Into the Woods 3a

[manipulant]

Three

Brendon groans, and puts a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the white that's still filtering through. "Ow," he mutters, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids, rubbing hard. "What the fuck, seriously."

He's startled by a sudden whoop to his left, enough that he blinks his eyes halfway open, and squints. "Fucking pants, baby!" Spencer's crowing, throwing both his arms up in victory. Brendon's eyes widen, and he quickly looks down at himself.

"Aw, shit."

"Yeah, that's right," Spencer says, positively beaming at him, and fucking - Brendon can't stay annoyed at his tragic pink-and-pinafore combination, not when Spencer Smith is doing his very best smile. His lips quirk up of their own volition, and he can't help chuckling.

"Those aren't pants, dude, those are like. Lederhosen," he feels compelled to point out, waggling his eyebrows at Spencer's whole romper getup. "You look like you're going to start yodeling."

"Don't even care," Spencer replies, moving an arm down so he can inspect his cheek next. "Aw," he says, his smile fading a little as he encounters bare skin. Brendon can't help it, he knows he looks just as ridiculous and he knows it's mostly a reaction to the lack of sleep and the anxiety and the fact that he's wearing a dress, but he starts laughing helplessly and can't stop.

"You look like one of those tacky-ass porcelain figurines," he wheezes, doubling up and waving a hand as he tries to make himself stop. He has to wipe his eyes, but the amused, fond look Spencer is giving him sends him into a new wave.

"Those are called Hummels, douche. My mom has some," Spencer says, tilting his chin and obviously trying to look threatening. Brendon flips him off, and clutches his stomach, sort of relieved when his laughter finally runs out. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon groans, grabbing onto Spencer's arm to help haul himself back into standing up straight. "Damn it."

"Can't even blame it on Red Bull," Spencer sighs, rubbing his back lightly. Brendon shivers a little at the completely alien feeling of Spencer's hand running over his bound ribs, and unconsciously leans back into his touch.

"I'll blame it on your yodeling pants," Brendon decides. "And my fucking apron, what the fuck," he grouses, looking down at himself again, actually inspecting the ruffles and pink. "You never had to deal with a fucking apron." He scowls, and shoves his hands into the pockets on the front of the offending apron. "Oh, what - "

"Hmm?" Spencer's not really paying attention, he's busy inspecting the grove of trees in which they've found themselves, and the bag that's leaning against one treetrunk. "Hey, I think this is mine," he says, pleased, as he turns to face Brendon again.

"Spence," Brendon says, and whatever's in his eyes and voice makes Spencer move, back to his side, in a couple of seconds. Brendon bites his lip and lets the handful of breadcrumbs he got from his pocket fall to the forest floor. He glances over his own shoulder, and then over Spencer's, and exhales raggedly when he sees birds pecking along the clearing.

"Oh," Spencer breathes next to him, turning his head to see the birds and the remains of the breadcrumb trail as well. "Well." He thinks for a minute. "At least in this one, we don't have to marry each other?"

Spencer's all for going back the way they came, following the mostly-eaten trail of breadcrumbs back to - and that's where his plan ends, because both Brendon and Spencer can't really remember how Hansel and Gretel starts, other than they have an evil stepmom and their dad abandons them in the forest. Brendon, however, keeps pushing to just continue down the path. "We have to get through the story to get out of it," he points out. "And I would like to get home at, y'know, some point."

"Well I dunno, maybe there's some...Secret Option C, or something," Spencer fumbles, flailing his hands around a little.

"Your plan is to find some sort of double-secret door," Brendon says flatly, raising both eyebrows at him. He's pretending not to notice how his hands have come up to rest on his hips. "So that we can get through a series of fairy tales without actually having to act them out."

"Look, as far as logic goes, I don't think we're in a position to really question anything," Spencer grumbles, folding his arms across his chest, giving Brendon a baleful look. "It could happen."

"Yeah, and the sky could be purple and I could be a talking tree and you could also turn into a twinkie," Brendon says, eyebrows still raised. "If we're going down this 'anything can happen' path of yours. And if you turn into a twinkie, Spencersmith, don't expect me not to eat you."

"That's what she said," Spencer mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face exasperatedly. "Look, I'm not going to turn into a twinkie."

"And there's not going to be a secret door," Brendon shoots back quickly. "You get your thing, I get mine," he says, gesturing a hand between them. "We'll go from there."

Spencer gapes. He looks startlingly like Bogart, when Bogart can't figure out where Brendon's just thrown his favorite chew toy and he suspects Brendon of faking him out. "That's...fuck no, there's no way those two are equal! I didn't agree to that!"

"So you're saying you'll turn into delicious foodstuffs?" Brendon asks, giving him a smile and blinking innocently.

Spencer stares at him for a moment, and closes his mouth and glares, his eyes narrowing into slits. "No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying that you should eat a bag of dicks, and that I'm holding you responsible when your way gets us killed. All right?"

"All right," Brendon agrees, with an easy smile. He grins when Spencer huffs and stomps down the path a little ways, and skip-hops after him, tugging the sash of his stupid pinafore away from a couple of brambles as they both head further into the forest.

"No way," Spencer says firmly, giving Brendon the kind of quelling look that never works, and only succeeds in making Brendon laugh at him.

"Yes way," Brendon responds cheerfully, turning around so he can talk and walk and see Spencer at the same time.

"Patrick is not a Slytherin," Spencer says. "He's like an archetypical Hufflepuff, come on."

"Don't think your SAT word is going to save you," Brendon tells him kindly, shaking his head a little. "I'm telling you, he's totally a stealth Slytherin. He gets shit done on his own terms."

"You're going to fall," Spencer tells him, tilting his chin, folding his arms. "And I'm going to laugh my ass off."

"No you're not, you're going to fuss over me and bitch about how I need to look where I'm going," Brendon sighed, giving him his best who-do-you-think-you're-fooling? kind of look. It must be pretty impressive, because Brendon watches a slow tide of pink rise up Spencer's neck, to his ears and cheeks. He suddenly can't stop grinning.

Which is, of course, the moment he trips over a tree root, and goes careening backwards. His arms windmill out, and Brendon lets out a shrill yelp, his stomach somersaulting as he falls.

To his credit, Spencer does dive forward and try to catch him. The problem is, he only manages to grab one of Brendon's arms as he's falling, which just twists Brendon around, wrenching his elbow and his side and only one of his legs. "Shit," he hears Spencer hiss, just before he feels a weird, sick crunch in his ankle.

"Oh," he manages, feeling gutpunched, the wind knocked out of him. Brendon looks down, and barely manages to process the way his foot doesn't normally turn like that, before Spencer's hovering over him, tilting Brendon's face up with his hands, worry written all over his face. "Don't tell me I told you so," Brendon gasps, squeezing his eyes shut at the end of the sentence as the first sparks of hot pain start shooting up his leg.

"No, hey," he can feel Spencer whispering, somewhere near his ear. "M'sorry, Bren, I was just trying to help."

"It's okay," he mumbles back, trying to shift off of whatever rock is currently digging into his ass. His ankle really doesn't like that, though, and Brendon can't help the little hiss he makes. "Ow. Fuck, seriously, ow."

"Where is it?" Spencer asks, and even though his eyes are still closed and Brendon's trying his best not to focus on anything to do with his body right now, he can still sort of tangentially feel Spencer's hands brushing his hair off his face, smoothing down his arms.

"Ankle," Brendon manages, biting his lip and swallowing hard as the pain ratchets up. "Oh. Fuck, Spence, it crunched, it's - fuck."

"Okay," Spencer says quickly, moving his hands down to Brendon's leg, touching down towards where all the hot and pain is coming from. Brendon knows Spencer's being careful, he trusts Spencer, but all the same, he can't help whimpering a little as Spencer's hands get closer to his ankle. "No, hey," Spencer whispers. "I'm only going to move the root you tripped over, okay? Hardly going to touch you."

"Okay," Brendon whimpers, unable to stop himself from clutching at Spencer's shoulder, though he does manage to open his eyes. He's still chewing on his lip nervously.

"So Gabe texted me a couple of nights ago," Spencer says, conversational, looking down at Brendon's foot, cupping one hand over his elbow and rubbing lightly. "He says he's going to make Pete get a tattoo of Tweety Bird."

"Nuh-uh," Brendon rasps, laughing breathlessly.

"Said he gave Pete a choice, either that or his face." Spencer glances up, holds Brendon's eyes for a few seconds. Brendon blinks, barely has a chance to think blue to himself, before Spencer's interrupting him. "Deep breath for me."

Brendon obeys, sucking in a huge breath and closing his eyes, clenching his teeth tight. There's a slight jarring that slices along his leg and up his back, but after that, the pressure on his leg that the root had been exerting is gone. He exhales, slowly. "Okay," he says, giving Spencer's arm (the one he's been clutching) a pat. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem," Spencer says, shifting to sit up a little, maneuvering them both so that Brendon's leg is out straight in front of him. He sucks in a breath as he looks down, and winces. "It's swollen."

"My ankle and your head, a match made in heaven," Brendon says mournfully, resting his temple on Spencer's shoulder. "What the fuck do we do now?" He can feel the rise and fall of Spencer's chest beside him and he halfheartedly wishes he could just burrow in and close his increasingly heavy eyelids, he's had enough excitement for one day.

"Don't go to sleep," Spencer orders, pulling him back, squeezing Brendon's shoulder almost painfully. "You might be in shock or something, I don't know."

"Fuck shock, m'not in shock," Brendon protests, giving him his best petulant expression. Spencer just returns it with the sort of unamused look Brendon knows not to fuck with, so Brendon sighs and kicks his good leg out a little. "Seriously, what do we - "

"What, the one time you aren't jumping all over everyone, you just forget piggyback rides exist?" Spencer asks, and he's only pretending to be exasperated, Brendon can tell. The two of them share a grin, and then Brendon's poking and pushing at Spencer almost cheerfully, for all his ankle is still really throbbing.

"Come on, get up. Help me get up. And you have to take pictures, I'm not letting you forget the time you actually suggested giving me a piggyback ride. I need them for posterity."

"Okay, I'll make sure to take awesome pictures on my camera that doesn't exist, of your mangled foot. Because I know otherwise we'll both be liable to forget this ever happened," Spencer says drily, hopping to his feet and reaching both hands down to help Brendon figure out how to stand up without jogging his foot against anything (or himself). It takes them a couple of minutes, but they mostly manage. Brendon only yelps once or twice, which. Hey. Considering it's them, he'll qualify that as a success.

Once they actually manage to get situated (the skirt of the dress creates unforeseen problems with piggyback rides, and once, Spencer accidentally runs Brendon's shoulder into a tree), the trip through the forest is almost pleasant. Brendon's really glad he bullied Spencer into going surfing so much, otherwise he's pretty sure he would've been dumped on his ass by now. His ankle has settled into a throb that's making him a little light-headed and to be honest, the constant jarring of movement isn't helping, but Brendon's pretty sure he can power through it.

After about an eighth of a mile, the path through the forest widens and smooths out a little, cutting a swath through the dense underbrush and the tall trees. The foliage is starting to get thicker, denser; there's less sunlight filtering through the branches. Brendon shifts a little, squeezing his arms tighter on top of Spencer's shoulders, and he props his chin in the crook of Spence's neck comfortably, starting to hum Santeria to the rhythm of Spencer's footsteps.

He can feel the tiny laugh Spencer gives, underneath where his own hands are clasped tight on his chest. For a few seconds, Brendon closes his eyes and lets himself feel the cool air underneath the canopy of leaves, the dappled light skimming over his eyelids. His leg feels tight and hot, still, and it hurts, but Spencer's being careful and he's singing along under his breath, what I really wanna say, I can't define.

Brendon swallows down his heart, and the way it's trying to bubble out of him suddenly, and squeezes his arms around Spencer's shoulders a little, pressing his face in against the warm skin of his neck. Spencer's steps falter, and he comes to a stop at the top of a hill.

"Okay?" he asks, quiet, and Brendon can feel him turning his head as much as he can, trying to get a look down. He inhales, exhales slowly, and picks his head up, giving Spence a crooked smile.

"Kinda achy," he admits. "I know I'm heavy, too."

Spencer rolls his eyes, and winces as he shifts Brendon higher up on his back, tightening his hold, simultaneously proving Brendon's point. "Well, we can't just stop," he grumbles, squinting against the sun, sweeping his gaze over the forest in the little valley below. "Look, there's a house with a chimney or something down there," he says, nodding to a point not far off. down in the shadows of the valley. Brendon can barely see a wisp of smoke curling up over the treetops. "Maybe they'll let us stop there for a little bit."

"Yeah, that sounds likely," Brendon frowns, but he's not really in a position to argue. He presses his cheek to Spencer's shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut as Spencer hitches him up again and starts to pick his way down the hill. It's slower going than it was to come up the hill, and Brendon keeps his eyes closed for most of it, trying to keep still and stable to help Spencer out.

Eventually, the ground levels off. Spencer's cheeks are bright red, and Brendon can feel his breathing going stuttery as Spence pretends he's not trying to suck in huge, silent gasps of air. "Seriously, put me down. I can lean against you and hop."

"Dont be stupid," Spencer wheezes, taking a deep breath and hitching Brendon up. "We're almost there."

And Spencer's usually-flawless internal GPS works even in Fairytale Land, it seems, because two minutes and a curve around a copse of trees later, they're standing about thirty feet in front of a small cottage. "Lemme down," Brendon says immediately (seriously, there's a squeak down deep in Spencer's lungs, he can hear it). He starts squirming as soon as he can, trying to make himself as annoying as possible before Spencer kills himself.

Grumbling, Spencer crouches and lets him slide off, reaching a hand back to steady Brendon as he balances on one leg. "Got it?" he asks, turning around to check Brendon over, hands on his shoulders. "How does your..." but he trails off, squinting at the cottage behind them. "Weird."

Brendon raises both eyebrows, and eventually manages to hobble himself into looking the same way. "Whoa," he says, breaking into almost-silent laughter a few seconds later. "Dude, I thought this was supposed to be, like. Candy."

"Are those bags of coffee beans, seriously?" Spencer asks, pointing to the bottom of the cottage. "They look like sandbags."

"And cartons of cigarettes," Brendon points out, gesturing to the "siding" of the cottage. "Dude, the hell kind of fairytale is this? Is it sponsored by Philip Morris?"

Spencer laughs a little, making sure Brendon's not wobbly before he moves closer to get a better look. "Yeah, coffee and cigarettes and - I think the windows are made out of old bottles."

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up," Brendon says, frowning, fidgeting with his clothes a little now that he's still and mostly standing.

"Yeah, it's..."

Brendon glances up from where he's been fussing with his sleeves, trying to tear them off, and watches Spencer's eyes widen at something over his shoulder. "Spence?" he asks, his stomach just beginning to drop when he feels a touch against his shoulder.

Suddenly he's weightless, being thrown through the air, away from Spencer. There's the crack of his body hitting a solid tree, and Brendon hears more than feels the way his head hits it, the way his body slides down.

There's a sensation of hot, then cold, then ow starting to rush through him as he watches - something, something dark and made entirely of shadow - stalk over to Spencer and loom over him. Brendon watches, and finally manages to take a breath as he sees Spence try to run to him, but then the shadow curls around him and pulls him in, and Brendon can't see him anymore.

"Shit," Brendon manages weakly, trying to make himself sit up. He's pretty sure that pain in his chest means some of his ribs are cracked, but he can still feel everything, which he thinks might be a good sign? "Spence!" he calls, voice cracked and broken. "Spence?"

The shadow reappears, not five feet from where Brendon is crumpled up, and Brendon tries to back away but of course there's a tree in the way. "Fuck you, what'd you do to him?" Brendon asks, trying to inject some anger in his voice, to counterbalance the fear. "Stay the fuck away from me," he snarls.

At that, the shadow pauses, and then swoops forward. Brendon sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, but a few seconds later he's still aware of the sounds of the forest around him, and he peeks his eyes open again.

Somewhere in the middle of the shadow, a face appears, as if it's just pushed off a hood, haloed by unruly black hair. Brendon gapes, and squints - something about the face is familiar, but he can barely make it out, given the dark surrounding it.

"How'm'I supposed to tell you where he is if I'm supposed to stay the fuck away from you?" the face says, throwing Brendon's words back at him.

Brendon narrows his eyes. "Oh, yeah, it's easy, you just fuck yourself until the answer magically comes to you," he snaps, light-headed with pain and reckless because of it. "What sort of dumbass Snape costume is that supposed to be, by the way?"

The face looks down at the darkness cloaking it, and there's a ripple in the shadows that almost looks like a shrug. "It was on sale," the magical floating head tells him, before its mouth screws up in an almost regretful frown. "Sorry about this, but I can't have you being uncooperative," it says.

"Go to - " Brendon starts, but then what appears to be a foot kicks out of the bottom of the shadows, hitting directly against Brendon's busted ankle. He makes a strangled, gasping sound, and doesn't even have time to throw whatever it was a hateful look before white-hot pain is firing in every single part of his body and his brain. He can feel his eyes roll back into his head, and honestly, it's almost a relief when oblivion rushes up to claim him.

He wakes up in fits and spurts of consciousness - first, there's the glow of candlelight near his face, warm and soft behind his eyelids. Then, sometime later, Brendon hears Spencer's voice, garbled and angry and far away. He almost opens his eyes when he feels the press of a cold cloth against his forehead, and then - minutes, hours later, he really doesn't have a clue - he finally manages to blink his eyes halfway open. "Spence?"

"Hey," comes his answer, immediately. Brendon closes his eyes and exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Hey," he croaks back, and starts to sit up.

"No, don't - " Spencer starts, but Brendon waves an impatient hand at him. He's - huh, except for the headache he can feel forming behind his eyebrows, he's actually not feeling too bad. He forces his eyes wide for a few seconds, until he makes sure they'll stay open and he won't fall asleep again, and then he looks down at his leg curiously.

It's bound, wrapped tight in what looks like a makeshift splint from two pieces of wood and a checked scarf. Brendon blinks, and then twists his knee first left and then right, examining the handiwork, sort of marveling at how he can't feel his heartbeat in his foot anymore. "Hey. Neat," he says, turning to grin at Spencer.

Who's fucking locked in a fucking cage.

"Yeah, neat," Spencer says, dry as sand, giving Brendon a halfhearted little wave from the other side of the bars. "Feeling better?"

"Um." Brendon bites his lip, suddenly feeling weirdly guilty about how the answer to that question is obviously yes, when Spencer's, y'know, trapped in a cage like a un-housebroken puppy.

"Seriously, are you?" comes an unfamiliar voice to his left. Brendon turns his head, and yelps - there, about eight inches away from his face, is the same face he saw just before he passed out.

"Shit," he gasps, rearing back and trying to crawl away, off the thin pallet he's stretched out on. "That was you! You fucking kicked my leg!"

"Oh." The guy - who looks familiar, what the fuck - gives him an apologetic look and picks at the fraying end of the pallet seam. "Yeah, I. Fuck, man, I'm really sorry about that, I just, y'know, I'm no good at fighting, so I thought that'd be the easiest way."

"Easiest way to what, make me black out?" Brendon snaps. If he can put some more distance between himself and the psychopath on the other side of the pallet, he's pretty sure he can use the bars of Spencer's cage to pull himself up, and then - then he'll think of something.

"Well, yeah," the guy says, screwing his mouth up again. "I mean, I had to fix your ankle somehow, right?"

Oh. "Oh," Brendon says stupidly, pausing in his attempts to get away. He frowns, eyebrows furrowing as he gives the guy a glare. "Well. ...Thanks," he says lamely. Then he scowls again. "Why's Spencer in a cage?"

"Yeah, why's Spencer in a cage?" Spencer echoes, leaning back against the bars, crossing his arms.

"You know why you're in a cage," the guy snaps, folding his arms as well, giving them both a glare that has Brendon sort of impressed. He's only seen that level of grumpiness in an expression achieved by Spencer himself, three months into a tour with no clean laundry and one of his favorite godawful shoes missing. "You kept fucking trying to attack me while I was healing his ankle."

"What? Spence!" Brendon turns his scowl on everything in the world.

"I didn't know he was trying to fix your ankle! Jesus!" Spencer protests, giving Brendon a sort of wounded look. Brendon tsks, and can't help squirming over to the edge of the cage, stretching his fingers through the cage apologetically. Spencer pouts for a few more seconds, then grudgingly stretches an arm out so he can grab the tips of Brendon's fingers and give them a squeeze. "He was hovering over you like an overgrown bat, what was I supposed to do?" Brendon shuffles closer and wishes like hell that Spencer's cage wasn't there; there are few things that get him worried and mother-hen-ish, but Spencer's sad voice does it every time.

"Overgrown bat, I like that," the guy says, drawing their attention away from each other, back to him. "I should totally try to incorporate that. Put some rebar in the cloak, you know?" he says, gesturing his hand expansively, talking mostly to himself. He glances up, and frowns - apparently the looks Brendon and Spencer are giving him aren't exactly encouraging. "For wings." He huffs and sits back, leaning against a cigarette-carton wall. "Fuck you, I could be like - like an antihero and shit. The moral ambiguity would be really compelling, okay?"

"Yeah, and really original," Brendon hears Spencer mutter. He rolls his eyes and digs his nails into the meat of Spencer's palm. "Ow, motherfucker."

"Don't antagonize the guy who has you in a cage," Brendon hisses, giving the guy a tight smile, even as Spencer squeezes his fingers hard, the dick. He tugs his hand away, and watches, befuddles, as the man's hair slowly morphs from an unruly mop of black into short, sleek white.

Somewhere in his head a penny finally drops, and Brendon starts giggling. "Oh, shit."

"Hmm?" the guy looks up, and gives Brendon a quizzical look.

"Nothing." But Brendon can't help himself. "I don't know about that bat thing, what about instead, you're the grand master for a really twisted, black parade?" Behind him, Spencer chokes, and starts to laugh. "That'd be an awesome costume."

The guy - who is totally Gerard fucking Way, what the actual fuck - tilts his head a little and seems to consider the idea for a second, before scoffing. "Nah, that's kind of overwrought."

"Oh." Brendon's a little bit worried his head's in danger of exploding; behind him, it sounds like Spencer's quietly dying from trying not to dissolve into laughter. "Yeah, it could get kind of over-the-top."

"Yeah, exactly," Gerard says, his black roots starting to show through his hair again as he points a finger eagerly at Brendon. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I totally appreciate that whole macabre musical theater aesthetic - I apprenticed to this painter who worked on sets for the opera in the city - but. Yeah, I need something with more authenticity, you know? More dark alleys and grittiness and, and real."

"I can see where giving yourself bat wings would help with the authenticity," Spencer says politely. Brendon is going to kill him, but Gerard seems to take the words at face value (it does, Brendon will admit, take a minute to realize when Spencer's being a genuinely nice guy and when he is being a total dick. He tends to smile when he's both, which Brendon thinks is cheating). He beams at Spencer, and nods enthusiastically. "I'm Spencer, by the way," Spencer adds a moment later.

"Oh, hi, yeah, sorry. Gerard," Gerard says predictably, giving him a little wave. He turns and gives Brendon a sort of expectant look.

"Brendon," he supplies.

"Hi, Brendon. Um, sorry about your ankle, again."

"Don't worry about it, it feels a lot better." Brendon's brain hurts, and he rubs his forehead - it doesn't really help, but it does give him a few seconds of respite to try to figure out how to get Gerard Way the Fairy Tale Batman to help him and Spencer in their trip home. "Okay. Getting back to the subject at hand, I totally agree that bat wings are fucking awesome and you should get some of those grappling bat-hooks too, but won't that confuse the point of the part you're working now?" he asks. "You live in a cottage in the woods. It's made out of coffee beans and cancer."

"I guess you have a point," Gerard concedes after thinking about it for a few seconds, grudging. "But bat wings, dude."

"Yeah, I know." Brendon sighs, and rubs his hands over his thighs, smoothing out his skirt - huh, he'd almost forgotten about that. "Just."

"I think what Brendon's trying to ask you," Spencer puts in, in a helpful tone of voice that Brendon does not trust at all, "is what's your motivation?"

Gerard's lips purse up as he thinks about it, and he pushes his (long, unfortunately reddish-purple) hair out of his face. It settles into really unfortunate peaks on top of his head, but he doesn't seem to mind - he starts going through nooks and crannies of his huge cloak until he manages to produce a squashed pack of cigarettes. "It's like," he says, shaking one out of the pack and then offering it in their direction (Spencer reaches through the bars to smack Brendon's hand as he leans forward to take one), "okay, when I originally took the gig, I thought oh hey awesome, subverting gender and stereotypes and shit, but it's turned out to be kind of lame. The kids who come through expect me to have, like, a wart on the end of my nose and ride a broomstick, right? And they all try to shove me into my oven. Which is total bullshit and just plays into all these expectations that really powerful women have to be crazy and ugly and ultimately put down, for the greater good, or some shit. I'unno, it's all fucked up. Basically I took the job because Mikey was tired of me moving around all the time."

Brendon turns and mouths the brother to Spencer, who looks marginally less confused after a second. Then, he turns back to Gerard and tries to look appropriately sympathetic. "That sucks, man."

"Tell me about it. And now Mikey's fucked off to live with Alicia, who lives in a shoe, and I'm here in this fucking cottage putting people in cages and trying to fatten them up and they keep trying to cook me."

Spencer makes a small, strangled noise, and Brendon can't turn around and look at him or else he knows he'll lose his shit. He swallows the hysterical laugh that's bubbling in his throat, and nods. "So - okay, we promise we won't try to cook you?" he offers, tentative.

"Thanks," Gerard says, breaking into that weirdly sweet smile again, looking actually touched by the offer. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Brendon's going through one of his vegetarian periods anyway," Spencer says, his voice only slightly strained. "Plus you're too skinny and stringy, it'd be wasted effort."

Gerard's eyes practically shine with love. "Spencer, you are my favorite," he says, his hair back to its original black and glossy and completely unkempt. His cloak - which, Brendon realizes belatedly, isn't so much a cloak as it is a very very enthusiastic hoodie, snakes around the floor, rippling in a draft of air that none of the rest of them can feel.

"So!" Brendon can't help it, he's starting to giggle. "Okay, now that you know we're not going to cook you, what do we have to do to get through this one?" He blinks, and then risks a glance back to Spencer, suddenly worried he's crossed some invisible line. "I mean...Frank knew about the stories, I thought maybe - "

"Frank?" Gerard sits up, tense and alert and no less keen. "You know Frank?"

"Yeah, he was - "

"Short and talks really fast and lots of tattoos?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh." There's a bit of Gerard's hair at the crown of his head that starts to morph into blond, and then red. Brendon blinks, and then stares, watching as the tops of Gerard's cheeks start to go a little pink. "Oh, um. How's he doing?"

"He." Brendon pauses, confused. "Well, he seems like he's fine. We didn't - "

"He says hi," Spencer cuts in. Brendon wriggles around enough to raises his eyebrows at Spencer, who doesn't even notice, he's giving Gerard this really intense look. "He talked about you."

"He did?" Brendon asks, just as surprised as Gerard obviously is, from the way his head snaps up and he gazes at Spencer hopefully. They both stare at Spencer for a few seconds, until Spencer starts fidgeting uncomfortably and gazes down at his lap.

"Yeah, we - Frank and I started talking after you fell asleep," he says, in Brendon's general direction. He raises his head up, and looks straight at Gerard, eyes locking onto his. "He misses you a hell of a lot."

"Me?" Gerard squeaks, the blush spreading from just his cheeks to all over his face. It's sort of sweet, Brendon thinks. "Dude, I don't - he misses me?"

"Yeah. Well, and your brother."

"See, yeah, he was really good friends with Mikey, he's just...really friendly. To everybody. Especially animals, he loves animals, it's really cute." Gerard's shoulders slump a little, as he obviously tries to talk himself out of being excited to talk about Frank. "I can't believe you saw him, that's awesome. Did he look okay? Like, happy?"

Brendon glances over when there's a pause, and watches Spencer consider the question. "I don't think he's unhappy, but he isn't in love with his life or anything," Spencer says carefully.

"Huh. So he's not - it's just him, still?" Brendon ducks his head to make sure Gerard can't see his grin at that, at his complete failure at being subtle.

"Yeah, he's single," Spencer says, dry, not bothering to hide his smirk as Gerard winces and flails a little.

"No, I just! I figured!" he protests, pushing his hair away from his face. "He's a really nice guy, I figured he'd have settled down or something!"

"No," Spencer says, firmly, not letting Gerard explain his way out. "I think he's waiting for that part. He very specifically misses you." His hands have both slid up to grip the bars of the cage tight, framing his face, the way it's leaning forward til it's almost pressed against them. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that," he admits, pressing his cheek to his hand, still gazing intently at Gerard.

"Oh," Gerard says, getting quiet. His hands flap around for a few seconds before one finally settles at his face, cupping his cheek nervously, fingertips drumming over his lips before they start to curl into a small, private smile. "Oh," he breathes.

Brendon's heart. He hunches in a little and presses a hand to it, hard, suddenly feeling like something's squeezing the breath out of him as he watches Gerard's face suffuse with this happy glow. He remembers seeing that look a handful of times, on Regan's face while she watches Shane work, in his element; on his father's face during Christmases when he was little, when all his siblings were back home, their entire family together. That look of quiet joy that he can't really remember feeling, ever.

"Look," Spencer says, speaking low, so that Gerard has to scoot closer to the cage and even Brendon finds himself leaning back to hear better, "you don't want to be here anymore. He thinks you don't even remember him. Just...help us get through to the next story, and then go find him. If just to catch up."

"You two could have your own story where you get to wear bat wings," Brendon supplies, helpful. He and Gerard exchange grins, and Gerard hunches over onto himself for a second, chin propped in his hand still as he balances his elbow on his knee. Then, he nods slightly.

"Okay. I mean - yeah, no, okay. I have to take control of my destiny," he says, completely unironically, frowning at himself. Brendon's a little bit afraid Gerard's going to break into a really terrifying version of Don't Rain On My Parade or something.

He carefully moves into a crouch. "Awesome," he says, clapping his hands together once, taking over for Spencer, who's busy beaming at them like an idiot. "Okay, what do we need to do?"

Gerard takes a minute to snap out of his daze, but when he does, he switches into strictly-business with a vengeance. "Well, somebody's gotta be in the cage and I'm supposed to be force-feeding you but I hate that part and I don't really have any food. And somebody's gotta clean the cottage." He catches the twin dubious looks Brendon and Spencer are giving him, and shrugs a shoulder. "Look, it wasn't my idea. I didn't say it was exciting, getting out."

"Okay," Brendon sighs. "Well, can we take turns? Because I don't want to re-break my ankle from cleaning."

"Yeah, sure," Gerard says, cheerfully compliant. "Hey, speaking of, are you guys hungry? I have...um, coffee, and I think I have some noodles or something."

"Coffee," Brendon breathes, eyes lighting up. "I like coffee."

"Then I like you," Gerard says, standing up. "Who's doing what?"

"I'm cleaning," Spencer says immediately, wincing as he tries to stretch his arms out behind his back, in the cage. "And Brendon should eat something, you don't want him hopped up on caffeine in a contained area."

"Fuck you," Brendon suggests cheerfully, reaching through the bars to try to grab a part of Spencer to pinch, not even minding when Spencer successfully eludes him. "C'mere."

"Okay," Gerard says, already in the - well, what passes for a kitchen in the cottage, which appears to be a primitive washing-up area, a stove, and a very large oven. He's clanking a couple of pots around. "The well's out back, I'll need some water for boiling. And for cleaning."

He doesn't even turn around, but suddenly there's a small pop, and the cage around Spencer has vanished. And reappeared around Brendon, who's still stretching to try to reach Spencer, though now from the other side of the bars. "Hey," Brendon squawks, jerking his arm back in, looking around at the cage in alarm.

"Hey, cool," Spencer says, giving Brendon a smirk and standing up, stretching luxuriously, hands above his head. There's a small slip of pale skin showing, where his shirt's come untucked from his pants, and Brendon looks away, feeling his cheeks heat through a little.

"I'm kind of magic," Gerard reminds them, frowning as he inspects an open bag of coffee beans, and then pours some into a mortar. He reaches for the pestle on the windowsill, and starts grinding. "Will you go get the water? The bucket's beside the door."

Spencer looks dubious, but goes to fetch the bucket, and Brendon can see the relief on his face when it turns out to be clean. "Okay, I'll be back."

"Don't fall in!" Brendon calls after him, grinning when Spencer flips him off and shuts the cottage door behind him. He settles back against the bars of the cage, and winces as he shifts into a position approaching uncomfortable. His ankle is starting to pang again, but nothing like it was, and he watches Gerard putter around the kitchen, with interest. "What kind of noodles?"

Gerard glances back, and gives him a halfhearted shrug, holding up a cardboard box. "Thin ones. I think I have some stuff we can put on them, Alicia always makes Mikey bring stuff when he visits."

"That's good," Brendon says, for lack of anything better. He bites his lip, and folds his arms loosely over his chest. "My ankle's starting to hurt again. I don't know what you did last time, but."

"Oh. No, I'm glad you told me, hang on." Gerard grumbles at the ancient teapot he's messing with, and finally huffs and snaps his fingers. A small curl of steam suddenly rises from the spout, and he gives Brendon a sheepish look as he grabs two mugs and comes over to the cage. "Instant doesn't taste the same, but it's so much fucking easier," he explains, snaking one mug in between the bars of the cage for Brendon.

"Thanks," he says, both eyebrows shooting up as it fills up, seemingly of its own volition, with hot black coffee. "Um. Do you have sugar or milk or anything?"

One corner of Gerard's mouth lifts in an amused smile, and the liquid in the cup goes creamy and light.

"Now you're just showing off," Brendon grumps, but he picks the mug up and takes a long sip, his eyes closing. "Oh my god, coffee," he breathes reverently. "I missed you," he tells the mug, curling his fingers around it. "If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right."

Gerard snorts, and shuffles closer, reaching in and tugging Brendon's foot over til it's pressed against the bars. Brendon winces, and yelps a little when Gerard squeezes, and comforts himself with another long swallow of the sugary, fucking perfect coffee. "Don't be a baby," Gerard mutters, biting his lip and pushing his hair out of his eyes frustratedly as he moves Brendon's skirt out of the way.

"Don't look up my dress," Brendon counters, fidgeting just to be an asshole. Then there are cold fingertips on his calf and Brendon squawks, sitting up, giving Gerard the best indignant look he can muster.

Gerard raises a severely unimpressed eyebrow, and gives him a vaguely infuriating smirk. "Yeah, you're not my type."

"I am short and dark-haired and adorable," Brendon shoots back, "I am totally your type."

"Nope," Gerard says calmly, "stop moving." He cups both hands around Brendon's leg and waits for him to still. "You aren't my type, because my type also includes the word 'single'."

"Oh." Brendon stops short at that, surprised. "Right."

And shit, suddenly he misses Sarah. Suddenly he feels really guilty for not missing Sarah before this, for being so goldfish-brained that he was seriously all whee, fairy tales, yay, and forgot to miss his fucking girlfriend. But now he does: he misses her easy smile, and her laugh, and the way she teases him when he's being ridiculous.

"Plus, I'm not really interested in flirting with someone whose boyfriend could probably beat the shit out of me," Gerard says idly. Brendon blinks, and then he goes cold just as his ankle goes really hot under Gerard's hands, and he gasps softly.

"Ow. Ow, um," he mutters, pressing his lips tight together. "Okay."

"It only lasts a second," Gerard says, his voice strained. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and rubs his thumb against Brendon's skin, small whorls that Brendon knows are supposed to be comforting. It helps, a little, but he's still mostly reeling that Gerard automatically thought he and Spencer were - that.

"Okay," Brendon mutters, one hand curling around the bottom bar of the cage as he hangs on, closing his eyes as he feels his face heat up a little.

It isn't the first time, or even the fifth time that he'll have to correct someone who assumes he and Spencer are together. It's what comes of living in each other's pockets for so long, knowing fucking all of each other's shit for going on a decade. He knows they're kind of an old married couple together, bickering and fond, so he can see where people get the wrong impression, make incorrect assumptions.

It's the first time, though, that he feels this weird combination of guilt and regret about it, telling someone the truth.

Finally, the heat and pressure die off, and Brendon exhales, slow and shaky. On the other side of the bars, Gerard doesn't look much better - he takes his hands off Brendon's ankle and sets them on his thighs, fingers twitching, his head hanging down towards his chest so that Brendon can't see his expression. He can see the rapid rise and fall of Gerard's chest, though.

"You okay?" he asks, worried.

"Yeah," Gerard mutters, taking a couple of deep breaths before he looks up and gives Brendon a tight smile. "Fuck. I'm fine, it's just kind of draining, y'know?"

Brendon nods, and bites his lip. "Um. Well, thank you."

"It's okay," Gerard says, reaching to pat his leg. "Does it feel better now?"

Brendon moves his leg around a little, startled at how his ankle is only sort of stiff. "Yeah, wow."

"Good." Gerard sits back, uses a hand on his own knee to push himself back into standing, and he reaches for his cooled cup of coffee on the side table before he starts back towards the kitchen.

"Um, Spencer and I aren't - " Brendon tells his back, but he trails off when Gerard turns around. "Um. I have a girlfriend."

Three B