FicWad

5. Twilight at Carbon Lake

Frank was let into the bleak white halls of the prison as if he’d become a regular visitor. He pinned on the laminated guest badge they’d given him at the desk and made his way towards where he thought Gerard’s cell was located. He struggled to walk past the guards like everything was normal; being in this place made him acutely aware of exactly what he’d done wrong in the past few days. It was like walking past a policeman on the street when you knew you were carrying something illegal — feeling the exact weight and contours of it in your pocket, the fierce bite of disbelief when you realized that they couldn’t tell. Frank was sure he was giving himself away more obviously with every step, sure that his guilt was spelled out in neon letters above him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His pulse was racing so fast it hurt his chest. Somehow he found his way through the maze of sterile corridors, jumping out of his skin every time the lights flickered or a shout echoed in the distance.

A uniformed guard checked his badge and identity when he arrived at a cellblock he recognized. Once again he was led down the narrow tiled walkway, past dozens of empty cubicles. He was short of breath, almost stumbling. It scared him how badly he wanted to see Gerard. The feeling burned; it was impossible to discern where it ended and the ache in his lungs began. He was no longer capable of shame — he fought to keep from smiling. The idea that everything else would slip away when that familiar figure confronted him seemed imprinted in his brain.
He waited tensely as the guard knocked at the door of the last cell on the left. The curtain was still up, shielding its occupant from the harsh fluorescent light.

“Let him in,” a voice said hoarsely. It was void of any hint of emotion. “And bring us some coffee.”

The guard unlocked the door for Frank. His keys clanked like discordant bells as he returned them to his belt. The air was stretched thin; time slowed until each passing second felt like a slow pulse. Iero stood in the doorway, then turned back, hesitating.

“You can go,” he murmured to the guard. “Really, it's okay. I’m fine here.” He braced himself as he pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the tiny room.

Gerard had moved the furniture since the last time he visited. The threadbare cot was shoved in the corner, and the table stood in the middle of the room. You cleaned for me, Frank was about to say, but the words died on his lips when he noticed the other man hadn’t turned around. He was still facing the far wall, staring down at the chipped lamp lying on the floor. Its dim light cast spidery shadows over the ceiling, a soft glow that stung the edges of Frank’s vision.

“Gerard,” he said at last, when it became apparent the criminal didn’t mean to speak.

Gerard squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of relief. It made him shiver to hear the way those lips shaped his name. “Frank. You’re here,” he breathed.

Frank smiled. At last there was some glimmer of recognition. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

“I hoped you would,” Gerard admitted. His voice grated like broken glass; he longed to turn around and make sure the agent was really there, that he wasn’t imagining.

Frank paused where he stood, just a few feet away. Something was wrong with the figure before him; the criminal was barely upright, leaning into the wall and carefully keeping his face out of sight. Before he could stop himself, he caught the other man’s arm and spun him around.

Gerard put up no resistance; he let himself be moved like a ragdoll, shunted backward until he was bathed in light.

“Your — your face.” Frank reeled back in horror. He’d been expecting familiar marble features, but he was greeted by a mass of cuts and bruises.

Gerard just rolled his eyes, or rolled the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, to be exact. “What about it?” He licked his finger and nonchalantly rubbed at a spatter of dried blood on the shoulder of his jumpsuit. “Things got…strange…while you were gone.” He was careful to keep his tone offhand.

“Did one of the guards hurt you? Because if they’ve been mistreating you, you don’t have to be afraid, I can have you transferred somewhere else,” Frank began hotly, but Gerard immediately shook his head.

“If I tell you, you’re going to laugh.” He moved to the bed and sat down heavily, frowning when the springs creaked. His movement put Frank at eye-level with the three deep gashes on his left temple. It felt like all the air was being sucked out of the room.

Frank was seething, but he tried not to show it. Gerard pictured steam coming out of the smaller man’s ears and had to bite his fist to keep from laughing. The effort made his jaw twinge alarmingly. He hadn’t been able to come by any ice and the day-old cuts were really starting to sting. The circumstances of his beating were no trivial matter, but like everything else, Gerard knew he could either laugh about it or break down completely. He chose the former, even if it made him seem a little deranged. Then he couldn’t hold back the giggles, as the irony of the situation occurred to him.

It’s no good, he thought, he’s seen the files. And I'm acting like I’ve been put in here by mistake.

“Well, we could stand around here like our feet are glued to the floor,” Frank said evenly, “or we could start talking.” And he pulled up one of the little chairs and everything, turning it around so he could rest his folded arms across the back. The gesture was so blessedly normal; Gerard felt a small stab of gratitude. He was hungry for company, sick of talking to himself. The last few days had passed at a torturous drag. He was tired. His eyes were bloodshot and they itched, but he couldn’t rub them.

“All right,” he said, feigning annoyance. “I’ll talk, but only because you’re going to give yourself an aneurysm if you keep looking at me that hard.” He sighed. Frank averted his eyes on purpose, staring down at his shoes. When the other man spoke, it was a surprise. “I got beat up because I was trying to use the library.”

Frank, to his credit, managed to restrain himself. He pressed his lips together until they turned white. “Man, and I thought the library at Quantico was a bad scene. I guess in prison the books check you out.”

Gerard smiled halfway, then winced. His lip was split at the corner. “The thing that really kills me is that it’s not even a good library. I’ve been there before, from time to time. They don’t let you take the books back to your cell, and the selection is quite limited. It beats staring at the wall until you see faces, but just barely. I’m something of a risk factor, so I’m only given a few hours a week outside of solitary to use the prison facilities. The exercise room, the showers, you know. Usually, I have more pressing matters than my education, but I just found out that my prison account is empty. I can’t buy any more stamps or envelopes to write to Mikey. I can’t even have paper; I’d write on my hand except they charge five bucks for a fucking pen.”

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, almost like he was cold. Frank kept perfectly still, his eyes tracing every detail of those horrific bruises. Angry red-purple faded to black and blue, dimmed to yellow and sickly brown. It was hard to tell where one color gave way to another in the low light. He found himself remembering something from his childhood, a mercifully brief obsession with geography that had come over him when he was eight or nine. Gerard’s face looked like a topographical map; the contours seemed to move outward from his black eye until they reached the even ground of ghostly skin.

“So,” the prisoner started again, “I found myself with nothing else to do during my precious few hours of autonomy. I thought I’d read up on the medical techniques that would have been necessary to murder your thirteen government officials, so I could be better informed about the case. I was there for a long time before anyone else found me. They’re afraid of me, you know, the other prisoners,” he said softly. “I only become violent when I’m attacked first, but I don’t blame them. There was a whole gang this time; they thought I was reading up on new ways of killing them.” He sounded utterly disinterested. “As if I needed scalpels and lasers. This is interesting, though — they do, in fact, believe that I am a real vampire.”

“I guess your story’s busted,” Frank murmured, wishing he had some ice. “I can’t think of any vampires that got black eyes in the line of duty. All this just for reading a book?”

“Knowledge is power.” Gerard smirked. “I’m not one to admit my faults, but I might have been a little too mouthy for my own good.”

“I have that problem, too.” Frank could definitely empathize. “Whenever things aren’t going too well, whenever I’m cornered and I’ve lost my gun — I know it’s stupid, but I start throwing insults and I can’t make myself shut up.”

The criminal raised his eyebrows. “I’m shocked.”

Frank grinned.

“Did you meet with my brother?” Gerard asked innocently, like he didn’t already know. He watched the agent’s round brown eyes cloud for a second before Frank caught himself.

“I did, yeah. You must have lied before when you said you hadn’t been in contact with him, because there he was, exactly as you said he would be. Wearing the same clothes you described, even. How is that possible?” Frank knew they were keeping something from him. He didn’t plan on making a serious effort to get at it, though. Judging by the brothers’ previous response to this line of questioning, it must have been something incredibly private. He didn’t expect Gerard to spill every last detail of his life — that wasn’t how interrogations worked — but he was curious, and the idea intrigued him. How do they know all about each other when they’ve been physically separated for years?

“Mikey owns three sweaters. Two of them are green, the other is navy. He’s been afraid of tap water since he was a little child; he always finds something else to drink and carries it with him until he’s sure it hasn’t been tampered with.”

“Of course there’s no reason to think he might have bought new clothes since you were incarcerated years ago.”

Gerard kept his face neutral, concealing his discomfort. Telepathy was by its very nature subtle, practically impossible to pick up on. Not even their mother had noticed, and since then, very few people had ever known the Ways well enough to suspect that he and Mikey could…see into each other, somehow. Those awkward murmurs, those half-serious jokes, had left him permanently uneasy. “Of course it would be rational to think that,” he snarled, “except Mikey wears his clothes until they’re torn to bits. And he would never get rid of the clothes I last saw him in. To his mind, they’d be the only way for me to recognize him, the only link left between us.” He was breathing heavily; he knew he was way too worked up for Frank’s allegations to be false. And to top it off, he’d scared the detective, whose shoulders had hunched to the point where he was slouching in on himself. The way he bit his bottom lip so hard it disappeared had Gerard aching with remorse.

Frank swallowed audibly, then forged onward. “He said…he said you’d taken a shine to me. How could he know that?”

Shit. Gerard racked his brain for a convenient solution, but nothing came. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to. You win, okay?

“You’re right. It’s not possible,” he said flatly, before he could stop himself. His mouth was a traitor. That urge to tell the truth, it made him want to shove a fist in his face and never let out another word. Except that somehow the mistake was excusable, because it was Frank, whatever that meant. Terrified and piqued, he stored the thought away for later. In spite of everything, he almost wanted to give up the secret. “Now that we’ve acknowledged…let’s call it my intuition, can we please move on to something else? What did you think of Mikey?”

“I think he’s great,” Frank said truthfully.

Gerard smirked. Hear that?

I’m flattered. Mikey’s voice came like an echo from the back of his mind. Usually the distance distorted their communication and static buzzed between every word. Gerard had grown accustomed to the soft hiss of white noise in the background, but this time, his brother came through clearly. It was like the great expanse separating them had miraculously closed. But that couldn’t be true. Because Frank had promised to keep him away, and he hadn’t — he wouldn’t —

Frank watched Gerard’s forehead crease and wrinkle like worn paper, seemingly unprovoked. He felt like he was walking blindly through a minefield; every word was a step in a potentially hazardous direction.

Why couldn’t you be in a good mood today? He squinted at the pocket of that yellow prison jumpsuit, possessed by the notion that its occupant would hear him if he stared long enough.

“Is my fly down?” Gerard asked after a lengthy silence. Frank shook his head wordlessly, struggling not to smile.

“No, um, he was really…really nice,” he said mundanely, but it was true. Mikey seemed to radiate all the warmth and light Frank hadn’t realized he missed. They’d known each other for such a small amount of time, but then again, he didn’t share a bed with just anyone. Something had prompted him to trust. “By far the sweetest arsonist I’ve met.”

“Ugh,” Gerard commiserated. “I dealt with a fair amount of fires and bomb threats back in my day. Pyromaniacs that lived in trailers in the middle of nowhere, plotting revenge, playing with explosives. Exploding fertilizer and cutting the letters out of magazines in their parents’ basements. Demanding money. Bunch of drama queens.”

Frank laughed. “It’s even worse now, with the new advances in criminal profiling. I could tell you what brand of wiring these guys favor, where they buy their shirts. All the suspense is ruined.”

“That’s what got you into this line of work in the first place, isn’t it?” Gerard asked, almost serious now, mouth working into a small smile around his bruises. “The stress, the pressure you’re under is addictive, and solving crimes using nothing more than your wits…that’s gotta be a hell of a kick, right? Especially when your guesses are spot-on virtually all the time.” Gerard knew it in his bones, without pausing to think, that Frank must have been incredibly good at his job. Most young recruits spent years behind a desk before they were ever allowed out into the big bad world. Frank’s success pleased him, but it worried him all the same.

Frank snorted. “If you’re going to ask me how my massive brain fits into my teeny tiny head, no points for originality there. I get it all the time.”

“No, I’m not poking fun at you. I’m just curious. How did you manage to rise so quickly through the ranks of an organization that operates based on seniority? Who told you all the ways to sidestep the protocol? You haven’t been taking any notes, Agent Iero,” he pointed out as Frank opened his mouth, ready with an indignant reply. “Don’t tell me FBI policy has changed so drastically since I left the Bureau. The real talent gets cases solved and murderers behind bars, and leaves the paperwork for the hacks.”

“Hey, I have…a method…” Frank waved his hands ineffectually, his cheeks reddening. “Solving a case isn’t just about taking notes and hoping someone’s alibi doesn’t hold up. Documenting and sources and all that shit isn’t important to anyone but the lawyers. The real work is hypothetical. If I know, I fucking know; if I get my best prediction all mapped out in my head and the mental — the groundwork — is there, I can go back and prove it really happened later. And because I’m not bound by a concrete statement, I’m not embarrassed to consider the…less plausible explanations.”

“And this actually works?” Gerard leaned in closer. His good eye was bright with interest. Frank felt his heart flutter like he was taking the stairs back in his chainsmoking heyday.

“Amazingly, yes.” He took a long breath, felt the story being drawn out of him by the criminal's eager eyes. It didn’t hurt, exactly. The sensation was more like stepping out of a warm bath into empty space. Frank felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he usually tried to avoid. But he wanted to tell, as if surrendering some part of himself to Gerard would inspire a similar response. "Um, you asked how I got into the business?" He could afford to be honest with this man, and besides, he needed to know the details on the Halo Files that Way was hiding up his sleeve. He just tried not to stutter as he gave the memories away. “I lacked purpose for a long time when I was growing up. It wasn’t your garden-variety teenage angst; it was, like, all-encompassing and existential, and at the time it felt very permanent.”

A shiver of delight ran down Gerard’s spine; it was kind of adorable that Frank still used the word ‘like’.

“I watched all my friends go off to college with these big plans for the rest of their lives, and you know what? I dicked around for almost three years and took all these classes in Sociology and learned how to speak Russian and shit. I figured I’d get some office job and putter around making coffee for executives until the monotony finally killed me. I’d die on their heinous industrial carpeting and the custodian would take me out with the trash, the shredded paper and used-up pens, and I’d have lived an unfulfilling and perfectly unremarkable life. And then one day I sat in my friend’s Psych class, taking notes because he was sick. And something clicked in me, or broke, I don’t know, and it fucking possessed me. It has all this time.”

Frank could see it all swimming before his eyes. He wasn’t old, not by any definition of the word, but his college years felt like an eternity ago. He’d seen so many things since then, had lain awake so many nights with an intangible craving, knowing he was missing something but unable to put a finger on what it was. He was leaning in his chair now, rocking it forward onto two legs. Gerard visibly shuddered, because yeah, he was familiar with that faceless sensation of wanting without knowing what it was you wanted.

“I took every seminar they’d let me into on psychopathology, on forensics, but it wasn’t enough. I enrolled in the FBI training program the day after graduation. For the first time, I really cared about getting it right; I was one of those pricks who could recite the entire manual by heart. My spot at the top of the class meant I got assigned a pretty cushy spot in the Violent Crimes office in Savannah. It only took a few cases for me to realize that you don’t get shit done by following the rules. I had to choose between job security and making sure the victims of these crimes had justice, closure. By rights, I should’ve been fired a long time ago.”

“Except you’re incredibly gifted,” Gerard guessed. “Too good for them to pass up, even if you don’t stick to company policy.”

Frank blushed as cold fingers skidded over his sleeve, asking for permission before closing firmly around his wrist. “After three years I grew weary of the violence. Simmons, my current boss, he stuck up for me so many times. When I knew I was right but couldn’t prove it just yet, he’d keep the director off my back until I had evidence. He had been trying to recruit me to his division for months. I would’ve been an idiot not to take the promotion, but when he showed me what I was capable of, the things I could figure out just by looking at photos of a crime scene, or a typed letter…I was sold.” Frank felt something cold press against his arm. He looked down at the criminal’s right hand, the last two fingers taped together and splinted with some random scrap of metal. He stared harder. It was one of the supports from the underside of the table; he’d barked his knee on it during the last visit. He sighed. “But in all honesty, the only reason I’ve gotten this far is because I’m unbelievably stubborn.”

“And modest, too,” Gerard drawled, but it fell a little flat. “I broke them,” he muttered when Frank touched his mangled fingers ever so gently. Then, inexplicably, “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Frank said stupidly. His voice was thick. “Hey, Mikey’s a great guy. I really — in another world, maybe, we could have been best friends.”

Gerard perked up visibly. He seemed eager to change the topic. “He’s doing good, yeah? Has enough money and everything?”

Frank nodded.

“He’s different from the rest of them. He has this affinity for numbers — he notices them without even thinking. To him, the world is a series of coordinates; places and times have numerical values, reality can be graphed on four planes. He insists the same set of numbers corresponds to every major event in our lives. I never had a head for math,” he said regretfully, “so some of the finer points elude me, but it’s amazing to hear him talk about it. I guess he’s the type that sees signs, patterns in the universe, like a string of miracle connections.” He was playing with Frank’s hand while he talked, turning it palm-upwards and tracing the web of veins near the agent’s thumb with something approaching reverence. The motion seemed to distract him.

“For me, it’s colors,” he continued indistinctly, ducking his head to study the pads of Frank’s fingers with rapt attention. “I notice them everywhere, in shadows and leaves and the folds of other people’s clothing. For a long time I was sure I wanted to be an artist. Of course I needed a steady job, and Mikey’s well-being took precedence. But all that time I kept painting.” He said it a little wistfully, like he was confessing but couldn’t quite be ashamed about it. “Crimson and mauve and arsenic blue. There’s beauty in such simple things, and even though I can’t record it anymore, I still see.”

“Gerard—” Frank broke in, no longer able to restrain himself. “You’re not evil. I know it’s crazy, but I feel I know you, and…and I don’t think you’re who they said you were. I don’t want you to die in here without a chance to redeem yourself, without ever seeing the outside world again. It’s too sad.”

The criminal just laughed. “So now you’re letting feelings govern your judgment? God, Frankie, you’re a riot. I’ve been sitting here manipulating you for days now. I told you a fantasy and forced you to pity me. But even if it isn’t too late to save me, I hardly think it would be a wise decision on your part. Some things aren’t up to you. Some things shouldn’t be. It’s not safe to let me back into the world. Of course I want to go, I'm only human, but that doesn't mean I should.” He sensed he wasn’t getting anywhere, but he refused to stop. His nails dug desperately into Frank’s skin. “I mean, think of your career. You still have a future; why waste it on me?”

Frank was taken aback. “I am thinking about my career,” he said softly. “You won’t say it, but you know something about my case. Don’t you?”

After a moment, Gerard nodded, grudgingly, just once.

Frank couldn’t figure out how to word his plan so it sounded even remotely believable. He was fumbling around in the dark. The minutes ticked by in silence; they had reached an impasse. He needed help and he wouldn’t receive it. He looked straight into those green eyes. They were still water closing over his head, leaving him weightless and bare.

“Please,” he breathed. “Let me help you.”

Gerard shrugged diffidently, determined not to show he cared. “I told you the truth. If I told you more, you wouldn’t believe me. Your version of reality, your way of seeing the world…” His voice broke and trembled. “You would have to alter it completely. And people are set in stone, Frank Iero. They don’t — can’t — change like that overnight. I wouldn’t ask for that.”

Frank chewed his lip. What did he have to live for, if he stopped rooting around for the truth? What kind of agent would he be if he shied away at the first mention of danger? If something happened to him, he doubted anyone would even know. He lived alone without even a dog; he had precious few friends, and they were used to him dropping out of touch for long periods of time while he worked a case. Nothing to lose, and if he let this lead go it would haunt him for years. “Please,” he persisted.

Something in Gerard seemed to give way as he studied the stubborn set of the agent’s face. “No one should have to go through what my brother and I experienced,” he whispered.

Frank grinned winningly. “Then you’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t happen to me. I’ll make it worth your while, I can promise you that.”

“How?” Gerard asked, humoring him. Iero was obviously excited; his chin tilted upwards, courting the light, and he stuffed jittery hands deep into his pockets. Those subtle giveaways shone clear as day to the murderer’s practiced eye. He’d always been good at reading people, finding emotional tells — the only one it didn’t work on was Mikey. Imperturbable and immune to his brother’s wiles, his serenely monotone voice withstood all scrutiny. He didn’t pull faces; he took refuge behind his own and from that safe vantage, he could fire on the world at will. Gerard redirected his attention. Frank was almost bouncing out of his seat, pleased that he’d managed to come to his aid. What the agent saw in him, he would probably never know.

“I talked to Simmons. He’s going to call in some favors and see if we can get your sentence suspended for a little while. It’s only a temporary measure — a couple of months, tops — but they might let you out of here. With conditions, of course, like you’d have to—”

And then his mouth was still moving, but no sound was coming out, because Gerard had launched himself out of bed and across the room and was kissing him on the mouth. His lips felt hot, chapped, like he had a fever. His mangled hands fisted in Frank’s crisp white shirt. Gerard hadn’t been able to think of any other way to convey his gratitude in those few seconds. At least, that was the mantra he recited to himself as his eyes fluttered shut. Frank felt his brain deflate like a week-old balloon. Before he could even really react to that glorious thing Gerard was doing with his tongue, the guards swarmed in and dragged him off in a blur of fists and curses. Frank was lightheaded. The room spun as he became acutely aware that he’d missed something important. Gerard was already in cuffs, his arms held behind his back at a painful angle. His eyes were fiery as he turned to stare over his shoulder.

“Iero, I—”

Frank shook his head dazedly as two officers hustled him out into the hall. “See you tomorrow.”

ʬ ʬ ʬ

He tried not to think about it too much as he drove back to the motel. Except his hands were shaking like he’d just seen a ghost, and he was only able to hold one feeling in his head. Still conscious of jet-black hair brushing softly against his cheek, Frank couldn’t even recall stumbling along the white walls of the prison towards the main gate.

By the time he was standing outside the dark green door of his room, he’d managed to get himself together for the most part. His fist clunked three times against hollow plywood. He waited half a minute, but there was no response, so he let himself in. The room was empty; the bed was neatly made. Mikey was nowhere to be found, and Frank spent five minutes convincing himself that the younger Way was gone for good before he thought to look out the window. The cherry-red Nova was still across the lot, gleaming in the weak sunlight.

Frank heaved a sigh of relief. His fingers fumbled as he undid his tie, and when he stripped off his jacket he realized both it and his shirt were soaked with sweat. He shucked the rest of his clothes and left them lying on the tiled floor of the bathroom, piled in the corner and begging for laundering. He’d been meaning to find a washing machine anyway, before Gerard made him sweat through his clothes, and if certain events repeated themselves — if it happened again, although surely he’d be stupid to assume anything — he shook his head determinedly and turned on the hot water. The steam stung his skin, and he stayed there soaping himself and resolutely not thinking about the kiss long after he was scrubbed raw and clean.

When the water ran cold, he went looking for Mikey. The door locked behind him with a satisfying sound and he set out on foot into the daylight. Florence was hardly a glittering metropolis; Frank walked along a narrow strip between the highway and a vast concrete wall. He could see the tops of houses beyond it, glimpses of shingles and chimneys and satellite dishes, but no more. At the first break in the barrier, he stepped off the path and into a ravine of scrubby grass. At the bottom a culvert leaked murky water down a long ditch. He misjudged the distance and wet the toe of one tennis shoe in leaping across. As he scaled the other side of the gulley he laughed at himself a little.

The grass gave way to gray-brown dust as soon the ground leveled out. He stepped onto the verge of another, unpaved road and tried to think like Mikey Way. So far, he felt he’d done pretty well — no one in their right mind would have kept going down the highway instead of heading into the town proper, and besides, he knew Mikey’s particular proclivity. The landscape looked parched and faded, and the air was so dry it whistled in his lungs. Frank had a sudden, blackly humorous vision of flames igniting bone-dry tinder, shooting sparks into the blue sky. It couldn’t be too hard to track down an arsonist in a place like this.

Easier said than done. He tried two gas stations and a sorry-looking diner with faded chrome before he found what he was looking for. Mikey Way stood tall and inscrutable, smoking a cigarette in the alley behind a grocery store. He was wearing an old red track jacket and mirrored sunglasses, and when he saw Frank he sagged against the wall — not like he’d been caught, but as if he could finally relax. He toed one of the grocery bags squatting next to him on the pavement and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“I went shopping,” was all he said.

“Thanks,” Frank murmured, his voice catching in surprise. “I, uh, thought you might have skipped town.”

“Without the Nova? Never.” His laugh was raspy. “That’s something you should know about the Ways. We take our cars very seriously.”

“What, are you guys auto freaks or something?”

Mikey shook his head, his mouth twitching into a fraction of a smile. “Escape routes. That’s what cars are for. Gerard always had a flair for the dramatic; he wanted to make a memorable getaway. It’s a little extravagant, but shit, I practically live in it.”

“Ever wish you invested in a mobile home?”

They both laughed. Mikey crouched down and foraged through one of the bags, emerging with a delicious-looking sandwich. Frank gratefully accepted half when he offered it to him. And it was easy like that, making idle chatter. Making jokes, some funny, some not. Mikey’s delivery was deadpan verging on catatonic. Frank felt more at ease standing in an alley with this pale, skinny man than he did around people he’d known for years. Maybe it was because Mikey was in no position to judge, because the skeletons in his closet were public knowledge. And that should have been off-putting, except somehow, it felt refreshingly honest.

They walked back together along the overgrown dirt road. Frank took two of the bags. He’d promised to let Mikey carry one if his arms got tired, but they never did. No cars passed them, although their progress was slow; the sun beat down mercilessly.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” Mikey muttered, mopping his brow. “Typical.”

Frank let out a huff of laughter. He’d felt out of breath for hours and idly wondered if he was getting sick. There was nothing to be done anyway if he was — the illness would roll in slowly like a summer storm, deaf to his pleas and unsympathetic to his plight. It happened all the time. Frank got sick at the drop of a hat and stayed sick long after everyone else was better and back at the office. At least he could hand off the casework to someone else so he wouldn’t sneeze all over it.

By some unspoken agreement, the two of them stayed in the motel for the remainder of the evening. Frank wrapped himself in the cool embrace of the sheets and dozed off for a few hours; Mikey had the television going without the sound. He lay on his stomach on the carpet, produced a newspaper from one of the bags and began the crossword. When Frank woke, he was still in the same position, gazing down at the paper with furrowed brow. The sky outside the window was twilight-blue. Mikey felt like he’d been holding his breath for years. To his credit, he’d waited a long time to ask about Gerard.

“How is he?” he said without looking up from his nearly completed puzzle. It took Frank a minute to realize he’d actually spoken. The detective shifted uncomfortably and regretted leaving his socks on in bed.

“He’s…doing okay,” Frank answered carefully. He’d been meaning to parse his words, to omit all the bad things that had happened — Gerard’s face, the reasons for the beating, the kiss — but that didn’t leave a lot to talk about, and he was still half-asleep. The truth was easier. “I’m trying to get us more time. Did he ever tell you about his work, about a case called the Halo Files?” Mikey wasn’t moving a muscle, so he kept going, talking with his hands and trying for some hint of comprehension. “It’s something I’m working on right now. It was never solved, and I’m not going to get anywhere without new evidence. What I need is a fresh source. And I don't think anyone's considered that your brother may be a credible witness to these crimes, if not to the murders he committed. My division is trying to get his sentence suspended if he’s willing to help me. I don’t know for how long — months, maybe — but it’s better than nothing.”

“M-more than two weeks?” Mikey’s eyes were huge in his haggard face. “He’s going to live? My brother, he’s got months?”

“Yessir.” Frank grinned just a little. His smile disappeared as Mikey flew at him — apparently this was something all Ways did — and threw his bony arms around the detective’s shoulders.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou—”

“Don’t mention it,” Frank mumbled into his shirt. “It’s in everyone’s best interest.” He thought about being able to talk to Gerard in the real world — someplace with enough light to read him by, and no cameras. It scared him shitless, but he needed that to happen. Even if the man was a monster, and everything he’d said a lie, at least he’d know for sure.

“You shouldn’t be afraid to let him out.” Mikey’s voice was just a thread.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not beyond help. Because as long as he can meet you and trust you like he does — as long as he laughs in his sleep, and you can map his failures in the creases of his face — then he’s still human, and there is still some good in him.”

Frank chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Mikey shook his head and got up to change the channel on the television.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

It was late. At some point the last vestiges of light had left the sky, and now the night brooded over the motel, black and full of insect noises. Frank’s eyes were burning as he scanned the half-written profiling sheet for what felt like the hundredth time. Did the criminal exhibit aggressive or violent behavior? No. Did he lie compulsively? Not really, Frank thought; he hadn’t recognized any of the typical markers — downcast eyes, changes in the way he enunciated words, a shift in narrative. But then again, Gerard would know those signs and the ways to avoid giving them. He penciled in a three on the scale of one to ten. Did he harm himself for attention? Well, maybe attention wasn’t the primary motive there, but Frank could empathize with the particular urge, because once upon a time, he’d been —

“Frank?” Mikey said softly from the other side of the room.

He looked up from his paper, struggling to refocus his eyes. “Yeah?”

“What’s going to happen to me?” His head was bowed, sandy hair falling over his face.

Frank thought for a minute. “I don’t know. You’re a wanted man; the FBI isn’t just going to forget you exist. You can buy time, if you’re willing to do to what it takes to get away. But even if you stay quiet and keep your head down, they’ll find you eventually.”

“You won’t turn me in when you’re done? When you have to go back to Washington?”

He knew that it was the right thing to do. Mikey Way had hurt innocent people, and if he wasn’t held accountable, the pain and suffering of those victims would mean nothing. But he couldn’t help seeing deeper, to a frightened boy, a boy who needed his murderous brother and had found the only way to make the world listen, the only way to get him back. “No,” he sighed. “I wouldn’t do that. I won’t give you away to them, but I can’t protect you from what’s coming, either.”

“I understand. That’s the most you can do without losing your job, without incriminating yourself, and I appreciate that. It’s different with Gerard, though, isn’t it?” He bit his tongue before he could say exactly how. The improbable way Frank’s eyes softened whenever he talked about him was enough to know.

“I need him for my work, that’s all.” Iero swallowed hard. He was the one who wanted to believe it most, but even to his ears it sounded like a lie. “I’ll do whatever it takes to uncover the truth and solve my case.”

“Can I see him?” Mikey asked tremulously, like he was about to cry, and wow, Frank really actually couldn’t deal with that right now.

“Yeah. Of course,” he said, without knowing the way this decision would change the shape of things to come. Looking back on this moment in later years, he would remain unsure of whether he'd made the right choice. "Of course you can."

ʬ ʬ ʬ

It took only a few minutes for Frank to realize that smuggling a wanted man into a high-security prison would be fairly impossible. Eschewing sleep, he spent the next few hours hunched over his notebook, until his scribbled-down observations formed themselves into a plan of sorts. It was insane, yes; it was also the only thing that might work.

Mikey awoke to the rustle of plastic bags. Frank was doubled over on the floor, exploring their mysterious contents. He emerged with a bottle of peroxide and a cardboard box with a smiling, gray-haired man on the front, and turned to the younger Way almost apologetically. Mikey stared at him, nonplussed.

“You want to see him, right?” the detective asked softly. “You’ll do what it takes to stay free.”

Mikey was half-awake, but he didn’t have to think. “Yes.”

“Okay. You can’t look like you, or they’ll be onto us in a heartbeat, is that—”

And Mikey almost laughed, because it wasn’t like any of that mattered, not when he was going to get to see Gerard for real. “It’s okay, Frank, really. I don’t mind. I just want to be safe.”

Frank nodded to himself. His dark eyes flashed to Mikey’s for a second, and he grinned wickedly. “I promise, when I’m done no one will recognize you.”

He still couldn’t believe they’d actually done it, even as a uniformed guard unlocked the door to the visiting room. His fistful of keys left jangling echoes. How they’d gotten here, past the front gate and the checkpoints, seemed like one long, tense blur. A few images stuck in his head despite another sleepless night — an old I.D. badge of Frank’s with the name and photo doctored, a fabricated psychotherapy license he’d called in at the last minute — but perhaps it was better to forget.

The guard beckoned them inside. Mikey was the first to react; newly fearless, he sidled past him with a murmured ‘excuse me’ and a rustle of sober gray suiting. Frank had sat in the bathtub with him in the wee hours of the morning, dying his hair a dark brown and cropping it short on the sides. He’d taken all the hems out of his least-favorite suit so it would fit Mikey’s long, thin limbs. The edges of the pants and jacket were raw, but he didn’t think the prison guards would inspect sanctioned visitors too carefully, and he’d been right. With a pair of wire-frame glasses from the drugstore perched on his nose as a final touch, Mikey Way certainly didn’t look like himself, and that was what Frank had chewed his nails to the quick worrying about.

On the other side of the room, behind a pane of thick glass, a door slid back. Gerard stepped into the light and locked eyes with Frank for a split second, inclining his head ever so slightly. Frank thought he spied a slight twist to the criminal’s lip, the palest hint of a smile. It vanished as the guard jostled him over to a plastic chair and handcuffed his arms behind his back.

“Call if you two need anything,” the man said gruffly.

For a moment after he’d gone, the room was deadly silent. Outside, the morning fog lifted for a moment, sending beams of sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows near the ceiling. Then Mikey was pressing his hands against the glass, whispering his brother’s name over and over in shocked wonder. Frank watched Gerard’s eyes widen in disbelief when he recognized him, despite the disguise that had fooled half a dozen law enforcement professionals.

“M-Mikes?” he stammered, hardly daring to hope it was true. His voice came out weird and thready. The man before him nodded his head vigorously, tears glimmering in his eyes. Mikey’s palms were pressed against the glass like two white circles. Gerard wished more than anything that he could reach out and touch them. His stomach churned.

Frank leaned in and whispered something to Mikey, who stiffened and visibly collected himself. Cameras, Gerard thought dazedly before he went back to tracing all the lines and curves of his brother’s face.

Love you, he beamed at him. Loveyoumissedyou—

“It’s me, Gee,” Mikey breathed, praying the glass wasn’t soundproof. “You didn’t want me to come see you, but I had to, I had to.”

Of course I wanted you to, Gerard thought desperately, selfishly. But those weren’t the words he sent out into the ether. Are you crazy, coming here? What the fuck, Mikey? It’s not worth it, five minutes together, if they catch you—

Mikey smiled. They won’t. They’re not looking for me here, Gee.

Yeah, because you’d have to be out of your mind to get within a hundred miles of this place. Do you have any idea of the things I did so that you could be free?

I do, Gee. Never doubt that—

If you did, you wouldn’t be here.

Frank was watching the back-and-forth volley, more than a little shaken. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could make an educated guess from their body language. They were discussing him now, he thought; two sets of eyes fixed on him with unnerving intensity, then darted away.

Gerard leaned back in his seat, chewing his lip. He’s letting you do this?

I asked him to. He helped me, dyed my hair so I wouldn’t get caught, got me papers so I could come here. Please, Gee — I would never have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t. And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Mikey asked, with a laugh bordering on hysteria. Living with myself?

It wasn’t the first time he’d been afraid, but that fear had never threatened to become a permanent condition until today. All his life, Gerard had anchored him firmly in the present. He was a tree, roots and branches and green leaves that spread over Mikey’s head, protecting him. Without Gerard, he would just drift. He couldn’t let that happen, not when his freedom had been paid for by his own brother’s sweat and blood. He would drift and there would be nothing left in the world that he cared about. “Forgive me,” he whispered aloud.

“Of course,” Gerard said gently. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from that face — for years he’d etched it into his mind, and it was weirdly distracting to compare the real thing with what he’d imagined. Mikey had aged, changed in subtle ways; there were worry-lines around his eyes and tucked into the delicate skin around his mouth. His lips were chapped — like always, he thought with a jolt. I could’ve recognized you by that alone. Disguises could hide the things that made Mikey beautiful to him, but they could never turn him into someone else entirely. Gerard Way loved his brother more than anything; he knew that would never change. “You did the right thing.”

I needed you, you know that? I needed you and you came, without my saying anything.

Mikey quirked an eyebrow. For him, the tiny movement might as well have been a triumphant shout. Anytime.

Their collective thoughts turned again to the FBI man. Gerard tensed, suddenly conscious of how dirty he was, the way he smelled like sweat. “Frank,” he said evenly, fighting the wave of tender impulses that accompanied the detective’s name. The hard ‘k’ caught disturbingly in his throat. “Thank you for…all this. You went to a lot of trouble for my sake.”

“Ain’t no thing,” Frank whispered weakly, flapping a hand. Those hypnotic green eyes caught him and held him motionless. He felt trapped and weirdly euphoric. It came welling up to the surface, the sensation of those unfamiliar lips pressed against his — no words, no air between. He patted the air behind him absently until he found a chair, and sank down onto it. “How is your…face?”

Gerard laughed — actually laughed, and then ducked his chin and brushed his bruised mouth thoughtfully against the shoulder of his jumpsuit. “It hurts,” he acknowledged, “but it’s getting better all the time.” He’d been able to open his swollen eye this morning, at least briefly, until he poked it one too many times out of boredom and it had sealed itself shut again. Hunger rumbled in his stomach and he was looking at Frank with what felt like a broken pair of binoculars, but oh, what a blessed view. The agent’s shirt was wrinkled and open at the collar, revealing smooth, tanned skin and the delicate indent where his sternum began. He could feel the exact moment when chocolate-brown eyes drifted to his face and lingered there, watching as he shaped the words to his next inquiry; something hot stirred in the pit of his stomach. “So where does the…recent string of developments leave us, exactly? If I know anything about FBI protocol, I’ll be sitting here waiting for paperwork to be filed for days yet.”

“I’m afraid so,” Frank murmured. “Believe me, I’d love to spring you and get back to work. But I’d be breaking several dozen federal laws, and I think that might impede the progress of our investigation a little. I really have to go by the book on this.”

“There’s a first time for everything, agent.” Gerard smirked. He glanced at his brother, who’d gone silent, letting them talk business. Mikey’s thoughts were scattered, flitting from dusty in here to hurt face why, hurt why, who did it to soon you’ll be out.

We’re never going back here, he thought.

Mikey agreed wholeheartedly. We’ll figure out some way to stop hurting people. We’ll make ourselves safe.

It was if a great weight had been lifted from Gerard after that. He could face a few more days in this hellhole, even if freedom beckoned from behind every barred window and each half-open door he passed held the promise of escape. Frank seemed to sense that he couldn’t be entirely truthful in front of Mikey; although his eyes were fixed intently on Gerard, communicating all the big clashing things he couldn’t verbalize, the tone stayed lighthearted. Half an hour later, the guard ushered him and Mikey out unceremoniously, but he could see hope on the criminal’s face as he was uncuffed and lead away.

“Until next time,” he shouted down the hall.

“I’ll hold you to it!” Gerard’s ragged laugh echoed back.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

They got back to the car without incident. As they pulled away, Frank could finally breathe.
“We did it,” he crowed, hands shaking with delayed adrenaline. In the seat next to his, Mikey was weak with relief, gripping the armrest like he was making sure it was real. “Oh my god, we did it. What are the odds?”

“It was fate.” Mikey grinned. “It’s all in our stars.”

As they raced down the long road that descended the mountain, hot air whipped in through the open windows. On one side the red rock formations undulated, bands of chalky rust-and-cream stone tracing sinuous waves. On the other there was only cloudless sky, achingly blue; an eagle soared high on the thermals, circling the distant town below. Frank thought he might yet be converted.