Fic: Befriend the End of the Line 1/1 (MCR/TYV, R, Bob/Ryan)

[dancinbutterfly]

Title: Befriend the End of the Line
Status: Complete
Fandom: My Chemical Romance/The Young Veins(Panic at the Disco)
Word Count: roughly 5,700
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in or related to bandom.
Pairing: Bob Bryar/Ryan Ross
Rating: R
Betas and helpers: b_dsaint for the quick beta, ladyfoxxx and sly_fuck for the help.
Authors Notes: Written for the timestamp meme. chuckaloonie asked for what happens after with Bob and Ryan after they get out of Janick in the You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison. Title paraphrased from Home by Depeche Mode.
Summary: Bob gets out of prison a year after Ryan with a pocketful of letters from him that have no return address. It's been too long since Bob last saw him and he isn't going to let something like that stop him from finding Ryan.



The first thing Bob sees - as he steps, blinking into morning sunlight; a free man for the first time in more than five years - is Frank, sitting on the hood of his car. He’s smoking a cigarette, and ignoring the two black sedans parked on either side of him; the quiet might of the Family following Frank even here.

In the two years since he got out, Frank’s let his hair grow and dyed it back to black. He looks good, older, and saner; at least until he grins his manic little grin and pounces, climbing up Bob like he’s a jungle gym as opposed to a human being.

“Get the fuck off me, boss,” Bob growls. This isn’t how he wants to spend his first few minutes of freedom. If Frank throws his back out, he’s going to be pissed.

“Nope,” Frank crows. He settles himself on Bob’s shoulders and tugs on his hair. “I found your boyfriend, so I get a ride. Mush.”

Bob twists his neck around and back so that he can try and get a good look at Frank’s face. Ryan getting parole was the best thing that could’ve happened to him. He needed to get out; Bob knows that better than just about anyone. But it’s like he doesn’t want Bob to reach back, because he’s got a pocket full of letters from Ryan with no return address. It’s been a long fucking year.

He grabs Frank’s calves to keep him from falling back onto the asphalt and cracking his fool fucking head open. Only he digs in harder than he needs to, hard enough to hurt. “If you’re fucking with me-“

“Like I would fuck with you about Ryan.” He kicks Bob gently in the chest. “To the car, noble steed.”

“I’m no man’s steed,” Bob grumbles, but he trudges over to Frank’s car before pitching him off. And when he does, it’s onto the trunk so that Frank doesn’t have far to fall. Frank slides off the trunk and tosses Bob the keys.

Little things like that are why he counts Frank as a friend on top of being Family, employer, and charge. It’s been five years since Bob’s driven and Frank knows he’s missed it. The familiar hum of the engine is soothing. It calms him enough that he’s able to wait, and let Frank tell him what he knows about Ryan, instead of pestering him for information.

“He’s three cities north,” Frank says without preamble. “I’ve got an address when you’re ready. He works at a privately owned animal shelter. The guy who owns it, Walker, is a little more forgiving with cons than your average employer, and I’ve got that address, too.”

“He’s from Vegas,” Bob replies on a relieved breath. He’d thought that maybe Ryan went back. Ryan hadn’t talked about his own parents very much, but when he had finally talked about who he’d been before, it was always in the context of Spencer and his family.

“Yeah well, that Smith kid’s in grad school at the university, so he’s there too. From what we’ve figured, Ryan’s been living on the guy’s couch since he got out.”

Bob nods and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. That’s good. Ryan’s letters always claimed he was alright; but there was an edge to them, sharp and a little desperate, that Bob remembers from Ryan’s eyes - fear, maybe old, maybe new. He feels better knowing that he’s been with family.

“And he’s doing okay?”

Frank shrugs. “I haven’t been able to swing by and see him myself. I heard he looks thin, though.”

“He was already skin and bones,” Bob growls, his hands tightening on the wheel. It’s good to have something to focus on other than the empty spot where Ryan should be, and how it contrasts to the amazing high of being free again. “He didn’t have anything spare to lose.”

“Don’t get pissed at me.” Frank sinks down in the passenger seat and plants his feet on the glove compartment. Bob would say something, but it’s Frank’s car and if he wants to track dirt up on the dash, that’s his business. “If you’d told me the situation with Ryan sooner, I could’ve found him ten minutes after he got out.”

Bob doesn’t argue. He just drives in silence. He lets Frank ramble about his apartment and how he and Jamia have gotten all of Bob’s shit out of storage, but how it’s still in boxes with the exception of his car, which Frank tells him is parked behind the apartment. He rambles about how he’s diversifying family interests, laundering money through more and more legitimate avenues and how the building Bob’s apartment is in is one of them.

Bob takes a few hours to get his apartment something like livable and give Ryan time to get back from work. Bob isn’t going to bother him there, no matter how badly he wants to see him.

Just because Bob’s taken care of, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how hard it can be for an ex-con to find honest work. If Ryan’s found a real job, Bob doesn’t intend to do anything that could mess that up. He knows guys for whom work’s been the difference between a real life, and another stint inside.

Still, he’s got hours before rush hour when he leaves. He slides behind the wheel of his car and takes a moment to enjoy the new/familiar feeling of his car before throwing it into drive. Then he heads north to the address Frank’s given him.

He gets to town around three, parks his car three streets over, and walks. He wants to get a lay of the area and clear his head. He passes a diner, a hardware store, and a drug store before he finds the right building. He checks the number twice, before he settles himself down on the stairs leading up to the door of the building. It’s fairly nice out, and he’s got time. Ryan’s an irritating, stubborn fuck, but he’s worth waiting for.

Almost two hours roll by, but Bob’s still not really prepared for when he sees Ryan again. Footsteps on the sidewalk, about thirty feet away, catch his attention and Bob looks up to see Ryan, walking down the sidewalk with his head down, one hand shoved in his pocket.

He’s rail thin, thinner than he ever was in Janick, in corduroy pants and a pale blue paisley shirt under a green vest. The sleeves are rolled up, so Bob can see that there are tattoos on his wrists that weren’t there before, though from the distance he can’t see what. He thinks words of some kind. On top of it all, he’s got on one of those brown cloth caps, like the ones they wore in Newsies, tugged down over his forehead covering his now much shorter hair.

He looks ridiculous, honestly. It’s a whole different kind of defense from the make-up Ryan wore in prison, and it’s absurd. He’s also fucking beautiful. Bob had kind of forgotten what Ryan looked like, a little. He didn’t have any pictures of him, so the tinier details, the curve of his shoulders, the sway of his hand as he walks, those had started to fade after a few months with nothing but words on a page. Watching Ryan walk down the street, lost in his head, it hits Bob hard in the chest just how much he’s missed seeing him.

The amount of self-restraint it takes to not jump to his feet, run out and grab Ryan, is monumental. Bob bites into his tongue and manages to not call out. He’s got a feeling he’s gone back to the beginning here. If he’s not at square one, he’s definitely closer to it than he was when Ryan got paroled. So he sits, and waits, until Ryan is about five feet away and finally notices him.

Bob watches Ryan freeze, his eyes going huge. His face is blank of anything beyond shock and Bob wants to smack him upside the head. Instead he smiles a little and says, “Hey.”

Ryan’s mouth works as he tries to respond. It’s bare; soft pink lips that Bob misses kissing, twitching as he looks for words. Bob doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of that, the way Ryan’s face looks clean and natural. It’s one of the best things he’s ever seen. It gives him a lot of hope that the letters failed to.

“Hey,” Ryan finally manages, stumbling over it a little. The befuddlement on his face and in his voice is charming, and kind of a bonus. Or it would be if it didn’t piss Bob off. It means that Ryan never really believed him.

He gives Ryan a long, level look. It’s better than giving in to the impulse to grab his arm and pull him tight against him, or yell at him and shake him until he catches a fucking clue. When he’s done looking, at the random hippy clothes that make more sense the longer Bob looks at him, he feels like a reasonable human being again.

“I got your letters,” Bob says, cutting through the relative silence. He pulls them out of his pocket and holds up the thick, folded rectangle. “You didn’t say you lost weight.”

Ryan looks down at the concrete steps for a moment then back up at him, overwhelmed. “I’m not- You can’t- Those letters, I was just-” He sputters and sags. “Bob?”

“Yeah?”

Bob hears Ryan suck in a breath through his teeth. Then Ryan wraps the arm that isn’t in his pocket around himself. His eyes are huge and dark in his face, and he looks terrified. “What are you doing here?”

Right, that’s enough. Bob rises to his feet and peers down at Ryan. Ryan’s taller than he is but he’s two steps up and it makes him tower over him. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he offers, holding out a hand. “We’ll see if you can’t figure that out on your own.”

Ryan looks at his hand with something between need and terror. He bites his lip like he used to when they made love, when there was something he wanted but hadn’t figured out how to ask for. All there is between that and Ryan getting what he wants, is time. After five years, Bob knows that waiting wins out with Ryan. He’s going to hold his hand out until Ryan takes it, because he will. Their hands fit together, and Ryan has to miss the feeling as much as he does.

It takes nearly a full minute for Ryan to slide his hand into Bob’s. Then he’s the one who laces their fingers together. He sighs, and some of the tension seeps out of him as Bob squeezes his fingers.

“There’s a diner.” Ryan points back the way Bob came with his other hand. “It’s- Burgers are okay right?”

“I haven’t had a meal on the outside yet, so burgers sound fucking great,” Bob says, meaning to be accommodating. He’s pleased to realize that, yes, it’s also totally true.

The idea of a real burger, burn-your-mouth-hot French fries, a Coke - or fuck, maybe a milkshake, he hasn’t had a milkshake in years - is almost intoxicating. And that he’ll get to have it with Ryan across the table? It’ll be a wonder if he doesn’t overdose on relief, and freedom, and the fucking rightness of the world, and drop dead.

Ryan jerks his head a little, and his eyes get somehow wider. “You got released today?” he asks, breathless. “You’ve only been free a day, and you came here?”He looks down at their tangled fingers. “To me?”

Bob smiles and comes down the two steps to stand on the same level as Ryan. He lifts their joined hands and presses a quick kiss to Ryan’s knuckles. He’s missed the way his skin felt and if he does this now, he’ll probably make it through the meal without jumping him. Plus, Ryan looks like he needed to be kissed somewhere, and Bob’s not sure he’s ready to accept a real one yet.

“I love you, Ryan,” Bob says, looking directly into his eyes, just in case he was planning on missing the point. Then he holds their hands up between them, to drive home the point. “Where else would I want to go?”

Ryan holds his body with an unnatural stillness for a long moment. Then he folds, bending down so that he can press his face into Bob’s neck. “Fuck, Bob,” Ryan chokes out, his free arm wrapping around Bob’s back, under his arm, and clutching him close. “You came. Jesus, Bob, you’re actually here.”

Bob lifts his hand and rests it on top of Ryan’s hat, holding him steady against his neck. Then he drops it down to the nape of his neck, stroking over the fine hairs there. Christ, he’s missed touching Ryan’s skin.

“I told you,” he murmurs, leaning into Ryan in the afternoon sunshine; outside in the open air. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you leave me again,” he continues. “I thought you were done running from me, you stubborn little fuck. Stop it, goddamnit.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything. He pulls his hand free so that he can wind it around Bob’s back and burrow closer. Bob’s fine with that because he gets to hold Ryan; feel his too-thin body pressed tight against him. He tugs the hat off so he can press his nose into the hair at the crown of his head until Ryan lifts his face.

He noses against Bob’s beard and lets out a little sigh, then repeats the move with his cheek. “Missed this,” Ryan says, his breath hot against Bob’s face. “Missed you. I missed you so fucking much.” His fingers dig hard into Bob’s back. “I didn’t know if you were getting my letters. I just, fuck, just missed you.”

Bob has to kiss him then. He’s been thinking about Ryan’s mouth for four hundred and three days; since the last time he kissed it. And he’s been trying to be patient, but he knows when Ryan wants. Oh, God he does, and Bob loves to give in to things Ryan wants.

Ryan changes the angle, putting a foot on the step behind Bob so he can get closer. He pulls one arm from around Bob’s back and twines it around his neck, but not pulling him closer. It’s the Ryan that Bob remembers: the one who still doesn’t really know how to chase his pleasure, afraid to ask, but learning every time they touch.

Bob encourages him, moaning into the kiss. He coaxes Ryan’s tongue with his, inviting it to play against him. The sound Ryan makes in return is thin and short, and punctuated with a little “ngh” from somewhere in his throat that gets muffled by Bob’s lips.

And it’s okay, because even though they’re on a public street, a hack isn’t coming to bang on the wall and separate them. There’s no curfew, no schedule. Bob can just sink into the wet heat of Ryan’s mouth, and the soft strength of his tongue writhing against his. He can just keep kissing Ryan, loving the way his hair feels under his fingers, and how his lips taste, until they’re breathless and have to stop for air.

They break apart, noses pressed tight together. “Love the way you smell,” Ryan pants. “The way you kiss me and look at me and feel.” He curls his arm tighter so that he can reach his fingers to Bob’s beard. “I’m so- Bob. God, Bob, I…” Ryan says, breaking off, choked.

Bob turns his head and presses his lips to Ryan’s temple. It pulls a sound that could be a sob out of Ryan’s throat. He cards his fingers through Ryan’s hair and whispers, “It’s okay. I know. I know, Ryan.”

“I missed you so fucking much it was kind of insane,” Ryan mutters, sounding frustrated. Then he laughs a little at himself, and goes back to caressing Bob’s face.

It feels good, Ryan stroking his beard. He likes it, has always seemed to. Bob’s missed the fascination and the enjoyment Ryan seems to get out of it, so he leans into it. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were, give me a way to reach you?” Bob asks, because he’s missed it just as much. He’s wondered every day, staring at the cinderblock walls of his cell. He presses his temple tight against Ryan’s and tries not to let his voice break. “I would’ve written. I’d’ve called you every fucking day.”

Ryan doesn’t answer. He pulls back and wipes his hand down over his face. “You wanted to eat?” he says instead. “Or we should go inside. We can’t just stay out here.” He shakes his head, and his bangs fall in his eyes. “My neighbors will be getting home from work.”

“Your neighbors,” Bob repeats. He doesn’t bother to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He lets it coat his words nice and thick. “Ryan, you know that’s not going to work, right?”

Ryan shrugs one shoulder and then bends down to pick up his hat. He pulls it back on and, oh. Oh, that’s who he should’ve been. Bob can see it so clearly it’s staggering, the fey artistic type Ryan would’ve been in another life - scribbling away in notebooks in some coffee shop somewhere.

It makes him pause. He looks like he’s closer to that man, now. It’s possible that Bob showing up like this is making him backslide; reminding him of Janick and the hell he barely survived. Bob would understand if Ryan flat out didn’t want him there. But he does. It’s lurking in his eyes, behind fear and anxiety and familiar tension as Ryan looks at him, wide brown eyes questioning and waiting.

“You said something about burgers?” Bob says finally. Ryan doesn’t smile at him, but he does relax. He even leans into it when Bob’s hand slides down his back to hook his fingers in the belt loops of those absurd corduroy pants.

“They’re not half bad,” Ryan agrees. “Which makes them about a million times better than the shit you’ve been eating.”

He says it with a lightness that gives Bob a lot more hope than it probably should. Ryan turning and walking down the steps, limping only a little as Bob follows him, is amazing. It’s an amazing growth on the way Ryan used to walk through the halls of Janick, knowing Bob was behind or beside him, not needing to look back.

Walking down the street with Ryan, close together and shoulders bumping, Bob feels like they’re a real couple. Just like anyone else. The thought makes him smile like a fucking idiot, and he’s really glad that Frank’s not here to see him as he adjusts his stride to walk a little closer to Ryan.

They don’t talk until they reach the diner. The waitress, a pretty girl with long, curly red hair who is barely twenty-one if she’s a day, knows Ryan. She takes in Bob and since Bob’s having a pretty great fucking day, he smiles back.

“Hey, Ryan. Spencer have class?” she asks as they approach. “Or will he be joining you later?”

“He’s got class until ten,” Ryan says with another of his loose shrugs. “It’s just us.”

“Okay, great,” she says, and she sounds like she means it as she grabs menus and leads them to a booth in the back. She seats them then pulls out a pad of paper and a pen from her mess of hair. “So, Ryan, coffee, right?” When Ryan nods she turns her attention to Bob. “And what can I do for you?”

“Bob,” he supplies. Ryan gives him a look, mostly annoyed but a tiny bit amused, and taps him under the table with his foot.

She beams at him. “I’m Melanie and I'll be your server. What can I get you to drink, Bob?”

“Do you guys do milkshakes?”

“Ryan,” Melanie huffs, frowning at him. “You didn’t tell your friend about us at all?” She gives him a look full of feigned-hurt then nods at Bob. “We have chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and banana. They’re all awesome.”

“Chocolate sounds great. And a cheeseburger and fries.”

“Decisive,” Melanie says, bobbing her pen at him. “I like that in a customer.”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome. You want your usual, right, Ryan? Or do you want to waffle for twenty minutes before finally realizing that you’re going to get the same thing you always do?”

“Usual’s fine,” Ryan mutters, sinking down in his seat. He picks at the edge of the table with his thumb until she leaves, humming a little under her breath, leaving them alone again.

It’s probably an hour before the dinner rush will start and the diner is mostly empty. It’s just them at a restaurant. Bob is grinning like an idiot because this kind of feels like it could be a date.

“This is kind of like a date,” Bob says.

Ryan’s eyes dart up to his face then down at the table. “You and I slept together for four years, Bob.”

“I know. Yet you never bought me dinner before taking me to bed,” Bob replies. He knows better than to let Ryan drag him down. Most of the time, if he stays up long enough, Ryan will join him. “I’m a pretty cheap date, though. So don’t worry.”

“No you’re not,” Ryan sighs. He tears at the napkin wrapped around his silverware, slowly shredding it. “There’s nothing cheap about being with you, so don’t say that.”

Right, it’s going to be one of those times when he won’t come up. So Bob has to go down to him. He lets the silence hang between then as Melanie returns, first with the drinks, then with the food - his burger and a patty-melt for Ryan. Then he focuses on his plate because he doesn’t want to be interrupted or distracted when they get talking.

Bob takes a bite of his burger; groans because a half-way decent burger is practically fucking orgasmic after half a decade of prison food. His eyes drift shut as he enjoys the taste, the feel, the pure fucking pleasure of good food after years without.

When he opens his eyes, Ryan is staring at him across the table, his eyes wide and dark. His sandwich is untouched but his mouth his hanging open a little. Bob can actually hear him breathing.

“Ryan?”

“You are-” Ryan begins then breaks off, shaking his head. He frowns down at his French fries. “Are you going to eat your whole burger like that?”

Bob pushes down a smile and shrugs. “If the whole thing’s that good, then maybe.”

“I… need you to not.” Ryan says, his voice coming out a little rough. “Okay?”

“How about you talk to me about the letters,” Bob replies, keeping it casual. “And I promise not to enjoy my burger too much.”

Ryan exhales loudly through his nose and nods. He takes the opening because it lets him save a little bit of face and Bob knows it. It keeps him from having to share on his own, and Bob can let him have that. It costs him nothing to give Ryan a way around having to pull his explanation out on his own.

“I didn’t think I’d ever actually see you again,” Ryan says, picking at the crust of the sandwich. He’s had maybe three bites of it. “That you’d want to do this when you got out.”

“I told you,” Bob grits out and clenches his fist around his fork. It’s probably not a wise move. He’s killed men with less but he wants Ryan alive so hey, if it keeps him from shaking the shit out of him. “I told you three dozen fucking times, that I was in this for keeps.”

Ryan picks another chunk off his patty-melt and flicks it across the plate. “I know you did.”

Right. That makes no goddamn sense. Bob slams his fork into the half of his burger that’s still intact and leans across the table. Ryan leans back a little.

“Four fucking years, Ryan,” he says, his voice low and even. They’re in public. He’s not the type of man to yell at someone he loves anyway. But goddamn it, he’s going to be heard this time. “Five if you count the one you weren’t there. Five years on the Decaydance, the mess from that riot B Block started, and fucking Saporta. I loved you through all of that, so I kinda feel like I deserve to know at what point you’re going to believe me.”

Ryan doesn’t flinch at the mention of Gabe Saporta’s name. No one’s said it to his face since the Cobras dissolved, but Bob didn’t think he would. Ryan’s stronger than that. He does look away though, and Bob thinks it probably has nothing to do with what happened with Saporta.

“I- Bob, that’s like-“ Ryan drops his hands to the table and heaves a little sigh before trying again. “I don’t know if you’ve started to feel it yet, but the difference between that place and this, it’s like going from one universe to another. Whichever you’re in, that’s real, and I figured-” His shoulders droop. “I figured you were serious. I know you love me I just thought…it was, I don’t know, universe specific.”

It takes a second for Bob to realize that Ryan’s fucking serious “And what, I’d get out, and I’d fucking magically stop because of the transitive properties of an alternate universe that doesn’t actually exist?” Bob narrows his eyes. “You spent way too much time with Way.”

“It’s not fucking magic,” Ryan snaps. “I’m not crazy. I’m also not stupid. There’s the world inside, and there’s the real world, and in the real world you’re Frank’s guy. You’re an important part of the Iero Family, and I don’t fit in that life. I get that. I always got that.”

Bob sinks back into the booth and deflates. This is his first day of freedom. This is his fucking life. He scratches his cheek and shakes his head. “You really didn’t.”

“No, I did. I’ve been trying to, fuck, I don’t know. Go cold turkey off my Bob addiction, I guess. Only there were all these things I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything else. You don’t.” Ryan lifts his eyes to meet his again. They’re dark and so serious; Bob can’t bear to interrupt him to correct that statement. “So I didn’t put any return addresses because I didn’t want you to feel obligated. I just… Bob, missing you made me want to write.”

Bob wants to say something but his voice fails him, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. Ryan read all the time after Saporta was gone. He talked more like an English student than a con and, on top of some of the things Wentz had said to him, it had made Bob wonder.

“I hadn’t written since-“ he breaks off with an encompassing gesture that takes in his body. Bob nods and watches his throat work as he swallows hard. I understand, his nod says but Ryan charges on anyway. “Since the first time I got attacked,” he finishes.

Bob knows what it costs him. He’d grin with pride if it didn’t still make him so fucking sad and angry, all at once. He stays quiet instead.

“Then I had all these things to say to you. Most of them sat in my journal for like, three weeks, before I sent them, just so I’d stop fucking looking at them. After that I had other things to write and, I don’t know, I felt kind of like…” There’s another one of those familiar shrugs and he pauses to push his hair back again. “Like, maybe, like I was closer to being me again. So, I’m sorry about the letters. I had to.”

“Be sorry about me making Frank track you down. Be sorry that you didn’t call me or give me a number to call you at. Don’t you ever be fucking sorry about those letters, Ryan. Ever.”

While Bob is speaking, Ryan graduates from mutilating his food to shredding his food. Bob catches his hand to stop him and doesn’t let go. That’s his new policy. Or it will be once he gets shit settled.

“I’m telling you again, out here in the real world, that I want to be with you.” He turns Ryan’s hand over and looks at the letters on his wrist. Thin as a Dime - Bob doesn’t know what it’s in reference to, but it fits him as he is now.

Ryan stares at him. His eyes are still wide but the shadow in them has receded some. He looks like he’s really listening. “You do?”

“Yeah. Because I’m in love with you,” Bob says. He runs his thumb over the bottom of the M and keeps his eyes locked on Ryan’s. “I have been for five years and I don’t see that changing any time soon, so, yeah.”

Ryan blinks at him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Bob echoes, charging ahead. “And I’m still Frank’s guy. I’m part of the Family and that’s not going to change. If you can’t deal with that, if that’s why you think we can’t work, I’ll understand. I won’t like it, and I’ll fight you on it, but it’ll at least make some fucking sense. But you don’t get to use the excuse that I don’t love you.”

“Bob, I-“

“And I won’t buy that you don’t love me back either, because four years. We had four years and I read the letters, Ryan.” He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and pulls them out. He waves them between them like they’re a talisman that can ward off Ryan’s stubborn blindness. “I fucking have them and I know you do.”

“I never said I didn’t,” Ryan replies, quiet and almost subdued. “I just- I was trying to brace for the worst.”

Can you blame me? hangs in the air. No, Bob can’t. He pockets the letters and takes Ryan’s hand up in both of his. “The worst isn’t going to happen. It hasn’t happened for a long time.”

Ryan gives him an almost half-smile. It twitches in the corner of his mouth and doesn’t touch his eyes. Bob’s used to looking for it though, so he catches it when most people would miss it. It’s a very good sign.

“The list of things that it takes to make me happy is pretty short, Ryan. I want my job and my freedom and you.” He squeezes Ryan’s hand. “That okay with you?”

“You’re going to have to come to me,” Ryan says with another of those little twitches. Then he squeezes back. “I don’t have a car.”

“I think I can make the trip.”

“You sure? Turnpike’s pretty treacherous.”

“Yeah I’m sure.” He doesn’t kiss Ryan’s hand because of the whole in public thing, but he’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about kissing the ink on his skin and then up his arm until it becomes necessary that he get that paisley monstrosity off of Ryan. Instead he says, “You should finish eating that.” He ticks his head at Ryan’s plate. “So we can go.”

Ryan gives him an actual half smile this time. It lights his eyes and tugs up the right side of his mouth. “I may need my hand back.”

“You sure? I bet you could work around it.”

“It’s probably my turn isn’t it?” Ryan says, glancing down at their hands, his smile fading. Bob tilts his head, confused. “To work around you. You’ve done most of the bending so far.”

“It wasn’t work. I like bending for you,” Bob says and blushes the second it’s out of his mouth. Right, he didn’t mean it the way it sounded because, wow. That came out dirty.

Ryan’s fingers tighten against the back of his hand. “Bob?”

“Hm?”

“Mel will totally put this shit in a to-go box if you’re serious about me eating.”

“You’re so fucking thin, Ryan,” Bob says, but he lets go with one hand to flag Melanie down. “You’re going to finish that. And probably mine, too. A strong breeze would blow you away.”

“You weren’t this bossy before.”

“I’ve had a year. Things changed.”

“Not everything.”

Melanie strolls over to the table then, keeping the conversation from getting any farther. She smiles at them both, takes in their clasped hands, Ryan’s narrow fingers wrapped around his wide palm, then positively fucking beams at Bob.

“What can I do for you, Bob?” She asks, giving him her full attention. It makes him wonder what, exactly, she and Ryan have talked about, or if she’s just had the honor of watching him get thinner up close and personal over the past year.

“Some boxes?”

She gives Ryan a look that Bob would describe as knowing then hurries off, ripping off the check and leaving it face down. Ryan snatches it up before Bob can register movement and pulls his hand free to get his wallet.

Bob makes to grab for it but Ryan cuts him with a look so sharp it’s a wonder Bob’s not bleeding. Right then, Bob only has the cash he went into Janick with on him. That’s about twenty bucks and some coins he used on the toll roads, but that’s not really the point. The point is that Ryan’s got a whole different kind of pride, and it costs Bob literally nothing to let him.

“My treat next time,” Bob says and Ryan smiles. A real one, like Bob doesn’t know he’s ever actually seen before. He wishes he had a camera or a photographic memory, although he’s pretty sure he couldn’t forget this if he tried.

Ryan pulls some bills out and drops them on the check, then reaches for Bob’s hand as Melanie returns to the table carrying two Styrofoam boxes. “Yeah, okay,” Ryan agrees with a nod, lacing their fingers together on the tabletop. “Next time.”