Archive of Our Own

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 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.

Bonus Material!

Here is the download link for an amazing mix my lovely and oh-so-kind beta snarkyrainbow made for me, in addition to her invaluable prose-wrangling duties. It's like she reached in and pulled out of my head exactly what I was thinking about when I was writing. In some ways, she probably did. I can't repeat the word amazing enough!

Also amazing is the cover that the lovely maryangel200 made to go along with it:

I've already linked to my wonderful BBB art and mixes in the header, but all lovely things bear repeating, so you may find them at the following locations:

Two illustrations by yanjara

Fanmix by shoemaster

Better Things by spuzz

And finally an after-dinner mint, if you will, in the form of a very PG little Bob/Brian outtake originally written back in January as a birthday present for kueble. While there was some depiction of Mikey/Alicia and Bob/Greta side stories in the text (maybe a few others if you squint), the Bob/Brian never existed anywhere outside of my own head. However, there was no reason it needed to stay there! It has no bearing on the plot, and is fondly referred to as "the soup porn". Thank you for reading!