied, "I've only been working here for six months or so...since I lost my job at the foundry. She was sweet to me, though. I had an argument with this friend of mine last night, and she sat with me at the bar afterwards. Told me dirty jokes to cheer me up. That was the kind of thing she'd do." He smiled a little while still sounding sad. "I can't believe she's dead." He had ridiculously earnest eyes; if Frank ever decided to patronize the Wandering Canvas, he realized, Nick'd be the one he came to see. He thought, briefly, of another pair of earnest eyes, and a little shiver crawled down his spine. Then William chimed in, his voice as expressionless as his face had been since he'd walked into the club.
"When you're dead, you're dead," he murmured. When Frank and Nick both looked at him, he continued, "It's..."
"...our favorite grad student reading too much Vonnegut?" another voice interrupted. Pete sat down, slinging an arm around William. "Hi, Frank," he added.
"Wentz," Frank replied carefully. He looked back at William. "Anything else you want to add, Beckett?"
"I was on late last night. We did our usual routine together during her act. I went backstage afterwards to study. I didn't see her again before she left." His voice was measured. There were three reactions Frank was used to from interviewees: fluster, bluster, and freeze; and William was an excellent example of the third.
"All right," he said. "Guys, thank you. I'll contact you if I have any follow-up questions. Pete...walk outside with me?"
The short brunette bounced to his feet, flashing Frank a nasty little grin. "Why, you gonna rough me up, Detective?"
Frank sighed wearily. "Watch your mouth, Wentz. I just need a smoke." He slipped out the back door, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up, handing the pack over with a grimace when Pete held out an imperious hand. "Thought you were edge," he grumbled.
Pete snorted. "Maybe when you knew me. Gotta get through the day somehow." He handed the pack back to Frank, taking a deep drag and blowing a series of smoke rings into the air before tipping his head and looking over at Frank. "You gonna interview me or what?"
"You gonna tell me anything I didn't already hear five times from your coworkers?"
Pete frowned. "Probably not. There's nothing to tell, Iero. No reason anyone would have wanted to hurt Maja. I've known her for years. She had a way about her - let her exes down easy, stayed friends. That's who she was modeling for, even - an ex-girlfriend in the city." He finished the cigarette, scratched it out on the cinder block wall, and quirked an eyebrow at Frank. "You supposed to be smoking on the job?"
"Do I look like I care?"
Pete studied him expressionlessly for a minute or two while Frank fidgeted impatiently. "You look like shit, actually." He reached out and rubbed his thumb across the stubble on Frank's jaw.
Frank jerked away irritably. "Is that how you usually talk to the cops, Pete?"
"I'm not talking to a cop, Frank. I'm talking to Mikeyway's little punk friend in the Black Flag shirt. He still in there?"
Fists clenching automatically, Frank growled back, "What the fuck do you care?"
Pete snorted. "Since you're about to break my nose, I'll take that as a yes." He leaned up against the cinder block wall, looking at the stained pavement at his feet. "Talk to him lately?"
Frank played dumb. "Who?"
"Who were we just talking about?" Pete said snippily.
"No one I want to keep talking about," Frank said, turning his back and shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Whoa, there," answered Pete. "No need to turn on the deep freeze, Iero. What's your deal, anyway? I would've thought you'd be glued to Mikeyway's side the minute he rolled back into town six months ago, and it appears I would be wrong."
"I could say the same about you." When Pete didn't answer, Frank snuck a look over his shoulder. Pete was frowning again.
"Well, I was working here by that point, of course, and he's the owner of the town's biggest business...it just felt too weird. I don't know how to describe it better than that."
"It would have been too weird...that's good enough for me, too," Frank replied curtly.
"Whatever," Pete replied, giving him a you're-bullshitting look.
Frank had fucking had enough. "Don't you have anything else you should be doing right now?" he asked sarcastically.
"I thought I was talking to an old friend." Pete's expression was mild, and Frank choked back his cruel response with some difficulty.
"I'm done here for now. Please tell Officer Simmons I'm waiting in the cruiser."
Pete offered him a curled-mouth half-smile and a little salute. "Sure thing, officer. Keep protecting and serving." He turned and yanked open the back door, letting it slam shut behind him. Frank stalked around the side of the building to the Crown Vic and leaned a hip on the hood. He didn't have to wait long; Alicia came out a minute or two later while Frank was idly spinning the keyring around his finger.
"Boss told me to go straight home," he told her, the weariness suddenly setting in with the words. "Your car back at the station?"
"Yeah. You want me to drop you at your place?"
He nodded and pitched her the keys, settling into the passenger seat. She started the car. "So, where am I driving you?"
Frank gave her the address, then laid his head back against the headrest for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, he looked over at the clean lines of her profile. "You were talking to Zack and Spencer for a while," he said. "Anything we can use?"
"Maybe," she said slowly. "Timeline, mostly." She grimaced a little. "We just don't know enough."
"We can hash it out tomorrow," Frank told her, and she nodded.
"Here's yours," she said, braking in front of his duplex.
He blinked a few times, reached for the door handle. "Thanks, Alicia," he said quietly. "See you tomorrow."
It took a few fumbles of his keys before Frank got the door lock open. When he walked into his house, something smelled vaguely sour. He was afraid that it was him. He stripped off his jacket and shoulder rig, tossing his gun and badge onto the kitchen table and pulling at his grimy tee shirt. He detoured past the counter to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass, carrying the drink into the bathroom with him. Easing out of the rest of his clothes, he climbed into the shower, pulling the curtain shut behind him and running the water hot. The feeble spray glanced off the surface of his shoulders, creating a cloud of steam around him. Frank took a couple deep breaths before reaching for a bar of soap.
Finally clean, towel wrapped securely around his hips, hair dripping onto his neck, Frank stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Too-long hair curling around his ears and brushing his shoulders. Three days' worth of beard. He reached into the bathroom cabinet for his razor, noticing as he did that tiny tremors were running through his hand. He set the razor carefully down on the edge of the sink, reached for the half-empty glass of bourbon and tossed it back. For a second, the light glinting off the curved glass surface mesmerized him, and Frank rolled it round in his palm. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he threw it as hard as he could; through the bathroom door to shatter against the hallway wall.
When the tinkling of glass shards had faded to silence, Frank reached for the razor again. He lathered his face and shaved with a steady hand. Afterwards, he swept up the glass pieces and threw them away, padding down the hall in bare feet to his bedroom. He didn't bother dressing, just climbed under the covers. He couldn't sleep; he just kept seeing flashes...the holding cell, crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze...and hearing voices. Mikey's hunched shoulders; "You've never listened." Pete's sharp white grin; "You look like shit, actually." Gerard's bottomless green eyes; "Sometimes I forget myself." Eventually they all faded to static, and he slept.
*
Frank was already in the conference room when Alicia walked in shortly after seven the next morning. She raised an eyebrow, eyes sweeping approvingly over the white button-down and skinny black tie he had on but handed him a large foam coffee cup out of the carrier she held without comment. "Black," she told him, and he nodded and looked back down at the stack of papers in front of him.
"Phone records came in for Gerard Way," he told her.
"You pulled his phone records?" Alicia asked.
"Only non-employee with unrestricted access to the scrap yard. Doesn't matter, though. Records show three phone calls made from his residence between the hours of 11 and 1. One to a California number, one to a pizza place, and one to his brother's residence."
Alicia looked at the sheet over his shoulder. "And since Hurley put TOD around midnight, he definitely wouldn't have had time. Here, look, he called his brother at 11:30 and was on the line for an hour, then he ordered pizza. Want me to call the restaurant and confirm delivery time?"
Frank nodded. "Yeah."
"You didn't really think it was him, did you? He just...doesn't seem like the type."
"You know him?" Frank asked.
"Just by sight, really. Run into him at my coffee place sometimes."
Frank sighed. "Just for future reference, Simmons, murderers usually don't seem like 'the type'. Remember that. It may save your ass some day." He threw the papers aside, moved on to a dark blue folder from the ME's office. "Trace results from the vic's clothing came in. Carpet fiber - heavy duty, like from a vehicle. Looks like the scrap yard may have been just the dump site."
"What about the other bodies?"
"Nothing yet. Dental records take longer. Hurley's cross-referencing the missing persons database. We should know soon. Hopefully."
Alicia nodded. "Oh. And according to Zack at Wandering Canvas, the vic typically took the bus home when she couldn't get a ride from anyone at the club. She was headed to the bus stop last time he saw her. I'm going to get in touch with the dispatcher there and see if they remember picking her up."
"I'm going to go to her apartment, talk to the landlord. Call me with anything urgent." He stood and tossed a leather jacket on over his shoulder rig, snagging his coffee cup in one hand. Alicia was punching buttons on the desk phone; she lifted a hand as he walked out but didn't look up.
Ivarsson's landlord had absolutely nothing helpful to tell him, but he did let Frank into the apartment. Frank called the precinct for a CST and got Scimeca. The apartment appeared undisturbed, but Scimeca collected the vic's computer and mail anyway. He headed back to the lab, and Frank headed north, intending to go back to Wandering Canvas, but his phone showed a missed call from Alicia. He frowned at the screen; no service. He pulled over and went into the Hourglass Diner to use their pay phone. Greta caught his eye from behind the counter and waved a coffee cup at him. He nodded, then said into the receiver, "Detective Iero for Officer Simmons." He tapped his fingers against the phone cord as he waited for Crawford to transfer him. "You called me?" he said when she picked up.
"Yeah," she said. "I talked to the bus company. Turns out they didn't make any pickups at the stop near Wandering Canvas between 11 and 12 Friday night."
"Fuck. Well, she wouldn't have tried to walk home from work; it's way too far, not to mention dangerous. What about a cab?"
"I have a call in to the company now."
"All right. Keep me posted. I'm at the Hourglass right now."
"This would be easier if you'd just answer your cell phone," Alicia commented mildly.
"Fucking leashes," he grumbled. "I'm not a lapdog."
"Charming," Alicia drawled. "I'll call you if I need you, Frank."
Frank hung up the receiver and headed towards the counter, dropping onto one of the padded red counter stools and propping his elbows on the counter top. Greta was down at the other end of the counter, setting plates in front of two geezers, both engrossed in the racing form. She snagged a coffeepot on her way back over, plunking a mug in front of Frank and filling it with a deft twist of her wrist. She leaned on the counter. "Good to see you, Frank. It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?" She smiled her sunny smile. "I heard you were working again...I can see that I heard right."
"Wow, news travels fast," Frank replied dryly, and she chuckled.
"You know it. Bob!" she called back to the redheaded guy manning the flattop. "Get Frank some soup! Vegetable soup," she told Frank. "It's magical." Her eyes twinkled. "And it's vegan," she added conspiratorially.
"I don't need - " Frank protested.
"I think less drinking and more eating is exactly what you need," she interrupted gently.
He'd been coming here since he was a rookie beat cop and Greta an extremely underage waitress. Six years later, she and Bob owned the place, and Greta still never pulled her punches, but coffee was always on the house for cops. He picked up his cup and took a swig of coffee, and Bob walked out from the kitchen with a bowl of soup and a hunk of homemade French bread for Frank, dropping a kiss on the tip of Greta's nose and a pat on the gentle swell of her stomach as he went past. She swatted at him idly, but quickly turned back to Frank. "So. Soup."
"You're a menace to society," he told her mildly, but started tearing chunks off the bread and soaking up the soup broth.
"Takes one to know one, Frank Iero," she replied pertly, and he snorted.
"Tell me how things are going with the...you know..." he waved vaguely at her stomach, "while I eat."
She smirked. "The probably-ginger-haired spawn that kicks me in the ribs 20 hours out of the day? Oh, just fine. Perfect." She pulled a face, and Frank tipped his head back and laughed till his stomach hurt for probably the first time in weeks, then picked up his spoon to finish his bowl of soup while she cheerfully relayed all the latest gossip.
When Frank had finally eaten enough of Bob's vegan soup and brownies to satisfy Greta, he kissed her on the cheek, saluted Bob back in the kitchen, and jumped back in his car. When he got to the intersection with River Road, he braked at the stop sign and looked back and forth down the road. Why the fuck are you doing this, Frank? he asked himself, but he still made the turn - left instead of right, west toward the Way Foundry, the metal forest, and..."Gerard Way," he said, when Gerard actually answered his knock on the warehouse door.
"Frank Iero," Gerard answered noncommittally. "You're not here to arrest me, are you? Because this is sort of a bad time." He was wearing the welding mask again, and he tapped a pair of leather gloves against his thigh absently.
"You're not taking this whole thing very seriously, are you?"
"Why should I? I didn't do anything." He was serene, about as far away from the twitchy, wide-eyed Gerard of the other day as he could get.
"You're very sure of yourself."
"Like I said...." He let the statement trail off. Frank stepped forward, and Gerard didn't step back to let Frank in right away. He was a scant few inches taller than Frank, and Frank had to tip his head up a little to look him in the eye. He watched Gerard's eyelashes flutter a little, holding his breath. Gerard looked away first and stepped away from the door, walking back toward the studio area.
"This isn't an official visit," Frank mumbled. Gerard froze, turned.
"What was that?"
"This isn't an official visit," Frank repeated, feeling suddenly foolish. Why the hell was he here? "Unless it's official business for me to tell you that your phone records cleared you of suspicion."
"That just means we don't have any more official business. So, was there anything else?" He raised a questioning brow.
"This is because I pulled a gun on you, isn't it?" Frank sniped.
"It's just a question, Frank."
"I - " Frank stopped, ran a hand distractedly through his hair and tugged at the ends. "I wanted to know...your art...you make all this - " he waved a hand to encompass the Inferno paintings, several metal sculptures in various stages of completion, a pile of pen and ink sketches on a nearby counter top - "and it's brilliant, and you got out and then you came back. Why?"
Gerard tossed his mask and gloves and shoved his hands in his pockets. He stepped closer to Frank, and Frank automatically danced away. "Family needed me to, so I came back."
"You said you hated the foundry." Gerard was pacing. Frank tensed a little every time he passed close, but Gerard just kept talking.
"I said I was scared of the foundry when I was younger! It's not exactly the same thing. And the foundry's not my family, Mikey is." Gerard paused, rubbed a hand along his jaw. "I'm glad you like my work, Frank; but you're not here because of your case or my art. You know, this makes sense to me now."
"Oh, it makes sense to you," Frank sneered. "That's great. Enjoy that."
"I will," Gerard chuckled, "because you know what I think? You want me, and you hate that. You hate that it doesn't matter to you that I could be crazy."
Frank just stared. People didn't just say things like that. Except apparently Gerard Way did.
Gerard smiled, wide and white. "How's the saying go? 'We're all mad here.' "
You want me, and you hate that. A sick feeling unfurled in the pit of Frank's stomach; anger and denial, but a curl of want beneath it all. "You've met me one time, and you think you're inside my head, Gerard?" Frank asked quietly. "I doubt it's somewhere you really want to be." But Gerard only laughed.
"I'll be the judge of that. But you're not really standing in my studio right now because of me, either, are you? You're here because I'm Mikey's brother. I think Mikey was right about you, Frank," he mused.
"And what, may I ask, did the all-knowing Mikeyway have to say about me?"
"He said you got angry one day, and forgot how to stop."
"Maybe I don't want to stop."
Gerard stepped close then, looking down at Frank before reaching out to smooth a curl of hair that had escaped from behind his ear. Frank turned his head involuntarily into the touch, feeling Gerard's calloused fingers cup the curve of his cheek. "You two really need to talk," Gerard said, dropping his hand to his side.
"We have nothing to talk about," Frank spit out.
"I think you're wrong." He turned to the counter behind him, fumbling with something, and then he handed Frank his cordless phone. "It's already ringing," he added helpfully.
"You fucker," Frank breathed. He could hear a tinny voice coming from the receiver, repeating Gerard's name a few times. He lifted the handset to his head. "Gerard's here," he said into the receiver. "He's also an asshole."
"Frank?" Mikey sounded confused. "Why the fuck are you calling me? From my brother's phone, that is. Shit...is he...." he trailed off, sounding suddenly sick.
"Is he okay, you mean? For now. He might not be, after I beat the crap out of him." He shot a mean look at Gerard, who was leaning against the counter, watching him with those knowing eyes.
"Premeditation, Frank? From a cop? I'd think you'd know better." He paused. "Wait, I forgot who I was talking about for a minute."
"Fuck you, Mikey."
"No, fuck you. Didn't I ask you to back off investigating my brother? Not that I expected you to listen."
"I'm not investigating Gerard anymore. He's got an alibi. He's clear."
Frank only heard Mikey's tiny sigh of relief because he was listening so hard. Then the other man continued, "Then why are you there? I thought you didn't fraternize with the evil Way spawn anymore." His voice was even, but caustic.
Frank shot back, "He's not the one who..." He stopped.
"Say it, Frank. You've got the balls to treat me like dirt but not to accuse me to my face, is that it?"
Frank started pacing up and down the length of Gerard's living space. Gerard trailed behind him, expression alert but contained. "Fine. You want to do this? Then tell me where you got off firing my mother after twenty years, you piece of shit," he growled.
"Are you going to actually let me explain this time?" Mikey answered.
He let his eyes rest on Gerard for a moment. Gerard, who could only hear his side of the conversation. Who was biting his lip, small white teeth worrying at the pink flesh. He understood, then, that this was the price. He could call Mikey every name in the book and slam down the phone right now, but then he'd have to walk out of here. And Gerard Way, that bastard, had him pegged. He was as crazy as Gerard, because he didn't want to walk out of here. "What do you get out of this?" he whispered furiously, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand.
"Isn't it obvious?" Gerard murmured.
"You really are crazy," he marveled. Gerard didn't bother to respond, just leaned a hip against the wall of his ramshackle kitchen and waited. Frank slowly lifted the handset again. "Mikey, you still there? Talk."
"The first thing you have to understand," Mikey started, "is that I walked into this mess with eyes wide open. But I didn't create it."
"What mess is that?"
"The kind of mess where the company's nearly bankrupt, Frank."
Frank laughed. "Yeah, right."
"You can either stop interrupting me, or I'll stop talking. I'm serious, Frank. The company's barely staying afloat. My mother begged me to come home, six months ago, because my father was on the brink of collapse. So I left my once-in-a-lifetime internship, packed up and moved home. My father had been playing the market, and he hadn't done it very well. And the money he owed wasn't to a bank. It was to the sort of people I wouldn't borrow bus fare from. You know what I'm talking about. They wanted it, and they wanted it immediately. You're a police officer, I'm sure you've seen this before - I don't think I have to tell you what they would have done if I hadn't paid up. To me, to my family - to my mother. And I got that money by slashing personnel and mortgaging everything to the hilt. So that, Frank, is why your mother and dozens of other people like her lost their jobs. Do you think it didn't hurt me to do it? Of course it did. And my brother had to move home, too, because we couldn't afford to subsidize his studio space in the city anymore. And he did it and never said a word to me about it. Do you think that didn't hurt me?" He didn't wait for an answer. "But you know what hurts the most, Frank? I found out that my supposed best friend would rather believe the worst of me than give me the time of day to explain."
Frank stopped pacing, leaning his forehead against the cool cinder block wall and bracing himself with his forearm. He concentrated on breathing for a moment. "Why didn't you come to me?" he rasped out.
"I tried."
"I mean before. Before you bankrupted your family and deprived dozens of people of their livelihoods! I'm a cop, Mikey. If you were being threatened, you should have told me! I could have helped!" Mikey was quiet. Frank continued, "I guess that's my answer then. My supposed best friend was too proud to tell me he was under the thumb of the Mob. Or was it that you didn't trust me to be able to help?"
"Frank..." Mikey's voice was hesitant. "I couldn't...I didn't want to involve anyone else. I thought it was safer."
"I guess we're going with 'didn't trust me.' I don't need you watching my back for me, Mikey Way. I'm the one with the gun, remember?"
"Some help it was at keeping you from getting yourself shot up a few months ago," Mikey drawled.
"Shut your fucking mouth. You don't know the first thing about that. You weren't around!"
"And whose fault is that?" Mikey asked quietly. Frank's temper spiked. The easy answer was "yours"; the truthful answer was "both of ours".
Frank wavered between the two for a long moment before he snapped, "I've heard enough," and disconnected the call. He let the phone fall from his hand to the kitchen counter, then clenched the hand into a fist and swung with all his might at the window. The shivery sound of breaking glass mixed with Gerard's gasped-in breath from nearby. Frank barely heard either; his attention centered on the hot, bright pain in his hand, the warm curl of blood down his wrist. He breathed out. When his eyes focused again, he reached over with his left hand and picked out a few splinters of glass, tossing them in the kitchen sink.
"Frank?" Gerard said hesitantly, from close by. Frank turned his head; Gerard stepped close and reached past Frank to an upper cabinet, pulling out a kitchen towel and wrapping it gently underneath Frank's injured hand. "That looks bad. Let me clean it up." Buoyed by the flood of endorphins, Frank allowed himself to be led out of the room, into a cramped bathroom. His head lolled forward, dropping between his shoulders when Gerard pushed him gently into a sitting position on the toilet lid, laid Frank's hand palm down on his knee and began methodically cleaning the various cuts with peroxide. Frank winced at the touch of the chemical but didn't make a sound. Gerard's touch was gentle as he finished the cleaning and began wrapping the hand with a roll of gauze.
Gerard looked up from where he knelt at Frank's feet, and their eyes met. "Frank," Gerard repeated softly. "I'm done." Frank shook his head to clear it; the throb in his knuckles was just beginning to set in. He stood, watching Gerard rise from his crouch. He overbalanced, and Frank reached out with his good hand, grabbing Gerard's elbow to steady him. He didn't let go. Gerard licked his lips. He didn't pull away. "You gonna tell me why you decided to drip blood all over my kitchen?" he asked softly, casually.
"It's not like you'd even notice, what with the filth in the rest of the place," Frank shot back. "Is anything in this place actually clean?"
"My sheets are," said Gerard matter-of-factly.
"If that's a come-on," Frank told him, "it's completely - " He choked on the rest of his sentence as Gerard suddenly shouldered him into the bathroom door, reaching down and palming over Frank's crotch.
"How's that? Any clearer?" Gerard's breath as he answered was hot against Frank's neck. He reached down to hook his fingers into Gerard's belt loops and drag their hips together, trapping Gerard's too-clever fingers.
"Crystal," he growled. He felt lips trailing up the side of his neck to his earlobe.
"I want you in my mouth," Gerard murmured, and Frank couldn't control his answering groan. He gave in to his urge, formed the moment they met, to sink his hands into Gerard's wild hair and pull. He wrenched their mouths together. Gerard made a strangled sound and pushed at Frank's shoulders, steering him away from the door and into another corner of the studio space, where more large panels of the Inferno series created a half-hearted partition around a bed and scattered piles of clothes and books. Frank succeeded in shrugging out of his jacket and shoulder rig despite Gerard's less-than-helpful wandering hands. He dropped them on a ratty armchair. Gerard took advantage of his moment of distraction to shove him down onto the bed and straddle him, and Frank hissed as the motion ground their dicks together through two layers of denim. Gerard grinned at the noise, eyes sparkling with pleasure. His fingers worked at Frank's tie and the buttons of his shirt till he was able to spread the two halves wide. His hands wandered over the tattoos on Frank's chest and belly; Frank heaved in a ragged breath, watching as he bent and ran his tongue along one of the birds tattooed on Frank's hip.
Gerard looked up at that. "You need to hold still for me," he murmured, worrying Frank's hipbone gently with his teeth.
"Fucker," he breathed. "I'm not gonna just - " But Gerard had been working on the fastenings of Frank's jeans, and he gave them and the boxers underneath a firm tug, bending to take the head of Frank's dick in his mouth as it sprang free. Frank bucked his hips in surprise, and felt hands close around his hips, their grip surprisingly strong.
Gerard pulled off. "I'll hold you down if I have to," he said roughly, looking up Frank's body with an intent expression. Frank let his head drop back to the mattress. He threw his bad arm over his face, muffling the sound of his own groans as Gerard took him into his mouth again. He clenched a handful of the sheets in his left hand, back arching helplessly against the pressure of Gerard's restraining arm across his hips as his wicked mouth teased and sucked. The sensation flooded him; he couldn't move, he had no idea what Gerard was doing, if he was pleasuring himself as well as Frank. He tried to lift his head, to buck off the heavy arm, but Gerard chose that moment to sink down, taking him in deep, the muscles of his throat fluttering around him, and Frank stifled a shout by sinking his teeth into his own forearm, vision sparking red and black as he came hard.
He was barely aware of his surroundings for a while, vaguely noting the sensation of cool sheets being tugged over him, the mattress creaking and shifting as someone's weight left it. He heard water running in the bathroom, footsteps across the concrete floor. He tried to keep his eyes open, to wait for Gerard to return to bed, but the lids were as heavy as the rest of his sated limbs. When he woke, some time later, it was to the insistent buzzing of his cell phone, still clipped to his belt where it, and his jeans, had slipped to circle his ankles. He lurched into a sitting position, grimacing at the throbbing in his injured hand, and that was when he realized that the warehouse around him was completely silent. He swore, struggling back into his boxers and jeans and grabbing his jacket and rig with his good hand. A few moments of exploration was enough to confirm Gerard was gone.
It didn't make sense - none of this made any sense - so Frank put it aside and focused on the one thing that did; he was needed back at the precinct.
*
Frank felt that he had nearly forgotten the rhythms of an investigation, but that week reminded him. Interviews, reports, and records checks interspersed with a lot of hurry up and wait. Dr. Hurley got the dental record results back on the two additional bodies. They'd been declared missing persons two months ago, and the report had been made by one Victoria Asher. They were her former coworker, Andrew Mrotek, and a young foundry worker, Adam Siska. Frank faced the unpleasant task of making a return trip to Wandering Canvas and telling Stumph and Victoria that another one of their friends had been murdered.
Mrotek, she said, was a free spirit. He'd been a good friend, close to her and to William. Siska was just a kid with a crush. He followed Andy around everywhere, and Andy was fond of him and tolerated it. When Andy had disappeared, she hadn't been worried. He'd do that kind of thing sometimes. She hadn't even been worried when it appeared that he'd taken Siska with him. She only started to worry when a week or so passed and he hadn't contacted her or William at all. That's when she'd filed the missing persons report.
Frank and Alicia's evidence wall sprouted more pictures. The whiteboard on the wall was filled with jotted names; notes and arrows winding between them. Mikey Way's name appeared more than once; aside from owning the foundry where the bodies were dumped, he had been Mrotek's landlord and Siska's boss. Stumph and his staff were all noted, too. Two out of the three victims had worked at the strip club. Ivarsson and Mrotek both had the same probable COD as well. Siska had sustained only blunt force trauma to the head, according to the ME. When Alicia pointed out that a few similarities between two victims wasn't very strong evidence of a definite connection, Frank just shook his head.
"The dump site's the key, Simmons. That's no coincidence. These murders have got to be the work of the same person. And his victims just look random to us right now because we don't know enough about how he's choosing them. There's always a connection. But the most recent vic is the most telling; he made a half-assed attempt at hiding the body, but nothing like the effort at concealing the first two."
"Maybe he was in a rush. Maybe he was afraid he'd be interrupted."
"Maybe he's escalating," Frank said. "We won't know till we find the next body."
Alicia frowned. "You're sure there'll be a next body?"
"No doubt in my mind." He tipped back in his chair and scanned the whiteboard, then sighed. "We hit a dead end with the cab company, right?"
"No pickups in the vicinity of the club. If Ivarsson didn't call a cab, and she didn't wait for the bus, she had to have gotten in a car with someone. And she was too savvy to get in a car with someone she didn't know. So either she was snatched off the street - "
" - or she knew her attacker." Frank pointed to the autopsy photo. "Judging from the relative lack of defensive wounds, I'd say it's fairly likely."
"So we have to - what? Track down everyone she knew in town?" Alicia sounded frustrated at the thought.
"Nope. We work backwards. Access to the scrap yard is limited. Our suspect has to have access through the foundry, so we start profiling the foundry employees."
"That's a lot of people, Frank."
"So we'd better get started."
*
The foundry building had started life in a much more refined form. A shrubbery-lined circular driveway swept past the building. A few visitor parking spaces had been added at some point, and a set of low, wide stone steps swept up to a set of paneled, wooden double doors. The employee parking was around the side, but visitors who entered under the old Way Foundry sign walked into a small lobby with an old-fashioned reception desk. The receptionist's multi-line switchboard looked space-age on the scarred and age-darkened wood. He called upstairs to announce Frank and Alicia, and to Frank's surprise it was Mikey Way himself who walked down the staircase from the second floor to greet them.
"Frank. And, ah...Officer Simmons, am I right? Come upstairs to my office." He waved them up. Their boot heels were loud on the wooden stairs. The receptionist watched them go, openly curious. Mikey led them through the doorway to his office, motioning them to take seats in the visitor chairs, but he himself didn't sit, merely leaned against the edge of his desk. Frank stayed on his feet, and Alicia followed suit. Mikey looked from one to the other, and continued, "What can I do for you?" He was all business; tailored shirt and tie, hair slicked neatly back. There was no sign that this was the same man who'd hashed up painful truths and hurtful accusations on the phone with Frank last weekend. Well, fine, Frank could be professional, too.
"As you may have read in the papers - " Frank couldn't quite keep his annoyance out of his voice; the local crime reporter, a skinny scarecrow of a man named Ross, had practically haunted the precinct for the past week, and Frank had been admirably restrained, thank you, in not punching him in the throat on several occasions - "we've identified the other two victims found on your property, and it seems that the best tie we have between them at the moment is that the bodies were all dumped here."
"Since access to the scrap yard is restricted to your employees, we're hoping you'll allow us to go through your personnel files," Alicia continued.
Mikey made a face, and Frank was quick to add, "We can get a warrant, of course, but hopefully that won't be necessary."
"No, no. I understand. They're...I, ah, I've been doing a lot of my own Human Resources work, so they're actually right here in my office. I'd prefer if they didn't leave the premises, so..." he gestured at a set of filing cabinets behind his desk, "you can set up over there." Mikey pointed to a round table and chairs shoved into a corner of his office.
"We won't interrupt your work?" Frank asked skeptically.
Mikey responded evenly, "Well, I'm going to be helping you, so no."
"I don't really think that's - " Frank started, but Alicia interrupted.
"I'm sure you can tell us a lot of personal details that might not appear in the files," she said smoothly to Mikey. He studied her for a moment with an inscrutable expression, then nodded.
"I can. And if I can't, my foreman can probably fill in the blanks. Let me call him."
"Bryar?" Frank asked, and Mikey nodded. Frank hesitated a moment, then nodded. Bryar was a smartass, but he was an extremely capable dude. At this point Frank would take whatever assets came his way...even if they were packaged in big, blond, snarky wrappers.
Before long, the table was snowed under. There were stacks of files for disciplinary actions, salary records, employment history. Bryar was too busy to stay, but he stopped by every hour or so, and Mikey worked just as hard as Frank or Alicia. Frank took pages upon pages of notes. Several times, he caught himself chuckling under his breath at some offhand comment Mikey made. Several times, he caught Mikey looking sidelong at him before making them, like he knew they would make Frank smile. Like he was trying. It made his chest feel tight, made a frown crease his brow.
Alicia didn't have anything holding her back from laughing, so she did. It was a nice sound, loose and free. Frank could see Mikey responding to that, too. He was charming; she was charmed. And Frank's thoughts crept insidiously back to Gerard. He'd spent hours turning things over and over in his head till they were drowned out by sleep, or booze, or screaming guitars, into a haze of static. He could live with static. He couldn't live with a mystery; it might have made him a good detective, but it made him helpless in this. The slope of Mikey's brows and the quirk of his mouth were an open book to Frank, but on his brother, the familiar features spoke a language that was both beautiful and utterly foreign.
When the three of them, by unspoken agreement, stuttered to a stop for the evening, Mikey said, "I know tomorrow's Saturday, but...I can open up the office for part of the day...." Alicia looked to Frank first, and he nodded.
"Tomorrow, then. Same time." It was after hours, and Ryland was gone from the reception desk in the lobby, but Mikey walked down to let them out through the front door. Alicia was quiet as they got in the cruiser together, but after staring out of the window for a moment in silence, he offered, "He was always a special guy."
"Special?" she asked pointedly.
"He's so smart, just...thinks in different ways. He and Pete used to drive me crazy with their jokes, their little metaphors."
"Pete...Wentz? You're friends?"
"Pete and I? Were. Sort of. It was the Pete and Mikey show for a while, that summer before he went away. We were all so young; did a lot of stupid shit. I don't remember the half of it, really." Except he did, in disjointed crystal flashes, like photographs fluttering on a line. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about it." Or talking about it.
"Maybe because you've seen them both, this past week." She said it easily. It was an out, and he took it.
"Maybe." They pulled into the station lot before splitting up and heading to their respective vehicles. "Meet you at the foundry tomorrow?" he asked, and Alicia nodded. And Frank went home, nuked some Chinese, and stared at a nature program on the television for a while. He felt itchy; the press of grimy bodies at the bar tugged in one direction, the soft but too-empty bed in the other room tugged in another. Onscreen, an antelope died in a flurry of hooves and white teeth. He fell asleep on the couch.
*
The next day, Alicia brought in a laptop from the station and logged into their databases remotely. They continued combing through the files, but while they narrowed the list of potential suspects, they didn't whittle it down significantly. Frank shot occasional narrow-eyed glances at where Alicia and Mikey peered between their files and the computer screen and flicked through the filled pages of his notebook. Finally he sighed and let his boots drop to the floor with a thump. "I can't look at these files any more today," he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You guys?"
Alicia was looking at Mikey, not Frank. "I'll keep working for a while, Frank. If that's okay with Mikey."
Mikey nodded. Frank blinked a few times and then stood up. "Suit yourself. Call me if you need me."
Saturday night. Frank looked down at his clothes; casual, as off-duty as he was willing to get when he never knew if he'd need to be on-duty. Good enough. He drove back to the station and walked from there to the Quiet Riot. Brian was behind the bar when Frank walked through the door; he had the top cracked off a bottle of Bud Light before Frank's ass hit the bar stool, but gave him the hairy eyeball when he slid the bottle down the bar top. "Not planning any property damage tonight, right, Frank?"
"Nope. Just a few beers." He tipped back the bottle, one eye on the television in the corner of the bar, which someone had tuned to ESPN, the other eye on Bert and Jepha playing darts in the corner. Talk about property damage. Or possible bodily injury. Shit. He'd barely drained the first beer when a voice was speaking in his ear.
"Buy you another?" He turned toward the sound automatically, but when he looked up Gerard was closer than he'd been expecting, and he froze for a moment. He could see the green speckles in Gerard's eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifting just a tiny bit as he suppressed a smile.
"You're going about this backwards, you know," Frank told him, watching idly as Gerard signaled to Brian for a round. "Usually the drinks come before the fucking, and way before I meet the family."
Gerard merely sat down on the next bar stool, slouching casually and propping one foot on the rung between Frank's feet. "How remiss of me. You sit around your apartment and think of these smart remarks ahead of time, don't you?" He raised a black eyebrow.
"No, it's just a natural talent. You don't know the first thing about me," Frank replied.
"I know a lot about you," Gerard countered. "You used to be all Mikey talked about. You just need to give me a little refresher on the last six years."
"...well, he never talked about you."
A fleeting expression of hurt crossed Gerard's face at that, but all he said was, "It was a bad time for me. For Mikey and me. What do you want to know?"
Nothing, Frank wanted to shout. Nothing, and go away, and leave me alone. But he didn't. "What the hell are you drinking?" he said instead.
"Diet Coke," said Gerard, and when Frank snorted, continued, "Because I'm an alcoholic. That's why Mikey and I weren't speaking six years ago. But I cleaned up. I've been sober for five."
"And you're in a bar," Frank commented.
"I'm here because you're here."
Frank just stared for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Whoa. No. NO. Back up, dude. So, what, you're basically following me? Yet you're the one who walked out last weekend. In what way does that make sense?"
"You're assuming I left because I wasn't interested."
"Yeah," said Frank. "Pretty much."
Gerard's lips quirked a little. "Did that bother you?"
"Did that bother...tell me you're not playing games with me, Gerard. Because if you are, I will walk out of here and I will forget I ever met you."
"Liar." He paused. "You won't forget me. Just like I won't forget you. But I'm not playing you, Frank. At least not in the sense you mean." He reached out and laid a hand on Frank's thigh. High up on Frank's thigh, thumb tracing along his inseam. Frank's stomach gave a sudden jerk, like the stop at the top of a roller-coaster hill, and he panted out a breath. Gerard held eye contact steadily. Frank watched his pupils dilate, felt his own tongue stick to the surface of suddenly-dry lips. "Call me crazy," Gerard murmured, "but any game worthy of the title should have a reward."
"You're crazy," Frank breathed in answer, but his body leaned in, till he could smell coffee grounds and hot metal, till he could feel Gerard's breath.
"Well, look at the little Iero punk now," a voice interrupted. Frank's head snapped up. It was one of the old guard foundry workers, grizzled and paunchy. He'd stopped a few feet away, mug in hand, looking them up and down. His friend stepped up beside him, red veins blooming over his nose.
"And there's the Way kid," he added.
"The one with the stick up his ass, or the waste of space?" asked the first. Frank felt Gerard stiffen; he sprang to his feet.
Red Veins coughed out a phlegmy laugh. "Heard you was out at the foundry, Iero, doing an in-ves-tee-gay-shun."
"I'm doing my job," Frank said, coldly.
"And we all do ours," said Paunchy. "We work hard, boy. We don't take kindly to someone accusing one of our own." Frank recognized him, then. He was one of the union reps. A quick look around the bar, and the faces started popping out at him. Ritter slumped in the corner, making a sour face over a pilsner glass. Bert and Jepha, darts forgotten, turning to stare. Dan Whitesides leaning up against the bar. Novarro, Blackinton, and Carden guarding an accumulation of shot glasses and citrus rinds, their table puddled with tequila. There were more of them, too, all over the bar. And their heads were starting to lift.
"Like prairie dogs," Gerard murmured from behind him, and Frank shot him a quick look before looking back at the big mouths.
"I haven't accused anyone of anything, yet. Do you want me to start? I could probably make a pretty good case for threatening a police officer, right about now." Red Veins cracked his knuckles. Several sets of chair legs scraped across the floor as their occupants stood up. Frank shot a look back over his shoulder at Brian, who looked steadily back. His left hand curled loosely around the beer taps. Frank knew his right hand was on the sawed-off shotgun stashed under the bar.
"We ain't said nothin'," answered Red Veins. "Yet."
Frank shifted so he was more solidly in front of Gerard, his hands clenching into fists. Then a ripple went through the crowd, people shifting aside, and the floor around them cleared for the broad-shouldered figure of Bob Bryar. Bob looked at Brian behind the bar, then at Frank. "You're nothing but trouble, Iero," he grumbled, then turned around and stood shoulder to shoulder with Frank, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl. "Obviously you shitheads don't have enough to do if you spend your shifts gossiping like old biddies and your after-hours time harassing officers of the law."
Most of the nearby foundry employees went out of their way to sit back down, turn their heads to avoid Bob's icy blue glare. The few that did meet his eyes quickly looked away, with mutters of "Weren't doin' nothin' wrong" and "Gotta watch out for our brothers". Bob just waited till they were all done, then turned to Frank and Gerard. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Bunch of ignorant peckerheads. But I'm thinking maybe you ought to get out of here."
"I am in here three times a week," Frank growled. "This is my bar."
"You get thrown out of here three times a month," Bob retorted. "I know; I'm usually here for it. Suck it up and go."
He felt a hand curve gently around his forearm. "Frank," Gerard said softly. Meaningfully. Oh. Right.
With a nod at Bryar, Frank turned and headed for the door. He heard Gerard's murmured goodbye and then his footsteps following. Once he cleared the door, he took a few steps toward the curb and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one up with a sigh. He felt long fingers tug at his sleeve, and he passed the cigarette over wordlessly. Gerard took a drag then tucked it in the corner of his mouth, just raising an eyebrow when Frank reached out a hand for it. He relented after a moment and a few more puffs, and tucked it back between Frank's lips himself. "What's the plan?" he asked. His voice was utterly casual. Deliberately casual.
"You're going to drive me back to your place, Way, and we're going to pick up where we left off last weekend. Unless that's not the kind of...reward...you had in mind?" Frank's chest felt tight, but no matter. He could be casual, too. He spotted Gerard's truck by the curb, flicked his cigarette butt out into the street, and then walked toward the vehicle, leaning up against the door and propping his foot up on the running board. Gerard stepped up, bumping Frank's legs further apart with his knee until he could insert a thigh between them and press close. He tangled a hand in Frank's hair, tilting his face and bringing their mouths together. He tasted like Coke, cigarettes, and a little like cinnamon, and he swirled his tongue lazily, exploring the corners of Frank's mouth as Frank slowly twisted his hands into the cool, waxy leather of Gerard's jacket. One of Gerard's fingernails scraped a little too harshly over Frank's scalp, and he jerked in response, hips pressing up harder into Gerard's. Gerard swore into his mouth and released him, taking a step back. Frank's hands fell away from Gerard's chest, and he asked in confusion, "What the fuck - "
"Just get in the truck, Frank, for God's sake. Unless you really want to fuck on the hood, because that can be arranged." His voice was soft, deadly serious, and he reached past Frank to open the passenger door himself. Frank shuddered a little as Gerard's arm brushed his side, and he hopped up onto the bench seat without another word. Gerard slammed the driver's side door, rolling down the window and pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the debris on the seat between them as he swung the truck away from the curb and turned towards his studio. He swore when his searching hand didn't locate a lighter, and Frank let out a chuckle and pulled his own out of his jacket pocket, sparking first Gerard's and then a new smoke of his own. Except for the rush of air through the windows, it was silent in the cab. Either the vehicle's radio didn't work, or Gerard hadn't been in the mood for music. Frank could hear his own breath, could gauge Gerard's by the periodic flare of the cherry of his cigarette. Apparently the silence rule extended to conversation, too. "They were wrong," Gerard said suddenly, after a few minutes of Frank watching streetlights splash against the dashboard. He hummed a little in response, an inquisitive sound. "The guys in the bar. They were wrong about me and Mikey. Mikey cares about them; he's done everything he can to keep that place running, and he worries so much. And I'm not - " he broke off.
"You're not a waste of space," Frank said thickly. "You create. You take twisted hunks of nothing, their garbage, and make something out of it." Something sharp, and shining, dangerous and beautiful. His hands twitched where they rested against his thighs, brim-full with potential energy. Waiting.
"And you're doing a good job," Gerard responded quietly, eyes steady on the road. "They're just scared, and not that you won't find anything. They're scared that you will."
"I know," Frank told him. They always were. So hard for people to accept what lurked underneath the skin of the people they thought they knew. Except for Gerard. He studied his profile as he drove, hands at perfect ten and two, occasionally flicking ash out the crack of the window. Gerard shouldn't have been as attractive as he was; his turned-up nose and crooked mouth were not individually beautiful. It was his eyes that had captivated Frank from the beginning - his vivid, knowing eyes. In the strobelight flashes of the streetlights, they were dark, and didn't steal Frank's breath. It wasn't until Gerard parked in front of the building and let them both through the door between the gargoyles that Frank was captured again. Gerard's eyes burned green as copper, and Frank said, helplessly, "Why do you want me?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"An important one." He could still feel the phantom imprint of Gerard's lips from back at the bar, but he held himself apart. Held himself together with crossed arms, pacing.
"I was...barely sober when Mikey moved to the city; he came for me, to take care of me. And he told me stories, so many. About Gabe and Pete, but mostly about you. You seemed so alive, at a time when I was anything but."
"That was a long time ago," Frank pointed out.
"You're still alive, Frank. You just need to be reminded." He stepped closer. "Do you want me to remind you?" Gerard whispered, pushing Frank up against the nearby workbench and rubbing his lips along the line of his neck.
"So fucking much," Frank groaned. "Gee - Gerard - " His voice broke, and he let his head fall against Gerard's shoulder. "Fuck me," he whispered into Gerard's neck, and fuck if that was what he'd meant to say, but he felt a tremor run through the body pressed against his all the same, and he reached out then, hands fumbling to push Gerard's clothing out of the way. Jacket and shirt off the arms, over the head, down to the floor.
"Frank..." Gerard breathed, "Fuck, just stay here a minute." He ducked away from Frank's reaching hands, rushed into his bathroom, returning with a small bottle and a shiny square packet, which he dropped on the worktable before fumbling at Frank's clothes. With Frank helping, they finally hit the floor, except for Frank's holster, which he set carefully aside. Gerard bent his head, tasting different patches of tattooed skin on Frank's torso, strands of hair tickling his skin and making him squirm. Gerard held him still with firm hands on his hips. The sharp edge of the worktable cut into his ass, and he hopped up onto the tabletop, spreading his thighs so Gerard could press closer, tangling his hands in his black hair to tug the other man's lips upward, lick hungrily into his hot mouth.
Gerard's hands skated up and down Frank's bare thighs, callouses trailing along the sensitive skin there. He tugged Frank's hips to the very edge of the table, pressing against him chest-to-chest till Frank's spine bowed back to touch the tabletop, still kissing him hungrily. Frank heard the snap of the bottle cap, and suddenly there were fingers, spreading him and pressing in gently, insistently. Frank's focus narrowed to Gerard's hands, Gerard's mouth. When he added another, Frank's entire body jerked, and he bit Gerard's lip harder then he intended, but Gerard just pulled back a bit, testing the split with the tip of his tongue and grinning down at Frank with pink-stained teeth. His fingers twisted suddenly, wickedly, and Frank saw stars. "Dammit, Gerard," he panted, "stop fucking teasing."
"If you want," Gerard drawled, sounding a little breathless. His fingers withdrew, and a moment later Frank heard the crackle of the condom wrapper, Gerard's sucked-in breath as he rolled the rubber on, and then he was tucking Frank's knees up and pressing inside, head tipping back to expose his white throat, hips kicking in with a gentle, insistent rhythm. Frank wrapped his legs tightly around Gerard's waist, straining upwards till he could set his teeth to the corded tendon, his own cock pressed tight between their sweat-slick stomachs. He reached a hand between them to wrap around himself, sucking in a breath at the friction. A few rough pulls was all it took to send him over the edge, and his vision whited out as he came hard. Gerard let out a series of strangled, needy sounds, and his hips snapped forward once, twice, three times, and then he was coming too, slumping forward against Frank's chest. He whispered Frank's name into the skin of his neck, and Frank murmured something back, something that didn't escape the prison of his throat.
Gerard pulled out, turning away to dispose of the rubber, and Frank slid off the worktable onto legs that were less than steady. "I think...I'm getting too old for that," he said into the silence, trying for humor to dispel his sudden shaky feeling.
"I'm older than you are...and I do have a bed," Gerard pointed out gently. "You know where it is. If you want to go check it out?" Frank hesitated, and Gerard took a step towards him, all naked white skin and smooth muscles, black hair shadowing his eyes. Frank shuddered a little, and before he could think better of it he snagged Gerard's wrist, dragged him over to the sleeping area, to the big bed with its tangled sheets. He pushed Gerard down against the pillows, straddling his hips with his knees and leaning down to kiss him lazily, his own too-long hair falling down like a curtain.
Gerard murmured appreciatively, running his hands along the curve of Frank's spine for a while as Frank made a leisurely exploration of the corners of his mouth. Eventually, he ran his fingertips down over the backs of Frank's thighs and further, hooking in the sensitive bend of Frank's knees. Frank squirmed away from the ticklish sensation, and Gerard took advantage of his distraction to tuck his shoulder under Frank's and push him over, but quickly sprawled across him to chase and recover his mouth. Frank retaliated with a bite to the already-injured lip, completely deliberate this time, and when Gerard hissed at the sensation, he pulled back and flashed him a shit-eating grin. Something flared in Gerard's eyes, an answering darkness. He pinned Frank with an arm across the chest and wrapped a hand over his mouth, told him, "Don't make me gag you, Frank. I can think of other things you can do with your mouth." He lifted his hand, and Frank laughed.
"Oh, can you?" He wrapped their legs together, flipped them both with a wiry move. He was still laughing as he trailed down Gerard's body with his mouth; he knew the sound had sharp edges, but it was hard to care when he had Gerard writhing underneath him. The gasped words and noises that came out of his mouth had Frank at fever pitch again in no time, and when Gerard finally came with a strangled shout, then slithered down to wrap a hand around him, Frank followed, gasping Gerard's name. He wasn't conscious of much of anything after that.
*
Frank awoke to a sharp contrast of warmth and chill; hot breath against the back of his neck, hot press of the calf thrust carelessly between his, cold skin where he was naked in the cool dark air. He didn't know where he was for a moment. Then he remembered. Gerard, so much of Gerard. Wicked grin, broken breath. Sleeping, pressed close. Frank's stomach heaved, and he frantically slid out of Gerard's grasp, let his head hang over the edge of the bed and inhaled and exhaled slowly a few times against the iron pressure around his chest. Okay. Breathing. Not getting sick. Not here, not now. He lifted his head, one of the paintings surrounding the bed filling his vision with fire. He'd slept better here than he had in months - why?
The mattress didn't creak when he got up. It was dark in the warehouse, dim light filtering in from the bulb left burning in the vestibule. Frank padded over to the tiny bathroom on silent bare feet and ran the water cold, bathing his face and neck. The tightness in his chest, around his eyes, slowly eased, and he stared into his own eyes in the small, scratched mirror as his pulse slowed. Every time he thought everything was finally behind him, he seemed to be proven wrong. He noticed now, as the adrenaline faded, that his wounded shoulder was aching. Too much activity, he thought, and huffed out a humorless little laugh.
"Frank?" Gerard called questioningly from the other room, voice sleep-roughened. He stepped back out of the bathroom. Gerard's head and naked shoulders were visible over the top of a stack of canvases. His hair was a birds' nest of black around his pale face.
"Sorry if I woke you." He couldn't make his voice sound very sorry. He couldn't make it sound much like anything, and he watched Gerard's expression go from sleepy to confused to...something else, in the span of a moment. He deliberately turned his back, wandering off to where he thought he'd find his clothes, and waited. Make this easy for me.
"You going somewhere?" Gerard asked casually. Too casually, like he was amused. And fuck, of course he was amused, because Frank didn't even have a car here, and besides that - "what is it, four am? Five?" Gerard continued, stifling a yawn. "Wasn't actually planning on kicking you out of bed," he added, and Frank whipped around.
"Or leaving?" he countered, watching Gerard's lips press together and his nose wrinkle in response.
"Or that," Gerard conceded. "But it looks like you're not giving me a choice." He started moving around, picking up a few pieces of discarded sleepwear and tugging them on, and shuffled into the kitchen area. He started making coffee. Frank found the various pieces of his clothing and started pulling them on stiffly. He heard the hiss and gurgle of the coffeemaker finishing its brew cycle, and then Gerard's voice, saying, "You win."
He turned around. Gerard was standing behind him with a coffee mug. He handed the mug to Frank, who took a few tentative sips before asking, "Win what?"
"You win. Game over. I'm not playing anymore."
"I never was."
"I know," Gerard said softly. "I didn't realize." He turned and walked back to the kitchen. "I'm just gonna finish my coffee, and then if you want me to drive you home, Frank, I will."
"No!" Frank shouted, surprising himself and making Gerard jump and freeze. "No," he repeated, "I don't want to go home. I just can't...you don't..." He couldn't finish, and Gerard just waited, listening, his head tilted down to study the stained cement floor. Frank felt like he was speaking from far away; he set the chipped coffee mug down on Gerard's workbench with an audible clink of stoneware, stalking over until he was within arm's reach. Deliberately, he reached out and shoved Gerard a little, just enough to get his attention. "You don't get it, do you?" he snapped.
Gerard just stepped back, squared his shoulders and resettled himself. "I don't think you get it. And that's not going to work, Frank." He ran his fingers through his hair with a frustrated sigh. "Look. I didn't want to do this, but...it's five in the morning, I'm tired, and I really just want to go back to bed." He searched the floor for a moment, walking into the studio to pick up his discarded jacket and grabbing his keys out of the pocket. He reached out a hand towards Frank. "Here - if you want to leave, you can borrow the truck. Or you can come back to bed with me. It's your decision." He tossed the keys over, a gentle underhand lob, and Frank kept still and watched them arc, watched them fall to the floor with a metallic splat. He looked up from the keys to see that Gerard was watching him warily.
"No! You. Don't. Get. It," Frank repeated, very slowly. "I'm not gonna tell you my life story, but I can tell you a lot of the chapters end with someone leaving me. I've known you for a couple weeks, and you've already done it. Why would I stick around for more?" He looked straight at Gerard, watched his eyes widen, his face fill with something like horror.
"No," Gerard breathed. "Frank, you can't possibly think...oh, God, you do." He closed his eyes. "If I tell you this isn't just about getting laid, will you believe me?" Frank didn't answer. Couldn't. Gerard sighed. "Okay. I deserve that. Just...stay." He opened his eyes again, and Frank opened his mouth to say...something. But he was interrupted by the simultaneous ringing of his cell phone and Gerard's land line. They looked at each other, then each turned away.
"Hello?"
"Frank? It's Alicia. I need you to come here, right away." Her voice was tight, clearly holding back emotion. He could hear Gerard behind him saying "Mikey, slow down, what's wrong?"
"Where are you, Alicia?"
"Still at the foundry. I - please," she said, her voice breaking. "Front parking lot. I'm calling it in."
"Calling what in?"
"A 10-55, Frank."
"Fuck. Mikey?"
"With me. Hurry!"
He snapped the phone shut, in time to hear Gerard say, "Mikey, I'll be right there." They looked at each other grimly.
"I need - " Frank started.
"I figured," Gerard interrupted. "Let's go. I'll drive us." He grabbed the fallen keys and shoved his feet into a pair of unlaced combat boots as Frank buckled his shoulder rig. They were out the door and squealing into the circular drive within sixty seconds, the sweep of the truck's headlights revealing Mikey and Alicia, huddled together by Alicia's car, and the unnatural sprawl of a body on the foundry's stone steps.
"Stop here and leave it running," Frank said tersely. "Headlights on."
He had the door open before the truck even came completely to a stop, and Gerard laid a hand on his arm, said, "Wait. There's a flashlight in the glove box." Frank shot him a grateful look and grabbed the flashlight, jumping to the ground and rounding the hood. He was still several steps away when the combined beams of the flashlight and the headlights showed him the figure's face, and he stumbled back against the truck bumper in shock.
"Oh, hell, Pete," he groaned, taking the last few steps and dropping to his knees beside the body. He just looked for a moment; Alicia would have checked immediately for signs of life, before calling in the 10-55. There was really no question, anyway. The familiar face was rendered alien by an utter lack of the wit and the manic energy that had been Pete.
Frank forced himself to breathe, to keep looking. This is your job; do it. The play of the flashlight's beam caught the garish marks around his throat, like an obscene extension of the thorn tattoo. Ligature marks, just like the others. He flashed the light on the outstretched hand, checking for defensive wounds, and was caught by a flash of white. Something was caught in Pete's fingers.
"Alicia," he called out, looking over to the parking area. The sky was lightening, in anticipation of dawn, and he could see the shape of Gerard, Mikey wrapped in his arms, and hear a murmur of speech that was one or the other. Gerard, probably, as the rasping wheeze of Mikey's breath was clear a moment later; he'd always been prone to asthma. Alicia had stepped aside, was waiting, still as a statue. "Do you have an evidence kit in your car?" he asked. "There's something in his hand." He saw her start, and didn't blame her. He barely recognized his own voice right now.
"I do," she said. "Just the basics, but..." She turned to unlock the trunk, rummaged inside before pulling out a small black case. She brought it over to the steps, and crouched down next to Frank to open it. She pulled out a pair of gloves and handed them to Frank before snapping on a second pair.
Frank reached out to tug gently at the paper, murmuring to Alicia, "Rigor's starting to set in. He's been here for a few hours." He paused, then added, "Tell me again why you were here?"
"Mikey and I...we were working on the files till late. Then he ordered us food and we...just sort of talked, till we realized the time." It was too dark for Frank to tell if she was blushing. Probably not. Alicia wasn't the type. She continued, "He always parks in the employee lot, but he insisted on walking me to my car, and...when we came out the door we found him here. Pete. He told me about that summer tonight," she added softly.
Frank made a noncommittal noise. He couldn't think about that right now, not while he had Pete's cold skin under his hands. He finally pulled the paper free, smoothed the sheet flat with a gloved hand. It was a note, written in block letters with a thick black marker, short and to the point.
YOU DON'T DESERVE IT, MIKEY WAY, BUT I'M DOING YOU A FAVOR.
Beside him, Alicia read the words and swore under her breath. Frank scowled. He didn't like the way this was going. "Bag it," he said, and Alicia took the paper between gloved fingers, slipped it into an evidence bag, and initialed the seal. Frank took it back, pushed himself unsteadily back to his feet, and walked over to where the Way brothers stood by Alicia's car. They had let go of one another, but were still standing together, silent, shoulders touching. He stopped when he was still an arm's length away, eyes fixed on Mikey. "Mikeyway," he said softly. No matter what he'd done, what Frank had thought he'd done, the expression of uncomprehending shock on Mikey's face was something he'd never wished to see. He flashed, suddenly, to how he'd have to go deliver this bad news to Stumph and the rest at the club, too, and his heart broke a little. He hadn't even known he had anything left to break. This is what happened when you gave a shit; this is what happened when you loved people. He took a deep breath. "Do you know," he asked Mikey, "why Pete would have had this in his hand?" He held up the bag with the flattened note with the flashlight so Mikey could read it, heard the choked noise Mikey made when he saw the message.
"Some favor," Mikey cried out weakly, shoulders hunching. Frank saw Gerard reach out, but something clicked decisively in his head and he stepped forward, wrapping Mikey in his arms, pulling the other man's head down to his shoulder with a gentle palm. The angular body adjusted itself to fit into his embrace, just like it always had, and Frank held on, breathing in the familiar fruity scent of Mikey's hair gel. As the headlights of the second responders swung into the driveway, the driver giving a quick blip of the siren, Frank looked into Gerard's eyes over Mikey's head, felt the brush of cool fingers over the back of his wrist. He closed his eyes. "We're going to need a statement, but I'll come get it later," he whispered. "Have your brother take you home."
He felt Mikey nod against his neck. It was a reflex to press a quick kiss to the top of his head before letting go.
Frank stood and watched as Gerard's truck disappeared down the driveway, down River Road toward Mikey's house. Behind him, the sound of slamming doors and the sudden increase in illumination broadcast the presence of the Crime Scene Unit. He turned around, scanned the vehicles. Scimeca was busy stringing crime scene tape, and Walker was down at the end of the driveway, helping a uniform set up police barricades at the entrance. Frank squinted; it looked like Urie, which meant that he'd have to go have a little talk with him; Ross was sure to be attracted by the growing circus, and Frank could do without that nosy little bastard poking around. On second thought, maybe he'd send Alicia down there. Urie was still avoiding him after the incident in the squad room last week.
Once Scimeca and Walker were finished with the scene, they turned the body over to Hurley, whose eyes were sad behind his glasses. "We have to stop meeting like this," he said to Frank. Frank just snorted humorlessly and clapped him on the shoulder before walking off to the CST van.
"We got anything?" he asked, not holding out much hope. This had all the signs of a body dump; a highly pointed body dump, and that was what really bothered Frank.
"We'll process any trace Hurley finds on the vic back at the lab," Scimeca said, "and we've got the note you found. Too much to hope that there might be a print, but maybe something else will jump out at us." His voice was tight, and Walker fidgeted with his camera strap. This was a pretty small town, when it came down to it, and everyone knew Pete. A headache throbbed nastily if distantly behind Frank's temples. Pete. Damn it all to hell.
He held it all in until he was in the passenger seat of Alicia's car, as she drove them to Patrick Stumph's apartment. Then he dropped his head back against the headrest and said, "Fuck, Alicia! This is four people, three of them from the club and one who spent most of his time there. Still think it's coincidence?" She shook her head, lips clamped in a tight line, and Frank said, "And what's more, it's Pete. Alicia...Pete may have been a reckless little shit, but he was smart. Really smart. There's no way he would have let a stranger take him anywhere, not after Maja and the others."
"So it wasn't a stranger."
"No. Not to Pete, not to Maja. And that note..."
"The note," Alicia repeated. "Who would think that doing that to Pete would be doing Mikey a favor? That's twisted."
"I don't know. Pete told me last week that he hadn't even spoken to Mikey since he came back to town. There was no connection between them anymore; they just had that one summer fling, six years ago. And whoever wrote that note knew about it."
Alicia frowned, flicking on her turn signal to make the turn into Stumph's apartment complex. "So, someone one of them knew pretty well, then." She parked in visitor parking, but kept her hand on the gear shift and turned to look at Frank. "Someone who knew them. Someone who has a problem with the dancers at the club. Someone who thinks getting rid of Pete would be doing Mikey a favor."
They broke it off, then, to go knock on Patrick's door. He greeted them warily, dressed in casual sweats and ball cap with a pair of headphones looped casually around his neck. And when Frank told him what he had to tell him, something broke inside Patrick's eyes. "Not Pete," he breathed. "Why Pete? How - "
Frank reached out and set a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Patrick," he said gently, "I'm so sorry."
"He's been with me since the beginning. Since before the beginning. Since he and Tyson worked in that clothing store, and I managed the music store down the street. Do you remember, Frank?" Patrick tipped his cheek against the back of Frank's hand, and Frank gave in to his urge - for the second time in a day - to wrap his arms around someone. Around a witness. A friend. He met Alicia's eyes over Patrick's head, and she murmured something and turned away, let them have a moment of privacy.
Yes, Frank thought, he remembered. That was the fall after Mikey left. He'd slowly lost touch with them all when he started at the academy, but Pete had shilled secondhand clothing to the wannabe hipsters with his big manic grin, and Gabe had been doing...something. Better not to ask what. But Frank was pretty sure he'd been the one to talk Patrick into buying the strip club when its previous owner landed in the red. "Was Pete still hanging out with any of the old crowd?" Frank asked casually.
Patrick made a noise. "Hard to say. Ritter's around a lot, because of Nick. Gabe's friends with my DJ, Suarez. I don't know about anyone else, Frank, really...why?"
"Just asking questions, Patrick. Till I get answers."
They finished their business with Patrick, and Alicia asked him if there was anyone he wanted them to call for him. He'd said no, he'd do it himself, and had gotten on the phone. When Frank and Alicia were leaving, Frank was surprised to see that it was Spencer who pulled up in front of Patrick's apartment. The bartender unbent enough to give them a nod, if a rather stone-faced one. When they got back into the car, Alicia unsuccessfully stifled a yawn, and Frank said, "You really ought to go home, Simmons. Get some rest."
"But...we have work to do!"
"You said yourself you had a long night. You're just gonna spin your wheels at this rate. You know I'm right."
A muscle flickered in her jaw, then she sighed. "I know. Where's your car? I'll take you to it."
"It's back at the station." When Alicia raised an eyebrow at that, he rolled his eyes. Yeah, she knew where he'd been at five this morning. It didn't mean he wanted to talk about it. "It's a long story, okay, and I'm not getting into it."
"It seems like the kind of thing you could maybe summarize," she grumbled. "If you wanted to."
Frank didn't. Maybe he couldn't. So he changed the subject. And when he got back to the precinct, he buried himself in a mountain of notes to give himself something else to think about. Ray came by to check on him, leaving a cup of coffee. Gaylor and Allman were at their desks for once, and as soon as they saw Frank they cornered him to get a rundown of the case. He read more files. Ray came by again. This time, he didn't have any coffee.
"Frank," Ray said, "go home." Frank looked back down at the transcript he was reading and didn't answer. "Frank. You've been on this since before sunrise; give it a rest and come back tomorrow."
"Go away, Toro."
"How stupid are you trying to make me look here? Do you think I don't know what's going on in your head? Working yourself into the ground isn't going to bring him back." Frank bared his teeth at Ray, who just sighed and ran a hand through his fro, waiting.
"You're not gonna give up, are you?" When Toro shook his head, Frank shoved his chair back, slamming the manila folder shut and lurching to his feet. Okay, so he was tired. "Fine, I'm going." He grabbed his coat and keys, and Ray reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder as he walked past.
It wasn't until Frank was behind the wheel of his car that he realized how tired he really was. Somehow, he got himself home. When he locked his car doors and turned toward his house, though, he started and swore as he caught sight of a pair of jeans-clad legs, then the body that they belonged to, on his porch steps. Then he got a little closer and saw it was Gerard sitting on the front porch, arms looped loosely around his shins, chin on his knee. Frank stopped in the middle of the front walk. "You're here," he said. Stupid.
"Hi," Gerard answered quietly, eyes scanning Frank's face.
Frank tried again. "Why are you here?" He wasn't really trying to be mean, just to make sense of things.
"I brought you soup." He reached out and absently patted the brown paper sack sitting on the stoop next to him. When Frank just stared silently, he added, "Are you going to go inside? Can I come in?"
Frank rubbed at his temple, shoved a hand through his hair. "Yeah." Gerard stood so Frank could slip past and get to the door. He waited, a warm presence at Frank's back, as he worked the stubborn deadbolt and let them both into the house. Frank kicked his shoes off into the pile by the door, then padded into the kitchen to drop his jacket and keys onto the table. Gerard followed a moment later. His socks were red, and had holes in the toes, and Frank watched his feet so he wouldn't have to look him in the eye. He wasn't sure they'd entirely finished whatever conversation they'd been having this morning, and now it felt like it had all happened days ago, the dregs of anger lost among the stomach-clenching waves of shock, the heaviness of exhaustion.
The feet moved, stepped close, and Frank felt Gerard's hand on his shoulder, pushing him down onto a kitchen chair. He looked up, then, and as soon as their eyes met, Gerard smiled. His eyes looked tired, Frank thought, his own vision swimming a little around the edges. He watched raptly as Gerard's lips moved, not connecting the movement with sound until he saw them shape his own name. "Frank." He murmured something vaguely questioning in response, and Gerard repeated himself. "Do you want to eat this now? I stopped at the Hourglass on my way over here, so it's edible."
"M'vegan," Frank mumbled.
"I know. I told Greta it was for you, and she told me. It's mushroom and wild rice."
"I like Greta," Frank said around a yawn, fumbling with the lid of the styrofoam container Gerard handed him and starting to eat. "You told Greta you were coming here?" Great, he'd never hear the end of that.
"I wanted to make sure I got you something you'd like," Gerard said. He looked a little pink. Shit, he was blushing. Frank paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.
"That's...unexpected," he said. Gerard muttered a few swear words, swung away to pace to the fridge and back. Frank laughed, a half-soundless little huff of breath. "What is it, a bribe? To forget that you were an asshole earlier?"
"You don't seem all that bribe-able. And anyway, I...I don't expect that. Just...maybe a second chance?"
"You Ways," Frank murmured. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and the spoon felt like it weighed twenty pounds. He slumped slowly forward, rested his cheek against the smooth cool wood of the tabletop. "With the big eyes...can't say no...."
He heard Gerard laugh softly, felt his hand wrap around his wrist to pull him up out of the chair. He was stronger than he looked; Frank allowed himself to be lifted. "Where's your room?" Gerard asked, snaking an arm around Frank's waist to guide him down the hall.
"Last door," Frank told him. He straightened his spine, tried to walk himself down the hall, but his hip bumped Gerard's with nearly every step. When they reached his bedroom, Gerard steered him towards the bed, probably intending for his guiding hand to lower Frank onto the messy sheets. But Frank kept a firm grip on his arm, pulling Gerard after him until he loomed over Frank in an uncomfortable-looking stoop.
"Frank - " he started, and Frank tugged harder, till he was sprawled halfway across the bed.
"Stay."
Gerard puffed out a little breath, tugging back for a moment before wriggling furiously to climb over Frank and curl himself into a comfortable position. Frank let his eyes blink closed after that, feeling more than seeing as Gerard leaned up against the pillows, pulling Frank up against his chest with the arm Frank refused to relinquish. His breath fluttered the hair at the crown of Frank's head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Again. Still. I didn't know what I was doing. Usually don't, I guess. But I don't want to just fly blind with you."
Frank murmured into the pillow, "Second chance." It came out mostly indistinct, but he thought Gerard understood anyway, because he felt lips press into his hair.
"Okay. I can work with that."
He felt himself drifting, but Frank forced his eyes open, turning onto his back until he could see the tumble of dark hair, the slash of green eyes beneath. He reached up to tug Gerard's head down. He came willingly enough, propping himself on an elbow planted next to Frank's shoulder, lips gentle, kisses lazy. The pleased little noises he made in the back of his throat, vibrating through his chest, were the last thing Frank heard as he dropped off into sleep.
*
When Frank woke next, it was to a slant of sunlight from the half-open blinds and fingers gently tracing a pattern on the back of his shoulder. He must have shed his t-shirt at some point during the night; callouses caught on the scars marring his skin. Then he realized what Gerard was doing. He made some sort of noise, and Gerard said, "Oh, you're awake." He sounded like he'd been awake for a while. His fingers were still moving idly along Frank's skin. "You want to tell me about this?" he asked, sounding casual but curious.
"Just a few bullet-holes," Frank said. "What, you've never seen any up close before?"
"No," Gerard answered, fingers stilling, still brushing Frank's shoulder blade. "This is why you were on leave?"
"Yeah. Got a parting gift from a couple of drug dealers, a nice long vacation from the force, and a couple of merit badges on my shoulder. Got lucky; through-and-throughs. Couple of inches down and in, we wouldn't be talking."
"That is lucky." He paused. "I'm glad we're talking," he added softly, and Frank rolled over so they were face to face.
"You stayed," he said. He tried, and failed, to keep his face expressionless. An answering grin spread across Gerard's face.
"I don't think I've ever seen you smile before," Gerard said. "I think I like it."
"You think you -" Frank started. "Well, good thing I like you."
Gerard raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to sound so surprised at yourself," he replied dryly, leaning in close to catch Frank's mouth. Frank could feel the smile curving his lips.
After a moment, though, he pulled away. "You taste like coffee," he said accusingly.
"Mmm," Gerard hummed. "I made some a while ago. You were out like a light. There's some left, if you're not running too late." Frank looked at his alarm clock, made a disgruntled noise, and scrambled for the edge of the bed, heading for the kitchen. Gerard's answering laughter rang off the walls, following Frank down the hallway.
By the time Frank had gulped his first cup of coffee, showered and dressed, and gone to fetch a refill, Gerard had made his way back out to the kitchen, and was perched on one of Frank's kitchen chairs like a giant unkempt vulture, sipping his own mug of coffee and reading the classifieds from the Sunday paper. "Looking for a job, Gerard Way?" Frank asked as he shrugged on his shoulder rig.
Gerard shook his head absently. "Junk sales. Get some of my best material that way." He looked up. "Oh, you're ready to leave. You need a ride?"
Frank raised his eyebrows. "You're offering to drive me to work?"
"Are you saying yes?"
Frank hesitated. "No," he answered. "But I am saying 'have dinner with me later'."
Gerard smiled. "Okay." He waved the newspaper at Frank. "Can I take this?"
"Yesterday's news, sure." Frank shrugged a shoulder. Gerard folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, teetering on one foot as he stuffed his boots back on. He grabbed his jacket and followed Frank as he headed out the door, latching onto his wrist and yanking him close before he could leave the front porch. Frank went willingly, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling Gerard's mouth down to his. The sudden squeal of car tires from across the street startled them apart, and they grinned at each other sheepishly.
"Think we're pissing off the neighbors?" Gerard murmured.
Frank's face curved into a savage grin. "No, but I'd like to sometime. If you're up for it." Gerard looked thoughtful, but his eyes glowed hotly. Frank was the first to turn, to drive away. The wicked rush of glee warmed him long after the taste of Gerard's mouth faded, and when he looked in the rear view mirror halfway to the station, he realized he was still smiling.
*
The work day started off with a cup of coffee, hand delivered by Chief Toro. "Did someone write 'coffee boy' into your job contract when you weren't looking?" Frank asked him with an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Can't a guy just be nice?" Ray answered plaintively.
"In my experience, no," Frank told him easily. "Not if you're the boss. But you're the exception that proves the rule, I guess." Ray just harrumphed and turned a desk chair backwards, straddling it and nudging Frank with an outstretched foot. Frank made a face back at him automatically. It took him back to being a rookie, to riding shotgun in the older man's patrol car. The potent combination of corruption, old age, and burnout had sent Ray catapulting up the seniority ladder fast, while Frank pinballed from beat to vice to detective in the same amount of time. And then burned out, an insidious little voice whispered to him. He brushed it aside. He was back. He was doing his job. Nothing else mattered.
Alicia came in just moments later, frowning faintly over the top of a travel mug. "Frank, have you tried to call Mik- oh! Chief Toro. Good morning."
"Simmons, hi. Frank, keep me posted on - "
Ray was interrupted by a commotion at the door. It was Mikey Way, carrying a cardboard box and trailed by a perturbed-looking Crawford, who was in the middle of saying, " - but Mr. Way, if you'd just let me call - " Mikey ignored him, marching into the office and setting the box down on the table with a heavy thump. His face was set, but his eyes blazed.
"These are the rest of the files. Find him, and take him down. Or I will." Mikey stood by the edge of the table, still as a statue. When Frank stood up and stepped close, he could see the tiny tremors of effort running through his thin frame, and he looked him in the eye for a moment.
"Mikey. We will. I will."
A muscle leapt in Mikey's jaw, but his voice was quiet. "I'm trusting you," he said, eyes searching Frank's face.
"I know." That seemed to be enough to satisfy Mikey; he allowed Ray to draw his attention, allowed Alicia to walk him out.
When Alicia came back in, she told Frank and Ray, "He shut the foundry down, you know."
"He what?" said Ray, brow furrowed.
"Shut down everything but the active production lines and the maintenance staff. Skeleton crew."
"Shit," said Ray. "Why would he do that? If our guy is one of his workers - "
"Which we know he is," Frank put in.
" - with that kind of deviation in his routine...the loss of control..." Ray broke off, looking worried.
"Will make him sloppy. And that's what will give us the upper hand," Frank said darkly.
With that thought hanging over their heads, they got back to work on the files. Ray stayed, and by the end of the day they had a list of six names scrawled on a piece of paper. It was hard to look at. Several were familiar names. At least one was someone Frank had at one point considered a friend. At least one was someone Pete would have considered a friend, too. Thinking about Pete made it easier. Pete, who for all his faults hadn't deserved to end up the way he did; and one of those names had probably been the one responsible. And now Frank had something more substantial than shadows to chase.
*
Frank had called Gerard earlier, asked him to meet him at the Hourglass, and when Frank pulled in the parking lot - late, of course - the battered pickup was already in the lot. The chimes over the door tinkled merrily as he stepped inside, and he saw Gerard look up and smile from a window booth. Sliding onto the red padded seat across from Gerard, Frank mumbled an apology for his lateness, and Gerard chuckled.
"I figured you might be. Greta's been keeping my coffee cup topped up." Frank cast a quick look toward the counter, and sure enough, Greta was watching them. He waved her over. She favored him with her most mischievous smile, but she brought him a cup of coffee, so he let it slide. Under the table, Gerard bumped his knee against Frank's, and Frank hooked his foot around the back of Gerard's ankle. They stayed that way while they ordered and while they ate.
Frank was just finishing the dregs of his third cup of coffee when a soft voice said, "Detective Iero?" He looked up. It was the dancer, Nick, standing by their table and tugging nervously at the hem of his t-shirt.
"Mr. Wheeler," Frank said, flicking a look at Gerard before turning toward Nick. "What can I do for you?"
Nick chewed at his bottom lip, looking unhappy. "I saw you having dinner. I think...I have to talk to you. About your case," he added, eyes cutting to Gerard.
"Do you need Mr. Way to leave?" Frank asked.
"No," said Nick. "He should probably stay. I...I wanna tell you a story, and I don't want him to think I'm badmouthing his family."
"Okay, Nick." Frank signaled to Greta for another cup of coffee. "Sit down and talk."
Nick sat, crossing his arms over his chest, then pulling one hand to his mouth to gnaw on a thumbnail. "Um, I don't know where to start?" He shook his hair out of his face. "I guess. Okay, so I should probably explain that Chris - Officer Gaylor - is my roommate. And he told me about your case, about what you're looking for, and maybe he wasn't supposed to, but...I think I can help you."
Frank sat up straighter. "Help us how?" he asked. "Is this something we need to do down at the station?"
"No!" Nick said quickly. "It's not an official...it's just a feeling I have, and if he found out..."
"If who found out?" Gerard asked.
"Tyson," Nick whispered, eyes wide in his pale face.
Ritter. He was on the list of six names. Something curled in Frank's gut, and he said sternly, "Nick, we need to know anything you might know. Let me decide if it's officially a concern."
Nick folded the fingers of one hand around the opposite wrist, staring at them intently. "We've known each other a long time. We used to work together, at the foundry. And when I lost my job, and started working at the club, he didn't take it well. Started making these comments, you know? And I sorta thought he was joking, brushed them off for a while, laughed them off. But he didn't stop. Started acting weird. I mean, yeah, I take my clothes off for money. But he started acting like it was some sort of personal insult. And when he's not fighting with me about my job, he's muttering about how this is the Ways' fault." He flashed a look at Gerard. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Gerard murmured. "Nick, are you and Tyson...together?"
The other man shook his head. "No. No, we aren't. Not like that. I think...I knew, deep down, that he felt that way about me, but I didn't want - I guess I thought if I ignored it things would just stay the same. And he's just been acting weirder and weirder. He came by my apartment late Saturday night, and his hands were all cut up. He said it was from doing his mom's yard work, but after hearing about Pete on Sunday...I don't know. He was at the club earlier that night, and I was mad at him, and I refused to come out and talk to him then. It's why I let him in, after. I felt bad, but he was just...off." He paused. "You think that's why he - " he cut himself off.
Frank looked him straight in the eyes. "Nick, this is not your fault. If Tyson's behind these murders, that is on his shoulders. Not yours. Never yours."
Nick looked down and away after a moment. "I just...I need a minute. Can I - " He slid out of the booth, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Frank held up a hand.
"Give me a minute, Nick, okay? I'm just gonna pay the bill. Do you have a car here?"
Nick shook his head. "Walked. I don't live far, it's okay."
"No, I'll take you home. Just - " Frank slid out of the booth, and Gerard followed suit. He grabbed ahold of Gerard's upper arm and whispered, "Gerard, I have to call this in. This is no joke, seriously. Ritter's already on our radar."
Gerard bit his lip. He walked over to the register with Frank, and when Frank was done paying, he said, "Why don't I drive Nick home? Then you can do whatever you need to do."
Frank frowned. "I can't ask you to do that, Gerard."
"You're not asking. I'm offering. Go."
Frank reached out then, tangled their fingers together briefly. "Be careful."
Gerard smiled. "I'm gonna start thinking you care." He leaned over and brushed his lips against Frank's, gently, lightning-quick, then turned to where Nick stood studying the specials board and laid a hand on his shoulder, murmuring something to him as he guided him out the door.
Frank turned back to the register and handed his money over to a beaming Greta. "Not a word," he told her severely, but he couldn't keep his lips from twitching as he said it. As he walked out the front door, he saw Gerard's ancient pickup chugging jerkily out of the lot. "Stop trying to smoke, talk and drive at the same time, Gee," he muttered under his breath, flipping open his cell phone and punching in the number for the precinct. "Crawford?" he barked. "Who's on duty? Is the chief still there?" He waited while the desk officer transferred him, then continued, "Ray, it's Frank. Send a uniform over to Tyson Ritter's apartment, will you? And I need a BOLO to go out on his vehicle."
He walked to his own car, only half listening as Ray called out to someone in the bullpen to issue a BOLO on a green 1996 Ford F150, license YTR-4009. "Wait, repeat that," he snapped at Ray, his eyes falling on a pickup tucked in the corner of the Hourglass parking lot, half behind the dumpster. Plate YTR...fuck. He drew his service pistol, crept closer till he could get a look in the windows. Looked empty, but...he tried the door handle. Unlocked, and when he opened it, the cab was unoccupied. The gears started turning, and he cast a few quick looks around the lot, catching the reflected glare of Gerard's headlights off the diner windows as he turned right and headed towards River Road.
Frank's gut clenched. Something felt off. He heard Ray's tinny voice in his ear, lifted the phone to tell him, "Found Ritter's truck in the lot at the Hourglass. No sign of Ritter, but...Ray? Can you get Nick Wheeler's address from the witness interview reports?" He listened to the rustling of paper for a moment, settling behind the wheel of his own car and swinging quickly out of the lot, watching the two small red dots marking Gerard's progress towards the River Road intersection. They turned left, just as Ray informed him that Nick lived downtown. The opposite direction from where Gerard's truck was heading.
"Fuck," Frank growled, something large clawing its way to life inside his chest. "Ray, listen to me. I'm in pursuit of a vehicle, currently heading west on River Road toward Way Foundry. Suspected carjacking. Send backup." His CB radio crackled to life a moment later, dispatch notifying all available units of a pursuit in progress on River Road. He barrelled along, cell phone still clamped to his ear.
"Where are you going, Frank?" Ray asked, just as the taillights of Gerard's truck swung down the access road behind the foundry.
"The foundry. Vehicle entering the scrap yard. Tell backup to fan out and cover all entrances. This is a hostage situation till further notice." As Ray barked at him from the other end of the line to wait for backup, Frank, for Christ's sake!, Frank snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket. Gerard - he'd seen his face behind the wheel, dammit, he knew it was him driving! - slowed down to punch a code into the pin pad, and that was all the opening that Frank needed to catch up, tapping the rear bumper of the truck with the nose of his cruiser. The truck wasn't going very fast, so it barely fishtailed, and Frank swore as the back window slid open and a bullet pinged off the hood of his cruiser. Shit, the fucker was armed. The pickup lurched away, its drunken progress across the yard broadcasting the agitation of its driver. Frank followed, face set in a grim mask. This place was a maze, and the driver - Gerard, something wailed in the corner of his mind - had obviously been told to take evasive action. It was an impressive bit of driving, but he couldn't shake Frank, and slowly the pickup was herded towards the foundry building proper.
The truck finally screeched to a halt, half-blocking an entrance door, and Frank automatically pulled up at an angle, popping his own door open as a shield and ducking behind it. After a brief scuffle, barely visible, a tall, skinny figure emerged, dragging a shorter, black-haired figure. Frank reached up and snapped on his spotlight, angling the beam just in time to catch the figures of Ritter and Gerard in its illumination for a split second before Ritter dragged his captive inside the foundry, firing off two more shots in Frank's direction as he went. Frank swore, running up to the still-idling pickup and yanking open the passenger door. He was greeted by Nick Wheeler's white face, hands bound to the ceiling handle with plastic handcuffs.
"Nick, shit, are you all right?" Frank swore and reached for his pocketknife to sever the thick plastic bindings.
"I'm okay, he didn't hurt me. He has a gun, Officer Iero, and he...he took Gerard!"
"I know," Frank muttered. "Look, Nick, more officers will be here any minute. Stay here, keep your hands visible, and do everything they say. They'll take care of you." He made to leave, and Nick grabbed his sleeve in a desperate grip.
"Please don't hurt him," Nick whispered brokenly. His eyes were dark, shattered, and Frank's lips twisted helplessly before he shook himself free and ran inside in pursuit of Ritter, gun drawn. Gerard Gerard Gerard, his brain told him in chorus, and the shot, splattering off of the concrete wall by the door, took him by surprise. Distraction. Death sentence. He plastered himself against the wall, eyes taking in his surroundings. It was a dark, cavernous room, splotchy illumination coming from a few sickly-orange sodium bulbs and the flickering glow of multiple furnaces tucked among the mysterious hulking shapes of machinery. Factory shutdown, skeleton crew, Alicia's voice came back to him from earlier. The lines were frozen, but the furnaces still roared, and Frank automatically tracked the sound of pounding feet through the maze of machinery.
Two more shots, pinging off metal surfaces. Frank held his own gun loosely, afraid to return fire because he couldn't see them, couldn't see where Gerard was. He slunk silently around corners, under conveyor belts, behind machinery. Stalking, waiting. Finally, he whipped around a corner, ducking yet another wild shot, there was Ritter, standing wild-eyed on the platform of the furnace feeder, forearm clamped around Gerard's throat as Gerard scrabbled ineffectually at the restraint. He pointed the gun at Frank, a noticeable tremor in his outstretched hand, and Frank fell automatically into shooting stance, looking down the barrel of his own pistol. "End of the line, Ritter," he called out. He met Gerard's eyes, his stomach somersaulting at the fear there. Stay calm, he tried to say with his own gaze. Don't fight him. Trust me. Slowly, Gerard's struggles slowed, body rigid but immobile in Ritter's grasp.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," Tyson cried plaintively. "All I wanted was my Nickolas." His face twisted. "They, all of them, if they went away I'd have him, away from that disgusting place. There wasn't enough time. You," he hissed suddenly, gaze sharpening again as it focused on Frank. "You found them, you weren't supposed to find me."
"But I did," Frank replied. "It's over, Tyson."
"It should have been over sooner," Tyson whined. "Mikey Way didn't like my present. He wasn't supposed to help you. Why did he? I don't understand. And then you came along, and this one," his arm tightened around Gerard, causing a pained squeak to sound, "and you talked to my Nick, again. No one talks to my Nickolas. So you have to die. You have to burn." It was gone again, that plaintive tone, replaced by a feral glimmer in the tall man's eye. He was edging to the side, and before Frank could blink he was thrusting Gerard away from himself, stretching his free hand out to pull a nearby lever. Frank flinched as a large drum full of scrap metal suddenly dumped above his head, diving for cover as the metal rain fell, hitting the ground hard with his bad shoulder. His gun dropped out of his hand, skidded several feet on the concrete floor. Tyson laughed, and clicked the hammer back on his revolver. Frank rolled into a crouching position, poised on the balls of his feet, hands carefully extended, palms forward, empty. Gerard was crumpled on the floor near Tyson's feet. He stirred weakly as Frank watched, willing him to stay still. To stay off Ritter's radar.
"What are you going to do, Tyson?" Frank taunted him softly. "That's a six-shot revolver, and if I've been counting right, you've already used your six shots. Maybe you've got one bullet left. Maybe. But between you and me, there's a good chance that I can get to my gun before you even figure out where you have the best chance of actually hitting me." Tyson laughed, and that sound more than anything else would have convinced Frank the man was no longer sane, even if he hadn't had plenty of other proof. As he raised his left hand to join his right on the grip of the revolver, Gerard burst into motion in a flurry of black, grabbing a length of metal and swinging it like a bat into the backs of Tyson's knees. Tyson lurched off balance, stumbling several feet across the floor and slamming into a metal console, and Frank rolled in the same moment, grabbing his pistol and leveling it at Ritter as the other man swung his revolver back towards Frank and pulled the trigger.
The revolver's firing pin clicked uselessly on an empty chamber as Frank's round hit Tyson square in the shoulder. He jerked like a marionette, leaving a trail of crimson down the metal console as he crumpled to the floor. Frank was on him in an instant, kicking the revolver across the floor out of reflex before barking, "Gerard!" Their eyes met, held for an instant before Frank continued, "Keep this aimed at him. If he moves, shoot him," and slapped his service pistol into Gerard's hand. He reached for the pressure points in Ritter's shoulder, pressing his hands into the wound to slow the bleeding, until the sound of running feet announced the arrival of the second responders. One of the uniforms shouldered him aside, and he watched numbly as the paramedics followed, administering triage to the man now cuffed to the stretcher.
Frank shrugged off the hands and the words directed at him, "Are you okay, Detective Iero?" Was he okay? Dirty, disheveled, bruised and nicked with cuts, yes. He only had eyes for Gerard, and Gerard, it seemed, couldn't look away either. His eyes were wide with fear, with outrage, with relief, and perhaps with something else. Something Frank wouldn't allow himself to identify.
His feet, the traitors, carried him into Gerard's orbit. His hands reached out, and it was only then that the blood caking them caught his notice. The flames in the furnace danced behind them, sweat glistening on their faces. Frank touched Gerard then, cradling his jaw gently in the palm of his hand. "I - " he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry." His fingers left tracks of red on Gerard's skin, he noticed, marveling at the brilliance of the color, before he forced himself to turn and walk away.
*
Frank was lost. Lost in the paperwork required of him now that Ritter had been arrested. Lost in the unceasing activity of his job. Lost in his too-empty apartment. Lost at the bar, despite the frequent silent presence of Bob Bryar. Lost, without Gerard. He'd called twice in the week since the incident at the foundry. Frank hadn't answered, and the calls stopped after that.
Things had been easier, when he'd had no one. He hadn't noticed the lack. Now there was Ray, there was Alicia, at the precinct. Greta, threatening to cut off his coffee if he didn't eat. Patrick, sad-eyed over the gas pumps at the station on Broadway, telling him he'd closed the club, was thinking of investing in a small recording studio downtown. Bob's muttered snarky play-by-play on Bert and Jepha's darts game from the next bar stool. But there was a lack, and it ate at him.
There was no Gerard, but there was Mikey Way, sliding onto the bar stool on his other side and ordering a Coke Zero with lemon. All Frank got in response to his questioning look was a dismissive eyebrow. In fact, he didn't say anything for a while that wasn't directed at Brian or Bob, and Frank was starting to actually consider leaving when Mikey finally turned to him and said conversationally, "You said I could trust you."
"You can. Didn't I do what I said I would?" Frank replied, stung.
"This is bigger than that, Frank, and so far you're fucking up. He needs to know he can trust you." Mikey didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. Frank scowled and drained the last gulp of his Bud Light.
"I got him kidnapped at gunpoint. He could have been killed. Like you said, I fucked up," he said under his breath. Looking up, he saw Mikey with his phone to his ear. "Way to listen, asshole."
"I am listening, asshole. To my brother. Maybe you should try it. Here, tell him what you just told me." He held out the phone.
Frank stared at the piece of glass and plastic like it had sprouted fangs. Mikey looked at him, impassive. Slowly, Frank reached out and brought the phone to his ear. "Gerard?" His voice cracked a little on the second syllable.
"You know, Frank, for someone who doesn't like playing games, you're pretty good at mixed messages." Gerard's voice was cool.
Frank swallowed around a suddenly-dry throat. Mikey was looking at him meaningfully. "I fucked up," he told Gerard dully. "You trusted me, and I almost got you killed."
Gerard, amazingly, laughed. When he was done, he answered, "You think that's how you fucked up, Frank?"
"Isn't that enough?" Frank demanded.
"My God, Frank, of all the things that could possibly be your fault, that's barely even in the neighborhood." He paused, heaved a sigh that Frank practically felt through the phone. "Will you please come over here and talk to me in person? I don't want to have this conversation over the phone." Frank hesitated. On one hand, he ached to see Gerard, to replace the mental image of his scared, blood-smeared face that had haunted him for the past week. On the other hand.... "Frank, you owe me at least that much," Gerard said ruthlessly, cutting into Frank's thoughts.
"I'll be there," he said quietly. "Just as soon as I settle my tab, I'll be there."
"I'll be waiting."
*
Frank pulled into the dirt lot behind Gerard's pickup and walked into the warehouse. He didn't bother knocking. In the main studio section, Gerard had rearranged things. Several large canvases were propped on easels in a rough semicircle, in various stages of completion. Gerard himself was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, but he got to his feet when Frank walked in. They just looked at each other for a minute or two, toe to toe. "I have a few things to say to you," Gerard told him.
"I guess you probably do," Frank said, but the first thing Gerard did was grab him, sliding his tongue into Frank's mouth and kissing him till Frank was moaning in the back of his throat.
When he broke away, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "That wasn't one of the few things, I just needed to do that."
"Gerard. I don't - "
"I'm talking. Three things, Frank. Just three. First thing? What happened at the foundry last week was no more your fault than it was mine or Nick's. Do you understand that? I want to make sure that's crystal clear."
"Okay?" Frank wasn't sure at all, but Gerard's eyes were blazing, and he sounded sure. Very, very sure. Okay. "Second thing?" he asked softly.
"The second thing," Gerard continued, "is this. The only way you fucked up is by walking away from me when you clearly didn't really want to." He paused. "Tell me you didn't want to."
"I didn't want to," Frank whispered, surprised into truthfulness, reaching out to touch Gerard's face.
Gerard caught his fingers, immobilized them in midair between their two bodies. His hands were warm. He didn't let go, just squeezed them, almost too tight, till Frank's knuckles cracked. "And the third thing is this. If you ever do it again, Frank, I will punch you in the fucking face. Understand?"
Frank smiled a little despite himself, a warmth that was more than a little fond spreading through him from the spot where their hands were joined. "You wouldn't."
Gerard scowled. "Don't test the theory."
"I won't. Gerard, I won't!" He gently pulled his hand free, stuck them both in his pockets. He wandered over to one of the easels, studied the unfinished painting for a moment. "These look different from the others." When Gerard didn't reply right away, he added, "You want to know why, I guess. You deserve to know why. I'm not afraid of being alone." He looked up. Gerard was watching him intently. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm fucking terrified of not being alone, okay?"
"Okay," Gerard said gently. He walked over to stand next to Frank in front of the canvas. "It's a new series," he said. "I'm thinking of calling it Purgatorio."
"Purgatory means cleansing," Frank murmured, half under his breath, and Gerard slanted a look over at him.
"You know your Latin. Catholic school?"
"The name's Iero, what do you think?" Frank smirked. "Guess a few things stick with you."
"Purgatorio was the land between Heaven and Hell, filled with cleansing fire," Gerard told him. They both looked back up at the canvases for a moment in silence. "They're for you," Gerard added softly. Frank looked up, met his eyes.
"You think I need some cleansing fire, Gee?"
"I think you've already had it, Frank." He bit his lip, but didn't look away. "I want to start over."
"What do you mean, Gerard?"
"I mean, you were right, what you said in the bar that night. We were going about things backwards. There's so much I don't know about you. I don't know your favorite cereal or the last book you read or - " Frank cut him off with fingers over his lips.
"You want to be friends." His voice wavered a little, and Gerard shook his head frantically, dislodging Frank's fingers.
"I want you to fuck me till I see stars, Frank, don't get me wrong about how much I want that," he said intently. "But I also want to be friends. I want to know you, really know you. Am I going to get the chance?"
Frank threaded his fingers through the long black strands of hair that slipped around Gerard's face, pulled him closer. "I gave you a second chance, before. Will you give me one?"
Gerard smiled. "What have I been saying all this time?"
"Just making sure we understand each other," Frank whispered into his ear, adding a nip for good measure to feel Gerard shudder against him.
"This time, I think we do." Gerard's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, and Frank kissed him then, the swirls of blue sky and crimson flame surrounding them blending into purple smudges as his eyes slipped closed. Outside, somewhere across town, a siren sliced through the night air. Frank knew his phone could start ringing any moment, but he pushed the thought aside. In this moment, he had everything he needed.
| | |
| Part Two Six Records, Three Photographs and Two Memories, '75
Remus can tell when the clouds knit together that the storm is a Siriusbinger.
A Siriusbinger, for those unused to Remus' world, is like a harbinger, only far more dangerous, loud, and unsubtle.
It's a shift in the weather, a change of humidity, a darkening or even brightening of the sky, or a new direction of
the winds which bears with it a certain smell, imperceptible to most noses, but something Remus has long since
trained himself to recognize. In his room, book propped open on his bent knees, hair uncombed, Remus pauses with
a halfway bite into his sandwich. He strains to look out the window. Somewhere just beyond his reach is a rumble
of thunder, low beneath the thick clouds but rolling closer, louder. The wind is shaking through the trees. The endof-
summer heat has a chill edge to it that signals rain. Remus knows that any sensible young man in his position
would roll down the window and lock the shutters, but the storm isn't a Siriusbinger for any one of those sensible Page 1
young men. Remus finishes his bite of the sandwich, chews exactly twenty-two times, and swallows. The clouds break. He lifts his nose to the smell of rain, which he likes, and listens for the rumble of a motor -- more
distant than thunder, and harder to hear, but there, unless his instincts have failed him. It's only a simple matter of
time. *** Sirius leans in close over the handlebars, the rain-thick wind whipping his hair into ropes around his face. They
were twenty miles from the Welsh coast when the rain started, at the time warm and gentle, drumming gently on
Sirius's skull and making round, comical sounds on James's helmet; now the rain roars around them in glassy
sheets, and thunder rips the sky out magnificently on all sides of them, and they are so bone-soaked they almost
can't tell they're wet anymore. He spits out water and grins ferociously into the mouth of the storm, gunning the bike into an even higher gear.
James, behind him, lets out a tiny yip of muffled horror and tightens his grip on Sirius's stomach. If it were anyone
else behind him Sirius might be more cautious, but it's a summer's end storm and this is James with his knees
digging into Sirius's hips and they haven't seen Remus in months, and it would be pointless to wait five extra
minutes and save their hypothetical necks. Ahead of him, gray through the wild lines of rain, he can almost make
out the crooked little shadow of Remus' house, pinned against the edge of its little village like a fly on paper, and
he thinks of how Remus will yell at them when he sees them. Well, he won't yell exactly; Remus never yells. But
he'll get that look on his face like the two sides of his mouth are trying to squirm in opposite directions, that look he
gets when he's trying to be serious and wanting to laugh, and he'll give them some very pointed words; and even so
he will have to turn around, as he always does, as if to keep Sirius from seeing that warm, incongruous, goofy smile
breaking out over his face. As they draw closer Sirius squints through the lashes of rain and sees, suddenly, like a wink, the small gray figure
lean up in the yellow window; and he whoops and waves and swoops in to him. *** The easy answer is: Sirius Black is trying to kill him. But when, Remus admits, isn't Sirius Black trying to kill him?
There was the time Sirius tricked him up onto a broomstick and then sent him whizzing off, utterly alone, into the
afternoon, so that he lost all his lunch and half his breakfast when James finally rescued him. There was the time
Sirius decided it would be a grand idea to jump out at Remus halfway through Remedial Potions, just as Remus
was adding the key ingredient, causing the cauldron to explode, singing Remus' eyebrows off so he looked like
some sort of albino rat waiting for them to grow back in. There was the time Remus doesn't think about, which was
worse than killing, which doesn't factor in to any of his equations --a variable he calmly and methodically erases
from each and every list his life has to offer. And now there's this time, Sirius swooping toward his small, hapless,
helpless bedroom window, gutting motor oil and rain onto his mother's pristine curtains, and nearly smashing the
window frame into the comic shape of a motorbike: big and brassy and made up of smooth circle lines, admittedly
attractive, if you're into that sort of thing. The easy answer is: Sirius Black is trying to kill him. There are more complicated elements, and the question is Page 2
what really counts; the little thrill which laces Remus' blood like lightning and thunders in his belly, and the lurch
of longing surging up within him just seeing his friends again. It isn't a reunion --and he feels bad Peter can't be
here for it, really --but Remus always imagines his friends are going to disappear over the summer, when James
and Sirius vacation together and Remus is left inevitably behind to wonder at the laughter they're sharing. He insists
he isn't jealous. It's envy. There's a difference. Even now, framed in his window, backlight by the occasional slash
of lightning against the storm-dark sky, they have grown irretrievably closer to one another. They are the dark hair
and wicked eyes in Remus' life. They are inseparable in the way only two boys, two best friends, can be. They
share Quidditch and motorbikes and a penchant for wandering about naked without any shame at all, without the
imposition of maturity forcing shame upon them. Remus, feeling distracted by his own gladness despite, touches his right thumb to the left corner of his mouth.
"Hullo," he says. "Still don't check the weekly weather forecast in the Prophet, I see. Some things never change." *** "Still don't check the weekly weather forecast in the Prophet, I see. Some things never change." For a moment Sirius, hanging in Remus's window, wet and bedraggled as a dog and grinning insanely, reflexively,
has to steal a few seconds and take Remus in: the pale, contained seriousness of him against the warm amber of his
bedroom lamp, his light hair uncombed and his skinny ankles jutting out sharply from the bottom of his trousers. He says, nonchalantly, "I was in the mood for a shower anyway." "Yeah," James agrees. He's grinning too, wet hand slick and freezing against Sirius's neck. "It's been a month and a
half, you know, since last he set hand to washcloth. Vile." "Won't you unwashed masses come in," Remus says with dark amusement, making an ushering gesture like
sweeping air toward himself. "Unless you'd rather come in downstairs, like normal people." "Oh no," Sirius says cheerfully, "we'll do from here, thanks--" and he plants a muddy, jingling boot on Remus's
white windowsill, just to see the anguished, wrinkled, parental face that Remus makes, the one that Sirius thinks is
rather wonderful. "I think not," Remus says firmly. He pushes at the toe of Sirius' boot with ginger fingers. "You can come round the
back." He looks up to them, his mouth twitching, and Sirius for the first time gets a glimpse of the two long, angry
scars running the span of his quiet, sharp-boned face. Involuntarily, he hisses in a sharp breath and recoils --a little,
enough. James straightens against him and says, startled, "Moony!" Without thinking, Sirius reaches out and touches the pad of his thumb to the little, tapered place where the top scar
stems, right below the vulnerable eye. Remus jumps back ; quick as wires twanging, Sirius thinks, or like a potion sweeping in and popping when you add
the last crucial ingredient. "Don't," Remus says. His voice is strange and a little high. "Sorry," Sirius whispers. He pulls his fingers back carefully. "It just surprised me." Remus is looking up at him
with the wariness of small wild things, and Sirius feels stupid, and wants to make things right. He forces a laugh. Page 3
"It looks brilliant," he says, "really, Moony, just like you got it in a swordfight." *** "It looks brilliant, really, Moony, just like you got it in a swordfight." "You're getting wet," Remus says. He doesn't quite look up at his friends, still getting rained on, still without any
umbrella, still waiting for him to give up his inhibitions and let them muddy his entire room with wet footprints.
There's a knot of something more heavy than fire in his stomach, regret perhaps, the true pain of a scar -remembering
the scar --buried inside him. Outside, behind the clouds, he can almost feel the moon waning. It is
now not quite a circle, not quite anything at all, one edge too straight as it shifts in its monthly rotations and pulls
the ocean and pulls at Remus' bones, his achy, near-arthritic joints, all at once, even unseen. He watches for it in
another flash of lightning, but sees nothing behind the roiling clouds. "Well, all right," he mutters. "Take your
shoes off and get in. I'll find the towels." James laughs. "Good man, Moony!" he says. The clamor of two boys clambering, bedraggled, off an equally
bedraggled motorbike, is impressive. The squelch of their wet socks on the floorboards is as well, and makes
Remus wince. He can't leave his friends sitting like two right idiots out in the rain. He can't leave them standing her
dripping rainwater onto the floor, either. "Stay where you are," he says, "just, stay, and I'll be right back with towels and some tea." "Can I--" Sirius begins. "The motorbike stays outside," Remus warns. There's a look in his eye, guarded, firm, the sort that channels
something deeper down, but with carefully measured doses. "Towels and some tea," Sirius echoes. "Yes sir, very good sir, on your order sir," James quips. He salutes, grinning cheekily, but wetly. "I'll only be a minute," Remus says, and ducks out of the doorway, more relieved to be alone for a time than he ever
thought he could be. He listens to the house creak with the rain, the rain on the roof, the rain against the
windowpanes, and eases the hammering of his heart as he eases down the stairs, rubbing the back of his hand over
the bridge of his nose, his cheek, the length of his scar across the length of his face, feeling stupid, self-conscious
and bare. *** "I'll only be a minute," Remus says, and vanishes down the stairwell like lightning winking out. They follow him
with their eyes for a moment. "Phwoar," breathes James, raising his eyebrows at Sirius, and Sirius nods grimly. "That's something, innit? It didn't
look that bad in the photo." He scrubs at his wet hair with one hand, thoughtfully. Sirius watches the dark door where Remus has gone, absently shrugging off his jacket. He is not a particularly deep Page 4
thinker when it comes to other people --their tics, their surprises, their strange animal needs, all seem to him
something of a waste of time and much better communicated by straight talk or at least straightforward deceit --and
so it unsettles him that he is so much aware of every part of Remus's existence. There are times when Remus's
presence in a room makes him feel like the sun, and then there are times like this, when Remus makes him feel
large and clumsy as a blind elephant. Sirius, who has been trained to move elegantly since he could barely move at
all, cannot decide if this off-footedness that Remus inspires in him is horrible or fascinating. On the other hand, he's never liked being bored --he can't even count sheep to get to sleep, because being that
boring is harder work for his brain than just zoning out to thoughts of how to solve his Arithmancy problems. By
unsettling him almost constantly Remus can't possibly bore him. There was a time maybe when he thought Remus
was boring, was a wet blanket, was unwilling or unable to have any fun, and he looks back on that time and feels
more or less an ass. "You don't think he minds that we came, do you?" James asks, his voice muffled by his arms over his head, peeling
off his soaked t-shirt and hanging it gingerly off the windowsill. "Oh yeah," says Sirius with more certainty than he feels. "He's glad. He just doesn't know it yet." James grins at
him. Not for the first time Sirius is hugely, breathtakingly grateful for James, who understands him and laughs at
him, and with whom he is always certain. They look each other up and down. "You look a right berk," James says, which is particularly ridiculous coming from gooseflesh-covered, drowned-cat
James. He looks astigmatically about for a dry surface for a few moments, finally is forced to polish his glasses on
the soaked waistband of his trousers. Sirius regards him fondly, and then says, with utmost contempt, "Sod off, Potter," and then yanks his own t-shirt
over his head just in time to see, through the transparent cloth, the shadow of Remus, appearing in the doorway
with a tea-tray in his hands. "Well hello there," he says, with as much dignity as he can possibly manage with his shirt wrapped clinging around
his head like a boa constrictor. Yet again he's on the wrong foot, confused and tangled up with everything in the
wrong place and strangely, inexplicably happy about it. "Are you the house help?" "Yeah," James snickers, "and do you take hopeless cases?" "I'm not stuck," Sirius says, with all possible stateliness, and wriggles out of the shirt to prove it, dropping it in a
sodden gray heap on the floor. *** "I'm not stuck," Sirius says. He flails around in his shirt for a moment longer and then manages to pull himself free,
all boy-limbs with half-man definition, his elbows sharp from the smooth muscles of his upper arms, his hands the
square lines of thumb from wrist. It pieces together a juvenile geometry that Remus thinks he can spend his life
attempting to formulize with teenage theorem after teenage theorem. It must have something to do with playing
Quidditch, he assumes, that ease with which Sirius and James can undress in front of people. They don't have scars
like Remus does, or gangly arms like Remus does, and they aren't awkward angles like Remus is, and it's habit for
them like it isn't for Remus. Page 5
As always, Sirius can state an untruth like it's one of the main principles upon which life operates. His stubbornness
or his conviction or that dark inner light that fuels him vibrantly makes it true. He's out of his shirt and it's a lump of
wetness leaking more wetness over the wooden floor. Remus clears his throat, and tries to twist the smile off his
face. Instead he feels his skin stretching, tugging, pulling, against the scars. He wonders if he looks like a harlequin
as much as he feels like a harlequin, something dressed up behind a shoddy mask, with sections of him sewn hastily
together. "Towels," he says. His words are easy and calm and just a little bit dour, with the wry twist from his quirked lips.
He's spent a lot of time measuring himself this way, giving enough humor so Sirius and James and Peter will
always realize he isn't quite as much of a stiff as he has to pretend he is, for his own sake, not theirs. "And tea," he
adds, towels over one arm, tea on a tray balanced neatly on the other. "And extra jumpers in that drawer, over there,
because I'm not Jillian and you aren't nearly as bronzed as you lead me to believe you were. Such deception."
Setting the tray down on a squat table by his bed, he can't quite disguise his helpless comfort at their arrival --half
naked as they are and shining with rain still, hair stuck down to their foreheads, dripping with water over their
noses, into their eyes and ears. "Good man, Moony," James says again. He pushes wet hair out of his myopic eyes, which Remus can see are only
somewhat focused on him. James, irrevocably nearsighted. Remus gives him his towel first, then dangles the
second from thumb and forefinger like a dead thing. "If I didn't take hopeless cases, Prongs, I'd've locked you out the second you got here, and I'd've kept all the tea for
myself." He's had to train himself to wickedness, as well, a mischievousness that isn't quite his own. It's a refined
job at patching James' and Sirius' habits together and adopting them, a third nature grafted over his second nature,
which stands tall ever, cement and concrete and marble and so much stone, over the first. Those are instincts he
wasn't born with, but they're entirely his own. He positions himself resolutely against them. It's a constant struggle
that can't afford Sirius shaking water over him, touching him with wet fingers along marred skin, remnants of past
moonlight. *** "I'd've kept all the tea for myself," Remus says with a grin. He is holding the remaining towel tantalizingly in one
hand while his eyes flick over to Sirius, who heaves a long-suffering sigh and sticks out a hand. Remus's cheeks are
slightly pink, whether from the exertion of climbing the tottering stairs or maybe the steam of the tea, which mists
around his face and curls the tips of his disheveled hair. "Towel," Sirius says sternly. He can feel water trickling down the back of his neck to pool on the floor around him.
Remus gives him an insolent look that goes all the way down the length of his outstretched arm, and something
shivers in his stomach. It makes Sirius want to snap his fingers, to act even more like a fool, to show he doesn't feel
it. "Smartish, if you please." "Sirius, what have we learned about manners?" Remus yanks the towel just a little bit out of reach. Remus can be
utterly ridiculous about this sort of thing. As if Sirius hadn't been learning manners, real manners, manners that
require large textbooks to keep straight, a mother's thin fingers on your shoulders and her breath at the back of your
neck, when Remus was still toddling round his garden in dirty nappies. Page 6
There are things, though, that Remus has known since he was barely out of said nappies. They're things that Sirius
can't imagine a toddler having to know, things that require an understanding that Sirius even now doesn't think he
has. It's this about Remus that has made him grow up before his bones, so that now at sixteen he seems lost in his
own body, moving with immense, thin care and precision, like a foal just off its first legs. "Can I have a towel, please, o most patient and understanding of hosts, on whose territory I have done nothing but
trespass and drip," Sirius amends. Remus's smile bursts over his face, awkward and lovely before he gets control of
it. In this moment of distraction Sirius lunges for him, seizes the towel, and wraps it around his freezing shoulders. *** "Can I have a towel, please, o most patient and understanding of hosts, on whose territory I have done nothing but
trespass and drip." Sirius is most politic. Remus sees it in the cunning slant of his eyes, the sudden twitch of his
shoulders, the way his muscles tighten about his abdomen. He realizes, too late as ever, that he's lost the upper
hand. Sirius moves at him, snatches the towel away, and sets to rubbing his unfortunate hair dry, just as James has
already done, set apart, suddenly, from their antics. "Well," Remus attempts, "since you were so very polite about it." He tugs at a frizz of hair near his cheek. No
longer laden with chores, with towels to hand out and tea to serve, his arms feel empty. No longer all business, he
wants the un-boyish want to hug his friends, both of them, and get wet himself, and cast off the shirt with it's little
hole at the left wrist hem where he used to chew it. Instead, he pulls up three chairs in a semi-circle around the
scuffed coffee table -- which, until now, served as a bedside rest for his books. "Sirius is three sugars, and more
cream than tea, in the blue cup; and James, you're the red cup with two sugars." Settling down into a chair is easier
said than done. He folds himself up against the back and stares down at his right thumb. There's some dirt up
beneath the nail. "Remus," James says, incredulous. "You haven't seen us for three whole months and--" "Well," Remus excuses himself, "someone has to pretend it isn't twelve and you haven't just ridden here in a
thunderstorm on a great ugly motorbike." *** "Well," Remus says, a little bit coldly, "someone has to pretend it isn't twelve and you haven't just ridden here in a
thunderstorm on a great ugly motorbike." James shoots Sirius a Look. "Bollocks to this!" Sirius is astonished and slightly, secretly hurt at Remus's total lack of enthusiasm, after they
flew here, in the pouring rain, for four hours just to see him. It's stupid, and a peculiar kind of stupid that is utterly
intolerable coming from your best friend, and Sirius is finished with it. He plants himself squarely between Remus
and the tea-table, dripping and impassive. Remus eyes him. Gently, like offering your hand to a strange dog, Sirius removes the saucer from Remus's hand and places it on the Page 7
table.
"What are you--" Remus starts, but stops, as Sirius tackles him violently.
It's a good tackle, a proper flying tackle as one might execute in a particularly nasty match if one didn't mind being
carded for the rest of one's natural life, and Remus says "oof!" as Sirius smacks into his stomach and barrels him
over. James, by the window, is laughing.
"What in the name of--" Remus struggles upright onto his elbows, but Sirius headbutts him as gently as possible
and knocks him to the floor again.
"I missed you," Sirius says, plaintively, nuzzling Remus's neck like a dog. This is a way of loving someone that he
knows: something physical, basic, at home in any form. The skin of Remus's wrist grazes his bare, damp shoulder.
"Get off," Remus yelps, "get off me, you're all wet and hey! that was definitely Inappropriate Touching. Get out of
there -- Sirius! Help, James, get him off me!" He's laughing nonetheless and despite, struggling, laughing, pushing
against Sirius's arms with his hands. He looks at last like the boy he is, instead of a butler in a bad Muggle picture.
"There are people who would give their eyeteeth to be groped by me, you know," Sirius says, sounding as offended
as he possibly can, when Remus is finally sparkling beneath him, reminding him why they drove all that way and
got this damp and mildewed in the first place. He growls just a little, in the back of his throat, but comfortable, unhungry,
and scrapes his teeth along the delicate skin of Remus's throat.
"James!" comes the frantic screech from under his arms, bubbling with laughter. "James! --haha --help!"
"Right," James drawls, and saunters over to the pair of them and sits on Remus's head.
"There," Sirius says, immensely pleased with himself. "Aren't you glad we came now?"
***
"Aren't you glad we came now?" Sirius asks. It isn't a question. Remus wriggles beneath Sirius at his chest and
James on his head.
"Gnhghhf ganoof breefmh ungh," he says. It doesn't quite come out as he meant it to.
"What's that, Moony?" Remus can just see James --cupping one hand around his ear, batting his lashes, as if butter
wouldn't melt in his angelic smirking mouth. "I'm afraid I can't hear you through my trousers."
Remus, left with no other options, has no choice but to do what any sensible boy in his position would do. It's either
bite James in the rear or suffocate.
"Disgusting." Remus makes a great show of spitting out soggy trouser germs as James stands with a howl of
indignant pain.
"He bit me!" James's expression is glorious disbelief. "He bit me, Padfoot, he's got sharp teeth and hebit me with
Page 8
them!" "It was that or go all blue because I couldn't breathe." Remus folds his arms over his chest. His cheeks are flushed;
he can feel them, hot and damp. His mouth tastes like wet corduroy. It isn't a delicate flavor. In this instance, it also
involves motor oil. "I can safely say," he continues, licking his lips and wrinkling his nose, "that I got the shorter
end of the stick." Boyish delight comes over him then, catching sight of the laughter in Sirius' eyes, and the fading,
gleeful outrage in James' mouth. "Now. Where were we? Ah yes. Revenge." It's always been easy enough for Remus to give as good as he gets. Sirius is bigger than he is, and James as well,
taller and broader in the shoulder and with muscles you can see in their postures, in their firmness of adolescent
pride. He doesn't have that, shorter and trimmer, with wrists that just look like wrists rather than teenage boy wrists,
and shoulderblades that poke out rather than slip into a plane of tight muscle. Still, he can take Sirius three falls out
of three (which never really ceases to surprise either of them) and with this in mind he twists forward and
bludgeons Sirius back with his body, knocking them opposite, on top and yowling as James joins in the fray. The
three of them roll about, elbows in eyes and someone's finger up his nose and a knee precariously close to between
his legs, curling and stretching and laughing until the nearly solemn cough in the doorway gets through to them. Remus freezes. He has a mouthful of Sirius' hair, and Sirius is breathing hard against his neck, and James' arm is
caught between their bellies, and James himself is struggling to get himself free, no doubt to leap upon, and
therefore murder, them both. Remus thinks he might have a black eye in the morning. "Uhm," he says. "Hi, dad." "The basement's flooded," John Peter Lupin says. "And a motorbike is trying to break down our front door. Hello,
Sirius. Hello, James. Are either of you very good at bailing water?" One (1) pair glasses, formerly belonging to James Potter. An unfortunate casualty of the
Battle of Flooded Basement. Page 9
Page 10
Page 11
Page 12
| | |
| Part The Fourth
Brendon is nervous. He's never really been one hundred percent, hands shaking kind of nervous. But dressed in his finest clothes, standing in the vestibule of the chapel, he really, really is.
He'd only seen Jon briefly after dinner last night. They had time to steal a few kisses before he was whisked away by Tom and the rest of his friends to go to the village pub. Brendon spent the night in the kitchens with Ryan and Spencer drinking ale and reminiscing about all their silly childhood exploits. It's was nearly light when they stumbled upstairs, Brendon going one way and Ryan and Spencer the other.
Spencer had been in to wake him up, a pot of strong coffee and sweet sticky rolls to revive him. There was an army of servants on their way up to prepare Brendon's room for the wedding night and Brendon would be getting ready in Spencer's room anyway before he went in to see his mother and siblings. His mother presented him with a medallion on a platinum chain, just like the ones his brothers had received on their wedding day. It had their family crest on one side and the crest of the House of Walker on the other. When he asked her about it, she just shushed him, replying that mothers had a way of knowing these things.
The tap on his shoulder makes his jump. "Ready?" Spencer asks.
Brendon swallows hard and nods. Spencer smiles, the sort that reminds Brendon that Spencer is, first and foremost, his best friend, and then hugs him hard. "You're a very lucky boy, Brendon Urie."
Brendon closes his eyes and nods. "I am. Thank you." Spencer pulls away and makes sure Brendon's clothes are straightened and fixes his coronet, which has a tendency to tip to one side. He nods, sharp and decisive, then signals the footmen on the doors. The doors open and the horns play and Brendon is almost blinded by the moment, everyone in the court sitting in the pews, his parents up on their thrones, and somewhere, at the end of this long, regal walk, Jon, waiting for him.
The ceremony goes by in a blur. He only listens to a little of the rites and promises, his father speaking about the merging of family and history. But Brendon's ready for the hand fasting. It's always been his favorite part of the ceremony.
Spencer is by his side, holding a thick blue ribbon and Tom's on Jon's with a ribbon in deep green. They each stepped forward, wrapping them around Brendon and Jon's joined hands. When it was done, Brendon looks up and meets Jon's eyes. All he can see is love as they say the vows.
"I take you, Jon Walker, to be my love. To walk by my side for all of the days in this life and keep you with me always." Ryan brings the white ribbon forward and ties the first loop. Jon smiles shyly and licks his lips before he begins.
"I take you, Brendon Urie, to be my love. To walk by my side for all of the days in this life and keep you with me always." Ryan ties the second loop, pulling the knot taut. With their free hands, Brendon and Jon each take an end of the white ribbon. They inhale together.
"Forever in my heart." They say and untie the white one together. Brendon pulls the green one, Jon takes the blue one and they unwind their hands. They slide on their rings and Brendon swears he can feel Jon's heart beating in time with his. The King nods his blessing and Brendon hauls Jon in, kissing him soundly and sealing their union.
Brendon giggles into the kiss, and Jon has never been gladder in his life. Neither of them steps back when they should, not when Brendon is kissing sort of shyly and Jon can't remember anything other than this boy - his husband! It takes Tom nudging him to break them apart. Brendon blushes when he sees everyone on their feet and cheering and Jon just squeezes his hand. The quest finally feels over.
The King stands and everyone goes quiet. "Please, now, join my wife and me for a feast celebrating the marriage of our very last son." There are flower petals being thrown when Brendon and Jon finally get out of the chapel, and the musicians are already playing in the hall, but somehow, Jon manages to slip them out of the raucous procession and tugs Brendon into a cupboard.
"Hello," Jon whispers, his arms wrapping around Brendon.
"Hello," Brendon says back, burying his face in Jon's neck. Jon smells good, sharp and spicy and Brendon wants to just stay right there with him alone. Jon's fingers slip up under the back of his tunic and rest against the bare skin of his lower back. Brendon can't help but shudder as he traces little circles there. He tips his face up for a kiss and Jon obliges.
"A few more hours, my love." Jon says.
"But I don't want to wait, Jon," Brendon whines and Jon smiles indulgently.
"Patience is a virtue, my husband. Besides, our family and friends are out there, waiting for us. Would you deprive them of their chance to see you dance with me and drink a toast to our newly married life?"
Brendon sighs, pouting his lips just a bit. "No, I would not. I just wish to have you all to myself."
Jon pushes the cupboard door open, his arm wound around Brendon's waist. "Your wicked ways will have to wait just a little longer, love."
Ryan and Spencer are bent close together at the table, whispering, when Brendon and Jon come in. Brendon notices the private smile on Spencer's face before everyone stands and the music changes and there's more cheering. He's never minded attention, but he's so glad
to have Jon with him this time. Jon just grins at him, folding Brendon's hand into the crook of his elbow, and they make their way inside.
The first hour is just congratulations, Spencer leading them on a tour of the room, meeting everyone they could ever possibly meet and accepting the well wishes. The second hour is to be dancing, but Brendon demands to stop for wine and a snack before they continue.
"Your brother David did not need a break," Spencer says, needling, but he's all smiles.
"I am far more delicate than David, which is why I attracted a far better mate."
"I think David's wife might take exception to that," Spencer says with a chuckle. They make the rounds at the last table but before they get back to Jon, Brendon stops them with a hand on Spencer's arm.
"I'm not going to have to challenge Ryan to a duel any time soon, am I?" Brendon smiles as he says it, but his tone is serious. Spencer's face breaks out into a bright and beautiful smile and Brendon already has his answer.
"Ryan has agreed to be my husband. Soon, you and Jon will not be the only newlyweds in residence." Spencer looks over at Ryan, who is speaking easily to one of Brendon's sisters and looks resplendent in his new tunic and sash identifying him as a member of the Royal Guard.
"That is good, since I have already secured my father's permission for you to marry as soon as you wish," Brendon says easily.
Spencer hugs Brendon, then, fast and impulsive, and Brendon practically squeaks with joy. "Thank you," he whispers.
"You're closer to me than my own family," Brendon whispers back. "I'd duel him for your honor, even though I'd likely die a messy and horrible death. And then I'd haunt you because I'm sure heaven would be boring without you."
Spencer laughs, and he sounds a little shaky. When he pulls back, Brendon's not surprised by the shine in his eyes. "You know I'd do the same," Spencer says. "But for now, I think it's safer if Ryan handles our dueling."
Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer's as they continue walking. "In the worst case, he'd look very dashing with a dueling scar."
They are almost to the head table when a pair of arms wrap around Brendon's waist from behind. "One more hour before we can escape," Jon whispers in his ear. Brendon shivers and leans back.
"It's not nice to tease me, husband." He hopes he never tires of the thrill of looking at Jon and saying husband.
"But you blush so nicely when I do," Jon says, pulling him in close.
Spencer clears his throat. Loudly. "Save that for your chambers. You have one more table to go."
"One more table," Brendon says, holding Jon's hand and stiffening his back. Jon smiles and goes to meet Brendon's aunts. After that there is more dancing, then Brendon hears horses approaching and his heart starts to race.
Spencer is the one to gather the crowd. "Please join us in sending off the Prince and his groom on their honeymoon." The procession starts to gather up again, Brendon's parents and the contingent from Chicago, and everyone else goes into the courtyard to throw flowers at them. Brendon is far more nervous now than he was before the wedding.
The carriage is really just for show, since they are only going to ride around the grounds and come back through the back gates. They aren't leaving for the family estate by the lake until tomorrow morning. In the dark interior of the coach, Brendon's belly fills with butterflies, all his confidence gone. He leans his head against the padded window and sighs.
"Bren?" Joy says, taking his hand. "Everything all right?" He turns to look at Jon, who is smiling gently. And it hits him - this is real. He is married and about to go upstairs and make love to Jon. Sweet, wonderful, gorgeous Jon who has probably done this before - his inner monologue gets cut off when Jon presses him into the corner of the coach and kisses him hard.
"Stop worrying. Your forehead gets all wrinkly when you are thinking too much." Jon's face is close to his and Brendon remembers all the afternoons in the shop, sitting in Jon's front room and of his soft feather bed with the worn quilt. And he has an idea.
He maneuvers out of Jon's arms and leans out to speak to the driver. When he comes back in, they are making a sharp turn away from the castle grounds. Brendon settles back into Jon's arms.
"Want to tell me where we're going?"
Brendon grins up at him. "I thought we should go back to the place where we first met. It's very full circle."
Jon looks confused for a moment, as if remembering, and then smiles. "I do know how you like symmetry."
Ian, who has been looking after the shop, will have kept it shut today for the celebration. The carriage rolls up in front of Jon's shop and Brendon waves at the driver. "Come back for us at first light?" The driver winks at Brendon and guides the horses away.
Before the carriage is out of sight, Jon takes Brendon's hand and finds the hidden key behind doorjamb. (Ian cannot be trusted to not lose keys.) They probably look ridiculous, standing in the slightly dusty shop in their finest clothes, but Brendon is smiling like this
moment is perfect, and it is.
They head straight for Jon's bedroom. The fire is out, but Ian remembered to fill the tinder box with wood. Jon starts to load the hearth and Brendon shakes out the quilts and sheets. If he keeps busy, he won't be as nervous. Once the fire catches, he turns to start undressing. He's gotten all the buttons undone and is about to pull his tunic off when Jon stops him.
"Hey. Wait for me." Brendon nods and lets Jon slide his tunic and undershirt over his head. He runs his fingertips over Brendon's collarbone and Brendon can feel every callus.
"You now," Brendon says, stepping in close to undo Jon's buttons. Jon shivers when Brendon's hands sweep over his sides and it makes Brendon bold. He kisses Jon's bare chest, right over his heart.
Brendon unfastens Jon's buttons, his hands shaking only a little, and Jon is patient. He wants this moment to be right for both of them. When he's shirtless, Brendon really gets nervous. This is as intimate as they have ever been. Everything after this moment is new territory.
Jon can feel the panic rising, so he cups the back of Brendon's head and tilts him forward into a soft kiss. Brendon whimpers and opens his mouth, knowing Jon will let him linger for days in these perfect kisses. "I love you," Jon whispers, his voice just a little rough.
"And I want to see you naked in my bed."
Brendon's whimper turns into a moan as Jon unlaces his breeches. Every place Jon touches feels like its on fire and Brendon is flooding with want. He forgets all about his nerves and just wants to feel Jon's bare skin on his. He takes a step back toward the bed, trying to kick off his boots and trousers at the same time and only trips a little bit.
Jon's face lights up with laughter. "Careful there, we don't want any permanent injuries."
Brendon tries to scowl, but fails. "I am naked and in your bed, Jon. I think you are neglecting your duties already."
Jon's eyes flare with heat and Brendon bites his lip to keep from moaning. "I wouldn't want that," Jon says, and he takes his time unlacing his breeches, then sits to take off his boots. When he rises again, he's naked, and Brendon wants to run his hands all over that finally touchable skin. He wants to try the things he's only ever heard whispered from his friends.
Jon comes to a stop beside the bed, standing between Brendon's legs, and he tilts down for a slow, maddening kiss. "God, yes," Jon growls, and Brendon feels goose bumps rise. "So pretty. I'm so lucky."
"That goes both ways, I think," Brendon says, dragging Jon with him as he scoots back into the middle of the bed. The room is still freezing, but Brendon feels hot all over. He's been thinking about this night since the first day he kissed Jon, felt a thrill run through him at that little touch of lips and now that feeling is magnified a thousand times.
Jon settles on top of him, lips brushing his jaw. "We can take this as slow as you want." He starts rolling his hips, letting their cocks brush against each other and Brendon wants more, more, more.
"Jon, please...." Brendon takes a deep breath to keep from just tearing Jon's clothes off. "I want everything," he says, measured. "And I want it now."
Jon grins, wicked, and dips his head to trace Brendon's throat with his tongue. "My demanding little prince." There's a witty retort on Brendon's tongue, but Jon's hand is sliding over his thigh, grasping his cock, and all he can think is "Thank God."
Brendon's eyes close as Jon starts stroking him, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. He's so keyed up that he could come from just that. But then he feels Jon's teeth scrape over his hipbone and he gasps.
"Look at me, Brendon," he says. Brendon props himself up on his elbows and when he meets Jon's eyes, Jon wraps his lips around Brendon's cock and takes him in his mouth. The sensation is almost too much for Brendon to bear. Jon moves up and down, sucking and licking at the head and Brendon's hips twitch, wanting to push into Jon's mouth.
"Jonathan!" he cries, gritting his teeth. Jon's hand slides over his ass and urges him up. Brendon shakes his head hard, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Jon looks up, questioning. "I can't," Brendon breathes. "I'll finish if I do. I can't."
Jon pulls off and his mouth is shiny and wet and Brendon can't look at anything else. "I want you to," he says, and then he slides down again, sucking hard. Brendon whimpers and his hips snap up, taking his permission and charging ahead.
He's shaking, but Jon keeps sucking him through the aftershocks. Brendon falls back onto the bed and shudders again as Jon swallows, licking the corner of his mouth lasciviously. Brendon is shocked to feel a stirring so fast, but he shouldn't be surprised - Jon has never looked so good.
"Come here," Brendon says, reaching for him. Jon presses himself to Brendon's side and Brendon kisses him open-mouthed. Brendon can taste himself in Jon's mouth, a little bitterness on his tongue. Jon is hard and thrusting against Brendon's hip. "Do you want me to..." he trails off, licking at Jon's lower lip.
"You don't have to," Jon says, ever the gentleman.
Brendon grins and rolls him onto his back. "But I want to. I'm just going to dream about it if I don't. I want to know what you feel like." Jon feels his breath go unexpectedly short when Brendon turns his focus onto Jon's cock.
It didn't look that difficult. Brendon holds it in one hand and licks hard up the underside with the other. He's gratified when Jon swears and shivers.
He kisses and licks gingerly at the head and Jon exhales shakily. The idea of having that sort of power over Jon is heady and Brendon wants to make him feel as good as he made Brendon feel. So, he tries to slide his mouth all the way on Jon's cock, but when the head hits the back of throat, he sputters and pulls back.
"I don't think...I don't think I can get it all in," he whispers and lays his head on Jon's hip. He can feel his face flushing with embarrassment. Jon leans down, running his fingers through Brendon's hair.
"Brendon, it's okay. No one's perfect on their first try."
When he looks up, the lust is Jon's eyes is still there but it's tempered with something else. "Really?"
"Really," Jon replies and Brendon's hand creeps back up, jerking Jon's cock. "You can use...oh God, Brendon...your hand and your mouth."
Brendon brightens. "Good idea. I knew I liked you for something."
"You'll kill me," Jon says. Brendon just grins around his mouthful. Jon lies back, because he really cannot handle watching as Brendon does this.
Brendon wriggles happily and strokes hard, trying to remember what feels good when he does this for himself. He peeks to make sure Jon's not looking, and then slides his fingers down further to slide over Jon's balls. Jon's not expecting that and he jerks upwards. "Was that enjoyable?" Brendon asks, and Jon can hear the frown.
"No, good, perfect," Jon whispers. His voice is rough and Brendon is proud of himself.
He remembers something he discovered recently, when he was lying in the bath thinking of Jon. He shifts a little to balance up on elbow and starts to suck lightly at the head of Jon's cock. Jon's face is turned toward the fire, eyes half closed. Brendon smiles to himself. His free hand goes to Jon's balls, cupping them. Jon moans a little and that's when Brendon does it. He presses his finger against the thin patch of skin just above his opening.
Brendon's not prepared for the way Jon's hips buck up and his cock slides back into Brendon's mouth. Jon's coming and Brendon swallows as much as he can, but he doesn't manage everything and as he releases Jon with a pop, some trickles out onto his chin. He swipes at it with the back of his hand and waits for Jon to come back to himself.
"Good?" He asks with a little smirk.
Jon is speechless. He pulls Brendon up and kisses him, licking every sticky trace from his skin. When Brendon pulls back, Jon is just smiling stupidly. Brendon has to giggle. "I'm guessing you'll need a rest now?"
Jon shakes his head. "Want you inside me."
Brendon blinks, momentarily speechless. When he imagined this night, (and he did, often) he was always he on the receiving end. "I don't know what I'm doing," he whispers.
Jon cups his cheek and kisses him again. "Your body will know what to do."
Jon reaches blindly onto the table near the bed, never letting Brendon get more than a breath away. When he finds what he's looking for, he puts it in the palm of Brendon's hand. It's an amber bottle filled with sweet smelling oil. Jon used some of it on Brendon's shoulder the day after he fell off his horse.
"This will ease the way. But it's been quite some time, so you'll need to go easy on me," Jon looking at him with complete trust and Brendon's chest tightens. He wants to do this right and make it good for both of them.
"Are you certain?" Brendon asks. Jon nods, smiling, and rolls them over. Brendon leans down for another kiss. He feels better, less nervous when he's this close, so he stays, licking softly into Jon's mouth as he gets the bottle open.
Jon draws in a shaky gasp when he feels the tip of Brendon's finger circle his entrance. Brendon is still close enough that Jon can feel his breath, and he keeps his eyes closed, trying to remember to let his body relax. Brendon rests his forehead on Jon's shoulder and Jon feels self-conscious for a moment, knowing he's watching. "You're gorgeous," Brendon purrs, and the first finger slides inside. Brendon's the one who whimpers then. "And so tight."
He drops a kiss on Jon's shoulder, pumping his finger in and out slowly. The tension in Jon's body starts to leech away, so Brendon adds a second, letting Jon adjust to the stretch. He rotates his hand a bit and Jon mewls.
"Was that?" he asks, brushing over the spot with his knuckle. Jon cries out again and shoves at Brendon's shoulder.
"Brendon," Jon says, his voice breaking a little. "Please, now."
"I don't want to hurt you," Brendon says, sounding more confident than he has all evening. A dim part of Jon is happy that Brendon is finally comfortable here, sure of himself, but most of Jon just wants Brendon inside, now. "Shh," Brendon whispers, pressing his mouth against the crook of Jon's neck. He slides a third finger in and Jon just blinks at the ceiling, struggling to breathe. "You're going to feel amazing," Brendon says, pitching his voice soft and private. "Tight and hot and mine. You'll have to forgive me if I don't last very long."
Jon holds on to Brendon's shoulders. "No, want it. Want to feel you lose yourself."
"There was never any question of that." When he pulls his fingers out, Jon lets out a little sigh. Brendon sits up on his knees and pours more oil into his hand, slicking up his cock. He notices Jon watching him and puts on a little show, biting his bottom lip and thrusting into his hand.
"Fuck, Bren."
Brendon chuckles. "That's the plan." He lines himself up at Jon's opening and waits for Jon's eyes to focus back on him. "I love you," he says and Jon smiles.
"Me too."
Brendon pushes in slowly, easing his way past Jon's resistance. His brain kind of shorts out and all he can think is tighthotjon.
He pauses when he's all the way in and Jon holds his breath, worried. Then Brendon just shudders and whimpers, sort of helpless. "Again," Jon whispers. Brendon braces himself on his arms and pulls all the way out, then pushes in again.
On the fourth thrust, Brendon scoots his knees in to stop himself from slipping on the sheets and Jon nearly shouts, his whole body going taut. "There, love. Please, more!" Brendon would grin in delight, but he's busy. He bites his bottom lip and starts thrusting hard, finding and keeping the rhythm easily. Jon loves that, the way Brendon is still Brendon, even in this. He wonders if there's a song in Brendon's head, and then he feels a familiar tingle race up his spine and he grabs his cock to keep from coming.
"No," Brendon grinds out, knocking his hand away. "Want you to see you. Show me, Jon."
Jon squeezes his eyes shut as Brendon snaps his hips forward. Brendon's not even sure he's going to be able to hold out for Jon but he wants to so, so, badly. He tries to think of something, anything - the way Jon's panting breaths are in counterpoint to the slap of skin on skin or the fingerprint bruises he's going to have on his bicep from where Jon is holding onto him. Jon uses the leverage to fuck back onto Brendon's cock and it only takes a few thrusts before he comes between them, hot and thick. Everything tightens around Brendon and that's all it takes to send him over the edge just behind Jon.
His arms give out and Brendon collapses onto Jon's chest. "I don't think I am ever going to be able to let you out of bed." Jon noses at his forehead until he tips his head up for another kiss. To be true, he'll never get tired of Jon's mouth, for kissing or otherwise. And seeing him like this, sated and boneless because of something Brendon has done is a sight to behold.
They shift around, but Jon still hisses as Brendon pulls out of him. "Are you all right?"
"Of course. It's always a little...tender after," Jon says, going to the wash basin. He wipes his belly off, then Brendon's, stealing another kiss. "You'll find out soon enough."
"Is that right?" He asks lightly, climbing under the covers as Jon adds another log to the fire.
When Jon gets into bed, he pins Brendon under him. "Yes, that's very, very, very right. Your backside is far too shapely for me to ignore." Despite the how warm the room is, Brendon shivers. But then Jon settles onto his back, tugging him over so he's sprawled across Jon's chest. "We should rest now while we have the chance."
"Mmm-hmm," Brendon replies, curling into Jon's side. "I really love you."
"Love you too," Jon whispers back.
*
Back at the castle, the party is winding down and Spencer is in his room, steadfastly not hiding.
"Spencer," Ryan calls through the door. "Are you hiding from me?"
"No!" Spencer pouts.
Ryan eases the door open and looks inside. "Can I not hide with you, then?"
Spencer sighs. Ryan comes inside and sits at the end of his bed. If Spencer had been thinking, he wouldn't have planted himself on his bed. "Spencer," Ryan says. "We don't have to do anything. We can sleep in our clothes if you want. I'd just like to sleep next to you."
"No, no. It's not that," Spencer says, taking Ryan's hand in his. "This has just been...a really long day." Ryan scoots closer and lays his head on Spencer's shoulder and waits for his to go on. "It was beautiful, the ceremony, but I think Brendon and Jon would have been just as happy eloping somewhere."
He feels Ryan's breath on his neck. "Is that what you want?"
"No, not exactly. I know it's not very dignified to admit that I've thought about how I wanted to get married, but..."
And Ryan laughs. Actually, he doubles over with laughter and Spencer can't help but be a little offended. "What is so funny?"
Ryan sits up and wipes his eyes. "Spencer, you wouldn't be you if you hadn't already made some plans. It's just how you are."
"Hush," Spencer says, but he's smiling, so Ryan eases him down onto the bed so they can lie beside each other. "I was only saying that I want a rather smaller affair. I want it to be just us and our friends and loved ones."
Ryan smiles brightly and leans across to kiss him, lingering just a little. "I get to marry you," Ryan whispers. "I don't much care about the rest." He nibbles at Spencer's lower lip until Spencer moans and rests his hand on Ryan's hip, relaxing. Ryan presses the advantage, rolling Spencer onto his back and rubbing his thumb at the place where breeches give way to soft, smooth skin.
Spencer hums happily, smiling into their kiss. "I thought about you, you know. Hoping, really, that you would be the one I'd marry."
Ryan's hand slides further up, warm on Spencer's belly. "Is that the only thing you thought about?" He kisses the sensitive spot behind Spencer's ear. "Because I can say for certain that I've had thoughts about you that aren't nearly so pure."
All the wine makes Spencer bold. "Care to share?"
Ryan's eyes go dark and the next kiss is hard. It feels like exactly what Spencer has always wanted. Ryan moans and slides his tongue inside and his hand keeps Spencer close. "Thought about watching you come," he whispers. "Feeling you come on my tongue." Spencer shivers and whimpers and Ryan just bites his lip and rolls up to his knees. He tugs on Spencer's tunic. "Off?" he asks. It's definitely a question. This is Spencer's last chance to say no.
Spencer responds by pulling off the offending garment as fast as he can. Ryan grabs the top of Spencer's breeches and yanks them roughly off like he's tired of waiting.
It's strange, lying there with Ryan's eyes roaming over his naked body when Ryan is still dressed. But there's something in Ryan's gaze that makes Spencer's skin flare with heat. He bends one leg up and splays it wide, hiding nothing and Ryan licks his lips. "I thought about that too. What it would feel like to have you on your knees for me, sucking me."
"Spencer," Ryan growls, making quick work of his clothes. Spencer puts a hand on his cock, jerking it slowly and tries not to hyperventilate when Ryan curls down beside him. He grabs Spencer's wrist, stilling it as he licks the head, lapping up the tiny drop of fluid there. Then he leans down and takes Spencer in his mouth all at once, lips meeting Spencer's hand, still clenched around the base of his cock.
Spencer can't let go for fear that he'll embarrass himself, but Ryan carefully pries his fingers away. He's eager to show off his skill. It's not until he's picked up the pace and found the right spots and Spencer is keening under him that Ryan remembers that this is probably the very first time he's ever had this pleasure. That just makes him want even more to make this good. He licks up the underside and strokes Spencer with a wet fist.
"Ryan," he says, breathless and needful. He grabs Ryan's shoulder and urges him upwards. Ryan goes, happy to take a kiss. "Can I try?" Ryan is confused for a moment, then Spencer's hand tentatively wraps around his cock and Ryan's hips thrust in of their own volition.
"Oh, God, yes," he mumbles.
The angle isn't perfect, but Spencer tentatively tries to imitate what Ryan did to him, sucking and licking. The bitter taste is strange, but not bad at all. And the noise Ryan is making is worth it. He's never heard Ryan whimper like that and Spencer wonders what other things about Ryan he doesn't know.
Ryan's hand tightens in his hair and when he tugs, Spencer looks up. "Enough, Spencer, or we'll be done too soon." He crawls back up onto the bed and Ryan kisses him hard before rolling him over on his belly. He tucks his hands under his face and sighs, stretching his shoulders. Ryan drapes himself over Spencer's back, laying feather-light kisses down his spine. He feels warm all over and his eyes are closed when he hears Ryan whisper, "Feels good?" Spencer mm-hmm's, letting Ryan's lips and hands bleed all the tension out of him. He expects Ryan to stop as he gets to the dip in his lower back, but he doesn't and when Ryan playfully nips at the curve of his ass, Spencer laughs.
"You're incorrigible." Spencer's voice is rough and he can feel Ryan's silent laughter skating over his skin. Ryan starts to push his legs apart and Spencer tries not to let his nerves show.
"Trust me, Spencer," he says, using his thumbs to spread Spencer wider and licking over his opening.
"Oh my GOD!" Spencer says, arching and bucking. Ryan has to hold him down with both arms so he can keep going. He'd had sex with a half dozen people before anyone showed him this, but he wants Spencer to have everything at once. He wants Spencer to think sex is always this good with him.
Ryan's tongue presses inside and Spencer starts to open under him. Spencer starts a bit when Ryan eases a finger inside, but then Ryan's finger touches something. Spencer cries out and his cock twitches and leaks against his belly. It feels almost like coming. "That is amazing," he says. "Please, again?" He sounds soft and awed and Ryan feels like he could walk on clouds.
Ryan's licking around his finger now, still keeping a little pressure on whatever that spot is inside him. Spencer starts moving his hips and the friction against his cock combined with what Ryan is doing to him makes Spencer want to shake apart. He swears he'll never doubt Ryan again.
There's a little burn when Ryan adds a second finger and he tenses up. "Breathe, Spencer." Ryan says soothingly. "It's going to hurt a little, but it will all be worth it."
"I...I believe you," Spencer answers and after a moment, Ryan's brushing over that spot again and when he pulls his fingers out, Spencer's hips shift back, trying to find them again. Ryan's mouth is back again, tongue twisting in his opening until Spencer finds himself begging Ryan. "Please, please, Ryan, God. I need more."
"I know," Ryan says, kissing the base of Spencer's spine. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He pulls away to slick up his cock and Spencer moans piteously. Ryan rubs two wet fingers over his opening and then fits the head of his cock against the tight ring. "Breathe in for me," Spencer takes a shaky breath and, because he's Spencer and has to do things his own way, pushes himself back until the head slips in.
Ryan curls forward, his stomach dropping at the heat and the pressure, and Spencer falls to his elbows. "Spencer, yes," he murmurs, and Spencer's hand reaches back for him. Ryan kisses his shoulder and slides out, then back in. "Good?" Spencer whines and nods, wiggling a little. Ryan arches in a couple of times until he's finally all the way seated. "You feel amazing," Ryan purrs, dropping his head back. Spencer preens a little.
It's like everything has narrowed to places where Ryan is touching him, where he's inside of him and for the first time, Spencer can stop thinking and just lets himself feel - the thrum of his skin, the little bright sparks of pleasurepain where Ryan is gripping his hips, the hot, slow drag of Ryan's cock as he steadily thrusts in and out.
He finally snaps back when Ryan's hand is on his cock, roughly jerking him in time to hips. Spencer lets out a groan and Ryan laughs darkly. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you."
"Ryan, I...ngh, so good, never knew it, God, please," Spencer babbles and Ryan starts to slam into him harder. Spencer adjusts himself to take it and suddenly, Ryan's arm is around his chest, dragging him up. Spencer's almost sitting in his lap, Ryan's cock still buried inside of him. It's a completely different angle and when he rises up a little to grab the headboard and sinks back down, they both gasp.
"You're gorgeous like this," Ryan murmurs against the back of Spencer's neck. Spencer flexes his thighs to rise up and sink down again. Ryan's hand drops between their legs to cup Spencer's balls.
"Ryan!" he cries, and he feels like the whole world has narrowed to this one spot. He lifts up and down faster, and Ryan tugs gently, prompting Spencer to moan and cry out. "You have to. I'm going to..."
"I know," Ryan says, licking a patch of skin. "I want you to. I want to see you come for me. I want to feel you around me, Spence."
Spencer's whole mind goes blank and all he can do is move up and down, his body out of his own control. The sparks race faster, blinking behind his eyelids and across his chest where Ryan is holding him and up the shaft of his cock, tingling and forcing the soft cries out of him and when he comes, he slams his hands against the headboard and shoves back, clenching his teeth to bite back a scream.
Ryan drapes himself over Spencer and his hands reach up to cover Spencer's on the headboard. "So beautiful, Spence." He hangs on, letting Ryan slam into him a few more times before he comes with a soft cry, sinking his teeth into the curve between Spencer's neck and shoulder.
Their skin is stuck together and Spencer can feel Ryan's heart beating in time with his. It's not at all what he imagined this moment would be like. It's better. He wants to say something, but he can't seem to form any other thoughts besides Ryan, yes, again, and forever.
Ryan kisses him just behind his ear as he starts to pull away and pull out. Spencer winces at the dull ache, but when he looks over his shoulder at Ryan he forgets all about it. Ryan's face is still flushed and his hair is mussed. It makes Spencer want to throw him down and do it all over again.
"What?" Ryan says, looking up through his bangs. Spencer just smiles and sits gingerly on his hip. "Oh no," Ryan says, getting off the bed. "You far overestimate my recovery time."
But something about this has made Spencer bold, understanding finally that Ryan finds him sexy. "Do I?" he asks as Ryan comes back with a towel dampened in the basin. Spencer tips his face up and Ryan kisses him, unable to resist. Spencer's tongue slips along his and Ryan moans in something close to pain as his cock twitches. "Lie with me," Spencer says, scooting back, and Ryan climbs into the bed, letting his lanky body wrap snugly around Spencer's.
"This is our lives," Ryan whispers. "Forever."
"I do not think I shall ever let you out of my bed," Spencer says, nuzzling into Ryan's collarbone. "I'm going to tie you up and make you my love slave."
Ryan throws a leg over Spencer's hip, bringing their half hard cocks together. "You will not need ropes to bind me to you." He leans down and bites Spencer's earlobe. "Although I would let you tie me up if it would please you."
Spencer shudders at the thought of it and Ryan snickers. "You are a tease, my love."
Ryan stills and slides his hand to Spencer's jaw, holding it so Spencer is looking him in the eye. "Spencer, I would never tease unless I planned to follow through." He catches Spencer's mouth and kisses him - not too hard, but with intent. "But now, we should rest. There are many things to do in the morning before Jon and Brendon set off. And I must go down to the shop and pack." Hearing that sends a thrill through him. Ryan is really going to be his husband. "And there is the matter of having a wedding to plan."
"Mmmm," Spencer says, shifting to lie on his back and letting Ryan sprawl over his chest. "I get the feeling I won't be able to work through the night anymore. More pressing matters to attend to."
"Yes, I have heard your husband-to-be is very demanding."
Spencer runs his hand over Ryan's back. "Unbelievably so, yes."
"And also bossy. Now, go to sleep."
"Yes, dear." Spencer's eyes slide close as the first rays of sun break over the mountains.
*
And they all lived happily ever after.
THE END.
see the art here
hear the soundtrack and fanmix here | | |
| Part The Third
He's on his way outside when he runs smack into someone, sending them both flying. "I'm so sorry," he sputters, holding out a hand to help up the woman he knocked down.
She pushes back her golden hair and smiles widely. "No, I never watch where I am going," she says, her voice colored with a hint of an accent. "It was my fault." She smooths out her skirts. "Forgive me, I am Lady Maja."
"Your ladyship, my name is Spencer Smith, Chief Adviser to His Highness, Prince Brendon."
She grins at him. "That is an awfully long name. I am going to call you Spencer." He can't help grinning back. She hooks her hand around his elbow. "Since I assume you are on your way to luncheon and the recital, you can escort me." She sounds imperious, but she looks mischievous.
They sit at one end of the long table, near Brendon and Jon. Brendon saves a seat for Ryan where he and Spencer will be across from each other. Spencer tries to kill Brendon with his eyes. Brendon just chatters away at Maja.
"So, Lady Maja, what brings you to Gabriel's court?" Brendon asks. Spencer doesn't miss the way her cheek turn a little pink.
"Well, we are...courting. After a fashion," she answers, taking a sip of wine.
Jon looks only slightly puzzled when Brendon beams. "Oh really! That's wonderful. I am a firm believer in finding your happiness in unconventional places." He leans over and pecks Jon on the cheek.
Maja visibly relaxes. "I am so glad to hear you say that. Not everyone is as open-minded."
"Yes, we know," Ryan says darkly from across the table.
Spencer's cheeks go red, either in embarrassment or anger, and Maja's eyebrows perk up. Before she can open her mouth, Brendon jumps back in, prattling on about music and how much they like the court and how she met His Highness. Spencer thanks every class in manners and charm that Brendon ever took.
When everyone's ready to move on to the next portion of the afternoon, Maja leans close to whisper in Spencer's ear. Her voice is soft and understanding. "Would you like me to escort you to the garden?" she asks.
He nods in relief. He doesn't want to be left here with Ryan's anger, and he can't be left alone to dwell on the horrible thing he's done. Maja puts her hand in his elbow again and he leads her to one of the blankets spread in the garden.
Brendon and Jon have set up a pianoforte and lute on one side and a second lute and a brass horn on the other. Spencer wonders which of Brendon's compositions they're going to play.
"Your prince has many talents, yes?" Maja asks.
Spencer nods. "But music is his first love." They watch as Brendon and Jon lean toward each other, Brendon plunking keys while Jon tunes. "Besides Jon."
Maja throws her head back and laughs. "Yes, that is very clear. He must be the youngest in his family."
Spencer blinks. "How did you know?"
"No one's ever told him that he can't do something. He's free to follow his passions." She sighs and Spencer thinks she looks wistful. She has experience like this. She looks up at him. "And you, Spencer Smith? Are you a youngest son?"
"I'm the only son."
Her face falls in sympathy. "There are lands to inherit and manage."
Spencer shakes his head. "My family has served our kings for six generations."
Maja smiles. "Then you aren't bound to marry a girl for her land or produce lots of awful children! And you're free to chase your pretty swordsman."
Spencer starts. "I don't know what you mean." Maja lays her hand on his arm.
"You watch him when he is not looking. He does the same to you."
Spencer can't look at her. "He does not feel for me as I do for him."
Maja laughs, bright and a little evil. "Says who? Spencer Smith, Adviser or Aide to Whoever, if that boy does not love you, I will carry you home on my back."
Ryan comes into the garden then, or at least around into their view, and Maja, who Spencer isn't sure he cares for, calls out to him. "Ryan! Come sit with us!"
Ryan looks at her warily, but he sits down on the blanket anyway and Spencer practically can see him trying to work things out in his head. But Maja just smiles brightly. She leans in and puts her hand on his arm.
"Ryan, tell me, is Spencer this serious all the time or does he save it for these diplomatic trips?"
The corner of Ryan's mouth twitches up. There is something disarming about Maja, mischievous and cunning underneath that lovely exterior. Spencer can see why Gabriel likes her. "Sadly, it's true. Spencer is very serious indeed. His idea of fun is rewriting policy until the wee hours," Ryan replies.
"It is very important!" Spencer says, a smile tugging at his mouth. He loves being able to be teased by Ryan.
"Sure," Ryan says, lying back on his elbows as the music starts. "And it can't possibly wait until morning." Spencer's reply is cut off by the pianoforte, but his sneer at Ryan is met with a warm smirk. Spencer feels like there is a truce. Maybe now he can go about repairing their friendship and his heart.
The recital is going very well. Brendon was nervous, but Jon had faith in him. It wasn't that much different than performing for the court at home. Actually, it's easier since he's not watching his father out of the corner of his eye.
They are about halfway through when Jon clears his throat. He throws a little wink at Brendon before he speaks.
"I composed this song recently. It's a song about love - something I think we all here know a thing or two about."
Jon strums his lute and sings a song about the northern downpour sending its love and Brendon's face flushes. He remembers the day he was caught in a rain storm and took shelter in Jon's shop. He was soaked to the skin and Jon brought him dry clothes. They sat by the fire and kissed lazily until Brendon couldn't take it anymore. He rolled them until he was on top of Jon, propped up on his elbows.
"Marry me, Jon." Brendon murmured against Jon's lips. "Marry me and let me be with you every day."
Jon smiles now and Brendon is so happy that he could probably burst. Jon had said yes. Without hesitation, Jon had said yes. He would have run and told the whole town if it weren't much nicer to stay there with Jon, wrapped up and warm while the storm still raged outside. That was the only time he ever spent the night. Ryan, being one of the best friends a man could have, told Spencer and the king that Brendon had naturally been caught out in the storm and, fearing flash flood, stayed with Ryan. But Brendon's smile the next morning when Ryan was passing Jon's bedroom window, the way he was lying in bed next to Jon still asleep and just beaming, that's why Ryan came on the quest.
Ryan studies Spencer's face as Jon sings. There's something sad in his eyes and Ryan doesn't like it. Spencer, of all of them deserves to be happy. That's all he was trying to do this morning. This quest can't be easy for him, watching Brendon and Jon be so in love and leaving Spencer out in the cold. A part of him always assumed that Brendon and Spencer would end up together and it was easier to think about it once he'd stopped spending time at the castle.
So, Ryan did what he thought was best, offering the comfort of his body to Spencer. It's nothing he hadn't done before and so what if Ryan was getting a little taste of what he wanted as well? Better to have it once and know what it was like to be with Spencer than to never know it at all.
Now he's to be left alone again, Spencer angry at him for trying to show some kindness. Well, fine. When Spencer says they should pack to leave, Ryan understands that Spencer would rather end their pleasant stay than be forced to endure another night with him. "You can't go," Gabe says. "The party is just starting!"
"We must, Your Highness," Spencer says. "We must be getting back before the king thinks that the Evil King Saporta has had us all executed."
Something extremely off-putting twinkles in Gabe's eyes. "Oh, I'll show you evil."
And somehow, Ryan is now being made to nurse his broken heart in a cold, damp dungeon.
"This is entirely your fault," he spits at Spencer. "You couldn't just let us stay one more night. I would have slept on the floor, you know. If it was that repulsive to share a bed with me."
Spencer's head snaps around from where he's trying to pick the lock. "What the hell are you talking about? You're the one that threw yourself at me this morning."
"Guys, maybe we should save this for later."
"Shut up, Jon," Ryan and Spencer say in unison.
"I was trying to be helpful," Ryan hisses. "I was trying to be comforting, be selfless again."
"Oh, of course," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "I am not so hard up that I need you to sacrifice yourself for me."
"Damn you," Ryan breathes, he's trembling, and Brendon can't tell if it's anger, energy, or a coming onslaught of tears. "And damn me for thinking I could bear the pain long enough to know what it was like." He grabs one of the blankets and curls up on the cot.
"Spencer..." Brendon says pointedly.
"Stay out of this, Brendon," Spencer snaps and Brendon stiffens. Jon comes up from behind and lays a hand on Brendon's shoulder.
"There's no need to speak to him like that." Jon's placid face just infuriates Spencer more.
"Why don't you do a bit of speaking, Jon? You have a few things to tell Brendon, don't you?" he says viciously.
Jon stays calm. If he gets nervous, Brendon will notice. "Leave us out of your quarrel."
"What?" Brendon asks. "What do you need to tell me?"
Jon cups his cheek and smiles. "It's nothing you need to worry about right now. I'll explain when we get back." After the wedding, he thinks. He's still scared Brendon will leave him.
"He's a liar," Spencer says. "He's a liar as much as Ross is a slut."
"That will be enough, Spencer," Brendon says sharply, using a tone Spencer's only ever heard the King use. There's a part of Spencer that's proud that Brendon has been paying attention to his Royal training after all. But all he can see right now is red.
"Brendon - "
"I SAID ENOUGH, SPENCER," Brendon roars and even Ryan seems taken aback. He pins Spencer with his eyes. "Everyone needs to just take a moment and think before they say anything else they're going to regret."
Ryan sits on his hands to keep them from shaking and Spencer stares at the wall. It's Jon who breaks the silence, even though he probably shouldn't. This is making them all miserable. "He loves you," he says to Ryan, his voice soft. "That's why he's careful."
Spencer is frozen, his eyes open wide in horror. He'd rather die than turn around. He can feel Ryan blinking at his back. Ten years of careful hiding and all it takes is one mouthy prince.
Ryan is gobsmacked. He honestly had no idea. He just...assumed that Spencer was in love with Brendon. It's not that unheard of and he harbored a crush himself when they were younger. (Neither he or Brendon ever bring up that one drunken night. Ever.) But Spencer loving him...kind of makes a lot of sense.
"Spencer," he says hoarsely, "Spencer, look at me."
Ryan counts six heartbeats before Spencer finally looks at him. And the look of anguish and regret on his face is enough to make Ryan go to him, pulling Spencer into his arms.
Spencer's limp against him, the fight gone out of him. He doesn't know what happens now, but he can't control it. For once, he can't do anything but hope. Ryan's voice is soft in his ear, just for the two of them. "It has always been you alone." Spencer shuts his eyes fast so that no one sees the tears he fears are going to spill. Ryan holds him, his nose tucked against Spencer's neck, and just this is so much more than Spencer ever really thought he'd have.
Jon reaches out silently and holds Brendon's hand. Brendon, being Brendon, is crying.
"There's something I need to tell you," Jon whispers, brushing away Brendon's tears. Brendon tries to crawl into his lap, but Jon stops him. "No, just. Stay there, all right."
Brendon's hand is heavy in his, his palm a little sweaty. Jon can feel every callus, remembers what those hands feel like on his face, sliding across his stomach. He looks down at their entwined fingers and takes a deep breath.
"I'm the youngest of three. My father never expected much of me. Like you, I had the freedom to do as I pleased until I came of age. And then my father demanded that I start taking on more responsibility, to get married and settle down like my brothers had. But I couldn't do it. I didn't have it in me to be who he wanted me to be. So, I packed up my instruments, my books, everything that ever mattered to me and I ran."
Brendon leans in and lays his head on Jon's shoulder, trying to comfort him. "It's all right, Jon. You did what you had to do."
Everything in him wants to stop there, but he knows Spencer is listening. If Jon doesn't tell him, Spencer will.
"I didn't just run away from an estate, Brendon. I ran from a kingdom. I have royal blood, the same as you."
Brendon pulls away, sitting up. "Wait, what?"
Jon sighs. "My name is Jonathan Jacob Walker. I'm the third son of the Walker Principality of Chicago." Brendon blinks at him for a full minute. Jon goes pink and then red, terrified and embarrassed and so sorry. "I never meant to lie to you. I just ... I didn't want you to think I was anything more than I was. I didn't want that to get in the way of what we had."
Brendon does climb into his lap then, all long limbs and soft touches. "You're you, Jon," Brendon says, his hand cupping Jon's cheek. "You're still perfect and I still want to marry you, even if you do come with a shiny crown." Jon smiles and Brendon kisses him, soft and chaste, even if his lips do part just a little. "Though, if you'd said something earlier my father probably wouldn't have made us go on this quest that ended with us locked in this dungeon." He sighs exaggeratedly. "You'll simply have to make it up to me when we're married."
"God, I love you so much," Jon says, kissing him hard. "And if we weren't in this dungeon and Spencer and Ryan weren't here, I'd make it up to you in ways you can't even imagine." Brendon surges up, pressing Jon into the wall. Jon loves all of Brendon, but his mouth, his mouth is maybe Jon's favorite part of him. He could kiss Brendon all day.
"I'm going to hold you to that, Jon Walker. I shall order our marriage bed to be very comfortable indeed," Brendon says hotly into Jon's ear.
A groan comes from the other side of the room. "For the love of all that's holy, please stop that. Some of us are trying to have a moment here."
Brendon turns around and sticks his tongue out and Spencer bursts into loud laughter. Ryan is startled into a smile. He loves that sound. He thought he'd lost it forever. Spencer's still smiling wide enough to light the room and it's no thought at all before Ryan tilts close and kisses him. Feeling that smile pressed against his mouth makes his heart feel light, but when Spencer's mouth parts just a little, Ryan feels the reaction decidedly lower.
"I'm so sorry," Spencer whispers to Ryan. He's so ashamed of what he said, of letting his anger get the best of him. "Can you forgive me, Ryan?" They are wrapped tightly around each other and Ryan leans his head back so they are eye to eye. Spencer is struck again by how beautiful he is up close - creamy, pale skin and sparkling eyes.
"Spencer, I cannot change my past. I have never denied that after my father passed, I had my share of indiscretions. It is a part of me, just like everything else," he replies seriously. "But once we are together, there will never be anyone else in my bed or in my heart." He brushes another kiss over Spencer's lips. "Not that there ever was."
Spencer's eyelashes are auburn. When he opens his eyes again, Ryan doesn't know how he missed that. "I'll forgive your indiscretions if you'll forgive my inexperience," and Ryan's heart skips a beat. He's not sure if it's the thought that Spencer was saving himself for this, or that he gets to be the first one to touch Spencer like that, but his hand is trembling when he nudges Spencer's cheek with his nose, tilting him up for another kiss. "I'll forgive you anything," Ryan whispers, fitting their mouths together again.
"This is probably very touching," Brendon remarks, turning his back on them.
"But you're distracted?" Jon asks, smirking. Brendon nods and lets Jon kiss him again.
"We should probably be making a plan to get out of here in the morning," Brendon says into Jon's shoulder.
"Mmm...yes, we should. I would prefer not to spend anymore nights in Gabriel's dungeons, no matter how warm they are," Jon replies, stroking a hand over his side.
Spencer sits up, displacing Ryan who has been splayed out on top of him. "Our best bet is probably to appeal to Blackinton, his adviser. I get the impression that this isn't some sort of aggressive move, but merely a power play to remind us who is charge here."
"This is my fault, I fear," Brendon says. "I may have gotten a bit heated with him before lunch today when I demanded he turn over the piece for my mother."
"You are the sweetest," Jon says. "Perhaps you could have a word."
It takes Nate a minute to respond to Brendon's calls. He's really very nice for a fearsome captor. "How can I help you, Your Highness?"
Brendon gives his best smile. "I wondered if I might be able to speak to Lord Blackinton."
"Most likely," Nate says, shrugging. "Let me go find him for you."
Brendon loiters by the gates for a while, humming, and then Blackinton arrives with the King, who looks sufficiently chastened. "Prince, I appear to owe you an apology," he says, and Brendon lights up. He didn't expect it to be this easy.
Gabriel stops there, but Blackinton nudges him to go on. "Perhaps it was a bit hasty for me to toss you all into the dungeons. I was upset that we had quarreled. And well," he stops, looking at Spencer, "a bit jealous."
"What?" Ryan blurts out. A blush begins to creep up Gabriel's cheeks.
"Maja. She seemed very...friendly with your adviser. I didn't like it."
Spencer steps forward and takes Ryan's hand. "Believe me, Your Highness, Lady Maja has my friendship, nothing more."
Blackinton steps in. "Well, then. Now that this has all been straightened up, I'll have Nate escort you back to your rooms upstairs. The King asks that you join him at breakfast before you begin your journey home."
Brendon beams. "We'd be delighted."
Spencer looks up when Nate opens the gates. "That easy?" he asks.
Brendon grins. "Well, I am exceedingly charming."
"Highness," Blackinton says. "Your mother's brooch is in your rooms, ready to return with you."
Spencer breathes a sigh of relief that lasts only until the door. He's back in the room he had before. The room that's just him, a bathtub, one enormous bed, and Ryan Ross, peeling out of his clothes. "I'm exhausted," Ryan says, hanging his vest. "Being imprisoned and then having a fight that's been brewing for a decade really takes it out of a person." He smirks up at Spencer. Spencer nods nervously, his hand still clenched around the knob.
Ryan steps into the tub and hisses as the hot water hits his skin. Spencer can't tear his eyes away from the sharpness of his collarbone and the long line of his throat as he tilts his head back against the side of the tub. He's watching Spencer, eyes dark and Spencer feels a shiver go down his spine.
"You should come in. It'll help you relax."
Spencer nods. He starts to undress, knowing Ryan is watching his every move. Instinctively, he wants to cover himself but he doesn't. Ryan says he wants all of him, so all of Spencer is what he's going to get.
Spencer knows well that his purity at marriage isn't important like Brendon's is. He's reminded of that when Ryan reaches out a wet hand as soon as Spencer's near enough and runs it down his thigh. Spencer looks down and Ryan's just smiling. "You're gorgeous," he says, and Spencer has no idea how to respond.
"Thank you?" Ryan's smiling when Spencer eases into the wide tub, sitting across from him. He keeps his hands folded in his lap.
He knows what to do. Or what he's supposed to do. Spencer would never have allowed Brendon to begin courting with Jon if at least one of them didn't have all the pertinent information. It's just....Spencer likes to be good at everything. And the way you become good at something is with practice. And with this, he's just had no practice at all.
Then suddenly, Ryan's hand is on his cheek. "I don't care about any of that, Spencer. I want you, exactly as you are."
Spencer flushes when he realizes he must have just said all that out loud, again, and he's about to open his mouth to apologize when Ryan climbs into his lap, straddling him. Their hips line up and he feels Ryan's half hard cock brushing up against his under the water.
"Ryan," Spencer gasps. Ryan grins wickedly and rolls his hips again.
"We can take it slow. I want to. I want to learn every inch of your skin," Ryan says into his ear.
Spencer holds on to the rim of the tub as tight as he can, like perhaps he is going to drown. Ryan doesn't mind. Ryan is more than willing to take the lead here. If Ryan is honest, he can admit that every time he slept with a virgin, he thought of getting to have this moment with Spencer. He leans down and nuzzles Spencer's cheek, then drags his lips across soft skin to meet Spencer's. Spencer gasps into the kiss and Ryan rocks forward until Spencer gasps again. Ryan can feel someone's rapid heartbeat, but he's not sure whose. "You can touch me," he whispers.
Spencer grasps the back of Ryan's thighs and then lets his hands slide slowly upward. Ryan just kisses his shoulder, the crook of his neck, his ear, until Spencer's hands get to his ass. Ryan bucks forward and Spencer whimpers. "Ryan..." he says, sounding a little desperate."Ryan," he says again, his voice breaking a little, "can I...I want to..."
"Yes, Spencer," Ryan says, hitching his hips up. "Anything you want." Spencer wraps one hand around Ryan's cock, stroking up and down in counterpoint to the way Ryan is moving in his lap. He swipes his thumb over the head and Ryan groans, dropping his head onto Spencer's shoulder.
"When we get home, I'm going to take you to my bed. Spread you out and touch you, tease you until you beg, Spencer." Ryan's voice is gravelly in his ear. "Beg me to put my mouth on you."
Spencer's breath seems to stop completely, stuck in his throat, but Ryan can feel how it affects him by the way his fingers dig into Ryan's thigh. "You want that, don't you? I want to give you everything, Spencer," Ryan whispers. Spencer suddenly starts stroking Ryan again, hard. He wants to do this, to know how Ryan feels and sounds and tastes when he comes. He wants to be the one who can give that kind of pleasure to Ryan. "If you don't slow down..." Ryan warns.
"I won't," Spencer hisses, looking up at Ryan. The determination in his eyes undoes Ryan and he crushes his mouth against Spencer's, whimpering through his climax. Spencer's hand gentles but doesn't stop, and Ryan falls gratefully into the kiss.
Their mouths are still sealed together when Ryan starts jerking him. The calluses on his palm are a little harsh over his sensitive skin, but it's good, it reminds him whose hands are on him. And how much he has wanted this.
He's getting lightheaded, he needs to breathe but when he breaks their kiss, Spencer doesn't let Ryan go far, keeping their foreheads pressed together. "Ryan, so close," he pants, bucking up into Ryan's grip.
"Come for me, Spencer, please," Ryan says, sinking his teeth into Spencer's lower lip.
Spencer gasps and Ryan clenches his knees in tight and Spencer arches up as he comes, his eyes open and surprised, his skin damp and his body gorgeous. Ryan could stay here all day. He eases Spencer through it, just watching until Spencer settles again, then he leans in close to mouth at his throat. Spencer leans back against the edge of the tub, catching his breath and trying to figure out how he ended up here. He thinks he probably owes King Gabriel a gift.
"We should get out of this water," Ryan whispers, and Spencer puts his hand on Ryan's back, amazed that he gets to touch like this now. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
They dry off and slide between the cool sheets. Spencer pulls Ryan in close, kissing him easily. To tell the truth, Spencer could be satisfied with just this, safe and warm with miles of Ryan's pale skin under his hands. Ryan shifts and squirms until he's settled.
"Comfortable now?" Spencer asks. Ryan mmm-hmms, kissing and sucking at his throat. He throws his leg around Spencer's waist and Spencer tightens his arms around him. The words come out before he can stop them. "Come and live with me in the castle."
Ryan looks up at him, eyes still hazy with lust. "Are you asking me what I think you are? Because you don't have to...we don't have to be married to be together, Spencer."
"I want to. I want you, Ryan."
Ryan looks at him with those serious, unblinking eyes. Most men would have looked away by now, embarrassed or nervous, but Spencer has never been most men. Spencer breathes in and out twice before Ryan nods a little meekness in the motion. "All right," he says. "I will." Spencer smiles and Ryan stops him with a hand on his cheek. "But not because I think I have to or for propriety's sake. I'm marrying you because it's what I've wanted, because it will make me happy." Spencer tugs him close for another soft kiss and then Ryan gets comfortable again. "Besides, I'm not training you in the art of sex just so you can take
your talents elsewhere."
"You're that good, hmm?" Spencer says with a chuckle. A slow smile spreads across Ryan's face as he props himself up on his elbows, grinding his hips down into Spencer's.
"Think about it, Spencer. I like being the best at whatever I do. All those hours I spent working on my swordsmanship, the nights I spent sewing by candlelight until every stitch was perfect. We can spend hours, days in bed, Spencer, before we run out of things to do." Their kiss this time is hot and filthy and Spencer's mind can hardly comprehend all the possibilities.
Ryan pulls away and Spencer sits up to chase his mouth. Ryan just laughs, settling back down with his head on Spencer's shoulder. "We need to rest, Spencer. There's still a quest to finish."
Spencer puts his hand low on Ryan's back and closes his eyes. "It's a shame we're getting married," he says, "seeing as I hate you now."
"You do not," Ryan says, a little satisfied purr to his voice, and Spencer smiles. He doesn't.
Because King Gabriel has never ever left well enough alone, and because everyone is an excellent mood anyway, the farewell breakfast is an impromptu party in the great hall. Jon and Brendon are coaxed into playing a few more tunes and Gabriel pushes wine on Spencer.
"It's just a trip home. You would do well to relax."
"It's not in my nature to relax until I know everything I have been charged do is done," Spencer says, taking a careful sip. He follows Gabriel's gaze to where Lady Maja is sitting with Queen Victoria and Blackinton. "You are ambitious, aren't you, Highness?"
Gabriel throws his head back and laughs. "Some would say ambitious, others say insane." He claps Spencer on the back. "Maja likes you. You and your swordsman should come back and visit when you're not on official business."
Ryan is chatting with Suarez, Gabriel's jeweler and one of the finest blacksmiths in three kingdoms. Right then, Spencer knows exactly what to get Ryan as a wedding gift.
Brendon comes over then, Jon in tow. "Spencer, Ryland says our horses are packed and ready. We can leave straightaway after breakfast."
"All right," Spencer says. He bows, sort of, toward Gabriel, and watches Ryan. As soon as Ryan goes to get the breads the cooks saved for their journey, Spencer makes his way over to Suarez.
"Spencer!" he says, like they're old friends. "Your gentleman was just telling me all about you."
Spencer blushes without meaning to. He's Ryan's gentleman! "About him, sir. We are to be married, and I wondered if you might be available to craft a gift for him. I assure you that money is no object."
Suarez keeps grinning at him. "Oh, I know just what to do," he says. "You're lucky that your boy's talkative. I can have it brought to you in perhaps three weeks?"
"You would send it?" Spencer asks. He was already trying to figure out which of the stable boys he could draft into making this errand for
him.
"I always do when my customers are far away. I would have sent the brooch, but his highness told me that he would send someone." Spencer sighs. At least the king had an easy quest in mind. They didn't have to steal the brooch from a lion's den or anything.
Brendon can hardly sit still that day. If it were up to him, he'd push their horses as hard as he could to get them home as fast as possible. But Spencer, sensible Spencer, Spencer who is allowed to touch and kiss Ryan to his heart's content makes them stop at an inn once night has fallen.
All in all, it takes four days to get home (including a stop to see Lindsey's brand new baby girl). Four long days and nights of having to keep himself from tearing off his clothes and throwing himself at Jon. And because Spencer is his best friend, he and Ryan have kept away from each other as well. So it's no surprise that a cheer goes up when they can finally see the spires of the castle on the horizon.
They've only been riding for three hours, so the horses are still fairly fresh. Jon gives Spencer a look, a smirk, really, and then he's urging his horse faster. Brendon grins and gives chase. By the time they get to the gates, they're all at full gallop, Ryan edging ahead.
The gates are already open, so they don't have to slow down until they hit the courtyard where the King is already waiting for them.
"Well, well. You boys seem to be in good spirits. I assume then that the quest was successful?"
Brendon jumps down from his horse and takes the parcel from inside his cloak. "Extremely so, father. The quest is complete."
The King smiles benevolently. "You have done well, my son."
Jon has come up to stand beside Brendon and Brendon reaches for his hand. "Then I must ask you for your permission to marry Jon, Father."
His father hesitates and Brendon's heart stutters. What if his father has changed his mind while they were gone? Did the quest take too long? Is there someone else his father wishes him to marry? But then the King's smile turns into an echo of his son's bright grin. "You have my blessing. In fact, your mother has been preparing while you have been away. The feast will be tomorrow night, if that pleases you both."
"Oh my God, YES," Brendon blurts out and everyone breaks into laughter.
But their laughter dies away quickly as Brent comes thundering into the courtyard with half the Guard in tow. He leaps from his horse and advances on Jon, his sword drawn.
"Step away from the Prince right now."
Several things happen at once - Ryan also draws his sword, coming to Jon's side, Spencer grabs a hold of Brendon to keep him from attacking Brent, and the King is flanked by the other guards. And in the distance, Brendon's sure he hears the sound of hoof beats.
"Wilson, what is the meaning of this?" the King demands.
Brent narrows his eyes at Jon. "This man is not who he claims to be. He is a prince, Your Highness. I charge he is a spy, sent to infiltrate the Royal family and send word of our lands and holdings so that they may be invaded."
Jon blanches and Brendon struggles. "That is a lie!"
The King just turns to Spencer. Spencer wouldn't let something like this happen under his nose. "It is half untrue, your majesty. While Jonathan is a prince, he is certainly not here on any sort of reconnaissance mission. He simply wanted to make a new life for himself."
Jon lets his sword fall to his side. All he can do now is await judgment.
There is a long moment of tension, and then the King smiles, the same wide grin that Brendon always turns on when he's delighted. "So you're telling me that I can make Brendon happy and secure an Alliance at the same time?" He laughs loudly. "Then I'm doubly glad that the marriage is so soon." He is yanking Jon into a crushing hug when the guards at the gate call out.
"Riders! Coming from the east!"
"Your Highness!" Brent shouts. "Already we are under attack!"
"No!" Ryan shouts, knocking Brent's sword from Jon's throat. "They are flying a white flag, you imbecile."
One riders pulls away from the pack, racing toward them. The King nods and the guards part to let him through. He practically skids his horse to a stop.
"Are we too late, have we missed it?" he asks as he dismounts, throwing his hood back to reveal a shock of golden hair. "Did wee Jonny get married without us?"
"And you are?" The King inquires. The rider bows low and smiles.
"Sir Thomas Conrad, Your Highness. I come bearing tidings from Jon's father and travel with Crown Prince Peter." He gestures back to the rest of the riders who are making their way into the courtyard. "We recently got word of Jon's betrothal to your son and we came straightaway."
The King looks back at Jon with a measured glance. "You are a much more advantageous match than we could even have hoped for. My son has very good taste indeed."
Spencer lets go of Brendon then and lets him rush to Jon's side. "Thank you, Highness."
Thomas claps Jon on the back and then looks around, whistling. "It appears we arrived just in time? I must admit, I've received warmer welcomes."
Jon laughs. "So have I." He turns to where Brendon is looking meek. It's his first time meeting Jon's friends and family. "This," Jon says proudly, "is Brendon. Brendon, this is Tom. We grew up together."
Tom shakes Brendon's hand. "I can see why Jonny is so enchanted."
Brendon blushes bright red and that only makes Jon laugh harder. "Give him a break, Tom."
"Thomas, what have I told you about laying the charm on people you've just met?" A woman says, hopping off one of the other horses. She's beautiful too and Brendon turns to Jon.
"Aren't there any unattractive people from where you come from?"
Jon pulls him in and kisses him. "No one as attractive as you."
The woman laughs. "Jonathan Jacob, still such a charmer." She curtsies to the King and embraces Brendon. "I'm Greta, Tom's wife. Please feel free to ignore him at all times."
"He's saying nice things about my intended," Brendon says, squeezing her. "I am inclined to believe him." She giggles.
"All assembled!" the King announces. "Anyone here to celebrate the marriage of my son is a guest of my own. Please come in for dinner with my court." He waves his hand at Brent. "Put down that sword, Brent. At least be civil to our guests." The King storms inside while
Brent scowls at Jon. Brendon doesn't care.
Ryan stares Brent down until he storms off in disgust. The rest of the riders have all arrived and are dismounting. He watches as Spencer begins organizing the grooms and stable boys to attend to all the horses. He's back in his element now and, if he's honest, it makes Ryan a little hot under the collar.
There are three others besides Tom and Greta - Sir William Beckett, Lord Siska, and the head of Wentz' guard - a smiling man who called himself The Butcher.
"Pete and Patrick will be along any minute," Tom says. "He's going to want to have a long talk with you, Jonathan."
Jon's cheeks go pink and he looks down at the ground. "I know, I know."
Brendon squeezes Jon's hand. "Is that all right?" Brendon whispers. "I can probably get Ryan to kill him."
Jon smiles at him, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's fine, I just perhaps did not give as much notice as I should have before leaving."
Brendon twists his mouth a little. "You ran off in the night, didn't you?"
"A little bit," Jon says, and then he realizes that they're just grinning at each other again.
"Well, come on then!" the King says, sweeping everyone up into the castle. "I won't have my guests just staring at each other in the courtyard.” Spencer's got footmen attending to the baggage and maids scurrying to draw baths and Ryan looks positively predatory.
The guests have been shuttled off to the guest towers, Brendon has been summoned to his father's chamber, and Jon is wandering the garden with Pete. Ryan takes it upon himself to have his and Spencer's things taken to Spencer's room. It's actually much bigger than he remembers it being, especially when he finds that Spencer has been using the adjoining room as a library/study. Ryan thinks his sewing table will fit nicely under the window in there.
The door slams and Spencer throws himself down onto the bed.
"Never a dull moment, hmm?" Ryan says from the doorway. Spencer looks exhausted already and they still have hours to go before they can sleep.
"If I do not collapse before tomorrow night, it will be a miracle." He rolls onto his side, clutching a pillow. Spencer is such an interesting contrast - not ten minutes ago he was riding herd on half the servants in the palace, but right now he looks exactly like the young man of three and twenty that he is. Ryan goes to the bed and touches his lips to the worry lines that are forming between his eyebrows.
"You will be fine, Spencer. We both know you work best under pressure." Spencer winds his arms around him and clings. "In less than thirty six hours, Brendon will be a married man, off on his honeymoon and you - you will be free and clear of all responsibilities for a fortnight." Shifting their bodies, he kisses Spencer's easily on the mouth. "Then I will have you all to myself."
Spencer shivers. He hasn't been thinking about it, especially not in those terms. But Ryan's fingers alight on the patch of bare skin at his hip where his tunic has ridden up and Spencer's whole body heats. "Ryan," he whispers, and Ryan just smiles and shakes his head.
"Not until then, love. I want you fit and ready. Just rest now." Spencer can't help smiling. This is the Ryan he has always adored, brave and dangerous, but saving his softness for his friends. He closes his eyes, feeling like Ryan will watch over him for a little while.
part the fourth
| | |
| Part The Second
They set off at first light with provisions and instructions and a final fanfare. Brendon seems altogether too cheerful for someone setting off on a very dangerous quest. Ryan and Spencer chat pleasantly while Brendon and Jon let their horses wander, but after the midday meal, they're on high alert. At some point in the late hours of the day, they will cross the hazy border into Belleville.
Belleville is less a kingdom and more a poorly designated forest with no real central government. The only reason they haven't been overrun by bandits is because everyone is afraid of them, even though no one is sure why. No one can really remember who's supposed to be king, but the rumors say he lives in a tree house. Brendon is enchanted, Spencer less so. Spencer's fervent hope is that they can make camp, get some rest, wake and be through the forest before they are noticed. It wasn't an ideal part of the plan, but it was still safer than leaving themselves exposed to the bandits outside of the forest, especially considering the amount of coin they're carrying. The King does have diplomatic relations with Belleville, after all, if you can consider the terrifying little set of hand painted dolls he received at his jubilee "diplomacy."
The forest is actually really beautiful. It's thick and lush and green. (Lush is one of Brendon's favorite words. He likes the way it feels on his tongue.) Spencer says it'll take at least two nights before they reach the other side and if he's honest, Brendon is excited. He used to camp in the woods with his brothers when he was younger and he misses it.
Ryan is on high alert when they find a place to stop for the night. It's a pretty clearing, with soft grass and a good place to build a fire for cooking. While Brendon and Spencer set out the bedrolls and something for dinner, Ryan and Jon do a check of the perimeter.
"It looks clear, but we should have someone up on watch during the night," Ryan says, peering into the forest. "Just in case."
"I'll take the first," Jon volunteers, watching Brendon laugh at Spencer's attempt to set up a tent.
Jon is very good and doesn't watch Brendon sleep too much. Brendon didn't want to sleep in the tent, he said. He wanted to tell campfire stories with Jon. He falls asleep against Jon's side halfway through the first not-scary story and Jon loves him so much that his heart aches a little. He wants so desperately to be able to just lean close and kiss him, but they aren't even officially betrothed yet, so it would be unseemly, and they are in public.
Jon is reminded of this when he hears a twig break and then footsteps coming toward them, slow. He stands and draws his sword, putting himself between Brendon and the intruder.
A thin boy with hair falling in his eyes drags himself into the clearing. "Hey." He looks slightly bedraggled, but in a deliberate way.
Jon just blinks at him, waiting for him to go on or demand gold or something. After a minute of silence, he responds, "Um, hello?"
"My name's Mikey. My brother sent me to bid you guys welcome and stuff." Jon looks confusedly at him, then up at the sky. It's got to be past midnight. "So, like, welcome."
"You do realize it's the middle of the night, right?" Jon asks.
Mikey looks around, squinting up at the sky. "Huh, I guess so. Sometimes I lose track of time in here." He starts to reach under his tunic and Jon's hand goes to his dagger, shifting so he's firmly between this Mikey and Brendon. "I have some letter thing from Gee for..." Mikey tries to smooth out the crumpled piece of parchment. "Either Brendon or Spencer, I think.
Jon takes the letter. "And this Gee, he's...the King here?"
On the other side of the fire, Spencer is stirring.
Mikey shrugs in a way that probably means yes, or could just mean that he's already lost interest in this conversation.
"I'll handle it," Spencer says, going from asleep to in charge in less than a minute. Jon gratefully hands him the letter. Spencer smooths his hair while he reads it.
"So, like, good passage, and stuff," Mikey says. "Yell if you need anything. Someone will hear you." Jon tries not to look terrified at what the sort of constant surveillance might mean, but Mikey is already wandering back into the dark.
Spencer leans closer to the fire with the piece of paper, squinting. "His penmanship is horrible," Spencer whispers. Jon starts laughing, the adrenaline and the absurdity finally colliding.
"Jon," Brendon calls out sleepily from his bedroll, "What going on?" His hair is a mess and he has little creases on his cheek from where he's been lying on Jon's sweater.
"Nothing, Bren," Spencer says, sticking the note in his knapsack. "Just a messenger." On his other side, Ryan sits up.
"Jon," he says, "come lie down with Brendon. He needs his beauty sleep and it's my watch anyway."
Brendon sticks his tongue out at Ryan. "I am very pretty already, Ross." But he scoots over and lets Jon settle in next to him. For someone so slight, Ryan puts out a lot of body heat, so the blankets are still warm. But Jon indulges Brendon when he shivers and cuddles up to Jon's side.
"I'm awake now," Spencer says as Ryan settles beside him.
"That's a lie," Ryan says, smirking. That stupid smirk always makes Spencer weak. "You always say that, Spencer Smith, but then, if someone you can trust is on the job, you fall right back to sleep."
"I do not," Spencer says, prepared to stay awake out of sheer stubbornness.
"It's all right if you do," Ryan says, taking Spencer's blanket and shaking it out. He pulls Spencer to the side, fussing and complaining, until Spencer's head is pillowed on his thigh. Ryan spreads the blanket over Spencer and Spencer's stupid body starts to calm and settle. "I'm right here," Ryan whispers.
The rest of night passes quietly and the light is just starting to filter down to the forest floor when Ryan hears Jon start to stir. Brendon snuffles as Jon eases him off his chest and Brendon turns over and curls up on Spencer's other side.
"Hey," Jon whispers, "Get a little sleep, I'm up now."
Ryan shakes his head. "Better if I don't nap. But I will let you make breakfast."
"Deal," Jon says. As he putters around the campsite, Ryan stretches carefully, trying not to jostle Spencer awake. He looks much younger when he sleeps and Ryan brushes the hair off Spencer's forehead gently. Spencer makes a little mewling sound, leans into the touch and as much as Ryan wants to keep doing it, he knows this really is not the time or place. He moves Spencer off of him and stands up, stretching up on his tiptoes.
"For you," Jon says with a knowing smile.
Ryan smiles gratefully at Jon when he hands him the tin cup of coffee. "You are a god, Jon Jacobs." It's hot and strong and just what Ryan needs to get through this day. Brendon and Spencer are still mostly asleep, curled up under the pile of blankets. He blows on the top, just to get it cool enough not to scald.
"I'm hoping we'll make good time today," Jon says, getting some food out of their packs. Their horses have been strangely calm in the forest, even Ryan's stallion, which is notorious for being difficult.
"Me too. But I don't think we'll get out of here without having to meet up with this...Gee character."
"He doesn't seem dangerous," Jon says. "But we'll be careful."
Ryan watches as Jon unwraps one of the small, sweet loaves that they packed. "This is an awful lot of trouble you're going to," Ryan says. Jon exhales. He knew it was coming, Ryan's test. "It would have been easier to stay home and let us handle this." And reap the rewards, Jon hears.
"It's my fight too," Jon says. He breaks off some of the bread and hands it across to Ryan. "It has to be."
"In all these months we've worked across the square from each other, I have never seen you fight. If the time comes, will you be able to protect him?" He's not asking it to be hurtful, but Ryan needs to know that Brendon will be safe should something happen to him.
Jon quirks up an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?" His fingers twitch toward his hilt and Ryan smiles broadly.
"No, not a challenge per se, more like...a demonstration."
Brendon thinks he's dreaming when he wakes to the sound of Ryan and Jon talking, and then knows he isn't when he hears the clash of steel a moment later. Spencer wakes all at once, hand unsheathing his dagger, but Brendon puts a hand on his shoulder and keeps him still. "Watch," Brendon whispers.
While Ryan's still sizing him up, Jon makes the first move, lightning fast and handsome as anything. Brendon lies back down to watch.
He's good - better than Ryan expected. What he lacks in grace, Jon makes up for in speed. He manages to block most of Ryan's opening thrusts and circle them around so Ryan has the disadvantage of having Spencer and Brendon in his slight line.
"Not bad. I didn't know a man of music would also be trained in how to handle a sword," Ryan says, deflecting Jon's blow. Brendon can't be bothered to muzzle his giggle. Spencer is half smiling too, but begrudgingly. It's enough of a distraction that Ryan feels the air of Jon's blade as it whistles by his shoulder.
"Careful, Ross. Almost had you there." Ryan narrows his eyes. He has a feeling that turning them again will only remind Jon that he has to impress his future fiance. He backs Jon up a step anyway, parries twice and then thrusts forward, digging the tip of his sword into the tree trunk just behind Jon's shoulder. Jon stills, breathing heavily. "Did I pass?" he asks.
Ryan laughs and yanks his sword free. "You were passable. I suppose you can marry Brendon."
"Wow, that was pretty wicked," a voice says from behind them. Ryan whirls around, sword at the ready and Spencer's on his feet too, his dagger drawn. The man is small, but wiry looking and there's a tattoo on his neck. Ryan's sure they could take him, but they could be surrounded now and he Jon were too busy playing around instead of doing their duty.
"Hey, hey," the man says, taking a step forward but putting his hands up. "No need for bloodshed, all right? I'm Frank. Gee sent me out here to get you guys and bring you to the palace."
This is usually the point in a meeting where the emissary notices Spencer's in-charge face and defers to him, but the guy has already moved on to inquiring about Ryan's sword skills and Jon's chain mail. Brendon happily starts packing up.
The man introduces himself as Frank. "What do you do around here?" Brendon asks. Frank has definitely been flirting with Brendon and Ryan is kind of enjoying watching Jon's blood boil.
Frank shrugs. "What needs to get done, I guess."
"Oh, kind of like Spencer," Brendon says with a grin and Frank swinging his gaze to Spencer, who narrows his eyes. Ryan smothers his laugh with a cough and hands Spencer the reins to his horse.
Frank nods at how he and Jon have cleared up their campsite. "All right, kids. Follow me."
Turns out they were already heading in the right direction, but the path that Frank leads them on is much denser than the one on Spencer's maps. The brush is thick and they end up in a single file line. Ryan maneuvers it so he's in front of Brendon and Jon is behind him, just in case of an ambush.
Spencer's in front, right behind Frank. He has no idea if there are enough soldiers here to have an ambush. Frank guides his horse to the middle of a clearing and hops down. "You guys can leave your stuff down here. Mikey will take care of them, whenever he gets back." Spencer looks uneasy, but Brendon is already clambering down.
"Where is the palace?" Spencer asks.
Frank points up above his head and nuzzles his horse while Spencer looks at the sprawling tree house above them.
"You have got to be kidding me," Ryan says flatly and when Spencer looks closer, he can see what looks to be the main space connected to smaller little houses by walkways across the ancient tree branches. Brendon's eyes are shining and even Jon is smiling.
"Come on, there's a set of stairs on the back of the big oak," Frank says with a wave of his hand. "I'll meet you guys up there."
Spencer starts. "Wait, how are you getting up there?"
Frank beams and jumps up, catching a low hanging branch. "I'm gonna climb up."
Frank is four branches up before Jon can take Brendon's hand to make sure he doesn't follow. "This isn't a proper kingdom," Spencer mutters, and Ryan nearly collapses in laughter. "What?" Spencer asks, stamping his foot, and Ryan thinks he's adorable.
"Come on!" Brendon says, dragging Jon past them. "I wanna see!"
The steps are, indeed, carved out of the oak. A railing is not. Jon keeps a firm grip on Brendon as they ascend. He can hear music coming from the top of the tree.
They wind up and up and Spencer clings to Ryan's hand. "I didn't know you were afraid of heights," he says quietly.
"I'm not, normally. But a small barrier between the ground and us might be nice. If Brendon trips and plunges to his death, his family will never forgive me." Two spots of color flare high on Spencer's cheeks and he turns his attention back to the stairs to keep Ryan from seeing.
By the time they get to the top, Frank is already there, settling in with a mug of ale. He's probably already told the king that they pose no threat, since the heavily armed knight by the wall didn't even pause in his conversation. There's a man playing the guitar and Jon squeezes Brendon's hand so that Brendon doesn't go flailing off to accost him.
"You made it!" Gerard says. Spencer assumes it must be Gerard because he's sitting in the intricately carved throne, but he might be wrong. Kings usually make more of an effort to comb their hair.
"Yeah, barely," Spencer snorts. "You should look into a banister."
"It's totally on my to-do list!" Gee says. Spencer looks at him skeptically, sucking in a breath as Brendon leans over one of the railing to peer down again.
Ryan squeezes his hand. "Not to worry, Jon's got him. Just like I've got you."
Frank snorts into his mug and the knight at the door chuckles. "Shut up, you guys. I said I'll do it and I will. Jerks." He turns back to them with a crooked smile. "So, Brendon. I hear you're getting married."
"Yes, I am," Brendon says, tugging Jon forward. "This is my betrothed, Jon Jacobs. He runs an instrument shop in the village. He wooed me with tea and a pianoforte."
The guy with the guitar looks up. "You think you can help me fix the tuning on this?"
Jon looks to Spencer for permission and Spencer quirks a little smile at him. Jon goes to sit on the floor with the guitar and figure out the problem. Brendon happily accepts a mug of ale and doesn't even complain when Ryan tastes it first. "So, what brings you to Belleville?" Gerard asks.
"We're just passing through," Brendon says. "We're heading for the Kingdom of the Cobra."
"Why?" Mikey asks. He looks interested for the first time ever.
"On an errand from my father. Proving my love by going on a dangerous quest, etcetera." Brendon finishes his mug.
Spencer doesn't miss Gerard's glance at Mikey when they mention the Cobra and he makes a note to see if he can get information about it from Mikey later on tonight. Never hurts to be through.
"Well, you'll stay here tonight, of course. If we'd known you were coming through this way for sure, we would have met you at the border or something," Gerard says with a wave of his hand. "Bob'll show you to the guest quarters and Frankie, can you let Brian know we have four more for dinner?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Frank grumbles and Gerard tilts his head, studying Spencer.
"You're very pretty. You should let me sketch you later. After dinner, maybe," he says.
Spencer's eyes go wide. He's never been hit on with Brendon and Ryan in attendance, but the way Frank presses a kiss to Gerard's temple before he descends out of the tree makes him think that maybe it is an honest, artistic appreciation. Somehow that's more terrifying.
"Guest quarters," Bob says, dumping them at a mostly-open air platform that overlooks the river.
"Dinner's at sundown. You'll hear Brian bellowing." He goes back the way he came. Brendon rolls out his sleeping bag, and then runs to the window, leaning too far over.
"Brendon, Jesus," Jon says, catching him by the back of his tunic. "Be careful, all right." Brendon twists in his arms and has the good sense to look chastened.
"Sorry. I just wanted to see how far up we are."
"And?" Ryan asks from where he's settling his bedroll on one of the little pallets. Spencer is staying firmly in the center of the room and slowly pulling Brendon's things closer in as well. It's oddly charming, Ryan decides. Spencer doesn't often let his weaknesses show.
"Pretty damn high," Jon answers.
Spencer grinds his teeth a little. Ryan resolves to sleep curled close to make sure Spencer feels safe. Any personal benefits are secondary.
Brendon's still kissing Jon and trying to grab leaves off the tree when dinner is called. Brendon runs down the stairs, entirely too charmed by the tree house. Spencer thinks that he might ask the king to chop down every sizable tree on the lands. Just in case.
The dining room looks like the one at the castle at home - a long, formal table piled high with food and drink, but everything is about three feet closer to the ground and instead of chairs, there are plump, silk covered pillows on the floor. Gerard is sitting at one end, next to a dark haired woman whose belly he's stroking. Brendon heads for the opposite end, as he has been taught to, but Gerard waves him down.
"Brendon, come sit down here. Lindsey wants to meet you."
He laces his fingers with Jon's and they weave in between people until they get to the seats across from her and Brendon pulls Jon down to sit next to him.
"Lin," Gerard says. "This is Prince Brendon and Prince Jon."
"Not Prince," Jon says, his fingers tightening around Brendon's. "Just Jon."
"Hello Prince Brendon and Just Jon." Brendon giggles and that makes Jon smile. "Gerard's been telling me about all of you. It's so rare for us to get visitors this deep in the forest."
"Well, you'll see us twice," Brendon says. "We've got to come back this way too."
She groans and shifts a little. "Maybe by the time you come back, the late arrival will have decided to make her appearance." Gerard rubs her belly again soothingly.
"How far along are you?" Jon asks.
"Mmm, about two weeks late, actually," Bob replies from her other side.
"I'll be very glad to see my feet again. And also the ground," Lindsey says ruefully.
"The ground is totally different now!" Frank says, leaning over to put his hands on Lindsey's belly.
"Did you hear that baby?" he shouts. "There's flowers and stuff. You can come out now!" He puts his ear against Lindsey's belly and waits. "Nothing."
Lindsey laughs and kisses Frank's cheek. "Thank you for the effort, though." Brendon loves how open and close everyone is here. It makes him wish their home was a little more like this.
He feels Jon's nose brush against his cheek. "I love you, you know," he whispers, kissing behind Brendon's ear. Brendon shivers a little before turning toward him and brushing his mouth across Jon's.
"Me too."
"Aw, Gee. Why don't you ever kiss me like that anymore?" Lindsey says with a fake pout and Brendon laughs at the flush in Jon's cheeks. "You two are adorable."
Ray, who drops into the seat on Jon's other side, saves them from more embarrassment. "So Jon, how long have you had your shop?"
Brendon tips his head onto Jon's shoulder and listens as Jon and Ray talk excitedly about different types of strings and all the instruments in the shop. He could easily contribute to the conversation, but it's nice to hear Jon talk about things that he loves. It reminds Brendon of the day they met.
"You seem happy," Gerard remarks quietly and Brendon sits up, reaching for his cup of cider.
"I am, yes," he says and Gerard nods firmly.
"You have to make your own happiness in this world, I really believe that," Gerard says and the way he says it makes Brendon think he's given this speech before. Across the table, he catches Lindsey's eye and she smiles, rubbing her stomach. "I mean, if I'd stuck with what was expected of me, I'd have a boring old castle with a moat and a bunch of fawning plebeians in my court. Thank God for Frank and Mikey picking me up off the ground and shoving me in the right direction."
"And instead you have this amazing tree house palace and all your friends around you," Brendon replies. "My father talks all the time about how well cared for the villages at the edge of the forest are. I don't know if he understands your...unconventional methods, but he appreciates them."
"I'm glad," Gerard says, flashing a crooked little grin. "S'nice to know at least one other King doesn't think I'm just a kook who lives in a tree."
Lindsey pats his hand comfortingly. "Sweetheart, you are a kook who lives in a tree." The look of shock on Gerard's face makes Brendon and Lindsey break out into laughter and it finally gets Ray and Jon's attention.
"Did I miss something?" Jon asks with a grin and Brendon just shakes his head as he wipes the tears from under his eyes.
"Nope, not at all."
Further down the table, Ryan stays as quiet as he can during dinner and just listens as Spencer tries to wring information out of Mikey. It's only marginally successful. "Gabe throws the best parties," Mikey says. "Just don't let him show you the Cobra. It's not actually a snake."
Spencer recoils and Ryan squeezes his knee under the table.
"But he'll probably be fine. He's calmed down a lot since he's set his sights on marriage," Mikey says, sipping at his cider.
Beside him, his wife Alicia snorts inelegantly. "Please, just because he's married doesn't mean his wandering hands have been cured." Ryan laughs, but Spencer's brow furrow gets even deeper.
"Well, then I suppose it's good that Brendon's intended is with us."
"Could help," Mikey says before going back to his soup.
After dinner, there is more music. Everyone seems to find an instrument somewhere except for Gerard, who turns out to have a very sweet singing voice. Lindsey makes him sing her favorite songs and he smiles so hard at her that his eyes scrunch closed. It is also Lindsey's condition that ends the night early. Frank explains that she tires easily and Lindsey kicks his shin.
Ryan gets up to the guest quarters first and arranges their bedrolls together, Spencer and Brendon in the middle. He's already lying in his when the rest make it up the stairs. He just blinks at Spencer and dares him to say something.
Spencer is silent as he strips his clothes off and lies down. His heart is racing and Ryan thinks it's the height. "I'll make sure you don't roll off the edge," Ryan whispers, his arm looping around Spencer's waist, and that doesn't help his heart at all.
They are waylaid in the morning by breakfast and Gerard insisting on drawing each of them, and don't reach the Kingdom of the Cobra until late the next night. The palace is huge and made of stone. "A proper palace!" Spencer calls it. They are met by a party of knights wearing the most horribly colored standards, but they are formal and lead them all into the court to be introduced. King Gabriel looks down at them from his overly busy jeweled throne and grins when he realizes who they are. "Visitors!" he says, hopping down. "And royal ones at that. This calls for a party." In her throne, Queen Victoria rolls her eyes. "But...I guess we can wait for tomorrow. Let me get you guys set up with some sweet digs. Come on!"
When they get shown to what his majesty calls The Honeymoon Suite at the Cobra Court, Jon is sure this is meant to be some other kind of test, designed just for him. The bathtub is big enough for four, the bed is wide and firm enough for anything and the fire is stoked hot enough for people who aren't wearing any clothes. Jon resolves to wear clothes.
Of course, Brendon has no such resolve. He immediately strips off all his clothes. "Oh God, Jon. Look at that tub. Have you ever been so happy to see hot water before?" Jon turns away, shucking off his over tunic and his chain mail vest. (He's been super careful not to let Brendon see the royal crest stamped on it.) Brendon is splashing around and making all these ridiculous moaning noises.
"Jon, there's soap. And I think they put those salts in here too, the ones that help relax your muscles. Spencer used to get them for Ryan all the time when we were training with the guard."
Jon still isn't looking, but he starts to pull at the laces of his breeches. Being clean is tempting and you know what, he can do this. Jon is a man of excellent self control.
Brendon makes grabby hands at him when he takes the first step into the water. Jon stays carefully on his side of the tub. Brendon's eyes go wide. "Jonathan. Did I do something to hurt or offend you?"
"Oh, no, love. Of course not. I just don't trust myself with you."
Brendon pushes across the length of the tub and wraps himself around Jon. "You don't have to..."
"Two weeks," Jon whispers. "We've come this far. We can make it another two weeks." He doesn't say the other thing that's been on his mind. He doesn't want Brendon's honor called into question in case Brendon refuses him when he finds out what Jon really is. Brendon still deserves a fortuitous marriage.
Brendon drops a kiss on his shoulder. "Two more weeks, Jon Jacobs, before I make you mine forever."
Jon tips Brendon's chin up and kisses him. "Forever and ever."
Brendon kisses him again, harder and Jon worries he's going to have to push Brendon away. He hates seeing that look of hurt cross Brendon's lovely face. But Brendon surprises him by breaking their kiss and reaching for a bar of soap.
"I think you should wash my hair," he says, slapping the bar into Jon's hand.
"Oh, really?" Jon dunks his hands under water and starts to work up a good lather.
"Uh huh," Brendon says, humming happily under his breath.
"As you wish," Jon says.
When Spencer comes to check on them later, they're all clean and dried and Brendon is sleeping face down in the center of the bed. Spencer raises an eyebrow. "We've been good," Jon says.
"How good?" Spencer asks. "Did you tell him?"
Jon looks sheepish and shakes his head. "Let me enjoy this? I'll tell him when we're ready to leave. If he rejects me, I'll stay a few extra days and make my way back on my own."
Spencer gets that indulgent look he usually saves for when Brendon is particularly helpless or thick. "He won't."
"You don't know that, Spencer. He's spent weeks in my shop complaining about how his parents want him to marry some useless noble who's only after his money." Jon looks Brendon, curled up under the quilt. "I would love him even if he were a traveling minstrel without sliver of gold to his name."
Spencer sits on the edge of the bed. "Don't you think he deserves that same choice? To know and love every part of you?"
Jon blinks back the tears that are prickling his eyes. "But what if he doesn't, Spencer? What if he cannot forgive me for deceiving him? I could not bear to see him look at me with the same scorn he has shown towards those other suitors." Spencer puts a comforting hand on Jon's shoulder and Jon leans into it. "I could not bear it."
"Jon, I have known him since we were too small to walk. If I know anything, I know he would not do that to you," Spencer says. Spencer thinks he would give anything to have Ryan look at him the way Jon looks at Brendon. "Tell him," Spencer whispers. "Enjoy your time here with a clear conscience. Then we can send word ahead of us and the chaos will be over before we get home."
"He's lucky for a friend like you," Jon says as Spencer gets up.
Spencer turns at the door. "So are you."
When Spencer returns to his room, Ryan is still awake. He's sitting in the chair by the fire, mending his shirt. There's a silvery scar on the crest of his shoulder. Spencer's fingers itch to touch it.
"Are they all right?"
Spencer snaps back to attention. "Yes. Brendon's sleeping. Jon's...watching him sleep, I suppose."
Ryan smiles. "Sounds about right." There's this sort of faint sadness in Ryan's eyes when he talks about them and Spencer tries not to wonder why. (The worst possibility is that he's too damaged from some secret lost love to ever care for Spencer.) "Ready to turn in?" Ryan asks, upbeat again.
"I...yes. If you are," Spencer says, not meeting his eyes.
Ryan chuckles as he slides off his breeches. "Spence, you could not have grown too shy to share a bed with me. Besides, it will get too cold for the floor when the fire goes out." He is under the blankets now, lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand. "Do you remember when we were little and we all used to sleep in Brendon's bed? We'd pull the drapes shut and pretend we were in belly of a pirate ship or locked in a dungeon."
Spencer laughs. "I had to play the fair maiden, because my hair was the longest. And Brendon was our fearless leader, you and Brent, his faithful knights." He climbs into the bed, leaving space between them.
"But I always rescued you, didn't I?" Ryan scooted in closer to him.
"You did," Spencer says, his voice growing soft. This place seems built for romance, all the beds comfortable and the fires bright enough to see Ryan's hand slide across the soft linens to his.
"I still would," Ryan says. "Brent's no fun anymore and Brendon's got Jon to lead around, so I suppose it's just you and me on our pretend adventures."
Their heads are sharing the same pillow. Spencer can smell the sweet wine they'd had with dinner on Ryan's breath. Ryan laces their fingers together. "Palm to palm, together 'til the end." Ryan's eyes drift shut and after a few moments, he's sleeping.
Spencer reaches out with his free hand and cups Ryan's face, running his thumb over the sharp edge of Ryan's cheekbone.
"Until the end."
Spencer sort of hates how sad and sentimental he's become, but he stays awake for a long time after that, and when he wakes at first light, like always, it's cold in the room, but warm and cozy under the covers, and Ryan's hand is still latched on to his. Spencer's not really awake, he'll tell himself later, but he brushes a kiss over Ryan's temple and Ryan's eyes flutter open. He's already smiling.
"It is far too early. I get the feeling King Gabriel's court doesn't rise until noon," Ryan says in a gravelly voice. He stretches up, letting go of Spencer's hand and arching his back up. Spencer can't take it and rolls away, dragging the blanket with him as he gets up. "Well, we should be up before they are. Hopefully, Suarez will be done with the Queen's gift today and we can be on our way home." He makes the mistake of turning around. The sheet is bunched around Ryan's waist and he's got his face turned toward the sunlit window. Desire burns through Spencer so swiftly, he's sure it's written all over his face.
Ryan smirks over his shoulder. "Come now, Spencer. It's lovely here, and how often do we get away from home. We should enjoy it. Are you hungry?" Spencer shakes his head. He's having trouble thinking. "Then come back to bed," Ryan says, falling down amongst the pillows. "Things will happen when they happen." Spencer sighs inwardly. He's been waiting his whole life for something that hasn't happened.
"I should get started on these letters. I imagine Gabriel must have a messenger lying around here somewhere," say Spencer, turning toward the desk. He hears Ryan huff behind him and before he can sit, Ryan has gotten out of bed (completely naked - Spencer's brain voice is screaming - COMPLETELY NAKED!) and is dragging him back under the sheets.
"I will hold you down if I have to, Spencer Smith," Ryan says with a wide grin.
Yesyesyes is on the tip of Spencer's tongue and when did Ryan all of sudden get so comfortable walking around in the nude? "Sorry," Ryan replies nonchalantly, "you get used to it when you live by yourself."
Spencer tries not to smack himself in the face when he realizes that he said that out loud.
"You should clearly come back to the castle, then," Spencer says. He slides under the still warm blankets to avoid Ryan getting closer.
"Are you inviting me into your quarters, Spencer?" Ryan asks, teasing, and Spencer feels completely off-balance. He wants to nod, but he just lies there, still with fear. "You are an awfully nice bed partner," Ryan says, sliding close enough that he can rest his cheek on the pillow beside Spencer's. He's close enough that Spencer's hand is twitching trying to touch his hip. "Except for the kicking. I'm not very fond of that," Ryan says with a smirk and God, Spencer wants to kiss him, kiss him until his mouth is shiny and swollen red.
"Brendon doesn't mind the kicking," Spencer says lightly and he sees something darken in Ryan's expression.
"Oh no? Well, that's because he talks in his sleep," Ryan answers, turning so he's on his back again.
Spencer has the distinct feeling that he's misstepped again. It keeps happening and he's not sure what it means. "He talks to Jon in his sleep," Spencer says. "And I've had no one to complain about my kicking in some time, Mr. Ross. For all you know, I've stopped."
Ryan turns his head and Spencer keeps hold of his haughty expression until Ryan starts laughing. "Oh, fat chance. You ran miles last night. I slept on top of you because at least it kept you still."
His chest gets tight and he can't think for a second. Because the idea of...
"Well, that's why I kept dreaming I was running through a field of thorns. All your sharp limbs kept stabbing me, Ross," Spencer answers back.
Ryan blinks slowly and then pounces, digging his fingers under Spencer's ribs. "I'll show you sharp!"
Ryan knows all his soft spots, but Spencer's got height and weight on him and after a few moments of struggle, Spencer has him pinned. They're both giggling and breathless.
Ryan smiles up at Spencer, his cheeks flushed and his hair in his eyes, and for once in Spencer's entire life, he doesn't think about something before he does it. He just leans down and kisses Ryan. In the next second, he's sprung away, apologies and prevarications already on his lips, but his ears are ringing with Ryan's soft moan. Ryan stays on the pillow, turning to look at him. "Spencer?"
"Ryan, I - "
Right then, the door bangs open and Brendon comes tumbling through. Spencer scrambles back, almost tripping over the blanket as he stands up.
"Good morning, boys!" Brendon calls, "Sleep well?"
Jon trails in behind him, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Brendon, I told you they might still be in bed."
Brendon's eyes bounce from Spencer's scarlet blush to Ryan's mussed hair and back to Spencer. "Did we wake you?"
"No, no," Ryan says hastily. "We were just getting up."
Spencer can't expect Brendon to not smirk at that. "I bet you were. Well, the day is wasting and breakfast is already on downstairs. Jon and I are going to give a concert this afternoon, I think," Brendon says.
Spencer sighs as he begins to dress for the day. "We have to be getting back."
Brendon does his big wounded puppy eyes. "But Spencer! My concert!"
Jon smiles indulgently. "Gabriel does have a fully stocked music room. I don't think there's any way we could have kept Brendon away."
Spencer is adjusting the sash around his waist and doing his best to avoid Ryan's eyes in the mirror. He let his feelings get the best of him and that's not all right. Someone has to think about what is right and what is proper, feelings be damned.
"And I wrote something new," Brendon practically coos. "A love song."
Brendon and Jon are most likely making eyes at each other, so Spencer turns to wash his face in the basin in the corner. He feels resigned already. "Well, I'm going back to sleep," Ryan says. Spencer remembers that Ryan's naked, that Ryan invited him back there and he ruined everything, and his heart clenches painfully. He doesn't look over, so he can't see the way Ryan is staring at him, begging with his eyes, or how Brendon and Jon are frowning.
The icy water is a good shock to his system. Spencer's the one who's got to make sure this quest gets done and get them home in one piece. This is not a vacation, this is his sworn duty. He straightens his spine and turns around. His glance skates past Ryan and focuses on Brendon.
"I'm going to find the king's adviser and check the progress of the gift for the Queen. I'll also see if there are horses available for you to ride with the King this afternoon, Brendon. Surely, we should give ours as much rest as possible before our journey home," he says, gathering up his scrolls and book. "I'll have someone send up breakfast." He manages a strained smile, mostly directed at Jon. "Do you think you three can stay out of trouble until I see you at lunch time?"
Ryan huffs as he rolls over, tucking himself back under the covers. Brendon still looks all wounded. Jon nods. "I'm sure I can keep an eye on them." Spencer nods at him before slipping out the door.
Brendon flops on the bed next to Ryan. Ryan's voice is muffled under the blankets. "He kissed me," Ryan laments. Brendon gasps. Ryan shoves the blankets down. "He kissed me, and then he ran like I was on fire or something."
Brendon pets his hair. Brendon always likes it when people pet his hair. "He probably just panicked."
Ryan moves away from Brendon's touch. "I don't think so. I think...I think perhaps he is in love with someone. Someone who does not love him back."
But Brendon will not be deterred. He flings his arm across Ryan's chest, resting his head on Ryan's shoulder. "That cannot be. Who wouldn't love Spencer? He is smart, funny, and handsome. There is no one more loyal or more honest than him. Any man or woman would be lucky to have him."
Ryan sighs. "Yes, they would be."
He whispers, "Just like anyone would be lucky to have you." Brendon's eyes are earnest and understanding and it makes Ryan slide under the covers again. "Oh, Ryan!" Brendon says. Ryan refuses to resurface until he's gotten more sleep, so Jon and Brendon borrow lutes from the music room and go to play in the back garden while Spencer does whatever it is that Spencer does.
Spencer goes back to their chambers at lunchtime, needing to change out of his workday tunic before the luncheon and concert, and he's not expecting Ryan to still be abed. He's awake, but moping.
"Are you all right?" Spencer asks carefully. The look of Ryan's face is one he hasn't seen in a few years, not since his father passed away. "You're not feeling sick, are you?"
"No, I'm not sick," Ryan replies peevishly.
"Then what's the matter with you?" Spencer turns around, his tunic in his hands. Ryan's eyes jump down to his bare chest for a moment before coming back to his face.
"Why did you run from me this morning?"
Spencer bristles. "I did not run. I had things to do, that's all."
Ryan unfolds himself from the bed and steps into Spencer's space. It takes all of Spencer's resolve not to step back. Or grab Ryan and kiss him. "Am I not worthy of a tumble with the great Spencer Smith?"
Spencer feels his breath shudder in his lungs. He falls back a step under the weight of Ryan's glare. "Ryan!" he says. "How could you ever assume that I would reduce you to that? Reduce our friendship to that?" Something like grief slices across Ryan's face. His shoulders slump as he makes to get out of bed. "Ryan?" Ryan ignores him, finding his nice clothes and getting ready to dress himself. Why does Spencer always feel like he's just ruined everything? "Ryan," he says again, defeated. "My feelings for you are too serious to let you use me like that. I'd rather never know what its like than to have it only once."
He doesn't wait for Ryan's response; he just pulls on his shirt and flees the room. This, this is not the way he wanted things to go at all. He wanted to wait for them to get home, get Brendon and Jon married and maybe then head down to Ryan's shop one night and invite him to have dinner at the castle. He wanted to do this right, dammit.
And now....now everything is ruined.
part the third
| | |
|