FicWad

Hi everyone! I'm on spring break for the next three weeks, so I'll try to write a lot during my time off. Thanks for the reviews, hope you enjoy.

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3. Family Romance

5580 Highway 67, Florence, Colorado, 10:02 a.m.

When Frank returned bright and early the next morning to resume his interrogation, Gerard was beating on the walls of his cell like a madman. He ran from one side of the room to the other, staggering across the space like an off-balance bird, screaming and bloodying his fists against the bars. The guard on duty was at a complete loss. He couldn’t sedate the prisoner, not when Frank was waiting to conduct an interview. He just stood there, mouth open in distress. Frank touched the guard’s arm in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

“Let me try to talk to him,” he murmured, setting his briefcase against the wall and sliding off his coat. He stepped closer to the bars, pushing aside the curtain. Gerard paused, staring like he’d never seen another human being before. He was balanced precariously between his bed and the table, midway through shouting into the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. One clenched hand was raised to his head, fingers twined in his hair. He tugged at the roots, just a tiny twitch, as if ascertaining it wasn’t a dream.

“Frank?”

Iero dared to lean his forehead against the bars, trying to get closer. His heart was thudding wildly. “Yes.”

Gerard slumped in relief, the tension going out of his shoulders. He climbed down and padded over to the FBI agent. “I’ve been waiting all morning,” he said, still a little breathless. He reached up to grip the bars near Frank’s face, moving slowly to avoid startling him. Gerard’s knuckles were bloody and raw, his nails bitten to the quick.

Frank jumped a little, but willed himself to stay still. “I’m sorry. I went to bed late and didn’t remember to set the alarm. Are you…okay?”

The other man smiled ruefully. “I’m fine now. You caught me at a bad moment, I’m afraid. Do come in.” He beckoned to the guard, who unlocked the door reluctantly. Frank walked in without hesitation. Truthfully, it was almost a relief to be back in the tiny room. It gave him another chance to study the man he found so fascinating. Gerard sagged onto the bed; Frank pulled up a chair and sat across from him, staring over folded arms. “What?” the other man asked blankly, clutching at a stitch in his side.

“You’re insane,” Frank whispered like he was spilling the world’s largest secret.

Gerard’s lips pulled into a grin. “I can assure you I’m not, Agent Iero, what—”

“You can call me Frank. If you want,” he amended hastily. “If it won’t personalize me to you too much.”

“Too late. You’re already very much a person to me, Frank.” He rolled the name around in his mouth, experimenting with the stacked consonants, the flatness of the ‘a’. “If that was you trying to be professional, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

Frank rolled his eyes, trying to suppress his amusement. It still surprised him, how quickly Gerard would change the subject, spinning the conversation off in another direction within the blink of an eye. How he could talk so candidly about his own death one minute, and switch to cracking jokes the next. “You had something to tell me, I believe. Something rather urgent.”

The black-haired man waved it away impatiently. “I’ll come to it by and by.” He could barely acknowledge the truth, that he needed to stretch out this visit for as long as possible. Some part of him balked at the thought of yesterday’s events repeating; pain had pulled the breath from his throat as the agent left. “You have something to tell me, too. I’d stake what remains of my reputation on it. But let’s not talk of business just yet.”

“What should we talk about, then?” Frank asked. In the back of his mind, he regretted leaving his briefcase outside the cell. He’d meant it as a gesture of goodwill, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to recall half of what they said for his final report.

Gerard pursed his lips and steepled delicate fingers, playing the psychologist. “You,” he said simply.

“Me,” Frank spluttered in disbelief. “What could you possibly want to know about me?”

“It’s more the principle of the thing. I’ve told you my life story — well, the early parts of it, anyway. The rest can wait until later.” He didn’t mention that he was running out of time, that the very thought of ‘later’ was turning into a precious commodity so close to death. “I agreed to speak to you as an equal; that was on the assumption that our dialogue would not be one-sided. Tell me something interesting. Your childhood, your angry teenage years, it doesn’t matter. Just speak.”

Frank paused awkwardly. He was skilled in thinking of questions, drawing information out of other people’s minds, not speaking at length about himself. Anonymity was important in an investigation. If your identity was known, you were weak. But he wanted to share…something…with the man he was so drawn to, so badly that he cast aside his training and settled into a more comfortable position in his chair.

“I was born in Georgia in 1970 on a rainy Halloween night. It was the perfect way for a future detective to come into the world, my mother always said. I was a poor Southern kid in a white-trash neighborhood; I didn’t leave the state until my fifteenth birthday. My formative years were spent puttering around a small town on a bicycle, like any other American kid.”

“What was the name of the town?” Gerard asked dreamily. Frank hadn’t thought he’d been paying attention; he blinked in surprise.

“Vidalia,” he stammered, “like the onions. We moved across the state to Athens when I was eleven. My dad skipped out when I was very young, and my mother raised me by herself. She was very supportive, but she, uh, didn’t endorse the same values as me. She was a born-again Catholic...needless to say, we've drifted apart.”

“And you?” he murmured, resting one pallid cheek against his folded hand. Frank watched the way the skin moved in the soft light. It reminded him of something abstract, the shadow of something he could hardly recall.

“I was a snotty little punk.” He chewed his lip. “I spent a lot of time being angry about nothing and listening to music with two chords. The house in Athens was right under the airport; at night I used to climb out onto the roof and listen to the planes overhead. I dreamed about going someplace else, like everyone growing up, I guess. I went to college in Maine, got into forensics and psychology, applied for the academy. The rest is history.” He laughed. “Are you satisfied? Can I get back to interviewing you?”

“Not just yet.” Gerard frowned. “Your story’s full of holes. You’ve given me only the bare bones, without any sense of what kind of person you are. I don’t need to know where you went to high school, or your dog’s name, or your first girlfriend; details like that don’t interest me unless they have context.”

“What do you want to know, then?” Frank snapped. He couldn’t just spill his guts unprompted, and Way’s superiority hit a raw nerve. Gerard just looked at him for a long moment, until he sighed, shoulders slumping. He was being defensive, juvenile.

“Moments in your life that you’ve known were important,” the criminal murmured. He let his eyes drift shut, like he was conjuring up the words from some prompt behind his eyelids. “Formative experiences, feelings that haven’t been repeated. I want realizations, images that have stuck with you for years without your knowing why. Don’t tell me you deal in stereotypes, in characters only halfway filled in; that would be disappointing, to say the least. I expect more from you — not just statements of fact, but insight. Don’t be offended if I choose my words poorly and can’t express what I seek to. I’m out of the habit of talking. But...” he pressed his fingers against cracked lips, a barely perceptible hesitation. “I have faith that you’re a thoughtful person, and I know there’s a story behind how you ended up here.”

Frank tried hard not to blush. He was strangely flattered, and that gave him the will to continue, albeit haltingly. “I guess — I’d like to talk first of what it means to be young. That’s something that weighs on my mind. It means feeling trapped — by your surroundings, inside your own body, even. It’s a period that you want to move through as quickly as possible, yet we’re somehow supposed to retain the freedom and tolerance that come with seeing the world for the first time. That paradox, that loss of innocence…” he trailed off, unable to voice his thoughts any further and shrugging apologetically. “I’m still confused by it, and I’ve had years to think it over.”

“And I’ve had even longer,” Gerard said dryly. “Were you aware of it growing up, or was it strictly a post-adolescent realization?”

“I knew,” he admitted. “I knew I was in the midst of something bittersweet, and that soon the things I’d come to understand would fade away, like waking from a dream. Everything seemed incredibly important then — I don’t feel that anymore; I barely remember the events that used to shape my whole world.”

“You’re still barely an adult,” Gerard mused, tucking his hands under his chin with a weird little smile. “You have so much time, stretching ahead of you.” His voice betrayed an acute envy; nothing he would act on, because his future could never look anything like Frank’s, just a seed of bitter knowledge, because he could have been…

“I know,” Frank laughed. His teeth were straight and white, and his dark eyes crinkled gleefully at the corners. His was a face full of mischief; there was something fresh about him, Gerard thought, something alive and obtuse, deliciously self-involved. “I must seem like a total kid to you, and for the most part, that’s still true. I don’t really have a sense of direction, of where I’m headed. I just hope it's somewhere I’ll enjoy.”

That’s not true, Gerard thought instantly. Because there was grit and steel in those thin shoulders, no veneer of optimism could hide it. Frank was easygoing, but he truly thought he had the power to change his fate, and that made Gerard feel sorry for him. Someone who thinks they have control over their life is so vulnerable. He wanted to hold him to his chest and keep him safe, and not let the world extinguish that light. He’d felt it go out of Mikey, despite his best efforts. But this boy was lionhearted, and Gerard could learn from his mistakes. For the first time since his brother’s birth, he felt close to someone else. It wasn’t the same freaky, neural-twin-telepathy link, but a kind of gentle warmth behind his ribs. He didn’t know what to make of it besides sadness. It seemed cruel that he’d receive such a gift when he was staring down his death like a fast-approaching train.

“What were you like back then?” he asked, largely to distract himself. He was more watching the way Frank’s lips moved when he talked, memorizing the cadence, not the actual words they brought forth.

“Moody. Self-absorbed to a fault. I was pretty isolated, didn’t have a lot of friends at school. But I don’t regret that; it taught me to live in my head. It forced me to have something going on up there, to write and think and feel independent of other peoples’ opinions. That’s a useful skill to have, especially in my line of work. I wasn’t a stable kid, I was really unhappy, looking back. Maybe we’re alike in that respect.”

“What’d you do?”

Frank undid the cuffs of his shirt and held up his blue-veined wrists; Gerard stared mutely at a set of scars that far surpassed his.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that about you,” he commented, eyebrows raised. But it made sense; the most messed-up kids never wore their problems on their sleeve. In fact, they were often the nicest, the most outgoing, eager to deflect any suspicion that something might be wrong. He remembered that clearly from high school. You could stare for hours and not even catch a ripple across the surface. Adulthood only made it easier to bury those secrets safely in the past.

“Neither would anyone else. My own mother never even noticed.” The smaller man rolled his eyes. “People are naturally unobservant, and I did everything I could to stay out of the spotlight. But there’s not a whole lot you can do, being gay in a small town.” He dropped the word casually, but tensed, revealing its importance. Gerard could have laughed out loud; he couldn’t believe his luck. But he made his eyes calm, lowered his voice to a comforting purr.

“It was difficult for me, too. I can’t imagine how much harder it would have been, doing it all alone.”

Frank bit down on his full bottom lip. “But I’m not defined by my sexuality. I’m something more than that.”

“A wise distinction to make.” Gerard ducked his head, black hair fluttering across his face. “And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll broach the topic I was so eager to discuss with you.” He held his breath, hands clenching. “I need you to find my brother, Michael Way.”

It felt like the silence stretched on for years. He didn’t dare look at the other man, didn’t know what he would see if he lifted his head. He was sweating bullets; it was the first time he’d really been afraid in a long while. Frank sighed. It echoed loud as a gunshot.

“I don’t think I can,” he said at length. Setting aside his initial jolt of disappointment, Gerard liked the edge of regret in the smaller man’s voice. So there was hope, then.

“I really —” he stopped, swallowing hard. “I really need him to be in good hands, if I am to die. He seems set on coming here, on somehow breaking in or breaking me out. It will only lead to his arrest, and I gave up everything so that he could be free. I have to be able to think of him getting by in some corner of the world; it’s the only way I can stand to be confined like this.”

“I can’t, Gerard. I don’t question the legitimacy of it,” Frank amended hastily, “I just don’t think I could swing it unless you or your brother were involved in one of the cases I’m working.”

“Tell me about them, then.” That same half-smirk. “We’ll see where I fit in.”

“Why, Gerard?” The question hung in the air, the second part unsaid. When you’re going to die in a couple of days. “You know that talking about ongoing investigations is against FBI policy.”

“Because,” the older man growled, his posture shifting from languid to intense in the blink of an eye. “As far as I’m concerned, you owe me one. Every-fucking-body owes me a favor before I die and go to hell, and I’m gonna collect. I don’t want books and movies, I don’t need better food, I don’t even want one last lousy fuck before I head off to the chair. I just want my brother to be safe. Mikey is the only one who knows what happened to me, and he has to walk free, or my life will have been a waste. I’m not asking you to bring him here; I don’t need to see him. Just find him and keep him far away from me.”

Frank sat slumped. He was breaking every single rule he used to live by, but the process was strangely liberating. “I could do with a vacation,” he said brightly. “I guess I could talk about the cases I’m working on, and you could tell me if you hear anything familiar. Strictly off the record.”

Gerard full-on beamed, flashing his little teeth. “Perfect.” He had no intention of spilling FBI secrets, and no doubt that one of the cases would relate to his prior work. No crime these days was truly original; they all led back to similar motives and mechanisms. Fucking copycats. The man opposite him drummed his fingers on the dull wood of his chair, leaned back slightly. The dark intensity in his eyes dimmed as he struggled to remember the particulars of his recent cases.

“A string of shootings in Milwaukee, staged to look like infanticides; an elusive masked rapist attacking women in the Northwest; three hikers beheaded on the Appalachian Trail…ritualistic sacrifice disguised as a murder-suicide…” he sighed. “Any of those ring a bell? I could keep going, but those are the ones I’m most directly involved in.”

“My, we’re in high demand,” Gerard drawled, flopping into a different position on the bed. He could feel those dark eyes on him, and the attention sent shivers down his spine. “But those are the mundane crimes of a troubled world. Maybe the perpetrators are a little more skilled, a little more inventive than usual, but you will catch them given enough time. Challenge me, Frank. Surely there’s something out there that you have no explanation for, a case that stumps you. I know you’re curious as to my abilities; give me something to really sink my teeth into."

Frank chewed his lip. The Halo Files felt like his own personal project; the thought of sharing them with someone else had never crossed his mind. For some reason he’d intuited that only he could find an answer, that the box hidden in his hall closet had been delivered to him alone. But difficult cases weren’t solved by one tired, fallible agent — they had the benefit of different eyes and perspectives. Surely Gerard, with all his experience, could reveal something helpful.

To look on a complex mystery with the eyes of an equally skilled murderer…

He summoned his courage and leapt into the void. “Have you ever heard of a project called Lux Nova?” he asked, and immediately knew the reward rendered the risk worthwhile. Gerard’s eyes glittered, green depths sparking with the light of recognition. But instead of speaking, he raised his tousled head and stared appraisingly at Frank.

“Now where did a little thing like you come to know about a project like that?” he asked.

“It literally fell into my lap.” When Gerard’s frown deepened, he hurried to explain. “Someone broke into my apartment and left a box of case files on my living room floor. I assumed they wanted me to look at them, because my building is a hell of a detour from the high security archive at Quantico. They’re called—”

“The Halo Files,” Gerard murmured, almost dreamily. “I remember they caused quite a stir at the time. The water-cooler chat revolved around those murdered officials for weeks; I grew quite bored of it all. Because no one knew about the underlying truth, that all those dead men had been members of a top-secret project. It’s lonely, keeping a secret of that magnitude. It drives you away from other people, and the weight of it leaks into every facet of your life. But you must know all about that, Frank. You’ve made a career out of keeping secrets, after all.”

“Tell me more,” the younger man demanded, playing with a loose button on his shirt. Gerard watched those slim fingers twist and probe, coming close to prying the little disc off but always relenting at the last second. He didn’t break eye contact, even as he fought the urge to blink.

“Thirteen of them, in total. Thirteen unnatural, inexplicable deaths, and our government was powerless to put a stop to the insanity. If you’re smart, you’ll have noticed that the first murders fall in the spring of 1987, just before my…abdication.”

Confusion registered briefly on Iero’s face. “They were a trigger, for you?”

“It wasn’t so much the murders as the phenomena that caused them.” Gerard locked trembling hands in the folds of his dirty sheets, trying so hard not to remember, to just say the words and deny the connotations. “What did the official report say killed them?”

“Unknown, possibly hostile forces.” Frank was aware how ridiculous the reply sounded. He couldn’t help but smile, just to show that he wasn’t naïve. “The man in charge of the investigation suggested extraterrestrial entities.”

“Oh, but I do believe in the aliens, Frank,” Gerard said slowly. A change had come over his features; he looked harder, like he was made of stone. “I have no choice. Sometimes you have to hunt for the truth, but sometimes it bludgeons you in the face and demands that you acknowledge it.”

The FBI agent paused, pushing dark hair away from his eyes. He waited for the punchline, but it didn’t seem to be coming. “You can’t be serious.”

“To you, it’s the height of insanity; to me, it’s just another fact. It’s all relative, Frank. You say that, in your sphere of experience, you have yet to find any proof of extraterrestrial life, and that’s fine, I have no problem with that. But I have seen things that I can neither deny nor explain. I can’t make you believe. Hell, I can’t even try, not if you’ve closed your mind to the possibility. I’d rather not spend my morning beating a dead horse.”

Frank waited, considering the options. Everything Gerard had told him so far had rung true; he couldn’t at any point recall thinking the man was delusional or telling anything but what he believed to be the truth. He was skeptical of the paranormal on principle, but he couldn’t offer a better explanation for the mysteries uncovered every day. “This is going to sound crazy, but you’re the sanest person I’ve met in a long time. If there’s evidence that was compelling enough to convince you, I’d like to hear it. If it doesn’t reopen old wounds,” he tacked on, because he could sense something rolling off of Gerard in waves, some powerful emotion he didn’t want to show to another soul. He struggled even now to ward it off; the effort showed on his expressive face. There was a tightness around his eyes, a certain set to his mouth, and his breathing was shallow. Frank thought that maybe, if he’d known the man for a long time, he would have been able to tell what the feeling was. But they both knew it was not to be; sadness pierced him when he looked at the twisted, beautiful creature before him and knew that Gerard and all he encompassed would soon die.

“I don’t like to talk about it.” Gerard’s voice sounded strange, almost as if he were being crushed. “But if it gives you some insight into the case, into my motives, then I will. My beliefs are not a product of my father’s cult, of being exposed to constant dogma for years. If anything, his unshakable faith was what turned me into a skeptic. I delighted in poking holes in his theories, even if it meant I’d have scars to show for it. No, the real event had precious little to do with my father.” He pressed his hands to his face, letting them slide gently down his cheeks, steeling himself. “When I was seventeen, I witnessed a mass abduction in New Mexico. Mikey and I had been planning to run away for years, but the opportunity had never presented itself. There had been a string of UFO sightings that summer, the usual lights in the sky, the media frenzy. Somehow my father became fixated on the idea that these aliens would come for him and his followers, if he could only find a way to make them aware of his devotion. He orchestrated a mass suicide at the compound, believing the aliens would show up and take them all away. I knew it was bullshit the moment I heard it. There were children there, Frank, but no one questioned him or gave it a second thought. They prepared a gentle death, spiked our drinking water with cyanide. My mother helped us escape, hiding us under the foundations of our house. I remember crouching there in the dark for hours, muffling him when he started to cry. Mikey doesn’t like confined spaces — not at all.” The hard set of his jaw relaxed for a moment. “I knew I had to protect him; my mother’s final plea only cemented that. She followed our father because it was the only way we could be saved. It was the only brave thing she ever did. But it meant we watched as our father whipped the crowd into a fury one last time, urging them to take the honorable path and meet their alien creators. We watched the bodies fall, one by one, friends we had eaten and slept with. The rest of my father's children, his wives, the people he'd professed to love lying rigid and lifeless on the parched ground. A strange light came into his eyes as he drank the final toast, and his face twisted with animal fury. To this day, it haunts me...because I see it in myself, and in the face of my brother when he sets the fires.” He visibly started when he felt warmth brush over his sleeve. He opened his eyes slowly; he couldn’t recall shutting them. In the sudden blur of light, he only felt Frank’s hand close around his arm, thumb stroking gently over rough fabric. His breath hitched in his chest, and his pulse hammered wildly. "I..."

Frank didn’t know what to say, doubted there was anything he could say that wouldn’t sound trite and self-aggrandizing. His mouth hung open, lips trembling with the need to speak, but he just sat there stroking the criminal’s arm in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. To his surprise, Gerard shifted incrementally closer, arching up into the touch.

“Can I?” the detective asked softly, and that dark, tousled head nodded just once. Frank rolled up the other man’s sleeve and slid his hand underneath. The skin felt warm and taut, straining to hold in muscle. He ran his fingertips over it slowly, tracing the veins. He had no fucking idea what he was doing, only that he was developing some weird fixation with that stretch of bare, luminous wrist. Gerard was privately delighted in the simple show of human affection. Frank’s eyes were dilated, and the criminal gazed into a world of bottomless brown, shot through with gold. The back of his neck was buzzing, the tension palpable. He could feel his heart aching in his chest, feel it moving for the first time since his sentencing. Being warm and alive and vulnerable was something he always equated with Mikey’s company, not with a stranger’s. Gingerly, he pulled back from that magnetic touch.

“Frank,” he breathed, “you shouldn’t.”

Frank sighed ruefully. “You’re right, of course.” He managed to let go of Gerard with an effort. He had no clue what was going on, or why he felt like this — dazed, fuzzy, almost blissed-out. He was working himself up over nothing, but he couldn’t shake it. Everything was falling in a haze of gold. He shook his head sharply to clear it. “Please continue.”

Gerard tugged his sleeve back down absently, collecting his scattered thoughts. It was hard to get past that wash of lust and wantwantwant; he wasn’t used to being patient, but he remained pragmatic. He would die in obscurity without this man’s help, without ever feeling fresh air on his face. What he would give to squint against blinding sunlight one more time, or just look at the sky. And without Frank, he couldn’t ensure Mikey lived a long and happy life, which was most important of all. He had to play this just right.

“All family drama aside, we both saw them. Their ship hovered over the compound for several minutes; shadowy figures emerged and collected the bodies. They were humanoid, but their movements were foreign to us. Only three fingers on each hand, elongated craniums, large black eyes — I was terrified, but I remember almost laughing at the cliché. They were gentle as they carried the dead back to their craft, almost like they recognized the sacrifice my father had made. The whole time, the compound was bathed in bright white light, and all the irregularities of the ground, little lumps of dirt and blades of grass, cast shadows. It looked like we were on the moon. They left, and the light faded. We heard the hum of their ship passing over the house; it rattled the windows in their frames. And then we could see the stars again, and Mikey and I realized we were well and truly alone.”

“How can you be sure of what you saw?” Frank asked meekly, trying to make it clear he was playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he saw exactly the same thing.” Their minds had been in some kind of continuous interface back then, from spending so much time together. He remembered feeling on edge in his own skin, knowing he wasn’t quite in control of himself. The world came in wide angles, in double negatives from two separate cameras. Their thoughts intertwining like roots left unchecked. Before they learned to control it, to shut out that dizzying link. It had felt like drawing a shutter against too-bright light: the quiet was a relief, but he couldn’t help but think that somehow they’d failed. That night, watching the aliens, the same images had flashed through Mikey’s mind like those infinite mirrors in hotel lobbies, taking in what Gerard had seen and beaming back his own mental pictures. They hadn’t talked about it afterwards. They were both certain they’d witnessed something otherworldly, but even then they’d known the proof that felt so solid and perfect to them would crack under the scrutiny of the rest of the world. “Ironic, isn’t it? I have all the evidence I need, a memory that’s crystal clear in my mind, but I will never be able to make you believe me. So we can talk of theories, ramble around in circles debating something I already know to be true, or we can skip the semantics and you can just take my word for it. They are here, Frank, and they know what makes us tick.”

He stopped and leaned back again, studying the detective to glean his reaction. Then again, it wasn’t like Frank Iero was hard to read; he pretty much broadcast every emotion to the skies. At the moment, his eyes were wide and unblinking, and despite the frozen expression, his mind was churning at lightning speed. Whether or not it was possible, whether or not to believe Gerard. Surely a man who’d raped and killed and was now desperately trying to escape his own death would stoop to twisting the truth.

“What’s the connection, then? If aliens really did kill those men…there must be some reason why you were involved, how you knew about the project they were a part of.”

Gerard looked at him pointedly, like a professor condescending to speak. “You can’t answer a question with another question.”

Frank whipped out his infuriatingly charming smile. “Well, answer my question then.”

“I won’t even try to describe the flaws in that logic.” But he sighed, and continued to speak. “It turns out that, unfortunately, abductions run in my family. I conducted some research on the subject, naturally, after our experiences, and people are statistically much more prone to these events—”

“—or delusions—”

“—when someone else in their family has made contact.” He rolled his eyes in frustration. “Must you interrupt everything I say?”

Frank smiled again, but said nothing.

“Eight years ago, my brother went missing for six months. He was living in a trailer park; I had a tiny apartment near FBI headquarters, and he stayed with me most weekends. They took him, but they didn’t take me; I wasn’t even woken by the noise. We went to bed, and in the morning he was just gone. I scoured the earth for any trace of him, and found nothing. That void, that vacuum…I didn’t take it well. It was an endless silence after years of company. Even when I knew what I was doing, it seemed like a dream — except I’d given up sleeping. I don’t remember much, just brief flashes of lucidity between the episodes. They could be hours or days of complete and utter darkness. When I awoke, I didn’t know whether I’d find myself peeling an orange or in the bathtub with a dead body, the water pink with blood. I killed four people during those months. To this day I cannot tell you how or why or any particulars that I haven’t learned from reading the case files. I was truly outside of myself.” He didn’t mention the chilling truth that had come to him years after: that he and Mikey were a single mind divided between two bodies, and when one disappeared, the other was filled beyond capacity. When one was gone, the other could not live.

“The episodes didn’t stop until the last month. Before I left the FBI, I had a close friend whose assignment was to keep tabs on the members of Lux Nova, cover up any fiascos that would draw attention. I kept my ear to the ground, after what happened in New Mexico; although it was a top secret initiative, little bits of information drifted down to me. They were a secret sector devoted to researching alien technology, reverse-engineering stolen equipment for the government’s purposes. I tracked them to every UFO crash site in the country, as well as several overseas. They had international immunity and were ruthless suppressors of the truth.

“I was on the brink of something more, of knowing, when I blacked out in a bar one night and came to as I was dumping a corpse into the James River. I quit my job, left my house the next day and never came back. While I waited and kept my head down, I read every newspaper searching for signs, knowing they would lead me to Mikey. I’d drive to wherever the alien craft had been sighted, but I was always too late. Despair overcame me; I killed again and again, and I’d feel physically ill if I stayed in one place for too long, if he got further away from me. He turned up naked in a cornfield on the other side of the country, with no idea where he’d been or what had been done to him.”

Frank chewed his lip, let the silence stretch while he tried to call up everything he’d learned watching late-night conspiracy shows. “Was his mental condition affected by the abduction? Were there any…physical changes, concrete signs?”

Gerard sighed. “You would ask that. Yes, my brother was very much changed by the experience. Aside from the initial infirmity caused by shock and exposure, there were scars on his skin that couldn’t be explained by modern science. Microburns, as though he’d been exposed to some toxic chemical; incisions, apparently of a surgical nature, although as far as we could ascertain all his vital organs were intact; he was also covered in geometric bruises that refused to fade — he told me they were caused by the restraints the extraterrestrials had used. His mind also suffered. He suffered from night terrors, dreams in which he was forced to relive the tests. His claustrophobia, which had faded somewhat as he grew up, intensified. He became paranoid — justifiably so, I imagine — and delusional. He thought they were still watching over him and tracking what he did. We were constantly on the run for years, from the police and whoever else wanted our heads. He knew that abductees are often sought out again; I don’t think either of us could have survived that.”

“Why didn't you tell the authorities what had happened?” Frank asked. “Especially because you were so close to the members of the project. They could have helped you.”

“They could have,” Gerard agreed gravely. “I went to some of the officers about my brother, but they beat me savagely when they found out what I knew about their project. I kidnapped one of the leaders of Lux Nova and tortured him for information, but found out nothing new. After that I never said anything, because I had no proof.”

Frank sat back abruptly. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen police brutality before; he’d been called after the race riots in Georgia as an agent-in-training, to try and identify the trampled corpses in the street. He just couldn’t imagine it happening to Gerard. He wasn’t conscious of it at the time, and wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the exact moment it started afterwards, but some small part of him began to question whether the man he’d been sent to study was a killer or a victim.

“That’s horrible,” he said bluntly. “No one in the government should behave that way; our job is to protect the American people, not maim them.”

“It was my fault.” That black-haired head nodded gently. Hands flexed in his lap. “I should’ve known better than to go to them. They had to silence me, when their project was at stake. They believed they were keeping the public safe from a dangerous and subversive threat…that was what they were made to believe. Even evil men are created somewhere, Frank. We aren’t born brim-full of the desire to wreak havoc; somewhere along the line, forces shape and mark us for the role we are to play. Not to get maudlin or anything.” He smiled almost shyly. “Do you see, now, why it’s so important to me that my brother go on living?”

“I — I think so,” Frank said hesitantly. “All your life, you’ve sacrificed yourself for him.”

“Just as we all should for our own flesh and blood. He’s suffered so much already…I haven’t been there to protect him…I’ve failed him time and time again, and this is my last chance to rectify it. Please.” The slight twitching of the muscles around his left eye, familiar to the detective now, seemed almost like a wink. His white skin was wrinkled into crow’s feet from the movement, crinkling at the corners in the ghost of a smile.

Surely someone capable of that level of devotion and selflessness can’t be all bad. He pretended to vacillate, but his mind was already made up. He’d known for a while now that he would do whatever Gerard Way asked of him, if only to honor a dying man’s last wish.

“I’ll do it.”

ʬ ʬ ʬ

Frank left the prison soon after and stopped at the first payphone he came across, frantically patting his pockets for quarters. He recovered a handful and placed a call to Simmons’ office. His secretary answered; he evaded her with a paperwork-related lie that he hoped wasn’t too glib.

“Hi, sir,” he said when something clicked on the other end of the line.

“Iero. How’s your report coming along?”

“Um. Great.” The assistant director would have his hide when he realized he hadn’t written anything down from the interviews, just committed the salient details to memory and tried not to get lost in the maze of conversation. “I have a few questions about Way’s record.”

“In relation to the case you’re working now, right?” There was a touch of humor in his superior’s gravelly voice. “Because I didn’t ship you all the way out there to start a fan club for the Bellevue Vampire.”

“No, sir. You certainly did not.” Frank cringed internally. He wasn’t really in any position to ask a favor; Simmons had already thrown him a bone by letting him work the copycat case. By rights it should’ve gone to someone with more experience, more hours logged in the field. “But, you see, he really does seem quite sane. He talks like a Harvard graduate, and he’s been very cooperative.”

“How do you know he isn’t spinning you a nice little fantasy?”

Frank shrugged and said the only thing he could. “He gave me his word.”

“I see.” The words dripped with irony.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’ve spent a lot of time with this man in the past two days. He hasn’t slipped up once; he maintains eye contact and shows every other sign of being truthful. I was trained to create a bond with captives, to gain their trust, and I believe I have here. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Gerard Way is not the person his case files portray him as.” He waited with bated breath. A sigh echoed in his ear.

“Fine. Do what you want, Iero. I give you full clearance as far as the prisoner and his case are concerned, as long as you find some time to catch the copycat. If you really think there has been some kind of miscarriage of justice here, I have confidence that you’re the man to uncover it. But it’s on your head if anything goes wrong. I trust you’ll make me proud.”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.” He hung up and allowed himself a brief whoop of victory. Several passersby stared. He had a few coins left and no one to share the good news with. He called Kat and braced himself for the inevitable awkwardness that had crept into their fading friendship.

“Hello?”

“It’s Frank.” Muffled giggles from the other end, then whispers. He couldn’t make out any real words. “Are you alone?”

Kat paused patiently, like she knew he would be angry. “I’m with Pete.”

“Pete from work?” he asked dimly, not quite following. “Pete the morgue guy?”

“Forensic analyst.”

“Whatever. The fuck, Kat?”

“I was bored.” Her voice was wheedling, not quite covering the low, manly laughter that was burning into his brain. He supposed he didn’t really have any right to be jealous. She was moving on, as she should. He’d been waiting for it for months now.

“I thought he was gay.”

That got him one of her smoky chuckles. “So did I. Relax, we’re just having drinks. The poor man doesn’t get out of the basement often enough.”

“I wonder why,” he deadpanned, his fury easing somewhat. He tried to think straight, and not alienate the rapidly dwindling pool of agents his own age. If he lost Kat, he’d be completely out of the loop on the daily happenings of the bureau. He couldn’t seek out help from some other source; everybody else peed through catheters, took their teeth out at night and had been around to meet Hoover. “Does he smell like formaldehyde? Is he still wearing his lab coat and goggles? Has he asked you if you need an organ donation? These are all warning signs.”

“He’s charming, actually. And I can take care of myself. However, I don’t know how I’ll get him in the cab if he passes out.” Frank prayed for the sound of violent retching to reach his ears, but his supplication went unanswered for the time being.

“You’d think he’d have a stronger stomach, given his occupation. It may surprise you, but I didn’t call just so I could insult Pete Wentz. Although he is an easy target.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

“I need to find Michael Way by tonight.”

A sudden clamor; he held the phone away for a moment, wincing. By the sounds of it, Kat had choked on her drink.

“Sorry,” she said hoarsely. “Vodka went down the wrong way. Frank, even if I could tell you where he is at the moment, the odds are high he’d set your ass on fire. Then I’d have to autopsy you extra-crispy, and the prospect isn’t attractive.”

“Well shit. I need him, Kat. I’m hoping we can work out some kind of deal. I’m sure he’d like to see his brother one last time, in exchange for his freedom, of course. Imagine…both Ways incarcerated. No more fires, no gory murders…all would be peace and love.”

She huffed. “Arizona. Off the record.”

“Off the record,” he agreed, and couldn’t resist a final dig. “You'd better use a condom, necrophilia might be contagious.”

ʬ ʬ ʬ

Gerard had been lying in the same spot for hours, staring at the spider-web of cracks in the ceiling. From the corner of his eye he’d seen guards come and go, observing him. He was tired of the charade; he couldn’t escape and they knew it. They probably just enjoyed watching the crazy criminal take a piss.

His mind flashed back to the day he’d arrived before he could stop it. The blood of those tattooed, muscle-bound inmates was still fresh on his hands, spattering his jumpsuit. Ever since the incident, he'd been caught up in a whirl of chaos, poked and prodded, deprived of sleep by the ceaseless chatter of what should be done with him. He'd never been much of a writer, but he'd spent a few hours banging out a letter, in case anyone was interested in what he thought. Prison was prison, but at least he knew the system at FCC.

He had been irritated at the paper-shuffling clerk, who for some reason refused to submit his non-transfer application. He was probably trying to assert his pitiful manhood, and normally that wouldn’t have bothered Gerard, but his quality of life was on the line.

“This is an administrative prison. It’s supposed to house mentally ill offenders. Do you have some kind of illness, Mr. Way?”

He could recall sitting in that chair like it was yesterday. The stuffing had been spilling out of the cushion, drifting from the cracked vinyl in little puffs. He’d been as sanguine and cocky as ever, holding his chin disconcertingly high. He'd learned to use his confidence to catch people off guard; no one expected a prisoner to treat his incarceration as a joke. “I’d be inclined to say so. Most upright citizens don’t go out and murder prostitutes, the last time I checked.”

“And you have resided at the FCC for nearly a year now, yes?”

It seemed like his whole existence was spent answering the same dull questions. “What, my snazzy yellow jumpsuit didn’t give it away?”

“I meant to ask if you were aware of the duration of your stay.”

“How the fuck should I know? You assholes took my watch.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, registering that it felt greasy under his fingers. He hadn’t wanted to shower in a while, not since the threats. “Is there any other inane question you desperately need answered, or is my prison file, which has all the details you could possibly need, satisfactory?”

The clerk opened his mouth, but Gerard cut him off sharply, trying to ignore the throbbing at the base of his skull. “I am not affiliated with any gang or security threat group. I don’t prostitute myself. The guards are good to me; they bring me beef jerky and chocolate bars. The other inmates don’t like me, but that’s my own affair.”

The rustle of paperwork echoed in the dingy office. Time was sliding by too quickly in the fog of his mind, leaving only brief flashes of memory. His application came back from the warden with a red stamp of denial, the letter unread and crisp; he could recall shouting, reaching for the clerk with an inhuman strength and letting his hands close around that neck—

Gerard?

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Yes?

Don’t think about that.

He smiled and folded his arms behind his head, stretching out more comfortably. Mikey would entertain him for as long as he wanted, listen to his anxieties and turn them into something else. What should I think about, then? Happy thoughts?

If you can. Think about me. I make you happy, don’t I? Didn’t I?

Of course you did, Mikes. I was never happier than when I was with you. He could see the two of them now, sitting in his parked car with the crack in the windshield and staring out into the blank darkness. The windows were down, and cigarette smoke rolled through the air in fragile curls. The silence was alive with secret dialogue; they talked themselves in circles around politics and history, around what it all meant. Far above their heads, the stars stood sentinel. Mikey put his feet up on the dashboard, lips unfolding like the petals of a flower.

I like that. It was just a faint brush against his consciousness, the most delicate touch. But it was enough to know he was far from alone. His brother let him in, and he could suddenly see. The sun was setting, casting a fleeting glow over warm rock. He was huddled in a ragged varsity jacket, wrapped in dull gold and crimson. Long, skinny legs in light-wash jeans crossed where he leaned against the side of the car; the chill of the night air was heavenly. Wisps of hair tangled in his field of vision. There was a cigarette tucked behind his ear — he shielded it from the breeze with slim fingers and managed to light it. His brother was feeling the solitude tonight.

Go get laid. This is silly.

It made him smile, how Mikey pretended to think it over. No.

Make a new friend, then. He smoothed the surface of his thoughts, making sure nothing showed through. It was hard to keep secrets from your mind-reading brother, but he’d picked up a few tricks. Where are you, Mikes?

His body shrugged, genuinely unsure. His muscles were aching from too long in the car.

Somewhere in Arizona. Hang on a sec—

They moved in tandem, reaching in through the window for the crumpled roadmap spread across the passenger seat, weighted down with a few cans of beer. Of course Mikey liked to drive with the windows down. He sucked on the cigarette thoughtfully, then pointed to his exact location.

A town called Snowflake. How ironic; it's full of white supremacists and it gets to be a hundred and five degrees during the day. It’s on State Route 77. Why do you ask, Gerard?

Because someone might be paying you a visit in the near future. Don’t be afraid, and don’t go anywhere. He’s a friend. Just sit tight, okay?

There was a worried edge to Mikey’s voice. I don’t like to stay in the same place for too long. I’ve got to be in Flagstaff in three days, I already sent the letter. They’re expecting me. I’ve gone through eight lighters in the last week.

It’s important. An FBI man will find you, but he’s not our enemy. I told him what I know, and he’s going to help us. Even if I die—

His brother flinched. Don’t say it—

But he persisted. —Even if I die in nineteen days, Mikey, you will live a long and happy life. Change your name, give up your old identity. If you could be someone else, you wouldn’t have to remember anymore.

I can’t be without you, though. The landscape blurred in his head, and all he could see was emptiness. His body knew what his mind couldn’t say; it trembled inside his high-school letter jacket at being finally alone in the world.

What, you think I’m eager to shuffle off this mortal coil? I’m fucking scared, Mikes. But we’ll manage. We always do. When the man comes, be nice to him. He’ll explain everything.

Mikey brushed impatiently at his hair as it whipped around his face, took one last drag and ground out the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his sneaker. I love you.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

Frank was in the shower when the hotel phone rang and consequently banged his head on the glass door in his haste to get out. Skidding on the slick tiles, he sprinted into the other room and grabbed the receiver. The water went on running without him under it; he glanced back wistfully and shivered.

“Frank? Hello?”

His heart did some kind of swooping maneuver. It was the same voice that had been spiraling through his head ever since he’d left the interview. “How did you get this number?”

“I stole the hotel’s business card from your back pocket as you left,” the criminal admitted almost sheepishly. “Sticky fingers.”

“Old habits are hard to break. Don’t you only get one phone call? Why waste it on yours truly?”

“That’s jail, Iero.” His voice was patient. “When you’re in for life, they tend to be a bit more lenient. I’m supposed to be using this call to consult with my lawyer, but if he couldn’t get me off the first time, I doubt he’ll be of much use now.” To Frank’s amazement, he then proceeded to tell him the exact location of Mikey Way, as well as where to meet him once he got off the plane. There were long pauses in his speech, almost as if he were consulting someone. “He’ll be on the bench nearest the fountain, wearing…a green sweater…and holding a soda. That’ll set him apart from everybody else,” he muttered under his breath. “And you can’t tell anyone, Frank. Not his destination, not what you talk about, not even the color of his fucking car. I mean it. Or I’ll go to my grave and you’ll never know the truth about the Halo Files.”

“You damn criminals, always so secretive.” But he agreed, and exchanged cordial goodnights, and returned to his shower. The water burned against his bare skin; he leaned his cheek against the cold wall and sighed. Something Gerard had said earlier had been bothering him — it was true, he was lonely. He did have no life outside of his career, and while the work was satisfying, it alone couldn’t sustain him forever. He was young, and afraid of fading away before he’d made a mark on the world. He’d spent his best years in dusty libraries and on late-night stakeouts; he’d been willing to ignore everything else to get where he was today. He felt hopelessly naïve, and Gerard had found a way to tap into this insecurity. He never drew attention to it; it was just a look on his face, sometimes, that said he saw. Frank stared down at his feet, watched the water flowing over him. He didn’t know this man, but he wanted to.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged spotlessly clean, threw a few things into a duffel bag, and arranged to stay three more nights at the motel. He called the airfield in Florence and commissioned a small biplane to fly him to Snowflake, Arizona. Andy in Accounting would have a field day when he saw Frank’s corporate card statement, but you couldn’t put a price on justice. He was careful to hang the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door so it faced the right way. An hour later, he was drifting off to sleep on a rattling airplane, watching clouds piled low and flat against the twilight sky.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

And that concludes the chapter. Aren't you proud of me for finally, finally finishing? I'll post more as soon as I write it, I promise, and sorry about the glacial pace this story is moving at. Thank you so much for your support.