(no subject)
title: Sixteen miles to the promised land
rating: NC-17
pairing: Bob/Gerard/Lyn-Z
prompt: 42. Sex tape.
thanks: ficbyzee, best cheerreader ever ♥ and to etben and sinsense for betaing on christmas eve, what is that. amazing.
It had been a long tour.
It had been a lot of long tours, actually, and with half the band in need of a proper honeymoon and everyone in need of a long nap, even Gerard was convinced to put the life-saving on hold for a little while.
"You can focus on your art," Bob had said.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake.
*
Neil Gaiman once said something about life being like trying to find black socks in a black suitcase full of black clothes in a black room. This may or may not have been a metaphor; it's often hard to tell, when Gerard quotes things. Even if it wasn't a metaphor when the first guy said it, it might have become one, by the time it got around to Bob.
Regardless: unpacking from tour is a bitch.
There are, actually, a lot of socks, probably more socks than anything else. Socks get gross really fast, but they're also cheap and you can buy them at gas stations and even when you're flying on actual airplanes just to get around the country and winning awards and having to sign autographs when you go buy milk, old habits die hard. And somehow, even when you're buying new socks to replace the old gross socks, the old gross socks never seem to go away.
Bob has, at the end of the unpacking, eight pairs of black socks in decent condition, six pairs of black socks in various stages of decay, three unmatched black socks, seven pairs of stripey socks, five and a half pairs of white socks in various stages of decay, and a pair of giraffe socks that Ray found somewhere and left on Bob's pillow in Des Moines, wrapped very elaborately.
And a CD-R.
*
The CD-R says "HI" and "I MISS YOU ALREADY" in black sharpie and while it's kind of hard to tell from the first sample, there's enough to the second (such as, for example, tiny swirly sharpie embellishments) that it's obviously Gerard.
He puts it on his desk next to a promo radio copy of The Black Parade that is also covered in Way-sharpie (when Mikey got bored and decided to send elaborately autographed copies of his album to everyone he knew, everyone apparently included his bandmates) and goes back to trying to figure out if some of these shirts can not be washed, or if maybe it would be easiest to just throw everything in at once, or if maybe he should just hire someone to incinerate it.
In the end, he eyes the piles warily, moves them to the far side of his bedroom from his bed, and takes a nap.
*
It isn't until a couple of days later that he gets around to popping it into his computer. He has to figure out exactly the right hat/glasses combination to get recognized at Starbucks as infrequently as possible (by other customers; the baristas still know him in an instant); and he has to endure about four phone calls a day from Frank explicating in great detail how much the dogs missed him (Frank) and how much they miss him (Bob) and need him (Bob) to come visit; and he has to remember how to drive to the grocery store. That last one is kind of an issue, and it gets him every time.
It's a QuickTime file, when he finally pops the CD in. Just that: one QuickTime file, named with a string of numbers that might be a date and might just be randomly generated.
When he opens it, Gerard is staring at him fuzzily from the screen. "Hi," Gerard says, a little awkwardly. Bob has to fight back the urge to respond; he catches himself starting to raise a hand in greeting.
"So," Gerard says, and pauses a moment to fidget, chewing on his bottom lip a little. "I know this is a little weird? For me. Since we're still ... together right now, actually. I know where you are, but I know in a few weeks I'm not going to know where you are - not exactly.
"So I guess I don't miss you yet. Technically. I will, though. By the time you see this." He laughs a little. "I uh - yeah, I labelled the CD before I even recorded this. Is that dumb? That's kinda dumb. I ... huh." His eyes drift out of focus for a moment, gazing toward the ceiling. "I hope it'll still burn. I guess I can get another one, if it doesn't.
"I didn't make one of these for everyone," Gerard says, before Bob even has a chance to wonder.
The phone rings, then, and he hits pause.
*
It wasn't Gerard. That would have been too much of a coincidence. That would have been really, really weird, actually: Gerard is generally incommunicado for the first week or so of a hiatus, like he forgets that he actually has to make an effort to see people now so he just doesn't bother. Or, this time, possible like he is way too busy enjoying some alone time with his (hot, but marginally terrifying, in Bob's opinion) ... his new ...
His wife. That's still really weird to say. To think, even. About Gerard.
Especially considering, on screen right now:
"I hope this isn't weird," Gerard is saying. I hope this isn't weird, Gerard is saying, as he shifts a little on the back lounge sofa and looks into the camera and unbuttons his fly.
*
The conclusion Bob comes to, after approximately one and a half minutes of freaking out followed by another three minutes of going back to the video and watching Gerard talk casually into the camera as he slides his hand into his pants while Bob waits for the punch line, for Gerard to pull a feather boa out of his jeans or yell SURPRISE or ... anything other than the soft, sure movements of Gerard's hand inside his jeans, obviously just teasing himself, the occasional fluttering of his eyelids ...
The conclusion Bob comes to is that this CD found its way into his bag by mistake.
It must have.
*
It's not in his computer anymore, but it's sitting on his desk, on top of THE MIKEYWAY PARADE OF LOVE AND JOY, and it's been sitting there for two days.
Bob almost calls Gerard three times, but he's not sure how this conversation is supposed to go:
So, I found your homemade sex tape.
You know that time you jerked off for your webcam? Well I think you put it in my bag by mistake ...
Hey, I found your idea for a bonus for the Parade DVD!
I can't stop thinking about your face while you touch yourself.
He hasn't called him yet.
*
"Smfphh?" Bob says, into what is hopefully the speaker end of his phone.
He wakes up enough to kind of register that it is five AM, and enough to kind of register that it is two AM in Portland, and definitely enough to wonder why the fuck anyone would honeymoon in Portland.
He wakes up more once he realizes it's Lyn.
"- really missed you," she's saying. "Don't worry or anything, he hasn't - but kind of maudlin?"
"Five AM," he says after a moment. Means to say. It comes out more like f'vmmmmm.
"Just tell him he can't be maudlin on our honeymoon, okay?" she says, and Bob blinks up at the ceiling, waiting for the light from the window to come into focus.
There's some shuffling sounds, and Gerard says, "Hi." He sounds sheepish.
"Hey," Bob says. There's just enough time for the pause to be awkward because it's five AM, and not because he's spent the past couple days trying not to watch a video of Gerard jerking off, before it becomes awkward because now he's thinking about Gerard jerking off. Again. Dammit.
It's too early for this shit.
"I'm okay," Gerard says.
"Yes." This was probably not the most intelligent response, but it was an actual word.
"Lyn and I were just talking and ..." Gerard drifts off; he sounds embarrassed again.
"And ... you decided to call me in the middle of the night?"
"Basically." A pause. "Well, Lyn called - I figured you - which you were."
Bob raises an eyebrow, which isn't an effective phone technique in most cases, but he's pretty sure Gerard will figure it out. From the little amused noise on the other end after a moment of silence, he probably did.
"I just thought you might ..."
Bob has exactly zero per-cent of an idea what Gerard thinks he might. Be awake at five AM? Want to talk? Have been having sexy dreams about Gerard?
Which he wasn't. (Honestly. His dream memory is never very good, and this one was doubly-bad on account of being randomly woken up by the phone - and seriously he needs to change his ringtone because he does not need a midi version of "Umbrella" ever, thank you Frank, but especially not at five AM - but he's pretty sure this dream involved strangely-friendly zombies somewhere in France.)
"Want to talk," Gerard says finally.
Lyn says something in the background that Bob can't hear, but the noise Gerard makes is vaguely offended and Lyn's laughter comes through loud and clear.
It's just silence for a while, Gerard's breathing soft and even across the phone line and the time zones.
"How's the, uh. How's the honeymoon going?" Bob asks. It's a good question, he feels. A safe one. A question that has nothing to do with sex tapes. - Well, unless the honeymoon is going really well, he guesses.
"It's good!" Gerard's voice is bright, filled with enough genuine happiness that it actually brings Bob all the way to awake; it's rare enough that he wouldn't want to miss it. "It's really good. It's cold and rainy" (Bob is pretty sure he hears something about having to stay inside all the time from Lyn; she doesn't sound upset about it) "and there's this bookstore here that ..." He trails off, obviously distracted.
"I know; you took me there once," Bob says. As he recalls, it was more impressive in size than in content, although really most impressive for the fact that they lost Mikey and it took almost two full hours to eventually find him in the British History section; his Sidekick, on vibrate, was stuck into a history of the Magna Carta while Mikey thumbed through a tome on modern royalty.
He's grinning at the memory, and almost misses the tone of Gerard's voice when he says that yeah, he did: a little wistful, quite a few notches down from a moment ago.
He tries to say that he liked it, that he had fun, as soon as possible, but Gerard takes a deep breath and chokes out, "I miss you."
Bob blinks, then shuts his eyes for a few moments longer. There's something about Gerard's voice, something that - So I guess I don't miss you yet. But I will. "I know," he says, slowly, eyes still shut. "I miss you guys too. It's weird, not being all together."
Like he has to say this; like he's had to say this for years. But he does, this time, needs to know if Gerard means -
"No," Gerard says. "I miss you. I miss you."
There's a moment of quiet breathing, a moment of shuffle, and then Lyn says, brightly, "What Gerard's trying to say is, did you get the DVD he left you?"
Bob can hear the unmistakable sound of Gerard cursing in the background, quiet though it is (but bound to get louder), and he focuses on that for a few seconds before he's able to say "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I - was that for me?"
He really hasn't known Lyn that long, or that well, but he can hear her smile through the phone, and he can tell the smile is wicked.
"Yeah," she says. She sounds pleased. "It was."
*
Of all the things in Bob's life that he never really expected, his lead singer cutting his honeymoon short (the Ways, he is beginning to suspect, have some sort of grudge against the sanctity of holy matrimony) to show up in Bob's living room for the express purpose of re-creating his own homemade sex tape was not even on the list.
The list was populated entirely with things he had considered possible in this realm of existence.
"Hi!" Gerard says, sounding exactly like someone who hasn't just flown cross-country to jerk off for his drummer.
"Um," Bob says. "Hi." He pauses. "Hi, Lyn."
She beams at him from over Gerard's shoulder, and somehow the lack of stop-sign-red lipstick makes the situation all the more unsettling.
There's a little bit of awkward staring, but it's not too long until Bob steps aside, allowing for Lyn to propel Gerard gently forward into Bob's apartment. She gestures him helpfully toward the couch, and when Gerard takes a seat, announces "I brought you a present!"
It takes Bob a moment to realize what she means.
"Lyn," Gerard says, weakly. His eyes are still locked with Bob's, and Bob is growing concerned that he might be blushing. "You're not helping."
Lyn snorts and falls silent, but not before muttering something that sounds like "amateurs."
*
They end up at Starbucks, because it's safer there - Bob feels he can assume no one will take their clothes off. Besides, all things involving Gerard ultimately involve Starbucks. Gerard and Lyn spend the whole ride there (Bob is driving) trying to concoct things that will both a) horrify the baristas and b) still be delicious; apparently they've been living out of a local place near their hotel and Gerard hasn't actually been inside an actual Starbucks in weeks.
"They're open all night," Lyn says, to which Gerard adds, with the sort of reverence normally reserved for Grant Morrison, "If you order more than $25 worth, they'll deliver."
"This is all I've got, unfortunately," Bob says dryly as he puts the car into park. "I hope you'll be all right."
"I'm sure it's perfect." Lyn winks at Bob, who doesn't quite catch what Gerard is mumbling as he climbs out of the back seat after her; something about cinnamon fucking dolce, maybe.
*
Caffeinating Gerard was definitely a good idea.
They'd managed to grab a comfy chair (Lyn) and a sofa (Bob and Gerard) near the fireplace, and Gerard keeps scooting closer and closer to Bob as he regales him with tales of Portland, although whether it's just through enthusiasm or some sort of malicious intent, Bob isn't quite sure.
There is, however, lipstick on the cap of Bob's peppermint non-fat mocha, and from the way Lyn had eyed him when she pronounced it delicious, he's fairly certain she is acting with malicious intent.
For Gerard, though, the wild gesticulations and fluctuating vocal patterns are pretty standard, and it's really not that much of a surprise when he grabs Bob's face in both hands, looking him straight in the eye to make sure Bob really understands ... whatever the hell he'd been talking about. Bob hadn't been paying much attention, honestly; he'd been distracted by the flutter of Gerard's hands and the occasional slow shift of Lyn's legs from one position to another, the way her skirt rode up just the tiniest bit and the way she smoothed it back down.
And now he's distracted by Gerard's eyes on his, Gerard's fingertips pressing into his cheekbones.
"Yeah," he says, "of course," and he has no idea if that even made sense.
Gerard doesn't seem to notice though; his story continues and while both of his hands leave Bob's face, one does it just by sliding down to his neck, coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder. He's not even looking at Bob anymore, he's very engaged in his venti soy cappuccino and in gesturing for Lyn to take up the story while he has coffee, but - his fingers curl around Bob's neck, just slightly.
*
It's not until Bob's halfway back to the house, Lyn sitting shotgun this time and fucking with the radio, cranking up a country station that's half-static until the twang sounds like it's been run through a synthesizer ("I think you should do this for your next album," Gerard says, and Lyn hums in agreement), that Bob realizes: he's driving back to his house.
He is driving Gerard and Lyn back to his house.
Because they didn't get a hotel, or anything.
Because they came here to see him.
It can't hurt to check, though, so at a red light he turns the music down and asks, "Is there anywhere I should uh - take you guys?"
"Just back to your place," Lyn says mildly, at the same time Gerard says, "Just home."
*
Bob's in the kitchen. He kind of wants to make a pot of coffee, just for something to do that's simple and mindless. Incredibly mindless, actually, with the coffee pot that he got last Christmas; it forecasts the weather, and Bob would not be entirely surprised if it could read his mind, too.
More coffee, though, is maybe not the best plan. He's already too worked up - bad phrasing, maybe. Keyed up. Nervous. Anxious.
"Whatcha doin', Bob?" Gerard calls from the living room, and Bob starts. He's glad he's not holding anything, or he would have dropped it, for sure.
"Uh, just -" His excuse falls flat before he even comes up with it, much less gets it out of his mouth, and he laughs. "I have no clue, man. You want something to eat?"
He half-expects some sort of lewd reply, but Lyn's scaled down the innuendo since they got back to the house, and all he gets is Gerard wandering into the kitchen, hooking his arms around Bob's waist and his chin on his shoulder, as though Bob were staring at something more interesting than the cereal cabinet. "You've got Corn Pops," he says, after a moment.
"Yeah," Bob says, and he hopes that Gerard can't feel how fucking tense he is right now. No fucking chance of that, though, not after all this time, and Gerard pulls back only enough to start kneading Bob's shoulders.
Bob can't help it; he actually groans when Gerard's thumb presses into the sore spot to the right of his neck, and tips his head forward, not quite arching into Gerard's touch, but not really not, either.
Gerard's breathing against Bob's ear, and when Bob shivers again, he laughs. "Oldest trick in the book," he murmurs, and the heat of his breath is followed by the slightest pressure of his lips on Bob's neck.
His right hand slides to Bob's left shoulder and turns him around, slowly. "And as books go," he says softly, fingers still kneading the thread of Bob's shirt, the flesh below it, "it's definitely one of my favorites."
"Mine too," Bob says, and he leans in.
Gerard looks a little amused, a little pleased, and then Bob's eyes are closed and Gerard's lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, on his lips.
*
Lyn's fingers are tucked into the beltloops of Bob's jeans, tugging him along behind her on the way to the bedroom, Gerard leading the way. It's almost weird, the way Gerard has such self-assurance, such mastery, such - such security, in leading Bob along to his own bedroom - almost weird, because he can't think much further than Gerard's spine, than the press of Lyn's knuckles into his hips.
Gerard stops in the doorway to Bob's bedroom, one hand on the doorknob and the other on the doorframe, head tilted slightly like he's surveying the area. Lyn takes advantage of the pause to look back at Bob and say, in a voice just slightly above a murmur, "I'm glad you didn't freak out. He was worried, you know."
She lets go of his beltloops long enough to twist around, press her fists into his chest and lean in. "I don't want to spoil the mood here, or anything. But I just think you should know," and here she leans in further, and bites onto Bob's neck for just a second less than it would take him to react, "that he's worried about this, okay? He likes you." She takes a step back, and her eyes are deadly serious before she breaks into a grin. "So don't fuck it up."
"I won't," he says, and Lyn's hands on his chest grab onto his shirt, and pulls him into a kiss.
"I trust you," she says, and then they're moving forward again, and before Bob knows it she's pushing him down onto his bed.
There's a moment of terror - he's sitting down, they're both standing up, looking at him, appraising him - and then Lyn sits down next to him, her chin on her hand and her elbow on Bob's knee, looking up at him. "So!" she says, voice low and amused. "We've already invaded your home; it would be quite presumptuous to start ordering you around. Quite an abuse of your hospitality. So ..." Her lips quirk up at the corners, and her voice goes a little deeper. "What can we do for you?"
"I ..." Bob's throat goes dry, and he when he pulls his eyes away from Lyn's lips to look up at Gerard, Gerard is deadly serious, eyes dark and intent.
"Could you," Bob says, and he swallows hard. He's stopped thinking there's no way this can be happening, no way this can be real; if it were all in his head, he'd be much more suave. "Could you ..." He can't even say it, but his eyes flick from Gerard to the computer, and the light comes back into Gerard's eyes.
"Yeah," he says, and pulls Bob's desk chair away from the computer. "I could do that for you." His voice is even, but he's nervous, Bob can tell. He rolls the chair out, until it's even with Bob and Lyn on the bed but a few yards away, and sits down.
His hands hover over his thighs, over the fly of his jeans, and Bob doesn't even realize how transfixed he is until Gerard speaks up again. "On one condition," Gerard says, and Bob looks up sharply. "As long as you'll take care of my lady."
It's not a line that should have worked on any level, and Bob can even hear Lyn snort a little as she pushes him back on the bed and rearranges, settling herself between his legs - but Gerard's always had a knack for making the ridiculous sound good.
And this really does sound good.
"I will," he says, and Lyn tips back into him, enough that he has to brace himself to keep them both upright. She puts one of her hands over his, on the bed, and picks it up, pulls it forward until both their hands on resting on her thigh.
"Relax," she whispers.
"Relax," he echoes. His mouth isn't even connected to his brain, anymore; all he can think about, can look at, is Gerard's hand working its way inside his own jeans, shifting to push them down just a little, enough that Bob can see that, yeah, his hand is inside his underwear, too.
"Look at him." Lyn keeps whispering, keeps her fingers entwined with Bob's, keeps rubbing both their hands slowly up and down her thigh. "Look at him, right now, like this - for you."
Bob's breath hitches, and when Lyn shifts in his lap, it has two real effects: it inches her skirt up, so that the fabric is now on top of their hands, where it used to be under; and it wasn't until she pressed back against him that he realized how hard he was, against his pants and the small of her back.
Gerard had been talking, on the CD-R, but he doesn't mind this change, not really: Gerard's not talking, but he's still making sounds, little gasps and heavy breaths.
"Look at him," Lyn says again, and this time Bob doesn't need any guidance to slip a his thumb up her inner thigh and inside her panties. She makes a sharp, sweet sound, and he uses his other fingers to tug the panties aside, thumb just pressing on her clit, not any real motion yet.
Gerard's breathing speeds up, but his hand stops, and Bob's eyes widen when Gerard pulls his hand out of his pants. It's just a moment, though, just enough for Gerard to slide his jeans and his boxers off, just enough for Bob to see Gerard's dick, not on accident and not on a computer screen. Gerard wraps his hand back around himself, his head falling back, following the same trajectory as his hand's quick, sharp strokes.
"Don't you just," Lyn starts to say, and the rest of her sentence is cut off by a gasp as Bob pushes two broad fingers up inside her.
And Gerard hears her, Bob can tell; Gerard shudders in a way that doesn't have anything to do with his own hand.
Lyn wraps a hand around Bob's wrist, pushing just a little, making sure his fingers stay inside her as she twists around in his lap to bite at his bottom lip.
And he tries to kiss her back, he really tries, but Gerard is still fisting himself slowly when he reaches his other hand down to cup his own balls, do something twisty with his wrist, and Bob and Lyn are just panting hot and wet and open-mouthed into each other. Bob's eyes actually hurt from the strain of staying open, but he can't take them off Gerard; he couldn't if he tried.
He doesn't even mean to - whatever it is he does to Lyn, clench his fingers and twist them up inside her, but she moans, loud and broken, into his mouth and screws her hips back down on him, and his own hips jerk upward and he's coming.
Lyn twists down on his fingers one last time, and he can feel her shivering against him, and then he's not looking at Gerard anymore because she's pushed him back down onto the bed. "You're so easy," she says, breathless and amused and appreciative, and she keeps grinding down against him. Her breath is still hot against his jaw - they still haven't managed to kiss properly, but right not Bob can't really even move, just dig his fingers into Lyn's shoulders.
And it's not until Bob has finally allowed his eyes to shut that he hears Gerard say, "oh," almost like he's surprised.
"Did he," Bob grates out into Lyn's ear; he assumes she'd know, and she laughs and nods against his neck.
He's still trying to regain his breath when Lyn sits up - although her hand on his stomach is a bit shaky, so he knows she's not quite as composed as her voice sounds when she announces, cheerfully, "Damn, Way, if this is my wedding present, you'll have a hell of a time one-upping yourself on our anniversary." She chuffs out a little laugh, and Bob can imagine her smirking. "Not to mention the one after that."
*
Bob ends up making coffee after all (the coffeepot informs him that it is 46° with a 10% chance of precipitation), and Gerard looks like he needs it, slumped over the kitchen table. Lyn's sitting next to him, arm slung around his shoulders and her head bumping lightly into his.
"Coffee," she says helpfully as Bob brings two mugs over to the table.
"Oh, God," Gerard says. He looks up at Bob as he wraps both hands around the mug, and his smile gets even brighter when Bob hands him a cigarette and slides a lighter across the table. "You're amazing. You're the best. We're keeping you. Lyn, can we keep him?"
Lyn steals the cigarette out of Gerard's hand and puts it into her own mouth, lighting it and taking a long, slow drag before handing it over. "Sounds good to me," she says.
Her tone is easy, conversational, and her lips curve into a smile around the rim of her mug as she looks up at Bob.
Bob sits down next to Gerard and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, ignoring Gerard's outraged noise as he takes a couple puffs on it himself.
"Sounds good," he agrees.
rating: NC-17
pairing: Bob/Gerard/Lyn-Z
prompt: 42. Sex tape.
thanks: ficbyzee, best cheerreader ever ♥ and to etben and sinsense for betaing on christmas eve, what is that. amazing.
It had been a long tour.
It had been a lot of long tours, actually, and with half the band in need of a proper honeymoon and everyone in need of a long nap, even Gerard was convinced to put the life-saving on hold for a little while.
"You can focus on your art," Bob had said.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake.
*
Neil Gaiman once said something about life being like trying to find black socks in a black suitcase full of black clothes in a black room. This may or may not have been a metaphor; it's often hard to tell, when Gerard quotes things. Even if it wasn't a metaphor when the first guy said it, it might have become one, by the time it got around to Bob.
Regardless: unpacking from tour is a bitch.
There are, actually, a lot of socks, probably more socks than anything else. Socks get gross really fast, but they're also cheap and you can buy them at gas stations and even when you're flying on actual airplanes just to get around the country and winning awards and having to sign autographs when you go buy milk, old habits die hard. And somehow, even when you're buying new socks to replace the old gross socks, the old gross socks never seem to go away.
Bob has, at the end of the unpacking, eight pairs of black socks in decent condition, six pairs of black socks in various stages of decay, three unmatched black socks, seven pairs of stripey socks, five and a half pairs of white socks in various stages of decay, and a pair of giraffe socks that Ray found somewhere and left on Bob's pillow in Des Moines, wrapped very elaborately.
And a CD-R.
*
The CD-R says "HI" and "I MISS YOU ALREADY" in black sharpie and while it's kind of hard to tell from the first sample, there's enough to the second (such as, for example, tiny swirly sharpie embellishments) that it's obviously Gerard.
He puts it on his desk next to a promo radio copy of The Black Parade that is also covered in Way-sharpie (when Mikey got bored and decided to send elaborately autographed copies of his album to everyone he knew, everyone apparently included his bandmates) and goes back to trying to figure out if some of these shirts can not be washed, or if maybe it would be easiest to just throw everything in at once, or if maybe he should just hire someone to incinerate it.
In the end, he eyes the piles warily, moves them to the far side of his bedroom from his bed, and takes a nap.
*
It isn't until a couple of days later that he gets around to popping it into his computer. He has to figure out exactly the right hat/glasses combination to get recognized at Starbucks as infrequently as possible (by other customers; the baristas still know him in an instant); and he has to endure about four phone calls a day from Frank explicating in great detail how much the dogs missed him (Frank) and how much they miss him (Bob) and need him (Bob) to come visit; and he has to remember how to drive to the grocery store. That last one is kind of an issue, and it gets him every time.
It's a QuickTime file, when he finally pops the CD in. Just that: one QuickTime file, named with a string of numbers that might be a date and might just be randomly generated.
When he opens it, Gerard is staring at him fuzzily from the screen. "Hi," Gerard says, a little awkwardly. Bob has to fight back the urge to respond; he catches himself starting to raise a hand in greeting.
"So," Gerard says, and pauses a moment to fidget, chewing on his bottom lip a little. "I know this is a little weird? For me. Since we're still ... together right now, actually. I know where you are, but I know in a few weeks I'm not going to know where you are - not exactly.
"So I guess I don't miss you yet. Technically. I will, though. By the time you see this." He laughs a little. "I uh - yeah, I labelled the CD before I even recorded this. Is that dumb? That's kinda dumb. I ... huh." His eyes drift out of focus for a moment, gazing toward the ceiling. "I hope it'll still burn. I guess I can get another one, if it doesn't.
"I didn't make one of these for everyone," Gerard says, before Bob even has a chance to wonder.
The phone rings, then, and he hits pause.
*
It wasn't Gerard. That would have been too much of a coincidence. That would have been really, really weird, actually: Gerard is generally incommunicado for the first week or so of a hiatus, like he forgets that he actually has to make an effort to see people now so he just doesn't bother. Or, this time, possible like he is way too busy enjoying some alone time with his (hot, but marginally terrifying, in Bob's opinion) ... his new ...
His wife. That's still really weird to say. To think, even. About Gerard.
Especially considering, on screen right now:
"I hope this isn't weird," Gerard is saying. I hope this isn't weird, Gerard is saying, as he shifts a little on the back lounge sofa and looks into the camera and unbuttons his fly.
*
The conclusion Bob comes to, after approximately one and a half minutes of freaking out followed by another three minutes of going back to the video and watching Gerard talk casually into the camera as he slides his hand into his pants while Bob waits for the punch line, for Gerard to pull a feather boa out of his jeans or yell SURPRISE or ... anything other than the soft, sure movements of Gerard's hand inside his jeans, obviously just teasing himself, the occasional fluttering of his eyelids ...
The conclusion Bob comes to is that this CD found its way into his bag by mistake.
It must have.
*
It's not in his computer anymore, but it's sitting on his desk, on top of THE MIKEYWAY PARADE OF LOVE AND JOY, and it's been sitting there for two days.
Bob almost calls Gerard three times, but he's not sure how this conversation is supposed to go:
So, I found your homemade sex tape.
You know that time you jerked off for your webcam? Well I think you put it in my bag by mistake ...
Hey, I found your idea for a bonus for the Parade DVD!
I can't stop thinking about your face while you touch yourself.
He hasn't called him yet.
*
"Smfphh?" Bob says, into what is hopefully the speaker end of his phone.
He wakes up enough to kind of register that it is five AM, and enough to kind of register that it is two AM in Portland, and definitely enough to wonder why the fuck anyone would honeymoon in Portland.
He wakes up more once he realizes it's Lyn.
"- really missed you," she's saying. "Don't worry or anything, he hasn't - but kind of maudlin?"
"Five AM," he says after a moment. Means to say. It comes out more like f'vmmmmm.
"Just tell him he can't be maudlin on our honeymoon, okay?" she says, and Bob blinks up at the ceiling, waiting for the light from the window to come into focus.
There's some shuffling sounds, and Gerard says, "Hi." He sounds sheepish.
"Hey," Bob says. There's just enough time for the pause to be awkward because it's five AM, and not because he's spent the past couple days trying not to watch a video of Gerard jerking off, before it becomes awkward because now he's thinking about Gerard jerking off. Again. Dammit.
It's too early for this shit.
"I'm okay," Gerard says.
"Yes." This was probably not the most intelligent response, but it was an actual word.
"Lyn and I were just talking and ..." Gerard drifts off; he sounds embarrassed again.
"And ... you decided to call me in the middle of the night?"
"Basically." A pause. "Well, Lyn called - I figured you - which you were."
Bob raises an eyebrow, which isn't an effective phone technique in most cases, but he's pretty sure Gerard will figure it out. From the little amused noise on the other end after a moment of silence, he probably did.
"I just thought you might ..."
Bob has exactly zero per-cent of an idea what Gerard thinks he might. Be awake at five AM? Want to talk? Have been having sexy dreams about Gerard?
Which he wasn't. (Honestly. His dream memory is never very good, and this one was doubly-bad on account of being randomly woken up by the phone - and seriously he needs to change his ringtone because he does not need a midi version of "Umbrella" ever, thank you Frank, but especially not at five AM - but he's pretty sure this dream involved strangely-friendly zombies somewhere in France.)
"Want to talk," Gerard says finally.
Lyn says something in the background that Bob can't hear, but the noise Gerard makes is vaguely offended and Lyn's laughter comes through loud and clear.
It's just silence for a while, Gerard's breathing soft and even across the phone line and the time zones.
"How's the, uh. How's the honeymoon going?" Bob asks. It's a good question, he feels. A safe one. A question that has nothing to do with sex tapes. - Well, unless the honeymoon is going really well, he guesses.
"It's good!" Gerard's voice is bright, filled with enough genuine happiness that it actually brings Bob all the way to awake; it's rare enough that he wouldn't want to miss it. "It's really good. It's cold and rainy" (Bob is pretty sure he hears something about having to stay inside all the time from Lyn; she doesn't sound upset about it) "and there's this bookstore here that ..." He trails off, obviously distracted.
"I know; you took me there once," Bob says. As he recalls, it was more impressive in size than in content, although really most impressive for the fact that they lost Mikey and it took almost two full hours to eventually find him in the British History section; his Sidekick, on vibrate, was stuck into a history of the Magna Carta while Mikey thumbed through a tome on modern royalty.
He's grinning at the memory, and almost misses the tone of Gerard's voice when he says that yeah, he did: a little wistful, quite a few notches down from a moment ago.
He tries to say that he liked it, that he had fun, as soon as possible, but Gerard takes a deep breath and chokes out, "I miss you."
Bob blinks, then shuts his eyes for a few moments longer. There's something about Gerard's voice, something that - So I guess I don't miss you yet. But I will. "I know," he says, slowly, eyes still shut. "I miss you guys too. It's weird, not being all together."
Like he has to say this; like he's had to say this for years. But he does, this time, needs to know if Gerard means -
"No," Gerard says. "I miss you. I miss you."
There's a moment of quiet breathing, a moment of shuffle, and then Lyn says, brightly, "What Gerard's trying to say is, did you get the DVD he left you?"
Bob can hear the unmistakable sound of Gerard cursing in the background, quiet though it is (but bound to get louder), and he focuses on that for a few seconds before he's able to say "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I - was that for me?"
He really hasn't known Lyn that long, or that well, but he can hear her smile through the phone, and he can tell the smile is wicked.
"Yeah," she says. She sounds pleased. "It was."
*
Of all the things in Bob's life that he never really expected, his lead singer cutting his honeymoon short (the Ways, he is beginning to suspect, have some sort of grudge against the sanctity of holy matrimony) to show up in Bob's living room for the express purpose of re-creating his own homemade sex tape was not even on the list.
The list was populated entirely with things he had considered possible in this realm of existence.
"Hi!" Gerard says, sounding exactly like someone who hasn't just flown cross-country to jerk off for his drummer.
"Um," Bob says. "Hi." He pauses. "Hi, Lyn."
She beams at him from over Gerard's shoulder, and somehow the lack of stop-sign-red lipstick makes the situation all the more unsettling.
There's a little bit of awkward staring, but it's not too long until Bob steps aside, allowing for Lyn to propel Gerard gently forward into Bob's apartment. She gestures him helpfully toward the couch, and when Gerard takes a seat, announces "I brought you a present!"
It takes Bob a moment to realize what she means.
"Lyn," Gerard says, weakly. His eyes are still locked with Bob's, and Bob is growing concerned that he might be blushing. "You're not helping."
Lyn snorts and falls silent, but not before muttering something that sounds like "amateurs."
*
They end up at Starbucks, because it's safer there - Bob feels he can assume no one will take their clothes off. Besides, all things involving Gerard ultimately involve Starbucks. Gerard and Lyn spend the whole ride there (Bob is driving) trying to concoct things that will both a) horrify the baristas and b) still be delicious; apparently they've been living out of a local place near their hotel and Gerard hasn't actually been inside an actual Starbucks in weeks.
"They're open all night," Lyn says, to which Gerard adds, with the sort of reverence normally reserved for Grant Morrison, "If you order more than $25 worth, they'll deliver."
"This is all I've got, unfortunately," Bob says dryly as he puts the car into park. "I hope you'll be all right."
"I'm sure it's perfect." Lyn winks at Bob, who doesn't quite catch what Gerard is mumbling as he climbs out of the back seat after her; something about cinnamon fucking dolce, maybe.
*
Caffeinating Gerard was definitely a good idea.
They'd managed to grab a comfy chair (Lyn) and a sofa (Bob and Gerard) near the fireplace, and Gerard keeps scooting closer and closer to Bob as he regales him with tales of Portland, although whether it's just through enthusiasm or some sort of malicious intent, Bob isn't quite sure.
There is, however, lipstick on the cap of Bob's peppermint non-fat mocha, and from the way Lyn had eyed him when she pronounced it delicious, he's fairly certain she is acting with malicious intent.
For Gerard, though, the wild gesticulations and fluctuating vocal patterns are pretty standard, and it's really not that much of a surprise when he grabs Bob's face in both hands, looking him straight in the eye to make sure Bob really understands ... whatever the hell he'd been talking about. Bob hadn't been paying much attention, honestly; he'd been distracted by the flutter of Gerard's hands and the occasional slow shift of Lyn's legs from one position to another, the way her skirt rode up just the tiniest bit and the way she smoothed it back down.
And now he's distracted by Gerard's eyes on his, Gerard's fingertips pressing into his cheekbones.
"Yeah," he says, "of course," and he has no idea if that even made sense.
Gerard doesn't seem to notice though; his story continues and while both of his hands leave Bob's face, one does it just by sliding down to his neck, coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder. He's not even looking at Bob anymore, he's very engaged in his venti soy cappuccino and in gesturing for Lyn to take up the story while he has coffee, but - his fingers curl around Bob's neck, just slightly.
*
It's not until Bob's halfway back to the house, Lyn sitting shotgun this time and fucking with the radio, cranking up a country station that's half-static until the twang sounds like it's been run through a synthesizer ("I think you should do this for your next album," Gerard says, and Lyn hums in agreement), that Bob realizes: he's driving back to his house.
He is driving Gerard and Lyn back to his house.
Because they didn't get a hotel, or anything.
Because they came here to see him.
It can't hurt to check, though, so at a red light he turns the music down and asks, "Is there anywhere I should uh - take you guys?"
"Just back to your place," Lyn says mildly, at the same time Gerard says, "Just home."
*
Bob's in the kitchen. He kind of wants to make a pot of coffee, just for something to do that's simple and mindless. Incredibly mindless, actually, with the coffee pot that he got last Christmas; it forecasts the weather, and Bob would not be entirely surprised if it could read his mind, too.
More coffee, though, is maybe not the best plan. He's already too worked up - bad phrasing, maybe. Keyed up. Nervous. Anxious.
"Whatcha doin', Bob?" Gerard calls from the living room, and Bob starts. He's glad he's not holding anything, or he would have dropped it, for sure.
"Uh, just -" His excuse falls flat before he even comes up with it, much less gets it out of his mouth, and he laughs. "I have no clue, man. You want something to eat?"
He half-expects some sort of lewd reply, but Lyn's scaled down the innuendo since they got back to the house, and all he gets is Gerard wandering into the kitchen, hooking his arms around Bob's waist and his chin on his shoulder, as though Bob were staring at something more interesting than the cereal cabinet. "You've got Corn Pops," he says, after a moment.
"Yeah," Bob says, and he hopes that Gerard can't feel how fucking tense he is right now. No fucking chance of that, though, not after all this time, and Gerard pulls back only enough to start kneading Bob's shoulders.
Bob can't help it; he actually groans when Gerard's thumb presses into the sore spot to the right of his neck, and tips his head forward, not quite arching into Gerard's touch, but not really not, either.
Gerard's breathing against Bob's ear, and when Bob shivers again, he laughs. "Oldest trick in the book," he murmurs, and the heat of his breath is followed by the slightest pressure of his lips on Bob's neck.
His right hand slides to Bob's left shoulder and turns him around, slowly. "And as books go," he says softly, fingers still kneading the thread of Bob's shirt, the flesh below it, "it's definitely one of my favorites."
"Mine too," Bob says, and he leans in.
Gerard looks a little amused, a little pleased, and then Bob's eyes are closed and Gerard's lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, on his lips.
*
Lyn's fingers are tucked into the beltloops of Bob's jeans, tugging him along behind her on the way to the bedroom, Gerard leading the way. It's almost weird, the way Gerard has such self-assurance, such mastery, such - such security, in leading Bob along to his own bedroom - almost weird, because he can't think much further than Gerard's spine, than the press of Lyn's knuckles into his hips.
Gerard stops in the doorway to Bob's bedroom, one hand on the doorknob and the other on the doorframe, head tilted slightly like he's surveying the area. Lyn takes advantage of the pause to look back at Bob and say, in a voice just slightly above a murmur, "I'm glad you didn't freak out. He was worried, you know."
She lets go of his beltloops long enough to twist around, press her fists into his chest and lean in. "I don't want to spoil the mood here, or anything. But I just think you should know," and here she leans in further, and bites onto Bob's neck for just a second less than it would take him to react, "that he's worried about this, okay? He likes you." She takes a step back, and her eyes are deadly serious before she breaks into a grin. "So don't fuck it up."
"I won't," he says, and Lyn's hands on his chest grab onto his shirt, and pulls him into a kiss.
"I trust you," she says, and then they're moving forward again, and before Bob knows it she's pushing him down onto his bed.
There's a moment of terror - he's sitting down, they're both standing up, looking at him, appraising him - and then Lyn sits down next to him, her chin on her hand and her elbow on Bob's knee, looking up at him. "So!" she says, voice low and amused. "We've already invaded your home; it would be quite presumptuous to start ordering you around. Quite an abuse of your hospitality. So ..." Her lips quirk up at the corners, and her voice goes a little deeper. "What can we do for you?"
"I ..." Bob's throat goes dry, and he when he pulls his eyes away from Lyn's lips to look up at Gerard, Gerard is deadly serious, eyes dark and intent.
"Could you," Bob says, and he swallows hard. He's stopped thinking there's no way this can be happening, no way this can be real; if it were all in his head, he'd be much more suave. "Could you ..." He can't even say it, but his eyes flick from Gerard to the computer, and the light comes back into Gerard's eyes.
"Yeah," he says, and pulls Bob's desk chair away from the computer. "I could do that for you." His voice is even, but he's nervous, Bob can tell. He rolls the chair out, until it's even with Bob and Lyn on the bed but a few yards away, and sits down.
His hands hover over his thighs, over the fly of his jeans, and Bob doesn't even realize how transfixed he is until Gerard speaks up again. "On one condition," Gerard says, and Bob looks up sharply. "As long as you'll take care of my lady."
It's not a line that should have worked on any level, and Bob can even hear Lyn snort a little as she pushes him back on the bed and rearranges, settling herself between his legs - but Gerard's always had a knack for making the ridiculous sound good.
And this really does sound good.
"I will," he says, and Lyn tips back into him, enough that he has to brace himself to keep them both upright. She puts one of her hands over his, on the bed, and picks it up, pulls it forward until both their hands on resting on her thigh.
"Relax," she whispers.
"Relax," he echoes. His mouth isn't even connected to his brain, anymore; all he can think about, can look at, is Gerard's hand working its way inside his own jeans, shifting to push them down just a little, enough that Bob can see that, yeah, his hand is inside his underwear, too.
"Look at him." Lyn keeps whispering, keeps her fingers entwined with Bob's, keeps rubbing both their hands slowly up and down her thigh. "Look at him, right now, like this - for you."
Bob's breath hitches, and when Lyn shifts in his lap, it has two real effects: it inches her skirt up, so that the fabric is now on top of their hands, where it used to be under; and it wasn't until she pressed back against him that he realized how hard he was, against his pants and the small of her back.
Gerard had been talking, on the CD-R, but he doesn't mind this change, not really: Gerard's not talking, but he's still making sounds, little gasps and heavy breaths.
"Look at him," Lyn says again, and this time Bob doesn't need any guidance to slip a his thumb up her inner thigh and inside her panties. She makes a sharp, sweet sound, and he uses his other fingers to tug the panties aside, thumb just pressing on her clit, not any real motion yet.
Gerard's breathing speeds up, but his hand stops, and Bob's eyes widen when Gerard pulls his hand out of his pants. It's just a moment, though, just enough for Gerard to slide his jeans and his boxers off, just enough for Bob to see Gerard's dick, not on accident and not on a computer screen. Gerard wraps his hand back around himself, his head falling back, following the same trajectory as his hand's quick, sharp strokes.
"Don't you just," Lyn starts to say, and the rest of her sentence is cut off by a gasp as Bob pushes two broad fingers up inside her.
And Gerard hears her, Bob can tell; Gerard shudders in a way that doesn't have anything to do with his own hand.
Lyn wraps a hand around Bob's wrist, pushing just a little, making sure his fingers stay inside her as she twists around in his lap to bite at his bottom lip.
And he tries to kiss her back, he really tries, but Gerard is still fisting himself slowly when he reaches his other hand down to cup his own balls, do something twisty with his wrist, and Bob and Lyn are just panting hot and wet and open-mouthed into each other. Bob's eyes actually hurt from the strain of staying open, but he can't take them off Gerard; he couldn't if he tried.
He doesn't even mean to - whatever it is he does to Lyn, clench his fingers and twist them up inside her, but she moans, loud and broken, into his mouth and screws her hips back down on him, and his own hips jerk upward and he's coming.
Lyn twists down on his fingers one last time, and he can feel her shivering against him, and then he's not looking at Gerard anymore because she's pushed him back down onto the bed. "You're so easy," she says, breathless and amused and appreciative, and she keeps grinding down against him. Her breath is still hot against his jaw - they still haven't managed to kiss properly, but right not Bob can't really even move, just dig his fingers into Lyn's shoulders.
And it's not until Bob has finally allowed his eyes to shut that he hears Gerard say, "oh," almost like he's surprised.
"Did he," Bob grates out into Lyn's ear; he assumes she'd know, and she laughs and nods against his neck.
He's still trying to regain his breath when Lyn sits up - although her hand on his stomach is a bit shaky, so he knows she's not quite as composed as her voice sounds when she announces, cheerfully, "Damn, Way, if this is my wedding present, you'll have a hell of a time one-upping yourself on our anniversary." She chuffs out a little laugh, and Bob can imagine her smirking. "Not to mention the one after that."
*
Bob ends up making coffee after all (the coffeepot informs him that it is 46° with a 10% chance of precipitation), and Gerard looks like he needs it, slumped over the kitchen table. Lyn's sitting next to him, arm slung around his shoulders and her head bumping lightly into his.
"Coffee," she says helpfully as Bob brings two mugs over to the table.
"Oh, God," Gerard says. He looks up at Bob as he wraps both hands around the mug, and his smile gets even brighter when Bob hands him a cigarette and slides a lighter across the table. "You're amazing. You're the best. We're keeping you. Lyn, can we keep him?"
Lyn steals the cigarette out of Gerard's hand and puts it into her own mouth, lighting it and taking a long, slow drag before handing it over. "Sounds good to me," she says.
Her tone is easy, conversational, and her lips curve into a smile around the rim of her mug as she looks up at Bob.
Bob sits down next to Gerard and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, ignoring Gerard's outraged noise as he takes a couple puffs on it himself.
"Sounds good," he agrees.