Walking Wounded (b/g, request meme)
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing)
written November 2006.
Notes: For mymillerlight.
Bert cannot stop laughing.
The moment he sets eyes on Gerard, sitting red-faced and awkward in the wheelchair with his right ankle heavily strapped, Bert can't stop himself from grinning. Then he snorts. Finally, he bursts into a fit of giggles.
And he can't stop; he's hunched forward, his hands on his thighs, laughing loudly and occasionally muttering phrases like "oh my god, you stupid fuck" as he tries to catch his breath.
This doesn't impress Gerard, who hasn't exactly had a pleasant day to begin with. He grits his teeth, setting his jaw in a firm line, and crosses his arms. If his ankle didn't hurt so much, he'd be tapping his foot on the floor impatiently ... but that's out of the question at the moment. So he waits, because Bert has a short attention span, and is bound to stop laughing sooner or later.
After a few more minutes, Bert stands upright and wipes his eyes, still grinning. One look at Gerard's "bitch face" nearly sets him off again, but with an effort, he manages to swallow the laughter threatening to overwhelm him again and takes a deep breath.
"I don't even wanna know how it happened," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Fuck you," Gerard spits in reply, trying to hoist himself out of the wheelchair. On the third attempt, he slumps back into the chair, glowering at his friend. Why the fuck did he call Bert -- out of everyone he knows, why did he choose Bert? "Are you gonna just stand there like an asshole, or are you gonna help me?"
Another shit-eating grin. "Well, I was gonna just stand here, but I guess if you want me to help ... "
"Yeah, I do."
The sarcasm is strong in Gerard's voice, and Bert thinks maybe it's smarter not to push it any further. So he walks casually over to the wheelchair and begins to push Gerard through the hospital corridor.
"Where are we going?"
"Your place."
"Oh?"
Gerard smirks, pleased to finally have the upper hand in the conversation. "Yeah. If that's okay with you, I mean."
"Sure thing." Bert shakes his head, a half-smile appearing. After a moment, he glances around the empty corridor. "Hey, where'd everyone else go?"
"I told them to go back to the hotel. Rest and shit." He sighs. "Fuck, it was so hot out there today."
"Mmm. Gets like that in summer."
A pause. "Stop being an asshole."
"Quit being a little bitch and maybe I will," Bert replies cheerfully, tilting the wheelchair back enough to make Gerard grip the armrests and shriek.
"Fuck! Bert, stop it!"
But he's not paying attention. "Dude, I just saw another wheelchair over there. We could have races!"
"Would you please listen to me? I've fucked my ankle up. It hurts a lot and I can't take painkillers for it, and I'm in a really shitty mood ... "
The chair's front wheels return to the ground with a thud, and Gerard winces as the impact jars his injured foot.
"Crap. I'd forgotten about that," Bert says with a frown. "Sorry man. I'll get you home in one piece. Promise."
"Uh ... okay," Gerard says hesitantly, still grimacing from the pain. "That'd be really good."
***
Bert wheels Gerard out to the car and helps him out of the chair, making sure he's comfortable in the front passenger seat before pushing the chair back to the hospital entrance. He jogs back to the car and slides into the driver's seat, slamming the door roughly and turning the key in the ignition. Gerard, his head resting against the window, closes his eyes.
"Music on or off?" Bert asks, hand hovering over the radio dial.
"Off, man. My head hurts real bad."
"Kay."
They drive in silence for a few minutes, Bert navigating his way out of the hospital carpark and onto the busy streets with a minimum of fuss. Bert's not the greatest driver in the world; he's impatient and prone to road-rage, which is not good when you live in the overpopulated tangle of freeways that is Los Angeles.
As they sit in traffic, Bert grinding his teeth and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in irritation, Gerard smiles. He's still in a lot of pain, and he's tired, but he's reassured by Bert's behaviour. It's completely normal. Expected. And he loves that. Gerard's life, his career has been in such an upheaval lately ... new projects, new directions, new goals, new hair, new everything. So there's something comforting in Bert's presence, his dishevelled appearance, his manic laugh, his short temper. Bert doesn't change. He still wears his heart on his sleeve -- and on his pinky fingers.
"Fuckin' hell," Bert says loudly, and Gerard sits up sharply. The car is still idling, surrounded by other vehicles, and it looks as though they've barely travelled a mile from the hospital.
"What?"
"Just -- fuck!" he says, throwing his hands in the air. "I mean, how much of my fucking life do I have to waste in fucking traffic, Gee?"
He slams his fist against the horn a few times. Gerard grits his teeth as the noise sends shafts of pain through his head.
"Uh, Bert ... "
Bert rolls down his window and pokes his head out. "Will you hurry the fuck up?" he hollers. "I got a sick guy in here!"
Gerard shakes his head and closes his eyes, head falling back against the seat. There's nothing he can say; he doesn't even know why he bothers.
***
Gerard wakes to feel something cool on his forehead. His eyes flutter open and he blinks a few times until his eyes adjust to the light. His jacket has been thrown across a chair next to a framed Ziggy Stardust screenprint. His wallet, cellphone and keys are lying on the bedside table. His lone shoe -- the other was discarded, forgotten after his injury -- is on the desk in the corner, along with a stack of CDs, papers, notebooks.
The sun is setting, throwing long, charcoal-coloured shadows across the room ... and he's lying in Bert's bed. Bert is sitting cross-legged next to him, leaning over to press a damp cloth to his face.
"Hey," he says gruffly, and Gerard smiles. "Y'okay?"
"Fucking tired."
"Yeah. Not too hot?"
"Not any more. Thanks."
"No problem," Bert says, tossing the cloth in the direction of the bedside table. It misses, and they both laugh.
"How long have I been out?"
Bert looks at his watch. "Uh ... couple hours, I think. Three, maybe? I don't know."
"Oh."
"Mmm. Anyway, you hungry?"
Gerard shakes his head.
"Thirsty?"
"Yeah -- a little," he says, running his tongue along dry lips.
Bert grins and leans backwards, falling onto the mattress and stretching an arm out. After a moment, he sits up, a water bottle in one hand. "Dude, what would you do without me, huh?"
"Dunno," Gerard replies, sitting up enough to grab the bottle. "Probably just give Mikey more shit."
The water soothes Gerard's dry throat and seems to cool him from the inside out. Once he's finished gulping it down, he drops back onto the pillow with a sigh and closes his eyes. Bert smiles and takes the empty bottle from him, dropping it on the floor beside the bed.
"Better?"
"Mmm."
Gerard feels the mattress dip as Bert stretches out beside him, and he turns his head enough to glance at the scruffy figure trying to share his pillow. Bert's head has almost nestled into the space between Gerard's neck and his shoulder -- and Gerard almost wants to smooth his messy hair, inhale that sweaty, nicotine-tinged scent, maybe even kiss his forehead.
Maybe kiss his mouth ...
"Bert?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks, man."
"For what?" he murmurs, moving slightly closer to Gerard.
They're almost, almost snuggling, and Gerard is hyper-aware of it. He could roll onto his side and push Bert onto his back and --
He takes a deep breath and pushes the dangerous thoughts away. It's not going to happen again. It's not. It can't.
Why is he even thinking about it?
"You know. All this," he says eventually, lifting his free hand enough to gesture from right to left, covering the sweep of the room. His other hand is supporting Bert's neck, but he can't quite remember how it got there. He's not entirely sure how Bert's arm ended up around his waist, come to think of it, but it feels nice. Comforting.
Damn him to hell ...
"Least I can do," is the reply. "I know I'm an ass, Gee, but I've always got your back. I love you, man. You know that."
Gerard produces a tight smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," he says, even if he doesn't quite believe it.
"And you love me too, you stupid bastard."
Why else do you think I'm here, dipshit, Gerard says to himself, but doesn't articulate the words. Bert just grins -- almost as if he's read Gerard's mind -- and chuckles softly.
"The things I say aren't important, Gee. You should know that by now," he says calmly, lifting his head and staring into surprised, if slightly dozy, green eyes. He leans in to kiss Gerard's cheek. "It's the things I do that count."
Standalone
R (swearing)
written November 2006.
Notes: For mymillerlight.
Bert cannot stop laughing.
The moment he sets eyes on Gerard, sitting red-faced and awkward in the wheelchair with his right ankle heavily strapped, Bert can't stop himself from grinning. Then he snorts. Finally, he bursts into a fit of giggles.
And he can't stop; he's hunched forward, his hands on his thighs, laughing loudly and occasionally muttering phrases like "oh my god, you stupid fuck" as he tries to catch his breath.
This doesn't impress Gerard, who hasn't exactly had a pleasant day to begin with. He grits his teeth, setting his jaw in a firm line, and crosses his arms. If his ankle didn't hurt so much, he'd be tapping his foot on the floor impatiently ... but that's out of the question at the moment. So he waits, because Bert has a short attention span, and is bound to stop laughing sooner or later.
After a few more minutes, Bert stands upright and wipes his eyes, still grinning. One look at Gerard's "bitch face" nearly sets him off again, but with an effort, he manages to swallow the laughter threatening to overwhelm him again and takes a deep breath.
"I don't even wanna know how it happened," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Fuck you," Gerard spits in reply, trying to hoist himself out of the wheelchair. On the third attempt, he slumps back into the chair, glowering at his friend. Why the fuck did he call Bert -- out of everyone he knows, why did he choose Bert? "Are you gonna just stand there like an asshole, or are you gonna help me?"
Another shit-eating grin. "Well, I was gonna just stand here, but I guess if you want me to help ... "
"Yeah, I do."
The sarcasm is strong in Gerard's voice, and Bert thinks maybe it's smarter not to push it any further. So he walks casually over to the wheelchair and begins to push Gerard through the hospital corridor.
"Where are we going?"
"Your place."
"Oh?"
Gerard smirks, pleased to finally have the upper hand in the conversation. "Yeah. If that's okay with you, I mean."
"Sure thing." Bert shakes his head, a half-smile appearing. After a moment, he glances around the empty corridor. "Hey, where'd everyone else go?"
"I told them to go back to the hotel. Rest and shit." He sighs. "Fuck, it was so hot out there today."
"Mmm. Gets like that in summer."
A pause. "Stop being an asshole."
"Quit being a little bitch and maybe I will," Bert replies cheerfully, tilting the wheelchair back enough to make Gerard grip the armrests and shriek.
"Fuck! Bert, stop it!"
But he's not paying attention. "Dude, I just saw another wheelchair over there. We could have races!"
"Would you please listen to me? I've fucked my ankle up. It hurts a lot and I can't take painkillers for it, and I'm in a really shitty mood ... "
The chair's front wheels return to the ground with a thud, and Gerard winces as the impact jars his injured foot.
"Crap. I'd forgotten about that," Bert says with a frown. "Sorry man. I'll get you home in one piece. Promise."
"Uh ... okay," Gerard says hesitantly, still grimacing from the pain. "That'd be really good."
***
Bert wheels Gerard out to the car and helps him out of the chair, making sure he's comfortable in the front passenger seat before pushing the chair back to the hospital entrance. He jogs back to the car and slides into the driver's seat, slamming the door roughly and turning the key in the ignition. Gerard, his head resting against the window, closes his eyes.
"Music on or off?" Bert asks, hand hovering over the radio dial.
"Off, man. My head hurts real bad."
"Kay."
They drive in silence for a few minutes, Bert navigating his way out of the hospital carpark and onto the busy streets with a minimum of fuss. Bert's not the greatest driver in the world; he's impatient and prone to road-rage, which is not good when you live in the overpopulated tangle of freeways that is Los Angeles.
As they sit in traffic, Bert grinding his teeth and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in irritation, Gerard smiles. He's still in a lot of pain, and he's tired, but he's reassured by Bert's behaviour. It's completely normal. Expected. And he loves that. Gerard's life, his career has been in such an upheaval lately ... new projects, new directions, new goals, new hair, new everything. So there's something comforting in Bert's presence, his dishevelled appearance, his manic laugh, his short temper. Bert doesn't change. He still wears his heart on his sleeve -- and on his pinky fingers.
"Fuckin' hell," Bert says loudly, and Gerard sits up sharply. The car is still idling, surrounded by other vehicles, and it looks as though they've barely travelled a mile from the hospital.
"What?"
"Just -- fuck!" he says, throwing his hands in the air. "I mean, how much of my fucking life do I have to waste in fucking traffic, Gee?"
He slams his fist against the horn a few times. Gerard grits his teeth as the noise sends shafts of pain through his head.
"Uh, Bert ... "
Bert rolls down his window and pokes his head out. "Will you hurry the fuck up?" he hollers. "I got a sick guy in here!"
Gerard shakes his head and closes his eyes, head falling back against the seat. There's nothing he can say; he doesn't even know why he bothers.
***
Gerard wakes to feel something cool on his forehead. His eyes flutter open and he blinks a few times until his eyes adjust to the light. His jacket has been thrown across a chair next to a framed Ziggy Stardust screenprint. His wallet, cellphone and keys are lying on the bedside table. His lone shoe -- the other was discarded, forgotten after his injury -- is on the desk in the corner, along with a stack of CDs, papers, notebooks.
The sun is setting, throwing long, charcoal-coloured shadows across the room ... and he's lying in Bert's bed. Bert is sitting cross-legged next to him, leaning over to press a damp cloth to his face.
"Hey," he says gruffly, and Gerard smiles. "Y'okay?"
"Fucking tired."
"Yeah. Not too hot?"
"Not any more. Thanks."
"No problem," Bert says, tossing the cloth in the direction of the bedside table. It misses, and they both laugh.
"How long have I been out?"
Bert looks at his watch. "Uh ... couple hours, I think. Three, maybe? I don't know."
"Oh."
"Mmm. Anyway, you hungry?"
Gerard shakes his head.
"Thirsty?"
"Yeah -- a little," he says, running his tongue along dry lips.
Bert grins and leans backwards, falling onto the mattress and stretching an arm out. After a moment, he sits up, a water bottle in one hand. "Dude, what would you do without me, huh?"
"Dunno," Gerard replies, sitting up enough to grab the bottle. "Probably just give Mikey more shit."
The water soothes Gerard's dry throat and seems to cool him from the inside out. Once he's finished gulping it down, he drops back onto the pillow with a sigh and closes his eyes. Bert smiles and takes the empty bottle from him, dropping it on the floor beside the bed.
"Better?"
"Mmm."
Gerard feels the mattress dip as Bert stretches out beside him, and he turns his head enough to glance at the scruffy figure trying to share his pillow. Bert's head has almost nestled into the space between Gerard's neck and his shoulder -- and Gerard almost wants to smooth his messy hair, inhale that sweaty, nicotine-tinged scent, maybe even kiss his forehead.
Maybe kiss his mouth ...
"Bert?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks, man."
"For what?" he murmurs, moving slightly closer to Gerard.
They're almost, almost snuggling, and Gerard is hyper-aware of it. He could roll onto his side and push Bert onto his back and --
He takes a deep breath and pushes the dangerous thoughts away. It's not going to happen again. It's not. It can't.
Why is he even thinking about it?
"You know. All this," he says eventually, lifting his free hand enough to gesture from right to left, covering the sweep of the room. His other hand is supporting Bert's neck, but he can't quite remember how it got there. He's not entirely sure how Bert's arm ended up around his waist, come to think of it, but it feels nice. Comforting.
Damn him to hell ...
"Least I can do," is the reply. "I know I'm an ass, Gee, but I've always got your back. I love you, man. You know that."
Gerard produces a tight smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," he says, even if he doesn't quite believe it.
"And you love me too, you stupid bastard."
Why else do you think I'm here, dipshit, Gerard says to himself, but doesn't articulate the words. Bert just grins -- almost as if he's read Gerard's mind -- and chuckles softly.
"The things I say aren't important, Gee. You should know that by now," he says calmly, lifting his head and staring into surprised, if slightly dozy, green eyes. He leans in to kiss Gerard's cheek. "It's the things I do that count."