TS: I Never Had a Fear [Bob Bryar]
TS info post is located here.
This overlaps with the events in part two of Give'Em Hell, Kid.
~~~~
I Never Had a Fear
~Bob
The road has gotten worse. Bob does't know what happened. He wonders sometimes if his injury has skewed his perspective - that the situation really hasn't gotten any worse but instead the infection has, somehow, burned some of his tolerance out of him. Like a reverse immunization.
Generally when he starts to think this, Bob goes to find his band, settles in to listen as Gee and Frank bicker over comics and the feeling passes.
The truth of the matter is this kind of thinking makes him feel vulnerable, and Bob can't afford to feel vulnerable. He has to be vigilant and keep an eye on his band. It's hard enough without Mikey being around. Bob knows he's dedicated himself to his band, had decided long ago that this is his pack, dammit, but he hadn’t really realized what that meant until the Paramour, until Mikey left.
Mikey's absence is an itch Bob can't scratch. It's not like the feeling of the moon, the need to run or pull on fur. It's a hair shy of unbearable. He's not the only one to feel that way; he honestly doesn't know who's responding the worse to Mikey's absence, Gee or Frank. Ray's being quiet, at least. Though that makes Bob worry in different ways.
~~
Why he thinks separating himself from his den and his Alpha is the right choice, Bob will never know. At the time, all he feels is the urge to run run run and that shit is not happening at this venue. They are smack in the middle of the city, surrounded by concrete and too many strange humans. He's spent the last hour watching Frankie bouncing off the bus walls, almost vibrating out of his own skin. That wasn’t working well for anyone, so Bob pulls him up and out the door, hoping a bit of exploring will calm Frank down. Settling his own restlessness will be a bonus.
Of course it doesn't work out that way.
Bob knows this venue - between sound work and My Chem, he's been through this building a dozen times or more. So getting lost isn't a problem; it's a big fucking red flag of warning. Then the stench of sea-rot hits him, obliterating all other scents, and he knows they are in serious trouble.
//Shit. Frank.// Is his only thought.
He catches a glimpse of Frank out of the corner of his eye - he's followed Bob's lead, stripping down to skin. Bob is... a lot less surprised by that than he should be.
Then the tentacled assholes come right out of the walls, and he can only focus on getting the two of them back to the bus in one piece.
~~
Bob is busy blocking tentacles - and fucking hell, he is getting tired of tentacles, seriously what the fuck- so he stops worrying about Frank or specifically what Frank's going to see almost immediately.
//Good to know tentacle monsters are good for something.// He thinks, slashing up across a throat glistening with slime, the muck getting under his claws. Bob grimaces at the slick, clammy feeling, turns the expression into a snarl and lunges at the next creature.
There's a full-throated howl so close it sounds like it's being bayed directly in his ear. The sound - a battle cry- has the fur along his spine rising, his skin twitching. He knows that voice - though he's never heard it like this. The next thing Bob sees is a whirl of black fur pulling the monster at his left away, rending it limb from limb. Bob blinks, absently shredding the tentacle trying to cut off his air supply. Black fur, slender limbs, narrow muzzle and familiar hazel eyes...
//Well, shit.// He thinks.// Looks like I'm not the only one getting outed today. // Another tentacle and the prick of teeth on his shoulder has Bob focusing attention back on the fight.
Something in him, a knot of ever-present tension, loosens. While he doesn't relax his guard, Bob certainly feels safer. Frank has always had his back in the past. This just ups that certainty. Something fierce surges through him. Bob howls, not caring about who might hear, and dances through the fight. His steps have never been so light. In him, under the snarls, hums a song. It's just one word. pack pack pack
The fight's over quickly. There aren't that many tentacled horrors - eight or so, enough to take down two humans, and probably take out a single Fianin, especially if he was trying to protect someone. But two Fianin? Not a challenge, particularly since Frank fights like a berserker, like he's possessed.
Bob bounces a little on the balls of his feet, the fight still humming through him. That had actually been fun. He looks over at Frank. The smaller man's leaning against the wall; head tipped back, eyes closed. He's a mess, completely saturated in blood.
//Figures.// Bob thinks, with a wry grin. //Not that I'm much better.// He looks down at his pants and grimaces. //I liked these jeans too.//
A whimper has him looking up sharply at Frank.
Frank is staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. Bob can hear his breathing speed up, can smell fear and panic rising.
"Frank?" He says, trying to keep his voice gentle.
Frank looks up, wide-eyed - Bob knows he's not seeing him. In a blink, he's gone, wet footprints on concrete the only indication Frank had been there at all. Bob leans back against the wall. Ignoring the itch of drying blood and slime on his skin, he stares at the bodies slowly dissolving around him. Under the saline reek of the corpses, he can smell Frank. There's a sharp edge to that mingled scent that makes Bob wrinkle his nose. The familiar scent //smoke/sweat/hotel soap/hair dye/laughter// is intensified, imbued with the musk/fur/night scent that denote Fianin.
//I never noticed. I would have noticed, if it had been there, if he'd been...//
"Oh. FUCK." Bob snarls. And he takes off down the corridor, following the trail of the newly Shifted.
~~~
Bob tracks the familiar/unfamiliar scent markers through the concrete maze of the venue. Drying smears of blood and slime mark the path. Bob tilts his head, eyes darting across grey walls as he follows. So far, he hasn't seen anyone else, but his luck can hold for only so long. He turns another corner, slips through a set of double doors and Bob is assaulted by the reek of urine and disinfectant. Long practice stops him from covering his nose - the last thing he needs is the scent of slime caught in his sinuses for the rest of the day. The bathroom's dark, unlit, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. The light from the open door shines on a crumpled mound of paper towels piled up by one of the end sinks. Bob takes a deep breath - grimaces - and follows the mingled scent of blood and raw panic around the end of the row of stalls.
The bathroom's dark, but even if he was human, he'd still be able to find Frank.
Loud rasping gasps for air draws him on. Frank’s wedged in the corner farthest from the door, curled up in a tight ball of soaked denim and pale, inked limbs, wet dark hair and rapid heartbeats. Bob cautiously moves forward, bare feet quiet and careful on approach. He squats down well outside of Frank's personal space. Reaching out, he brushes fingers against Frank's arm. Skin twitches under his fingertips and Frank cries out, the sound a blend of whimper and sheer despair. Something in Bob flinches back at the sound, before snarling.
//No. Not acceptable.//
He leans forward, muscles in thighs and calves compensating for the position. Bob wraps fingers around a slender tattooed wrist.
"Frankie..." His voice is a low burr of sound in the darkness. The flesh under his grip shivers but Frank doesn't respond otherwise.
"FRANK." There's a bit of a growl in the name as his fingers tighten.
Bob sees a brief flail of fingers in the gloom //flash of moth wings in firelight// and then stillness. He growls outright and tugs. "Iero, don't you dare pussy out on me."
Hazel eyes snap up and meet his own. "Fuck you, Bryar. Let me have my fucking breakdown in peace."
“No.”
It takes Bob a half hour to talk Frank out of the bathroom. He tries to not think about time passing; and most of his attention is focused down on Frank. He’s aware of the still too rapid flutter of Frank’s breath, the way he curls his fingers tight enough into his own skin that he leaves indents. Later there will be a faint pattern of bruises, perfectly round, on his forearms.
This overlaps with the events in part two of Give'Em Hell, Kid.
~~~~
I Never Had a Fear
~Bob
The road has gotten worse. Bob does't know what happened. He wonders sometimes if his injury has skewed his perspective - that the situation really hasn't gotten any worse but instead the infection has, somehow, burned some of his tolerance out of him. Like a reverse immunization.
Generally when he starts to think this, Bob goes to find his band, settles in to listen as Gee and Frank bicker over comics and the feeling passes.
The truth of the matter is this kind of thinking makes him feel vulnerable, and Bob can't afford to feel vulnerable. He has to be vigilant and keep an eye on his band. It's hard enough without Mikey being around. Bob knows he's dedicated himself to his band, had decided long ago that this is his pack, dammit, but he hadn’t really realized what that meant until the Paramour, until Mikey left.
Mikey's absence is an itch Bob can't scratch. It's not like the feeling of the moon, the need to run or pull on fur. It's a hair shy of unbearable. He's not the only one to feel that way; he honestly doesn't know who's responding the worse to Mikey's absence, Gee or Frank. Ray's being quiet, at least. Though that makes Bob worry in different ways.
~~
Why he thinks separating himself from his den and his Alpha is the right choice, Bob will never know. At the time, all he feels is the urge to run run run and that shit is not happening at this venue. They are smack in the middle of the city, surrounded by concrete and too many strange humans. He's spent the last hour watching Frankie bouncing off the bus walls, almost vibrating out of his own skin. That wasn’t working well for anyone, so Bob pulls him up and out the door, hoping a bit of exploring will calm Frank down. Settling his own restlessness will be a bonus.
Of course it doesn't work out that way.
Bob knows this venue - between sound work and My Chem, he's been through this building a dozen times or more. So getting lost isn't a problem; it's a big fucking red flag of warning. Then the stench of sea-rot hits him, obliterating all other scents, and he knows they are in serious trouble.
//Shit. Frank.// Is his only thought.
He catches a glimpse of Frank out of the corner of his eye - he's followed Bob's lead, stripping down to skin. Bob is... a lot less surprised by that than he should be.
Then the tentacled assholes come right out of the walls, and he can only focus on getting the two of them back to the bus in one piece.
~~
Bob is busy blocking tentacles - and fucking hell, he is getting tired of tentacles, seriously what the fuck- so he stops worrying about Frank or specifically what Frank's going to see almost immediately.
//Good to know tentacle monsters are good for something.// He thinks, slashing up across a throat glistening with slime, the muck getting under his claws. Bob grimaces at the slick, clammy feeling, turns the expression into a snarl and lunges at the next creature.
There's a full-throated howl so close it sounds like it's being bayed directly in his ear. The sound - a battle cry- has the fur along his spine rising, his skin twitching. He knows that voice - though he's never heard it like this. The next thing Bob sees is a whirl of black fur pulling the monster at his left away, rending it limb from limb. Bob blinks, absently shredding the tentacle trying to cut off his air supply. Black fur, slender limbs, narrow muzzle and familiar hazel eyes...
//Well, shit.// He thinks.// Looks like I'm not the only one getting outed today. // Another tentacle and the prick of teeth on his shoulder has Bob focusing attention back on the fight.
Something in him, a knot of ever-present tension, loosens. While he doesn't relax his guard, Bob certainly feels safer. Frank has always had his back in the past. This just ups that certainty. Something fierce surges through him. Bob howls, not caring about who might hear, and dances through the fight. His steps have never been so light. In him, under the snarls, hums a song. It's just one word. pack pack pack
The fight's over quickly. There aren't that many tentacled horrors - eight or so, enough to take down two humans, and probably take out a single Fianin, especially if he was trying to protect someone. But two Fianin? Not a challenge, particularly since Frank fights like a berserker, like he's possessed.
Bob bounces a little on the balls of his feet, the fight still humming through him. That had actually been fun. He looks over at Frank. The smaller man's leaning against the wall; head tipped back, eyes closed. He's a mess, completely saturated in blood.
//Figures.// Bob thinks, with a wry grin. //Not that I'm much better.// He looks down at his pants and grimaces. //I liked these jeans too.//
A whimper has him looking up sharply at Frank.
Frank is staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. Bob can hear his breathing speed up, can smell fear and panic rising.
"Frank?" He says, trying to keep his voice gentle.
Frank looks up, wide-eyed - Bob knows he's not seeing him. In a blink, he's gone, wet footprints on concrete the only indication Frank had been there at all. Bob leans back against the wall. Ignoring the itch of drying blood and slime on his skin, he stares at the bodies slowly dissolving around him. Under the saline reek of the corpses, he can smell Frank. There's a sharp edge to that mingled scent that makes Bob wrinkle his nose. The familiar scent //smoke/sweat/hotel soap/hair dye/laughter// is intensified, imbued with the musk/fur/night scent that denote Fianin.
//I never noticed. I would have noticed, if it had been there, if he'd been...//
"Oh. FUCK." Bob snarls. And he takes off down the corridor, following the trail of the newly Shifted.
~~~
Bob tracks the familiar/unfamiliar scent markers through the concrete maze of the venue. Drying smears of blood and slime mark the path. Bob tilts his head, eyes darting across grey walls as he follows. So far, he hasn't seen anyone else, but his luck can hold for only so long. He turns another corner, slips through a set of double doors and Bob is assaulted by the reek of urine and disinfectant. Long practice stops him from covering his nose - the last thing he needs is the scent of slime caught in his sinuses for the rest of the day. The bathroom's dark, unlit, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. The light from the open door shines on a crumpled mound of paper towels piled up by one of the end sinks. Bob takes a deep breath - grimaces - and follows the mingled scent of blood and raw panic around the end of the row of stalls.
The bathroom's dark, but even if he was human, he'd still be able to find Frank.
Loud rasping gasps for air draws him on. Frank’s wedged in the corner farthest from the door, curled up in a tight ball of soaked denim and pale, inked limbs, wet dark hair and rapid heartbeats. Bob cautiously moves forward, bare feet quiet and careful on approach. He squats down well outside of Frank's personal space. Reaching out, he brushes fingers against Frank's arm. Skin twitches under his fingertips and Frank cries out, the sound a blend of whimper and sheer despair. Something in Bob flinches back at the sound, before snarling.
//No. Not acceptable.//
He leans forward, muscles in thighs and calves compensating for the position. Bob wraps fingers around a slender tattooed wrist.
"Frankie..." His voice is a low burr of sound in the darkness. The flesh under his grip shivers but Frank doesn't respond otherwise.
"FRANK." There's a bit of a growl in the name as his fingers tighten.
Bob sees a brief flail of fingers in the gloom //flash of moth wings in firelight// and then stillness. He growls outright and tugs. "Iero, don't you dare pussy out on me."
Hazel eyes snap up and meet his own. "Fuck you, Bryar. Let me have my fucking breakdown in peace."
“No.”
It takes Bob a half hour to talk Frank out of the bathroom. He tries to not think about time passing; and most of his attention is focused down on Frank. He’s aware of the still too rapid flutter of Frank’s breath, the way he curls his fingers tight enough into his own skin that he leaves indents. Later there will be a faint pattern of bruises, perfectly round, on his forearms.