Fic: James Cameron Got It Wrong (3/6)

[ladyfoxxx]

Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

***

Frank wakes up in pain. He winces behind closed eyelids. His back hurts and he's lying on a hard surface. Did he fall out of his bed in the night? That's happened once, but he was drunk, and he doesn't remember drinking last night. He doesn't feel hungover. He can't even remember going to the party. Fuck, he's thirsty.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, wincing against the too-bright sunlight. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust and the first thing he focuses on is an unsteady stack of cans, branded with "Power Pup", the "Better Living" logo stark in black on the white labels. That startles him fully awake and he jolts up onto his elbows, his gaze skittering around the room he's in. Booths down the side, batteries scattered on the counter, faded dusty tiles on the floor, a shoulder holster holding a bright yellow gun hanging off the back of a chair. His heart stutters, throat closing over, as he realises he's still in the diner, still in the future, and it all comes flooding back.

His movements startle Gerard awake too, who Frank sees now is curled up beside him, one arm warm and heavy across Frank's chest, his scarlet hair a tangled mess over his eyes. He blinks at Frank from behind the red locks, brows furrowing in concern or confusion. "You okay?"

Frank bites his lip, the slight pain helping him to focus. "Yeah, I just..." He shrugs, his voice tight. "Forgot where I was."

Gerard nods slowly. He seems to realise he's got his arm draped over Frank and withdraws it quickly, wrinkling his nose. "Sorry."

Frank shrugs. "Not your fault." He thinks maybe Gerard's apologising for invading his space, not for the fact that Frank is still trapped in the future, but he'll take it either way.

Gerard sits up, rifling a hand through his hair and succeeding in getting it out of his face, but also making it stick up at weird angles. It's so typical Gerard that Frank finds himself smiling at it without thinking and Gerard returns it, his expression soft.

"You should try and get some more sleep."

"Not a chance." Frank's not going get to sleep again. Not now. Not until he's completely exhausted. That's how it happened last night. He can't remember how he got inside - in fact, everything after they talked about Jersey is a blur. He has a vague memory of gentle fingers in his hair, soothing him into sleep, but he's not sure if he dreamt it.

He rubs a hand across his face. He needs coffee, juice, food, something, but he's pretty sure none of the above are going to be on offer. "There's some water in the kitchen, right?"

Gerard looks like he wants to say something, something Frank's pretty sure won't have anything to do with water, but he doesn't. He just nods at Frank, keeping his mouth shut. Frank doesn't ask, he's heard enough for now, so he just crawls from the mess of sleeping bags to pad into the kitchen.

Mikey's already up, fully dressed right down to his jacket and boots, thigh holster strapped on and holding his bright red gun. His shiny helmet with the silver "GOOD LUCK" lettering across the visor sits on the counter, next to a backpack he's strapping closed with a canvas belt.

"You going somewhere, Mikey?" Frank asks the obvious question.

Mikey double-takes, his eyes lingering on Frank's two-tone mohawk a moment too long. "Kobra." he reminds Frank gently, pulling the strap tight and sliding the clasp shut to hold it.

"Right. Kobra." Frank shakes his head. "Told you it would take me a while to get used to it." He boosts himself up to sit on the bench, reaching for one of the half-full bottles of water and unscrewing the lid.

Mikey shrugs, "S'cool. I get it." He shoulders the bag, tucking the helmet under his arm. Frank gets stuck looking at him, his blond hair falling across his forehead, his colourful clothes, his face lightly tanned and free of glasses. Of all of them, Mikey's changed the most physically, but watching him move around, Frank can still see the old Mikey in there, in the awkward way he stands, in the set of his shoulders, the way he speaks. It's like looking at Mikey through a carnival mirror, distorted and alien, but still very much him.

"So, you going somewhere, Kobra?" Frank takes a small sip of water. It does nothing to quench his thirst, it's really more of a tease, but he knows he shouldn't take more.

"Yeah, you going somewhere, Kobra?" Frank's question is echoed by Gerard, who's leaning in the doorway, his eyes on Mikey, sharp and assessing.

Mikey sets his shoulders, like he's expecting a fight. "I'm gonna go find Tommy."

"What, by yourself?" The way Gerard says it, Frank knows he doesn't approve.

"You know I'll have more luck finding him if I'm solo. He doesn't like a crowd." Mikey turns and starts for the door.

Gerard catches up to him, grabbing his arm. "Kobra-"

Mikey freezes. Frank can't see his face, but he can see the tension all through his body. "I've already had this argument with Star and repetition is really fucking boring."

"And you're still gonna go?" Gerard says it like Mikey's just decided to go throw himself in front of a moving train. If there are still moving trains in the future, that is. Frank hasn't seen any.

Mikey turns around slowly to face Gerard again. He keeps his voice level and his face expressionless. "If anyone in the zones is going to have the tech, it'll be Tommy. I can hit up Hot Chimp for some coordinates but you know he won't talk unless it's just me."

Gerard opens his mouth to say something, but Mikey just jumps in again. "Besides, we can't all go. Someone needs to take care of-" Mikey's eyes flick briefly to Frank and back. "You know."

Frank's mouth drops open, his skin prickling up. He does not need a babysitter thanks very much.

He starts to argue exactly that when the front door of the diner bangs open loudly and Ray comes inside, hefting a gas can. "You're gassed up, should be enough to do the job if you don't push too fast."

"So you're okay with this?" Gerard directs the question at Ray, his tone implying Ray absolutely shouldn'tbe.

Ray takes his time placing the gas can gently down on the tiles, dusting his hands off on the ass of his jeans as he straightens up. "Of course I'm not, but what else can we do?"

For once, Gerard doesn't have an answer.

Mikey must take Gerard's silence as a sign of approval because he hitches the bag on his shoulder and starts for the door again. No one stops him this time. Gerard just stares after him, feet twitching like it's taking everything he's got not to go after him and stop him. He exchanges a helpless look with Ray, whose expression doesn't give anything away. Frank watches it all go down with a sick fascination. It's like he wandered into the theatre halfway through and missed half the movie - he can tell there's stuff he's missing. Important stuff. He doesn't ask, though, it doesn't feel like the right time.

Ray follows Mikey outside, their boots raising clouds of dust when they hit the sand outside the diner, leaving a trail behind them. The dust gets tangled up in the slanting morning sunlight, a cloud of orange and brown and Frank finds himself squinting into it as it rises, dissipating slowly into the dry air. A moment later his eyes refocus and he finds himself staring at Mikey and Ray. Who are kissing.

It's not a first kiss, no way. The way Ray's got Mikey pressed back against his bike, the way Mikey's got one hand gripping Ray's waist and the other buried in his curls and just... the way they're kissing. Like they know each other inside out.

Frank knows he should stop looking, but he's a little shell shocked. He's still watching when Ray breaks the kiss, one large hand on Mikey's cheek as their foreheads brush and he says something to Mikey that Frank can't hear. Mikey says something back, face stretching into a smile and his hand squeezing Ray's arm. Then they're separating, Mikey reaching for his helmet, and Frank feels like a creeper for having watched.

He gives himself a shake and goes to say something to Gerard, but Gerard's vanished.

He sucks on his lower lip, thoughtful. Gerard's never been good at being far away from Mikey, and it's got to be worse in this time and place. Or maybe he just doesn't want to watch his brother make out with Ray. Frank can understand that. He hops down from the bench, loose grains of sand sticking in his bare feet as he pads outside to where Ray's watching Mikey's dust trail race toward the horizon.

"So, you and Mikey, hey?" Frank asks, point blank.

Ray slowly tears his eyes from the horizon to look at Frank, his wide lips quirking up at the side in an almost-smile. "Yeah, me and Mikey."

"Huh." Frank shakes his head, still not really able to get his head around it.

Ray looks very amused by this, and Frank's not sure why.

"Is it a problem?" Ray starts walking back to the diner with long strides; Frank has to quicken his pace to keep up.

"Fuck no, you know me! It's just, I don't know, I didn't know you swung that way." In fact, it's one of Frank's long held personal truths that Ray's always been the only 100-percent-straight guy in the band.

"Yeah, I didn't really know either. Things change." Ray's steps slow and his expression slips into the one he usually gets when he's trying to explain a concept or sound for their music, something tricky that's hard to put into words. "It's just. I don't know, after all the shit that went down, all the stuff we went through, it's like, you figure out what's really important, and it's not... sexuality or whatever." Ray shrugs. "Love is love."

Frank doesn't really have anything to add to that, so he just catches Ray around the waist in an attack-hug that has Ray stumbling on his feet a little. Ray accepts the hug in the end, if a little stiffly, reaching up a hand to ruffle Frank's hair. It's something he's done a million times to Frank, from back when his 'fro was barely a halo, when he used to wear those dorky wire-frame glasses. It makes Frank's chest ache. It's weird to be missing someone who's right there.

"You've got good taste, Toro," Frank tells him, giving the big guy one last squeeze before he lets go.

"So do you," Ray retorts, the words coming so quick Frank nearly doesn't catch them.

Ray's gone back inside before Frank can ask him what he means by that.

***

Frank studies the bright green ray gun in his hand, tracing a finger over the blood-dripping comic-style lettering of "HORROR" on the side. It's obviously Gerard's artwork and it's such typical Gerard behaviour to go and paint pop-art-style designs on a weapon.

It's quiet outside the diner. Frank's sitting in the scant shade of an old freezer, his ass on the dirt and his boots unlaced. Playing with a gun that looks like a toy, but that's probably killed more people than Frank wants to think about. They were probably taken out in self defence, more often than not. But still, it was him who killed them, this Fun Ghoul future self he's going to become.

Frank wonders if he could do it, now, today, or if something fundamental inside him will change with the end of the world, and only then will he be able to point this thing at someone and fire it. Shoot to kill.

There's only one way to know.

He hefts it in his hand. He was right the first time, it's heavier than it looks. Without really thinking about it, he stands up, settling his feet in a wide stance and raising the gun at arm's length, pointing it at a scrubby tree about twenty yards away. He closes one eye, his arm wavering in front of him as he tries to take aim.

He's a lot less steady than he should be when his finger rests lightly on the trigger. It doesn't feel like it should be this hard - it's never this hard in video games. He reaches his other hand up, steadying the elbow of his shooting arm. It helps a little, he might actually hit the damn tree now.

He squints through his single open eye, finger caressing the trigger, preparing to fire. He's nearly nerved himself to do it, too, when-

"What the fuck?" Gerard's voice punches through his heavy haze of concentration. The gun wavers and Frank furrows his brow, trying to get his focus back, but it's too late, Gerard's already jogged over to where he is and he swiftly disarms Frank with the same crazy ninja move Fun Ghoul used on him last time he picked up this gun. Fuck, he really needs to learn how to do that.

"What?" Frank glares at Gerard. Fuck, that happened way too easily. He sucks at this.

"You can't just fire that thing off around here - you're like ten steps from where we're crashing! Why don't you just send out invitations to every drac in the area? Free bloodbath tonight, BYO firepower." Gerard spits the words out angrily, turning the gun in his hands and handing it back to Frank, handle-first. "It's a not a toy, okay?"

"I fucking know that!" Frank growls back, snatching it away from Gerard in what he knows is a sulky and immature way. "What's the point in giving it to me to carry around if I can't fucking use it?" He shoves it back in the shoulder holster, which still feels odd and tight around his shoulder. "I'm not Fun Ghoul, okay? I don't know the shit he knows, I can't do the shit he does. Fine. But I'm not a child and I don't need you assholes babysitting me all the time."

Frank knows it's his pride talking, and it's talking like a thirteen year old, but he doesn't give a shit right now. He can't deal with this. He stomps back towards the diner.

"Frank!"

He doesn't want to stop, but his feet pause without his say-so. He takes a breath, pushing it out between his teeth, hovering between apology and an all-out tantrum. "What?" His voice is soft through gritted teeth.

"I know you're not him. And I know you don't belong here." Gerard catches up to him, his hands finding their way to Frank's shoulders, turning him around to face Gerard's earnest expression. "That's a good thing, right? You're not-" Gerard takes a breath, like he's fighting for words, "you're not all fucked up by all this like we are, you know? And you don't have to be. I mean, I don't want you to be. You should be able to go back and be like you were before."

This Gerard may be older and have seen more than the one Frank's used to, but he still retains that freakish naivety about things, it seems.

"Gee, I am never gonna be able to go back to the way I was before. This is some heavy shit. I can't just forget about this. You know that, right?"

Gerard's brow creases up; he looks heartbroken. "Don't say that."

"Do you really think that I could?" Frank takes a step back, separating them enough that Gerard's hands slip from his shoulders. He's suddenly, violently offended by this. "You really think I'm gonna be able to just go back to 2005 and forget about all this? Play shows and go party and give a shit about who's in the fucking top forty or what bullshit thing they're saying about who-fucking-ever in the magazines is this week? Do you really think I could do that?"

"Frank no, it's not like that. It's just-" Gerard looks like he's in pain, picking over the words the way he does in interviews when they want to make him say something they can twist around to sound bad. "I don't want this for you. Not yet. You shouldn't have do this shit," Gerard skates his hand over the gun in the holder. "Not yet, it's too soon. You should just, be who you are, now."

Who he is now. Fuck, what does that even mean? He's already a different person to the guy he was yesterday, whose total world revolved around his band and his music and where ever the next show was. All that stuff looks a lot less important when you don't even know if your family is alive.

"Gerard this is who I am now. And I'm gonna be one more fucking corpse in the desert if I don't know how to protect myself out here."

"I won't let that happen," Gerard says fervently, his eyes afire and his hair glowing like flame with the afternoon sun lighting it up from behind.

Frank does want to believe him this time, he really does. But he can't give Gerard this one.

"I sure hope you're right." is all Frank says, backing up a few steps and tearing his eyes from Gerard's face, from his fucking eyes and his promises and his weird unfamiliar familiarity. He turns and heads back into the diner, ignoring Ray's curious look and shutting himself away in the tiny storeroom. He curls up on the floor, staring at the wall and pretending he's in his bunk on the tour bus.

Wishes that's where he was.

***

Frank must sleep eventually, because he wakes up, his face smushed into his arm and his bare toes twisted up in the hems of his cargos. Apparently even in the future he can't get pants that are the correct length.

At first he can't figure out what woke him, and then he twists his head to the side and finds Gerard grinning down at him, his bright red hair lit up around his head like a fiery halo.

"Get up," Gerard says. "We're going out."

Frank groans and presses his face back into the crook of his elbow. "Go awaaaay."

Gerard kicks his foot. "Up. I'm gonna teach you how to shoot."

Frank sits bolt upright. "No shit?"

"No shit. Put your fucking boots on." Gerard shoots Frank a bright, manic grin and slips out of the tiny storeroom.

Frank gropes for the boots. "You're starting to sound like a broken record." he calls after Gerard, but he's grinning around the words.

Gerard pokes his head around the doorframe, smirking. "You're the idiot who keeps taking them off. Hurry up, fuckface."

Frank sticks his tongue out at him, but he does as he's told.

They strike out in the Trans Am, because, as Gerard already explained, there's no point drawing attention to their new base camp when they've only just moved in. The engine growls, making the seat vibrate under Frank's ass, dry wind blowing in his hair. There are extra battery packs and a bunch of empty tin cans in the trunk. Gerard's behind the wheel, looking more at ease than Frank's seen him since he's been here, driving fast enough that he'd be breaking the speed limit, if there was a speed limit to break.

Frank can't help grinning at Gerard and Gerard shoots him a smile back, his bright hair fluttering in the wind, squinting in the sunlight.

"Where the fuck are we going?" Frank asks, for the tenth or twentieth time.

"That would be telling." Gerard glances sideways at Frank and smirks. "You'll see. We're nearly there."

When the Trans Am finally rolls to a halt, Frank has trouble figuring out what they drove the whole way out here for. It looks like just another patch of dry sand amongst a desert of dry sand. He climbs out of the car, eyes aching in the sunlight, and then Gerard tells him to turn around.

Somehow Frank didn’t notice it on their way out here but they've wound up on a high ridge, looking down over the endless sand, dotted with trees and scrub.

"Fuck me," he breathes. For the first time since he's seen what becomes of California, he actually manages to find some beauty in it. From this distance the view is stirring, alien. Somehow enchanting.

"I figure we can see if anyone's coming for miles off."

"Yeah. No way to miss it from up here." Frank rocks back on his heels, his eyes eating up the view. Not that he can see any hint of movement down there at the moment. He rocks on his feet again, and it's not until his ass brushes back on something solid that he realises Gerard is standing right behind him, close enough that Frank can feel his breath on the back of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, right to his toes. He fights it down, hoping it doesn't show.

If Gerard notices, he doesn't call him on it. He just says, "Let's get this thing started," and pops the trunk.

He sets up a bunch of empty Power Pup cans at various distances from the back of the Trans Am. Some of them are really far away. Frank has memories of playing Time Crisis with Gerard at arcades across America and Gerard not being able to hit anything, even on the easiest setting. After seeing what Gerard can do with his gun yesterday, things have obviously changed since then.

Frank settles his ass on the bumper of the car, ready to see just how much better Gerard's gotten at this.

Gerard tosses him a stopwatch, the three-button digital kind Frank remembers from painful days of gym back in high school.

"Just hit it when I say," Gerard instructs, taking two steps from the back of the car and scratching the heel of his boot across the dirt, marking a line. "Now, watch and learn." He sets his legs apart and straightens his back. He lowers his hand to hover just above his holster, wiggling his fingers above his yellow gun like a straightshooter from an old Western.

Frank laughs quietly out the side of his mouth, settling his thumb over the right button. He doesn't doubt Gerard can shoot, and shoot well. It's just so typical of him to turn it into a big production.

Then Gerard shouts "Go!" and Frank hits the button, watching as Gerard snatches his yellow gun from the holster so fast his hand is a blur. He raises and fires - ten shots, quickfire, so fast Frank barely has time to count them. Each shot sets a can flying. Gerard doesn't miss one. He throws his arm in the air like a salute, brandishing the gun and yelling, "Stop!"

Frank stops the counter, gaping at Gerard, who's grinning as he lowers his arm. Frank's not quite able to process what he's just witnessed. He sits there, his mouth opening and closing silently for a long moment, until Gerard prompts him, "Time?"

"Oh. Right." Frank blinks, looking down at the watch in his hand, reading the numbers blankly. "Four oh three."

"Damn." Gerard pouts, shoving his gun back into his thigh holster. "I've done better."

"Better than that? Fuck that was amazing. That was some fucking Matrix shit right there." Frank knows he's gushing. But he doesn't care. He's never seen Gerard move like that - so efficient, so fast, so in control. It's fucking sexy. "I think you're giving me a boner." he adds thoughtfully, smirking deliberately even as his fingers tighten on the bumper.

Gerard shoves him in the arm. "Shut up, asshole." But he's giggling when he says it. "Okay, up, your turn."

"Gee, I'm not gonna be able to do that."

"Not yet." Gerard tugs at Frank's sleeve. "One step at a time. First you need to learn how to aim right. C'mere. Stand here."

Frank lets Gerard tug him into place, standing behind the line scraped into the sand. Gerard's hands fall firm on his shoulders, straightening them and moving down to angle his hips straight too. Every touch is quick and efficient, nothing lingers, so Frank figures it must be the sun that's making him feel warm all over. Gerard kicks Frank's feet apart until he's standing with his legs a little wider than comfortable - pretty much where they'd be for his guitar power stance. A shooting stance like this must come naturally to Toro, then, he figures.

Frank loses the errant thought when Gerard slides up behind him, hands settling lightly on Frank's shoulders.

"Now, draw and aim." The words are soft, but right in Frank's ear. He fights a shiver and reaches to pull his gun from the holster.

Somehow he manages to get it caught on his vest on the way through. He mutters "fucker" under his breath, but finishes the draw anyway, aiming at one of the overturned cans. He tries to hold his hands steady, locking his elbows, fingers gripping the weapon tight.

"Okay, now, I see what you're doing here, and you gotta relax more." Gerard's voice sounds more throaty than usual. He steps closer, until his chest is pressed against Frank's back, his arms coming up around Frank's. His hands gently wiggle at Frank's locked elbows and solid wrists. "You gotta loosen all this up. If you're stiff, the kickback's gonna fucking hurt. You gotta hold it gently."

"Okay." Frank says, his throat suddenly so dry his voice is nearly gone, cracking a little on the word. He takes a breath and wills himself to relax, letting movement back into his muscles.

"Good." Gerard's voice is soft and encouraging, his fingers light on Frank's wrist. "Now, when you aim, keep both your eyes open, and try to line up the top of the gun to the target, right?"

"Okay." Frank agrees, blinking against the sun, trying not to press himself back into Gerard's body, even though he wants to. It feels so nice having him at his back: solid, safe. Frank closes his eyes a moment, breathes in, smelling sand and leather and that sharp underlying scent that's just Gerard.

"Now, when you fire, don't pull the trigger, squeeze the trigger." Gerard's voice has dropped even lower now, his mouth hovering so close to Frank's ear that Frank's sure he feels Gerard's lips brush his earlobe. It's fucking distracting.

"Squeeze not pull, okay." Frank repeats, a little breathless.

Gerard hums in assent, "I know it sounds weird, but it helps, trust me."

Frank expects Gerard to take a step back and leave Frank to shoot. He doesn't. He stays glued to Frank's back as Frank settles the gun, lining up the sight with the overturned can. He takes a breath, makes sure his muscles are loose, and squeezes the trigger.

The kickback is more than he expects - not that he knew what to expect. It shudders up his arm as the gun fires, making a noise somewhere between a jet whine and a firecracker. The force sends Frank stumbling back a little, but Gerard's still behind him, solid and firm, so Frank doesn't go any further.

"Fuck." Frank breathes, lowering his arm. The can is still lying exactly where it was before Frank fired, a divot carved in the sand about a foot away from it, where Frank's blast hit.

Frank turns to look at Gerard, a smile already pulling at his mouth, his body tingling with adrenaline. "That's fucking powerful," he says. Gerard flashes him an answering grin.

"I know, right?"

It's stupid. It's just a fucking gun - just target practice for fuck's sake - and it's so predictable and he feels like the worst kind of gung-ho toolbox dickhead for getting all psyched up over firing a gun. But Gerard looks just as giggly, like he's gone through the exact same thing, it's like having an accomplice.

Frank doesn't bother to play down his enthusiasm, he just raises the gun again. "Let's do another one."

"Okay, but you better hit it this time." The words are snide, but Gerard's arms still come up around Frank's, guiding him. It's more than a little ridiculous how much Frank likes it.

The sun is edging toward the horizon by the time Frank starts to hit more than he misses. He's nowhere near as fast as Gerard, but if he takes the time to aim before he fires he's tending to get there. It's like when he first learned guitar: he could get the chords perfect as long as he took his time to set his fingers, even if it took him so long to set them he couldn't play in time with the song. But once he got the chords down, the speed came after.

"So if I hit all ten, do I get a prize?" he asks Gerard, who's curled up in the back seat of the Trans Am, only half paying attention to Frank's pistol practice - the rest of his attention commanded by his sketchbook. Typically, he misses the question.

"Huh?"

Frank steps up to closer, resting his elbows on the roof and leaning his head into the car. "What do you say we make this interesting?"

An emotion Frank can't read crosses Gerard's face at the question - something between surprise and sadness.

"What?" He prompts, wanting to know what it was.

Gerard flaps a hand like it's no big deal. "Nothing, really, just..." His mouth twists to the side like he's not sure if he wants to smile or frown. "You just never change is all."

"Fun Ghoul bet on this shit with you too?" Frank asks, figuring he probably would.

"Yeah. You could say that. We'd lay bets on who could knock out ten the fastest."

"Who'd win?" Frank asks, genuinely curious.

Gerard's smile twists a little. "You, usually. But I have my moments."

Something in his eyes tells Frank there's more to that story, but Frank knows better than to ask. It does give him an idea, though.

"Okay - stakes. I get to ask you something. And you have to answer."

"I don't like where this is going."

"Fine, fine. You get right of veto on the question - but only twice. If you veto two you have to answer the third one. Fair?"

Gerard narrows his eyes at Frank, his mouth pulling to the side, obviously thinking. "Okay. Fair."

"Great." Frank beams his brightest grin at Gerard and takes his place behind the line. He has to hit them all this time. Has to.

He does. It's not the fastest round he's done, but he doesn't miss one can. As the last one goes flying he brandishes his gun, whooping in victory. "I am the master!"

Gerard leans back against the Trans Am, crossing his arms, but Frank can tell he's fighting a smile. "I don't know whether to be proud of you or pissed I lost the bet."

"First one, then the other." Frank raises an eyebrow at Gerard and sidles up to him. He holsters his gun and presses his palms to the warm metal of the car either side of Gerard, trapping him inside the bracket of his arms. "Now you have to answer."

Gerard glares at him, but still says, "Shoot."

Frank grins, his question already handpicked. He leans in, feeling like a cat playing with a mouse. "When your Frank was in 2005 with me that night, were you listening to us? Were you jerking-"

"Veto," Gerard jumps in, not even waiting for Frank to finish the question.

Frank narrows his eyes, pouting, even though the colour in Gerard's cheeks is answer enough to the question. It's no fun if he can't make him say it out loud.

"Fine," Frank sighs, sounding as put-upon as he can manage. It's okay. He has another one. He leans in a little closer, wishing he were just a little taller because it's hard to stand over someone who has a few inches on you. "Why would he come all the way back in time just to fuck me? Was it-"

"Veto," Gerard repeats, fiercely.

"Ugh, you're no fun," Frank complains, pushing back off the car and folding his arms. Now he has to actually come up with a third question.

Gerard leans against the Trans Am, glaring at Frank. "Are these all gonna be about that night with you and Fun Ghoul?"

"So what if they are?" Frank scoffs, kicking up some dust with the toe of his boot. "You're out of vetos, so you have to answer the next one anyway."

Gerard doesn't look happy about that. Frank decides to take advantage and ask something he's really curious about, rather than just something to make Gerard squirm.

"Fun Ghoul wouldn't tell me anything about the future. He kept saying he couldn't, that he'd get in trouble." Frank looks at Gerard. "So, why not?"

"Why not, what?"

"Why wasn't he allowed to tell me about the future? Did you think I'd get scared?"

"No, no Frank, it's nothing like that." Gerard waves a hand around, and Frank recognises the movement as an indicator that Gerard's got a lot to say on the matter. "I don't think anyone should know too much about their future. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous how?"

"What if that knowledge changes things?"

"Yeah, wouldn't that suck?" Frank's voice is edged with sarcasm. "Imagine if that knowledge could maybe... stop the end of the world?"

"And what if it could make it worse?"

"How could this be worse?" Frank throws a hand towards the valley below - hot, dry, devoid of life.

Gerard's gaze remains level, staring Frank down. He speaks like he doesn't even need to think it over, like he's thought it over a million times already. "You, me, Star, Kobra - we're alive. What if changing something changed that?"

Any words Frank had ready to fire back at Gerard die on his lips. There's a moment where all he can do is concentrate on remembering how to breathe.

"Yeah, and what if changing something meant Bob was still with us?" Frank knows the moment he says the words that he's gone too far and Gerard turns his head away like Frank slapped him. For a long moment all Frank can hear is the low hum of insects and Gerard's soft, shaky breathing.

When Gerard finally looks at him, his voice is quiet but strong. "That's a lot of 'if's."

"So what? Better not to take the risk? Better not to try at all?"

"You can't guarantee it'll work."

"Since when does life have a fucking guarantee, Gerard?"

"It won't make any difference anyway. Not to us." Gerard sounds so sure about that.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Gerard sighs, scraping a hand through his hair and gnawing on his lower lip, "sending Fun Ghoul back to 2005 wasn't the first time we used the tech."

That is not what Frank was expecting to Gerard to say. "Keep going."

Gerard's eyes flicker to Frank's and away again, like he can't hold contact. "The week before we did that - before Fun Ghoul came to you - I... I went back to 2001. I went and saw myself in the basement. And... And we..."

Gerard trails off. Frank is openly staring now, watching a hot blush visibly crawl up Gerard's neck. Holy shit. "You didn't. You didn't. You and... you?" Frank stammers the words out, his mind filling with vivid images of the Gerard he once knew and the one in front of him. "Fuck, that's messed up." He doesn't add and kind of hot, despite the fact that it totally is.

Gerard looks mortified, but he barrels on, "So you'd think that, like, that would be kind of a big deal. That would be something that would be really fucking hard to forget, right?"

"Right," Frank agrees, and he's totally speaking from very specific experience here.

"But I don't remember it."

"Sure you do - you just told me about it."

"No, I mean." Gerard flaps his, shifting from foot to foot in that wound up way he gets when he's trying really hard to communicate something. "I remember it as like, something that happened last week. I remember going back in time and doing it - as me, now - but, like, when I think back to 2001, about my memories of being in the basement, you think I'd remember a crazy future version of me showing up and fucking me, right?"

"Right." Frank's only half following at this point, because his mind is still stuck on the mental image of Gerard fucking Gerard. It's quite an image.

"But I don't. Not even as some kind of hangover dream. I just don't remember it happening."

"So? What does that even mean?"

"It means it didn't happen to me. It happened to some other Gerard, on some other plane of existence that'll never fucking come into contact with mine again. It means we can go back and change as much shit as we like, we can assassinate the fucking President or whatever, and it won't make a difference, because when we get back to our own time, where we belong - it's all stayed the fucking same." Gerard speaks as passionately about this as anything. He's given it some real thought. "You can't change the past, Frankie. You just can't."

"So why bother trying to keep the future a secret then? If it doesn't matter?"

Gerard sighs, leaning back on the Trans Am. He looks tired. "Because it's the right thing to do. No, the responsible thing. Just because it doesn't change things here doesn't mean it isn't changing things. It could've changed something for the other me, back in 2001. I could've fucked something up and like, left him as an only child or something. I mean, look at you. You're not from here. Fun Ghoul could be totally fucking up your future back in 2005 right now."

"I doubt he is."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's trying not to - because that's the right thing to do."

Frank rubs his hand across his face. His eyes feel scratchy from the dusty wind and everything Gerard's saying is starting to make his head hurt. "Fuck, Gee. Trust you to turn time travel into some kind of morality puzzle."

Gerard shrugs, his mouth pulling up at the side in a small smile. "I've had a lot of time to think about it."

"So what happens when I go back to 2005? Am I supposed to keep quiet about the end of the fucking world? I don't think I can do that, Gee."

Gerard bites his lip, reaching out to take Frank's hand. He tangles their fingers, rubbing his thumb over Frank's bare second knuckles, blank skin where Fun Ghoul has the BOOKWORM tattoos.

"What you do is up to you, Frankie. It's your time. Your life. Your future." He looks up from their hands to meet Frank's eyes. "In the end, you're the one who has to live with it, not me."

***

So when you're not running from dracs or having high-speed shootouts it seems the future is actually pretty fucking boring. And the food sucks.

It's kind of like being on tour - sleeping in uncomfortable places, keeping strange hours, eating crap - but not as good. At least on tour there are things to do in the downtime: movies, comics, video games. In 2019, Frank's bored shitless. He's sick of seeing the inside of the diner. He's read the three battered comics Mikey's got stashed away twice each and there's a limit to how much of the local Better-Living-produced propaganda he can stomach. He's about ready to go out of his skull with boredom.

Ray seems to handle the downtime in typical Ray fashion - by working on shit. Except instead of music, he's buried under a pile of computer parts, soldering iron in hand, piecing together some kind of Frankenstein monster of a computer. Frank tries helping him out for a while, but he's too easily distracted and keeps taking too long to pass Ray tools when he asks for them; half the time he gets the tools wrong anyway because Ray has weird names for them that all sound the same and involve far too many numbers and letters.

Gerard's been quiet for a while so Frank goes to investigate what he's up to, in case he's discovered some amazing cure for boredom and hasn't thought to share it with Frank. He finds Gerard outside, in the back seat of the parked Trans Am with all the doors hanging open. He's curled up in an uncomfortable-looking hunch, all his attention focused on a battered sketchbook.

Bright hair and bright clothes aside, it's a familiar enough sight. Gerard's had his head bent over his next comic or concept or piece of art for as long as Frank's known him. Frank climbs into the backseat to settle beside Gerard, the leather squeaking under his ass as he wriggles to get comfortable.

"What you doing out here?" he asks, peering over Gerard's shoulder at the page Gerard is working on. It's not lyrics, or character sketches, or costume ideas, which is unusual for Gerard, at least in Frank's experience. It's a sketch.

"Light's better out here," Gerard explains, the words coming out stiff because he's got a second pencil caught between his teeth. The pencil in his hand skates confidently over the page, shading what he's drawing.

It's just starting to take shape, and as Frank watches Gerard's hand move, the picture becomes clearer. Slowly, he's able to pick out the familiar tendons at the side of Mikey's neck, his profile, the long spikes of his hair that Gerard is drawing with sharp strokes, sticking up like a breeze has caught them, or Mikey is shaking his head. It's totally uncanny how much of Mikey he's managed to capture in the pencil strokes.

"Wow, Gee. That's amazing." Frank leans closer, until Gerard's shoulder is pressing into Frank's chest. He wants to see it better. He tugs at the corner of the sketchbook gently and Gerard lets out an impatient breath, pausing in his sketching to lift the book up so Frank can see it better. The exact moment he does, a rush of dusty wind blows through the car, fluttering the pages, giving Frank the briefest glimpses of the rest of the sketchbook's contents.

It's not Gerard's usual fare, not by a long shot. No zombies and vampires and scribbled lyrics. No, it looks like the whole book is full of these near-lifelike sketches. Frank's fingers itch to turn the pages.

"Can I see?"

Frank's pretty sure Gerard rolls his eyes in response, but he doesn't really pay attention, he's already leafing through the pages the moment Gerard relinquishes his grip on the cover.

It's all sketches. Beautiful, detailed sketches of familiar faces. There's Ray leaning against a gas pump, his face dirty and unshaven, his eyes looking out to the horizon. There's Mikey, all elbows and limbs, strangely graceful on the back of his bike. Then there's Frank - no, not Frank, Fun Ghoul - his hair messy and long, his arms covered in tattoos. Gerard's drawn him from behind, and shirtless, so Frank can see Gerard's pencil stroke impressions of designs on his future self's back. The familiar and unfamiliar ink all tangled up together, just like he remembers from his encounter with his future self.

"These are amazing." Frank traces a finger down the edge of the page, not daring to let his finger touch anywhere with pencil on it in case it smudges.

"I'm trying to be as honest as I can. To like, properly document."

Frank looks up from the page, momentarily confused. "Document?"

Gerard doesn't sigh but he looks like he wants to. "There isn't exactly a surplus of cameras and data storage around here. I mean, not outside of Battery City. Everything went digital and kind of fucked up our ability to keep images of shit, you know? So much fucking data loss." Gerard's fingers pick at a crack in the leather of the seat. "So if I want to hang onto something, to remember it, this is how I do it."

Frank looks down at the pictures with new eyes. "So this is like a photo album."

Gerard shrugs, the uncertainty in his face achingly familiar. "I guess."

Before Frank manages to come up with a rejoinder Gerard goes still, head twitching to the side like he's listening. Frank's heart amps up, he can't hear anything - not yet - but the way Gerard's reacting already has him thinking dracs, invasion, time to run. At least they're already in the car.

Frank's just starting to identify the noise himself, the distant rumble of an engine, when Gerard's mouth twitches up at the side. "Kobra's back."

***

"Don't get your hopes up," Mikey says, setting his helmet down on the counter in the kitchen and tugging a folded bandanna out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He's covered in dust; every time he moves it seems to rise off him in small clouds.

He shakes the worst of the dust off the folded bandanna then lays it on the counter, unfolding it carefully. Inside is a tiny plastic chip, smaller than a SIM card. Mikey picks it up carefully, holding it along the plastic edges, not touching the shiny metal.

"Tommy had some," he pauses, deliberately meeting Gerard's eyes, "some of the tech."

"How much?" Gerard asks, and Frank jumps in on his own, asking, "What is that?"

"It's the software. There've been raids all over the zones, dracs and Scarecrow looking for the hardware. Looks like they got it all too. Left a fucking death trail behind them. But Tommy kept a copy of the code, so now we have a copy too." Mikey's mouth tugs into a small smile behind the chip he's holding up. He twists it between his fingers and it catches the light. "Time Displacement Software version five point 0."

"So what does that mean?" Frank asks, feeling out of the loop again.

"It means we have the code, but we don't have the physical machinery to run it. We can use this," Mikey indicates the chip, "to look at the programming code, break it down, see if we can figure out a way to make it work the way we need it to. But we can't test it, obviously."

It's not that obvious, at least not to Frank, but he doesn't point that out. He just nods.

"It's better than nothing." Ray reaches across the table to take the chip from Mikey, squinting at it between his thick fingers. "But only barely."

Gerard catches Frank's hand under the table and squeezes his fingers. Seems to Frank like that's a lot of hope to be resting on one tiny little chip.

***

The night's aren't getting any easier for Frank. During the day when the sun's high and there's movement and the guys are awake, it's easy to be distracted, to just focus on whatever's going on right this moment. At night, when he's trying to zone out and sleep, that's when it gets him.

He lies awake on the hard floor, sleeping bag doing nothing to soften it under his shoulders, but it isn't the discomfort keeping him awake. It's everything else. It's memories of home and nightmares of what home's going to become. It's Mikey in his glasses with his messy bird's nest of a hairdo, and Pansy, his fingertips itching to feel her frets. It's Gerard with his round cheeks and stringy black hair and three-day-old make-up and that tiny little unsure smile of his that he'll never show the fans. It's the new songs they've only just started writing that he could just fucking ask these guys here in 2019 about, but he doesn't, he won't, because he wants to go back and create them for real, to contribute what he needs to, walk down whatever roads he has to, to make the process work.

It's Brian's bitch-face and Bob's shoulders under his hands when he climbs up on his back. It's sweaty dirty kids at rock shows and waking up not knowing where the hell you are - but in a good way.

Fuck. He misses 2005 like air. He misses the guys, who are here but not here, because they're not the same guys anymore.

It's too much of a headfuck. He can't switch it off. Stupid brain.

Sleep obviously a lost cause, he sits up, crawls out of the mess of sleeping bags and pads out of the storeroom. He wanders through the diner kitchen, tiles cool and gritty under his bare feet. There are no lights on but the moonlight is strong enough to illuminate the Frankenstein monster of a computer Ray's been putting together, which now has the Time Displacement software loaded on it, ready to be hacked.

He hears the murmur of voices from outside and follows it, recognising them instantly, even if they're both talking in low tones. It's Gerard and Mikey, and as he gets closer to the door he can see them outside. They're sitting on top of the derelict deep freezer. Gerard's leaning on Mikey, one leg hooked over his brother's knee, their feet in a tangle. They look relaxed and in synch.

Even in their strange, colourised future forms, they're still the Ways. Frank recognises their familiar mind-meld. The tension Gerard's been carrying around the whole time Mikey was gone has melted away.

"I don't get it, Gee," Mikey's saying. Frank doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but there's barely a breath of wind and their voices are carrying clearly with no other sounds interfering. "Why don't you just tell him? He's probably already figured it out."

Frank is suddenly sure they're talking about him. He's also sure that he's spying and he should either announce his presence or fuck off. But he doesn't move from where he is. He hovers by the door, his body in shadow and listens.

"You don't get it," Gerard says, drawing a circle in the air with his hand like he's holding an invisible cigarette. "It's not in his timeline to find out now. It's not gonna happen for another two years for him. It's too soon. He's not ready."

"So it's okay for him to know about the end of the world, but not for him to know about the giant raging crush you had for years before you finally got the balls to do anything about it?"

Frank's mouth drops open. Gerard had a crush? On Frank? He leans closer, until his cheek's pressing the door frame, his hands clenched so tight his fingernails dig into his palms. Eavesdropping or not, he has to hear more.

"You make it sound really pathetic when you put it that way." Gerard pillows his head on Mikey's bony shoulder.

"That's because it is," Mikey states, his voice flat, but he still reaches up to ruffle Gerard's hair. "Anyway, the way I remember it, he kissed you."

"Nuh-uh." Gerard shakes his head. "I kissed him."

"Yeah, onstage maybe. But afterwards? At the end of the set, you know, backstage, when it was real? He started it." Mikey nods, sagely. "I remember these things."

Gerard snickers, and headbutts Mikey lightly. "Lucky I've got you and your elephant memory here."

"Mhmm. July 29th, 2007. Scarred for life." Mikey nods, swinging his foot against the side of the freezer.

Frank swallows shallowly as the numbers tattooed on Fun Ghoul's wrist suddenly make sense.

There's a moment of pause in the conversation outside, when all Frank can hear is the chorus of insects whining out in the sand, then Gerard says softly, "I miss Ghoul."

"I know," Mikey replies. "It's okay. We'll get him back."

But Frank's not listening anymore. He's stepping backwards blindly, away from the open door, moving his feet until he feels solid wall at his back, until he's deep inside the diner, shut off from the wind and insect buzz and those voices. All he can hear is his own breathing, sharp and harsh in the quiet of the room. All he can feel is his own heartbeat rattling in his chest.

Fuck. Ghoul showing up in his hotel room wasn't just some crazy dare or something. And Gerard was listening on the other end of the earpiece. It was Gerard's idea. And Ghoul did it for him. As a gift to his lover.

Because, in the future, he and Gerard got together. Gerard kissed him on stage and they hooked up, and it's 2019 and they went through the fucking end of the world and they're still together. Holy shit.

Frank leans back against the wall, glad to have something solid to balance against. He lets his knees soften, his back sliding down the surface until his ass hits the floor. Him and Gerard. Frank and Gerard. Gerard and Frank. The names echo through his head.

Fuck. It's too big to think about on top of everything. Too much to absorb. He presses a hand over his mouth, stifling his own rough breaths that sound too loud in the room. He thinks about every drunken kiss they've had, every shared laugh, every stupid hand brush and hug, every time he'd look up from his guitar to find Gerard looking right at him with fond eyes. The day Gerard told them he was going sober, for good, forever, and Frank felt like his chest would burst with pride at his sheer determination. Every single day since then, when he stuck to his word. Every time Gerard stood on that stage in front of the screaming masses, telling them they were worth something, they could be something, and making Frank's eyes well up every fucking time he heard it.

Frank sits in the dark with his hand over his mouth, his mind reeling through all those memories. It's like reading the last few pages of a novel he's only halfway through, he can see it so clearly now. It all makes sense.

Frank and Gerard. Gerard and Frank.

It's not until his teeth press into the heel of his hand that he realises he's smiling.

***


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