Meme!
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
For the record, these aren't all the WiPs I have, but they're the ones I've been working on lately/recently started.
A.K.A. The fic that won't end. Seriously, I'm writing scenes all over the place and it's just a big mess, but the hamsters kind of even it out. *hands*
“Frank.”
“No, Mikey.” Frank picks through the bag of of wood cut-outs looking for one of the larger circles. Arts and crafts time is serious business and he's not going to let Mikey distract him. He has the framework for the drum kit done, now he just needs to put the kick drum together.
It had taken Frank a while to realize that Gerard's hamsters were tiny, furry versions of them, but when he did, it was like finally seeing the picture in one of those optical illusion pictures. He can't stop seeing it, from the hamster with fur rivaling Ray's hair, the dark-furred hamsters that seem to be allergic to sunlight, and the pissy hamster who keeps bossing all of them around.
Ray's taking it pretty well, all things considered, and Mikey didn't seem to care, but he probably has Gerard's crazy gene so he doesn't count. And, oh, wow, speaking of Gerard, he's the only one who doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy cooing over the hamsters to notice that hey, totally freaky coincidence, he managed to get his hands on their hamster counterparts.
“He's going to kill you.” Ray's sprawled on the couch with a guitar, plucking away at a song Frank doesn't recognize, but will probably end up playing on a stage in the not too distant future. “Seriously, Frank.”
Frank's not scared of Bob.
“Frank, look at her,” Mikey says when Bunny walks by, brushing his legs and meowing in a bid for attention. Mikey's doing her one better, though, pulling out all the stops as he uses his version of Bambi eyes on Frank. “Look at her, Frank.”
“Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me.” The fact that Frank actually knows Mikey's trying to pull a Jedi mind whammy on him is so ridiculous it's not even funny. “Also, for the record? The answer is still no.”
“I don't know,” Ray says, his plunking slowing to a quiet, plink, plink, plink. “That's kind of cool, Frank.”
Ray's been pretty great for the most part, staying out of things and playing his guitar, but then there are moments like this one where he feels the need to add his two cents.
“Hey, do you take requests?” Frank asks, twisting around in his chair to look at Ray.
“I don't know, Frank,” he says, face scrunching up in a frown. “They might be lame. I can't play lame music, Frank. It goes against my moral code.”
“Whatever.” It's not like Frank wanted soothing background music or anything stupid like that.
“Seriously, Frank. Give me one good reason.” Mikey has his arms crossed, completely unconcerned about the glitter sprinkled across his cheek or the fuzzy pompom stuck to the sleeve of his shirt, although he just might not know about that last bit. “Come on. One good reason.”
Frank can think of several off the top of his head, but since Mikey's being serious about this, what the hell. “Okay, for one thing, it's crazy. Just so you know.” Frank believes in being honest about these kinds of things. “For another, seriously, Mikey. Crazy.”
“People in bands start clothing lines all the time, right?” Mikey asks, leaning forward.
To be fair, though, people in bands tend to start clothing lines for people.
“The thing is, no one ever thinks about things like this.”
Frank privately thinks there's a good reason most people don't.
Mikey picks Bunny up when she walks over to see what's new and exciting on their side of the room. Mikey scratches her head for a bit before he pulls the hood of her hoodie up to show Frank the design running down the sides onto the back of her hoodie.
“Frank,” Mikey says completely seriously, “the time is now.”
Frank sighs and rubs his face, trying not to let Mikey see the smile he knows is trying to break free.
Ray's not really helping.
Ray is, in fact, a big, stinking traitor. He's playing something sad and melancholy that's clearly meant to tug at the tattered, blackened strings clinging to the remnants of Frank's cold, dead heart.
Bunny wriggles free of Mikey's hold and pads across the table, skirting their arts and crafts projects and spilled glitter to sit herself down in front of him and meow. Insistently, like Frank isn't paying the proper attention to her new ensemble.
“You realize there isn't a huge demand for pet-sized hoodies, right?”
“Gerard offered to do some designs.”
Frank's really not surprised by that little nugget of information.
Mikey's watching him with his serious face on, trying to figure out if Frank's actually sold on the idea or just playing along. “You were saying you wanted to branch out with Skeleton Crew, right?”
Ray stops playing the world's saddest song and Frank can feel everyone's eyes on him, waiting for his decision.
“What the hell, why not.” Frank's not really sure it's a brilliant business decision, but he knows they have freaky fans who would jump at the chance to torment their pets like Alicia and Mikey. “I'll have to talk to Jamia and the others and see what they have to say about it first, though.”
Mikey grins at him, one of the rare, completely happy ones, so Frank's not all that surprised when he returns it.
“Cool.”
Frank snorts and grabs for the glue and glitter. He won't be able to use it on the drum kit, not with what he has in mind, but there's a piece of paper and a pile of fuzzy pompoms screaming Ray's name.
Convenient link so I won't sound crazy. Crazier.
At first Pete thinks the bird on the perch is stuffed. It looks a little moth-eaten, feathers ruffled and out of place, and then it turns its head and focuses on him with its beady, soul-less bird eyes. The longer he stares at it the creepier it gets because he's pretty sure birds don't actually do that. The bird flaps its wings a few times and lets out a shrill cry, almost a shriek Pete can hear even through the glass. It flaps its wings again and flits off into the depths of the store.
Hemmy makes a nervous, snuffling noise and tugs at his leash, obviously uneasy. Pete's in wholehearted agreement with him. Whipple Creek has been quiet, boring and very much out of a greeting card or the setting for a horror movie the whole time he's been there. He's not sure it was what he needed, whatever Andy and Spencer insisted he needed to break his writer's block, but it's certainly been an experience. Personally, he'd rather go on thinking he's in a Hallmark card than the next Halloween movie.
Skirting the edge of the wooden sidewalk, Pete almost makes it past the dirty glass windows set in the door before it, a bell jangling horribly off-key inside. Hemmy makes that nervous snuffling sound again, crowding against Pete's legs as a hand shoots through the open door and grabs him.
The only redeeming thing is that Pete doesn't actually scream, although he does do an awkward and embarrassing sideways shuffle-hop in a vain attempt to escape the freezing fingers clamped around his wrist.
"Oh, hey," someone says, not sounding at all apologetic. "Sorry about that, I was in the back."
Like that really explains anything, but whatever. Pete would just really, really like to get the hell away from Creepy Guy and make it back to the cabin. Maybe pack all his crap up and head back to the city, deadlines be damned.
The bird from the window lets out another of those ear-piercing cries and flutters onto Creepy Guy's shoulder, eyeing Pete like it wants to pick a fight with him. Pete's pretty sure he's not imagining it.
"Don't worry about him," Creepy Guy says, patting the bird on its head. He almost loses a finger for it, the bird's eyes flashing as it snaps at them. "He's harmless."
"Yeah, okay," Pete says, leaning back a little when the guy moves into his space. The demon-bird is glaring at Pete.
"Never mind that,” Creepy Guy says, fingers locked tight around Pete's wrist. "It's scorching out today, come inside to get out of the heat."
The whole reason Pete had crossed to this side of the street with it's charming wooden sidewalk had been for the beautiful, glorious shade. It's fucking boiling out, even though Yahoo and Google and the Weather Channel told Pete it was going to be a pleasant day. He should have known the internet would lie to him.
Creepy Guy makes a cooing noise and crouches down to scratch Hemmy's ears, that weirdly intense look in his eyes softening.
“Poor guy, he looks like he could use some water.”
Hemmy's panting, tongue lolling out and Pete feels like a shit. He didn't really expect it to get so damn hot so quickly, and the cabin's a few miles out. It's a nice walk when the weather isn't trying to kill them, but he could just as easily taken the rental into town instead.
Creepy Guy sees it, Pete's guilt, or maybe uncertainty because he stands up and smiles at him. “Come inside for a little bit,” he says. “We can get him some water and you can both get out of the heat until it cools down.”
Hemmy whines, like he's agreeing with Creepy Guy, and looking down at him, Pete knows he doesn't have a choice in the matter.
I'm still not sure how this is going to work? But I'm kind of in love with it.
Even though he's been doing it for a few years now, Frank still has moments where he wonders how the hell this became his life. He's not even a certified chef, or whatever it is they do to you in culinary school, and he sometimes has the sneaking feeling that Spencer would probably be better at it than he is.
Once, when Frank had been having a particularly shitty time of it, critics sniping at the show, viewers complaining, and even the suits at the network bitching up a storm, he'd said as much to Pete. Pete had steepled his hands like a villain out of a Bond movie and watched Frank for a long moment.
"Spencer," Pete had said, like he was picking his words carefully in case Spencer might overhear, even though he was several floors down. "Spencer is what we in the business call - and this is a technical term, mind you - Spencer is scary, Frank. He has this look that scares the shit out of people.” Pete had dropped his hands and given Frank a look of his own. It was the kind of look that said Pete knew that Frank knew what look he was talking about.
"People are afraid he's going to hunt them down if they use the wrong knife, Frank," Pete had gone on. "You on the other hand," Pete's expression had gone soft and slightly goofy, the way it did when he was showing people pictures of Hemingway and Rigby as puppies. "You're adorable."
"Adorable."
"Like a puppy," Pete added, as if he thought he wasn't being clear enough. "Even when you're pissed, little old ladies want to cuddle you and feed you. When Spencer's pissed they deadbolt their doors and call the police."
This is one of those things I started not knowing what the hell is going on in it, so. Um. YES. *hands*
Patrick's heard all the statistics about small businesses and how many of them fail their first year and he's determined that's not going to happen to him. Them, really, because a few months in and he has employees. Sure, it's just Joe and William, but what the hell, he signs their paychecks even if they never really do what he tells them to do.
Joe sits on the front counter and chats to the customers about random crap, and William just. He slinks around the store. He says he's not hunting, which for him is only mildly weird and creepy, because he has his eyes on Gabe, but he likes to keep his skills sharp.
Patrick. Patrick really doesn't want to know what that means.
He's not entirely sure they even do anything other than take up space and freak people out, but somehow they CDs and records and have a steady stream of customers. They even have regulars, people from the local college or friends who bring in more business through word of mouth. They're doing okay, staying in the black and having fun doing it, so Patrick really can't complain.
Well, no. That's kind of a lie because Joe and William never take the damn trash out, even when the back room is piled high. And maybe it's because all of Patrick's friends are assholes, he doesn't know. He just knows that he's the one who has to lug the trash out into the dark, dingy alley behind the store all the fucking time. Patrick hates it because he's not really a big guy, and sometimes the only way to get all the trash to fit is to climb inside the damn dumpster and stomp on it. He hints, long and loud that maybe other people (Joe and William) would have an easier time of it, but no. No, they leave that particular little job to Patrick.
This is where the part about his friends being assholes come in. The first couple of weeks the store was open William called Jon who brought Tom who brought his camera and now there are pictures of Patrick in the fucking dumpster hanging up the back room. They're artfully done, and tasteful and all that shit, but still.
Patrick's friends are assholes.
One of the main reasons Patrick hates taking the trash out is that every movie or television show he's ever seen tells him the alley behind the store is exactly the kind of place killers love to hang out. He thinks that's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he freaks the hell out when he's out stomping down a week's worth of trash and hears someone whistle.
Patrick's head comes up at that, cheeks warming as he reaches for his hat, searching out the speaker. He blinks when he sees a guy leaning against the wall of the neighboring building, hands in his pockets.
"Man," the guy says, shaking his head sadly. “I didn't know things were so bad they're throwing employees away now too.”
The lighting's bad in the alley, which makes the situation that much more creepy since Patrick can't see the guy's face very well.
"Too bad," the guy says, teeth flashing in a wide smile. "You look fine to me."
"Uh," is Patrick's not-so-brilliant answer. Honestly though, he doesn't think there is a proper response to being hit on when you're inside a dumpster. "No," he tries again, shifting his weight when the cardboard box he was trying to flatten finally gives. "I'm just, you know, taking out the trash."
Another flash of teeth and the guy looks both ways, what the hell, like traffic ever comes down the alley, and takes a step towards the dumpster.
Patrick takes a step back, which really, it's not like he could make a fast escape if the guy turns out to be a homicidal maniac, but it makes him feel less vulnerable.
The back door to the store bangs open, and he looks over to see Joe standing there with a fucking huge grin on his face.
The guy stops a few feet away, close enough for Patrick to make out his features, and. And they're kind of nice, no horrible disfigurement or obvious signs of insanity.
"Dude!"
Joe either has the best or worst timing ever, Patrick can't quite decide.
"Patrick, you have to see this!" Joe looks over his shoulder at whatever's going on inside the store. “Gabe has a fucking cobra!"
Patrick has a moment of complete mental disconnect, and then realizes holy shit, Gabe has a cobra in his store. There is no possible way that can end well.
This. I don't even know what's going on with this one. Frank moves into an apartment and has to deal with The Wall, which is obviously evil and out to eat his soul. Or something. And then Ray points him to the Barter Board, and then wacky shenanigans? I don't know.
The guy who lives in 4A is disturbingly pretty.
Frank notices this along with the messy hair, paint spatters on his clothes and the way the guy stares at him like he has no idea what Frank's doing there. “I saw the notice you put up,” Frank says, forcing a pleasant smile. “And I just wanted - “
The guy grabs the notice out of Frank's hand and reads it, which. Frank is beginning to think he should never, ever again trust anything Ray Toro tells him when the guy turns to yell at someone in the apartment. “Mikey!”
He's answered by a muffled, “What?”
The guy rolls his eyes and disappears into the apartment, leaving Frank standing outside feeling awkward and not really sure what the proper etiquette for this kind of situation is.
He'd like to get to know pretty guy better, possibly over dinner or something like that, but there's The Wall to think about. He doesn't know if Pretty Guy has some sort of policy against mixing business with pleasure, or even if there is going to be business since Pretty Guy seemed surprised by the notice. In which case Frank might not have to worry about any business policies after all, so.
Frank edges closer to the open door and tries to look like he isn't blatantly eavesdropping, but all he can make out is a pair of muffled voices. He shuffles back to a respectable distance from the door when he hears footsteps and pastes on the pleasant smile again.
“Hey, um.”
Frank's smile slips a little because Pretty Guy looks like he's trying to let Frank down the easy way, which means he's going to have to go home to face The Wall on his own. Also, with his luck Pretty Guy is already spoken for.
“My brother actually put this up,” Pretty Guy says, raising his voice a little, “He forgets that I'm a grown-up and can look after myself.”
Frank doesn't know if he's supposed to agree, but the decision is taken out of his hands when the supposed brother walks over and gives Pretty Guy an amused look.
“My brother,” he starts, mimicking Pretty Guy, “forgets to eat when he's in the middle of a project.”
Pretty Guy opens his mouth to say something, but the brother raises an eyebrow, and wow, that's some serious bitchface he has going for him.
“Christ, fine.” Pretty Guy gives Frank an apologetic look and introduces himself and his brother.
Frank smiles and shakes hands like a champ, trying to give a good impression. It's probably too early to ask Gerard to marry him and have his babies, but he can work up to it. “Frank,” he says. “Down in 2C.”
That seems to be the way to introduce yourself in the building, name and apartment number. Gerard nods, and then frowns.
“Wait, the apartment with The Wall? How do you stand it?”
Frank's so totally in love. Finally someone who gets it.
“Oh, man, don't get me started,” Frank says. “I mean, seriously, give me cockroaches instead, that fucking Wall is so much worse.”
Gerard's face lights up, and seriously, who knew the way to his heart was through disgusting vermin and evil, soul-eating walls.
“You need to get someone in to paint that or something or it's totally going to mess with your head,” Gerard says, and he looks completely serious.
There's a beat of silence, and then Mikey pointedly clears his throat.
“Oh.” Gerard glances at Mikey and back at Frank. “So, uh, I guess that's why you're here?”
Frank grins. “Pretty much, yeah,” he says. It's still too early to propose marriage, even if Gerard understands Frank's whole thing with The Wall. “I'm not a gourmet chef or anything, but I can cook.”
Ahaha. The Pete/Patrick side to the this story? Maybe? I need plot, though. So far all I have is Patrick slamming doors in Joe's face and whatnot.
Patrick doesn't expect to come face-to-face with his past when the doorbell goes off, so it's a little understandable when he slams the door shut.
“Patrick, dude,” Joe says from the other side, “not cool, okay? Not cool.”
Patrick opens the door a crack. Joe looks like shit.
“You look like shit,” Patrick says. He doesn't open the door any wider.
Joe shrugs and scratches his shoulder. “Yeah,” Joe draws the word out. “That's kind of why I'm here.”
Patrick goes to shut the door again when Joe just stares at him, like he expects Patrick to somehow know exactly why Joe's standing on his doorstep years after they last saw one another. Patrick's past has disturbing habit of showing up when he least expects it. Like fucking Joe, who is giving him a hopeful look, and Patrick. Patrick, okay, he's always liked Joe.
“Pete's in trouble.”
Patrick's smile freezes and he slams the door again.
“Dude!”
Patrick sighs and goes to make coffee because he's sure it's going to be a long fucking day.
====
====
Joe's watching him warily, like he expects Patrick to blow up or possibly throw his coffee in Joe's face. And really? No. He's been around Gerard and Mikey long enough to know that coffee is precious, like life. Wasting it, even for dramatic effect, is simply not done.
“So,” Joe says, testing the waters. “You look good.”
Patrick stares at Joe.
Joe stares at Patrick.
“Thanks,” Patrick says.
Joe nods and slides his coffee mug between his hands on the table. “So, Pete - “
“Can get himself out of his own damn messes,” Patrick says. He never expected anyone to choose sides, but he's not going to let anyone, even Joe, drag him back to where he was three years ago. “I'm done.”
Joe grimaces, and shakes his head. “No, I know,” he says. “Patrick, I know. But Pete's really in trouble.”
Plus, you know, a few TOP SEKRIT things I'm working on, and the other WiPs I've posted snippets of before. /o\
For the record, these aren't all the WiPs I have, but they're the ones I've been working on lately/recently started.
A.K.A. The fic that won't end. Seriously, I'm writing scenes all over the place and it's just a big mess, but the hamsters kind of even it out. *hands*
“Frank.”
“No, Mikey.” Frank picks through the bag of of wood cut-outs looking for one of the larger circles. Arts and crafts time is serious business and he's not going to let Mikey distract him. He has the framework for the drum kit done, now he just needs to put the kick drum together.
It had taken Frank a while to realize that Gerard's hamsters were tiny, furry versions of them, but when he did, it was like finally seeing the picture in one of those optical illusion pictures. He can't stop seeing it, from the hamster with fur rivaling Ray's hair, the dark-furred hamsters that seem to be allergic to sunlight, and the pissy hamster who keeps bossing all of them around.
Ray's taking it pretty well, all things considered, and Mikey didn't seem to care, but he probably has Gerard's crazy gene so he doesn't count. And, oh, wow, speaking of Gerard, he's the only one who doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy cooing over the hamsters to notice that hey, totally freaky coincidence, he managed to get his hands on their hamster counterparts.
“He's going to kill you.” Ray's sprawled on the couch with a guitar, plucking away at a song Frank doesn't recognize, but will probably end up playing on a stage in the not too distant future. “Seriously, Frank.”
Frank's not scared of Bob.
“Frank, look at her,” Mikey says when Bunny walks by, brushing his legs and meowing in a bid for attention. Mikey's doing her one better, though, pulling out all the stops as he uses his version of Bambi eyes on Frank. “Look at her, Frank.”
“Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me.” The fact that Frank actually knows Mikey's trying to pull a Jedi mind whammy on him is so ridiculous it's not even funny. “Also, for the record? The answer is still no.”
“I don't know,” Ray says, his plunking slowing to a quiet, plink, plink, plink. “That's kind of cool, Frank.”
Ray's been pretty great for the most part, staying out of things and playing his guitar, but then there are moments like this one where he feels the need to add his two cents.
“Hey, do you take requests?” Frank asks, twisting around in his chair to look at Ray.
“I don't know, Frank,” he says, face scrunching up in a frown. “They might be lame. I can't play lame music, Frank. It goes against my moral code.”
“Whatever.” It's not like Frank wanted soothing background music or anything stupid like that.
“Seriously, Frank. Give me one good reason.” Mikey has his arms crossed, completely unconcerned about the glitter sprinkled across his cheek or the fuzzy pompom stuck to the sleeve of his shirt, although he just might not know about that last bit. “Come on. One good reason.”
Frank can think of several off the top of his head, but since Mikey's being serious about this, what the hell. “Okay, for one thing, it's crazy. Just so you know.” Frank believes in being honest about these kinds of things. “For another, seriously, Mikey. Crazy.”
“People in bands start clothing lines all the time, right?” Mikey asks, leaning forward.
To be fair, though, people in bands tend to start clothing lines for people.
“The thing is, no one ever thinks about things like this.”
Frank privately thinks there's a good reason most people don't.
Mikey picks Bunny up when she walks over to see what's new and exciting on their side of the room. Mikey scratches her head for a bit before he pulls the hood of her hoodie up to show Frank the design running down the sides onto the back of her hoodie.
“Frank,” Mikey says completely seriously, “the time is now.”
Frank sighs and rubs his face, trying not to let Mikey see the smile he knows is trying to break free.
Ray's not really helping.
Ray is, in fact, a big, stinking traitor. He's playing something sad and melancholy that's clearly meant to tug at the tattered, blackened strings clinging to the remnants of Frank's cold, dead heart.
Bunny wriggles free of Mikey's hold and pads across the table, skirting their arts and crafts projects and spilled glitter to sit herself down in front of him and meow. Insistently, like Frank isn't paying the proper attention to her new ensemble.
“You realize there isn't a huge demand for pet-sized hoodies, right?”
“Gerard offered to do some designs.”
Frank's really not surprised by that little nugget of information.
Mikey's watching him with his serious face on, trying to figure out if Frank's actually sold on the idea or just playing along. “You were saying you wanted to branch out with Skeleton Crew, right?”
Ray stops playing the world's saddest song and Frank can feel everyone's eyes on him, waiting for his decision.
“What the hell, why not.” Frank's not really sure it's a brilliant business decision, but he knows they have freaky fans who would jump at the chance to torment their pets like Alicia and Mikey. “I'll have to talk to Jamia and the others and see what they have to say about it first, though.”
Mikey grins at him, one of the rare, completely happy ones, so Frank's not all that surprised when he returns it.
“Cool.”
Frank snorts and grabs for the glue and glitter. He won't be able to use it on the drum kit, not with what he has in mind, but there's a piece of paper and a pile of fuzzy pompoms screaming Ray's name.
Convenient link so I won't sound crazy. Crazier.
At first Pete thinks the bird on the perch is stuffed. It looks a little moth-eaten, feathers ruffled and out of place, and then it turns its head and focuses on him with its beady, soul-less bird eyes. The longer he stares at it the creepier it gets because he's pretty sure birds don't actually do that. The bird flaps its wings a few times and lets out a shrill cry, almost a shriek Pete can hear even through the glass. It flaps its wings again and flits off into the depths of the store.
Hemmy makes a nervous, snuffling noise and tugs at his leash, obviously uneasy. Pete's in wholehearted agreement with him. Whipple Creek has been quiet, boring and very much out of a greeting card or the setting for a horror movie the whole time he's been there. He's not sure it was what he needed, whatever Andy and Spencer insisted he needed to break his writer's block, but it's certainly been an experience. Personally, he'd rather go on thinking he's in a Hallmark card than the next Halloween movie.
Skirting the edge of the wooden sidewalk, Pete almost makes it past the dirty glass windows set in the door before it, a bell jangling horribly off-key inside. Hemmy makes that nervous snuffling sound again, crowding against Pete's legs as a hand shoots through the open door and grabs him.
The only redeeming thing is that Pete doesn't actually scream, although he does do an awkward and embarrassing sideways shuffle-hop in a vain attempt to escape the freezing fingers clamped around his wrist.
"Oh, hey," someone says, not sounding at all apologetic. "Sorry about that, I was in the back."
Like that really explains anything, but whatever. Pete would just really, really like to get the hell away from Creepy Guy and make it back to the cabin. Maybe pack all his crap up and head back to the city, deadlines be damned.
The bird from the window lets out another of those ear-piercing cries and flutters onto Creepy Guy's shoulder, eyeing Pete like it wants to pick a fight with him. Pete's pretty sure he's not imagining it.
"Don't worry about him," Creepy Guy says, patting the bird on its head. He almost loses a finger for it, the bird's eyes flashing as it snaps at them. "He's harmless."
"Yeah, okay," Pete says, leaning back a little when the guy moves into his space. The demon-bird is glaring at Pete.
"Never mind that,” Creepy Guy says, fingers locked tight around Pete's wrist. "It's scorching out today, come inside to get out of the heat."
The whole reason Pete had crossed to this side of the street with it's charming wooden sidewalk had been for the beautiful, glorious shade. It's fucking boiling out, even though Yahoo and Google and the Weather Channel told Pete it was going to be a pleasant day. He should have known the internet would lie to him.
Creepy Guy makes a cooing noise and crouches down to scratch Hemmy's ears, that weirdly intense look in his eyes softening.
“Poor guy, he looks like he could use some water.”
Hemmy's panting, tongue lolling out and Pete feels like a shit. He didn't really expect it to get so damn hot so quickly, and the cabin's a few miles out. It's a nice walk when the weather isn't trying to kill them, but he could just as easily taken the rental into town instead.
Creepy Guy sees it, Pete's guilt, or maybe uncertainty because he stands up and smiles at him. “Come inside for a little bit,” he says. “We can get him some water and you can both get out of the heat until it cools down.”
Hemmy whines, like he's agreeing with Creepy Guy, and looking down at him, Pete knows he doesn't have a choice in the matter.
I'm still not sure how this is going to work? But I'm kind of in love with it.
Even though he's been doing it for a few years now, Frank still has moments where he wonders how the hell this became his life. He's not even a certified chef, or whatever it is they do to you in culinary school, and he sometimes has the sneaking feeling that Spencer would probably be better at it than he is.
Once, when Frank had been having a particularly shitty time of it, critics sniping at the show, viewers complaining, and even the suits at the network bitching up a storm, he'd said as much to Pete. Pete had steepled his hands like a villain out of a Bond movie and watched Frank for a long moment.
"Spencer," Pete had said, like he was picking his words carefully in case Spencer might overhear, even though he was several floors down. "Spencer is what we in the business call - and this is a technical term, mind you - Spencer is scary, Frank. He has this look that scares the shit out of people.” Pete had dropped his hands and given Frank a look of his own. It was the kind of look that said Pete knew that Frank knew what look he was talking about.
"People are afraid he's going to hunt them down if they use the wrong knife, Frank," Pete had gone on. "You on the other hand," Pete's expression had gone soft and slightly goofy, the way it did when he was showing people pictures of Hemingway and Rigby as puppies. "You're adorable."
"Adorable."
"Like a puppy," Pete added, as if he thought he wasn't being clear enough. "Even when you're pissed, little old ladies want to cuddle you and feed you. When Spencer's pissed they deadbolt their doors and call the police."
This is one of those things I started not knowing what the hell is going on in it, so. Um. YES. *hands*
Patrick's heard all the statistics about small businesses and how many of them fail their first year and he's determined that's not going to happen to him. Them, really, because a few months in and he has employees. Sure, it's just Joe and William, but what the hell, he signs their paychecks even if they never really do what he tells them to do.
Joe sits on the front counter and chats to the customers about random crap, and William just. He slinks around the store. He says he's not hunting, which for him is only mildly weird and creepy, because he has his eyes on Gabe, but he likes to keep his skills sharp.
Patrick. Patrick really doesn't want to know what that means.
He's not entirely sure they even do anything other than take up space and freak people out, but somehow they CDs and records and have a steady stream of customers. They even have regulars, people from the local college or friends who bring in more business through word of mouth. They're doing okay, staying in the black and having fun doing it, so Patrick really can't complain.
Well, no. That's kind of a lie because Joe and William never take the damn trash out, even when the back room is piled high. And maybe it's because all of Patrick's friends are assholes, he doesn't know. He just knows that he's the one who has to lug the trash out into the dark, dingy alley behind the store all the fucking time. Patrick hates it because he's not really a big guy, and sometimes the only way to get all the trash to fit is to climb inside the damn dumpster and stomp on it. He hints, long and loud that maybe other people (Joe and William) would have an easier time of it, but no. No, they leave that particular little job to Patrick.
This is where the part about his friends being assholes come in. The first couple of weeks the store was open William called Jon who brought Tom who brought his camera and now there are pictures of Patrick in the fucking dumpster hanging up the back room. They're artfully done, and tasteful and all that shit, but still.
Patrick's friends are assholes.
One of the main reasons Patrick hates taking the trash out is that every movie or television show he's ever seen tells him the alley behind the store is exactly the kind of place killers love to hang out. He thinks that's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he freaks the hell out when he's out stomping down a week's worth of trash and hears someone whistle.
Patrick's head comes up at that, cheeks warming as he reaches for his hat, searching out the speaker. He blinks when he sees a guy leaning against the wall of the neighboring building, hands in his pockets.
"Man," the guy says, shaking his head sadly. “I didn't know things were so bad they're throwing employees away now too.”
The lighting's bad in the alley, which makes the situation that much more creepy since Patrick can't see the guy's face very well.
"Too bad," the guy says, teeth flashing in a wide smile. "You look fine to me."
"Uh," is Patrick's not-so-brilliant answer. Honestly though, he doesn't think there is a proper response to being hit on when you're inside a dumpster. "No," he tries again, shifting his weight when the cardboard box he was trying to flatten finally gives. "I'm just, you know, taking out the trash."
Another flash of teeth and the guy looks both ways, what the hell, like traffic ever comes down the alley, and takes a step towards the dumpster.
Patrick takes a step back, which really, it's not like he could make a fast escape if the guy turns out to be a homicidal maniac, but it makes him feel less vulnerable.
The back door to the store bangs open, and he looks over to see Joe standing there with a fucking huge grin on his face.
The guy stops a few feet away, close enough for Patrick to make out his features, and. And they're kind of nice, no horrible disfigurement or obvious signs of insanity.
"Dude!"
Joe either has the best or worst timing ever, Patrick can't quite decide.
"Patrick, you have to see this!" Joe looks over his shoulder at whatever's going on inside the store. “Gabe has a fucking cobra!"
Patrick has a moment of complete mental disconnect, and then realizes holy shit, Gabe has a cobra in his store. There is no possible way that can end well.
This. I don't even know what's going on with this one. Frank moves into an apartment and has to deal with The Wall, which is obviously evil and out to eat his soul. Or something. And then Ray points him to the Barter Board, and then wacky shenanigans? I don't know.
The guy who lives in 4A is disturbingly pretty.
Frank notices this along with the messy hair, paint spatters on his clothes and the way the guy stares at him like he has no idea what Frank's doing there. “I saw the notice you put up,” Frank says, forcing a pleasant smile. “And I just wanted - “
The guy grabs the notice out of Frank's hand and reads it, which. Frank is beginning to think he should never, ever again trust anything Ray Toro tells him when the guy turns to yell at someone in the apartment. “Mikey!”
He's answered by a muffled, “What?”
The guy rolls his eyes and disappears into the apartment, leaving Frank standing outside feeling awkward and not really sure what the proper etiquette for this kind of situation is.
He'd like to get to know pretty guy better, possibly over dinner or something like that, but there's The Wall to think about. He doesn't know if Pretty Guy has some sort of policy against mixing business with pleasure, or even if there is going to be business since Pretty Guy seemed surprised by the notice. In which case Frank might not have to worry about any business policies after all, so.
Frank edges closer to the open door and tries to look like he isn't blatantly eavesdropping, but all he can make out is a pair of muffled voices. He shuffles back to a respectable distance from the door when he hears footsteps and pastes on the pleasant smile again.
“Hey, um.”
Frank's smile slips a little because Pretty Guy looks like he's trying to let Frank down the easy way, which means he's going to have to go home to face The Wall on his own. Also, with his luck Pretty Guy is already spoken for.
“My brother actually put this up,” Pretty Guy says, raising his voice a little, “He forgets that I'm a grown-up and can look after myself.”
Frank doesn't know if he's supposed to agree, but the decision is taken out of his hands when the supposed brother walks over and gives Pretty Guy an amused look.
“My brother,” he starts, mimicking Pretty Guy, “forgets to eat when he's in the middle of a project.”
Pretty Guy opens his mouth to say something, but the brother raises an eyebrow, and wow, that's some serious bitchface he has going for him.
“Christ, fine.” Pretty Guy gives Frank an apologetic look and introduces himself and his brother.
Frank smiles and shakes hands like a champ, trying to give a good impression. It's probably too early to ask Gerard to marry him and have his babies, but he can work up to it. “Frank,” he says. “Down in 2C.”
That seems to be the way to introduce yourself in the building, name and apartment number. Gerard nods, and then frowns.
“Wait, the apartment with The Wall? How do you stand it?”
Frank's so totally in love. Finally someone who gets it.
“Oh, man, don't get me started,” Frank says. “I mean, seriously, give me cockroaches instead, that fucking Wall is so much worse.”
Gerard's face lights up, and seriously, who knew the way to his heart was through disgusting vermin and evil, soul-eating walls.
“You need to get someone in to paint that or something or it's totally going to mess with your head,” Gerard says, and he looks completely serious.
There's a beat of silence, and then Mikey pointedly clears his throat.
“Oh.” Gerard glances at Mikey and back at Frank. “So, uh, I guess that's why you're here?”
Frank grins. “Pretty much, yeah,” he says. It's still too early to propose marriage, even if Gerard understands Frank's whole thing with The Wall. “I'm not a gourmet chef or anything, but I can cook.”
Ahaha. The Pete/Patrick side to the this story? Maybe? I need plot, though. So far all I have is Patrick slamming doors in Joe's face and whatnot.
Patrick doesn't expect to come face-to-face with his past when the doorbell goes off, so it's a little understandable when he slams the door shut.
“Patrick, dude,” Joe says from the other side, “not cool, okay? Not cool.”
Patrick opens the door a crack. Joe looks like shit.
“You look like shit,” Patrick says. He doesn't open the door any wider.
Joe shrugs and scratches his shoulder. “Yeah,” Joe draws the word out. “That's kind of why I'm here.”
Patrick goes to shut the door again when Joe just stares at him, like he expects Patrick to somehow know exactly why Joe's standing on his doorstep years after they last saw one another. Patrick's past has disturbing habit of showing up when he least expects it. Like fucking Joe, who is giving him a hopeful look, and Patrick. Patrick, okay, he's always liked Joe.
“Pete's in trouble.”
Patrick's smile freezes and he slams the door again.
“Dude!”
Patrick sighs and goes to make coffee because he's sure it's going to be a long fucking day.
====
====
Joe's watching him warily, like he expects Patrick to blow up or possibly throw his coffee in Joe's face. And really? No. He's been around Gerard and Mikey long enough to know that coffee is precious, like life. Wasting it, even for dramatic effect, is simply not done.
“So,” Joe says, testing the waters. “You look good.”
Patrick stares at Joe.
Joe stares at Patrick.
“Thanks,” Patrick says.
Joe nods and slides his coffee mug between his hands on the table. “So, Pete - “
“Can get himself out of his own damn messes,” Patrick says. He never expected anyone to choose sides, but he's not going to let anyone, even Joe, drag him back to where he was three years ago. “I'm done.”
Joe grimaces, and shakes his head. “No, I know,” he says. “Patrick, I know. But Pete's really in trouble.”
Plus, you know, a few TOP SEKRIT things I'm working on, and the other WiPs I've posted snippets of before. /o\