smug is the new black (everyone has it)
In an alternate universe--actually, no; in this universe, because this universe is as alternate as Gerard could ever see it getting, and that's very, very alternate, by the way--Gerard could imagine them being friends, or at least enemies to the point of waking up in each other's bed, drunk or something. The point of the matter is-the guy is really hot, and very much a jackass, and Gerard has no way of dealing with this. It’s almost like dealing with Frank in a way, except Frank would make out with him and give him blowjobs if he asked, and this Gerard is eyeing him with a facial expression that just screams no.
This is just as well, because Gerard doesn’t really feel like treading the gay waters at all. It’s himself. It’d be weird.
“Look,” he scrubs his eyes tiredly, “I know this is very stressful, and I want to help. I really do. Except-except, I really don’t know how you got here and-“
The Other Him rolls his eyes, takes another drag on his cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask me?”
Gerard splutters. “You know. I mean-you know?”
“Of course I know, dolt-I fucking planned this thing.” He pauses for a moment, and rolls his eyes again, irritated “I just don’t know how to go back.”
“Wouldn’t it be just like reversing whatever you did?”
“Oh yes,” The Other Him sneers, “It’s that fucking simple. I’m on my way back right now-I’ve totally figured out the mindfuck that took me ten months to put together in the first place, and I’m on my way back right now. Idiot.” He stubs out the ciggarette. “Look, you’re not very helpful. Isn’t there, like, a Guest Service desk or something around here?”
Gerard grits his teeth. “There’s Mikey.”
(He doesn’t know why he says it, exactly-maybe it’s subconscious working its magic or some other explained reason, but he’s always found help in Mikey no matter what, and if this is really an opposite him, then there has to be an opposite Mikey. It’s a little reassuring, knowing that brotherhood lives on in opposite universes.)
The Other Him perks up immediately. “Mikey?”
(I have no idea why I stopped writing this! I totally wanted bp!Gerard and Mikey to Waycest together for some reason, it was hilarious.)
The tour ends.
That right there-that’s the fucking problem. The tour ends, and Frank ends up taking a long flight back home to New Jersey where he relives high school (read: endless masturbation) and a year of college (read: college parties) in the time it takes Gerard to call. Frank has a twelve second waiting period where he considers letting it go to voicemail, but he realizes that Gerard would probably fill it with random Planet of the Apes quoting with double meanings and endless metaphors. He picks up on the fifth ring. “What, motherfucker?”
“You’re mad at me.” Gerard’s voice sounds stilted, like it had to go from cheerful to sober in point five.
“You’re damn right I’m mad at you. It’s been, like, a million years, dude! Too busy boning your wife?”
Gerard pauses. “She heard that.”
“You have me on speakerphone?”
“No,” Lyn’s voice cuts through immediately, static-filled. “You’re a really loud insulter. And yes, he has been boning me, thank you for asking.”
Frank laughs at Gerard’s indignant noise. “He’s not very good, is he?”
“I’m hiring a personal trainer.” Lyn shushes Gerard again. “How’ve you been?”
“Great, if you don’t count the endless hand beatings,” Frank laughs, “How’re you two? Besides the sex.”
(Gerard, voice tinny, “There’s something besides the sex?”)
“The Limp One didn’t tell you?” Frank can literally feel Lyn’s grin, “We’re moving in. Gerard officially painted our zombie death mural in the new apartment yesterday.”
“That’s great!” Frank grins, and means it, “When’s the official house-warming party? I need to wear the best if I’m going to get drunk and vomit in your ferns.”
“No plans yet. We haven’t even furnished the place. We’re going to Conn’s.”
“For a bed?”
Lyn laughs again. “Uh, not sure we need one. We never used Gerard’s bunk before, so I think that’d be more of a luxury or something.”
(Gerard, voice tinny, “Lies! Lies and slander, Frank!”)
“So, Conn’s is important to you because-“
“We need a washing machine and dryer set. I’ve already explained to Gerard that an apartment is a privilege, not a right, and if he’s going to be living in one, there’s got to be at least one set of clean clothes for him at all times. Otherwise we’ll have to waste money on air fresheners.”
There’s no sound of protest on Gerard’s end. “Is he pouting?”
“No, he went to repaint your face on the mural.”
Frank hears Gerard shout something. Lyn laughs, “He says you’re a werewolf now. Werewolves suck, you know. An outright insult in the land of Ways.”
(AND THEN THEY HAVE SEX! \o/ IDK, I just wanted something warm and fuzzy and then hot. I really just wanted to try my hand out Lyn-Z. ADORABLE, that woman.)
Marty actually slams his head into the paneling of his desk-slams it, with the thump and bleeding and everything-when Pete slides up to his desk, cool as fucking ice, and mock-whispers, “Did you do it?”
It is eight in the fucking morning. Marty hasn’t had pick of the donuts or the bagels yet. He has not had coffee. If he was a manly man of any kind, he’d take his irritation and manliness and tell Pete to fucking shove it. Instead, he whimpers and runs fingertips through his hair in search for blood. His vision dips and wanes for a moment before he peeks his head around the counter, “What?”
He’s only seen Pete twice since Pete first started the job; both times were short and bittersweet, Marty torn between ducking his head before Pete could actually talk to him and trying to avoid staring at Pete before he caught on. He has Pete in sight now, and it’s the scariest and most eliciting thing he’s felt in months, and that’s a scary, scary thought.
Not as scary as Pete smiling at him, directly at him, like they’ve known each other for months. Marty kind of whishes he wouldn’t. “Excuse me, I hadn’t heard you.”
“So-“ Pete shifts uncomfortably, but still keeps the smile. “Ryan-don’t take this wrong way, okay?”
“Okay.” Marty shifts to his knees. He’s strangely aware that if he were anywhere closer to Pete, he’d be at eye-level with the same place he always wishes he was at eye-level with, and he coughs with that thought and ducks his head. Great, now he looks like some form of a Wentz-worshipper.
“Ryan told me that some cops-detectives-like, uh, visited you yesterday. I mean, we weren’t gossiping about it-not everyone on the floor knows-but-“ He furrows his eyebrows when Marty groans heatedly, “Sorry? I was just. I was just worried.”
Great, now he’s fucking blushing and looking like some form of a Wentz-worshipper. “Pete-“
“If you’re going to down there, you’d might as well do something, Dressler.” Pete is smiling again, and Marty stumbles to his feet before he can make more innuendo. Pete-that was. That was a misunderstanding.”
“So they didn’t call you in for murder? So there aren’t policemen on your every move?”
“No-yes. Crap,” Marty rubs at his eyes, “I don’t. They called in everyone, you know. They’re-they’re going through floors. They might call you in.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it.”
“They’ll still trace you though. I think-I think it’s a shame that it happened,” Marty changes tack, “But it’s-it’s great that they’re taking such lengths to find the guy.”
Pete nods, and manages to look pissed. “That fucker will totally pay, dude. This is America, you can’t get away with that kind of shit. By the way, would you mind accompanying me to the annual Christmas party? Brendon’s bringing spiked punch.”
(dafkdaslfksdjfds; by the way, did I mention that this was during Christmas? Yeah, nothing spikes up the holidays like kidnapping. :D I also really wanted Pete to be the mastermind; I wanted him so evil but still a little normal because hey, that crush on Marty and everything. I wanted Pete to drop little hints while he reels Marty in and have Marty come to conclusions right in the middle of sex when Pete's sucking hard on his dick in short little pulses and Marty's torn between pulling away and coming. Yeah, that's exactly what I wanted. *shakes fist* Damn you brain!)
Lieutenant Schechter is a small guy who looks like he should have a billion tattoos or something; he’s just really short and scruffy and looks torn between wanting to beat the living hell out of Patrick or sympathize with him. He’s probably seen guys like him all the time and the five minutes worth of screaming and begging to call his mom is all mandatory procedure.
Next to Schechter, a smaller dude (and Patrick didn’t think this was possible) rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Jeez, take a fucking Midol or something.”
“Fuck you,” Patrick grunts. His voice sounds all blubbery and gross, like he’s been crying instead of freaking out. Which, he thinks, would probably get him some sympathy. Maybe not from Schechter, but from someone with an actual fucking soul. “Now Frank,” Schechter grins nastily, “Don’t hassle the suspects.”
“I’ve told you like five hundred times, asshole,” Patrick struggles to keep his voice, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m in a band. Fall Out Boy, have you heard of us? I’ve never even heard of these people before, and if I had a little girl and her mother in my bus you would’ve found them, I think. There wouldn’t be many places to hide them.”
“I’ll take that as a confession,” Frank sneers. Patrick glares at him, “Please, just let me use a phone or something so I can call one of my band mates. He can vouch for me.”
“He’ll pick up a baby on the way, I swear, Brian-“
“Shut up, Frank.” Brian speaks softly. “How are those handcuffs working for you?”
Patrick shifts uncomfortably; the bindings in question clink unmercifully against the bars of the chair, his wrists. They’re new and painful and just thinking of the welts he’s going to have makes Patrick a little sick. He grits his teeth. “Comfortable. Fucking fabulous.”
“Good,” Brian smiles, “I hope you like them, because they’re going to be your new best friends for a while until you can tell us where the victims are. And for an added bonus, Dressler,” he spits the name, “You can have your own jail cell and everything. That’s how special you are to us, the best of the best.”
“Dressler?” Patrick squeaks. Brian frowns, irritated, and opens a file without looking, “Marty Dressler. Twenty-four. Five four, red hair, thinning, is near sighted and wears glasses, last seen in New York working under a local corporation until he, and the CEO and owner’s wife and daughter, disappeared.”
Patrick can’t fucking believe this shit. “Are you serious? You actually think that guy is me?”
“You fit the description. The hat and the new glasses? Obviously a disguise. Your “bandmates?” Either accomplices or some poor fools you scared into helping you. Where are the wife and daughter?”
“Oh my God.” Patrick slumps against the seat. He can’t breathe-this isn’t-this isn’t happening. He’s been roofied or something-Pete said it was always bound to happen on the road; maybe Patrick hasn’t paid his dues. Maybe Pete did it. Either way, he’s had bad drugs without his consent and is probably lying in his bunk, struggling through a bad nap.
He believes that right up to the point of hyperventilation.
“I want my friend in here right now,” he gasps between breaths, “Pete. Pete Wentz. I want him in this fucking room right now or I don’t talk.”
*
Pete nearly has a conniption. “Oh my God.”
“I know.” Patrick mumbles miserably. He can’t even meet his eyes, Jesus, but he can feel Pete’s gaze switching from him to Brian. Brian finally wins a, “You fucking bastard!”
“You don’t have to cover for him, Wentz.” Brian assures him. Pete stands, felling his chair, “You motherfucking cocksucker! Do you honestly think he did it? Do you honestly believe that this amazing, never-had-an-evil-thought-in-his-life-not-even-during-masturbation kid-“
“Pete,” Patrick whispers urgently.
Pete ignores him “-actually pulled off a kidnapping? Dude, no. It’s not-you’re a fucking idiot. I’ve never seen this kid out of my sight since I first met him, and if he was going to actually kidnap someone it’d be Hemmy or someone he actually knows. I want a fucking lawyer. Screw that, I want my lawyer.”
“There are plenty of ways Dressler-“
“His name,” Pete interrupts, “is Patrick, motherfucker, so I suggest you start using that or we’re going to have problems that go beyond this fucked up legal system.”
Brian arches an eyebrow. Pete doesn’t move, his lips pressed in a somber line.
“Fine.” Brian sits back down, slowly. “Tell me where Patrick was on March twenty ninth, oh seven, ten oh eight.”
Pete matches his movements, thinking. “He was. We were playing a show. He’s our lead. We were playing a show back home, Chicago.”
“For the entire set?”
“Did you not just hear me? He’s our lead. Yes, the entire fucking set.”
“Did he leave the stage for any prolonged moment?”
“In enough time to drive up to New York? No.”
“Yes or no answers, asshat,” Frank murmurs. Pete stares at him quizzically, “Who’s this little shit?”
Frank rises quickly, but Brian has a grip on his forearm in record seconds. “Fine. Okay, Wentz. Against my better judgment, I’ll take that. I don’t believe you, but I’ll take it. Just strike a deal with me here.”
His eyes turn to Patrick. “I’m going to talk to my boss for a while, Bryar-our Captain. I’m not sure if this isn’t Marty I’m speaking to, but I’m giving you a chance to clear your name anyway, Patrick.”
“What do we have to do?”
“I want Marty. I don’t care how we get him; this case has been going on too long for that. Honestly, I just wanted it kicked in the ass and done, and I believe you two can help. With Bryar’s consent, I’ll letting you off-free men, basically. But I want you two to find him. I want Marty Dressler, I want his whereabouts, and I want you guys to do it.”
Pete makes a noise of protest, and Brian raises his voice with, “Or I can lock both of your asses up with no bail and we’ll see where we’ll take it from there, shall we?”
Pete falls silent. Patrick starts up with, “So what? You want us to search high and low for this dude? Take a roadtrip? Travel the world? You can’t even keep on this guy; how the hell are we supposed to?”
“Did you not hear me, dumbass? I don’t care. I don’t care how he’s found; he just better be found, okay? I don’t need you to approach him; I just need to know where he is, so we can get real men in on it. We’ll hit you up with equipment, transportation, anything. But the minute you see his pasty ass I want a call back here or to the local department, got it?”
“And if we don’t find him?”
Brian shrugs. “Take a risk once in a while, Patrick, you’ll like yourself better for it. We have a deal?”
Pete gives Patrick an expectant look.
Patrick feels the scrape of metal again. He closes his eyes. He exhales. “Fuck-whatever. Deal.”
(Dudes, someone finish this for me, please. I need Pete and Patrick taking the shittiest of road trips searching for this guy and Marty the evil twin being a supreme asshole who manages to knock Pete out and hide him somewhere or something. Patrick/Marty? Marty/Pete? Patrick/Marty/Pete with Pete/Patrick undertones? \o/)
Jesus looks as if he’s been slapped. “Wait, what?”
Wendy keeps sneering, “Why don’t you tell your daddy to fucking cut out all the transsexuals too; he’s obviously good with judging everyone before he gets to know them.”
Jesus pauses. “Wait, what?”
“Your dad is a hypocrite, is what I’m saying, dude.” Wendy tears through the Bible quickly, stops on a page. “There! Right there! Two dudes making out! In the Bible! What’s all this about the homosexuals and gays if there’s two guys making out in the Bible?”
Jesus stares for a moment, blank, then ducks his head on a sneeze. “Sorry, Wendy-that’s not. That’s not really mine. I mean-you’re going to have to take that up with him.”
Cecil can’t help but grin. “I hear there’s a wait.”
Jesus looks grateful, “Oh, dude, there’s always a wait around candidacy time. Too many people hoping to God Obama takes the win or something. 2008’s going to be an interesting year, man, that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Wendy flails a hand at them. “Don’t change the fucking subject, Jesus. Are you going to shun me because I like to kiss girls? Am I heathen now, Jesus? Let me know so I can start wearing heathen clothing or something. I’m sure my girlfriend would love it.”
Jesus smiles, “Oh, and how is Mary, by the way?”
Wendy glares. Jesus throws up his hands in exasperation, “Fine, Christ. Just friendly conversation. Look, if I tell you the secret, will you lay off me? It’s been a rough morning and I don’t have any Tylenol.”
Wendy waits, Bible limp in her hands.
Jesus exhales. “Okay, truth? That was experimentation. Like, He wanted to see if it was really possible back then, so he could know what he was dealing with now. To be honest, he didn’t know it’d catch on like it did, but he doesn’t-he doesn’t exactly hate it. He understands and just-he’s not against it, truly. Not since all the uber-Christians started rallies and shit-he hates that. He thinks it’s retarded. All the parades in the world aren’t going to make you less gay.”
Cecil laughs, and Wendy smiles, “Seriously?”
“Seriously. He just wants you to be yourself, keep away from adultery and all that. But if you want to kiss a chick, go for it.”
“Seriously,” Wendy repeats, a little less eager and Jesus nods, already tired. “Seriously, Wendy. Now get off my back.”
“That sounded afterschool special-y, by the way,” Wendy says, but she sounds cheerful. “I’m going to catch Mary at the theater, want to come? You can sleep in the back rows and work off your migraine.”
Jesus squints at his watch. “Nah, I kind of need to cut the lawn anyway. I promised my mom I’d do it. Tell Mary I said hi."
(btw? Two dudes actually make out in the Bible. A friend of mine, azelmaroark, actually pointed me to a website that gives exactly names and places, although I can't remember them right now. :D I'm so going to hell.)
This is just as well, because Gerard doesn’t really feel like treading the gay waters at all. It’s himself. It’d be weird.
“Look,” he scrubs his eyes tiredly, “I know this is very stressful, and I want to help. I really do. Except-except, I really don’t know how you got here and-“
The Other Him rolls his eyes, takes another drag on his cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask me?”
Gerard splutters. “You know. I mean-you know?”
“Of course I know, dolt-I fucking planned this thing.” He pauses for a moment, and rolls his eyes again, irritated “I just don’t know how to go back.”
“Wouldn’t it be just like reversing whatever you did?”
“Oh yes,” The Other Him sneers, “It’s that fucking simple. I’m on my way back right now-I’ve totally figured out the mindfuck that took me ten months to put together in the first place, and I’m on my way back right now. Idiot.” He stubs out the ciggarette. “Look, you’re not very helpful. Isn’t there, like, a Guest Service desk or something around here?”
Gerard grits his teeth. “There’s Mikey.”
(He doesn’t know why he says it, exactly-maybe it’s subconscious working its magic or some other explained reason, but he’s always found help in Mikey no matter what, and if this is really an opposite him, then there has to be an opposite Mikey. It’s a little reassuring, knowing that brotherhood lives on in opposite universes.)
The Other Him perks up immediately. “Mikey?”
(I have no idea why I stopped writing this! I totally wanted bp!Gerard and Mikey to Waycest together for some reason, it was hilarious.)
The tour ends.
That right there-that’s the fucking problem. The tour ends, and Frank ends up taking a long flight back home to New Jersey where he relives high school (read: endless masturbation) and a year of college (read: college parties) in the time it takes Gerard to call. Frank has a twelve second waiting period where he considers letting it go to voicemail, but he realizes that Gerard would probably fill it with random Planet of the Apes quoting with double meanings and endless metaphors. He picks up on the fifth ring. “What, motherfucker?”
“You’re mad at me.” Gerard’s voice sounds stilted, like it had to go from cheerful to sober in point five.
“You’re damn right I’m mad at you. It’s been, like, a million years, dude! Too busy boning your wife?”
Gerard pauses. “She heard that.”
“You have me on speakerphone?”
“No,” Lyn’s voice cuts through immediately, static-filled. “You’re a really loud insulter. And yes, he has been boning me, thank you for asking.”
Frank laughs at Gerard’s indignant noise. “He’s not very good, is he?”
“I’m hiring a personal trainer.” Lyn shushes Gerard again. “How’ve you been?”
“Great, if you don’t count the endless hand beatings,” Frank laughs, “How’re you two? Besides the sex.”
(Gerard, voice tinny, “There’s something besides the sex?”)
“The Limp One didn’t tell you?” Frank can literally feel Lyn’s grin, “We’re moving in. Gerard officially painted our zombie death mural in the new apartment yesterday.”
“That’s great!” Frank grins, and means it, “When’s the official house-warming party? I need to wear the best if I’m going to get drunk and vomit in your ferns.”
“No plans yet. We haven’t even furnished the place. We’re going to Conn’s.”
“For a bed?”
Lyn laughs again. “Uh, not sure we need one. We never used Gerard’s bunk before, so I think that’d be more of a luxury or something.”
(Gerard, voice tinny, “Lies! Lies and slander, Frank!”)
“So, Conn’s is important to you because-“
“We need a washing machine and dryer set. I’ve already explained to Gerard that an apartment is a privilege, not a right, and if he’s going to be living in one, there’s got to be at least one set of clean clothes for him at all times. Otherwise we’ll have to waste money on air fresheners.”
There’s no sound of protest on Gerard’s end. “Is he pouting?”
“No, he went to repaint your face on the mural.”
Frank hears Gerard shout something. Lyn laughs, “He says you’re a werewolf now. Werewolves suck, you know. An outright insult in the land of Ways.”
(AND THEN THEY HAVE SEX! \o/ IDK, I just wanted something warm and fuzzy and then hot. I really just wanted to try my hand out Lyn-Z. ADORABLE, that woman.)
Marty actually slams his head into the paneling of his desk-slams it, with the thump and bleeding and everything-when Pete slides up to his desk, cool as fucking ice, and mock-whispers, “Did you do it?”
It is eight in the fucking morning. Marty hasn’t had pick of the donuts or the bagels yet. He has not had coffee. If he was a manly man of any kind, he’d take his irritation and manliness and tell Pete to fucking shove it. Instead, he whimpers and runs fingertips through his hair in search for blood. His vision dips and wanes for a moment before he peeks his head around the counter, “What?”
He’s only seen Pete twice since Pete first started the job; both times were short and bittersweet, Marty torn between ducking his head before Pete could actually talk to him and trying to avoid staring at Pete before he caught on. He has Pete in sight now, and it’s the scariest and most eliciting thing he’s felt in months, and that’s a scary, scary thought.
Not as scary as Pete smiling at him, directly at him, like they’ve known each other for months. Marty kind of whishes he wouldn’t. “Excuse me, I hadn’t heard you.”
“So-“ Pete shifts uncomfortably, but still keeps the smile. “Ryan-don’t take this wrong way, okay?”
“Okay.” Marty shifts to his knees. He’s strangely aware that if he were anywhere closer to Pete, he’d be at eye-level with the same place he always wishes he was at eye-level with, and he coughs with that thought and ducks his head. Great, now he looks like some form of a Wentz-worshipper.
“Ryan told me that some cops-detectives-like, uh, visited you yesterday. I mean, we weren’t gossiping about it-not everyone on the floor knows-but-“ He furrows his eyebrows when Marty groans heatedly, “Sorry? I was just. I was just worried.”
Great, now he’s fucking blushing and looking like some form of a Wentz-worshipper. “Pete-“
“If you’re going to down there, you’d might as well do something, Dressler.” Pete is smiling again, and Marty stumbles to his feet before he can make more innuendo. Pete-that was. That was a misunderstanding.”
“So they didn’t call you in for murder? So there aren’t policemen on your every move?”
“No-yes. Crap,” Marty rubs at his eyes, “I don’t. They called in everyone, you know. They’re-they’re going through floors. They might call you in.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it.”
“They’ll still trace you though. I think-I think it’s a shame that it happened,” Marty changes tack, “But it’s-it’s great that they’re taking such lengths to find the guy.”
Pete nods, and manages to look pissed. “That fucker will totally pay, dude. This is America, you can’t get away with that kind of shit. By the way, would you mind accompanying me to the annual Christmas party? Brendon’s bringing spiked punch.”
(dafkdaslfksdjfds; by the way, did I mention that this was during Christmas? Yeah, nothing spikes up the holidays like kidnapping. :D I also really wanted Pete to be the mastermind; I wanted him so evil but still a little normal because hey, that crush on Marty and everything. I wanted Pete to drop little hints while he reels Marty in and have Marty come to conclusions right in the middle of sex when Pete's sucking hard on his dick in short little pulses and Marty's torn between pulling away and coming. Yeah, that's exactly what I wanted. *shakes fist* Damn you brain!)
Lieutenant Schechter is a small guy who looks like he should have a billion tattoos or something; he’s just really short and scruffy and looks torn between wanting to beat the living hell out of Patrick or sympathize with him. He’s probably seen guys like him all the time and the five minutes worth of screaming and begging to call his mom is all mandatory procedure.
Next to Schechter, a smaller dude (and Patrick didn’t think this was possible) rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Jeez, take a fucking Midol or something.”
“Fuck you,” Patrick grunts. His voice sounds all blubbery and gross, like he’s been crying instead of freaking out. Which, he thinks, would probably get him some sympathy. Maybe not from Schechter, but from someone with an actual fucking soul. “Now Frank,” Schechter grins nastily, “Don’t hassle the suspects.”
“I’ve told you like five hundred times, asshole,” Patrick struggles to keep his voice, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m in a band. Fall Out Boy, have you heard of us? I’ve never even heard of these people before, and if I had a little girl and her mother in my bus you would’ve found them, I think. There wouldn’t be many places to hide them.”
“I’ll take that as a confession,” Frank sneers. Patrick glares at him, “Please, just let me use a phone or something so I can call one of my band mates. He can vouch for me.”
“He’ll pick up a baby on the way, I swear, Brian-“
“Shut up, Frank.” Brian speaks softly. “How are those handcuffs working for you?”
Patrick shifts uncomfortably; the bindings in question clink unmercifully against the bars of the chair, his wrists. They’re new and painful and just thinking of the welts he’s going to have makes Patrick a little sick. He grits his teeth. “Comfortable. Fucking fabulous.”
“Good,” Brian smiles, “I hope you like them, because they’re going to be your new best friends for a while until you can tell us where the victims are. And for an added bonus, Dressler,” he spits the name, “You can have your own jail cell and everything. That’s how special you are to us, the best of the best.”
“Dressler?” Patrick squeaks. Brian frowns, irritated, and opens a file without looking, “Marty Dressler. Twenty-four. Five four, red hair, thinning, is near sighted and wears glasses, last seen in New York working under a local corporation until he, and the CEO and owner’s wife and daughter, disappeared.”
Patrick can’t fucking believe this shit. “Are you serious? You actually think that guy is me?”
“You fit the description. The hat and the new glasses? Obviously a disguise. Your “bandmates?” Either accomplices or some poor fools you scared into helping you. Where are the wife and daughter?”
“Oh my God.” Patrick slumps against the seat. He can’t breathe-this isn’t-this isn’t happening. He’s been roofied or something-Pete said it was always bound to happen on the road; maybe Patrick hasn’t paid his dues. Maybe Pete did it. Either way, he’s had bad drugs without his consent and is probably lying in his bunk, struggling through a bad nap.
He believes that right up to the point of hyperventilation.
“I want my friend in here right now,” he gasps between breaths, “Pete. Pete Wentz. I want him in this fucking room right now or I don’t talk.”
*
Pete nearly has a conniption. “Oh my God.”
“I know.” Patrick mumbles miserably. He can’t even meet his eyes, Jesus, but he can feel Pete’s gaze switching from him to Brian. Brian finally wins a, “You fucking bastard!”
“You don’t have to cover for him, Wentz.” Brian assures him. Pete stands, felling his chair, “You motherfucking cocksucker! Do you honestly think he did it? Do you honestly believe that this amazing, never-had-an-evil-thought-in-his-life-not-even-during-masturbation kid-“
“Pete,” Patrick whispers urgently.
Pete ignores him “-actually pulled off a kidnapping? Dude, no. It’s not-you’re a fucking idiot. I’ve never seen this kid out of my sight since I first met him, and if he was going to actually kidnap someone it’d be Hemmy or someone he actually knows. I want a fucking lawyer. Screw that, I want my lawyer.”
“There are plenty of ways Dressler-“
“His name,” Pete interrupts, “is Patrick, motherfucker, so I suggest you start using that or we’re going to have problems that go beyond this fucked up legal system.”
Brian arches an eyebrow. Pete doesn’t move, his lips pressed in a somber line.
“Fine.” Brian sits back down, slowly. “Tell me where Patrick was on March twenty ninth, oh seven, ten oh eight.”
Pete matches his movements, thinking. “He was. We were playing a show. He’s our lead. We were playing a show back home, Chicago.”
“For the entire set?”
“Did you not just hear me? He’s our lead. Yes, the entire fucking set.”
“Did he leave the stage for any prolonged moment?”
“In enough time to drive up to New York? No.”
“Yes or no answers, asshat,” Frank murmurs. Pete stares at him quizzically, “Who’s this little shit?”
Frank rises quickly, but Brian has a grip on his forearm in record seconds. “Fine. Okay, Wentz. Against my better judgment, I’ll take that. I don’t believe you, but I’ll take it. Just strike a deal with me here.”
His eyes turn to Patrick. “I’m going to talk to my boss for a while, Bryar-our Captain. I’m not sure if this isn’t Marty I’m speaking to, but I’m giving you a chance to clear your name anyway, Patrick.”
“What do we have to do?”
“I want Marty. I don’t care how we get him; this case has been going on too long for that. Honestly, I just wanted it kicked in the ass and done, and I believe you two can help. With Bryar’s consent, I’ll letting you off-free men, basically. But I want you two to find him. I want Marty Dressler, I want his whereabouts, and I want you guys to do it.”
Pete makes a noise of protest, and Brian raises his voice with, “Or I can lock both of your asses up with no bail and we’ll see where we’ll take it from there, shall we?”
Pete falls silent. Patrick starts up with, “So what? You want us to search high and low for this dude? Take a roadtrip? Travel the world? You can’t even keep on this guy; how the hell are we supposed to?”
“Did you not hear me, dumbass? I don’t care. I don’t care how he’s found; he just better be found, okay? I don’t need you to approach him; I just need to know where he is, so we can get real men in on it. We’ll hit you up with equipment, transportation, anything. But the minute you see his pasty ass I want a call back here or to the local department, got it?”
“And if we don’t find him?”
Brian shrugs. “Take a risk once in a while, Patrick, you’ll like yourself better for it. We have a deal?”
Pete gives Patrick an expectant look.
Patrick feels the scrape of metal again. He closes his eyes. He exhales. “Fuck-whatever. Deal.”
(Dudes, someone finish this for me, please. I need Pete and Patrick taking the shittiest of road trips searching for this guy and Marty the evil twin being a supreme asshole who manages to knock Pete out and hide him somewhere or something. Patrick/Marty? Marty/Pete? Patrick/Marty/Pete with Pete/Patrick undertones? \o/)
Jesus looks as if he’s been slapped. “Wait, what?”
Wendy keeps sneering, “Why don’t you tell your daddy to fucking cut out all the transsexuals too; he’s obviously good with judging everyone before he gets to know them.”
Jesus pauses. “Wait, what?”
“Your dad is a hypocrite, is what I’m saying, dude.” Wendy tears through the Bible quickly, stops on a page. “There! Right there! Two dudes making out! In the Bible! What’s all this about the homosexuals and gays if there’s two guys making out in the Bible?”
Jesus stares for a moment, blank, then ducks his head on a sneeze. “Sorry, Wendy-that’s not. That’s not really mine. I mean-you’re going to have to take that up with him.”
Cecil can’t help but grin. “I hear there’s a wait.”
Jesus looks grateful, “Oh, dude, there’s always a wait around candidacy time. Too many people hoping to God Obama takes the win or something. 2008’s going to be an interesting year, man, that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Wendy flails a hand at them. “Don’t change the fucking subject, Jesus. Are you going to shun me because I like to kiss girls? Am I heathen now, Jesus? Let me know so I can start wearing heathen clothing or something. I’m sure my girlfriend would love it.”
Jesus smiles, “Oh, and how is Mary, by the way?”
Wendy glares. Jesus throws up his hands in exasperation, “Fine, Christ. Just friendly conversation. Look, if I tell you the secret, will you lay off me? It’s been a rough morning and I don’t have any Tylenol.”
Wendy waits, Bible limp in her hands.
Jesus exhales. “Okay, truth? That was experimentation. Like, He wanted to see if it was really possible back then, so he could know what he was dealing with now. To be honest, he didn’t know it’d catch on like it did, but he doesn’t-he doesn’t exactly hate it. He understands and just-he’s not against it, truly. Not since all the uber-Christians started rallies and shit-he hates that. He thinks it’s retarded. All the parades in the world aren’t going to make you less gay.”
Cecil laughs, and Wendy smiles, “Seriously?”
“Seriously. He just wants you to be yourself, keep away from adultery and all that. But if you want to kiss a chick, go for it.”
“Seriously,” Wendy repeats, a little less eager and Jesus nods, already tired. “Seriously, Wendy. Now get off my back.”
“That sounded afterschool special-y, by the way,” Wendy says, but she sounds cheerful. “I’m going to catch Mary at the theater, want to come? You can sleep in the back rows and work off your migraine.”
Jesus squints at his watch. “Nah, I kind of need to cut the lawn anyway. I promised my mom I’d do it. Tell Mary I said hi."
(btw? Two dudes actually make out in the Bible. A friend of mine, azelmaroark, actually pointed me to a website that gives exactly names and places, although I can't remember them right now. :D I'm so going to hell.)