FicWad

A/N: So, this is it, the first chapter of The Sharpest Knives I've written in what, a year?
I'm a bit rusty, so please excuse me if it's a bit all over the place, but yeah...
Anyway, I need to tone it down on these author's notes..

Two hours and four attempted bitch slaps later, Frank had been strapped dazedly into the passenger seat of an '85 Cutlass Ciera that Gerard had somehow acquired from dust, although, truth be said, the car was practically half constructed of dust. This, effectively, caused Gerard some struggle as he tackled the ignition.
Frank sat iron board stiff as he watchfully observed the taller man repeatedly wrench the key into the dashboard, each time the action being reinforced, it was more empowered, so much so Frank feared more for the key's welfare than his own.
He was significantly more stable, physical-wise, but the impending urge to wretch and throw up all over the windscreen was growing more and more insistent as he, Frank Iero, sat in a shitty, semi-functional car, with a murderer. A flat-out, notoriously remorseless killer, one which he was quite content seeing on mid-west news on a Thursday evening, thanks.
Full consciousness came hand-in-hand with more than just a burning, bile sensation in Frank's mouth, but also, a foolhardy, square to the chest pang of realization, which lapped at him in ever-growing waves.
Ray...
And there was a shot and a scream and Frank opened his mouth to cry for his best-friend but made no sound-
“For fuck's sake, dammit!” Frank lurched out his reverie, his heart palpitating as he attempted to place himself again. “Every fucking time, Jesus fucking Christ!”
Gerard stood just outside the left of the car, leaning across the driver's seat, sweat and musk drifting off him, as he swatted rigorously at the wheel. He wore the same clothes he had on the day before; a worn to shreds leather jacket, a surprisingly clean wife-beater and a pair of faded jeans which were folded up at the ankle. He vaguely reminded Frank of one of the T-Birds out of 'Grease', although he wouldn't be caught alive saying it.
Interrupting his train of thought, Gerard looked up through his greasy bangs to meet Frank's wary eye.
Greasy, Frank thought, the references just keep rolling in.
“Sorry, Frankie,” Gerard exhaled, his words delivered raspy and scratched, “we're gonna have to catch a lift.”
Frank sat silent, returning Gerard's gaze with nervous disposition. Well, maybe not disposition, but terrified nonetheless. He felt his eyes beginning to well with salt, the clear recollection of Ray's blood spurting out of his chest - presumably less than twenty-four hours ago -, and a renewed influx of lucid hate for the man before him surged through Frank, hardening his stare at the man into a stony, anticipatively valiant glare.
“Oh, don't have a fucking hissy fit now, Iero. I said I wouldn't hurt you, but that doesn't mean we'll be travelling in a fucking limousine getting served three-chocolate ice cream ten hours a fucking day, suck it the fuck up.”
Frank, surprising himself again, shrugged.
Gerard smirked. “I always thought you were goddamn kooky, Frankie.”

Always?

-

“Bob's on his way, okay?”
Gerard had departed the car and occupied the isolated shack in which they'd apparently slept last night – which was incidentally, in the middle of fucking nowhere – and returned twenty minutes post. Left to his own devices in the 'car', Frank'd pondered further on what the jesus fucking fuck was fucking going the fuck on.
“Okay?” Gerard questioned again, his voice starting to sound more irritable. Frank simply stared ahead through the dust clad windscreen, fighting the urge to scream and kick out and stab his own eyes out with the keys, which were most probably jammed immovable into the ignition by now. “Goddamn, you're a piece of fucking work aren't you, jesus fucking Christ-”
“Could you stop swearing, please?” Frank spoke without batting an eyelid. Without any sense of fear or concern or anything else that he probably should be feeling considering he had just politely asked a murderer to stop swearing.
Surely, Frank thought, I should've said, 'Could you stop killing people, please?' or 'Could you un-shoot my best friend please?' But no, 'My name's Frank and swearing turns me on too much to hear you chain-curse, Mr. Gerard fucking Way,' Jeez, I'm pathetic.
Gerard stared blankly back at Frank. Shit.
However, much to Frank's inconsistent luck, Gerard nodded, and pulled himself up from leaning through the car door. “Yeah, sure, sorry, I didn't know it made you uncomfortable, Frank, I'm really, uh, sorry.”
Frank knitted his brows and let his mouth drop into a little 'o' shape.
“It's um, okay?” Frank managed to bleat out.
Gerard just nodded again, then slapped his hands down onto his upper thighs and walked around to Frank's door, ripping it open with an almighty creak, the offering Frank a hand out of the Ciera, which he took.
Well, is this surreal enough for you Frank?
“Bob said he'll be here in fifteen with the truck.” Frank made a sound of something between a 'yes' and an 'uh' in acknowledgement.
The driveway on which the shack was placed was a smooth track of honey coloured dust, which you could see, if you squinted a bit, lead to a highway. The rest of their surroundings consisted of tumble weed and dehydrated grass.

After unloading the Cutlass, Frank and Gerard sat in ear-splitting silence as they waited for 'Bob'.
Bob, Frank speculated, Exactly the kinda name you'd expect a guy with a truck to have. Bob.
“Here's the fucker-” Gerard froze as he realized that he'd cussed, “I'm sorry, Frank.”
“It's, um, okay?” Frank breathed as he stood back up, and realized for the first time this waking day that he'd been in the presence of a murderer in a fucking hospital gown.
As Frank's eyes involuntarily widened and his cheeks burned crimson, he was approached by an average height, but slightly stumpy man with fair red hair and a slight stubble. Gerard had already began to load Bob's vehicle.
“Hi,” Bob jutted out a tree-trunk arm, ending in a tree-trunk hand, “I'm Bob, and you're Frank.” The man smiled, seemingly genuinely.
“I know.” Frank said, avoiding the man's handshake and stomping off towards the truck, only half managing to ignore the apparent wind up the back of his legs and the tiny throbbing at his wrist.