Silly ficlets: they're good for what ails ya.
Because today has just been about as depressing as a kicked puppy, allow me to present you with 677 words of untitled goofy bandom fic with a Bob/Frank twist. I'd like to blame the idea on apiphile, but I think the madness might've actually sprung from my brain this time. She just... encouraged it. *g*
“It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something,” Gerard said wonderingly.
“Go on, boy,” Bob encouraged, “What is it? Timmy’s in the well again?”
“You’re all horrible people,” Mikey said with as much of a glare as he could muster, doubled over panting with his hands on his knees, “And Frank is.”
Ray relinquished his seat on the trailer couch next to Bob, standing up to rub Mikey’s back soothingly. “This is why smokers without any actual muscle mass shouldn’t sprint places, Mikey,” Ray said, frowning when Gerard none-too-subtly stole his spot. “Why is Frank a horrible person?”
“No,” Mikey enunciated, “Frank is in the well.”
It took a minute before the volume of laughter had decreased to a level where Bob was able to catch Mikey’s wounded protestations about “…not a well-well, like a, a fucking cistern thing, oh come on, guys…” and realized they might actually have a problem.
“Wait, you’re serious?” Bob asked.
Mikey folded his arms and huffed. Various looks of oh shit were rapidly exchanged.
“What happened?”
“There was this hole with wooden boards over top of it and I guess Frank wanted to tap dance,” Mikey explained in a rush, “And then the boards broke and he fell down the well… the cistern, I swear I’ll hit you if you don’t stop laughing, Gee. If he drowned or whatever, I’m going to do a whole speech at his funeral about how it was your fault.”
“I think we’ve got some rope,” Ray ventured, heading for the back of the trailer.
“Maybe we should leave him down there,” Bob said, earning himself a scandalized look from Gerard. “Not forever. Just until he learns not to do dumbfuck things like tap dance on top of cisterns.”
“He said ‘Go get Bob’,” Mikey added. His shifty-eyed glance at Gerard was a reliable cue that he was lying his face off, but all things considered, Frank probably would be expecting Bob to come fish him out. That was just how things worked.
“Someone’s got to train him before he gets himself killed,” Bob warned grimly, but got to his feet just the same.
“Good man,” Gerard said, and sprawled out to claim the length of the couch for himself.
So that was why Bob was walking around behind the buses at the edge of the concert grounds, picking his way through the trash-spackled long grass with a length of rope slung over his shoulder. The cistern wasn’t too hard to find; the broken planks of wood around it kind of gave it away. Bob walked over to the concrete lip and peered down into the darkness, secretly a little freaked out by the silence. “Frank? You still down there?”
“Hi, Bob!” Frank’s voice rose up from the depths, echo adding a few extra ob ob obs along the way. “Jeez, took you long enough! Oh wow, you gotta get me out of here. It’s cold and it’s dark and it sucks.” There was a splashing noise kind of like a tiny maniac guitarist bouncing around in the bottom of a fucking cistern.
“I’m not pulling you up until you’ve learned a lesson from this,” Bob said.
“What? Uncool, dude. Help me up!”
“The lesson is: We don’t jump around on things that we might fall into,” Bob prompted. (It was easier to maintain his resolve when Frank couldn’t give him The Eyes.) “Lesson learned?”
“Bob,” Frank called tremulously, “It’s really fucking cold and I think there are spiders down here. Please let me up.”
Bob sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“Please, Bob?”
And so Bob pulled his shoulder hauling Frank up and got his new shirt soaked during the grateful tackle that ensued, and Frank never did learn his lesson about the dangers of tap dancing on top of wells.
(However, later that evening when Frank was on his knees blowing Bob behind somebody’s tour bus with all his usual enthusiasm and something awfully close to hero-worship in his eyes, Bob decided that he was pretty okay with that after all.)
THE END :-D
“It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something,” Gerard said wonderingly.
“Go on, boy,” Bob encouraged, “What is it? Timmy’s in the well again?”
“You’re all horrible people,” Mikey said with as much of a glare as he could muster, doubled over panting with his hands on his knees, “And Frank is.”
Ray relinquished his seat on the trailer couch next to Bob, standing up to rub Mikey’s back soothingly. “This is why smokers without any actual muscle mass shouldn’t sprint places, Mikey,” Ray said, frowning when Gerard none-too-subtly stole his spot. “Why is Frank a horrible person?”
“No,” Mikey enunciated, “Frank is in the well.”
It took a minute before the volume of laughter had decreased to a level where Bob was able to catch Mikey’s wounded protestations about “…not a well-well, like a, a fucking cistern thing, oh come on, guys…” and realized they might actually have a problem.
“Wait, you’re serious?” Bob asked.
Mikey folded his arms and huffed. Various looks of oh shit were rapidly exchanged.
“What happened?”
“There was this hole with wooden boards over top of it and I guess Frank wanted to tap dance,” Mikey explained in a rush, “And then the boards broke and he fell down the well… the cistern, I swear I’ll hit you if you don’t stop laughing, Gee. If he drowned or whatever, I’m going to do a whole speech at his funeral about how it was your fault.”
“I think we’ve got some rope,” Ray ventured, heading for the back of the trailer.
“Maybe we should leave him down there,” Bob said, earning himself a scandalized look from Gerard. “Not forever. Just until he learns not to do dumbfuck things like tap dance on top of cisterns.”
“He said ‘Go get Bob’,” Mikey added. His shifty-eyed glance at Gerard was a reliable cue that he was lying his face off, but all things considered, Frank probably would be expecting Bob to come fish him out. That was just how things worked.
“Someone’s got to train him before he gets himself killed,” Bob warned grimly, but got to his feet just the same.
“Good man,” Gerard said, and sprawled out to claim the length of the couch for himself.
So that was why Bob was walking around behind the buses at the edge of the concert grounds, picking his way through the trash-spackled long grass with a length of rope slung over his shoulder. The cistern wasn’t too hard to find; the broken planks of wood around it kind of gave it away. Bob walked over to the concrete lip and peered down into the darkness, secretly a little freaked out by the silence. “Frank? You still down there?”
“Hi, Bob!” Frank’s voice rose up from the depths, echo adding a few extra ob ob obs along the way. “Jeez, took you long enough! Oh wow, you gotta get me out of here. It’s cold and it’s dark and it sucks.” There was a splashing noise kind of like a tiny maniac guitarist bouncing around in the bottom of a fucking cistern.
“I’m not pulling you up until you’ve learned a lesson from this,” Bob said.
“What? Uncool, dude. Help me up!”
“The lesson is: We don’t jump around on things that we might fall into,” Bob prompted. (It was easier to maintain his resolve when Frank couldn’t give him The Eyes.) “Lesson learned?”
“Bob,” Frank called tremulously, “It’s really fucking cold and I think there are spiders down here. Please let me up.”
Bob sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“Please, Bob?”
And so Bob pulled his shoulder hauling Frank up and got his new shirt soaked during the grateful tackle that ensued, and Frank never did learn his lesson about the dangers of tap dancing on top of wells.
(However, later that evening when Frank was on his knees blowing Bob behind somebody’s tour bus with all his usual enthusiasm and something awfully close to hero-worship in his eyes, Bob decided that he was pretty okay with that after all.)
THE END :-D