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Screw Angels, This Bell's Ringing in Wings for Me (Mikey/Pete, Gerard/Frank, Patrick/Rihanna)
Recipient: onneonlights
Author: dancinbutterfly
Title: Screw Angels, This Bell's Ringing in Wings for Me
Band: Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Mikey/Pete, Gerard/Frank, Patrick/Rihanna
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A higher power thinks Pete Wentz needs to learn a few lessons and trades Pete's celebrity existence for the domestic life he passed by.The Family Man AU
Warnings: magic, kidfic, alternate universes
Notes: I'm not an expert on the terrain of New Jersey, California, or the workings of foster care/adoption system and did the best I could with all of them for the story. Thanks to people who helped me research all of those things and who held my hand. I'll thank you by name after the reveal.
Pete’s been watching the homeless guy in the Santa suit sitting outside the Coffee Bean for almost an hour now. Two and a half espresso frappuccinos’ worth of staring at this poor guy, but to be fair, he’s been trying to figure out what to do. It’s not like that requires any master planning or anything, but he’s been interrupted like a hundred times by everything from soccer dads to WeHo queens to twelve year olds in the latest Disney Christmas sweaters, to this latest young woman in Hot Topic gear.
“Can you sign something for me?” she asks, holding a notebook that she’s pulled out of purse roughly the size of Pete’s dog to her chest. She’s about twenty and looks nervous as hell. He can’t help but say yes, even though the guy outside is niggling at his conscience and patience.
“I made this,” she says holding out the book. Then adds under her breath, “Because I’m a total loser.”
“No, it’s cool.”
“I just needed a place for my lyrics. I want to be a songwriter,” she says more to the floor of the shop than to him. “Which is why I’m in LA, but you don’t need to know that so why am I still talking? I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I can’t seem to stop talking. Ignore me.”
Pete just nods, because this is old hat. This is better and easier than crazy fans who want him to sign their skin so they can run down to the local tattoo shop and make it permanent, or the ones who send him used underwear. “It’s good that you’re chasing your dream,” Pete says with a smile, fishing in his pocket for a pen. “Just keep writing.”
She beams at him and stops him before he can sign the notebook. “Could you sign the front? I just, I never thought I’d get to complete it.”
Pete opens his mouth to ask her what she means by that, but it’s obvious what she means when he turns it over. The front is a picture of himself with Mikey Way, Mikey’s arm draped around his shoulder. For a split second, Pete is back there, at that show. For an instant, he’s twenty-six and crazy in love again. Still.
Then Pete blinks back to himself and it’s heading rapidly towards ten years later. The picture in his hands is just a picture and not a wormhole. It’s nothing.
The lines of Mikey’s autograph cover Mikey’s chest and the girl taps her finger on the shirt he’s wearing in the picture. “Could you sign there please? To Noelle.”
Pete signs with numb hands, a little transfixed by the picture. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Mikey, even in a photo, and for some reason it makes him flip open the back of her book. He scribbles a ten digit number on the last page and hands it back.
“Call that number after the holidays, tell my secretary you want extension sixty-three,“ Pete hears himself saying, even though he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he hasn’t met a thousand wannabe lyricists in this town, or knows if she’s even any good. He usually leaves that to the Decaydance A&R guys nowadays, but he hears himself saying it anyway.
Noelle stares at him with huge eyes. “Seriously? Oh, God, thank you so much.” She moves like she’s going to hug him, then stops and wraps her arms around herself, pressing her notebook to her chest instead. “Best Christmas of my life, Mr. Wentz, you don’t even know.”
It’s technically Christmas Eve, but Pete’s not really in the mood to correct her. He’s not really in the mood for anything anymore. But Noelle stumbles away and he finds himself walking up to the counter anyway, because it is still Christmas fucking Eve and Hobo Santa is still out there.
Just because it’s southern California doesn’t mean it’s not going to turn cold tonight. People don’t freeze to death when the temperature dips down into the mid-forties, but they shouldn’t be sleeping out in it sans camping equipment, either. And Hobo Santa doesn’t look like he’s got anything but his Santa suit and his elf delusions.
Pete buys another coffee - regular this time, with a few packets of sugar to go with it, because who fucking knows whether Hobo Santa’s going to like his coffee sweet or not - and heads outside. He stands in front of the man and holds out the coffee. Hobo Santa finishes his conversation with someone who isn’t actually there before he acknowledges Pete’s presence.
And then he cocks his head to the side and looks at him from his seat on the concrete. He stares at Pete for an uncomfortably long time, and Pete is used to being stared at. But this is different somehow, so he gestures slightly with the coffee in his hand. “You look like you could use it.”
“Oh, I do, do I?” Santa asks, looking at Pete skeptically. He’s a lot younger than he looked from inside the coffee shop. Maybe five years older than Pete is, maybe less. It’s kind of unsettling.
“Yeah. So just, you know, take the fucking coffee and let me help you okay? It’s Christmas Eve, guy, you’re killing the spirit.”
Hobo Santa laughs and pushes to his feet, but takes the coffee anyway. He looks rough as fuck, unshaven, with dirt far under his fingernails and in the creases of his hands. “I’m killing the spirit, huh?” He takes a sip then frowns. “What, no eggnog?”
“Look, I’m just trying to help, okay? It’s the holidays and I thought-“
“What? You’d buy fucking nutso Santa a drink and fix everything?”
“I was going to see if you wanted me to put you up in a hotel for a few nights and give you the number of my shrink, but yeah.” He buries his hands in his pocket and shrugs. Fuck it, some people don’t want to be helped. He knows how that goes but still. There’s something just fucking sad about the man’s dirty costume that makes him unable to just walk the fuck away like a sane person should. “You looked like you were in need.”
Hobo Santa looks at him like Pete’s the crazy who was talking to himself. “You want to save my life, Pete? I didn’t think that was your MO.”
“If you don’t want the help, just say so. I’m not looking down on you or anything, but everybody needs something. I thought I could help you get it. Like I said, it’s fucking Christmas. ”
“Yes, it is,” Hobo Santa agrees.
He smiles with teeth that are whiter and straighter than Pete’s, and it makes him do a double take. Most homeless people he’s seen don’t have smiles like that. “How’d you know my name?”
“You don’t need to have a TV to know what’s on it,” the homeless guy says, sipping on the coffee he hadn’t seemed to want moments again. “So, since you seem to know everything I fucking need, what do you need?”
“I’ve got everything I need. I’m just trying to give back.” Karma’s been a bitch for Pete, and Andy’s got this theory about keeping shit in balance. Nothing else has really worked, so he’s been giving that karmic equilibrium thing a try. That’s all he’s trying to do here.
“Fuck, superstar,” Santa chuckles, shaking his head. He drops the now empty coffee cup on the ground and fixes Pete with another too-straight, too-clean smile. “It must be awesome being you.”
“Seriously, I don’t know what your damage is, but I know that if you try you can probably make it a little less-” He tries to find the word Patrick always uses for his crazy when Pete calls in the dead of night when he can’t sleep, yet a-fucking-gain. Like last night or the one before. He wants the one that makes him feel less out of his goddamn mind and more like it’s all just little problems, ones he can deal with if he just tries hard enough. “Disruptive.”
“Disruptive? You’re gonna talk to me about disruptive? You? That’s fucking fantastic, man. I’m going to have fun with this.” He laughs, and Pete is so fucking lost. “I want you to remember you did this, okay, Pete?” He clicks his tongue and gives Pete a weird little salute with two fingers. “You brought this down on yourself.”
Pete steps back, stunned and a little worried. “Brought what down?”
“Merry Christmas, Pete.”
Pete stands, a little frozen, as he watches the Hobo Santa walk away down Sunset. The guy’s pretty much out of sight before Pete snaps out of it enough to call after him again, “Brought what down?”
There’s no answer. He’s already gone.
Pete doesn’t feel very celebratory after that. Hobo Santa kind of crushed his Christmas cheer, and he ends up alone on his couch, Hemmy in his lap, with a carton of eggnog - half of which is less egg and more nog in the form of Bacardi.
Patrick bitches at him for twenty minutes over the sound of Scrooged on his TV for that. But he stays on the line while Pete watches.
“You think you’re going to sleep?” Patrick asks in that tone. It’s the one that implies that he will get up and leave Christmas with his girlfriend’s parents at her place and come over if Pete asks him seriously.
He fucking can’t. Of course he can’t. He sighs into his eggnog and grabs an Ambien out of his medicine cabinet. He’s already taken a Xanax and his Lexapro, but it has been days since he slept more than an hour at a stretch, and he’s tired.
“I’m good,” he promises, settling down on the couch.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Go fuck your beautiful popstar girlfriend for me. You proposed yet?”
“Fuck you,” Patrick laughs. “Merry Christmas, Pete.”
“Merry Christmas,” Pete parrots, the eggnog easing down the rough feeling of the pills. He clicks off his iPhone, and Hemmy huffs in his face as he drifts off on the couch.
~*~*~
Pete wakes up to someone kissing the back of his neck that way he fucking loves, mostly soft lips with just a little bit of teeth. Thing is, he can’t remember who he went to bed with. He’s pretty sure he was alone with the eggnog and his meds, but it’s kind of blurred. Whoever it was, he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be anyone who would know about this. He can count the number of people who know this about him on one hand and have fingers left over, and none of them were there when he went to sleep last night.
He shifts, leaning back into the feeling, and a hand slips around his chest, there and pale and solid. The kissing stops for a second and the mouth presses to his ear to whisper, “Merry Christmas,” in a definitely male voice.
Pete has about five seconds where he melts into that. It’s warm and sexy and comfortable and familiar and it’s easy. And then the voice registers in his brain and he’s sitting up, so fast that he almost hurts himself pulling free of the embrace around his chest.
Mikey fucking Way blinks at him from the other side of the bed, hair sleep-rumpled and eyes drowsy. He smiles at Pete and says, “Pete, hey, lay back down okay?”
He’s dreaming. This is all a very real dream. Only he bites the inside of his lip and it fucking hurts so … “What? What the fuck?”
“We’ve got like a little bit before Bronx wakes up and we have to do presents, so just,” Mikey - fucking Mikey fucking Way who he hasn’t seen or really spoken to since that last heartbreaking day on Warped - says before his hand wraps around Pete’s shoulder and pulls him back down. He presses his mouth to the skin beneath Pete’s ear and whispers, “Enjoy it.”
Pete squeezes his eyes shut. “This isn’t happening.”
“Calm down. You’ll be fine. You always are fine and he always loves everything, so calm down. You and your weird performance anxiety, I fucking swear,” Mikey chuckles low and throaty and still a little sleepy. His fingers are carding through Pete’s hair, and Pete is torn. It feels soothing and good but also what the motherfucking fuck, okay? What the fucking hell?
“No, really, this isn’t happening. I’m hallucinating. This is a hallucination and you are not real.”
Mikey stops mouthing the skin and pushes up on his elbow. He frowns at him from above, and for a second, Pete can’t look at anything but the line of his collarbone outlined beneath the threadbare Thursday t-shirt he’s wearing. “You didn’t take a double dose by accident again did you? You promised me you’d be more careful.”
Pete opens his mouth, then snaps it shut because he has no fucking idea what the answer is. He was on the couch with Hemmy and the Bacardi-nog. He was alone on the couch. He knows this for a fact, damnit, he is not this crazy. Really he’s not.
“I, uh- I’m not-” really here. You’re not really here. None of this is happening. Nope, nope, nope.
He doesn’t have time to finish the thought before the door explodes open, and a little boy with black hair bolts in followed by Hemmy and another dog he doesn’t recognize, that’s uglier than an old man’s foreskin. He barely has time to register their presence before they all pounce onto the bed.
The kid flings himself on them, grinning and bouncing, and Mikey laughs even though the impact forces the air out of his lungs. Pete’s too stunned to breathe, so it doesn’t affect him as much as the way the little boy looks at them both with a big happy smile and cries, “Papa, Daddy, it’s Christmas! Santa brought all the presents and you have to come see!”
No. Just no. No no no, really, fucking fuck no. Pete’s rolling out of bed and digging in a room that (oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck) is really not his. He trips over a coloring book, a stuffed brontosaurus, and a squeaky chew toy before he makes it to the chest of drawers. He finds a pair of sweatpants, a long sleeve t-shirt, and is dressed and falling out the door before Mikey can call his name.
There’s a fucking stairwell at the end of the hallway outside the bedroom and he almost tumbles face first down it. But he gets to the bottom and shoves open the front door for all of three seconds before slamming it shut.
He casts a look around desperately, because it’s, like, minus twenty on the other side of that door and there is fucking snow on the ground, goddamnit. There should not be snow on the ground in LA. That porch out there should not be there because this is not his house. This isn’t his fucking life.
He spots a pair of galoshes and shoves his feet into them. It takes a few precious seconds longer to grab a coat off a coat rack in the corner behind the door and find a pair of keys. Then, finally, he’s out of there and stumbling into a freaking minivan, complete with booster seat in the back and goddamn cup holders.
Pete pulls out of the driveway a little too fast and drives until he’s about six blocks away, then throws the minivan into park almost violently. He’d go somewhere, if he had any idea where he was. Somewhere cold, he thinks, hating the shitty heater in this shitty minivan.
The coat is a little big on him, though, and it’s helping, so he pulls it closer against the chill. A deep breath makes him panic again because fucking Jesus, the coat smells like Mikey. He hadn’t known that he remembered exactly what Mikey Way smelled like, but wrapped up in it now, it’s like he never forgot and that’s half the problem.
He doesn’t have a phone on him, so he can’t try and call Patrick. Though who fucking knows if Patrick would even pick up in this Lewis Carroll crazyland he woke up in. But he’s not sure what else to do or where to go.
Pete drives again and feels a flash of panic when he sees an exit for the Garden State Parkway. He takes it because he’s still in flight mode, but he tries to remember how the fuck he got here.
The sound of a horn blaring as he drifts into another lane makes Pete start. He jerks the car onto the shoulder, panting. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and tries not to freak out even more. It doesn’t work, but he gets his breathing under control and manages to get off at the next exit.
There’s a Dunkin Donuts a quarter mile off the exit that is miraculously open, and he pulls in. He needs sugar and coffee and possibly a handful of Prozac, but two out of three isn’t bad. He gets two powdered sugars and an extra large coffee with the change in the pockets of Mikey’s coat. He doesn’t have a wallet either, apparently. When he turns to sit and figure this out, he finds Hobo fucking Santa standing in front of him, grinning.
Only he looks less like a hobo now and more like a businessman, in a clean suit with what turns out to be blond hair combed back slick. He’s standing up straighter, and dressed like this, he’s taller, broader and better looking than Pete.
“Hey, superstar. Had a good morning?”
Pete stares at him for a second, sets his coffee and donut down with shaking hands, then grabs Hobo Santa by the lapels and drags him forward. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Good to see you too. Have a seat,” Hobo Santa says, gesturing to the back booth in the farthest corner. It’s not near where Pete put his stuff down, but his donuts and coffee are over there somehow. And Pete blinks, and so is he, sitting in the booth, the plastic pressing into his back and thighs.
“Fucking … I don’t- What the fuck did you do!? Who the fuck are you?”
Hobo Santa smiles, only, no. Not a Hobo. He’s not Santa either, because Santa is not as evil and malicious as this fucking guy.
“I know the situation’s odd, but you just get your blood sugar up, take some deep breaths and I’ll explain everything.”
“Explain? Explain fucking what, Clarence? I didn’t make any wishes or try to kill myself, and you can eat shit and die if you think you’re going to get wings off of me.”
Clarence- because what the fuck else can Pete call the guy? - just laughs. He pushes the coffee into Pete’s hand. “Drink that. Eat your donuts. Chill the fuck out. I know that this situation can be unsettling but you gotta trust me-“
“Trust you? Trust you?” Pete sputters. “I try to help you, and you transport me into a fucking episode of the Twilight Zone.”
“You did a good thing yesterday, Pete. For me and for that girl. Personal kindness isn’t very big with kids today.”
“I’m thirty-four, and I need you to tell me what the fuck, okay? What the fuck? No new age, touchy feely Wicca shit. Just tell me where I am and what’s going o-” He’s cut off by Clarence the Asshole Probably-an-Angel guy shoving one of his donuts into his mouth.
He sputters and coughs on the powdered sugar but chews because he pretty much has to. Clarence takes the chance to talk. “You talk too much. I bet you hear that all the fucking time. Shut your mouth, eat and remember that you brought this on yourself.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Pete sputters.
“Oh really?” Clarence wrinkles his unfairly straight nose at Pete. “I have everything I need ring any bells?”
“So what, I came off as smug and you decided to make me take the fucking red pill and end up in the Matrix?”
“Red pill takes you out of the Matrix. This isn’t like that. You did well yesterday, Pete, so you get a glimpse.”
Pete gapes at him and licks away crumbs absently with his tongue. “A glimpse?” Pete takes another bite, because actually, this makes him feel better. Hydrogenated animal fat and processed sugar doesn’t fix anything, but it helps him swallow the ridiculous shit he’s fallen into. “A glimpse of what?”
“I know your mother taught you not to speak with your mouth full, Tripp. Chew, swallow, then ask.”
Pete resists the urge to throw coffee on this fuck because hi, goddamn magic, okay? Who knows what he’ll do if Pete gets him genuinely angry. So he swallows and asks again. “A glimpse of fucking what? And don’t call me that.”
“What your glimpse is about is for you to figure out,” Clarence says with a smile that would make Gabe’s smirk look downright genuine. “I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you. You’ve got lots of time.”
Pete tears another piece of the donut so he doesn’t rip the Probably-an-Angel’s ears off with his fingernails. “How much time?” Twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, tops. He can sleep in the minivan and ignore this until it’s over.
“As long as it takes,” Clarence chuckles, tilting his head as if that will give him a better view of Pete. “And considering what you’ve got to work with, I’d lay good money it’s going to be considerable.”
“Considerable?” Pete explodes and the kid working the counter, a young guy in his teens with a Jewfro, leans over the counter to get a better look. Pete lowers his voice but not his anger, leaning across the table into Clarence’s personal space. “Fuck considerable,” he hisses through teeth clenched so tight his head hurts. “That’s no kind of fucking answer.”
“Sorry, superstar, but it’s all you’re going to get.”
“I want my fucking life back! Give it back right now or so help me-“
“Don’t take that tone with me, Tripp,” Clarence says, his voice cutting through Pete’s entire body. He points an accusing finger at Pete. “This is on you, remember? So you be fucking grateful I stopped by at all, and don’t push me when I say that this doesn’t work that way and I can’t tell you why.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t about me giving you all the answers. You have figure things out for yourself.”
“Figure it out?” Pete’s got his hands fisted in his hair and he’s not even sure how they got there. “Figure what out? What am I supposed to figure out? I don’t know what’s going on!”
“Just let it happen,” Clarence says with a smug smile.
Pete’s been stoned and tripping and fucked right the hell up and felt more grounded than he does right now. “This … I don’t … It’s not … What the fuck?”
“You’re going to need this,” Clarence says shoving a piece of paper across the table. He hands over a plastic bag as well. “And this. And also, this.” He tosses a cell phone at Pete, and it lands in his lap.
“What is it?”
“Your address, a surprise and your phone.” Clarence says like Pete’s stupid and not just pushed out of his little pink jelly Matrix pod. “Get out of here, Tripp. It’s Christmas.”
Pete finds himself moving before he knows what he’s doing. The keys are in his hand and his phone is in the pocket of Mikey’s coat. Clarence slaps the counter with open palms on his way past. “Have a Happy Hanukkah, Rubin. Be careful on the drive home.” The kid behind the counter waves as they go.
The cold goes a long way toward waking Pete up, but it’s not enough. He still feels stunned, especially as Clarence shoves him towards the minivan. “I don’t have time to talk to you anymore, so off you go.”
Pete opens his mouth to complain, but he’s in the car. Not only is he in the car, he’s driving, on the turnpike on his way back to a house he apparently shares with Mikey Way in a fucking Jersey in this glimpse of what the hell ever. He doesn’t have long enough drive to be ready for that, but then he could drive from here all the way back to LA and not be ready for that.
~*~*~
Pete wakes up with a start and falls off a couch. If it weren’t for the pain of his shoulder colliding with the hard wood floor, he’d be sure it’s a dream. But the pain tells him it’s not and that’s worse than a nightmare, because he doesn’t recognize anything in this room.
He’s staring up at TV so big it takes up pretty much the whole wall. There’s a pile of pill bottles on a table that looks like it costs more than his recording equipment. And Hemmy is panting in his face.
“Mikey?” He calls, pushing himself to his feet. “Babe? Are you …” he trails off because he’s got no idea where here is. “Mikey?”
Hemmy barks and butts his head against Pete’s leg. Pete looks down, and Hemmy trots off through a doorway. Pete follows him because if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to have a fucking panic attack. If he focuses on the dog, maybe he can stave it off for awhile.
The hallway seems to go on forever with movie posters and show flyers, and empties into a kitchen the size of his bedroom. The fridge alone is the size the car Pete had in college and it’s bare. None of Bronx’s drawings andpaintings are hanging off the metal surface. He touches the smooth surface, gawking at the unfamiliar machine that doesn’t have pictures held onto it with ridiculous Transformers magnets until Hemmy whines and claws at a cabinet in the kitchen island.
Pete bends down, opens it, and pulls out the bag of dog food with shaking hands and pours it into the lone bowl. Bunny’s and Piglet’s are missing. This isn’t his brand. This isn’t his kitchen.
As he stands watching Hemmy eat, his throat starts to burn as it settles on him that Mikey isn’t going to answer. If he leaves this kitchen, he’s not going to find his son asleep in his room, waiting for Christmas morning. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop the tears from forcing their way out.
“Hey now, emo kid, don’t cry.”
Pete blinks at the man in the suit who is standing with him in the kitchen. The guy is taller than he is by a few good inches and he looks like he stepped out of a fucking GQ. Pete wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and blinks at him. “Who the fuck are you? The fucking butler?”
The guy smiles at him. “You can call me Clarence if you want, and you do. Trust me.”
“Clarence. Like It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Or something.”
“That’s- this is-“ Pete grabs the edge of the island so hard that his hands hurt. “Fuck you, man I didn’t do anything! I was in bed with my fucking husband and now-“ His voice breaks and he inhales sharply through his nose. “My son wakes us up on Christmas morning, since he could crawl out of his crib. It’s-“ Pete’s not a crier, goddamn it, but he cannot stop his voice from breaking or the tears from returning. “I didn’t have a problem with where I was. Just, send me back before I miss Christmas, okay? I don’t need to be taught anything.”
“I know that,” Clarence says, and he really does look incredibly contrite, which fuck him, is not even close to enough. “It’s temporary, Pete, I promise. You’re going to get back to them. I just need you to sit tight for awhile.”
“Sit tight. Sit tight?”Pete sputters. “You fucking stole me from my family on fucking Christmas you asshole! And all you have to say is ‘sit tight’?”
“Yeah,” Clarence sighs. “Look, there’s rules, all right? Shit has to stay balanced, so,” he waves a hand. “Look, hopefully, this’ll get figured out sooner rather than later and you can go home.”
“Figured out? What the-“ Pete stops and stares at the guy who is just looking at him sadly and calling himself Clarence. He takes a couple of seconds and does a quick recap of It’s A Wonderful Life in his head, along with every other alternate universe story or movie or show he’s ever fucking seen. Then, of course, it’s obvious. So naturally, he gives into impulse and punches the guy in his pretty fucking face. His fist bounces off his chin and he curses, holding his now throbbing hand to his chest. “Fuck!”
Clarence just sighs. “Yeah, that was not a smart move on your part.”
“There’s two of us,” Pete hisses, cradling his hand. That really fucking hurt, but not as much as the fear and loss clawing at his insides. “There’s fucking two of us and you sent the fuck-up with the pill problem over there to my fucking family, to my child. They’re my family,” Pete says, pleading. He needs this guy to understand. “You can’t do that to them.”
“Selflessness,” Clarence sighs at him, almost fondly. “Seriously, I wish I could get you two in a room. It’d be so much easier. Just, don’t worry, okay? Your Mikey can handle it. More than. You’ve given him considerable practice.”
“I’m not- He doesn’t-“ Pete takes a deep breath.
He refuses to let himself focus on the petty bullshit of old hurts that this fucker has no right to poke at - none. It’s the bigger implication of “your” on Mikey that makes his gut clench. He hasn’t explored thoroughly, but he already pretty much knows that there’s nothing here. No Mikey, no personal connection, not much of anything.
“Does he, the other one, does he even have any pictures in this place?”
Clarence shrugs. “You’d have to look. I’m sure there’s some of Patrick, Joe and Andy somewhere.”
“Jesus,” Pete mutters rubbing his face with his non-hurting hand. “He’s going to fuck everything up.”
“He’s you,” Clarence says. “Have a little faith.
God, that’s so not fucking good. Pete sinks against the island and plants his forehead on the cool marble. “Oh, Jesus fuck,” he moans into the countertop, because he knows exactly how badly he can fuck things up. Pete knows he’s gotten incredibly lucky a lot in his life, mostly that the people around him have loved him enough to help him avoid his multiple attempts at self-sabotage. This guy, the one who’s got a fucking pyramid of prescriptions just lying around his living room and nothing in his kitchen, obviously hasn’t had that.
“It’ll be fine.”
“He’s going to ruin my marriage,” Pete says to the marble, because if he lifts his head, he is going to cry. He is. And not manly tears - childish, uncontrolled tears like Bronx when he had the chicken pox. He’s just going to start weeping and he’s never going to stop and he just … he can’t. “Eight years strong, and he’s going to fucking ruin it. And Bronx, I- I don’t-“ He can’t even imagine what the cosmically fucked version of himself is going to be like with his baby boy, but it’s enough to make him want to crawl in a hole and fucking die, because killing this fucking Clarence guy clearly isn’t an option.
“Pete,” Clarence says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Just try to have faith and make the best of it, all right? I can promise you right now - nothing is going to happen to either of them all right? You have my word.”
“Your word is fucking worthless, because you’re not real. This is a hallucination.” Please fucking let this be a hallucination where he will wake up and be back with Mikey and Bronx and his life.
“No, it’s a glimpse. Remember that. You’re going to get home, Peter Wentz-Way. But you’ve got things to do here, just like he has things to do there. And contrary to what your ridiculous little shirt says, love actually can save you.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Pete demands, angry enough to lift his head. But when he does Clarence is gone.
~*~*~
Pete sits in the minivan about three houses down from the one he supposedly shares with Mikey for almost an hour, staring at the house. He’s trying to come up with something to say. Right now - inoperable brain tumor is at the top of his list of excuses. He’s just trying to figure out how to make it believable.
There’s a sharp rap on the window, and Pete blinks, startled to see Gerard Way staring in at him. His hair is longer than Pete remembers it being the last time he saw My Chemical Romance on TV, hanging down to his shoulders, not as long as it was back on Warped, but close. He’s wearing a huge black coat and has a thick green scarf wrapped around his head like one of those old Jewish ladies in Fiddler on the Roof. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with Pete.
“Unlock your car, asshole,” Gerard calls through the glass. Pete does, mostly as a reaction to a command, and Gerard trots around to the passenger side, yanks the door open and climbs in. He huffs on his hands for a few seconds after he closes the door behind him then shifts in his seat to glare at Pete. “So, what the fuck, man?”
Pete flounders, because really, he has no idea the fuck. He just shrugs and looks down at the steering wheel.
“Pete, are you having a nervous breakdown?” Gerard asks. “Because to be fair, it is your turn. Mikey had the last one. But you need to let us know so we can put up the storm shutters.”
Pete shrugs again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, you better be,” Gerard warns like he’s picking up in the middle of a conversation they’d already been having, like they were friends or something. “Mikey’s ready to start calling hospitals looking for you. I mean, that’s not like you, man. Bronx and Frankie were expecting Christmas tree and reindeer pancakes, and there were none to be had. I mean, me and Mikey tried but they just … they came out mutated. Christmas morning is your thing.”
“Is it?” Pete laughs, unable to keep the hysteria out of it. “Fuck, man, I wouldn’t know.”
“Seriously, Pete, are you okay?” Gerard asks, his frown getting even deeper. He reaches out and puts a hand on Pete’s shoulder like … Like Pete doesn’t know what. “You sound …” He trails off and tilts his head. “You know, you can talk to me if you need to. I can try and help, and I won’t take it to Mikey. You know, I can keep it anonymous if you need me to.”
Pete has to process that for a second before he remembers. “Right. Because you’re sober.”
“Yeah.” Gerard smiles a little at that, his shoulders going back a little with something like pride. “Nine years come August, so if you need to talk-”
“Right.” Pete chuckles. He really wishes he were high. That would be so much easier. “Yeah, no. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like shit.”
“That would come from the feeling like shit, I figure.” He laughs again and looks at Gerard. “So how the fuck are you? Still doing the whole save lives thing with My Chem over here, or is that not happening?”
“We’re on hiatus for the next eight months,” Gerard says carefully. “You know that.”
“Nope,” Pete giggles, resting his temple on the steering wheel. “I don’t know shit. I wouldn’t know what fucking day it was if someone hadn’t told me. I’m down the rabbit hole, man, and the white rabbit just royally fucked me.”
“Pete,” Gerard says, taking his hand. “You’re my brother and I love you but you sound fucking psychotic.”
“I’m your brother in this universe?” Pete rolls his eyes. “That is fucking trippy.”
“Pete,” Gerard says again, squeezing a little too tight. His dark eyes are wide and afraid. “Pete, you’re scaring me.”
“So? None of this is fucking matters, man. This isn’t my life.” That’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. “This isn’t my fucking life. That isn’t my house. This?” Pete sits up and waves his hands. “This isn’t my fucking car. And you are not my brother.”
“Don’t say that.” Gerard’s voice is quiet and hurt. “And for fuck’s sake, pull your shit together before you go in and see Mikey and Bronx. I … Just pull yourself together okay?”
“No,” Pete says, shaking his head. “No, because you don’t seem to be fucking hearing me, Way. This is not my life. I’m supposed to be in LA. I haven’t spoken to you, any of you, in more than half a fucking decade. I have never been in this town, and I don’t know who that kid is in there.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No shit. I went to sleep last night on my couch, in my house, in fucking California and I woke up in bed with a guy I haven’t spoken to since 2005. So yeah, I’d say it’s the fucking opposite of funny.”
Gerard is staring at him. He’s staring at him with his mouth in a thin line and his eyes narrowed. He keeps Pete fixed in that look for fucking ages. Then he blinks and says “Oh, my God, you’re serious.”
Pete rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “For a guy I’ve heard called a genius, you’re fucking slow.”
“You seriously think this isn’t your life. So, what? You’ve got amnesia?”
“No. I remember everything I did yesterday. I talked to my agent and I went to the Coffee Bean on Sunset, and I watched movies on my couch in my house in the hills where I’ve been living for the last five years. None if it is lining up with this. This isn’t …” He points at the house. “And when the fuck did I move to Jersey? I’ve been in LA for the five years, full fucking time. There’s an extra dog on top of Hemmy, and oh, yeah, there’s a kid who’s calling me his dad. When the fuck did Mikey get a kid?”
Gerard cocks his head. “So you think you’re like a mirror Pete. Only without the evil or the bad facial hair. It’s an alternate universe situation.”
Pete is stunned for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Actually, yeah. That’s kind of exactly fucking right.”
“Yeah.” Gerard nods. “Okay, that’s insane.”
“Totally fucking insane. But I’m serious when I tell you that I haven’t spoken to you in eight years and I have never seen that kid in there before today.”
“Bronx.”
“His name’s Bronx? I should, fuck, I don’t know, write it down or something.”
“God,” Gerard breathes, looking pained. His eyes look bright for a second which makes Pete’s stomach do a nauseating roll. He wasn’t even that close friends with Gerard back on Warped, and now the guy is on the verge of tears over him. “You’re not our Pete are you?”
“For the love of God, do not cry.”
“I just … you-he-“ Gerard shakes his head, tilting it back and blinking. But that move thankfully works and when he looks back at Pete again, his eyes glitter a little but no tears fall. “You-he- I … Bronx is your world. Our you. He and Mikey are the world for our you. And he’s one of my best friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete says, and he is, he’s so fucking sorry and he hasn’t even really faced Mikey or the famous Bronx yet. “I’m sorry I’m not him.”
Gerard rubs his face with his hands. “This is going to be bad. This is going to be very fucking bad.” He sighs. “You’re gonna have to try and pass.”
“I figured that. Thanks, Mr. Wizard.”
“No, Pete, you don’t understand. Mikey and you, the you that’s supposed to be you, you’re fucking cohesive. It’s like … I don’t know, but he’s not going to buy this.”
“’This’ being the truth.”
“Look,” Gerard says, all business, “I don’t know that I buy that you’re actually from an alternate universe or whatever. But I believe that at the very least you believe it. So I’m going to treat it like it’s true until proven otherwise.”
“That’s a lot to take on faith.”
“And what’re my other options?” Gerard asks. “To assume that you’re out of your mind and try and convince Mikey to have you committed, or to let you go in there, ranting about how Mikey and Bronx aren’t your husband and your child and how this isn’t your life until that he decides to put you away on his own? Yeah, both of those would go well and wouldn’t traumatize my brother and nephew at all.”
“The cadet’s logic is sound.”
Gerard smiles at him. “See, there’s some Pete still in there. We’re just gonna have to wing the rest of it. So, let’s go inside. I’ll spot you.”
Pete takes a deep breath and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel going over what he’d figured out. “I’m married.”
Gerard nods. “Yeah. Happily. Seriously, you fuckers are a lot to live up to.”
“To Mikey Way.”
“Wentz-Way,” Gerard says with a distant grin, like he’s watching something lovely from very far away.
“Seriously? I’m fucking hyphenated?”
“Your idea,” Gerard says, then frowns. “His. Sorry.”
The Pete he’s standing in for is a fucking sap and a lame-o. But Pete doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this if he has to look at 3 sets of sad Way eyes for however long he’s here. “Stop apologizing. You’re supposed to be here.”
“Right.”
There’s an awkward pause that Pete thinks is going to be the fucking staple of his life from now on. He flips through the rest of the crazy he’s landed in. “And the kid is Bronx.”
Gerard sighs, and Pete is really starting to hate that sound. “Yeah.”
“How’d that happen? I mean, Mikey’s still got a dick in this universe right?”
“Right place, right time. The way you tell it, you got an email from a pregnant college student who happened to be a fan and asked you guys to adopt her baby so she could have a life. The way Mikey tells it, you guys were already looking and her recognizing your names in the adoption files just sped the process up. I have to figure it’s a little of both.”
“That’s … That’s fucking weird.”
“You’re fucking weird, Pete. I have to figure that’s true whichever you I’m dealing with.”
Pete sighs, because that’s undeniably true. “I need to go in there, don’t I?”
“Yeah. So go park us in the driveway and I’ll try to keep my baby brother from killing you.”
“Thanks.”
Pete feels like he’s walking to his execution as he climbs the steps of the porch, Mikey’s coat tight around him. He shoves his hands into the pockets, his right hand brushing plastic, and braces himself.
“Look what I found?” Gerard calls into the house.
Pete has exactly five seconds to think about what the reaction is going to be when he’s hit with forty pounds of excited child. Bronx hugs him around the waist and looks up at him with a bright grin that makes him feel panicky. “Daddy, did you find the present you lost?”
“I, uh-“ Pete flounders as he tries to fight the urge to pry Bronx’s arms from around him.
“Bronx, why don’t you go wait with Uncle Frank in the living room while me and Daddy get it for you okay?” Mikey says from the doorway. He’s still in the faded Thursday shirt from earlier this morning and a pair of pajama pants that appear to have unicorns on them. His arms are folded over his chest and he looks at Pete over the tops of his glasses with what Pete could only describe as quiet fury.
“Kay!” Bronx says. He gives Pete’s waist a squeeze that’s kind of impressive given the boy’s thin frame and then darts off into the living room. Gerard hangs off to the side, huddled next to the fridge, fiddling with the messy crayon drawings and fingerpaintings.
“I told him you forgot something,” Mikey says when the door swings shut behind Bronx. He doesn’t unfold his arms. “Because what other possible reason could there be for his father fucking running out on Christmas morning and not coming back for hours?”
“Mikey-“
“Yes?” Mikey says, taking a step towards him. “What? I’m dying to know. I was dying to know when I called the cops and every hospital in a ten mile radius looking for you.” Pete can see the way Mikey’s fingers are digging into the flesh of his arms so hard it has to hurt. “Where were you?”
“I …” Pete jerks his hand out of his pocket on impulse and the bag Clarence gave him comes with it, falling out and onto the floor. He leans over to pick it up and there’s a piece of red fabric inside. He plucks it up and Gerard sighs audibly.
“He did forget something,” Gerard cuts in, saving him and, wow, he’s going to owe Way so much. “You know Bronx’s crazy Superman obsession, which I totally blame on you, Mikeyway. I’m trying to teach the kid better taste than that.”
There’s a Superman cape hanging limply from Pete’s hand even as he stares at it. Mikey is looking at it too and still frowning.
“That? You took off, looking like you just saw the Ghost of fucking Christmas Future, for that?”
“I … yeah. I guess.” Pete stutters, and Gerard actually drops his head in his hands. That can’t be good.
Mikey’s brow furrows and he leans forward, like he’s trying to look through Pete. “Are you high?”
“No! No, I just …” Gerard is jerking his head like that’s supposed to mean something. He goes over everything Gerard’s said and stumbles over what he hopes is the right thing to say. “I, uh, I wanted it to be perfect I guess.”
Gerard nods and gives him the thumbs up even as Mikey sighs, “Pete.” He is considerably less angry now at least.
“I’m sorry.” Pete says again and Mikey nods. Fuck Patrick and all the bullshit he gave him for making them do One Tree Hill. He’s a hell of an actor, he really is.
“Perfect’s just being here. For God’s sake, I keep telling you. I know you like to win at the whole gift giving thing, but Jesus Christ.” He tilts his chin up and Pete can see genuine hurt there. “You spent all that time trying to put together that bike for him, and you didn’t even get to see him open it,” Mikey says with a hurt that makes Pete’s gut clench in a way he didn’t know it could. “Pete, you haven’t missed a Christmas morning since we got married.”
“I … I’m sorry,” Pete says for the hundredth time. Yeah, he’s going to be saying that a lot from now on.
Mikey’s fingers loosen their grip and he shrugs, then wraps his arms around himself. Gerard jerks his head at Mikey in a way that says hug him, you ass, but Pete just can’t. So he watches as Mikey turns on his socked feet and heads into the living room. He feels even more unsteady than ever as he follows him.
~*~*~
[Part Two]
Author: dancinbutterfly
Title: Screw Angels, This Bell's Ringing in Wings for Me
Band: Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Mikey/Pete, Gerard/Frank, Patrick/Rihanna
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A higher power thinks Pete Wentz needs to learn a few lessons and trades Pete's celebrity existence for the domestic life he passed by.The Family Man AU
Warnings: magic, kidfic, alternate universes
Notes: I'm not an expert on the terrain of New Jersey, California, or the workings of foster care/adoption system and did the best I could with all of them for the story. Thanks to people who helped me research all of those things and who held my hand. I'll thank you by name after the reveal.
Pete’s been watching the homeless guy in the Santa suit sitting outside the Coffee Bean for almost an hour now. Two and a half espresso frappuccinos’ worth of staring at this poor guy, but to be fair, he’s been trying to figure out what to do. It’s not like that requires any master planning or anything, but he’s been interrupted like a hundred times by everything from soccer dads to WeHo queens to twelve year olds in the latest Disney Christmas sweaters, to this latest young woman in Hot Topic gear.
“Can you sign something for me?” she asks, holding a notebook that she’s pulled out of purse roughly the size of Pete’s dog to her chest. She’s about twenty and looks nervous as hell. He can’t help but say yes, even though the guy outside is niggling at his conscience and patience.
“I made this,” she says holding out the book. Then adds under her breath, “Because I’m a total loser.”
“No, it’s cool.”
“I just needed a place for my lyrics. I want to be a songwriter,” she says more to the floor of the shop than to him. “Which is why I’m in LA, but you don’t need to know that so why am I still talking? I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I can’t seem to stop talking. Ignore me.”
Pete just nods, because this is old hat. This is better and easier than crazy fans who want him to sign their skin so they can run down to the local tattoo shop and make it permanent, or the ones who send him used underwear. “It’s good that you’re chasing your dream,” Pete says with a smile, fishing in his pocket for a pen. “Just keep writing.”
She beams at him and stops him before he can sign the notebook. “Could you sign the front? I just, I never thought I’d get to complete it.”
Pete opens his mouth to ask her what she means by that, but it’s obvious what she means when he turns it over. The front is a picture of himself with Mikey Way, Mikey’s arm draped around his shoulder. For a split second, Pete is back there, at that show. For an instant, he’s twenty-six and crazy in love again. Still.
Then Pete blinks back to himself and it’s heading rapidly towards ten years later. The picture in his hands is just a picture and not a wormhole. It’s nothing.
The lines of Mikey’s autograph cover Mikey’s chest and the girl taps her finger on the shirt he’s wearing in the picture. “Could you sign there please? To Noelle.”
Pete signs with numb hands, a little transfixed by the picture. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Mikey, even in a photo, and for some reason it makes him flip open the back of her book. He scribbles a ten digit number on the last page and hands it back.
“Call that number after the holidays, tell my secretary you want extension sixty-three,“ Pete hears himself saying, even though he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he hasn’t met a thousand wannabe lyricists in this town, or knows if she’s even any good. He usually leaves that to the Decaydance A&R guys nowadays, but he hears himself saying it anyway.
Noelle stares at him with huge eyes. “Seriously? Oh, God, thank you so much.” She moves like she’s going to hug him, then stops and wraps her arms around herself, pressing her notebook to her chest instead. “Best Christmas of my life, Mr. Wentz, you don’t even know.”
It’s technically Christmas Eve, but Pete’s not really in the mood to correct her. He’s not really in the mood for anything anymore. But Noelle stumbles away and he finds himself walking up to the counter anyway, because it is still Christmas fucking Eve and Hobo Santa is still out there.
Just because it’s southern California doesn’t mean it’s not going to turn cold tonight. People don’t freeze to death when the temperature dips down into the mid-forties, but they shouldn’t be sleeping out in it sans camping equipment, either. And Hobo Santa doesn’t look like he’s got anything but his Santa suit and his elf delusions.
Pete buys another coffee - regular this time, with a few packets of sugar to go with it, because who fucking knows whether Hobo Santa’s going to like his coffee sweet or not - and heads outside. He stands in front of the man and holds out the coffee. Hobo Santa finishes his conversation with someone who isn’t actually there before he acknowledges Pete’s presence.
And then he cocks his head to the side and looks at him from his seat on the concrete. He stares at Pete for an uncomfortably long time, and Pete is used to being stared at. But this is different somehow, so he gestures slightly with the coffee in his hand. “You look like you could use it.”
“Oh, I do, do I?” Santa asks, looking at Pete skeptically. He’s a lot younger than he looked from inside the coffee shop. Maybe five years older than Pete is, maybe less. It’s kind of unsettling.
“Yeah. So just, you know, take the fucking coffee and let me help you okay? It’s Christmas Eve, guy, you’re killing the spirit.”
Hobo Santa laughs and pushes to his feet, but takes the coffee anyway. He looks rough as fuck, unshaven, with dirt far under his fingernails and in the creases of his hands. “I’m killing the spirit, huh?” He takes a sip then frowns. “What, no eggnog?”
“Look, I’m just trying to help, okay? It’s the holidays and I thought-“
“What? You’d buy fucking nutso Santa a drink and fix everything?”
“I was going to see if you wanted me to put you up in a hotel for a few nights and give you the number of my shrink, but yeah.” He buries his hands in his pocket and shrugs. Fuck it, some people don’t want to be helped. He knows how that goes but still. There’s something just fucking sad about the man’s dirty costume that makes him unable to just walk the fuck away like a sane person should. “You looked like you were in need.”
Hobo Santa looks at him like Pete’s the crazy who was talking to himself. “You want to save my life, Pete? I didn’t think that was your MO.”
“If you don’t want the help, just say so. I’m not looking down on you or anything, but everybody needs something. I thought I could help you get it. Like I said, it’s fucking Christmas. ”
“Yes, it is,” Hobo Santa agrees.
He smiles with teeth that are whiter and straighter than Pete’s, and it makes him do a double take. Most homeless people he’s seen don’t have smiles like that. “How’d you know my name?”
“You don’t need to have a TV to know what’s on it,” the homeless guy says, sipping on the coffee he hadn’t seemed to want moments again. “So, since you seem to know everything I fucking need, what do you need?”
“I’ve got everything I need. I’m just trying to give back.” Karma’s been a bitch for Pete, and Andy’s got this theory about keeping shit in balance. Nothing else has really worked, so he’s been giving that karmic equilibrium thing a try. That’s all he’s trying to do here.
“Fuck, superstar,” Santa chuckles, shaking his head. He drops the now empty coffee cup on the ground and fixes Pete with another too-straight, too-clean smile. “It must be awesome being you.”
“Seriously, I don’t know what your damage is, but I know that if you try you can probably make it a little less-” He tries to find the word Patrick always uses for his crazy when Pete calls in the dead of night when he can’t sleep, yet a-fucking-gain. Like last night or the one before. He wants the one that makes him feel less out of his goddamn mind and more like it’s all just little problems, ones he can deal with if he just tries hard enough. “Disruptive.”
“Disruptive? You’re gonna talk to me about disruptive? You? That’s fucking fantastic, man. I’m going to have fun with this.” He laughs, and Pete is so fucking lost. “I want you to remember you did this, okay, Pete?” He clicks his tongue and gives Pete a weird little salute with two fingers. “You brought this down on yourself.”
Pete steps back, stunned and a little worried. “Brought what down?”
“Merry Christmas, Pete.”
Pete stands, a little frozen, as he watches the Hobo Santa walk away down Sunset. The guy’s pretty much out of sight before Pete snaps out of it enough to call after him again, “Brought what down?”
There’s no answer. He’s already gone.
Pete doesn’t feel very celebratory after that. Hobo Santa kind of crushed his Christmas cheer, and he ends up alone on his couch, Hemmy in his lap, with a carton of eggnog - half of which is less egg and more nog in the form of Bacardi.
Patrick bitches at him for twenty minutes over the sound of Scrooged on his TV for that. But he stays on the line while Pete watches.
“You think you’re going to sleep?” Patrick asks in that tone. It’s the one that implies that he will get up and leave Christmas with his girlfriend’s parents at her place and come over if Pete asks him seriously.
He fucking can’t. Of course he can’t. He sighs into his eggnog and grabs an Ambien out of his medicine cabinet. He’s already taken a Xanax and his Lexapro, but it has been days since he slept more than an hour at a stretch, and he’s tired.
“I’m good,” he promises, settling down on the couch.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Go fuck your beautiful popstar girlfriend for me. You proposed yet?”
“Fuck you,” Patrick laughs. “Merry Christmas, Pete.”
“Merry Christmas,” Pete parrots, the eggnog easing down the rough feeling of the pills. He clicks off his iPhone, and Hemmy huffs in his face as he drifts off on the couch.
~*~*~
Pete wakes up to someone kissing the back of his neck that way he fucking loves, mostly soft lips with just a little bit of teeth. Thing is, he can’t remember who he went to bed with. He’s pretty sure he was alone with the eggnog and his meds, but it’s kind of blurred. Whoever it was, he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be anyone who would know about this. He can count the number of people who know this about him on one hand and have fingers left over, and none of them were there when he went to sleep last night.
He shifts, leaning back into the feeling, and a hand slips around his chest, there and pale and solid. The kissing stops for a second and the mouth presses to his ear to whisper, “Merry Christmas,” in a definitely male voice.
Pete has about five seconds where he melts into that. It’s warm and sexy and comfortable and familiar and it’s easy. And then the voice registers in his brain and he’s sitting up, so fast that he almost hurts himself pulling free of the embrace around his chest.
Mikey fucking Way blinks at him from the other side of the bed, hair sleep-rumpled and eyes drowsy. He smiles at Pete and says, “Pete, hey, lay back down okay?”
He’s dreaming. This is all a very real dream. Only he bites the inside of his lip and it fucking hurts so … “What? What the fuck?”
“We’ve got like a little bit before Bronx wakes up and we have to do presents, so just,” Mikey - fucking Mikey fucking Way who he hasn’t seen or really spoken to since that last heartbreaking day on Warped - says before his hand wraps around Pete’s shoulder and pulls him back down. He presses his mouth to the skin beneath Pete’s ear and whispers, “Enjoy it.”
Pete squeezes his eyes shut. “This isn’t happening.”
“Calm down. You’ll be fine. You always are fine and he always loves everything, so calm down. You and your weird performance anxiety, I fucking swear,” Mikey chuckles low and throaty and still a little sleepy. His fingers are carding through Pete’s hair, and Pete is torn. It feels soothing and good but also what the motherfucking fuck, okay? What the fucking hell?
“No, really, this isn’t happening. I’m hallucinating. This is a hallucination and you are not real.”
Mikey stops mouthing the skin and pushes up on his elbow. He frowns at him from above, and for a second, Pete can’t look at anything but the line of his collarbone outlined beneath the threadbare Thursday t-shirt he’s wearing. “You didn’t take a double dose by accident again did you? You promised me you’d be more careful.”
Pete opens his mouth, then snaps it shut because he has no fucking idea what the answer is. He was on the couch with Hemmy and the Bacardi-nog. He was alone on the couch. He knows this for a fact, damnit, he is not this crazy. Really he’s not.
“I, uh- I’m not-” really here. You’re not really here. None of this is happening. Nope, nope, nope.
He doesn’t have time to finish the thought before the door explodes open, and a little boy with black hair bolts in followed by Hemmy and another dog he doesn’t recognize, that’s uglier than an old man’s foreskin. He barely has time to register their presence before they all pounce onto the bed.
The kid flings himself on them, grinning and bouncing, and Mikey laughs even though the impact forces the air out of his lungs. Pete’s too stunned to breathe, so it doesn’t affect him as much as the way the little boy looks at them both with a big happy smile and cries, “Papa, Daddy, it’s Christmas! Santa brought all the presents and you have to come see!”
No. Just no. No no no, really, fucking fuck no. Pete’s rolling out of bed and digging in a room that (oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck) is really not his. He trips over a coloring book, a stuffed brontosaurus, and a squeaky chew toy before he makes it to the chest of drawers. He finds a pair of sweatpants, a long sleeve t-shirt, and is dressed and falling out the door before Mikey can call his name.
There’s a fucking stairwell at the end of the hallway outside the bedroom and he almost tumbles face first down it. But he gets to the bottom and shoves open the front door for all of three seconds before slamming it shut.
He casts a look around desperately, because it’s, like, minus twenty on the other side of that door and there is fucking snow on the ground, goddamnit. There should not be snow on the ground in LA. That porch out there should not be there because this is not his house. This isn’t his fucking life.
He spots a pair of galoshes and shoves his feet into them. It takes a few precious seconds longer to grab a coat off a coat rack in the corner behind the door and find a pair of keys. Then, finally, he’s out of there and stumbling into a freaking minivan, complete with booster seat in the back and goddamn cup holders.
Pete pulls out of the driveway a little too fast and drives until he’s about six blocks away, then throws the minivan into park almost violently. He’d go somewhere, if he had any idea where he was. Somewhere cold, he thinks, hating the shitty heater in this shitty minivan.
The coat is a little big on him, though, and it’s helping, so he pulls it closer against the chill. A deep breath makes him panic again because fucking Jesus, the coat smells like Mikey. He hadn’t known that he remembered exactly what Mikey Way smelled like, but wrapped up in it now, it’s like he never forgot and that’s half the problem.
He doesn’t have a phone on him, so he can’t try and call Patrick. Though who fucking knows if Patrick would even pick up in this Lewis Carroll crazyland he woke up in. But he’s not sure what else to do or where to go.
Pete drives again and feels a flash of panic when he sees an exit for the Garden State Parkway. He takes it because he’s still in flight mode, but he tries to remember how the fuck he got here.
The sound of a horn blaring as he drifts into another lane makes Pete start. He jerks the car onto the shoulder, panting. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and tries not to freak out even more. It doesn’t work, but he gets his breathing under control and manages to get off at the next exit.
There’s a Dunkin Donuts a quarter mile off the exit that is miraculously open, and he pulls in. He needs sugar and coffee and possibly a handful of Prozac, but two out of three isn’t bad. He gets two powdered sugars and an extra large coffee with the change in the pockets of Mikey’s coat. He doesn’t have a wallet either, apparently. When he turns to sit and figure this out, he finds Hobo fucking Santa standing in front of him, grinning.
Only he looks less like a hobo now and more like a businessman, in a clean suit with what turns out to be blond hair combed back slick. He’s standing up straighter, and dressed like this, he’s taller, broader and better looking than Pete.
“Hey, superstar. Had a good morning?”
Pete stares at him for a second, sets his coffee and donut down with shaking hands, then grabs Hobo Santa by the lapels and drags him forward. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Good to see you too. Have a seat,” Hobo Santa says, gesturing to the back booth in the farthest corner. It’s not near where Pete put his stuff down, but his donuts and coffee are over there somehow. And Pete blinks, and so is he, sitting in the booth, the plastic pressing into his back and thighs.
“Fucking … I don’t- What the fuck did you do!? Who the fuck are you?”
Hobo Santa smiles, only, no. Not a Hobo. He’s not Santa either, because Santa is not as evil and malicious as this fucking guy.
“I know the situation’s odd, but you just get your blood sugar up, take some deep breaths and I’ll explain everything.”
“Explain? Explain fucking what, Clarence? I didn’t make any wishes or try to kill myself, and you can eat shit and die if you think you’re going to get wings off of me.”
Clarence- because what the fuck else can Pete call the guy? - just laughs. He pushes the coffee into Pete’s hand. “Drink that. Eat your donuts. Chill the fuck out. I know that this situation can be unsettling but you gotta trust me-“
“Trust you? Trust you?” Pete sputters. “I try to help you, and you transport me into a fucking episode of the Twilight Zone.”
“You did a good thing yesterday, Pete. For me and for that girl. Personal kindness isn’t very big with kids today.”
“I’m thirty-four, and I need you to tell me what the fuck, okay? What the fuck? No new age, touchy feely Wicca shit. Just tell me where I am and what’s going o-” He’s cut off by Clarence the Asshole Probably-an-Angel guy shoving one of his donuts into his mouth.
He sputters and coughs on the powdered sugar but chews because he pretty much has to. Clarence takes the chance to talk. “You talk too much. I bet you hear that all the fucking time. Shut your mouth, eat and remember that you brought this on yourself.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Pete sputters.
“Oh really?” Clarence wrinkles his unfairly straight nose at Pete. “I have everything I need ring any bells?”
“So what, I came off as smug and you decided to make me take the fucking red pill and end up in the Matrix?”
“Red pill takes you out of the Matrix. This isn’t like that. You did well yesterday, Pete, so you get a glimpse.”
Pete gapes at him and licks away crumbs absently with his tongue. “A glimpse?” Pete takes another bite, because actually, this makes him feel better. Hydrogenated animal fat and processed sugar doesn’t fix anything, but it helps him swallow the ridiculous shit he’s fallen into. “A glimpse of what?”
“I know your mother taught you not to speak with your mouth full, Tripp. Chew, swallow, then ask.”
Pete resists the urge to throw coffee on this fuck because hi, goddamn magic, okay? Who knows what he’ll do if Pete gets him genuinely angry. So he swallows and asks again. “A glimpse of fucking what? And don’t call me that.”
“What your glimpse is about is for you to figure out,” Clarence says with a smile that would make Gabe’s smirk look downright genuine. “I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you. You’ve got lots of time.”
Pete tears another piece of the donut so he doesn’t rip the Probably-an-Angel’s ears off with his fingernails. “How much time?” Twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, tops. He can sleep in the minivan and ignore this until it’s over.
“As long as it takes,” Clarence chuckles, tilting his head as if that will give him a better view of Pete. “And considering what you’ve got to work with, I’d lay good money it’s going to be considerable.”
“Considerable?” Pete explodes and the kid working the counter, a young guy in his teens with a Jewfro, leans over the counter to get a better look. Pete lowers his voice but not his anger, leaning across the table into Clarence’s personal space. “Fuck considerable,” he hisses through teeth clenched so tight his head hurts. “That’s no kind of fucking answer.”
“Sorry, superstar, but it’s all you’re going to get.”
“I want my fucking life back! Give it back right now or so help me-“
“Don’t take that tone with me, Tripp,” Clarence says, his voice cutting through Pete’s entire body. He points an accusing finger at Pete. “This is on you, remember? So you be fucking grateful I stopped by at all, and don’t push me when I say that this doesn’t work that way and I can’t tell you why.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t about me giving you all the answers. You have figure things out for yourself.”
“Figure it out?” Pete’s got his hands fisted in his hair and he’s not even sure how they got there. “Figure what out? What am I supposed to figure out? I don’t know what’s going on!”
“Just let it happen,” Clarence says with a smug smile.
Pete’s been stoned and tripping and fucked right the hell up and felt more grounded than he does right now. “This … I don’t … It’s not … What the fuck?”
“You’re going to need this,” Clarence says shoving a piece of paper across the table. He hands over a plastic bag as well. “And this. And also, this.” He tosses a cell phone at Pete, and it lands in his lap.
“What is it?”
“Your address, a surprise and your phone.” Clarence says like Pete’s stupid and not just pushed out of his little pink jelly Matrix pod. “Get out of here, Tripp. It’s Christmas.”
Pete finds himself moving before he knows what he’s doing. The keys are in his hand and his phone is in the pocket of Mikey’s coat. Clarence slaps the counter with open palms on his way past. “Have a Happy Hanukkah, Rubin. Be careful on the drive home.” The kid behind the counter waves as they go.
The cold goes a long way toward waking Pete up, but it’s not enough. He still feels stunned, especially as Clarence shoves him towards the minivan. “I don’t have time to talk to you anymore, so off you go.”
Pete opens his mouth to complain, but he’s in the car. Not only is he in the car, he’s driving, on the turnpike on his way back to a house he apparently shares with Mikey Way in a fucking Jersey in this glimpse of what the hell ever. He doesn’t have long enough drive to be ready for that, but then he could drive from here all the way back to LA and not be ready for that.
~*~*~
Pete wakes up with a start and falls off a couch. If it weren’t for the pain of his shoulder colliding with the hard wood floor, he’d be sure it’s a dream. But the pain tells him it’s not and that’s worse than a nightmare, because he doesn’t recognize anything in this room.
He’s staring up at TV so big it takes up pretty much the whole wall. There’s a pile of pill bottles on a table that looks like it costs more than his recording equipment. And Hemmy is panting in his face.
“Mikey?” He calls, pushing himself to his feet. “Babe? Are you …” he trails off because he’s got no idea where here is. “Mikey?”
Hemmy barks and butts his head against Pete’s leg. Pete looks down, and Hemmy trots off through a doorway. Pete follows him because if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to have a fucking panic attack. If he focuses on the dog, maybe he can stave it off for awhile.
The hallway seems to go on forever with movie posters and show flyers, and empties into a kitchen the size of his bedroom. The fridge alone is the size the car Pete had in college and it’s bare. None of Bronx’s drawings andpaintings are hanging off the metal surface. He touches the smooth surface, gawking at the unfamiliar machine that doesn’t have pictures held onto it with ridiculous Transformers magnets until Hemmy whines and claws at a cabinet in the kitchen island.
Pete bends down, opens it, and pulls out the bag of dog food with shaking hands and pours it into the lone bowl. Bunny’s and Piglet’s are missing. This isn’t his brand. This isn’t his kitchen.
As he stands watching Hemmy eat, his throat starts to burn as it settles on him that Mikey isn’t going to answer. If he leaves this kitchen, he’s not going to find his son asleep in his room, waiting for Christmas morning. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop the tears from forcing their way out.
“Hey now, emo kid, don’t cry.”
Pete blinks at the man in the suit who is standing with him in the kitchen. The guy is taller than he is by a few good inches and he looks like he stepped out of a fucking GQ. Pete wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and blinks at him. “Who the fuck are you? The fucking butler?”
The guy smiles at him. “You can call me Clarence if you want, and you do. Trust me.”
“Clarence. Like It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Or something.”
“That’s- this is-“ Pete grabs the edge of the island so hard that his hands hurt. “Fuck you, man I didn’t do anything! I was in bed with my fucking husband and now-“ His voice breaks and he inhales sharply through his nose. “My son wakes us up on Christmas morning, since he could crawl out of his crib. It’s-“ Pete’s not a crier, goddamn it, but he cannot stop his voice from breaking or the tears from returning. “I didn’t have a problem with where I was. Just, send me back before I miss Christmas, okay? I don’t need to be taught anything.”
“I know that,” Clarence says, and he really does look incredibly contrite, which fuck him, is not even close to enough. “It’s temporary, Pete, I promise. You’re going to get back to them. I just need you to sit tight for awhile.”
“Sit tight. Sit tight?”Pete sputters. “You fucking stole me from my family on fucking Christmas you asshole! And all you have to say is ‘sit tight’?”
“Yeah,” Clarence sighs. “Look, there’s rules, all right? Shit has to stay balanced, so,” he waves a hand. “Look, hopefully, this’ll get figured out sooner rather than later and you can go home.”
“Figured out? What the-“ Pete stops and stares at the guy who is just looking at him sadly and calling himself Clarence. He takes a couple of seconds and does a quick recap of It’s A Wonderful Life in his head, along with every other alternate universe story or movie or show he’s ever fucking seen. Then, of course, it’s obvious. So naturally, he gives into impulse and punches the guy in his pretty fucking face. His fist bounces off his chin and he curses, holding his now throbbing hand to his chest. “Fuck!”
Clarence just sighs. “Yeah, that was not a smart move on your part.”
“There’s two of us,” Pete hisses, cradling his hand. That really fucking hurt, but not as much as the fear and loss clawing at his insides. “There’s fucking two of us and you sent the fuck-up with the pill problem over there to my fucking family, to my child. They’re my family,” Pete says, pleading. He needs this guy to understand. “You can’t do that to them.”
“Selflessness,” Clarence sighs at him, almost fondly. “Seriously, I wish I could get you two in a room. It’d be so much easier. Just, don’t worry, okay? Your Mikey can handle it. More than. You’ve given him considerable practice.”
“I’m not- He doesn’t-“ Pete takes a deep breath.
He refuses to let himself focus on the petty bullshit of old hurts that this fucker has no right to poke at - none. It’s the bigger implication of “your” on Mikey that makes his gut clench. He hasn’t explored thoroughly, but he already pretty much knows that there’s nothing here. No Mikey, no personal connection, not much of anything.
“Does he, the other one, does he even have any pictures in this place?”
Clarence shrugs. “You’d have to look. I’m sure there’s some of Patrick, Joe and Andy somewhere.”
“Jesus,” Pete mutters rubbing his face with his non-hurting hand. “He’s going to fuck everything up.”
“He’s you,” Clarence says. “Have a little faith.
God, that’s so not fucking good. Pete sinks against the island and plants his forehead on the cool marble. “Oh, Jesus fuck,” he moans into the countertop, because he knows exactly how badly he can fuck things up. Pete knows he’s gotten incredibly lucky a lot in his life, mostly that the people around him have loved him enough to help him avoid his multiple attempts at self-sabotage. This guy, the one who’s got a fucking pyramid of prescriptions just lying around his living room and nothing in his kitchen, obviously hasn’t had that.
“It’ll be fine.”
“He’s going to ruin my marriage,” Pete says to the marble, because if he lifts his head, he is going to cry. He is. And not manly tears - childish, uncontrolled tears like Bronx when he had the chicken pox. He’s just going to start weeping and he’s never going to stop and he just … he can’t. “Eight years strong, and he’s going to fucking ruin it. And Bronx, I- I don’t-“ He can’t even imagine what the cosmically fucked version of himself is going to be like with his baby boy, but it’s enough to make him want to crawl in a hole and fucking die, because killing this fucking Clarence guy clearly isn’t an option.
“Pete,” Clarence says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Just try to have faith and make the best of it, all right? I can promise you right now - nothing is going to happen to either of them all right? You have my word.”
“Your word is fucking worthless, because you’re not real. This is a hallucination.” Please fucking let this be a hallucination where he will wake up and be back with Mikey and Bronx and his life.
“No, it’s a glimpse. Remember that. You’re going to get home, Peter Wentz-Way. But you’ve got things to do here, just like he has things to do there. And contrary to what your ridiculous little shirt says, love actually can save you.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Pete demands, angry enough to lift his head. But when he does Clarence is gone.
~*~*~
Pete sits in the minivan about three houses down from the one he supposedly shares with Mikey for almost an hour, staring at the house. He’s trying to come up with something to say. Right now - inoperable brain tumor is at the top of his list of excuses. He’s just trying to figure out how to make it believable.
There’s a sharp rap on the window, and Pete blinks, startled to see Gerard Way staring in at him. His hair is longer than Pete remembers it being the last time he saw My Chemical Romance on TV, hanging down to his shoulders, not as long as it was back on Warped, but close. He’s wearing a huge black coat and has a thick green scarf wrapped around his head like one of those old Jewish ladies in Fiddler on the Roof. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with Pete.
“Unlock your car, asshole,” Gerard calls through the glass. Pete does, mostly as a reaction to a command, and Gerard trots around to the passenger side, yanks the door open and climbs in. He huffs on his hands for a few seconds after he closes the door behind him then shifts in his seat to glare at Pete. “So, what the fuck, man?”
Pete flounders, because really, he has no idea the fuck. He just shrugs and looks down at the steering wheel.
“Pete, are you having a nervous breakdown?” Gerard asks. “Because to be fair, it is your turn. Mikey had the last one. But you need to let us know so we can put up the storm shutters.”
Pete shrugs again. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, you better be,” Gerard warns like he’s picking up in the middle of a conversation they’d already been having, like they were friends or something. “Mikey’s ready to start calling hospitals looking for you. I mean, that’s not like you, man. Bronx and Frankie were expecting Christmas tree and reindeer pancakes, and there were none to be had. I mean, me and Mikey tried but they just … they came out mutated. Christmas morning is your thing.”
“Is it?” Pete laughs, unable to keep the hysteria out of it. “Fuck, man, I wouldn’t know.”
“Seriously, Pete, are you okay?” Gerard asks, his frown getting even deeper. He reaches out and puts a hand on Pete’s shoulder like … Like Pete doesn’t know what. “You sound …” He trails off and tilts his head. “You know, you can talk to me if you need to. I can try and help, and I won’t take it to Mikey. You know, I can keep it anonymous if you need me to.”
Pete has to process that for a second before he remembers. “Right. Because you’re sober.”
“Yeah.” Gerard smiles a little at that, his shoulders going back a little with something like pride. “Nine years come August, so if you need to talk-”
“Right.” Pete chuckles. He really wishes he were high. That would be so much easier. “Yeah, no. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like shit.”
“That would come from the feeling like shit, I figure.” He laughs again and looks at Gerard. “So how the fuck are you? Still doing the whole save lives thing with My Chem over here, or is that not happening?”
“We’re on hiatus for the next eight months,” Gerard says carefully. “You know that.”
“Nope,” Pete giggles, resting his temple on the steering wheel. “I don’t know shit. I wouldn’t know what fucking day it was if someone hadn’t told me. I’m down the rabbit hole, man, and the white rabbit just royally fucked me.”
“Pete,” Gerard says, taking his hand. “You’re my brother and I love you but you sound fucking psychotic.”
“I’m your brother in this universe?” Pete rolls his eyes. “That is fucking trippy.”
“Pete,” Gerard says again, squeezing a little too tight. His dark eyes are wide and afraid. “Pete, you’re scaring me.”
“So? None of this is fucking matters, man. This isn’t my life.” That’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. “This isn’t my fucking life. That isn’t my house. This?” Pete sits up and waves his hands. “This isn’t my fucking car. And you are not my brother.”
“Don’t say that.” Gerard’s voice is quiet and hurt. “And for fuck’s sake, pull your shit together before you go in and see Mikey and Bronx. I … Just pull yourself together okay?”
“No,” Pete says, shaking his head. “No, because you don’t seem to be fucking hearing me, Way. This is not my life. I’m supposed to be in LA. I haven’t spoken to you, any of you, in more than half a fucking decade. I have never been in this town, and I don’t know who that kid is in there.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No shit. I went to sleep last night on my couch, in my house, in fucking California and I woke up in bed with a guy I haven’t spoken to since 2005. So yeah, I’d say it’s the fucking opposite of funny.”
Gerard is staring at him. He’s staring at him with his mouth in a thin line and his eyes narrowed. He keeps Pete fixed in that look for fucking ages. Then he blinks and says “Oh, my God, you’re serious.”
Pete rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “For a guy I’ve heard called a genius, you’re fucking slow.”
“You seriously think this isn’t your life. So, what? You’ve got amnesia?”
“No. I remember everything I did yesterday. I talked to my agent and I went to the Coffee Bean on Sunset, and I watched movies on my couch in my house in the hills where I’ve been living for the last five years. None if it is lining up with this. This isn’t …” He points at the house. “And when the fuck did I move to Jersey? I’ve been in LA for the five years, full fucking time. There’s an extra dog on top of Hemmy, and oh, yeah, there’s a kid who’s calling me his dad. When the fuck did Mikey get a kid?”
Gerard cocks his head. “So you think you’re like a mirror Pete. Only without the evil or the bad facial hair. It’s an alternate universe situation.”
Pete is stunned for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Actually, yeah. That’s kind of exactly fucking right.”
“Yeah.” Gerard nods. “Okay, that’s insane.”
“Totally fucking insane. But I’m serious when I tell you that I haven’t spoken to you in eight years and I have never seen that kid in there before today.”
“Bronx.”
“His name’s Bronx? I should, fuck, I don’t know, write it down or something.”
“God,” Gerard breathes, looking pained. His eyes look bright for a second which makes Pete’s stomach do a nauseating roll. He wasn’t even that close friends with Gerard back on Warped, and now the guy is on the verge of tears over him. “You’re not our Pete are you?”
“For the love of God, do not cry.”
“I just … you-he-“ Gerard shakes his head, tilting it back and blinking. But that move thankfully works and when he looks back at Pete again, his eyes glitter a little but no tears fall. “You-he- I … Bronx is your world. Our you. He and Mikey are the world for our you. And he’s one of my best friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete says, and he is, he’s so fucking sorry and he hasn’t even really faced Mikey or the famous Bronx yet. “I’m sorry I’m not him.”
Gerard rubs his face with his hands. “This is going to be bad. This is going to be very fucking bad.” He sighs. “You’re gonna have to try and pass.”
“I figured that. Thanks, Mr. Wizard.”
“No, Pete, you don’t understand. Mikey and you, the you that’s supposed to be you, you’re fucking cohesive. It’s like … I don’t know, but he’s not going to buy this.”
“’This’ being the truth.”
“Look,” Gerard says, all business, “I don’t know that I buy that you’re actually from an alternate universe or whatever. But I believe that at the very least you believe it. So I’m going to treat it like it’s true until proven otherwise.”
“That’s a lot to take on faith.”
“And what’re my other options?” Gerard asks. “To assume that you’re out of your mind and try and convince Mikey to have you committed, or to let you go in there, ranting about how Mikey and Bronx aren’t your husband and your child and how this isn’t your life until that he decides to put you away on his own? Yeah, both of those would go well and wouldn’t traumatize my brother and nephew at all.”
“The cadet’s logic is sound.”
Gerard smiles at him. “See, there’s some Pete still in there. We’re just gonna have to wing the rest of it. So, let’s go inside. I’ll spot you.”
Pete takes a deep breath and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel going over what he’d figured out. “I’m married.”
Gerard nods. “Yeah. Happily. Seriously, you fuckers are a lot to live up to.”
“To Mikey Way.”
“Wentz-Way,” Gerard says with a distant grin, like he’s watching something lovely from very far away.
“Seriously? I’m fucking hyphenated?”
“Your idea,” Gerard says, then frowns. “His. Sorry.”
The Pete he’s standing in for is a fucking sap and a lame-o. But Pete doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this if he has to look at 3 sets of sad Way eyes for however long he’s here. “Stop apologizing. You’re supposed to be here.”
“Right.”
There’s an awkward pause that Pete thinks is going to be the fucking staple of his life from now on. He flips through the rest of the crazy he’s landed in. “And the kid is Bronx.”
Gerard sighs, and Pete is really starting to hate that sound. “Yeah.”
“How’d that happen? I mean, Mikey’s still got a dick in this universe right?”
“Right place, right time. The way you tell it, you got an email from a pregnant college student who happened to be a fan and asked you guys to adopt her baby so she could have a life. The way Mikey tells it, you guys were already looking and her recognizing your names in the adoption files just sped the process up. I have to figure it’s a little of both.”
“That’s … That’s fucking weird.”
“You’re fucking weird, Pete. I have to figure that’s true whichever you I’m dealing with.”
Pete sighs, because that’s undeniably true. “I need to go in there, don’t I?”
“Yeah. So go park us in the driveway and I’ll try to keep my baby brother from killing you.”
“Thanks.”
Pete feels like he’s walking to his execution as he climbs the steps of the porch, Mikey’s coat tight around him. He shoves his hands into the pockets, his right hand brushing plastic, and braces himself.
“Look what I found?” Gerard calls into the house.
Pete has exactly five seconds to think about what the reaction is going to be when he’s hit with forty pounds of excited child. Bronx hugs him around the waist and looks up at him with a bright grin that makes him feel panicky. “Daddy, did you find the present you lost?”
“I, uh-“ Pete flounders as he tries to fight the urge to pry Bronx’s arms from around him.
“Bronx, why don’t you go wait with Uncle Frank in the living room while me and Daddy get it for you okay?” Mikey says from the doorway. He’s still in the faded Thursday shirt from earlier this morning and a pair of pajama pants that appear to have unicorns on them. His arms are folded over his chest and he looks at Pete over the tops of his glasses with what Pete could only describe as quiet fury.
“Kay!” Bronx says. He gives Pete’s waist a squeeze that’s kind of impressive given the boy’s thin frame and then darts off into the living room. Gerard hangs off to the side, huddled next to the fridge, fiddling with the messy crayon drawings and fingerpaintings.
“I told him you forgot something,” Mikey says when the door swings shut behind Bronx. He doesn’t unfold his arms. “Because what other possible reason could there be for his father fucking running out on Christmas morning and not coming back for hours?”
“Mikey-“
“Yes?” Mikey says, taking a step towards him. “What? I’m dying to know. I was dying to know when I called the cops and every hospital in a ten mile radius looking for you.” Pete can see the way Mikey’s fingers are digging into the flesh of his arms so hard it has to hurt. “Where were you?”
“I …” Pete jerks his hand out of his pocket on impulse and the bag Clarence gave him comes with it, falling out and onto the floor. He leans over to pick it up and there’s a piece of red fabric inside. He plucks it up and Gerard sighs audibly.
“He did forget something,” Gerard cuts in, saving him and, wow, he’s going to owe Way so much. “You know Bronx’s crazy Superman obsession, which I totally blame on you, Mikeyway. I’m trying to teach the kid better taste than that.”
There’s a Superman cape hanging limply from Pete’s hand even as he stares at it. Mikey is looking at it too and still frowning.
“That? You took off, looking like you just saw the Ghost of fucking Christmas Future, for that?”
“I … yeah. I guess.” Pete stutters, and Gerard actually drops his head in his hands. That can’t be good.
Mikey’s brow furrows and he leans forward, like he’s trying to look through Pete. “Are you high?”
“No! No, I just …” Gerard is jerking his head like that’s supposed to mean something. He goes over everything Gerard’s said and stumbles over what he hopes is the right thing to say. “I, uh, I wanted it to be perfect I guess.”
Gerard nods and gives him the thumbs up even as Mikey sighs, “Pete.” He is considerably less angry now at least.
“I’m sorry.” Pete says again and Mikey nods. Fuck Patrick and all the bullshit he gave him for making them do One Tree Hill. He’s a hell of an actor, he really is.
“Perfect’s just being here. For God’s sake, I keep telling you. I know you like to win at the whole gift giving thing, but Jesus Christ.” He tilts his chin up and Pete can see genuine hurt there. “You spent all that time trying to put together that bike for him, and you didn’t even get to see him open it,” Mikey says with a hurt that makes Pete’s gut clench in a way he didn’t know it could. “Pete, you haven’t missed a Christmas morning since we got married.”
“I … I’m sorry,” Pete says for the hundredth time. Yeah, he’s going to be saying that a lot from now on.
Mikey’s fingers loosen their grip and he shrugs, then wraps his arms around himself. Gerard jerks his head at Mikey in a way that says hug him, you ass, but Pete just can’t. So he watches as Mikey turns on his socked feet and heads into the living room. He feels even more unsteady than ever as he follows him.
~*~*~
[Part Two]