bob fic #2: Supernatural
Bob/Ray
Standalone
Third person limited
written May 2006
It's a gift, Gerard always says, his hands waving about wildly. He's got a fucking gift! And Bob always smirks and rolls his eyes, his fair skin reddening with embarrassment, and tells their lead singer he's talking bullshit. Dude, I can play drums, I can mix and shit, I can play video games, but none of that crap ...
Ray never says it out loud, but he agrees with Gerard. Bob does have a gift. It's hard to explain ... but Bob's always right. The things he says -- his gut instincts, his words of advice, his predictions -- they're right. Every single time.
It frightened Ray when he first noticed. When they asked Bob to join the band, he'd said, Hell yeah! I can't pass up the chance to be in the biggest band on the planet, and they'd all laughed, loving his confidence, but never dreaming he would be right. Never dreaming that, in a few short years, they'd be on top of the fucking world.
Mikey says Bob should go to a psychic and learn how to channel his abilities, but Bob just laughs and says, yeah, whatever man.
Things changed after Bob joined. Things became calmer, more comfortable. These days, Ray thinks, it's so easy to be confident before a show, because Bob's small, full mouth curls up in a smile and tells him everything's gonna be fine. And it is; even if Frank destroys half the drumkit or cuts his head open on-stage, even if Gerard forgets the words to every song, even if Mikey has a panic attack and refuses to step out of the wings.
Now that Bob's around, the worst-case scenarios are only that: scenarios. They never get in the way of reality.
And when Gerard's panicking, pacing around the studio because he's not sure if the new album will meet fans' expectations, Bob's blue eyes sparkle and he leans across to put a hand on the singer's shoulder. It's a fucking awesome song, Gee. It's gonna kick ass. This album's gonna sell more than Revenge. Then Gerard's shoulders sag with relief and he looks up at Bob with a smile that's pure sunshine.
Whether it's the power of positive thinking or something supernatural, Ray's not sure. But it doesn't matter, he thinks with a grin as Bob twists a strand of curly auburn hair around his index finger. The drummer's body is warm beside him; not too cramped either, even though they're both lying on Ray's small bunk.
Bob's staring at the ceiling, the surface covered by a collage of photographs, ticket stubs, scribbled notes, set lists, drawings -- Gerard's caricature of Ray, hidden under an enormous afro, is one of his personal favourites -- and idly playing with Ray's hair. Bob seems to like his hair, for some reason the guitarist can't fathom.
"It feels cool," Bob says quietly, answering the question before Ray opens his mouth to ask. "It's springy ... but soft at the same time, you know? I like it. S'weird."
Ray lifts his head, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.
"The colour's nice too. Kinda reminds me of -- well, you know that bit just after a sunset, before it goes totally black? There's this line of colour between the land and the sky. It's the heat or something, from the sun. Not red, not gold, not brown, but kinda all of them."
Ray smirks. "When did you turn into a poet?"
"I'm not. Just sayin' what I see, that's all."
"You see a lot of things, huh?"
"Whatcha talking about?" Bob sits up slightly, propping himself onto one elbow.
"Well ...you know. You see things before they happen."
He grins and closes his eyes, rolling onto his back again. "You're starting to sound like Mikey, dude. Just don't tell me I got a gift, okay?"
They laugh, then fall silent. It's not as comfortable as it was earlier, just lying here with Bob, Ray thinks. For the first time in ages, he craves distraction. The silence is a vacuum. Before, there was an absence of noise, and now, there's an absence of sound.
After a moment, Bob reaches out to tangle his fingers in Ray's hair again. Ray sighs and looks up at the collage on the ceiling. This -- this thing with Bob, whatever it is -- is so fucking lopsided, Ray thinks; he knows everything about me, he knows what I'm thinking, what I'm gonna say, and I know nothing. He's looking at that strip of light as the sun sets, and I'm staring up at the black sky.
"I don't see things, Ray," Bob says quietly. "I -- sometimes I just get ... Christ, I don't know -- feelings, I guess. I just know things. I don't like it, and I don't understand it, but I guess I'm not meant to."
"If you don't understand it, how the fuck am I supposed to get it?"
"No idea. But you wanted to know."
"Yeah, I did," Ray says, grinning. "What else do you know?"
Bob rolls his eyes. "See, this is why I don't talk about it. I'm not a fucking fortune teller, man! I can't tell you the goddamn lottery numbers or work out where the next terror attack's gonna be. It doesn't work like that."
"So, how does it work?"
He sighs. "People. It's about people, okay? And not just anyone -- I can't walk past some random person in the street and know what's gonna happen to them." Bob rubs his forehead, his fair brows furrowed. "It's only the people who matter to me. That's why I knew I was meant to be in the band, I guess. I had this ... feeling, about all of you."
"Me too?"
"You most of all," Bob says, eyes fixed on the cartoon directly above him. Ray feels the blood rushing hot to his face, and shakes his head again.
"You knew -- "
"I knew you were falling in love with me, yeah."
"But ... " It's Ray's turn to frown. "I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it."
Bob laughs. "You were, but when I was around you, I got this vibe -- this warmth, kind of like an aura or something. It was totally different to the feeling I got from the others. Theirs was comfortable ... yours wasn't."
"I made you uncomfortable?"
"No. But I could feel how awkward it was for you. I could feel you pretending. And you were so fucking cute ... I'd catch you looking at me and you'd act like you were looking at something else, and trip over the amp cords when you were getting up to leave."
"Oh, God," Ray murmurs, head in hands. "I'm such a dork."
"You know the weirdest thing?"
"What?"
"I could feel you all the time. It's like I couldn't block you out or something. Lying in bed at night or going for coffee or hanging out at home ... didn't matter."
"Heh. Sorry."
"And when I realised I didn't want to block you out, that I didn't want to stop thinking about you -- that's when I knew it was gonna be okay with us."
Ray takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Bob Bryar, you're a fucking slushy romantic," he says, unable to control his smile.
"Oh yeah. But you don't have a problem with it. You like it."
Standalone
Third person limited
written May 2006
It's a gift, Gerard always says, his hands waving about wildly. He's got a fucking gift! And Bob always smirks and rolls his eyes, his fair skin reddening with embarrassment, and tells their lead singer he's talking bullshit. Dude, I can play drums, I can mix and shit, I can play video games, but none of that crap ...
Ray never says it out loud, but he agrees with Gerard. Bob does have a gift. It's hard to explain ... but Bob's always right. The things he says -- his gut instincts, his words of advice, his predictions -- they're right. Every single time.
It frightened Ray when he first noticed. When they asked Bob to join the band, he'd said, Hell yeah! I can't pass up the chance to be in the biggest band on the planet, and they'd all laughed, loving his confidence, but never dreaming he would be right. Never dreaming that, in a few short years, they'd be on top of the fucking world.
Mikey says Bob should go to a psychic and learn how to channel his abilities, but Bob just laughs and says, yeah, whatever man.
Things changed after Bob joined. Things became calmer, more comfortable. These days, Ray thinks, it's so easy to be confident before a show, because Bob's small, full mouth curls up in a smile and tells him everything's gonna be fine. And it is; even if Frank destroys half the drumkit or cuts his head open on-stage, even if Gerard forgets the words to every song, even if Mikey has a panic attack and refuses to step out of the wings.
Now that Bob's around, the worst-case scenarios are only that: scenarios. They never get in the way of reality.
And when Gerard's panicking, pacing around the studio because he's not sure if the new album will meet fans' expectations, Bob's blue eyes sparkle and he leans across to put a hand on the singer's shoulder. It's a fucking awesome song, Gee. It's gonna kick ass. This album's gonna sell more than Revenge. Then Gerard's shoulders sag with relief and he looks up at Bob with a smile that's pure sunshine.
Whether it's the power of positive thinking or something supernatural, Ray's not sure. But it doesn't matter, he thinks with a grin as Bob twists a strand of curly auburn hair around his index finger. The drummer's body is warm beside him; not too cramped either, even though they're both lying on Ray's small bunk.
Bob's staring at the ceiling, the surface covered by a collage of photographs, ticket stubs, scribbled notes, set lists, drawings -- Gerard's caricature of Ray, hidden under an enormous afro, is one of his personal favourites -- and idly playing with Ray's hair. Bob seems to like his hair, for some reason the guitarist can't fathom.
"It feels cool," Bob says quietly, answering the question before Ray opens his mouth to ask. "It's springy ... but soft at the same time, you know? I like it. S'weird."
Ray lifts his head, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.
"The colour's nice too. Kinda reminds me of -- well, you know that bit just after a sunset, before it goes totally black? There's this line of colour between the land and the sky. It's the heat or something, from the sun. Not red, not gold, not brown, but kinda all of them."
Ray smirks. "When did you turn into a poet?"
"I'm not. Just sayin' what I see, that's all."
"You see a lot of things, huh?"
"Whatcha talking about?" Bob sits up slightly, propping himself onto one elbow.
"Well ...you know. You see things before they happen."
He grins and closes his eyes, rolling onto his back again. "You're starting to sound like Mikey, dude. Just don't tell me I got a gift, okay?"
They laugh, then fall silent. It's not as comfortable as it was earlier, just lying here with Bob, Ray thinks. For the first time in ages, he craves distraction. The silence is a vacuum. Before, there was an absence of noise, and now, there's an absence of sound.
After a moment, Bob reaches out to tangle his fingers in Ray's hair again. Ray sighs and looks up at the collage on the ceiling. This -- this thing with Bob, whatever it is -- is so fucking lopsided, Ray thinks; he knows everything about me, he knows what I'm thinking, what I'm gonna say, and I know nothing. He's looking at that strip of light as the sun sets, and I'm staring up at the black sky.
"I don't see things, Ray," Bob says quietly. "I -- sometimes I just get ... Christ, I don't know -- feelings, I guess. I just know things. I don't like it, and I don't understand it, but I guess I'm not meant to."
"If you don't understand it, how the fuck am I supposed to get it?"
"No idea. But you wanted to know."
"Yeah, I did," Ray says, grinning. "What else do you know?"
Bob rolls his eyes. "See, this is why I don't talk about it. I'm not a fucking fortune teller, man! I can't tell you the goddamn lottery numbers or work out where the next terror attack's gonna be. It doesn't work like that."
"So, how does it work?"
He sighs. "People. It's about people, okay? And not just anyone -- I can't walk past some random person in the street and know what's gonna happen to them." Bob rubs his forehead, his fair brows furrowed. "It's only the people who matter to me. That's why I knew I was meant to be in the band, I guess. I had this ... feeling, about all of you."
"Me too?"
"You most of all," Bob says, eyes fixed on the cartoon directly above him. Ray feels the blood rushing hot to his face, and shakes his head again.
"You knew -- "
"I knew you were falling in love with me, yeah."
"But ... " It's Ray's turn to frown. "I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it."
Bob laughs. "You were, but when I was around you, I got this vibe -- this warmth, kind of like an aura or something. It was totally different to the feeling I got from the others. Theirs was comfortable ... yours wasn't."
"I made you uncomfortable?"
"No. But I could feel how awkward it was for you. I could feel you pretending. And you were so fucking cute ... I'd catch you looking at me and you'd act like you were looking at something else, and trip over the amp cords when you were getting up to leave."
"Oh, God," Ray murmurs, head in hands. "I'm such a dork."
"You know the weirdest thing?"
"What?"
"I could feel you all the time. It's like I couldn't block you out or something. Lying in bed at night or going for coffee or hanging out at home ... didn't matter."
"Heh. Sorry."
"And when I realised I didn't want to block you out, that I didn't want to stop thinking about you -- that's when I knew it was gonna be okay with us."
Ray takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Bob Bryar, you're a fucking slushy romantic," he says, unable to control his smile.
"Oh yeah. But you don't have a problem with it. You like it."