[Frerard oneshot] Waiting can be a bore, especially when there's blood.
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory dock
He watches the clock tick by another minute. And another. Watches the thin brass hand move in that monotonous circular motion and wonders why it’s taking so God damn long this time because he could be doing better things than this right now, like playing with Rocket or watching the news or jacking off.
He smiles to himself and looks at his reflection in the clock face, sees it stretch and misshape and then move back to normal whenever he moves his head which makes him smile more, but then that thin brass hand ticks by another second of another minute of his life and he stops smiling and scowls because Jesus fuck where are they?!
The chair creaks on its legs as he changes his position in it and he gives it a momentary concerned thought about its structure but then focuses all of his entire energy into examining a fly on the window in as much detail as possible. It’s raining; profuse clouds regurgitating fat drops that splatter against the window, it’s raining, it’s always raining; always raining always grey never see the light of day…
Bored of the chair and bored of the fly and bored of the clock, he hops off his seat, pacing the worn floorboards of the room as the wait draws on agonisingly slow. He slips a lock of dark hair behind his ear, and then shakes it free again remembering that Gerard likes it that way and he wants to make Gerard happy, that’s all he’s ever wanted to do.
He stops in mid step and thinks of Gerard and Gerard’s shining eyes and hollow smile and all that money, warm and dry in his cold hands and his eyes gleam because it’s been a while since a job has worked. The fly buzzes from the window pane and the noise cracks through the silence and makes his head snap involuntarily towards it. He winces and rubs his now pulsing neck, feeling a growing hatred towards the putrid insect no matter how childish it seems. He thinks back of what Gerard says sometimes, about how some people believe in life after death but in different forms. And he laughs, loud and cackling and it echoes in the dark, empty space because some poor bastard must’ve done something really wrong to come back as a fly.
Then the clock strikes twelve (he’s always on time, always on time) and the front door opens. And Gerard is standing there but he isn’t bothered by the rain spilling over the brim of his hat and soaking his clothes, no, all he cares about is the big black briefcase in his hands. Gerard’s smiling that hollow smile and holding that big black brief case and his eyes widen, his breath catching because he’s here and it’s raining and it worked, it worked IT WORKED!!
“Steak tonight,” he says smiling. “Steak for dinner.”
Gerard tilts his head a little and some water sloshes out of the hat’s brim and dribbles to the floor. He raises a pale hand to touch his face. “Any trouble?”
Having no answer he looks around the doorstep of the house and sees the empty milk bottle sitting at the front step. “Milkman never came.”
“Of course he didn’t, Frank,” Gerard says, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind him. “This isn’t our house.”
His footsteps on the cold floor send echoes around the room. “No cops?”
“No cops.” The clock reaches its twelfth chime then fades away, the floorboards still vibrating a little. “Just waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting…”
Frank’s eyes drift towards his partner and he smiles like a child being presented with candy as Gerard opens the case revealing twenty thousand dollars in fresh, crisp notes. He reaches his hand out to touch it, just to touch, to fulfil his fantasies and warm the dark, cold empty space inside him but Gerard slaps it away and he shrinks back into his shirt.
“No touching,” he scolds. “Not until we get out of town.” Then he checks the watch on his wrist even though there’s a grandfather clock in the corner and his lips move without forming words like he’s calculating something, he does this all the time.
“Did he scream?” Frank says, trying to hide the smile creeping up through his skin.
Gerard slams the briefcase shut and spins on his heel, walking into the bathroom down the hall. Frank pretends not to care that he didn’t answer his question. The sound of water running from taps fills the house. He closes his eyes and imagines the blood mingling with it, dyeing the white of the sink blotchy orange. Then, Gerard will curse to himself because he made a stain and there can be no traces, everything must be perfect so he grabs the soap and scrubs furiously until the orange is all gone. And Frank knows this because it happens every time and he’s seen it all before and it’s all routine, all of it. Gerard never lets him to the jobs, no, always says no; “You stay here and wait, flower.”
The water stops and he opens his eyes, stares at the brief case on the table. He thinks of the blood and he thinks of the screams and he thinks of Gerard with his shining eyes and hollow smile and he wonders whether the next town they go to will be sunnier than here. And Frank realises he’s sick of staying, sick of waiting and it’s his turn to try and feel those sweet notes against his fingers, flower.
“Come, Frankie,” Gerard says, re-entering the room. Even though Frank can’t see him he knows he’s changed his suit and his hat and his hands are holding their bags – one for clothes, one for the guns and the knives and other things he won’t let Frank touch - and wearing brown leather gloves, just in case the blood is still stuck in his nails and Frank wonders how long they’ve been doing this for. His eyes are bright and gleaming in the dark of the hallway and then he reaches his hand out to touch Frank’s shoulder, just in case this time is different and Frank decides that no, he won’t go with him.
But he always does.
“Plan worked,” Frank says, turning to face him.
Gerard gives one resolute nod. “Sure did, Flower.”
“And no one knows.”
He takes Frank gently in his arms and sifts his fingers through his hair, inhaling his scent and taking extra care in case he might hurt him. The last step of the routine. “No one knows.”
Then he kisses him, wet and sloppy, tasting of blood and knives and the screaming and the sweet, sweet money and Frank knows it’s all for the best, all of it is for the best, because Gerard tells him so and he wants to make Gerard happy, that’s all he’s ever wanted to do.
The fly on the window buzzes again and this time both their heads snap towards it. Frank finally lets the smile out of his skin and onto his face when he simply says, “Poor bastard.”
Gerard sniffs and strides toward the window, catching the fly in one swift predatory movement. And Frank watches as he takes it in his hands and squashes it between his fingers. Dead.
Thanks for reading my creepy little thoughts, and for readers of 19, hope is not lost, the update is stuck on the M1!!!