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popoffacork
The Places You Will Be From (Bob/Gerard, Patrick/Joe)
Recipient: joyfulseeker
Author: emcay
Title: The Places You Will Be From
Pairing: Bob/Gerard, Patrick/Joe
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,600
Summary: Bob never thought Chicago could feel like home again, but he’s more than willing to be proven wrong.
There isn't much of a decision to make. Bob barely finishes reading Patrick's email before he's glancing around the living room of his apartment deciding what he can fit in his truck and what'll have to go into storage.
The drive to Chicago is long and dull, and his iPod dies three hours in, which is total shit because Bob made sure it was fully charged before setting off. His car is packed so tightly he doesn’t even have room to rummage for the adaptor. It leaves him twiddling with the radio every few minutes, trying to tune into a station that isn’t country music or just plain static. It’s frustrating, but it’s something to do, and it means that the few seconds of noise he catches every now and then are golden.
He splits the trip over two days, stopping at a roadside inn when it grows too dark to see what’s ahead; his eyes gritty and tired. There’s a diner next to the motel; an old-style truck-stop diner, with three different types of pie sitting on the counter and a silver-haired waitress named Cheryl who pours him coffee and calls him sweetie. He orders macaroni cheese and cherry pie and tries to recall the last time he ate something that didn’t come from the cafeteria or a fast food outlet. A month, at least. There’s no way he can remember the last time he actually cooked.
He eats quickly and leaves a tip, then walks back to his room for the night. The sheets are rough against his bare skin as he slides into bed, and Bob relishes the freeness that comes with the knowledge that he can sleep for as long as he chooses. No alarm set to blare at top volume. No pager on the bedside table to wake him up at 3am. It’s amazing.
Despite the exhaustion of a full day of driving, Bob wakes up at six in the morning, body trained by habit alone. He feels rested and relaxed for once. He visits the diner for breakfast, grabbing coffee and another slice of pie for the road, and then sets off again.
Charged overnight, his iPod decides to work. That, combined with the knowledge that he’s already more than halfway there makes the trip pass faster; a blur of blue skies and dry countryside until, finally, fields give way to warehouses and industrial districts and he knows he’s almost there.
He’s never been to Patrick’s house. It’s been years since he was in Chicago. His parents took off to Florida a month after Bob started freshman year of college, and he never had a good reason to come back, despite how much he’s missed it. The GPS guides him accurately for once, and as he pulls into the driveway on the outskirts of the city as directed, he knows he’s at the right place. It’s a little cottage. The pale green paint is peeling in places, and the garden is on the jungle side of overgrown, but it’s cheerful and quaint and absolutely Patrick. The two plastic flamingos they bought at the two-dollar shop halfway through second-year are the real giveaway.
A tide of empty Red Bull cans escape as Bob opens the car door, and as he stands from scooping them up, he sees Patrick emerging from the front of the house.
“Bob Bryar.” Patrick smiles broadly. “You’re blocking my car in.”
“Nice to see you too,” Bob replies, but he hugs back, because Patrick is Patrick, and he hasn’t changed in the seven years Bob’s known him.
“Come on, come in,” Patrick calls, snagging the closest bag and walking back up the path to his house. Bob tugs a cardboard box out of the backseat and follows, trying not to step on the plants that snake out across the path.
“I really did try to clean up, I promise,” Patrick says, reaching back to pull the door closed as Bob comes in. The place is a total mess; clothing and books and papers and plates covering every surface and then some. Bob doesn’t mind. Living with Patrick for three years was plenty of time for him to come to terms with his hopelessly incurable messiness. He can make out the shape of a couch, buried in laundry, beside the piano on the far side of the room. As long as he’s got somewhere to sleep, it’s all fine by him.
“Oh no,” Patrick shakes his head, following Bob’s eyes to the couch-mound. “I meant it when I said you could live here, Bryar. Like I’d make you sleep on the couch, c’mon.”
He leads the way down a hallway, pointing out kitchens and bathrooms and closets, and stops at a bedroom, unfurnished except for a bare mattress on a plain wooden frame.
“Uh…” Patrick frowns, glancing back at Bob. “I’m pretty sure there’s some pillows around here somewhere. And probably sheets too. And we can go to Ikea or someplace and get some drawers this week.”
“Relax, Stump,” Bob says. “It’s fine.” And it is, when Patrick doesn’t even want to charge him rent to live in his house. After the shoebox Bob spent the last three years in New York in, he isn’t going to complain about anything. Especially not a house that has a backyard and a hammock and a bathtub, not just a tiny glass cubicle with shitty water pressure. Not that Bob plans on taking a lot of baths or anything. It’s just the principle of things.
“So I got you put on the same shifts as me this week,” Patrick says later, after he’s finished the tour and they’re eating leftover Chinese food on the back veranda. “Show you the ropes, or whatever. And that way we can take one car, save the planet a little. And save you from getting lost.”
“Pshh,” Bob says.
Patrick grins, chopsticks raised halfway to his mouth. “I’m really glad you came, Bob. This’ll be awesome.”
Bob doesn’t reply, but he’s kind of glad too.
***
“There’re usually four doctors on staff,” Patrick explains the next day as he’s pulling into the parking lot of the clinic. “Me and Andy, obviously - you guys spoke on the phone, I guess? He’s awesome. And Greta - she started with us last year; she’s lovely. The kids don’t even cry when she does vaccinations. And now you. We don’t have the funds to run twenty-four seven, but we open early and close relatively late, and we operate six days a week, which is the best we can do. Pretty decent for a free clinic, I think.”
“I agree,” Bob says, grabbing his bag from between his legs and following Patrick to the back entrance.
“Usually it’ll be all four of us here, but you get one rostered day off a week apart from Sunday. There’s a bit of leeway when it comes to starting times. We just have to make sure there’s someone here at eight to open up. That’s Greta most of the time; she starts at eight and leaves at four or five o’clock. I usually hang around til six or seven, depending on the waiting room. Andy comes in around eleven, and closes up at nine.” Patrick says, fumbling with his keychain until he finds his fob. “We have a few nurses on staff. Gabe’s the only one you really need to watch out for, but don’t underestimate Victoria. Suarez does all the paperwork, and Nate’s our receptionist. He mostly keeps an eye on the front room and answers the phone on the rare occasions when people actually make appointments rather than just walking in. Look out for them, trust me.”
Patrick comes to an abrupt halt in front of a doorway. “The staff room,” he announces with a flourish. “With bonus Alex Suarez.”
The guy, Alex, looks up from his coffee and Bob goes through the motions of introductions and nice-to-meet-you’s that he’s pretty sure he’ll be sick of come the end of the day. Then he lets Patrick lead him away down corridors, pointing out lockers and storerooms, showing him the waiting room and the various consultation rooms, including one that now belongs to him. It’s very plain, lacking the bright colours and the lollipop jar of Greta’s, the CD player and photo frames cluttering Patrick’s desk, and whatever happens to be decorating Andy’s room - he was in with a patient so they couldn’t actually see it, or him.
Still, Bob doesn’t care. He’s spent the last three years since graduation working in emergency in a public New York City hospital. Two of those years were entirely spent on night-shift, constantly on-call, constantly at the hospital and constantly exhausted. Here, he has a desk, and a swivel chair, and a jar of tongue depressors all to himself. Not to mention two days off every week. A five-day fifty hour week, which is the most amazing thing ever.
Bob feels like he can breathe. He’s never complaining about anything ever again.
He spends the morning going through paperwork with Alex, meeting the rest of the staff and figuring out how to work the computer system. It’s after lunch before he sees his first patient. A woman with a stomache-ache, and after Bob examines her and writes a prescription, she says thank-you.
No litigation threats, no spitting or swearing or violence or anything. It’s refreshing to say the least. Bob has no idea why it took him three years to get out of New York and drag his ass home to Chicago.
He hardly notices when the clock flips over to six o’clock. He’s hungry, but barely tired, and he’d willingly keep going if Patrick didn’t poke his head through the door as he’s sending a patient out.
“Wanna get out of here? I know the best place for wings,” he offers, and Bob has to think about that for about two seconds before he’s switching the computer off and stuffing his steth into a drawer.
***
Patrick drives them two blocks to what looks like a bar. Which really isn’t what Bob imagined - Patrick isn’t exactly a bar sort of guy, at least as long as Bob’s known him. But Bob is, and Bob likes wings. Besides, Patrick hasn’t disappointed him yet.
“Welcome to Joe’s,” Patrick says, and lets Bob go in first.
The place is quiet, half a dozen tables filled, pretty typical for seven o’clock on a Monday night.
“Patrick! Hi!” a guy behind the counter calls as they enter. Bob watches, interested, because apparently not only does Patrick visit bars, he’s a regular. Who knew.
“Gerard, hey,” Patrick smiles and slides onto a seat at the bar. “How’s life?”
The barman, Gerard, is sitting on the edge of the counter, but he hops off, tucking black hair behind his ears. “Can’t complain, man. Pete says he expects to see you on Saturday night come rain, hail or snow and he doesn’t care how many excuses you make, he’s gonna get you on the dancefloor and he promises not to hump you too much.”
“Wow, how can I resist that,” Patrick replies once Gerard recites all of that and takes a breath. “Oh, hey, this is Bob, we went to med school together. He just started at the clinic.”
“Hi! That’s awesome.” Gerard smiles at him with tiny teeth. “Patrick’s been talking about you all week. I’m Gerard.” He wipes his hand on a dishtowel before shaking Bob’s hand. “Hey, you gotta meet Joe. Any friend of Patrick is a friend of ours, you know? He’s our secret favourite customer.”
“Dude, it’s not a secret if you tell him,” another man, presumably Joe, says, placing a basket of wings on the counter. They smell amazing. Bob’s mouth waters, but he remembers he has to be polite to Patrick’s friends. “Heard you come in, Trick, here.”
Patrick smiles at Joe for possibly a little longer than necessary. Then again, for the wings, Bob totally understands. Plus, Joe’s wearing a Wrestlemania shirt. The man clearly has taste. “Thanks Joe. Joe, this is my friend Bob, he’s the new doc at the clinic. Bob, Joe.”
“Doctor Bob,” Joe says, and nods. “Sweet.”
Gerard slides a drink in front of Patrick before glancing to Bob. “Bob, you want a drink?”
“Uh. Sure,” Bob answers, “whatever Stump has is fine.”
Gerard grins, picking up a glass from the rack and filling it with ice, then coke, topping it with a straw and placing it in front of Bob.
“Thanks,” he says, and Gerard nods before heading to the other end of the bar to help the people waiting.
***
“So that’s basically everyone,” Patrick says later that night as they’re driving back to his house. Their house, Bob corrects himself. “Well, except for Frank, and Pete and his minions. But Pete’s kind of an entity of his own. He tends to scare the shit out of people the first time he meets them.”
“Sounds like your kind of guy,” Bob replies, and grins when Patrick chokes.
“Pete? Seriously, no. Oh god no.”
His protests get louder and more vehement the longer Bob stays quiet, but he’s mostly doing it to fluster Patrick. He had to sit through an hour and a half of Patrick and Joe talking about guitars. He’s pretty sure this Pete guy is a non-issue.
The week moves quickly, and then it’s Thursday, and since they’re both working on the same roster, Bob and Patrick have the day off together. They spend it at Ikea, finding a dresser and some shelving that won’t look completely out of place in Bob’s new bedroom. Luckily neither of them care too much about what they choose.
“We may be two gay men in a furniture store, but we are two gay men with no sense of style whatsoever,” Patrick declares when they circle the bedroom section for the third time, and Bob totally agrees. In the end, he picks the cheapest dresser that fits his size and price requirements and isn’t bright pink, hauls the flat-pack box onto the trolley and then tails it out of the store. He texts Patrick to meet him at the car, because the guy’s probably still wandering through the kitchen area. Bob is not willing to venture back inside.
Saturday night finds Bob on the couch. He is fully prepared to enjoy the fruits of the grocery shopping adventure he coerced Patrick into after work in the form of a night in front of the television. Patrick has other ideas, judging by his outfit.
“Getting lucky?” Bob enquires with both eyebrows raised.
Patrick rolls his eyes. “No. Get dressed, we’re going to Pete’s tonight.”
Bob really loves how easy it is to make Patrick blush without saying a single word. He’s absolutely convinced that Patrick has zero interest in this Pete person, but that just makes teasing him even more fun.
Patrick is dressed in nice jeans, white hi-tops and a button-down shirt, so Bob takes that as his cue when he steps out of the shower and peers into a cardboard box, figuring out what to wear. Unpacking is too much effort, really, just like assembling his newly-bought furniture, so it takes some rummaging before he finds some suitable clothing. Jeans, a black shirt that’s only slightly crinkled and a quick brush of a comb through hair that really needs a trim. It’s enough to get the nod of approval from Patrick, so he grabs his wallet, phone and keys and walks with Patrick out to his car.
Two days in Chicago was enough to convince him that Patrick was not to be trusted behind the wheel. Bob’d rather stay sober and take his jeep than let Patrick drive him into downtown Chicago.
It turns out that Pete’s is actually a club. ‘Angels and Kings’ - and it’s a popular one at that, judging from the line of people outside. It explains why Patrick dressed up for the occasion. Patrick gets them in immediately, familiar with the bouncer, and walks Bob through the crowded room and towards the set of stairs leading up to the DJ booth.
“I figured we might as well say hi straight away,” Patrick yells through the bass. “It might mean he’ll be less of a maniac when he finds us later.”
By ‘he’, Bob assumes Patrick means Pete, so he nods and they head up to the platform. There are two men up there. One is black, tall and has hair wilder than Joe’s. The other is small, tanned and is wearing bright green jeans. As soon as he sees Patrick, he tosses his headphones down and leaps on him in a full-body hug. Bob guesses that the shorter one is Pete.
“My friend Bob,” Patrick yells, introducing him, and Pete smiles at him broadly through the noise before tugging on Patrick’s arm and dragging him closer to the turntables. Bob watches for a minute as Pete chatters eagerly, despite the fact that it is truly impossible to hear anything, especially not at the rate Pete seems to be talking. Patrick shoots a helpless glance back at Bob, and he shrugs, heading back down the stairs. If he’s going to spend the night sober in a crowded club full of strangers, he’s going to do it with some Red Bull in his system at least.
The bar is long, crowded, and, by the looks of things, understaffed. There are three bartenders spaced along it, but it’s the kind of hipster place where instead of settling for beer or vodka mixers, everybody orders fancy cocktails; the kind that take three glasses, two different types of citrus and a lot of flourishes and bottle-twirling to make. Bob finds an empty inch of space at the very corner of the wooden bar where he can slump for a while, and watches the bartenders show off, resigning himself to a long wait.
It’s almost half an hour before the closest bartender even starts to work his way towards Bob’s end of the bar, and closer to forty-five minutes before Bob actually gets served.
He’s surprised when it does happen - not because the inordinate wait has bored him into a coma (it’s a close thing), but because he recognizes the bartender. It’s Gerard, Patrick’s friend from the bar. Who apparently works at Pete’s club as well.
“Gerard,” he says, and Gerard grins, leaning closer across the bar.
“Hey! Bob, right? Patrick’s friend. What can I get ya?”
“Red Bull,” Bob calls back. Gerard nods, and fixes him up in a flash, but he shakes his head when Bob holds out the money.
“On the house,” Gerard shouts through The Cure, which really shouldn’t work at a club. Somehow it does, but somebody needs to turn the volume down a few notches before the whole club goes collectively deaf. “You’re friends with Patrick. I don’t think Pete’d let me charge you even if I wanted to.”
Bob can’t argue with that, so he takes his drink and says his thanks, stepping back from the growing crowd around the bar to wait out the time until he can leave.
***
Work has a tendency to suck Bob in and consume his thoughts entirely. Which is okay; Bob likes being able to treat his patients without distraction, likes being fully focussed. And the beauty of this new job means he can leave it all behind when he goes home.
He has the ability to have a life outside of the hospital now, which isn’t going to get old any time soon. He misses Ray and Adam and the guys back at Mercy, sure, but there’s no way he’s ever going back to a hospital.
Granted, Bob hasn’t quite figured out what sort of life he would like to have when he’s not busy being a doctor. It’s been his whole existence for so many years; through pre-med, and then med, and then the three-and-a-half years since he graduated. The idea of having hobbies and interests outside of sleeping as long and hard as possible is still kind of novel. He’s mostly happy just to hang off Patrick’s coattails awhile longer.
Which, really, means going to Joe’s after work - because Bob has been living off take-out for so long he’s forgotten any cooking skills he once possessed, and Patrick is a master with a guitar or a tendon hammer, but is best kept away from whisks - and hanging out at home.
Joe is actually a really decent cook, and he charges mates rates - which equals him only charging the bare minimum; not even enough to cover the ingredients, probably, and then slipping the money back to them in the form of free drinks. Joe’s a good guy.
“He has barely any expenses as it is,” Patrick explains the next time they’re sitting at the bar with BLTs as Joe putters around in the kitchen and Gerard wanders, collecting glasses and wiping tables, humming to the AC/DC in the background. “This bar was his grandfather’s; he inherited it, so he and Gerard and Frank - Gerard’s roommate, when he’s around - live upstairs for free. Or close enough to; Joe charges them rent in donuts these days. Plus, this place gets pretty busy at the tail end of the week, and the only employees he has to pay are Gerard, and Jon on Fridays and Saturdays.
“When Gerard works for Pete,” Bob fills in, and Patrick nods.
“Why-” Bob starts to ask, wondering why Gerard has a second job if there is clearly hours available at his first.
“Because Wentz pays me three times as much as Joe does,” Gerard cuts in with a grin, sliding away Patrick’s empty plate from the other side of the bar. “And I get to make fancy drinks, instead of boring old beer.”
“Pshh. How dare you,” Joe says, stealing a fry from Bob’s mostly-empty plate. “Beer is the finest of beverages. You know you can’t resist this place. Who needs extravagant paychecks when you have charm! And atmosphere! And a jukebox!”
“I do like the jukebox,” Gerard agrees. “Your music taste is definitely better than Pete’s, I’ll give you that.”
Joe nods sagely. “You can’t argue with the truth.”
“And people do dress a little more conservatively here.” Gerard nods, glancing around at the crowd gathered, most of them in office attire on their way home from work. “There’re only so many breast-flashes I can take from drunk girls wanting free drinks before I want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Don’t do that.” Joe pats Gerard on the shoulder, then takes Bob’s plate and pushes it onto the ledge between the bar and the kitchen.
“Oh, hey, so, game night,” Gerard says, planting both elbows down on the counter of the bar. “Trick, you in? Bob?”
“Sure,” Bob shrugs, seeing Patrick nod beside him.
“Great!” Gerard smiles widely. “Because we’re doing it at your place this time.”
“What? I thought it was Joe’s turn,” Patrick frowns.
“He has a cat.” Gerard says darkly.
“He’s had him for two years, Gee,” Patrick replies.
“I hate that cat,” Gerard says, and wrinkles his nose.
“You bad-talking Mr Whiskers?” Joe calls from the kitchen, ignoring the glances of everyone in the bar not involved in the conversation. “You don’t be dissin’ Mr Whiskers, Gerard, you know that.”
Gerard sighs heavily and starts drying the glasses on the rack. “Fine. Sorry Joe, sorry Mr Whiskers.”
“That’s better,” Joe says sternly.
“The evil demon broke in and rolled on my bed all day yesterday,” Gerard grumbles, mostly to himself. “I couldn’t sleep, I was sneezing so much.”
“Aww,” Patrick says, sympathetic for a moment before he gets back to business. “Still. Why can’t we do it at your place?”
Gerard looks horrified. “Because, Patrick. My couch still hasn’t recovered from what Gabe did to it last month!”
After two weeks of working with Gabe, Bob decides he doesn’t want to know. Whatever it is, it’s enough to change Patrick’s mind.
“Fine,” Patrick sighs, “but I’m not cleaning up for you guys.”
“Like you ever do,” Gerard says, cheerful again. “And we’re never ever inviting Gabe to anything ever again, okay?”
“Okay,” Patrick acquiesces, glancing down to his watch. “Getting late, you wanna head?”
“Sure,” Bob agrees. “See you tomorrow, Gerard.”
“He’s really allergic to cats,” Patrick says once they’re outside, walking towards the jeep. “Joe found Mr Whiskers in the alley years ago, this tiny, drenched, adorable little kitten, and he kept him. Because it’s Joe, and the cat was too cute to leave there, even if his neighbour was allergic. Joe figured it was probably a runt; how big could it get.”
Bob can guess what’s coming and he grins, appreciative of the way Patrick fills him in on this kind of back story without making a big deal of it.
“Grew into this massive tomcat. Like, biggest, meanest, fluffiest cat you’ll ever meet. Sheds like fuck.” Patrick pauses and smiles. “And it’s weirdly attached to Gerard. The floor above Joe’s is split up into two apartments; Joe in one and Gerard and Frank in the other, but there’s a connecting door between the two living rooms. They’re always playing xbox or stealing orange juice or whatever, and they always forget to shut the door between the apartments. Mr Whiskers always sneaks out and hides in Gerard’s apartment, and Gerard’s too much of a sap to kick the cat out. Poor guy.”
“Hah,” Bob says, flicking the blinker as he turns into their street. “I thought animals could, like, sense when they weren’t liked. Or feared, or whatever.”
“Gerard’s a total marshmallow,” Patrick laughs. “He’s half the reason why Mr Whiskers is as fat as he is. The cat knows there’s always a bowl of Captain Crunch in Gerard’s kitchen for him. He’s smart.”
“The cat eats cereal?”
Patrick shrugs. “It’s Joe’s cat. Are you really surprised?”
Bob has only known the man for two weeks, but the answer to that is a definite no.
***
Winter in Chicago is exactly like Bob remembers. Or maybe colder, what with all the global warming going on. He can’t lie; he’s definitely jealous of Patrick, jetting off to Florida for a week-long conference. Patrick deserves the break, though. He and Andy are the owners of the clinic, and the two of them work harder than anybody Bob knows. And, knowing Patrick, he’ll probably actually go to all the sessions and workshops scheduled at the conference rather than just flaking out to go lie on the beach with a mojito.
It means that Bob gets to choose the music in the car on the way to work, which is a pleasant change. He stays back in the clinic a little longer in the evenings. They move slower through the patient list with only three doctors working, and Bob doesn’t mind staying later than usual to see another half a dozen patients. Afterwards, when his white coat has been exchanged for his jacket and he manages to sneak past Suarez’s office without getting called in to go over paperwork again, he’s faced with a decision.
He can go home, and enjoy the silence for once (for a small guy, Patrick makes a lot of noise). Or he can stick with tradition and head to Joe’s.
Bob chooses the latter.
He knows it’s a quiet night as soon as he steps in, even without counting the number of tables and booths filled, because Gerard is singing along with the jukebox as he sweeps. Loudly. He only does that when there’s not too much of an audience present to laugh at him.
“Doctor Bob!” Joe greets him with an enthusiastic over-the-counter hug. “Flying solo tonight?”
“Stump’s in Florida,” Bob replies, and he’s sure Patrick told Joe several times before he left.
Joe thinks about this for several moments before nodding. “Ahh,” he says finally, sounding disappointed. “Well. You’re here at least, and you shall have ribs!”
Bob does not argue. Rib night at Joe’s is his favourite. He watches Joe walk back into the kitchen, and then turns his attention to Gerard.
Gerard is still sweeping half-heartedly. When he notices Bob watching, he gives up any pretence of actually working and drops down onto a stool next to him.
“Bob! Winter is so boring! And it’s only November.”
“It’s only gonna get worse,” Bob says. “This is nothing.”
Gerard sighs dramatically, scraping hair back from his forehead. “Winter is only good for sleeping. I want to go into hibernation, but I think Joe would probably fire me and Pete’d kick my ass.”
“Drink some Red Bull,” Bob suggests. “That’ll wake you up.”
Gerard laughs, then stops and stares at Bob. It’s a little unnerving.
“Do I have something in my beard?”
Gerard shakes his head. “No, just. Haven’t seen you at Angels and Kings in ages, Bob Bryar. You should come!”
“Not really my scene,” Bob replies. “I’ve never really been into the tight clothes and strobe lights and shit.”
“Aww,” Gerard says. “The tight clothes are half the fun. You’re missing out!”
He whips off the stool and walks around to the other side of the room to grab the glasses from a recently-vacated table, giving Bob a very good view of just how tight he likes his pants. Very. Bob wonders how that can possibly be comfortable. He’s not about to ask, though, because then it would be very clear that he was staring at Gerard’s ass. Bob swallows, and fixes his eyes on the barmat in front of him to wait for his ribs.
He doesn’t have to wait long; Joe presents the plate to him grandly, pouring a beer and placing it in front of him. “Ale,” Joe says, “To warm the soul.”
“Thanks,” Bob grins, and eats.
***
The first time Bob meets Frank is also the first time he goes back to Angels and Kings since the first visit. The same Saturday Patrick returns from Florida - with a tan, which is really truly the funniest thing ever - he announces that they’re going to Pete’s to see Frank and his band.
Bob has heard Patrick mention the band, Leathermouth, before, but he’s never listened to their music. Patrick described it once as hardcore punk doom metal, but Bob doesn’t really know what to draw from that. Leathermouth seems to be pretty popular locally, judging from the line outside Angels and Kings. Bob can’t remember the last time he went to a concert - before intern year, without a doubt - and the press of people and the wave of heat as he enters the club tells him that he’s definitely going to need a drink to get through the night. Bob is not a fan of crowds.
He spots Gerard behind the bar, and pushes his way closer, raising a finger when he catches Gerard’s eye. Gerard beams, and grabs Bob’s brand of beer without him even having to specify.
It’s not long before the band takes to the stage and the crowd migrates from the bar area to watch. They’re all dressed in white, and the front man - Frank - has an unfortunate moustache. He also spits a lot and curses like a sailor, which the crowd seems to enjoy a lot. Bob is happy to watch from the bar.
“They’re good, huh,” a voice says right in his ear, and Bob nearly spills his beer everywhere. Gerard laughs, leaning across the bar directly behind him.
“Here,” Gerard smiles, swapping out Bob’s almost-empty for a fresh beer. The bar is mostly quiet while the band plays, and the other bartenders seem to have it under control, because Gerard stays with Bob for the rest of the set. A few times, when the guitars aren’t quite so loud, Bob catches him singing along.
When Leathermouth play their last song and Frank finally finishes giving high-fives to everyone within reach from the stage, he leaps off and trudges his way quickly through the mosh pit. When he reaches the bar, he ducks under the entrance flap and goes straight to Gerard, jumping on him and wrapping him in the biggest, longest, most enthusiastic bear-hug known to man. Frank is covered in sweat, but Gerard doesn’t seem to care, hugging him back just as tightly.
Something twists in Bob’s stomach, like he’s watching something he shouldn’t, and he slips away from the bar to find Patrick before he can see anything else.
He meets Frank properly the next day. It’s a Sunday, which means a day off, and he and Patrick usually just hang around the house all day. Bob is up early like always, but he doesn’t see Patrick until after midday when he wanders into the kitchen, phone in hand.
“Wanna go to Joe’s?” Patrick asks through a yawn. “Joe says he’s having a get together thing to welcome Frankie back.”
Bob shrugs, and wonders where he put his scarf. “Why not.”
The bar is usually closed on Sundays, but there are plenty of people inside. A few of the tables have been pushed together, and they’re littered with Chinese food cartons. Apparently Joe was planning to have a barbeque, until he realised it was the middle of November and he’d have to stand outside in the cold to cook everything on the grill.
Pete’s there with his girl, as well as most of the crew from the clinic, who were at the club last night as well. They all look impressively hung-over. Frank looks the worst. He has his arm wrapped around Gerard as they talk with Pete. Gerard notices them first, and smiles perkily, tugging on Frank’s arm and moving closer.
“Bob, Patrick, hi!” he says cheerfully.
Frank just nods at them both.
“Wow, you must be super hungover,” Patrick says, sounding awed. “I think this is the first time you haven’t tried to make me give you a piggy-back in all the time I’ve known you.”
Frank groans, slumped against Gerard’s side.
“He’s got post-tour flu,” Gerard explains. “Aaand he’s hungover. Yo, Frank, did you meet Bob? He lives with Trick now, I was telling you before?”
“Hey,” Frank says, delayed, and musters up a smile for Bob.
“Nice to meet you,” Bob says as Patrick slips away to talk to Joe. He watches the two of them out of the corner of his eye as he makes small talk with Frank and Gerard about Frank’s tour and his band.
Patrick and Joe are standing very close together by the jukebox when Bob tunes back into conversation, just as Gerard’s saying something about moving to Chicago.
“Hmmm,” Bob nods, and Gerard carries on, seemingly unaware that Bob has essentially been ignoring him to stare at Joe’s arm around Patrick’s shoulder. It’s better than having to focus on Frank and Gerard, and how close they are, because if he does that, Bob might actually have to consider why the idea of Frank and Gerard, together, is so disturbing to him.
“…and Mikey knew Pete,” Gerard is saying, “which isn’t something I like to think about if I can help it, because it’s Pete, and my baby brother, you know?”
“…oh yeah,” Bob says.
“But Pete was awesome, like, hey, I have this friend Joe who’ll let you stay with him if you share your weed with him. And the weed was pretty much all we had -”
“My weed,” Frank cuts in.
“Frank’s weed was all we had,” Gerard corrects, “Because we just jumped on this bus from Newark with backpacks and Frankie’s guitars, and y’know, no money and no idea where we were gonna stay or what the fuck we were gonna do, except that I wanted to go to bar school and Frank wanted to play guitar. And Joe was like hi, come in, pass the bong, and the rest is mostly history.”
Bob laughs, glancing back at the jukebox. Gabe’s there now, hunched over it, and Joe’s behind the bar pouring beer into a jug.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” Gerard says in his ear, suddenly much closer. When Bob jumps, he chuckles. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re staring, Bob Bryar. Although I never would’ve picked you for the matchmaking type.”
“Uh. I.” Bob says, and tries really hard not to go red. “Not usually. Just. Patrick, you know?”
Gerard grins, and Bob is grateful that he’s not outright laughing at him.
“No, I get it. I live with Joe. Work with him four days a week. I totally get it. Just. It’s been happening for the last two years.” Gerard pauses, pulling Frank up when he starts to droop. “And I am the matchmaking type. I don’t think it can be forced, y’know?”
“…yeah,” Bob says eloquently.
“Hah. Alright. I’m gonna take Frankie home before he passes out. Thanks for coming, Bob. It was good seeing you.”
“You too,” Bob replies, and watches as Gerard leads Frank out through the kitchen and presumably upstairs to their apartment. “Idiot,” he mutters to himself as they disappear, and then turns around to see where Joe went with the beer.
[Part Two]
Author: emcay
Title: The Places You Will Be From
Pairing: Bob/Gerard, Patrick/Joe
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,600
Summary: Bob never thought Chicago could feel like home again, but he’s more than willing to be proven wrong.
There isn't much of a decision to make. Bob barely finishes reading Patrick's email before he's glancing around the living room of his apartment deciding what he can fit in his truck and what'll have to go into storage.
The drive to Chicago is long and dull, and his iPod dies three hours in, which is total shit because Bob made sure it was fully charged before setting off. His car is packed so tightly he doesn’t even have room to rummage for the adaptor. It leaves him twiddling with the radio every few minutes, trying to tune into a station that isn’t country music or just plain static. It’s frustrating, but it’s something to do, and it means that the few seconds of noise he catches every now and then are golden.
He splits the trip over two days, stopping at a roadside inn when it grows too dark to see what’s ahead; his eyes gritty and tired. There’s a diner next to the motel; an old-style truck-stop diner, with three different types of pie sitting on the counter and a silver-haired waitress named Cheryl who pours him coffee and calls him sweetie. He orders macaroni cheese and cherry pie and tries to recall the last time he ate something that didn’t come from the cafeteria or a fast food outlet. A month, at least. There’s no way he can remember the last time he actually cooked.
He eats quickly and leaves a tip, then walks back to his room for the night. The sheets are rough against his bare skin as he slides into bed, and Bob relishes the freeness that comes with the knowledge that he can sleep for as long as he chooses. No alarm set to blare at top volume. No pager on the bedside table to wake him up at 3am. It’s amazing.
Despite the exhaustion of a full day of driving, Bob wakes up at six in the morning, body trained by habit alone. He feels rested and relaxed for once. He visits the diner for breakfast, grabbing coffee and another slice of pie for the road, and then sets off again.
Charged overnight, his iPod decides to work. That, combined with the knowledge that he’s already more than halfway there makes the trip pass faster; a blur of blue skies and dry countryside until, finally, fields give way to warehouses and industrial districts and he knows he’s almost there.
He’s never been to Patrick’s house. It’s been years since he was in Chicago. His parents took off to Florida a month after Bob started freshman year of college, and he never had a good reason to come back, despite how much he’s missed it. The GPS guides him accurately for once, and as he pulls into the driveway on the outskirts of the city as directed, he knows he’s at the right place. It’s a little cottage. The pale green paint is peeling in places, and the garden is on the jungle side of overgrown, but it’s cheerful and quaint and absolutely Patrick. The two plastic flamingos they bought at the two-dollar shop halfway through second-year are the real giveaway.
A tide of empty Red Bull cans escape as Bob opens the car door, and as he stands from scooping them up, he sees Patrick emerging from the front of the house.
“Bob Bryar.” Patrick smiles broadly. “You’re blocking my car in.”
“Nice to see you too,” Bob replies, but he hugs back, because Patrick is Patrick, and he hasn’t changed in the seven years Bob’s known him.
“Come on, come in,” Patrick calls, snagging the closest bag and walking back up the path to his house. Bob tugs a cardboard box out of the backseat and follows, trying not to step on the plants that snake out across the path.
“I really did try to clean up, I promise,” Patrick says, reaching back to pull the door closed as Bob comes in. The place is a total mess; clothing and books and papers and plates covering every surface and then some. Bob doesn’t mind. Living with Patrick for three years was plenty of time for him to come to terms with his hopelessly incurable messiness. He can make out the shape of a couch, buried in laundry, beside the piano on the far side of the room. As long as he’s got somewhere to sleep, it’s all fine by him.
“Oh no,” Patrick shakes his head, following Bob’s eyes to the couch-mound. “I meant it when I said you could live here, Bryar. Like I’d make you sleep on the couch, c’mon.”
He leads the way down a hallway, pointing out kitchens and bathrooms and closets, and stops at a bedroom, unfurnished except for a bare mattress on a plain wooden frame.
“Uh…” Patrick frowns, glancing back at Bob. “I’m pretty sure there’s some pillows around here somewhere. And probably sheets too. And we can go to Ikea or someplace and get some drawers this week.”
“Relax, Stump,” Bob says. “It’s fine.” And it is, when Patrick doesn’t even want to charge him rent to live in his house. After the shoebox Bob spent the last three years in New York in, he isn’t going to complain about anything. Especially not a house that has a backyard and a hammock and a bathtub, not just a tiny glass cubicle with shitty water pressure. Not that Bob plans on taking a lot of baths or anything. It’s just the principle of things.
“So I got you put on the same shifts as me this week,” Patrick says later, after he’s finished the tour and they’re eating leftover Chinese food on the back veranda. “Show you the ropes, or whatever. And that way we can take one car, save the planet a little. And save you from getting lost.”
“Pshh,” Bob says.
Patrick grins, chopsticks raised halfway to his mouth. “I’m really glad you came, Bob. This’ll be awesome.”
Bob doesn’t reply, but he’s kind of glad too.
***
“There’re usually four doctors on staff,” Patrick explains the next day as he’s pulling into the parking lot of the clinic. “Me and Andy, obviously - you guys spoke on the phone, I guess? He’s awesome. And Greta - she started with us last year; she’s lovely. The kids don’t even cry when she does vaccinations. And now you. We don’t have the funds to run twenty-four seven, but we open early and close relatively late, and we operate six days a week, which is the best we can do. Pretty decent for a free clinic, I think.”
“I agree,” Bob says, grabbing his bag from between his legs and following Patrick to the back entrance.
“Usually it’ll be all four of us here, but you get one rostered day off a week apart from Sunday. There’s a bit of leeway when it comes to starting times. We just have to make sure there’s someone here at eight to open up. That’s Greta most of the time; she starts at eight and leaves at four or five o’clock. I usually hang around til six or seven, depending on the waiting room. Andy comes in around eleven, and closes up at nine.” Patrick says, fumbling with his keychain until he finds his fob. “We have a few nurses on staff. Gabe’s the only one you really need to watch out for, but don’t underestimate Victoria. Suarez does all the paperwork, and Nate’s our receptionist. He mostly keeps an eye on the front room and answers the phone on the rare occasions when people actually make appointments rather than just walking in. Look out for them, trust me.”
Patrick comes to an abrupt halt in front of a doorway. “The staff room,” he announces with a flourish. “With bonus Alex Suarez.”
The guy, Alex, looks up from his coffee and Bob goes through the motions of introductions and nice-to-meet-you’s that he’s pretty sure he’ll be sick of come the end of the day. Then he lets Patrick lead him away down corridors, pointing out lockers and storerooms, showing him the waiting room and the various consultation rooms, including one that now belongs to him. It’s very plain, lacking the bright colours and the lollipop jar of Greta’s, the CD player and photo frames cluttering Patrick’s desk, and whatever happens to be decorating Andy’s room - he was in with a patient so they couldn’t actually see it, or him.
Still, Bob doesn’t care. He’s spent the last three years since graduation working in emergency in a public New York City hospital. Two of those years were entirely spent on night-shift, constantly on-call, constantly at the hospital and constantly exhausted. Here, he has a desk, and a swivel chair, and a jar of tongue depressors all to himself. Not to mention two days off every week. A five-day fifty hour week, which is the most amazing thing ever.
Bob feels like he can breathe. He’s never complaining about anything ever again.
He spends the morning going through paperwork with Alex, meeting the rest of the staff and figuring out how to work the computer system. It’s after lunch before he sees his first patient. A woman with a stomache-ache, and after Bob examines her and writes a prescription, she says thank-you.
No litigation threats, no spitting or swearing or violence or anything. It’s refreshing to say the least. Bob has no idea why it took him three years to get out of New York and drag his ass home to Chicago.
He hardly notices when the clock flips over to six o’clock. He’s hungry, but barely tired, and he’d willingly keep going if Patrick didn’t poke his head through the door as he’s sending a patient out.
“Wanna get out of here? I know the best place for wings,” he offers, and Bob has to think about that for about two seconds before he’s switching the computer off and stuffing his steth into a drawer.
***
Patrick drives them two blocks to what looks like a bar. Which really isn’t what Bob imagined - Patrick isn’t exactly a bar sort of guy, at least as long as Bob’s known him. But Bob is, and Bob likes wings. Besides, Patrick hasn’t disappointed him yet.
“Welcome to Joe’s,” Patrick says, and lets Bob go in first.
The place is quiet, half a dozen tables filled, pretty typical for seven o’clock on a Monday night.
“Patrick! Hi!” a guy behind the counter calls as they enter. Bob watches, interested, because apparently not only does Patrick visit bars, he’s a regular. Who knew.
“Gerard, hey,” Patrick smiles and slides onto a seat at the bar. “How’s life?”
The barman, Gerard, is sitting on the edge of the counter, but he hops off, tucking black hair behind his ears. “Can’t complain, man. Pete says he expects to see you on Saturday night come rain, hail or snow and he doesn’t care how many excuses you make, he’s gonna get you on the dancefloor and he promises not to hump you too much.”
“Wow, how can I resist that,” Patrick replies once Gerard recites all of that and takes a breath. “Oh, hey, this is Bob, we went to med school together. He just started at the clinic.”
“Hi! That’s awesome.” Gerard smiles at him with tiny teeth. “Patrick’s been talking about you all week. I’m Gerard.” He wipes his hand on a dishtowel before shaking Bob’s hand. “Hey, you gotta meet Joe. Any friend of Patrick is a friend of ours, you know? He’s our secret favourite customer.”
“Dude, it’s not a secret if you tell him,” another man, presumably Joe, says, placing a basket of wings on the counter. They smell amazing. Bob’s mouth waters, but he remembers he has to be polite to Patrick’s friends. “Heard you come in, Trick, here.”
Patrick smiles at Joe for possibly a little longer than necessary. Then again, for the wings, Bob totally understands. Plus, Joe’s wearing a Wrestlemania shirt. The man clearly has taste. “Thanks Joe. Joe, this is my friend Bob, he’s the new doc at the clinic. Bob, Joe.”
“Doctor Bob,” Joe says, and nods. “Sweet.”
Gerard slides a drink in front of Patrick before glancing to Bob. “Bob, you want a drink?”
“Uh. Sure,” Bob answers, “whatever Stump has is fine.”
Gerard grins, picking up a glass from the rack and filling it with ice, then coke, topping it with a straw and placing it in front of Bob.
“Thanks,” he says, and Gerard nods before heading to the other end of the bar to help the people waiting.
***
“So that’s basically everyone,” Patrick says later that night as they’re driving back to his house. Their house, Bob corrects himself. “Well, except for Frank, and Pete and his minions. But Pete’s kind of an entity of his own. He tends to scare the shit out of people the first time he meets them.”
“Sounds like your kind of guy,” Bob replies, and grins when Patrick chokes.
“Pete? Seriously, no. Oh god no.”
His protests get louder and more vehement the longer Bob stays quiet, but he’s mostly doing it to fluster Patrick. He had to sit through an hour and a half of Patrick and Joe talking about guitars. He’s pretty sure this Pete guy is a non-issue.
The week moves quickly, and then it’s Thursday, and since they’re both working on the same roster, Bob and Patrick have the day off together. They spend it at Ikea, finding a dresser and some shelving that won’t look completely out of place in Bob’s new bedroom. Luckily neither of them care too much about what they choose.
“We may be two gay men in a furniture store, but we are two gay men with no sense of style whatsoever,” Patrick declares when they circle the bedroom section for the third time, and Bob totally agrees. In the end, he picks the cheapest dresser that fits his size and price requirements and isn’t bright pink, hauls the flat-pack box onto the trolley and then tails it out of the store. He texts Patrick to meet him at the car, because the guy’s probably still wandering through the kitchen area. Bob is not willing to venture back inside.
Saturday night finds Bob on the couch. He is fully prepared to enjoy the fruits of the grocery shopping adventure he coerced Patrick into after work in the form of a night in front of the television. Patrick has other ideas, judging by his outfit.
“Getting lucky?” Bob enquires with both eyebrows raised.
Patrick rolls his eyes. “No. Get dressed, we’re going to Pete’s tonight.”
Bob really loves how easy it is to make Patrick blush without saying a single word. He’s absolutely convinced that Patrick has zero interest in this Pete person, but that just makes teasing him even more fun.
Patrick is dressed in nice jeans, white hi-tops and a button-down shirt, so Bob takes that as his cue when he steps out of the shower and peers into a cardboard box, figuring out what to wear. Unpacking is too much effort, really, just like assembling his newly-bought furniture, so it takes some rummaging before he finds some suitable clothing. Jeans, a black shirt that’s only slightly crinkled and a quick brush of a comb through hair that really needs a trim. It’s enough to get the nod of approval from Patrick, so he grabs his wallet, phone and keys and walks with Patrick out to his car.
Two days in Chicago was enough to convince him that Patrick was not to be trusted behind the wheel. Bob’d rather stay sober and take his jeep than let Patrick drive him into downtown Chicago.
It turns out that Pete’s is actually a club. ‘Angels and Kings’ - and it’s a popular one at that, judging from the line of people outside. It explains why Patrick dressed up for the occasion. Patrick gets them in immediately, familiar with the bouncer, and walks Bob through the crowded room and towards the set of stairs leading up to the DJ booth.
“I figured we might as well say hi straight away,” Patrick yells through the bass. “It might mean he’ll be less of a maniac when he finds us later.”
By ‘he’, Bob assumes Patrick means Pete, so he nods and they head up to the platform. There are two men up there. One is black, tall and has hair wilder than Joe’s. The other is small, tanned and is wearing bright green jeans. As soon as he sees Patrick, he tosses his headphones down and leaps on him in a full-body hug. Bob guesses that the shorter one is Pete.
“My friend Bob,” Patrick yells, introducing him, and Pete smiles at him broadly through the noise before tugging on Patrick’s arm and dragging him closer to the turntables. Bob watches for a minute as Pete chatters eagerly, despite the fact that it is truly impossible to hear anything, especially not at the rate Pete seems to be talking. Patrick shoots a helpless glance back at Bob, and he shrugs, heading back down the stairs. If he’s going to spend the night sober in a crowded club full of strangers, he’s going to do it with some Red Bull in his system at least.
The bar is long, crowded, and, by the looks of things, understaffed. There are three bartenders spaced along it, but it’s the kind of hipster place where instead of settling for beer or vodka mixers, everybody orders fancy cocktails; the kind that take three glasses, two different types of citrus and a lot of flourishes and bottle-twirling to make. Bob finds an empty inch of space at the very corner of the wooden bar where he can slump for a while, and watches the bartenders show off, resigning himself to a long wait.
It’s almost half an hour before the closest bartender even starts to work his way towards Bob’s end of the bar, and closer to forty-five minutes before Bob actually gets served.
He’s surprised when it does happen - not because the inordinate wait has bored him into a coma (it’s a close thing), but because he recognizes the bartender. It’s Gerard, Patrick’s friend from the bar. Who apparently works at Pete’s club as well.
“Gerard,” he says, and Gerard grins, leaning closer across the bar.
“Hey! Bob, right? Patrick’s friend. What can I get ya?”
“Red Bull,” Bob calls back. Gerard nods, and fixes him up in a flash, but he shakes his head when Bob holds out the money.
“On the house,” Gerard shouts through The Cure, which really shouldn’t work at a club. Somehow it does, but somebody needs to turn the volume down a few notches before the whole club goes collectively deaf. “You’re friends with Patrick. I don’t think Pete’d let me charge you even if I wanted to.”
Bob can’t argue with that, so he takes his drink and says his thanks, stepping back from the growing crowd around the bar to wait out the time until he can leave.
***
Work has a tendency to suck Bob in and consume his thoughts entirely. Which is okay; Bob likes being able to treat his patients without distraction, likes being fully focussed. And the beauty of this new job means he can leave it all behind when he goes home.
He has the ability to have a life outside of the hospital now, which isn’t going to get old any time soon. He misses Ray and Adam and the guys back at Mercy, sure, but there’s no way he’s ever going back to a hospital.
Granted, Bob hasn’t quite figured out what sort of life he would like to have when he’s not busy being a doctor. It’s been his whole existence for so many years; through pre-med, and then med, and then the three-and-a-half years since he graduated. The idea of having hobbies and interests outside of sleeping as long and hard as possible is still kind of novel. He’s mostly happy just to hang off Patrick’s coattails awhile longer.
Which, really, means going to Joe’s after work - because Bob has been living off take-out for so long he’s forgotten any cooking skills he once possessed, and Patrick is a master with a guitar or a tendon hammer, but is best kept away from whisks - and hanging out at home.
Joe is actually a really decent cook, and he charges mates rates - which equals him only charging the bare minimum; not even enough to cover the ingredients, probably, and then slipping the money back to them in the form of free drinks. Joe’s a good guy.
“He has barely any expenses as it is,” Patrick explains the next time they’re sitting at the bar with BLTs as Joe putters around in the kitchen and Gerard wanders, collecting glasses and wiping tables, humming to the AC/DC in the background. “This bar was his grandfather’s; he inherited it, so he and Gerard and Frank - Gerard’s roommate, when he’s around - live upstairs for free. Or close enough to; Joe charges them rent in donuts these days. Plus, this place gets pretty busy at the tail end of the week, and the only employees he has to pay are Gerard, and Jon on Fridays and Saturdays.
“When Gerard works for Pete,” Bob fills in, and Patrick nods.
“Why-” Bob starts to ask, wondering why Gerard has a second job if there is clearly hours available at his first.
“Because Wentz pays me three times as much as Joe does,” Gerard cuts in with a grin, sliding away Patrick’s empty plate from the other side of the bar. “And I get to make fancy drinks, instead of boring old beer.”
“Pshh. How dare you,” Joe says, stealing a fry from Bob’s mostly-empty plate. “Beer is the finest of beverages. You know you can’t resist this place. Who needs extravagant paychecks when you have charm! And atmosphere! And a jukebox!”
“I do like the jukebox,” Gerard agrees. “Your music taste is definitely better than Pete’s, I’ll give you that.”
Joe nods sagely. “You can’t argue with the truth.”
“And people do dress a little more conservatively here.” Gerard nods, glancing around at the crowd gathered, most of them in office attire on their way home from work. “There’re only so many breast-flashes I can take from drunk girls wanting free drinks before I want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Don’t do that.” Joe pats Gerard on the shoulder, then takes Bob’s plate and pushes it onto the ledge between the bar and the kitchen.
“Oh, hey, so, game night,” Gerard says, planting both elbows down on the counter of the bar. “Trick, you in? Bob?”
“Sure,” Bob shrugs, seeing Patrick nod beside him.
“Great!” Gerard smiles widely. “Because we’re doing it at your place this time.”
“What? I thought it was Joe’s turn,” Patrick frowns.
“He has a cat.” Gerard says darkly.
“He’s had him for two years, Gee,” Patrick replies.
“I hate that cat,” Gerard says, and wrinkles his nose.
“You bad-talking Mr Whiskers?” Joe calls from the kitchen, ignoring the glances of everyone in the bar not involved in the conversation. “You don’t be dissin’ Mr Whiskers, Gerard, you know that.”
Gerard sighs heavily and starts drying the glasses on the rack. “Fine. Sorry Joe, sorry Mr Whiskers.”
“That’s better,” Joe says sternly.
“The evil demon broke in and rolled on my bed all day yesterday,” Gerard grumbles, mostly to himself. “I couldn’t sleep, I was sneezing so much.”
“Aww,” Patrick says, sympathetic for a moment before he gets back to business. “Still. Why can’t we do it at your place?”
Gerard looks horrified. “Because, Patrick. My couch still hasn’t recovered from what Gabe did to it last month!”
After two weeks of working with Gabe, Bob decides he doesn’t want to know. Whatever it is, it’s enough to change Patrick’s mind.
“Fine,” Patrick sighs, “but I’m not cleaning up for you guys.”
“Like you ever do,” Gerard says, cheerful again. “And we’re never ever inviting Gabe to anything ever again, okay?”
“Okay,” Patrick acquiesces, glancing down to his watch. “Getting late, you wanna head?”
“Sure,” Bob agrees. “See you tomorrow, Gerard.”
“He’s really allergic to cats,” Patrick says once they’re outside, walking towards the jeep. “Joe found Mr Whiskers in the alley years ago, this tiny, drenched, adorable little kitten, and he kept him. Because it’s Joe, and the cat was too cute to leave there, even if his neighbour was allergic. Joe figured it was probably a runt; how big could it get.”
Bob can guess what’s coming and he grins, appreciative of the way Patrick fills him in on this kind of back story without making a big deal of it.
“Grew into this massive tomcat. Like, biggest, meanest, fluffiest cat you’ll ever meet. Sheds like fuck.” Patrick pauses and smiles. “And it’s weirdly attached to Gerard. The floor above Joe’s is split up into two apartments; Joe in one and Gerard and Frank in the other, but there’s a connecting door between the two living rooms. They’re always playing xbox or stealing orange juice or whatever, and they always forget to shut the door between the apartments. Mr Whiskers always sneaks out and hides in Gerard’s apartment, and Gerard’s too much of a sap to kick the cat out. Poor guy.”
“Hah,” Bob says, flicking the blinker as he turns into their street. “I thought animals could, like, sense when they weren’t liked. Or feared, or whatever.”
“Gerard’s a total marshmallow,” Patrick laughs. “He’s half the reason why Mr Whiskers is as fat as he is. The cat knows there’s always a bowl of Captain Crunch in Gerard’s kitchen for him. He’s smart.”
“The cat eats cereal?”
Patrick shrugs. “It’s Joe’s cat. Are you really surprised?”
Bob has only known the man for two weeks, but the answer to that is a definite no.
***
Winter in Chicago is exactly like Bob remembers. Or maybe colder, what with all the global warming going on. He can’t lie; he’s definitely jealous of Patrick, jetting off to Florida for a week-long conference. Patrick deserves the break, though. He and Andy are the owners of the clinic, and the two of them work harder than anybody Bob knows. And, knowing Patrick, he’ll probably actually go to all the sessions and workshops scheduled at the conference rather than just flaking out to go lie on the beach with a mojito.
It means that Bob gets to choose the music in the car on the way to work, which is a pleasant change. He stays back in the clinic a little longer in the evenings. They move slower through the patient list with only three doctors working, and Bob doesn’t mind staying later than usual to see another half a dozen patients. Afterwards, when his white coat has been exchanged for his jacket and he manages to sneak past Suarez’s office without getting called in to go over paperwork again, he’s faced with a decision.
He can go home, and enjoy the silence for once (for a small guy, Patrick makes a lot of noise). Or he can stick with tradition and head to Joe’s.
Bob chooses the latter.
He knows it’s a quiet night as soon as he steps in, even without counting the number of tables and booths filled, because Gerard is singing along with the jukebox as he sweeps. Loudly. He only does that when there’s not too much of an audience present to laugh at him.
“Doctor Bob!” Joe greets him with an enthusiastic over-the-counter hug. “Flying solo tonight?”
“Stump’s in Florida,” Bob replies, and he’s sure Patrick told Joe several times before he left.
Joe thinks about this for several moments before nodding. “Ahh,” he says finally, sounding disappointed. “Well. You’re here at least, and you shall have ribs!”
Bob does not argue. Rib night at Joe’s is his favourite. He watches Joe walk back into the kitchen, and then turns his attention to Gerard.
Gerard is still sweeping half-heartedly. When he notices Bob watching, he gives up any pretence of actually working and drops down onto a stool next to him.
“Bob! Winter is so boring! And it’s only November.”
“It’s only gonna get worse,” Bob says. “This is nothing.”
Gerard sighs dramatically, scraping hair back from his forehead. “Winter is only good for sleeping. I want to go into hibernation, but I think Joe would probably fire me and Pete’d kick my ass.”
“Drink some Red Bull,” Bob suggests. “That’ll wake you up.”
Gerard laughs, then stops and stares at Bob. It’s a little unnerving.
“Do I have something in my beard?”
Gerard shakes his head. “No, just. Haven’t seen you at Angels and Kings in ages, Bob Bryar. You should come!”
“Not really my scene,” Bob replies. “I’ve never really been into the tight clothes and strobe lights and shit.”
“Aww,” Gerard says. “The tight clothes are half the fun. You’re missing out!”
He whips off the stool and walks around to the other side of the room to grab the glasses from a recently-vacated table, giving Bob a very good view of just how tight he likes his pants. Very. Bob wonders how that can possibly be comfortable. He’s not about to ask, though, because then it would be very clear that he was staring at Gerard’s ass. Bob swallows, and fixes his eyes on the barmat in front of him to wait for his ribs.
He doesn’t have to wait long; Joe presents the plate to him grandly, pouring a beer and placing it in front of him. “Ale,” Joe says, “To warm the soul.”
“Thanks,” Bob grins, and eats.
***
The first time Bob meets Frank is also the first time he goes back to Angels and Kings since the first visit. The same Saturday Patrick returns from Florida - with a tan, which is really truly the funniest thing ever - he announces that they’re going to Pete’s to see Frank and his band.
Bob has heard Patrick mention the band, Leathermouth, before, but he’s never listened to their music. Patrick described it once as hardcore punk doom metal, but Bob doesn’t really know what to draw from that. Leathermouth seems to be pretty popular locally, judging from the line outside Angels and Kings. Bob can’t remember the last time he went to a concert - before intern year, without a doubt - and the press of people and the wave of heat as he enters the club tells him that he’s definitely going to need a drink to get through the night. Bob is not a fan of crowds.
He spots Gerard behind the bar, and pushes his way closer, raising a finger when he catches Gerard’s eye. Gerard beams, and grabs Bob’s brand of beer without him even having to specify.
It’s not long before the band takes to the stage and the crowd migrates from the bar area to watch. They’re all dressed in white, and the front man - Frank - has an unfortunate moustache. He also spits a lot and curses like a sailor, which the crowd seems to enjoy a lot. Bob is happy to watch from the bar.
“They’re good, huh,” a voice says right in his ear, and Bob nearly spills his beer everywhere. Gerard laughs, leaning across the bar directly behind him.
“Here,” Gerard smiles, swapping out Bob’s almost-empty for a fresh beer. The bar is mostly quiet while the band plays, and the other bartenders seem to have it under control, because Gerard stays with Bob for the rest of the set. A few times, when the guitars aren’t quite so loud, Bob catches him singing along.
When Leathermouth play their last song and Frank finally finishes giving high-fives to everyone within reach from the stage, he leaps off and trudges his way quickly through the mosh pit. When he reaches the bar, he ducks under the entrance flap and goes straight to Gerard, jumping on him and wrapping him in the biggest, longest, most enthusiastic bear-hug known to man. Frank is covered in sweat, but Gerard doesn’t seem to care, hugging him back just as tightly.
Something twists in Bob’s stomach, like he’s watching something he shouldn’t, and he slips away from the bar to find Patrick before he can see anything else.
He meets Frank properly the next day. It’s a Sunday, which means a day off, and he and Patrick usually just hang around the house all day. Bob is up early like always, but he doesn’t see Patrick until after midday when he wanders into the kitchen, phone in hand.
“Wanna go to Joe’s?” Patrick asks through a yawn. “Joe says he’s having a get together thing to welcome Frankie back.”
Bob shrugs, and wonders where he put his scarf. “Why not.”
The bar is usually closed on Sundays, but there are plenty of people inside. A few of the tables have been pushed together, and they’re littered with Chinese food cartons. Apparently Joe was planning to have a barbeque, until he realised it was the middle of November and he’d have to stand outside in the cold to cook everything on the grill.
Pete’s there with his girl, as well as most of the crew from the clinic, who were at the club last night as well. They all look impressively hung-over. Frank looks the worst. He has his arm wrapped around Gerard as they talk with Pete. Gerard notices them first, and smiles perkily, tugging on Frank’s arm and moving closer.
“Bob, Patrick, hi!” he says cheerfully.
Frank just nods at them both.
“Wow, you must be super hungover,” Patrick says, sounding awed. “I think this is the first time you haven’t tried to make me give you a piggy-back in all the time I’ve known you.”
Frank groans, slumped against Gerard’s side.
“He’s got post-tour flu,” Gerard explains. “Aaand he’s hungover. Yo, Frank, did you meet Bob? He lives with Trick now, I was telling you before?”
“Hey,” Frank says, delayed, and musters up a smile for Bob.
“Nice to meet you,” Bob says as Patrick slips away to talk to Joe. He watches the two of them out of the corner of his eye as he makes small talk with Frank and Gerard about Frank’s tour and his band.
Patrick and Joe are standing very close together by the jukebox when Bob tunes back into conversation, just as Gerard’s saying something about moving to Chicago.
“Hmmm,” Bob nods, and Gerard carries on, seemingly unaware that Bob has essentially been ignoring him to stare at Joe’s arm around Patrick’s shoulder. It’s better than having to focus on Frank and Gerard, and how close they are, because if he does that, Bob might actually have to consider why the idea of Frank and Gerard, together, is so disturbing to him.
“…and Mikey knew Pete,” Gerard is saying, “which isn’t something I like to think about if I can help it, because it’s Pete, and my baby brother, you know?”
“…oh yeah,” Bob says.
“But Pete was awesome, like, hey, I have this friend Joe who’ll let you stay with him if you share your weed with him. And the weed was pretty much all we had -”
“My weed,” Frank cuts in.
“Frank’s weed was all we had,” Gerard corrects, “Because we just jumped on this bus from Newark with backpacks and Frankie’s guitars, and y’know, no money and no idea where we were gonna stay or what the fuck we were gonna do, except that I wanted to go to bar school and Frank wanted to play guitar. And Joe was like hi, come in, pass the bong, and the rest is mostly history.”
Bob laughs, glancing back at the jukebox. Gabe’s there now, hunched over it, and Joe’s behind the bar pouring beer into a jug.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” Gerard says in his ear, suddenly much closer. When Bob jumps, he chuckles. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re staring, Bob Bryar. Although I never would’ve picked you for the matchmaking type.”
“Uh. I.” Bob says, and tries really hard not to go red. “Not usually. Just. Patrick, you know?”
Gerard grins, and Bob is grateful that he’s not outright laughing at him.
“No, I get it. I live with Joe. Work with him four days a week. I totally get it. Just. It’s been happening for the last two years.” Gerard pauses, pulling Frank up when he starts to droop. “And I am the matchmaking type. I don’t think it can be forced, y’know?”
“…yeah,” Bob says eloquently.
“Hah. Alright. I’m gonna take Frankie home before he passes out. Thanks for coming, Bob. It was good seeing you.”
“You too,” Bob replies, and watches as Gerard leads Frank out through the kitchen and presumably upstairs to their apartment. “Idiot,” he mutters to himself as they disappear, and then turns around to see where Joe went with the beer.
[Part Two]