It's Not A Habit [1/?]
Title: It’s Not A Habit [1/?]
Author: Co-authored by revengeandpiety and schnikes13
Pairing: Frank/Bob
Rating: NC-17
POV: Third
Summary: Some nights they thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries. And then the flash of steel from real guns, in real life, really fills their minds.
Disclaimer: We make love to don’t own the MCR boys.
Author Note: Leah: Dedicated, of course, to my wifey mrshcaulfield and thanks to schnikes13 for being the best Bob, ever.
Kaitlyn: Dedicated to mrshcaulfield, thishappyheart (because you love me, douchefuck), and thanks to revengeandpiety, ‘cause she’s my partner in crime.
No questions asked and that is understood. Frank doesn't really need to ask though, because he already knows. Anthony Iero's red rimmed eyes and sweat stained collar are less than shocking and Frank is more than observant. Frank could really hate this man, right down to his thousand dollar Gucci shoes. Drug money bought those shoes and no one wants to actually thank the mob, now do they?
Bob's dad paid for those shoes, now that Frank thinks on it. Derek Bryar and his twitching fingers and constant sniffling.
Bob knows more than most people probably think he does. His father doesn't know that his son hears him snorting lines of coke off the corian bathroom counter while his pale and thinning mother sleeps just on the other side of the wall. Bob knows all this.
He also knows that it's his best friend's - his partner's - own father's fault that things have become this way. But he knows who and who not to blame.
Frank stopped apologizing a long time ago because it really isn't his fault and Bob tells him this. He can only blame his dad and he can resent him for it.
He and Bob look around the living room of Frank’s parents’ apartment. It would be an apartment, really, if only everyone cared enough to speak to each other and clean the place up once in a while. Frank just can’t take it though.
"I'm here to pick up Nico," Frank says and it sounds distant enough to make Frank want to smirk or something. He brushes past the man swaying lightly on the spot and goes to Nico's room.
"Fucker, you in there?" Stoned, probably, already. It's fucking 6 in the evening - on a Tuesday. Frank looks at Bob and that’s all he does at the moment, really. Just looks. He wants to say sorry for the mess that is his family, but he knows Bob's not much better off.
Bob stares back. He doesn’t look around anymore, though he did when he first met Frank, before his own family fell to pieces. His home was normal and nice and well, homely. Was. And now it was years later, mirroring the walls and shouting of Frank’s home life.
When the door opens, Nico leans against the frame, eyelids heavy and hair sticking up at awkward angles. Bob lowers his eyes to the ground. This is the one and only thing he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it’s like to watch someone you’re supposed to protect just fade and die away.
Frank sighs because what can he even do anymore? His kid brother, only 17 for fuck's sake, is already half retarded from being coked up all the time. Frank suspects something worse because maybe, just maybe, that syringe in Nico's room wasn't for his mom's diabetes.
"Get your shit and let's go," Frank says, and it is supposed to be affectionate and brotherly, but he can't pretend it actually came off that way.
Bob doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place. Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his torn and faded leather jacket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. He packs it down, sighing when he hears only a few rattling inside, pulling one out with his teeth and offering the last to Frank. He needs it.
Nico’s stumbling about, sliding into his shoes and snagging his jacket off the back of his desk chair, causing it to tip and fall. Bob lights up, holding the lit lighter out to Frank’s mouth.
Thankful, Frank inhales and blows the smoke into the air and Nico's already fucked up lungs. He lifts the chair back up and considers throwing it at his brother's feet just so he'll fall and knock his brains back in. Frank walks behind Bob and guides him with a hand to Bob's mid back, as if he didn't know his way around the Iero house by now.
"Gotta hang out with some of my boys, ya know, Frankie? Ya know? The boys? With the black hair and the cool jackets," Nico slurs, barely making sense because, no, Frank has no idea who he's talking about.
"Mmm." Seems like a good enough response because Nico keeps walking with that smile that looks fused there or something. He almost walks right into Anthony and he would have if Frank hadn't wrapped his arms around the kid's shoulders and steered him in the right direction.
Bob waits until Frank helps Nico into the backseat before he gets in himself, starting the car, it sputtering a bit, the piece of shit, before he pulls out.
Glancing back at Frank’s house, he sees Anthony through the front window. That familiar feeling comes back in the pit of his stomach, his hands clenching the steering wheel tightly, and knuckles white. It’s his fault; he ruined Derek’s life, he ruined Nico’s life; but fucking hell, Bob won’t let him ruin his or Frank’s lives.
Frank wants to take Nico back to Bob's house, but he figures it won't really matter because there are drugs there too, all because of his family and Boston's Italian Mafia. He's kind of thinking about it, about the mob and all that when Nico starts babbling and he doesn't fully listen until Nico starts talking about Gerard.
Gerard fucking Way, that meth head. Fucking cracked out mother fucker. Frank gets pissed because that dude's like, 30 and he's fucking corrupting Nico worse than his own dad.
Bob's half listening, though he's really focused on the road. It's a real shitty part of town that they're in now and seeing the forms standing under dimming street lights and the bodies cowering in the alleys make him feel a bit sick. Just a bit.
"Where?" he asked in a low, soft voice, glancing over at Frank.
"Two lights up, make a left. It's his friend's house," Frank informs Bob, squinting through the street lights. Nico nods his head in the backseat and leans forward, smoke sodden hair brushing Frank's cheek.
"When ya gonna come with me, Frankie? You never wanna hang out with me anymore. You're always with the German kid." Nico glares at Bob even though he's not even sure if he's mad at him.
"Bob," Frank informs him, and God knows how many times Frank has told Nico Bob's name. Nico knows, he just pretends he doesn’t, ‘cause he really is a smart kid, he’s just fucked up.
Grunting a bit, Bob looks back at Nico, his eyebrows knitted together and lips pursed. His face softens, though, when he sees the way Nico's looking at his brother like he's some kind of father that abandoned him.
And briefly, for a split second, Bob blames himself. Because maybe if Frank wasn't so busy hanging with him, he'd have stayed home with Nico and none of this would happen. The kid would be clean and happy and have some girlfriend he'd fuck after school, instead of being this empty shell of a teenager.
Frank reaches his hand back and pats Nico's head, because yeah, he loves his brother. They're blood, man, and Frank even taught Nico how to speak Italian. Times like those won't exist ever again because Nico thinks everything is okay and Frank knows nothing is.
"Maybe we can hang out after we pick you up, kid. If you can see straight by then," Frank is joking, even though he's deadly serious. He doesn't trust the night with its thick pollution that the lights can barely stream through. Nico says something vague and sits back, kicking Frank's seat.
Frank puts his hand on Bob's shoulder and squeezes it momentarily. Frank feels bad that Nico barely thinks anything of Bob.
Bob's shoulders sag back a bit as he relaxes and he simply nods, not even looking over at Frank. His eyes keep drifting to the rearview mirror, making subtle glances at Nico. He looks different from Frank, except that they have the same nose and small ears. Bob's observations even weird himself out a bit.
He takes one last drag of his stubby cigarette before flicking it out the window, turning onto the street that Nico's friends supposedly lives on. "Which one?
"Third on the right," Frank replies, eyeing all the shitheads out on the street. Pimps and whores and all that good shit. Drug dealers and thieves making their stops. All before 8 PM. He considers turning the car right around and going home, taking Nico with him, but the kids already climbing out of the car and thanking them for the ride.
"Bye, man, see you around midnight? Give me a call if you need me or anything." It is something that only brothers and best friends would say and it’s all in the way he says it. Nico waves and smiles that heavy lidded, goofy ass smile and disappears into the house.
"We need some more cigarettes,' Frank tells Bob, fingering the material of Bob's seats.
"Yeah, I'm aware. Fuck," Bob mutters under his breath, rubbing at his forehead. He keeps his foot on the brake for a moment longer, watching a scene to his left where a boy no older that 14 seems to buying smack off a dealer. Shaking his head, Bob takes off again, flying down the street and making a sharp turn, heading towards a nearby convenience store.
"We should keep him with us one day," Bob suggests hesitantly. He doesn't want Frank to think he's giving him fucking parenting tips or something, but he knows it's a touchy subject.
"I wanted to, tonight. But he was already out of the fucking car before I could really say anything. Next time though, I can't stand seeing this happen to his life." Frank sighs, pressing the lock down and pulling it up. He doesn't want to blame himself for Nico's current situation, but who knows, if he just been around more instead of away from his dad, Nico might not have followed in old Anthony's footsteps.
Bob nodded a bit, pulling into the Quik-Stop parking lot. He parked the car along side, hesitantly getting out, and waiting for Frank to do the same before he locked the doors. He hated leaving his (practically their) car alone, considering they've had it keyed, spray-painted, and tires slashed all within the past year. Slowly, he walked alongside Frank into the small shop, the door ringing a bit as they entered.
The usual Indian guy was there and Frank thinks that is pretty stereotypical. His name is Nikhil but he’s a nice guy and he and Frank have the occasional friendly conversation. He puts a pack of Marlboro Lights and Marlboro Reds on the counter because that’s all Frank and Bob really come in here for. That and Monster. Frank starts shelling out 10 bucks and wonders how much money he wastes on cigarettes. The number is unfathomable and he's only been smoking for 9 years.
Bob's eyes are glancing around the place when he notices one of the far back windows was covered in cardboard and duct tape. "What happened?" he asks Nikhil, nodding back towards it.
"Someone broke in a few days ago. They raided the medicine shelves and beer stock." Bob sighs, leaning back against the counter as Nikhil counts back change. He looks over at Frank and shrugs his shoulders.
Frank shakes his head and considers a good weapon to kill those fuckers. Stupid fucking thieves. He's not upset enough to give Nikhil a sympathetic look because he's been dealing with this kind of thing since he opened his convienance store.
"Thanks, man," Frank says when he gets his couple dollars and random cents back. He tosses Bob his cigarettes who smiles.
"Danke."
"Siete benvenuti." And Frank smiles too because he isn't too great at understanding when Bob speaks German, but he's learning. Simple things he knows. He likes to throw back some Italian, which Bob is learning better than Frank is learning German. It's a process.
The door makes that same ringing sound and Bob unwraps his cigarettes, again pulling one out with his teeth. As he steps off the stoop, he hears the sudden crescendo of old school gangster rap (Ice Cube, he's thinking) fills the parking lot as a shitty '88 Monte Carlo pulls in. Bob can't help but roll his eyes, lighting up his cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches two white guys from the piece of shit enter the shop. He's suspicious, as he doesn't get in the car, but rather leans against the trunk.
Frank knows Bob doesn't trust these guys and Frank doesn't really trust anyone in this neighborhood. Bob's ready too, just in case. He's got a fucking Colt .45 in the glove compartment, just in case things get hairy. Frank's 9mm is taped under the passenger seat because, well, he likes it there. He rips the plastic off his pack of cigarettes and picks one out. He puts it between his lips and lights it using Bob's. No point wasting time pulling out a lighter, right? He wonders how many cigarettes his mom has gone through, that psycho bitch. He loves her, but lately, something just isn't right with her. It's probably 'cause of his dad - Frank knows it more or less is.
Bob glances over at Frank for a second, and sure enough, when he looks back, both of the guys are jumping over the counter, one holding a switchblade tightly against Nikhil's throat. The other man is opening the register, grabbing at the money. "Frank," he nudges Frank before going to the passenger side, pulling out both of their guns. He tosses Frank his as he heads towards the door, tucking his gun into the inside of his jacket.
Frank's never killed anyone before, not without lack of trying though. But now, now he wants to, he wants to get rid of these fuckers who've got nothing else better to do than rob a convenience store. He puts his gun in his pocket and looks at Bob, nodding. Simple confirmation is all he needs. Bob nods back and they walk back into the store, side by side.
They try to keep their presence unknown for the time being as they approach the counter, Bob's hand is hiding inside his leather jacket. Once they reach it, he pulls out the Colt, holding it a mere few inches away from the head of prick pressing the blade against Nikhil's skin. "Let him go," he says rather calmly, making their whereabouts known. Swiftly turning his head, the blonde with the Orioles hat on backwards is met nose to nose with his fate. Bob makes a mental note that there are only 2 bullets in the thing, so he better not fuck this up.
When the other guy pulls a gun out of the back of his jeans, Frank takes his out faster and thank God for it because he points it at Bob. Frank almost makes a mistake of underestimating Bob, but Bob's faster, blood is shooting back on Nikhil’s behind the counter display case, and there is a sizzling hole through thief number one's shirt. Less than a second later, thief number two is on the ground with two shots to the chest and Frank thinks it was really much easier than he originally thought.
Bob's shaking on the inside; he just fucking killed someone, but outside, his face is set in stone as he slides the gun back into his inside pocket. "Call the police, but don't mention us," he tells Nikhil, who nods fervently, though he is trembling and obviously scared shitless. Bob looks over at Frank and nods his head to the door, pushing it open, that fucking bell ringing again.
"Let’s fucking go," Frank says, jumping into the passenger seat and putting his gun back under the seat. He is too wired to notice the blood flecks on the back of his hand and on his jacket. Doing this for a living would be pretty ace, he thinks and its crazy that he's not feeling regret and morally corrupt or something.
Bob quickly peels out of the parking lot, speeding down the road, glancing over his shoulder at the Quik-Stop. He lets out a long sigh, reaching a hand over and placing it on the back of Frank's head, ruffling his hair up a bit. His adrenaline is pumping now.
Frank turns his head and smiles, laughs even.
"I can't believe that just happened!" He feels seriously okay with his actions but that doesn't mean Frank's crazy. He's just doing some good - the first time anyone has done so in Boston (their area, at least). He knows they are safe, 'cause who's really going to call the cops? No one, exactly.
Bob let out a long sigh, this strange grin plastered on his face. "Fuck, Frankie. Just... fuck," He's laughing now, too, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his left knee bouncing like a mother. He rolls through a few stop signs and for once, he isn't focused on the people beyond their windows, making deals and ruining lives; his mind is replaying his finger pulling that trigger, doing something of importance.
How many other people could they save their city from? Come on, think about it, they've just got to be good and not lucky. Frank thinks they've got a little more than luck, but he's not positive. He might need a little more practice and he considers a few targets. Maybe that hooker standing with her fat ass hanging out of her skirt and penciled on eyebrows too dark even in the dim light. Maybe the guy picking her up, with his wife and kids at home wondering where he is - or hoping he's not where he's at. Frank's fingers are still trembling with excitement and the gun's vibrations, and shit, he's got a new side project going, he thinks.
Not really thinking where he's going, Bob ends up trying down the street that they dropped Nico off on. He pulls off and parks along the curb, the faint sound of some house party's hip hop thumping through the car. He looks over at Frank again, lips dry and eyebrows raised; he doesn't think he's ever felt this liberated before. "Fuckity fuck."
"I know, right? It's crazy." Frank smiles again and then shifts his eyes to the house they're in front of. He wouldn't doubt that it's the Way brothers' place, full of drugs and orgies and everything else. Frank really can't take it anymore; he flings open the door and steps out, his gun hidden beneath his waistband.
"Come on, lets get Nico the fuck out of this shithole," Frank says, poking his head in the open door, but Bob's already getting out and fuck, its like they're on the exact same page, same paragraph, same line.
Bob makes his way around the car, his Colt tucked inside his jacket and for a concise second, he envisions himself in cowboy boots and a hat, being some East Coast, urbanized Clint Eastwood. He glances at Frank briefly as they head towards the door, walking around past out drunken teenagers and overdosed crack addicts.
Frank kicks people and it's not even close to an accident, half of them protest and the other half are barely conscious. He sees a kid, well, not a kid, an adult, with hair that’s neither long nor short and it’s black and spiky. Frank knows its Gerard, he's seen him around. This guy doesn't look the type, really, who'd live in a drug house, with that innocent, young face, but he is and Frank knows that evil fuckers can be deceiving.
Bob leads the way into the rundown house (or what's left of it, really), the smell of body odor and sex and chemicals filling his nostrils. He keeps his eyes peeled for Nico as he scopes out the room, feeling someone grab onto his arm. "Bob!" a voice cracks and when Bob turns his head, he sees the grinning face of little Mikey Way, his hair mused and his tight shirt riding up his stomach. Bob lifts an eyebrow, amazed that the kid still remembers him; they only met once, briefly, a year or so ago.
Frank turns his head and lifts his eyebrow, mouth drawn. He observes Mikey smiling a slightly vague smile at Bob and his fingers twitch when he hears Mikey sniffling. He crosses his arms, keeping his ears on Bob and Mikey and his eyes flitting around the room, gathering evidence and making a list. Nico is here somewhere, and Frank's going to get him the fuck out.
"I thought you'd never," Mikey hiccups, "come here. You said you weren't into this stuff. I should've known you'd come around," the skinny boy grins, leaning into Bob, sliding his hand along the other man's thigh.
Bob can smell the alcohol on his breath and it takes a lot of willpower to not just shove him away. "Where's Nico?"
Mikey's smooth fucking hand is about to be shot off his damn wrist, Frank thinks. He doesn't move though, because Mikey might possibly know where Nico is. If he doesn't, well then, Frank might just punch him in the face, just because he's pissed enough to. He sees Gerard move and Frank slinks back, because fuck if he wants Gerard to notice him. He looks at Bob, then to the crowd.
Mikey's grinning this toothy smile at Bob, his long fingers curling around the hem of Bob's jacket. "Oh, so three's more your thing? That's cool with me," he nods, gently tugging Bob down a cluttered, dark hallway. Bob looks over his shoulder at Frank with a distasteful look, nodding his head, motioning for him to follow. Mikey leads them to a halfway open door, pushing it open and sure enough, there's Nico sprawled out on a stained, worn couch.
Frank wants to shove Mikey aside and run to his brother but before he takes three steps into the room, he freezes. Fear like he's never experienced rages through his body and he's afraid it's going to burst through each pore of his skin. Nico's lying there, but he's not lying. He’s just there, collapsed and stiff looking. Frank grips Bob's forearm and surveys the scene. There's a couple on the other chair making out slowly and they're gripping at each other in the same room as this travesty. Heroin needles are on the floor and there are lines of cocaine on a mirror. Nico's in the midst of this and he's too far gone. He's not even here and Frank can't fucking breathe.
Bob looks over at Frank, his eyes softening considerably. He feels really uncomfortable and even though Nico doesn't know his name, he wants to scoop him up in his arms and get him the fuck out of there. Because, yeah, that's Frank's little brother, his baby brother that he practically raised and he can't even begin to imagine what Frank's going through. Bob blinks when he feels a pair of lips moving along his jaw, thin hips pressing into his and long arms winding around his neck.
Frank is fucking quick, his breath rushing back through him and out his flared nostrils. His fist connects with Mikey's jaw, enough to probably break Frank's hand or something.
"You fucking cunt. Don't you fucking touch him," Frank screams at Mikey, who is on the ground now, holding a hand to his jaw and a nursing a glossy, wide eyed look. Frank grabs at Bob's jacket, staring at him frantically and letting go, not quite sure what action to take. He turns back to Nico and rushes to his side because this is worse than just a fucked up kid. Frank touches Nico's face and hands, matching up their life-lines and hopes that maybe it'll do some good. It doesn't and Frank wants to cry and he cradles Nico’s face in his hands and feels the cold skin seeping into the creases of his knuckles. He's fucking terrified. Nico is just another statistic now. Seventeen and dead from an overdose on cocaine? Heroin? Meth?
Bob stands at the doorway, frozen in shock and maybe, just partly in fear. The couple playing tonsil hockey is still going at it and Mikey sits up on his elbows, whining and grasping around for his fallen, probably now broken glasses. Bob doesn’t know what to do.
Hesitantly, he walks up behind Frank, kneeling down silently and placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes are glued on Nico, the partly shut lids, eyes rolled back into his head. He’s pale, paler than Bob remembers him being and his eyes flicker between him and Frank before stopping on the latter.
Bob doesn’t remember ever seeing Frank look so vacant.
Frank is honestly considering taking out his gun and bringing Armageddon to this whole fucking crack house. But before he can even reach for his gun, Bob's hand is on his shoulder and he remembers Bob's father and his own father and how fucked up all of this is. He wants some sort of revenge, but somehow, all he can do is grieve. He sighs heavily and turns to Bob.
"Help me carry him, Bob, please?"
Without even a second thought, Bob nods and stands up slowly. He glances back over towards the door, seeing Mikey stand up, wobbling a bit. "Get out of the fucking way," Bob tells him sternly and he isn't even fucking kidding. If anyone as so much tries to slow them down or stop them or even look at them, he will not keep from beating their asses.
Mikey stumbles away from the door and Franks sure he probably doesn't even realized what happened. Frank and Bob carefully lift up Nico and carry him back through the house. Through the smoke and through the hurt.
-
Frank is sobbing on Bob's shoulder, who is soothing him with German phrases and Frank feels comforted and so fucking screwed up. He wants to blame himself and he does, he does and there’s nothing that will make him not. Nico's prone figure is lying on Frank’s bed at his apartment and he doesn't even care that he'll eventually sleep there.
Bob knows most everything. He knows that this shouldn’t have happened, to Frank and his brother nonetheless. But more importantly, Bob knows what they can do for vengeance, because fuck anyone who thinks they can just sit back and accept this.
Author: Co-authored by revengeandpiety and schnikes13
Pairing: Frank/Bob
Rating: NC-17
POV: Third
Summary: Some nights they thirst for real blood, for real knives, for real cries. And then the flash of steel from real guns, in real life, really fills their minds.
Disclaimer: We make love to don’t own the MCR boys.
Author Note: Leah: Dedicated, of course, to my wifey mrshcaulfield and thanks to schnikes13 for being the best Bob, ever.
Kaitlyn: Dedicated to mrshcaulfield, thishappyheart (because you love me, douchefuck), and thanks to revengeandpiety, ‘cause she’s my partner in crime.
No questions asked and that is understood. Frank doesn't really need to ask though, because he already knows. Anthony Iero's red rimmed eyes and sweat stained collar are less than shocking and Frank is more than observant. Frank could really hate this man, right down to his thousand dollar Gucci shoes. Drug money bought those shoes and no one wants to actually thank the mob, now do they?
Bob's dad paid for those shoes, now that Frank thinks on it. Derek Bryar and his twitching fingers and constant sniffling.
Bob knows more than most people probably think he does. His father doesn't know that his son hears him snorting lines of coke off the corian bathroom counter while his pale and thinning mother sleeps just on the other side of the wall. Bob knows all this.
He also knows that it's his best friend's - his partner's - own father's fault that things have become this way. But he knows who and who not to blame.
Frank stopped apologizing a long time ago because it really isn't his fault and Bob tells him this. He can only blame his dad and he can resent him for it.
He and Bob look around the living room of Frank’s parents’ apartment. It would be an apartment, really, if only everyone cared enough to speak to each other and clean the place up once in a while. Frank just can’t take it though.
"I'm here to pick up Nico," Frank says and it sounds distant enough to make Frank want to smirk or something. He brushes past the man swaying lightly on the spot and goes to Nico's room.
"Fucker, you in there?" Stoned, probably, already. It's fucking 6 in the evening - on a Tuesday. Frank looks at Bob and that’s all he does at the moment, really. Just looks. He wants to say sorry for the mess that is his family, but he knows Bob's not much better off.
Bob stares back. He doesn’t look around anymore, though he did when he first met Frank, before his own family fell to pieces. His home was normal and nice and well, homely. Was. And now it was years later, mirroring the walls and shouting of Frank’s home life.
When the door opens, Nico leans against the frame, eyelids heavy and hair sticking up at awkward angles. Bob lowers his eyes to the ground. This is the one and only thing he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it’s like to watch someone you’re supposed to protect just fade and die away.
Frank sighs because what can he even do anymore? His kid brother, only 17 for fuck's sake, is already half retarded from being coked up all the time. Frank suspects something worse because maybe, just maybe, that syringe in Nico's room wasn't for his mom's diabetes.
"Get your shit and let's go," Frank says, and it is supposed to be affectionate and brotherly, but he can't pretend it actually came off that way.
Bob doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place. Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his torn and faded leather jacket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. He packs it down, sighing when he hears only a few rattling inside, pulling one out with his teeth and offering the last to Frank. He needs it.
Nico’s stumbling about, sliding into his shoes and snagging his jacket off the back of his desk chair, causing it to tip and fall. Bob lights up, holding the lit lighter out to Frank’s mouth.
Thankful, Frank inhales and blows the smoke into the air and Nico's already fucked up lungs. He lifts the chair back up and considers throwing it at his brother's feet just so he'll fall and knock his brains back in. Frank walks behind Bob and guides him with a hand to Bob's mid back, as if he didn't know his way around the Iero house by now.
"Gotta hang out with some of my boys, ya know, Frankie? Ya know? The boys? With the black hair and the cool jackets," Nico slurs, barely making sense because, no, Frank has no idea who he's talking about.
"Mmm." Seems like a good enough response because Nico keeps walking with that smile that looks fused there or something. He almost walks right into Anthony and he would have if Frank hadn't wrapped his arms around the kid's shoulders and steered him in the right direction.
Bob waits until Frank helps Nico into the backseat before he gets in himself, starting the car, it sputtering a bit, the piece of shit, before he pulls out.
Glancing back at Frank’s house, he sees Anthony through the front window. That familiar feeling comes back in the pit of his stomach, his hands clenching the steering wheel tightly, and knuckles white. It’s his fault; he ruined Derek’s life, he ruined Nico’s life; but fucking hell, Bob won’t let him ruin his or Frank’s lives.
Frank wants to take Nico back to Bob's house, but he figures it won't really matter because there are drugs there too, all because of his family and Boston's Italian Mafia. He's kind of thinking about it, about the mob and all that when Nico starts babbling and he doesn't fully listen until Nico starts talking about Gerard.
Gerard fucking Way, that meth head. Fucking cracked out mother fucker. Frank gets pissed because that dude's like, 30 and he's fucking corrupting Nico worse than his own dad.
Bob's half listening, though he's really focused on the road. It's a real shitty part of town that they're in now and seeing the forms standing under dimming street lights and the bodies cowering in the alleys make him feel a bit sick. Just a bit.
"Where?" he asked in a low, soft voice, glancing over at Frank.
"Two lights up, make a left. It's his friend's house," Frank informs Bob, squinting through the street lights. Nico nods his head in the backseat and leans forward, smoke sodden hair brushing Frank's cheek.
"When ya gonna come with me, Frankie? You never wanna hang out with me anymore. You're always with the German kid." Nico glares at Bob even though he's not even sure if he's mad at him.
"Bob," Frank informs him, and God knows how many times Frank has told Nico Bob's name. Nico knows, he just pretends he doesn’t, ‘cause he really is a smart kid, he’s just fucked up.
Grunting a bit, Bob looks back at Nico, his eyebrows knitted together and lips pursed. His face softens, though, when he sees the way Nico's looking at his brother like he's some kind of father that abandoned him.
And briefly, for a split second, Bob blames himself. Because maybe if Frank wasn't so busy hanging with him, he'd have stayed home with Nico and none of this would happen. The kid would be clean and happy and have some girlfriend he'd fuck after school, instead of being this empty shell of a teenager.
Frank reaches his hand back and pats Nico's head, because yeah, he loves his brother. They're blood, man, and Frank even taught Nico how to speak Italian. Times like those won't exist ever again because Nico thinks everything is okay and Frank knows nothing is.
"Maybe we can hang out after we pick you up, kid. If you can see straight by then," Frank is joking, even though he's deadly serious. He doesn't trust the night with its thick pollution that the lights can barely stream through. Nico says something vague and sits back, kicking Frank's seat.
Frank puts his hand on Bob's shoulder and squeezes it momentarily. Frank feels bad that Nico barely thinks anything of Bob.
Bob's shoulders sag back a bit as he relaxes and he simply nods, not even looking over at Frank. His eyes keep drifting to the rearview mirror, making subtle glances at Nico. He looks different from Frank, except that they have the same nose and small ears. Bob's observations even weird himself out a bit.
He takes one last drag of his stubby cigarette before flicking it out the window, turning onto the street that Nico's friends supposedly lives on. "Which one?
"Third on the right," Frank replies, eyeing all the shitheads out on the street. Pimps and whores and all that good shit. Drug dealers and thieves making their stops. All before 8 PM. He considers turning the car right around and going home, taking Nico with him, but the kids already climbing out of the car and thanking them for the ride.
"Bye, man, see you around midnight? Give me a call if you need me or anything." It is something that only brothers and best friends would say and it’s all in the way he says it. Nico waves and smiles that heavy lidded, goofy ass smile and disappears into the house.
"We need some more cigarettes,' Frank tells Bob, fingering the material of Bob's seats.
"Yeah, I'm aware. Fuck," Bob mutters under his breath, rubbing at his forehead. He keeps his foot on the brake for a moment longer, watching a scene to his left where a boy no older that 14 seems to buying smack off a dealer. Shaking his head, Bob takes off again, flying down the street and making a sharp turn, heading towards a nearby convenience store.
"We should keep him with us one day," Bob suggests hesitantly. He doesn't want Frank to think he's giving him fucking parenting tips or something, but he knows it's a touchy subject.
"I wanted to, tonight. But he was already out of the fucking car before I could really say anything. Next time though, I can't stand seeing this happen to his life." Frank sighs, pressing the lock down and pulling it up. He doesn't want to blame himself for Nico's current situation, but who knows, if he just been around more instead of away from his dad, Nico might not have followed in old Anthony's footsteps.
Bob nodded a bit, pulling into the Quik-Stop parking lot. He parked the car along side, hesitantly getting out, and waiting for Frank to do the same before he locked the doors. He hated leaving his (practically their) car alone, considering they've had it keyed, spray-painted, and tires slashed all within the past year. Slowly, he walked alongside Frank into the small shop, the door ringing a bit as they entered.
The usual Indian guy was there and Frank thinks that is pretty stereotypical. His name is Nikhil but he’s a nice guy and he and Frank have the occasional friendly conversation. He puts a pack of Marlboro Lights and Marlboro Reds on the counter because that’s all Frank and Bob really come in here for. That and Monster. Frank starts shelling out 10 bucks and wonders how much money he wastes on cigarettes. The number is unfathomable and he's only been smoking for 9 years.
Bob's eyes are glancing around the place when he notices one of the far back windows was covered in cardboard and duct tape. "What happened?" he asks Nikhil, nodding back towards it.
"Someone broke in a few days ago. They raided the medicine shelves and beer stock." Bob sighs, leaning back against the counter as Nikhil counts back change. He looks over at Frank and shrugs his shoulders.
Frank shakes his head and considers a good weapon to kill those fuckers. Stupid fucking thieves. He's not upset enough to give Nikhil a sympathetic look because he's been dealing with this kind of thing since he opened his convienance store.
"Thanks, man," Frank says when he gets his couple dollars and random cents back. He tosses Bob his cigarettes who smiles.
"Danke."
"Siete benvenuti." And Frank smiles too because he isn't too great at understanding when Bob speaks German, but he's learning. Simple things he knows. He likes to throw back some Italian, which Bob is learning better than Frank is learning German. It's a process.
The door makes that same ringing sound and Bob unwraps his cigarettes, again pulling one out with his teeth. As he steps off the stoop, he hears the sudden crescendo of old school gangster rap (Ice Cube, he's thinking) fills the parking lot as a shitty '88 Monte Carlo pulls in. Bob can't help but roll his eyes, lighting up his cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches two white guys from the piece of shit enter the shop. He's suspicious, as he doesn't get in the car, but rather leans against the trunk.
Frank knows Bob doesn't trust these guys and Frank doesn't really trust anyone in this neighborhood. Bob's ready too, just in case. He's got a fucking Colt .45 in the glove compartment, just in case things get hairy. Frank's 9mm is taped under the passenger seat because, well, he likes it there. He rips the plastic off his pack of cigarettes and picks one out. He puts it between his lips and lights it using Bob's. No point wasting time pulling out a lighter, right? He wonders how many cigarettes his mom has gone through, that psycho bitch. He loves her, but lately, something just isn't right with her. It's probably 'cause of his dad - Frank knows it more or less is.
Bob glances over at Frank for a second, and sure enough, when he looks back, both of the guys are jumping over the counter, one holding a switchblade tightly against Nikhil's throat. The other man is opening the register, grabbing at the money. "Frank," he nudges Frank before going to the passenger side, pulling out both of their guns. He tosses Frank his as he heads towards the door, tucking his gun into the inside of his jacket.
Frank's never killed anyone before, not without lack of trying though. But now, now he wants to, he wants to get rid of these fuckers who've got nothing else better to do than rob a convenience store. He puts his gun in his pocket and looks at Bob, nodding. Simple confirmation is all he needs. Bob nods back and they walk back into the store, side by side.
They try to keep their presence unknown for the time being as they approach the counter, Bob's hand is hiding inside his leather jacket. Once they reach it, he pulls out the Colt, holding it a mere few inches away from the head of prick pressing the blade against Nikhil's skin. "Let him go," he says rather calmly, making their whereabouts known. Swiftly turning his head, the blonde with the Orioles hat on backwards is met nose to nose with his fate. Bob makes a mental note that there are only 2 bullets in the thing, so he better not fuck this up.
When the other guy pulls a gun out of the back of his jeans, Frank takes his out faster and thank God for it because he points it at Bob. Frank almost makes a mistake of underestimating Bob, but Bob's faster, blood is shooting back on Nikhil’s behind the counter display case, and there is a sizzling hole through thief number one's shirt. Less than a second later, thief number two is on the ground with two shots to the chest and Frank thinks it was really much easier than he originally thought.
Bob's shaking on the inside; he just fucking killed someone, but outside, his face is set in stone as he slides the gun back into his inside pocket. "Call the police, but don't mention us," he tells Nikhil, who nods fervently, though he is trembling and obviously scared shitless. Bob looks over at Frank and nods his head to the door, pushing it open, that fucking bell ringing again.
"Let’s fucking go," Frank says, jumping into the passenger seat and putting his gun back under the seat. He is too wired to notice the blood flecks on the back of his hand and on his jacket. Doing this for a living would be pretty ace, he thinks and its crazy that he's not feeling regret and morally corrupt or something.
Bob quickly peels out of the parking lot, speeding down the road, glancing over his shoulder at the Quik-Stop. He lets out a long sigh, reaching a hand over and placing it on the back of Frank's head, ruffling his hair up a bit. His adrenaline is pumping now.
Frank turns his head and smiles, laughs even.
"I can't believe that just happened!" He feels seriously okay with his actions but that doesn't mean Frank's crazy. He's just doing some good - the first time anyone has done so in Boston (their area, at least). He knows they are safe, 'cause who's really going to call the cops? No one, exactly.
Bob let out a long sigh, this strange grin plastered on his face. "Fuck, Frankie. Just... fuck," He's laughing now, too, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his left knee bouncing like a mother. He rolls through a few stop signs and for once, he isn't focused on the people beyond their windows, making deals and ruining lives; his mind is replaying his finger pulling that trigger, doing something of importance.
How many other people could they save their city from? Come on, think about it, they've just got to be good and not lucky. Frank thinks they've got a little more than luck, but he's not positive. He might need a little more practice and he considers a few targets. Maybe that hooker standing with her fat ass hanging out of her skirt and penciled on eyebrows too dark even in the dim light. Maybe the guy picking her up, with his wife and kids at home wondering where he is - or hoping he's not where he's at. Frank's fingers are still trembling with excitement and the gun's vibrations, and shit, he's got a new side project going, he thinks.
Not really thinking where he's going, Bob ends up trying down the street that they dropped Nico off on. He pulls off and parks along the curb, the faint sound of some house party's hip hop thumping through the car. He looks over at Frank again, lips dry and eyebrows raised; he doesn't think he's ever felt this liberated before. "Fuckity fuck."
"I know, right? It's crazy." Frank smiles again and then shifts his eyes to the house they're in front of. He wouldn't doubt that it's the Way brothers' place, full of drugs and orgies and everything else. Frank really can't take it anymore; he flings open the door and steps out, his gun hidden beneath his waistband.
"Come on, lets get Nico the fuck out of this shithole," Frank says, poking his head in the open door, but Bob's already getting out and fuck, its like they're on the exact same page, same paragraph, same line.
Bob makes his way around the car, his Colt tucked inside his jacket and for a concise second, he envisions himself in cowboy boots and a hat, being some East Coast, urbanized Clint Eastwood. He glances at Frank briefly as they head towards the door, walking around past out drunken teenagers and overdosed crack addicts.
Frank kicks people and it's not even close to an accident, half of them protest and the other half are barely conscious. He sees a kid, well, not a kid, an adult, with hair that’s neither long nor short and it’s black and spiky. Frank knows its Gerard, he's seen him around. This guy doesn't look the type, really, who'd live in a drug house, with that innocent, young face, but he is and Frank knows that evil fuckers can be deceiving.
Bob leads the way into the rundown house (or what's left of it, really), the smell of body odor and sex and chemicals filling his nostrils. He keeps his eyes peeled for Nico as he scopes out the room, feeling someone grab onto his arm. "Bob!" a voice cracks and when Bob turns his head, he sees the grinning face of little Mikey Way, his hair mused and his tight shirt riding up his stomach. Bob lifts an eyebrow, amazed that the kid still remembers him; they only met once, briefly, a year or so ago.
Frank turns his head and lifts his eyebrow, mouth drawn. He observes Mikey smiling a slightly vague smile at Bob and his fingers twitch when he hears Mikey sniffling. He crosses his arms, keeping his ears on Bob and Mikey and his eyes flitting around the room, gathering evidence and making a list. Nico is here somewhere, and Frank's going to get him the fuck out.
"I thought you'd never," Mikey hiccups, "come here. You said you weren't into this stuff. I should've known you'd come around," the skinny boy grins, leaning into Bob, sliding his hand along the other man's thigh.
Bob can smell the alcohol on his breath and it takes a lot of willpower to not just shove him away. "Where's Nico?"
Mikey's smooth fucking hand is about to be shot off his damn wrist, Frank thinks. He doesn't move though, because Mikey might possibly know where Nico is. If he doesn't, well then, Frank might just punch him in the face, just because he's pissed enough to. He sees Gerard move and Frank slinks back, because fuck if he wants Gerard to notice him. He looks at Bob, then to the crowd.
Mikey's grinning this toothy smile at Bob, his long fingers curling around the hem of Bob's jacket. "Oh, so three's more your thing? That's cool with me," he nods, gently tugging Bob down a cluttered, dark hallway. Bob looks over his shoulder at Frank with a distasteful look, nodding his head, motioning for him to follow. Mikey leads them to a halfway open door, pushing it open and sure enough, there's Nico sprawled out on a stained, worn couch.
Frank wants to shove Mikey aside and run to his brother but before he takes three steps into the room, he freezes. Fear like he's never experienced rages through his body and he's afraid it's going to burst through each pore of his skin. Nico's lying there, but he's not lying. He’s just there, collapsed and stiff looking. Frank grips Bob's forearm and surveys the scene. There's a couple on the other chair making out slowly and they're gripping at each other in the same room as this travesty. Heroin needles are on the floor and there are lines of cocaine on a mirror. Nico's in the midst of this and he's too far gone. He's not even here and Frank can't fucking breathe.
Bob looks over at Frank, his eyes softening considerably. He feels really uncomfortable and even though Nico doesn't know his name, he wants to scoop him up in his arms and get him the fuck out of there. Because, yeah, that's Frank's little brother, his baby brother that he practically raised and he can't even begin to imagine what Frank's going through. Bob blinks when he feels a pair of lips moving along his jaw, thin hips pressing into his and long arms winding around his neck.
Frank is fucking quick, his breath rushing back through him and out his flared nostrils. His fist connects with Mikey's jaw, enough to probably break Frank's hand or something.
"You fucking cunt. Don't you fucking touch him," Frank screams at Mikey, who is on the ground now, holding a hand to his jaw and a nursing a glossy, wide eyed look. Frank grabs at Bob's jacket, staring at him frantically and letting go, not quite sure what action to take. He turns back to Nico and rushes to his side because this is worse than just a fucked up kid. Frank touches Nico's face and hands, matching up their life-lines and hopes that maybe it'll do some good. It doesn't and Frank wants to cry and he cradles Nico’s face in his hands and feels the cold skin seeping into the creases of his knuckles. He's fucking terrified. Nico is just another statistic now. Seventeen and dead from an overdose on cocaine? Heroin? Meth?
Bob stands at the doorway, frozen in shock and maybe, just partly in fear. The couple playing tonsil hockey is still going at it and Mikey sits up on his elbows, whining and grasping around for his fallen, probably now broken glasses. Bob doesn’t know what to do.
Hesitantly, he walks up behind Frank, kneeling down silently and placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes are glued on Nico, the partly shut lids, eyes rolled back into his head. He’s pale, paler than Bob remembers him being and his eyes flicker between him and Frank before stopping on the latter.
Bob doesn’t remember ever seeing Frank look so vacant.
Frank is honestly considering taking out his gun and bringing Armageddon to this whole fucking crack house. But before he can even reach for his gun, Bob's hand is on his shoulder and he remembers Bob's father and his own father and how fucked up all of this is. He wants some sort of revenge, but somehow, all he can do is grieve. He sighs heavily and turns to Bob.
"Help me carry him, Bob, please?"
Without even a second thought, Bob nods and stands up slowly. He glances back over towards the door, seeing Mikey stand up, wobbling a bit. "Get out of the fucking way," Bob tells him sternly and he isn't even fucking kidding. If anyone as so much tries to slow them down or stop them or even look at them, he will not keep from beating their asses.
Mikey stumbles away from the door and Franks sure he probably doesn't even realized what happened. Frank and Bob carefully lift up Nico and carry him back through the house. Through the smoke and through the hurt.
-
Frank is sobbing on Bob's shoulder, who is soothing him with German phrases and Frank feels comforted and so fucking screwed up. He wants to blame himself and he does, he does and there’s nothing that will make him not. Nico's prone figure is lying on Frank’s bed at his apartment and he doesn't even care that he'll eventually sleep there.
Bob knows most everything. He knows that this shouldn’t have happened, to Frank and his brother nonetheless. But more importantly, Bob knows what they can do for vengeance, because fuck anyone who thinks they can just sit back and accept this.