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Title: Walking On Air Today I was randomly reading things online and somehow ended up reading the bonus round prompts over at the no_tags community on Livejournal. I came to #66 (Bob Bryar/Gerard Way, Bob has wings), and inspiration struck. Thanks to belle_bing for helping to beta read and to Lauren for providing ideas and acting as a second beta. You guys are awesome. ♥
Bob loves his mom. He thinks the world of her and is pretty much willing to defend her against all odds, but sometimes he really fucking wonders what the hell was going through her head that she thought it was a good idea to hook up with his dad. As for Bob's father, well. He just tries not to think about the bastard and how his genetic contribution has ruined Bob's life.
He'd like to say that most of the time he doesn't remember, that it's something he can forget about during the day in between everything else, but it just wouldn't be true. It can't be true—it's too dangerous for Bob to ever really let his guard down and forget about it, after all. When he was younger, he thinks, it was easier. Most people don't pay as much attention to kids as they do to adults, with the exception of the attention parents pay to offspring, and it's not like it's ever been something Bob's needed to hide from his mom. For one thing, she saw it when he was just a baby and they first started to grow. Not to mention, she was the one who caught him skimming along above the lake edge in his own little bumbling, toddler way. Other adults might not have noticed Bob's dry feet, but his mom never misses a trick when it comes to him. It was easier when he was younger and no one really noticed if his feet touched the ground every step he took. Nowadays he's just damned grateful that when he's on stage he's in the back, on a riser, where no one's really gonna notice if his height changes by an inch or two, especially when his feet are hidden by the kick drum. Not to mention the advantage of being the one who gets to sit down. Shows are not the problem here. It's the rest of the time he spends with the band that's the problem. More specifically, the time he spends with Gerard. Don't get him wrong, Bob likes Gerard, really he does. The guy is funny, smart, talented, and one of Bob's best friends. Unfortunately, he's also highly inquisitive and tenacious, and Bob could really do without those two particular characteristics. Observe. Gerard is currently sitting across the table from Bob in the front lounge, stalking him per usual. Bob had been immersed in a very interesting magazine article on Our Endangered Wetland Ecosystems, then Gerard came and started staring at Bob with his scary, dark, soul-piercing eyes. Well, alright. Maybe Bob had actually been using the magazine as a way to surreptitiously watch Gerard flail about the lounge while on the phone, but Gerard doesn't know that, so there should be no cause for Gerard's staring. "What," Bob finally demands. Normally he would just lift his magazine and go back to reading, but wetlands are damned boring (he really wonders about some of Frank's reading material sometimes), and anyway, Gerard is leaning across the table. If something doesn't happen soon, Bob's comfortable little bubble of personal space is going to end up invaded. "Do you not like us, Bob? Are we a bad band?" Gerard asks and oh, Bob was wrong. These aren't just Gerard's scary, dark, soul-piercing eyes, they are his scary, dark, soul-piercing puppy dog eyes. Fuck. Bob is so, so screwed. "I like you just fine," Bob says gruffly, shifting in his seat and leaning away from the dangerous eyes. "Then why don't you trust us?" Fuck, fuck, fuck. Gerard sounds like he's heartbroken and are those tears glistening in those dark and soulless depths? "What the fuck are you talking about, Way?" Because, seriously? What? Why is Gerard asking him about trust? For one very frightening moment, Bob worries that Gerard has managed to pick up on Bob's (very small, entirely inconsequential, practically nonexistent) crush on him. Then he remembers that such a thing is absolutely impossible, as Bob is sneaky with his ogling, so much so that not even Ray has noticed. "I swear, we like you! We're not going to step on your toes, really! Well, Frank might, but it would be entirely accidental and he'd apologize afterwards. Probably." Gerard frowns, staring off into the distance for a moment before shaking his head and refocusing his attention of Bob. "Either way, you don't need to wear big clunky boots all the time on the bus, really! This is your home as much as ours, and they've got to hurt your feet, they're all big and buckle-y and everything. You should let your toes be free sometimes, Bob, what have they ever done to you? Besides provide an excellent means of balance, I mean?" Bob thought he'd been pretty good about acting normal on the bus, but apparently it's hard to act normal on a bus full of talented, abnormal people. "My feet get cold easily," he says. "And I take them off when I go to bed at night." He keeps his socks on, though, because who knows when someone will come along and start shoving curtains to the side, looking for a cellphone charger to steal? Or, in Frank's case, innocent feet to tickle? "They're probably cold all the time because your fucking giant, skull-crushing boots of doom are cutting off your circulation. I know! You should let me give you a foot massage to get your blood flowing again," Gerard says brightly. Oh, fuck no. No matter how appealing Bob finds the idea of Gerard rubbing his feet (very, very appealing), there is no way that is happening. "My feet stink," Bob hedges. "Because you're wearing shoes all the time," Gerard says, nodding. "See, you need to let them be free and breathe for a bit! Also, Bob. We live on a tour bus. I'm pretty sure all of our senses of smell are completely shot." While he can see how Gerard's sense of smell might be a bit impaired—that would help to explain at least part of the lack of bathing thing, at least—Bob's sense of smell is just fine, thanks. Still, there's no way he's letting Gee anywhere near his feet. "My feet are just fine," he snaps, dropping Frank's magazine and shoving himself to his feet. Bob does not need this, he does not need Gerard invading his space and offering foot rubs and giving him god dammed puppy eyes. "I'm gonna take a nap," he growls before gracefully fleeing from Gerard's confused, hurt eyes and hiding in his bunk for the rest of the day. Bob's life would be so, so much easier if it contained a lot less Gerard.
Life would be a lot easier if it also contained fewer studio shoots, Bob decides a few weeks later. Paranoid as he is about something getting caught on film that shouldn't be, he's never been overly fond of cameras, and studio shoots are even worse than most encounters of the camera kind, because sometimes, they have to dress up. Bob has to dress up. Which not only means wearing unfamiliar clothes that are more constricting than he prefers, but also wearing shoes chosen by other people. Low-topped shoes. Bob fucking hates low-topped shoes. He also fucking hates whoever came up with the concept for this shoot. "Swimwear? Swimwear?" "1920s swimwear," Gerard gushes, eyes alight as he clutches his striped suit to his chest. He's got a boater perched at a jaunty angle on his head and it's not a bad look for him, not at all, just. Swimwear? "Check it out! I am rocking this wool," Frank announces, jumping into view in a knit suit decorated with white and black diamonds. It looks more like a leotard with built-in shorts than a swimsuit to Bob, so it can't be too awful, but it's still really tight and shows way more skin than he's comfortable with. Bob was hoping to convince the rest of the band of just how bad an idea this is—look at Ray, who keeps getting zapped by static electricity from his wool suit getting charged up on his hair—and that they should definitely boycott this shoot, but he's thinking it's not going to work. Frank seems to love his, and Gerard is telling Mikey about how the shoot is, "Like Sweeney Todd—in swimsuits!" Mikey is smiling his weird little smile and nodding along and Bob is doomed. Doomed. "I'm not doing it," he says suddenly, dropping his plain, black suit on the floor and crossing his arms. "It's not happening, I'm not doing it." Frank rolls his eyes. "You have to, man. We already agreed to do it." "Well, you can do it without me. This isn't happening," Bob stubbornly insists, turning and heading towards for the door. He'll wear suits, he'll wear trenchcoats, he'll wear ties, he'll wear face paint and fake blood for this band, but he fucking draws the line at swimsuits. "Bob! Bob," Gerard says, running over and grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie, "please? It's a great concept, I was talking to the photographer earlier and she says it's going to be all sepia and vintage-looking and amazing and—" "No, Gee. Just—No," Bob says, shaking off his hand and leaving. The room is silent as the door swings shut behind him, and Bob should be worrying about what he's going to say when their manager inevitably calls, but he can't get Gerard's huge, hurt eyes out of his head, which isn't right. Bob is not that pathetic. Bob takes the elevator down to the ground level and pushes his way through the revolving glass door of the building to the busy sidewalk outside. He considers calling a cab and just leaving, but Bob isn't that much of a diva, and he knows he'd feel guilty about making it too hard for the other guys to find him later, so instead he braves traffic and slips into the little café across the street. He orders a large coffee, remembering just in time not to make it two, since it's doubtful he's going to see Gerard any time in the next hour, and it would be a shame to let good brew get cold. There's an empty armchair that's just barely not a loveseat in the corner, and once he's paid and collected his cup, Bob makes his way over there. He sips his coffee, pulls his hood up, and curls up as much as he can in the chair without actually curling up, because Bob isn't a girl and he doesn't feel the least bit guilty about letting the guys down, letting Gerard down. Everyone has their limits and swimsuits are apparently Bob's. It is possible he drifts off. Which doesn't say much about this place's coffee, though Bob will concede that he hasn't been sleeping all that well lately, waking at the slightest noise. He keeps having dreams that Gerard ambushes him in his bunk and pulls off his socks to give him foot rubs, and they just never end well. When Bob wakes up, it's to panic and yelling, and for a moment he's disoriented and confused, unable to pinpoint where he is and why he's there. Once he does remember, he's just confused, since everyone's either rushing to the front of the café or fleeing to the emergency exit at the back. Grabbing a kid who can't be more than fourteen, Bob tries to get some sort of explanation out of him. "It's the high-rise across the street, man!" the kid yelps. "It's on fire!" "Fuck." Dropping the kid, Bob pushes through the crowd of people trying to watch the fire through the front windows of the café. He has to shove someone's bloodthirsty grandma to the side to make it out the door, but at this point Bob really doesn't care. His band is in that building, and fuck if he's going to just hide in here and do nothing. Outside, traffic has practically stopped as drivers going past slow down to see if anyone is going to fall out a window. People are frightening, morbid fuckers sometimes, Bob thinks, but at least the bumper-to-bumper traffic means he can easily sprint across to the other side to see what's going on, make sure the guys are in the stream of people coming out of the emergency exit at the front of the building. Revolving doors may look cool and be good for security, but they suck in terms of a quick escape route. A fire truck pulls up just as Bob rounds the last sedan, and one of the firefighters immediately starts shouting at Bob to keep back. Bob ignores him, making a beeline for the panicked group of escapees forming in front of the building. He spots Frank right away in the distinctive white and black suit, and starts to call out when the guy right next to Frank spins around and Bob realizes it's Mikey, pale and stricken. Instead of calling him over, Mikey just shouts to Bob, "He's still inside! Gerard's still inside!" Bob speeds up, the last twenty feet or so disappearing in a blur, and then he's grabbing Mikey by the arms and demanding, "What? What do you mean?!" "Gerard went to talk to the head of the shoot about changing the costumes," Ray says, prying Bob's hands free. Bob hadn't realized he was gripping Mikey so hard, but he doesn't feel guilty about it. Guilt can wait for later, when Gerard's okay. "But the head was a couple levels up, taking care of some shit or another. Gerard hasn't come out yet." "Stupid fucker, what hell was he thinking?! He shouldn't have left," Frank curses, glaring at his feet. Ray frowns. "Hey, it's not like Gerard could've known—" "I'm not talking about Gerard, I'm talking about the motherfucking shoot director—who the hell leaves a shoot when it's about to get fucking started? Fucking unprofessional!" Frank snaps, and Bob knows Frank isn't talking about him, but his heart twists in his chest. If he hadn't walked out, Gerard wouldn't have gone looking this idiot, and he'd be here right now, outside and safe. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is totally Bob's fault. The firefighters are shouting amongst each other, waving arms and signaling. Another truck arrived while Bob was talking to Frank and Ray, and people are flowing out of it and into the building. Whirling around, Bob bounds over to the nearest one, and stops just short of grabbing him. Probably wouldn't endear him in the least, and right now, Bob needs his help. "My friend, he's still inside," Bob says. "He got separated from our group and—" "Sir, we're doing all that we can. I need you just calm down and stay with your group," the man tells Bob, ignoring him in favor of the walkie-talkie in his hand. "But—" The walkie-talkie cuts him off with a burst of loud static and a man talking, saying, "No use, tenth floor's gone, just flames, probably started here—" "Alright, Windsor, you tried," the firefighter says, pressing down the button on the radio. When he releases it, he rubs his face and mutters a quiet, "Fuck." Then he turns back to one of the trucks and starts shouting about backup or some shit. The firefighters can't get past the tenth floor, and the shoot was on the on the ninth and Gerard's somewhere on the eleventh and fuck, fuck, this totally Bob's fault. He has to fix it. Stomping back to Mikey and the guys, Bob drops to the ground and starts working off his boots. "What it is it? Bob? What did he say? Have they found Gee?" Mikey presses. Bob shakes his head. "They can't get up that high, the fire's on ten," he growls, yanking his left boot free and starting on the right. "Gerard's trapped and now you're taking off your shoes? What the fuck, Bryar, what the fucking fuck," Frank growls, grabbing at him. Bob bats him away with one hand while he pulls off his second boot. Ray, no doubt confused as fuck by what's going on but apparently willing to see it play out, grabs the back of Frank's suit and pulls him away, leaving Bob with both hands free to roll the cuffs of his jeans up to mid-calf. "I'm gonna take care of it," Bob tells Frank. He can feel them under his socks, quivering and anxious. All this time avoiding and hiding, and now Bob's just going to throw it all away, but he doesn't care, Gerard's in trouble. Taking a deep breath, Bob yanks off his socks and tosses them to Frank before leaping back to his feet. He's feeling steadier now, more balanced and sure of his body. "Bob," Ray says slowly, "there are wings on your ankles." "Yeah, I know," Bob says, giving his feet a quick glance. His wings, all four of them, one on both sides of each ankle, are shivering and stretching, taking advantage of finally being allowed to breathe. "Remind me to tell you about my dad later." The wings snap out, stiff and ready, and he takes another deep breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He can do this. "Don't worry," he tells Mikey, tossing him a grin, "I'll bring back Gee." He takes a running leap forward and—takes off. Bob doesn't really fly in the sense of flapping wings or zooming through the air. He travels through the air, and he can hover, but he only moves when he's running. It's the magic of the wings, Bob figures, since he knows he's not flying because the wings are flapping, they're too tiny, and they're totally in the wrong place for him to fly right-side-up the way he does. It's magic that gets him off the ground and keeps him in the air, magic that lets him run so quickly. Faster than death, sometimes. It's Bob, not magic, that breaks through a window on the eleventh floor, though, and starts shouting for Gerard in between coughs. Bob's not too worried about smoke-inhalation in terms of himself—being a demigod means you've got a really tough constitution—but he is worried about Gerard, who smokes like a chimney all the time and doesn't need more smoke mucking up his lungs. He needs to get Gerard out of here now, before the building's structure starts to weaken and the floor above collapses down. Of course, first Bob has to find him. He's starting to think Gerard isn't even on this level anymore, that's he's gone up, tried to get to the rooftop, because Gerard can't be dead, Bob won't let him be, he can't— "Bob?" It's hoarse and weak, but Bob spins around and there's Gerard, curled up next to a window and fine, barely a scratch on him. Also, trapped by a fucking huge hole in the floor, flames leaping up to licking the edges of it. "Don't worry, Gee, I'll get you out of here," Bob reassures him, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he's never actually tried to fly while carrying anyone else before. Hopefully, his puny little magic wings can manage that much. "Just. Turn that way?" Bob says, pointing away from the window. Gerard scrambles to do as he's told, and Bob grabs a mid-sized arm chair, hefts it, and lobs it at the window, shattering the glass. Immediately, the flames around him leap higher at the sudden influx of fresh oxygen, and Bob's probably just managed to fan the fire a hell of a lot, but he doesn't care, he's got an escape route to take Gerard out through now, since the gods know that Gerard isn't about to survive being carried through a fire-ridden deathtrap of a room even if Bob is. "Okay, I'm coming over," he tells Gerard, taking another running leap and dashing over the hole and out the window, catching up Gerard on his way. Since he doesn't lose altitude right away, Bob guesses the added weight isn't too much for his wings. Relaxing, Bob turns his attention to getting a better grip on Gerard. Who is currently staring at him like he's made out of rainbows and unicorns or something. "You have wings on your feet," Gerard says. "My ankles, technically," Bob says tetchily. "Yes, exactly. And you can fly! Fuck, you're like fucking Mercury, this is awesome!" Gerard gushes and this, this would be why Bob never wanted him to know. "Hermes, actually," Bob mutters as he descends. Descending is harder than ascending, since it's basically like trying to walk down an invisible slope, and Bob's wings have this thing where they really like to go up, but they're not so keen on going down. "He was my dad." Gerard sobers up some, smile dropping. "Oh." The guys know Bob doesn't have a high opinion of his father, that he hates the man's guts for walking out on Bob's mom like he did. "This is why you wear shoes all the time, isn't it? And why you wouldn't do the shoot. You didn't want anyone to see your wings." Actually, Bob wouldn't do the shoot because it would require him to wear a skintight little leotard thing, and no one needs to see him in something like that, especially not Gerard. Still, this is a nice out as well, so he nods. "But you still came and rescued me," Gerard says, and now he's back to grinning again, and dammit, Bob is not blushing. He just got too close to the fire and got burned a little by the heat, that's all. "Thanks, Bob," Gerard murmurs, his lips right next to Bob's ear, as Bob touches down at last. Bob's feet may be on the ground again, but it still feels like he's walking on air. | . | . | |
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