Fic: Love and Other Cliches: bandombigbang, Frank/Gerard, PG-13, Part 2

[xaritomene]

Masterpost
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

**

Frank appeared at dinner - in the largest, draughtiest, most ill-lit Great Hall Gerard had ever imagined - to be a little mollified and willing to negotiate.

He was less impressed by the enormous golden turkey, the delicately prepared lamb shanks and the enormous, steaming side of beef which were laid out on the side-board.

“Don’t they know these things are animals?” He hissed, apparently ready to overlook Gerard’s transgressions in favour of maligning their surroundings. “Where are the fucking vegetables?”

Gerard’s eyes fell on a large platter of potatoes in the middle of the sideboard. “There,” he said, and hauled the heavy mahogany chair out from under the table. “Christ, that thing is heavy.”

Frank grinned at him, already sat down at the head of the table. “I’m sorry, should I have pulled it out for you?”

“Clearly,” Gerard rolled his eyes and sat down. “That’s just bad manners. I expect to be treated like a lady.”

“You do know you’re not actually Barbara, right?” Frank said, grinning unrepentantly. “Though, I gotta admit, the dress was smoking.”

“Fine, fine,” Gerard sighed, hamming it up. “Don’t give me the respect my delicate sensibilities require. Just don’t expect me to put out tonight.”

Frank choked on a mouthful of water. “Oh, I won’t,” he spluttered. “I wasn’t aware it was an option.”

Gerard grinned at him, but before he could reply, they were interrupted by kindly old man, so frail he looked as though standing might kill him. From his right, Gerard heard Frank whisper, “dude, you’re way past retirement age!” It was something of a struggle to keep a straight face as the man - clearly the butler, and Gerard would think of him as Jeeves from now on - said kindly... something totally incomprehensible.

Perhaps ‘McJeeves’ was more appropriate.

Thankfully, it had been directed at Frank, who looked utterly cowed. “What?”

“Will ’is lairdship no hae ennae neeps?”

“…what?” Frank asked again, carefully.

“NEEPS!” He said clearly and with the expression of one addressing a slow but promising child.

“Oh. Um. Sure?” He glanced at Gerard as the old man tottered away, and said sotto voce, “what the fuck is a ‘neep’?”

Gerard shrugged. He had no idea.

‘Neeps’ turned out to be a root vegetable of some kind, boiled out of all recognition, and Frank poked it dismally as it was placed down in front of him.

“Um, I’ll have some potatoes too, please,” he said, pointing at the bowl of roast potatoes. McJeeves placed two or three on his plate and made to take them back to the sideboard. Frank, foreseeing hours of watching the man die by inches whilst ferrying things to and fro, smiled as sweetly as he could whilst totally confused, and said, “in fact, just - leave the bowl. Er, please.”

McJeeves smiled fondly. “Tatties always was yon best, eh?” Frank considered it safest just to smile and nod. “And fer ye Ladyship?”

Gerard correctly assumed he was being addressed. “Um, yeah, I’ll go a neep or three,” he nodded complacently, “and, er, hack a bit off Bambi for me, would you, please?” Frank was watching him with wide, betrayed eyes, but Gerard ignored him and offered McJeeves his sweetest smile.

“What was ye Ladyship’s pleasure?” The man looked confused and Gerard was actually worried it might just do for him, so he simply pointed.

“A couple of slices of, um, that, please.”

What felt like hours later, McJeeves arrived back at the table with a slab of venison and some unidentifiable mush on a plate, setting it down before Gerard with a fond, yellow-toothed smile. “Y’always wair a bonnie brithy lassie, even t’were a maidie!”

“Oh, you bet,” Gerard agreed and gave Frank a gimlet-eyed look when he sniggered a little.

Frank, whilst they watched the man redundantly hack at the small cow on the sideboard, had been gloomily stabbing potatoes and chewing them. The continual crunching sound was starting to fray Gerard’s nerves, and McJeeves seemed to share his disapproval. “Is yer Lairdship no partaking of yon ven’son, laddie?”

“...no.” Frank looked hunted.

“Well,” he patted Frank on the shoulder, “love’s a fair, fickle thing, lad, but Mrs. McFigle’ll be in doldrums if you cannae be persuaded-”

“I can’t,” Frank said quickly, clinging on to the one part of the sentence he had understood. McJeeves pursed his lips, but thankfully tottered off. Frank stabbed another potato. “What I want to know,” he said, mid-chew, “is where or what is ‘doldrums’?”

“I think it’s near Glasgow,” Gerard lied, sawing futilely at his chunk of meat.

“So, what are we going to do about the whole making out thing?” Frank asked, taking a forkful of the neep-mash and pulling a face.

“Performance anxiety?” Gerard asked, waggling his eyebrows. He seemed inappropriately cheerful for the situation they had found themselves in, but Frank was pretty sure that this was the manifestation of built-up hysteria.

“Funny,” he said blandly.

“I think we need to read the book,” Gerard said, finally succeeding in separating a mouthful of venison from the rest of the mountain and chewing energetically.

“Haven’t you got the format of these books memorised?” Frank asked, shoving his plate away and leaning back in his chair. “I know where you keep your stash.”

Gerard went pink in the candlelight, but reacted with as much dignity as he could manage. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes. Like this afternoon.”

Frank sighed. “OK, we’ll read the fucking book. But it’s going to be awful.”

**

“The last thing she heard was that raw hungry muttering of her own name - Barbara... not really great in the throes of passion, is it? - as his head turned, his mouth taking hers. But from that moment, the world and everything else in it faded into the red swirling haze that was all that in her mind. Her eyes closed as his mouth took hers, his kiss crushing her lips apart-”

“That’s gonna hurt,” Gerard commented, lying with his head casually in Frank’s lap.

“Shut up and let me read. Breath mingling, urgh, tongues tangling together. Such was the force of his kiss that she swayed violently and would have fallen if the steely strength of his arms hadn’t come round her, fastening tight and holding her up, clamped hard against the lean power of his body...”

“I’d have to crouch down for you to hold me up,” Gerard said, craning his head to see the pages of the book. “Are you making this shit up?”

“Oh, I couldn’t. Later on, your skin is supposed to prickle ‘as if under the assault of sensual pins and needles’. Seriously, Gee, how can you read this shit?”

“Gets me out of my head,” Gerard said simply. “So, we have to tangle and mingle and shit, huh?”

“Tomorrow.” Frank shrugged. “You should probably - I don’t know, go find that Brendon kid, make sure they haven’t eaten him.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Gerard said. “He’s gone native.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, he was mumbling some shit about porridge and tartan. I don’t think neeps came in anywhere, but give him time...”

Frank digested this in silence. “Huh. OK. Shall I read on?”

“I think I’d really rather pull out my own fingernails.” Gerard stretched and sat up. “Bed?”

“You should probably go,” Frank gestured at the door. “You know. You’ve probably got a bedroom somewhere.”

Gerard shrugged. “I’m not wandering around this castle at night. I’m staying here.”

“There’s... only one bed.”

“Dude, we’ve shared a van, a bed in some pretty shitty motels, and more bunks than I want to count. And tomorrow, we have tangling and mingling to do, so. This is no time for false modesty.” Without further ado, he kicked off his shoes and wriggled into the enormous bed. “Anyway, this thing is huge. We won’t even have to see each other in the morning if we don’t want to.”

Frank sighed - that hadn’t been the source of his worries. “Whatever,” he shrugged and yanked off his jacket and the really uncomfortable cravat, sliding into bed beside Gerard, blowing out the candle and staring up at the ceiling in the strangely bright firelight.

**

When he woke a few hours later, Gerard was curled into him, snoring lightly into his collarbone. For a couple of moments, he lay there, then grinned and fell back asleep, one arm wrapped around his friend.

**

Next morning, Frank woke far earlier than Gerard and found that short of reading more of the frankly terrible ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’, there was next to nothing to do. He disentangled himself and climbed out of bed, knotting his cravat loosely around his neck for a thin veneer of respectability, before heading downstairs to see if he could get himself some breakfast without having to deal with McJeeves.

He was politely but firmly ushered out of the kitchen by Mrs. McFigle, apparently the cook, and headed back towards the main part of the house, thankfully edible bread-and-jam in one hand. He almost made it to the stairs before he was intercepted by McJeeves in the hallway.

“Ach, you’re up, the noo!”

“Oh God,” Frank said quietly to himself before turning to his butler. “I’m up the what?”

“And it’s a bricht, bonny day! An’ is yer Lairdship in to callers?”

Frank’s mouth worked soundlessly for a couple of seconds as he tried to think of a suitable reply. Finally he settled on, “yes?”

“Because milady McGool is a-waitin’ for ye in the drawing room, milord.”

“Oh,” Frank said disinterestedly and attempted to mount the stairs before a hand clamped down on his arm and he was tugged, with surprising force for someone who looked like a frail octogenarian, back down towards what he presumed was the drawing room.

In the sun-flooded drawing room, a tall, severe-faced woman waited for him, hair drawn back so tightly as to look painful. “Well then, Francis Brackenthwaite!”

“That’s me, right?” Frank said cautiously.

“I should just say it is,” she snapped in thankfully unaccented English. “Normally, I wouldn’t deign to enter your ill-gotten abode-”

“Er… okay? You don’t have to?” Frank wished he knew what was going on.

“I haven’t come on your account! I just wanted to tell you that I, and all your nearest neighbours, think the way you treat that poor girl is unconscionable!”

“Poor girl?”

“You know very well who, sir!” She ranted on, eyes flashing.

“Oh! You mean Barbara!”

“That would be Lady McAllister to you, sir, the boots of whom you are not fit to lick!”

“Kinky,” Frank said quietly to himself.

“You mock her pain! Of which you are the cause!” She shook her finger in his face, and though Frank was ashamed to admit it, she was kind of hot - for a raving psycho. “I have heard, sir, that you forced her to stay on your vile hospitality, which must be an exquisite kind of torture for her now that her castle has been wrenched from her grasp, and in doing so intend to ruin her reputation-”

“Lady, I didn’t force anyone to do anything,” Frank snapped back, getting annoyed. The woman was loud. “Also, who the fuck are you?!”

“You may mock me, sir, but I will have Lord Stevens here within the hour! He will save that poor sweet girl from you! He’s twice the man you are.”

“Not hard,” Frank said deprecatingly. Her eye twitched a little and she drew herself up.

“If you would be so good as to ring for someone to see me out, I will be back shortly!”

“Sure, sure,” he agreed, tugging hopefully on a bell-cord, “you and Lord Stevie. Can’t wait.”

Brendon appeared at the door, looking far too comfortable in his breeches. “What can I do you for?”

Frank blinked. “Um. The lady wants to be-”

“I wish to leave!” she snapped. Brendon nodded amiably, clearly unsure as to what was stopping her. “If you would be so kind as to show me to my carriage?”

“Oh, sure. One carriage, right this way.”

Frank waited a minute until he could no longer hear their footsteps, then legged it for the bedroom.

**

Gerard was just sitting up in bed, scrubbing one hand over his face, when Frank burst through the door. Grabbing a glass of water, Frank thrust it at him. “Get rid of your morning breath, we have kissing to do.”

“Wha’?” Gerard mumbled at him intelligently, still two-thirds asleep.

“Kissing, Gerard, now!”

“Stairwell,” Gerard responded cleverly.

“That’s where we’re going, as soon as your breath won’t kill me. C’mon, hurry up!” He hopped from foot to foot. “Otherwise the ghoul and Lord Steven will be back before we know it. We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Where’s Brendon?” Gerard said, taking a swig of water.

“He’s probably lurking somewhere talking about neeps,” Frank said, “he’s fine. Come on!” He dragged Gerard, barefoot, towards the nearest stairwell. “This’ll do, come on!” He shoved Gerard, apparently still barely half-sentient, back against the wall, pinning against it and poking him in the side to stop him from falling back asleep. “Hey, Gee, we have making out to do.”

“Mmph,” Gerard agreed sleepily.

Frank considered elucidating further, but decided to cut to the chase rather than waste valuable time. Leaning forwards, he kissed Gerard firmly on the mouth.

It was absolutely nothing like the romance novel described, but that was kind of par for the course. For one thing, Gerard still wasn’t entirely awake, and had apparently kissed back entirely on instinct rather than out of any genuine desire to reciprocate. For another, there were no fireworks, no crushed lips, no fainting and no seared souls, though Frank’s ego was starting to feel a little singed, especially when Gerard yawned.

“OK, fine, I’ll come back when you’re awake,” Frank said, trying to step back, but Gerard hooked his fingers into Frank’s lapels with a wordless sound of protest.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, and yanked Frank back against him. The kiss which followed was messy, unrefined, and definitely not the best Frank had ever had - not by a long shot. But it was Gerard, and that helped some.

“Shall we try that again?” Frank asked carefully, and Gerard nodded. Frank leant forwards and pressed a careful kiss to Gerard’s lips. Gerard hummed happily, lips curving into a smile as his arms looped around Frank’s neck, fingers in his hair. It was Gerard who deepened the kiss, licking at Frank’s lower lip and waiting until Frank responded. One of Frank’s hands cupped Gerard’s face, and Gerard made a warm, sleepy sound of encouragement - and Frank was so, so fucked. Instead of thinking about how screwed over he was, he concentrated firmly on kissing him, licking into Gerard’s mouth, pulling back to graze his teeth over Gerard’s bottom lip. For a few minutes, the world dissolved into a haze of warm, clinging kisses, and all Frank was really aware of were Gerard’s hands in his hair, his mouth against his.

Finally, he pulled back for a moment, out of breath and dizzy, leaning his head against Gerard’s shoulder and panting a little, mouthing I love you, I love you, I love you against his neck in a low murmur.

And then the bottom fell out of the world.

**

[It was then that Bob realised the flaw in his carefully-constructed magical plan. The spell had been created to make sure they confessed their love for each other - but he had never mentioned anything about them having to believe it.

If it had been a smaller working, Bob might have been able to change it. But this was full-on, reality-bending, mind-altering magic, and messing around with it now, whilst Frank and Gerard were still in the middle of it, could only cause trouble. They could be stuck there forever, and Bob certainly did not want that. Hopefully, and Bob was well aware that this hadn’t worked all that well before, they would get the message by themselves.

There was nothing he could do but wait it out - and hope that the damned thing didn’t grasp onto any other members of other bands. Apparently the Urie kid from Panic! at the Disco had collapsed and was still unconscious four hours later.

Bob was starting to think he was a little out of his depth.]

**

Gerard opened his eyes to find himself in the middle of a street somewhere, a carriage hurtling full-speed towards him. He threw himself out of the way just in time and realised, as tripped onto the kerb, that it was raining. When he went to wipe away the mud the carriage-wheels had sprayed over him in abundant quantities, he realised he was wearing another fucking dress.

“Where did the pants go?!” he asked the street at large, and retreated to a doorway to rifle through his surprisingly large reticule in search of clues. Sure enough, there was ‘Bought for a Bride’, resplendent with its purple cover and vacantly-smiling heroine, who was, according to the back-cover blurb, ‘innocent’, despite the fact that she combined this innocence with a budding career as a high-class hooker.

Gerard allowed himself to be a little confused.

More worrying still was the mention of Barbara’s younger brother, apparently a cheeky, loveable eight year old. If Gerard was saddled with a bratty kid as well, he was going to hurt someone.

Brendon was nowhere in sight, but then, neither was Frank - for all Gerard knew, he’d been catapulted into this story entirely alone. He couldn’t think of a more frightening prospect.

Fear and growing annoyance gave him the courage to snap, “fuck off and die!” at the first person who enquired after the price of ‘a roll in the hay’, and he plumped himself down in a doorway out of the rain and cracked open the book.

Barbara - for ‘Barbara’ was once again his name - had apparently just lost her parents in a tragic carriage accident, and had been left all-but destitute by her wayward father’s gambling debts. Gerard wasn’t entirely sure how she’d been able to afford the house in Belgravia, but then, no one had been checking these books for realism, it seemed. At least the book had been kind enough to give him a fairly exact address. However, that didn’t help him with where he was right now - or with the money for a cab. Standing once more and now-instinctively shaking out his skirts, he glanced around for aid.

There was no one in the street, except a tall, dark-haired man (who was clearly not Frank, Gerard surmised with some chagrin) who, as he came nearer, was shown to be sporting a small moustache. Gerard’s exhaustive knowledge of these books told him that this guy was clearly Bad.

Still, he was the only option. “Excuse me,” he said as politely as he could. “Could you help me out for a moment? I need directions.”

“Certainly, my dear,” the man said, grabbing hold of his hand and placing a slimy kiss upon it with a salacious look. “For a price.”

Gerard paused. “OK, am I Vivien here, or are you?”

“If Vivien is your name, lovely lady-”

“Oh my god, no wonder you have to pay to get laid,” Gerard said to himself.

“I like a girl with spirit!” He was informed, and, failing to think of a polite reply, Gerard extricated his hand and offered him a wide, insincere smile.

“Directions? Please?”

“Street name for a kiss,” the man bargained, sidling closer. “We’ll - thrash out - the rest of the bargain from there.”

Gerard paused. “Fine by me,” he nodded, and found himself once more shoved against a wall. Apparently, this was standard fare. The kiss which followed was slimy and strangely - handsy. Gerard could feel the guy’s hands unbuttoning the back of his dress, and he shoved him off, hard. “Dude, not in the contract!”

“Oh come, my dear, this is where all the doxies walk. Are you honestly trying to tell me that you’re not-”

“Yes, I am. Or at least,” he added irrelevantly, “I think so? I’m really fucking indecisive about it. Oof!”

Apparently, he thought as he was pushed back onto the wall, again, that hadn’t been the right answer. The man’s hand was squeezing his ass, which was surprisingly fucking painful, and after a minute or so of fighting to get the other wandering hand out of the top of his dress, Gerard lost his temper. With one high-heeled boot, he stamped hard on the guy’s foot, then firmly kneed him in the balls.

“Ha! Weren’t expecting that, now, were you?” He asked, standing triumphantly over the crumpled whimpering figure.

“You’ll pay for that, slut!” The man groaned, and Gerard smiled sweetly down at him.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but not until chapter seven. We’ve got time.”

A thankfully familiar voice cried, “Oh my fucking God, Gee?! Is everything alright?”

“Excuse me,” Gerard said politely, stepping delicately over his fallen assailant and heading towards Frank. “You’re late,” he told him, book clasped in one hand.

“For what?”

“To be my glorious rescuer.” There was the suggestion of ‘duh’ in Gerard’s tone.

“What was I supposed to be rescuing you from?” Frank asked, and Gerard jerked a thumb back at the still-moaning figure behind him.

“That,” he said simply.

Frank craned his head to look round Gerard. “Huh... looks like you did a pretty good job by yourself, actually.”

“It’s because I’m awesome,” Gerard said modestly. They walked along in silence for a moment. “Do you have money on you?” Gerard asked finally. “Because I know where I’m supposed to be living, and we could get, like, a cab or something.”

“Do they even have cabs now?”

“I don’t know, a hackney or whatever. Something like that. I’ll give you the backstory on the way.”

After a couple of nonstarters and one too many attempts to flag down private carriages, they finally bagged themselves a hackney cab, and Gerard gave the address. Settling back and putting his feet up on the bench opposite, he began.

“So, you’re, like, this rake, you know? Sir Francis Montmorency. And you’re reformed, for no decently explained reason since you spend the majority of the book with a hard-on for the beautiful, helpless and strangely insipid Barbara McAllister.”

Frank took this in his stride. “OK. So, what was the beautiful helpless Barbara doing in a back alley at midnight?”

“Turning tricks,” Gerard said, pulling a face. “But she’s a bit crap at it. I don’t think she’s got the hang of it. She keeps going on about her virtue and her honour and shit.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a lost cause for a hooker?” Frank asked, kicking absently at Gerard’s feet on the opposite seat.

Gerard gave him a stern look. “People are forced into prostitution, Frank, it’s not a-”

Frank waved a hand. “Save it, I get it,” he said, not unkindly. “Hooking is a shitty thing for anyone to have to do, of course it is, and if I have to sit through another of your lectures on it, I’mna cry. Point is, Barbara sounds like a nutjob.”

Gerard considered it. “I don’t think common sense is her strong point.” A faintly awkward pause, and he strove to change the subject. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing much. Wandering around, trying to find you. I couldn’t find Brendon either, so if he’s not waiting for you back home, he’s probably back in real life. Lucky little fucker.”

“He’ll be confusing Wentz by talking about neeps and porridge, it’ll be fine,” Gerard said, leaning back. “So, what’s the plan of action?”

“Read the book, I guess. Again. The new one. What’s it called?”

“‘Bought for a Bride’.” Frank grimaced. “Apparently, I give up my life of sin and prostitution in favour of letting you buy me as your bride. No, honestly, you actually buy me.”

“Nice. Um, quick question - if you’re letting me buy you, why do I have to marry you?”

“Dunno. Haven’t got that far yet. I think maybe you want to do something creepy like adopt my brother.” Gerard leafed through ‘Bought for a Bride’. “You’re pretty taken with him, pudding bowl haircut and all.”

Frank looked worried. “I have to adopt Mikey!?”

“Timmy, actually. He’s eight. And annoying.”

“And... I like him why?” Frank asked.

“Apparently, you miss your own little brother. Who died. Whilst skating - on the Thames, it says here.”

“Can you even skate on the Thames?”

“I don’t think so,” Gerard said absently, still reading. “Which is probably why he died.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey, Gerard squinting at the book in the half-darkness and occasionally reading choice snippets aloud - “her dress of clinging primrose silk, seriously?” “It’ll never go with your complexion...” - until they arrived back at the McAllisters’ crumbling Belgravia mansion.

“Yeah,” Frank said, looking up at the seven storeys, “I can see you’re real poor.”

“I know. Tragic, isn’t it?” Gerard shoved at the door, which was miraculously unlocked, and stepped into the marble-floored hallway. “Upkeep on this has got to be a bitch. Charlotte? Timmy?”

“Gee!?” Came floating out of a room off the side, and then Mikey appeared in the doorway. Mikey, Gerard was jealous to note, got pants. He also, however, got a ridiculously ruffled shirt and jacket in an attractive shade of puce.

“Mikey!” Gerard flung himself at him. “You’re Timmy! You’re my little brother!”

Mikey accepted the hug with equanimity, patting Gerard on the back and making surprisingly emotive ‘what the fuck’ eyes at Frank over his shoulder. “Er, yeah. Have been for a while, dude.” He disentangled himself. “What the fuck is this place? And why are you in a dress?”

“I’m a hooker,” Gerard informed him pleasantly. “Can I borrow some pants?”

**

As Gerard rifled through countless drawers in Mikey’s - nursery - Frank and Mikey perched on the child-sized bed and thrashed things out. “Basically,” Frank said, “we’re going from romance novel to romance novel, and we don’t know why.”

“What’ve you had so far?”

“So far, I’ve been a concubine, and Frank’s been a dick in a castle,” Gerard said over his shoulder, holding up a pair of navy blue breeches consideringly.

“What?”

“I was a laird,” Frank said repressively, “and I ate neeps.”

Whilst Mikey digested that, Gerard added, “and hey, that Brendon kid was there!”

Briefly, Mikey considered this. “I guess that’s why they couldn’t wake him up.” he said finally, “Pete’s been climbing the walls.” Mikey glanced up at his older brother, who was giving him a knowing (not to mention faintly disapproving) look. “Patrick rang Bob,” he added, shrugging. “Anyway, it’s all kind of a big deal back in the real world. You two’ve been asleep for like, half a day now.”

“Well,” Gerard considered what comfort he could give in this situation. “Brendon’s probably awake now?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mikey said drily. “So how do we get out of here?”

“I don’t know. We get out of one novel just to fall into the next one!”

“What’s the common factor?” Gerard and Frank presented him with identical looks of confusion. Mikey rolled his eyes. “Just before you leave one plot and arrive in the next, what happens?”

“Last book,” Frank said slowly, pointedly not looking at Gerard, “we were making out...” Mikey looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon sideways. “But with the desert one-”

“You said ‘I love you’,” Gerard said, and Frank flushed dully. “And hang on, didn’t you say that in the Scottish one as well? I heard you!” Frank was staring fixedly at the floor.

“OK!” Mikey said, rather too loudly, mainly to preserve Frank’s dignity. “That’s the common factor, then.”

“We tried that,” Gerard said morosely. “It didn’t work.”

“What do you mean, tried?”

“I said it! Like, the moment we got into the Scottish thing. Or, y’know, the moment Frank woke up from his head wound. How is your head, by the way?” Gerard added, as Mikey looked alarmed.

“Not bad,” Frank gingerly felt the back of his head. “It’ll do. And hey, at least your black eye’s fading.”

“What the fuck kind of romance novels have you been in?!” Mikey demanded, worn down into an emotional response.

“In Gerard’s defence, he was assaulted,” Frank said, “I just fell off my horse.”

“But you did it with dignity!” Gerard said earnestly.

“Anyway,” Mikey steered them carefully back on course, “how do we get home? We’ve got a show in a couple days and having no frontman or rhythm guitarist could make things awkward.”

Gerard and Frank exchanged helpless looks. “Well, I guess we just follow the book?” Gerard offered.

“Until one of you feels moved to say ‘I love you’?” Mikey asked bitingly. Gerard and Frank went pink and refused to meet each other’s eyes. Mikey threw his hands up in despair. “God, you’re idiots. Fine, if that’s what’s worked before, we’ll go with that. Now can we eat? I’m starving.”

**

Regency life, it turned out, was shockingly dull. There was a devoted housekeeper-come-cook and the apparently-requisite decrepit butler - though this one, thankfully, could be understood - but apart from one very trying cup of tea with a well-meaning elderly lady, the three of them kept pretty much to themselves.

It wasn’t a happy experience. After the incident with the horse and Gerard’s near-mauling by the moustachioed slimeball meant Frank wasn’t exactly dying to sample the delights of the romance novel by himself, and so stayed in the Belgravia mansion with the others. This would have been fine, had everything not been paralytically awkward between him and Gerard since their conversation with Mikey. Worse, the weather in Romance Novel London was vile; it was fucking cold and it rained for days on end, which meant they were all trapped inside without the least inclination to go out. Rising claustrophobia, frankly uncomfortable clothes and no other company apart from themselves led to fraying tempers, and by the second week, Frank would cheerfully have killed both the Ways and himself.

Eventually, Mikey put his foot down.

“Unless you two go out and do things, we’re going to be stuck here, like, forever. And I really, really do not want that. So, Gerard, put on your prettiest dress and go walk somewhere.” Gerard, who had been happily wandering around in Mikey’s breeches for the past couple of days, scowled. “And you,” Mikey pointed at Frank, “go home! Walk with Gee in the park if you have to,” he muttered something to himself which sounded suspiciously like ‘you lovesick little fucker’, “but then go home. Organise a ball or something, Jesus. And maybe the firelight and the fucking waltzing will make you want to propose marriage to Gerard on the spot.”

Frank went scarlet and muttered something indistinct. When it become clear that Mikey had not heard him, he cleared his throat and said, carefully without looking at Gerard, “how do I arrange a ball, then, genius?”

“Go home,” Mikey repeated, “and get one of your scarily devoted staff to do it for you.” He jammed his little sailor hat back on his head. “Guys, I wanna go home. If I never have to see another adult-sized sailor suit again, it will be too soon, OK?”

Gerard looked suitably chastened - Frank looked mutinous. “I don’t wanna throw a ball,” he whined. “A ball’s gonna suck.”

“Gerard will do drag for you,” Mikey promised. “And he will do his hair.”

“What?!” Gerard demanded, tuning back into the conversation properly.

Mikey met his eyes dead on. “Primrose silk, wasn’t it?”

Gerard turned betrayed eyes on Frank. “You gave him the book?”

“Dude, I had to. He’s five ten and he’s wearing a sailor suit! I had to give the guy something.”

“Fine. I will wear the horrible dress,” he’d seen it that very morning in his wardrobe and it was vile, “but Frank has to do all the hard work.”

Frank cut him an interested look. “Gimme some encouragement here - it’s a lowcut dress, right?”

Gerard quelled him with a look. “Pervert.”

**

Frank’s slavish staff worked scarily fast, and within three days - most of which Frank still managed to spend with the Ways in the crumbling Belgravia mansion and as far away from his own ‘home’ as possible - the wines had been ordered, the post-boys informed of the imminent disruption to traffic, the invitation cards sent out. (Apparently, Frank’s insistence that the Lady Barbara’s young brother be included had raised some eyebrows. Frank couldn’t bring himself to give a damn since Mikey was, in fact, twenty seven and had very little of the child left about him.)

Things were still a little awkward with Frank and Gerard. Having your feelings brutally laid out in Technicolor in front of the one you were trying to make sure never saw them ever was not fun. Joking around, making out, that was all fine - love was something a bit more complicated.

Maybe, Frank thought optimistically, maybe a ball could sort things out.

**

Mikey had simply ignored Gerard when he claimed there was ‘some freaky dude’ lurking around outside their house - Frank was inclined to take him a little more seriously, in that he just laughed at him (rather awkwardly, as per all of their recent interaction) instead of point-blank ignoring him. It wasn’t that Gerard was scared, precisely, and more that he remembered the events of Chapter Seven of ‘Bought for a Bride’ and was keen to avoid them, if at all possible.

Montmorency’s ball, however - for one did indeed take place - was Chapter Twelve, so he was pretty sure that they’d managed to skip the whole confrontation-and-besmirched-honour thing, and he was willing to put the worries about the potential stalker to one side in favour of worrying about the horrible dress. No matter how much he whined and complained, Mikey stood firm. He had to wear the dress, and he had to put his hair up. Gerard’s only consolation was that however tired he might be of the fucking dresses, Mikey had to be at least as tired of the giant sailor suits, of which little Timmy seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

When they went out to the carriage Frank had had sent round for them - Frank having only gone back to his house under duress - there was no sign of the lurking stalker, so Gerard felt free to enjoy hating his damn dress. And possibly the whole evening.

**

When they arrived outside Frank’s grandiose, ten-storey mausoleum of a house, Gerard gripped Mikey’s hand tightly.

“Um, Gee?” Mikey said, futilely attempting to try and extricate his hand. “You - I’m a big boy, OK, I can cross roads by myself. I have got road safety down, OK.”

“You’re eight years old!” Gerard said, somewhat shrilly. “People will expect it!”

“Gerard, I’m twenty seven. And I can feel your palm sweating, don’t even pretend this is for my benefit,” Mikey said dryly, heaving a sigh and allowing Gerard to tug him across the road.

“I just hate this dress, OK?” Gerard snapped, and Mikey sighed, trailing behind his brother, arm extended.

“Sure, sure...”

**

“There you are! Come on, we have to dance!” Gerard scowled up at Frank, who stood in front of him, hands on hips. He was perfectly happy to stay where he was - he’d managed to wedge himself into a corner and had been happily passing the hours glowering at everyone who looked like they were having fun at this torture-fest.

He gave Frank a wicked glare and ignored him. “Where’s Mikey?”

“He’s been button-holed by grandmas and they’re feeding him bonbons, it’s fine.” Frank grabbed Gerard’s hand and yanked him up. “Dancing, Gee. We’re dancing.”

Gerard only just managed not to whine that he didn’t wanna and instead grudgingly allowed himself to be towed onto the floor, all too aware of his horrible primrose dress. “Do you even know how to dance?” He demanded.

“No. Do you?”

“No. So why are we here?”

“Because the book says we have to,” Frank said pointedly. “And I want out. If I never have to wear pantaloons again, it will be too soon. Now,” he nodded up at the music gallery, then grabbed Gerard by the waist, “dance with me.”

“I’m sure,” Gerard said stiffly, flailing a hand out to find Frank’s, “that that passes for romantic in some parts of the world.”

“Oh, yeah,” Frank agreed distractedly. “So, it’s like a box step, right? One two three, one two three, one two three-”

“Four,” Gerard interjected firmly.

“One- what?”

“This is in four/four,” Gerard said, “not three/four.” Frank gave him a confused look. “Dude, it’s not a waltz.”

Frank rolled his eyes and ignored him. “One two three, one two three, one two three-”

“Four.” The word carried the merest suggestion of gritted teeth.

“One two three, one two three-”

“Four.”

Frank stopped them dead. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t care if it’s not in three/four, this is the only dance I vaguely know, so shut up and stop treading on my feet - you’re fucking heavy.” The words were said with a hurtful relish and Gerard’s mouth was set.

“Well, I wouldn’t be treading on your feet if you weren’t so fucking useless at everything!”

“Oh, I’m useless?”

“Yeah, you are-” Gerard began.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve been a dick for like a week now. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank demanded, stepping back and glaring at him.

“Nothing,” Gerard growled, “I just hate that we’re stuck here.”

“And that’s somehow my fault? If you could stop being a pissy bitch for five minutes-”

“Oh fuck off!”

“You’d realise that we’re all stuck here.”

“That’s not my fault,” Gerard said, dangerously quiet.

“I wasn’t, like, assigning blame,” Frank said. “I was just saying-”

“It’s not like you’ve been Mr. Cheery for the last few days. Ever since Mikey came up with th-”

“Just shut up and dance,” Frank snapped, shoving Gerard back into motion.

“So that’s what we’re doing,” Gerard muttered as they revolved in ever-decreasing circles.

It was perhaps for the best that the song ended there, and they separated with no little relief. Frank unbent for long enough to ask, under his breath, “why is everyone staring at us?”

Gerard, retaining something of an icy distance, said coolly, “because as far as they’re concerned, we might as well have been humping on the dance floor. No one waltzed back then, dumbass, let alone whatever retarded two-step you were doing.”

“Don’t call me a-!”

“Shut up, both of you, oh my god,” Mikey said, materialising between them. “The entire room’s had enough of this floorshow for one night. Frank - just go over there.”

“Are you seriously sending me to the naughty corner?”

“Just go,” Mikey ordered, and yanked his recalcitrant brother off the floor.

For a minute or two, he and Gerard sat in absolute silence, before Mikey decided to venture the first comment. “OK, Gee-”

“OK what!?” Gerard snapped.

“I didn’t say anything-”

“Oh, you didn’t need to, I could feel you judging me from here!”

“Why would you feel like I was judging you, Gerard?” He asked, with no inflection whatsoever.

“Shut up, you’re not ma,” Gerard told him, crossing his arms.

“No, but when you’re acting like a fourteen year old, I am the older brother,” Mikey informed him blandly.

“Oh, what do you know? You’re eight.”

Mikey ignored him. “You and Frank have to get along, otherwise we’re all stuck here.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gerard said sharply.

“But-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mikey stood. “There’s no point talking to you at all when you’re like this.” He stalked off into the crowd, little hat askew.

“Well I’m not wearing a sailor suit!” Gerard shouted after him, then, beginning to feel ashamed, huddled further into his horrible dress, wincing as the bodice billowed around his non-existent bust.

**

Mikey wound his way through the crowd over to Frank, who was sulking visibly, leaning against the wall and looking out over the room with a face like thunder - resolutely ignoring the girls in pastel who were giggling about his "brooding good looks". They had, after all, dealt with far worse as a band.

"If you're going to say, 'I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner', you can hold it," Frank informed Mikey preemptively. "He's been making stupid Jane Austen jokes like that all week, acting like he’s so fucking clever." He jerked his head in Gerard's direction, face black as thunder, though there was no real venom in his voice.

Mikey kept up the silence he knew Frank found particularly disconcerting for a full minute, settling against the wall next to him and surveying the crowd.

"Jesus, Mikeyway," Frank muttered finally, "fucking say something."

"Like what?" Mikey asked reasonably. "You're jumping down my throat, Gerard's being a little bitch about everything, so I'm just getting used to this place, because I don't think we're gonna be leaving it anytime soon."

Frank sighed heavily, a little - a very little - of the anger seeping out of his expression. "He's just being a jerk," he said. "And I don't even know why."

"Really?"

"We don't all have twenty eight years of Gee-speak to help us, Mikes," Frank said.

"I don't need twenty eight years of my brother to know that he's being a bitch because he can't think of any other way to react to this shit," Mikey said calmly. "Twenty minutes'll tell me that about anyone."

"Well, can't you go and work your Little Brother Magic anyway, and get him to act like a functioning human being again? And tell him from me, he’s acting like a dick."

Mikey raised his eyebrows. "OK, seriously, dude, I’m not being a messenger between you and Gee, we’re not actually in third grade anymore. It's your problem, and you’re grown fucking men, you can sort it out yourselves.” His mouth twitched into a half smile. “Shouldn’t take you that long, right?”

Frank sighed. "You think? Well, you’re gonna have to learn to love that sailor suit, s’all I’m saying."

Mikey didn't answer, because he didn't need to. The silence was enough. Frank cracked.

"Okay, okay. At least tell me something I can do to - I dunno - get back in his good books. Which is," he added, “fucking rich, because I don’t even know how I’m in his bad books.”

Mikey looked thoughtful. "Well, you could always -" he broke off, frowning, as something broke loudly - something fragile and made of china and probably expensive - in the next room.

"It’s not a party ‘til something gets trashed. God," he muttered to himself, "don't these people even care that shit's being broken?"

Frank shrugged. "This guy’s a millionaire, dude, he can stand the cost. It's not like Sir Francis Montague-"

"Montmorency."

"Whatever - gives a shit about a broken glass or two. He's too busy trying to get into your brother's pants. Er. Skirts."

"It disturbs me that you're talking about Gee like that, and it disturbs me that you're talking about Montmorency like he's not you."

Frank snorted. "Oh yeah. This dude is totally me." A wave took in the elaborately decorated ballroom, the footmen and Frank's own horribly over-elaborate suit.

Mikey shrugged. "You both cheat at cards."

"When have I ever cheated at cards?" Frank asked, affecting a wounded expression.

"You cheat like hell at gin rummy," Mikey reminded him. "Every single time we play."

"You choose the weirdest things to remember, Mikeyway. Anyway, why the fuck do we play gin rummy when there’s perfectly good Magic: The Gathering to be played?" Mikey snorted and Frank grinned, relaxing a little. "Your brother, man -" he began, and then frowned as another crash of breaking china came from the room next door. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Someone's playing frisbee with your crockery, hope you don't mind?" Mikey said absently, still watching the dancers.

Frank frowned. "Fuck, this is one of those things where I don't investigate and then it comes back to bite us in the ass three chapters down the line, isn't it?" he sighed, and straightened up, only to be accosted by a footman before he could so much as step towards the disturbance. "What the fuck is it?" he asked, as the man stood red-faced and nervous in front of him, and seemed perfectly content to do nothing else.

"There is a - a disturbance, sir-" the footman began, and Frank internalised his eye-roll.

"Yeah, I can hear that," he said pointedly.

"There is a gentleman, sir, I don't believe he was invited, and - well - the lady is being assaulted, sir!"
Mikey watched with interest as Frank turned a truly startling shade of pale. "Frankie?" He asked carefully. "What's up?"

"Chapter seven," Frank said simply, and all but shoved the footman out of the way in his haste to reach the next room.

It was like the weirdest sort of tableau, Frank thought dizzily; Gerard up against the wall, the creepy dude that had been hovering around the house for days (and Frank was really going to pay more attention to his frontman's ramblings from now on) looming over him, his hands around Gerard's neck and Frank in the doorway, staring silently. For a split second, Frank stood frozen, absorbing the picture, before the fact that Gerard was being throttled hit home and he hurled himself at the dude, knocking him off balance. Gerard choked and then coughed in earnest, hands coming up to rub his throat.

"Gee," Frank said urgently. "Gee, are you -" his legs were knocked from underneath him, and he hit the floor, Gerard's attacker above him.

"Montmorency," he nodded coolly, as though he hadn't tried to strangle Gerard and sent Frank sprawling across the carpet. "I was leaving." The fucker was actually making for the door, and Frank felt a comforting fizz of rage buzz behind his eyes.

Words were more Gerard's thing - Frank didn't bother coming up with a snappy comeback, he just launched himself at the bastard, catching him round the middle and sending him flying. Then he flung himself on top of the dick, punching him repeatedly in the face, the image of Gerard shoved up against the wall with the fucker's hands around his fucking throat, Christ - it was all too fresh in his memory. And maybe if the guy had been real, he'd have laid off, but he wasn't, he was just a book character, but he'd been trying - he'd tried to - Frank didn't even know what. It was only Gee's hand on his shoulder which got him to lay off.

"Frankie, it's OK," he sounded hoarse, but just about OK, though there was a ring of red rising around his throat. “You can stop, he's had more than enough, I think."

Frank was dimly aware of Mikey in the doorway, and the footman's horrified eyes over Mikey's shoulder, but he was too focussed on Gerard to really care. "Are you OK?" he asked, and Gerard gave a shaken little laugh.

"Er, I guess? Just about." He shook his head, then seemed to regret it. "But till I saw you in the doorway, Jesus," he broke off, and held out a hand to pull Frank off the bastard, who was glaring blearily at Frank from the floor, bleeding heavily from the mouth and nose. Frank could feel something rising in his throat, something a little like relief, but also horribly like terror, the delayed terror of watching someone try to fucking murder Gerard right in front of him. It had clearly shaken Gee, too, since the hand Frank was holding was cold and a little shaky, and he looked shocky and pale, an angry red ring - in the shape of handprints, fuck - around his neck.

"Christ," Frank muttered, and pulled Gerard in for a hug.

"I fucking love you," Gerard muttered into Frank's shoulder, and he clung on as the world melted around them.

**

This time, the spell didn’t even bother to check with Bob first, but Bob felt the shift anyway and held up a determined finger. “Wait!” He said firmly. “Go back! I wanna see.”

The spell showed him. Bob sighed. This was a long process, but they were, slowly, getting there. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Next.” That was when the curtain to his bunk was unceremoniously yanked back by Mikey, who looked both exhausted and pissed. “It wasn’t me?” Bob tried instinctively. He’d met this Mikey before and hadn’t liked it.

“I’m onto you, Bryar,” Mikey said, surprisingly fierce for one who spoke solely in monotone. “Tell me everything.”

--
Part 3
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Masterpost - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four