Archive of Our Own ^beta

PROLOGUE

February 18 2003
0345
New Jersey, USA


“Okay, so I think you bust out the paneling,” Gerard narrates to himself as he feels around under the steering wheel, prying his fingers into whatever gaps he can find. It actually pops off neatly into his hands, which is really surprising. 

“Right. Now what?” Frank has his arms crossed over his chest for warmth and is leaning into the car a little bit. Meanwhile, Mikey’s texting someone in the passenger seat, oblivious to the sprinkles of glass that are still littered under his feet. 

Gerard places the panel on the floor of Mikey’s side and trails off. “You…”

“You want to look for the two thickest wires,” Frank says patiently. 

“How are you supposed to look for them?” Gerard slides off the seat, crowding his feet up against the pedals, and tries to fit his head under to see what he’s doing, but all he gets is a really close-up view of the wheel. 

“Yeah, Frank. Not all of us can fit into cupboards or whatever,” says Mikey. 

“Shut the fuck up. Okay, so feel around for the thickest wires if you can’t fit underneath.” Frank leans in a little more, then squats down so that he has the same point of view as Gerard. 

“Uh.” Gerard fumbles around but everything feels the same to his slightly numb fingertips. There’s a scrape of gravel as Frank gets on his hands and knees for a second to peer up into the mess of wiring before squatting again. He reaches in and takes Gerard’s hands, guiding them until he’s holding a wire in each one. 

“Okay, feel that?” Frank presses Gerard’s thumb and index finger together.

Their hands are spooning, Gerard thinks dumbly. He’s only known Frank for one night and he’s already discovering just how tactile the guy can get. Frank’s fingers are just as cold as Gerard’s, but they move with purpose and – 

Frank presses again. “Gerard. Dude. You feel that, right?”

“Yeah.” He can feel it, actually. The plastic coating is thicker than the others. He rubs them as if to show Frank that yeah, he gets it. 

“Good. So, what you want to do next is to peel the insulation off. If you have wirecutters, it’ll be easier on your fingers, but we don’t right now, so just pull until they break.”

“That seems kind of reckless.”

“You’re stealing a car, you’re not doing a heart transplant,” Frank smiles. He lets go of Gerard’s hands and moves away. “Go for it.”

Gerard tugs. Nothing happens. Mikey snaps his phone shut and mutters, “Oh my god.”

“Fuck off, Mikey.” Gerard tugs again, and then yanks as hard as he can. His right hand flies backward, hitting the parking brake as a wire snaps. The other one is still in tact. 

“Halfway there,” Frank says encouragingly. Mikey mutters something again, and then it turns into an audible, “Oh, man,” as he straightens up in his seat, looking wildly at the rearview mirror.

“Huh?” Gerard sticks his head out the open door and says, “Aw,  shit, ” when he sees blue and red lights flashing around and around, like they’re at some fucking disco party. 

“Fuck, there’s another one up front, too,” Mikey groans. 

Frank scrambles up excitedly. “Move move move. Get out.” 

Gerard manages to crawl out onto the street as Frank immediately occupies the vacated space. He breaks the remaining wire with a single deft movement, then gets to work while cursing under his breath the entire time. All Gerard can see are tiny jerks of Frank’s forearms, the movements lit by the police lights as he works blindly. 

At once, the quiet of 2:00am explodes into chaos as the sirens turn on in a deafening wail. “We’re not actually going to try – ” Gerard starts uneasily.

“Get in the car, Gerard!” Frank turns his head and shouts. Mikey’s yelling too, and there’s a shower of sparks as the car finally rumbles to life. 

Gerard’s in the backseat before Frank has even stopped talking. “I’m in, I’m in. Fuck!”

“God, we are so screwed.” Frank sounds delighted. He pushes himself up onto the driver’s seat and pulls at the lever, dragging it up the tracks until his feet can reach the pedals. 

“Drive, please, motherfucker!” Gerard yells, craning his head to stare out the back window. His view lurches sideways as Frank pulls the car around in an impossibly tight turn, all screeching wheels and burning rubber. 

“It’s okay, I aced stunt driving!” Frank shouts over the noise. Except the semicircle he makes is entirely too wide and he promptly crashes the front headlight into an electrical pole. They all lurch forward and rebound against the back of their seats as the car becomes still once again. 

“Fuck,” Gerard sighs.

All three of their heads turn in unison when the door squeaks open in a slow arc. It’s an exhausted noise compared to the bangs and slams of the police force, and the person walking in has a fittingly tired, pinched expression. 

“I’m Brian Schechter with Division,” he introduces himself. He looks sort of harassed and like he just crawled out of bed – he’s wearing slippers and only one sock.

“Hi Brian,” Mikey greets. 

Brian silently sits down opposite of them. He folds his hands on the table and opens his mouth, but it’s another moment before he speaks. “I’m assuming you all work together?”

“Nah, I’m a field agent. Just transferred in from Washington a couple days ago,” Frank says. “Gerard’s a desk jockey.”

Mikey seems mildly surprised when Brian looks at him. “Uh. I work in, uh. The IT department.”

Gerard scratches his upper lip to keep from laughing. The job descriptions were technically correct, but it was kind of like referring to a nuclear explosion as a small bonfire. It’s taking all he has not to slump over the table and just burst into giggles because seriously, he’s still a little drunk and this situation is ridiculous. 

“Right, well. You didn’t provide details when you called, but the precinct filled me in. Tell me if this is correct.”

They blink attentively. 

“You got thrown out of a bar around 1:00am. You broke into a car parked a couple blocks away,” Brian lists.

Frank rubs his nose. “Ostensibly.” 

“You then decided it might be a good idea to have a coaching session on hotwiring cars,” Brian continues.

Frank looks up at the ceiling. “Theoretically.”

“You got caught by the cops. You tried to escape the cops. Now you’re here,” Brian finishes. 

“Presumably,” Frank says.

“Yes, that’s all correct in a loose sense,” Gerard says after a pause. 

“This might be a stupid question,” Brian sighs, “but why did you not tell them who you were?”

“Who would have believed us?” Frank shrugs. “We left our wallets and keys at home just in case, so no one would have an excuse to drive anything if we got trashed.”

“Beer money and cab money was all we had,” Mikey chimes in.

Brian’s eye twitches. “Except you decided to pull grand theft auto, so I don’t really think it worked out well, do you?” 

“File F-2374,” Gerard answers abruptly.

“What?”

“File F-2374, the guy that Agent Bowers brought in three weeks ago? That was his car we broke in to. The agency was just going to get someone to impound and trash it anyway. And also,” Gerard adds, “that bar fight was more of a contained dispute, in my opinion.” More specifically, it had been Frank’s contained dispute. Mikey had been playing darts and Gerard had been in the bathroom, both of them oblivious to what was happening at the other end of the bar. 

“Witnesses said several people were hit in the head with pool cues,” Brian states. 

“Where did you find witnesses at this time of night?” Frank asks casually. 

Brian ignores him. “So basically, putting aside the bar fight, you thought you were doing us a favor by breaking into a car and getting arrested.” He puts his forehead down on the table and breathes in deep. 

Gerard glances sideways at Mikey and Frank. “Uh.”

Brian’s breathing is starting to sound like a wind machine. “Here’s a secret, guys: it’s my first week on the job. When I got out of bed, I was thinking this was going to be more along the lines of talking you out of a speeding ticket.”

“We’re sorry,” Mikey apologizes. He sounds sincere. 

“Let’s just go,” Brian replies without lifting his head. He gets up after another few seconds and the three of them follow. No one accosts them while they’re making their way to the exit, so Gerard guesses that Brian had already straightened everything out with the cops. 

A nondescript black van is parked right outside. Everyone piles in. “Thanks, Brian,” Gerard says as he shuts the passenger side door. 

Brian turns on the ignition and says, grimly, “Langley is going to fucking kick my ass.”

August 27, 2003
0800
New Jersey, USA

 

“What?” Gerard isn’t sure he heard right. 

“Team leader,” Brian repeats patiently. “You.”

“In the field?”

“In the field,” Brian confirms. 

“You want me to be a team leader in the field. As a field agent. Leading a team of other field agents,” Gerard recites, tilting his head to the side to show how incredibly stupid he thinks the idea is. 

Brian sighs. “Listen, your recent test scores indicate extremely high potential to lead in stressful situations. I know you weren’t really trained for the field – ”

“I was trained to be an analyst and a paper pusher,” Gerard interrupts. “And my file isn’t exactly what you would call impressive.”

“Yes, I know. Eight reprimands in two years. But none of them are because of your work performance. You’re an excellent analyst – which is probably why you haven’t been fired yet – and you also have sharp instincts and make good decisions. To be fair, you’re a little emotionally stunted, but that’s not that big of an issue.”

“Uh. Thanks?” Gerard is still not convinced. “You barely know me. How would you know if I have sharp instincts or whatever?”

Brian points to the folder on his desk. “Apparently the test scores know better than I do.”

“Those things are bullshit. They can’t boil down someone’s personality into two-hundred questions.”

“I’m not saying they can. I’m saying we can estimate your reactions to most field situations based on the answers you gave, and that you’re an excellent match for our requirements,” Brian says in a tired voice. “Listen, I know we’ve only worked together a few times, but I’m just asking you to let me do my job. Hear me out.”

There’s unwavering eye contact between them for a moment. Gerard slumps in his chair and says, “Fine.”

Brian’s mouth twitches, and Gerard knows he’s flashing back to the ‘emotionally stunted’ comment. “Okay. Good. So what I’m going to do right now is lay out a plan for you. After this meeting, you’ll have three days to think about what I’ve said and then you’ll have to make a decision.”

Gerard stares at the nameplate that’s sitting at the edge of the desk, but he listens.

*

November 4 2004
0130
Prague, Czech Republic


“Can you fix the fucking comm lines? Jesus Christ,” Gerard snipes. He’s already nervous as fuck and this isn’t really helping any. He digs a finger into his ear, as if jostling the tiny piece of plastic around will improve the reception, but all he gets is static blasting that much closer to his eardrum. Frank’s voice continues to come in spurts. 

Gerard is currently stuffed into a metal air-conditioning duct, head bent awkwardly and legs cramped up all to hell, with a malfunctioning comm line and an itch on his lower back that he can’t even shift enough to scratch. Life is hard. 

“Ray? Hello?” Gerard tries again, tapping at the stupid piece of shit in his ear. Fucking Brian, with his stupid budget meetings and his color-coded Excel spreadsheets. Fuck that guy. 

Mikey’s voice suddenly cuts through, loud and clear. “God, I feel like I’m going to hear you whining for the rest of my life.”

“Finally.” Gerard wipes his finger on his shirt. He  has  been digging around in his ear for the past ten minutes, and he figures he should draw the line for personal hygiene somewhere.

“And eternity,” Mikey continues, but his voice has taken on a slightly distracted quality, which means he’s staring at a computer screen and punching in a smattering of code onto his laptop. “I mean, I had a nice break for a while but now that we’re back to work, I feel like it’s going to be forever and a day, you know?”

“You think you could work faster instead of, you know, talking to yourself?” Frank says in a good-naturedly mocking tone. Gerard imagines him curled up in the same duct, but on the opposite side of the wall and one floor down. It’d be a lot easier for him to fit, Gerard thinks. 

“You’re welcome, you bastards,” says Ray. 

“Fuck off,” Gerard mutters, because now that comm is up and running, Ray can pretty much sit back and chill, unless something goes wrong. This reminds him: “Hey, don’t eat all the leftovers, I want some of that burrito.”

“Oh what, you mean this one?”

Gerard can hear the crinkling of foil being peeled back. “Dude, I’m going to kill you.”

“Elevators are frozen,” Mikey says before Ray has a chance to do anything but giggle, “sensor lights are off, and the security cameras are going down for thirty seconds in three…two…one – ”

“Go,” Gerard finishes, and he can hear Frank moving at his word. Gerard slams his ankle down onto the paneling with the hinges on one side; it swings downward, opening up into a dark room. 

“Twenty-eight seconds,” Mikey says. 

Gerard’s already dropping into the room in one easy, fluid movement. The floor comes up way sooner than expected – Jesus, who works in here, hobbits? – and he stumbles a little, reaching out blindly and grabbing the edge of what feels like a desk. 

“I bet I can get outside before you,” Frank pants. 

“This isn’t a race, you turd,” Gerard scowls, but he immediately reaches up and switches on the thin flashlight that’s resting over the shell of his ear, swirling his hands around the mass of paper on the desk like he’s mixing cards. It’s kind of pointless though, since Frank is a fast motherfucker and has like, a sixth sense about locating things. 

“You’re almost thirty, Gerard. Maybe it’s time you phased ‘turd’ out of your vocabulary,” Ray suggests. 

Frank cackles just as Gerard’s fingers touch upon several waxy pages of blueprints. He doesn’t have a comeback, so he settles for bundling up the papers while muttering under his breath. It takes him some more time to grope around for the door. He’s finally kicking it open when Mikey says, “Nine seconds,” and then, “Ow, Bob, stop – ” 

There’s a punch of static, and Bob says, “Are you guys done yet or what?”

“I’m out – now,” Frank says breathlessly.

Gerard is still on the second floor. “Fuck,” he hisses. The stairs are going to take at least five seconds. He sees a window at the end of hallway and contemplates the sight, comparing it to the ticking digital clock in his head, and makes a quick decision to just go for it. It bobs closer and closer – he winces and jumps shoulder first before he can chicken out. 

There’s an explosion of shattering glass; his ears fill with the sound of raining crystal and a blast of cool air hits him at the same time. For a moment, things seem to be going in slow motion, his body hovering in the air, weightless, but then the lawn smashes into his face as he unceremoniously lands on the grass with a  whump . Sure, he went through top level training at The Farm, but their curriculum never included teaching people how to fucking jump through windows, for Christ’s sake. 

“Gerard?” Mikey’s voice comes over the line again, sounding slightly worried.

A pause, and then: “Oh – god,” Gerard croaks. His bones feel like they’re on fire. Apparently, diving out of a window is painful. He twitches his elbow but stops when it feels like it’s being sawed off. 

He decides to just lie there for a minute.

The minute passes, and footsteps approach. When Gerard deems it safe to open his eyes, a pair of scuffed up black sneakers come into view. 

“Okay, so I’m sure that looked pretty fucking cool, but dude. Terrible decision.” The shoes shuffle back as Frank lowers himself onto his stomach. He pillows his chin on his forearms and smiles at Gerard like they’re at a sleepover or something and Gerard’s sleeping bag is made out of glass shards. 

(Bob’s voice comes over the line: “Hello?”)

“Ran out of time. Would have seen me on security cameras,” Gerard coughs. 

“You hurled yourself through a window. I think it’s pretty safe to say that they’ll know someone broke in,” Frank grins. “And they’ll probably know that shit has been stolen, since people don’t just break in to break out.”

(“Helloooo?” Ray sings.)

Gerard frowns into the blades of grass that are scratching lightly at his face. “Thanks. Real reassuring. You should become a motivational speaker.”

(“Dude, seriously. Hello?” Bob.)

“Who the fuck turned off two-way comm?” Gerard groans. 

“I think it must have shorted out right after you jumped.”

(“If you guys are dead, I think that’s really discourteous,” says Ray.)

Gerard digs out his earpiece but keeps it fisted in his hand. It won’t do to leave any evidence. Any more evidence, that is. At least they didn’t get a picture of his face.

“Think you can get up?” Frank asks after a few moments. He sits up and crouches by Gerard’s head, hands splayed over the grass for balance.

“Hngh,” says Gerard. 

“You’re probably going to have to, since the alarm system is back online and I don’t think a broken window – ” and then Frank’s voice gets drowned out by a piercing wail. 

Gerard reluctantly shoves the earpiece into his pocket and holds out his hand, which Frank grabs. He brushes Gerard’s shoulders off once he’s standing and helps him limp toward the car. 

“Feels good to be back,” Frank says, giving Gerard’s waist a squeeze. 

“Yeah, it does,” Gerard admits as his ankle gives a worrisome crack. He takes a mental inventory: the blueprints are still crumpled in his sweaty palm, and Frank’s are sticking out of his back pants pocket with the edges inexplicably scorched. Two sets of broken comm units, two dented airducts, one broken window, and a fuck of a lot of muscle soreness that’ll probably triple by tomorrow morning.

Whatever. Mission complete. 

November 5 2004
1300
New Jersey, USA


“Paperwork,” Gerard announces. He makes his way down the line repeating, “Paperwork,” to Frank, Bob, Ray, and Mikey. All four of them groan in succession as soon as the thick manila folders hit their desks. 

“On our triumphant return mission? Come on, man,” Ray whines. 

“You’ve become way more of a tightass, Gerard,” Bob comments, leaning back in his chair so he can talk without his view being obstructed by Ray or his hair. 

“Well, yeah, I kind of had to, seeing as how we all almost got fired a few months ago,” Gerard says lightly. 

“Sure, boss.” Bob smiles and sits up again, but Gerard doesn’t miss the underlying bite of seriousness. Kind of like how no one was ever absolutely 100% kidding when they said ‘just kidding’. 

Gerard goes back into his office without bothering to stay long enough to make sure the paperwork is actually being filled out. He might be more of a tightass, but he can’t bring himself to be  that  guy,  that  – boss. (God, Gerard still really hates that word, even more so now that he has to act like one.) As long as he tells them what to do, he figures that the execution of said orders can’t really be his responsibility. 

Fluorescent lights overhead flicker down at him when he collapses into his chair and tilts his head back. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the blinking popup at the bottom of the computer screen, informing him of the new messages in his inbox. 

He sighs and sits forward, tugging the keyboard toward him. The first message is about keeping the breakroom clean. The second is from Brian, asking about their first mission back and reminding him to parcel out the paperwork and asking him to please keep their asses out of trouble. The third one is from Sean Carter, the head of their branch – The Head, as Gerard always thinks of him. The letters are bold and unchanging, but Gerard still examines each one carefully, just to make sure he’s reading them right.

Way – 

As of last Friday, the investigation on your team has been concluded. Obviously, we’ve put your team back into rotation in the field, but all of them are on probation for six months. You’re on probation for a year. 

 I hope you learned something from all this. 

Yeah, like to come up with better lies when we’re being debriefed , Gerard wants to send back. He wonders what it says about him that this is his first instinct. The cursor actually hovers over the ‘reply’ button for a second, and he’s itching to click it.

On paper, it was hard to pinpoint exactly what the investigation had been for. They had fudged together a whole bunch of reasons, citing everything from ‘arrests in twenty-two states’ to ‘an exceedingly large amount of financial damage’, but Gerard has a sneaking feeling that it was mostly to monitor his effectiveness as the leader of what probably looked like the most idiotic, reckless team the CIA had to offer. 

Gerard had best summed up his stance on Form 72B. The last question had been ‘Do you have anything to add in your defense that has not been covered in the questions above?’ with an empty answer space that covered a quarter of a page. Gerard had written, simply, ‘We get the job done’. A photocopy of the form had arrived in an interdepartmental envelope the next day with his answer circled in red, a bunch of arrows pointing to it, and ‘NOT A GOOD ANSWER’ scribbled underneath in Brian’s hasty handwriting. It was now lying underneath the clear glass plating that covered Gerard’s desk as a reminder to not become a tool but also to tone down the penchant for challenging higher-ups. If anything, it keeps him on the wagon every time he looks at it.

The red marks stare up at him until he knocks the mouse to the side so that the cursor bumps down into the corner of the screen. On second thought, he forwards the message to the rest of the guys to let them know what’s going on. He’ll reply to The Head later, when he’s in the mood to pull the whole meek, apologetic act. For now, he’s going to lay his head on his desk and give in to the pressure building behind his eyes and to the lingering ache in his bones from jumping out that stupid goddamn window.

“Coat,” is what Mikey says when Gerard opens the door at the end of the day. Half the lights are already out, which means everyone’s gone home. 

“Coat,” Frank echoes from the wall adjacent to the door, startlingly loud. Almost everyone, then. Gerard silently walks back to his desk and retrieves his coat from where it’s flung over the chairback. 

“Gloves?” Mikey asks as he’s shrugging it on. 

Gerard silently walks back to his desk and retrieves his gloves from where he’d stuffed them into the center drawer this morning. 

“Brain?” Frank quips when Gerard goes to walk out of his office for the third time. 

“Ha ha,” Gerard says dryly. He clicks the door shut and follows half a step behind Mikey, with Frank lagging last. His keycard takes a few swipes to work, but on the third try the bulletproof doors slide open with a whoosh of compressed air. Thumbprint scan, retinal ID, seven security digits, and they’re finally out of the center, waiting in the nondescript lobby for the elevator to arrive. Gerard finds it funny that the last door they exit through is just a regular wooden door, identical to all the rest that line both walls down the stretch of hallway. Their cover business is a small telemarketing company for a product that doesn’t actually exist. They still call people sometimes though, just to make it seem legit.  

“Any other news on Investi-gate?” Frank asks. The elevator dings open and they all step in. ‘Investi-gate’ had been born from ‘Investigation-gate’, which Frank had deemed too redundant. 

Gerard shrugs. “It’s officially over.” When he doesn’t add any more, Frank says, “Uh. That’s it?”

“Yup.” 

“Huh. That’s anticlimactic.” Frank shoves his hands into his pockets and stares up at the illuminating floor numbers. Gerard glances at him sideways, then drops his gaze. He glances at him two more times before they even hit the next floor up. 

For some reason, it’s always been particularly hard with Frank to lay down the line between friend and boss. Or even coworker and non-coworker. But then if Gerard really wants to be honest with himself, he knows exactly why this is: he’s sort of been nursing a grade school-like crush on Frank for a while now. A crush that had reduced him to flustered words and stuttering hand movements in the beginning, but it’s boiled down to almost nothing out of the ordinary since then. Still, every once in a while, there will be random moments where it seems to overwhelm him out of nowhere and he’s blindsided with that warm, almost desperate sensation in his chest. Like when Frank does that thing where he rubs his chin and grins at the same time, or when he stands just a tiny bit too close for comfort. 

But it’s completely under control. Mostly Gerard just tries not to think about it. At all.

He glances at Frank again, and then reflexively at Mikey, who’s staring right back at Gerard from the corner of his own eyes. Shit.

Thankfully, they hit the ground floor and the elevator doors slide open before Gerard can sink completely into a pool of self-hatred. He thinks maybe he hears Mikey snort from behind him, but the sound is lost as he pushes the revolving door, encased in the glass space on his own before it releases him into the swell of street noises. The train is passing by, and Gerard listens to the rhythmic clacks as Frank and Mikey emerge from the building. 

“You know, you don’t have to wait around,” he tells Frank before he can think about how harsh that could sound.  He burrows deeper into his coat as if this will dispel his words and also because fuck, it’s getting cold. 

“Who says I’m staying late for you? Maybe I was having a deep conversation with Mikey and wanted to give him a ride home.” But Frank smiles good-naturedly, letting Gerard know that he didn’t take offense and also didn’t mean any either. “But hey, what would we do without a team leader, right? Someone’s gotta make sure you get your sleep.”

He bumps Gerard’s shoulder with his own, even though he has to lift himself onto his toes to do it, and starts walking toward the parking structure. Mikey directs a series of complicated eyebrow quirks to Gerard, who pretends he has no idea what he means. 

“Mikes, you have the house keys, right?” Frank calls back at them while walking backward. 

Mikey nods, a single upward jerk of his chin. He waits until Frank is turned back around before withdrawing a hand from his coat pocket to squeeze Gerard’s elbow for a brief second. “Are you okay?”

Gerard blinks at him. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Nothing.” Mikey shrugs. “Just, that investigation. I know it’s been really stressful on you. How fucking long does it take to conduct one of those, anyway? It’s been like, three months.” He says it like they both don’t know it’s been exactly three months to the day. 

“Yeah, because the government’s known for being efficient, right?” 

Mikey smirks a little. “Careful, they probably wired this pathway all to hell.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Gerard hunches even further into his coat, content in the companionable silence that follows. They step into the yellow-lit parking garage, which is nearly empty save for two cars parked next to each other. Frank’s already standing by his – a beat up old hatchback that drunkenly lurches everywhere in sickening stop-start motions, but he calls it his baby and does things like lovingly rub his palm over the strips of masking tape that hold the sideview mirrors together. 

Mikey’s voice echoes off the cold concrete walls when he says, “Do you want to come hang out, celebrate the end of all this bullshit?”

“The end of Investi-gate,” Frank adds. 

Both their tones are hyper-casual, made worse by the fact that they’re trying to cover it up. Gerard rolls his eyes. He’s not completely new to being sober. 

“I’m not going to run home and tear through a bottle of whiskey or anything. We’re off the hook – for now,” he adds, “and that’s that.”

“Wasn’t saying anything otherwise,” Mikey says. He wedges his fingers underneath the frame of his glasses and rubs at his eye. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Good night.” Gerard pushes lightly at Mikey’s shoulder. 

“Bye,” Frank says, holding a hand up. Gerard reciprocates the action, then gets into his own beat up Subaru and turns on the ignition, waiting for the defroster to kick in. Frank peels out in reverse and honks a few times; when Gerard glances in his rearview mirror, he sees the car whiz by as both Mikey and Frank hold up their middle fingers in farewell. They’re gone before Gerard can even do anything but laugh to himself. 

The smile stays frozen on his face long after the lot is empty. He should be feeling relief about the end of the investigation, but all that’s piling up is dread. Dread about how to continually balance everything so that he doesn’t come off as a jackass to anyone, dread about walking on eggshells at work, dread about upcoming missions, dread about whether or not he can handle this anymore. 

Dread about fucking everything up, basically, except this time he doesn’t have the means to drown it out with a bottle of liquid and pills.

He doesn’t feel like going back into an empty apartment. His phone is up to his ear and ringing before he can think about it. 

Bob answers with, “Today I got off work at six and I’m planning on keeping it that way.” 

Gerard huffs out a couple laughs, just to make sure he can still do it. “Yeah, we’re not on the clock so I guess I can tell you to fuck off without risking a report about workplace harassment.”

He must sound more bitter than he thought, because Bob pauses, then just says, “You want to come over? I’m pretty sure Ray’s fat ass actually put aside some leftovers from dinner.”

Gerard can hear Ray’s muffled protests in the background. He absently rubs the curve under his lower lip and stares out the windshield, at the skeletal trees that move stiffly with the wind. 

“That sounds good. Thanks.” 

“Okay. See you soon.” 

Bob hangs up. Gerard flips his phone shut a second later but keeps it in his hand, wiggling his thumbnail into the groove in the middle. 

“I have been sober three months today,” he says out loud. His voice sounds funny, both too loud and too compressed within the tiny interior of his car. When he cleaned up, he’d asked the guys not to make a huge celebration marking anniversaries and shit, but he still feels the need to acknowledge it, if only to his dashboard.

The air coming out of the vents is starting to smell like fetid water. He laughs to himself again as he dials down the fan, then throws his phone onto the passenger seat and puts the car into reverse. 

August 30, 2003
1655
New Jersey, USA

 

After a handful of minutes spent pacing around in the hallway, Gerard walks into Brian’s office without knocking. Brian, to his credit, only takes a second to put down a stack of papers and sit forward. 

Gerard settles into the same chair he sat in last time. “Say I took the job.” 

“O-kay,” Brian replies slowly, his mouth pausing around the ‘O’.

“No, just say I took it.” Gerard makes a rolling motion with his hand. 

Brian looks slightly confused, but he says, “Then, you would get a team. Three, maybe four agents.” He pauses to see if this answer is the one Gerard had been looking for, then continues more quickly when Gerard remains silent. “Like I said last time, you’d be placed in covert ops, and I’d be your handler. Training at The Farm would last six months – after that, you’d be field certified. You might stay on for another month, just to get specialty training in weapons and hand-to-hand. And that’s the short term plan.”

“Covert ops,” Gerard repeats. 

“Yes.” Brian sounds slightly sympathetic. He’d risen unusually quickly through the ranks, but maybe the agency hadn’t sucked all the life out of him yet. “Basically, and to put it bluntly, your team will be the only one who will be allowed to have knowledge of what you really do. They’re the ones you’ll rely on, the only ones you can trust. Them, and us, of course.”

“Will I be able to choose them?”

“They’ll be picked for you,” Brian answers with a slight wince. “But you’ll have a chance to evaluate each person and see if they’re a good match. If someone isn’t, then we’ll see what we can do.”

Gerard remains silent for a while, even though he’s spent the past three days sitting around in his boxers, smoking packs of cigarettes and not sleeping because his brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Brian lets it drag on, sitting calm and patient in his chair. 

Finally, Gerard makes to get up. “Let me know when you have a team assembled.” 

Brian smiles warmly. He seems more sure of himself, now that a decision has been made. “Will do.”

*

November 27 2004
1615
New Jersey, USA


When Gerard picks up the phone and asks, “Hello?”, Brian says, “Hi, is the new issue of ‘Canned Peaches and Cream’ in yet?”

“No, it isn’t. Sorry,” Gerard answers, his voice slightly higher than normal due to the laughter that’s crowding up in his throat. He hangs up and looks around for Mikey, but the only person in the store except for Gerard himself is Brendon, who’s currently sitting on the stool behind the counter while engrossed in an issue of  Buffy .

“Is this what I pay you for?” Gerard leans against one of the glass display cases and stares pointedly at Brendon, who looks up and smiles wide. 

“Yup.” He goes back to reading, but then holds the comic up a few seconds later. “Look, they draw her all weird. Like, super Lara Croft style,” he observes, tapping his finger against a panel and wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Today you’re an art critic,” states Gerard.

“I think this comic is more about being aesthetically pleasing than mentally stimulating, you know?” Brendon grins and ducks away when Gerard tries to cuff him on the head. Even though Brendon pretty much slinks around and looks like he does nothing, Gerard likes him because he’s a nice kid who’s able to be around a lot – he goes to the local community college – and can generally be trusted with everything regarding the shop. For example, he’d actually ran after some shoplifters while chucking several limited edition  Spawn  action figures at their heads one time, which ended up causing more financial damage than what was stolen, but Gerard figures that it was the thought that counted. 

“So hey, I gotta head out,” Gerard tells him. 

Brendon sighs deeply in mock disappointment. “I swear dude, you’re never here. Is this what owning your own business is like? Because that’s my goal from now on.”

“Owning your own business means you can choose when to come in and when to dump the rest of the hours on a  Buffy  fan.” Gerard grabs his jacket and walks around the counter, intending to go to the backroom to find Mikey and go meet Brian, but the front door jingles open and Mikey rushes in, which his weird because he mostly just lazes everywhere. 

“Hey, I was just looking for you,” Gerard says in surprise as Mikey grabs the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him close. 

“I’m dating someone,” Mikey hisses.

Gerard reflexively makes a face. “Uh, cool? Why – ”

“Hi!” A dark-haired, pretty girl rounds the corner and enters the store with a bright smile. “I’m Alicia.”

“Oh! Hi.” Gerard shakes the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says to her, and says,  you could have given me a little more than two fucking seconds of warning, and I hope you haven’t told her anything about us  to Mikey by widening his eyes and glaring a little at the same time. 

Brendon pokes his hand into their little circle. “I’m Brendon.”

While Alicia shakes Brendon’s hand, Gerard pointedly says to Mikey, “Hey, I need you to give me a ride to the mechanic. I have to pick up my car.”

“Again?” Brendon asks, apparently overhearing. “Man, that’s like the tenth time this month.”

“It’s a lemon, yup,” Gerard says in a fake jovial voice. “Plus, I like my oil changes to be on time.”

Mikey looks to Alicia and then to Gerard and then back to Alicia. “Sorry, is that okay? I can meet you later for dinner like we planned.” 

“Sure, sure.” Alicia waves him off. “I work a few blocks from here, and we just ran into each other at the coffee shop down the street,” she explains to Brendon and Gerard. “Anyway, I convinced him to show me the store really quick.”

Mikey briefly squeezes her wrist. “I’ll be right back, my keys are in the back room,” he announces before heading off, and Gerard would feel uncomfortable if it wasn’t for Brendon firing away some questions because small talk is what he was born for, apparently. 

“So where do you work?”

Alicia’s mouth twists up into a vaguely embarrassed smile. “I work at that music shop downtown.”

“Oh, cool. Do you teach there?” Brendon asks with what looks like genuine interest. Gerard tries to take mental notes.

“Um, I actually fix guitars and stuff.” She shrugs it off, like someone who’s had a lot of experience with people fawning over her job. Gerard can’t help but be a paranoid asshole and get a little suspicious about who she’s really working for. 

Meanwhile, Brendon looks thrilled. “Whoa. That’s awesome,” he breathes. 

Gerard figures it’s time for some input. “Yeah, that is pretty cool. Do you play?” But before Alicia can answer, Mikey emerges from the back, swinging his keys around his finger. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he says. After a chorus of ‘nice to meet you’s and waves and a quick kiss between Mikey and Alicia while Brendon leers at Gerard, they finally separate.

“Really?” Gerard asks as soon as they get into Mikey’s nondescript beige sedan. “ Really ?”

“It was a complete coincidence, dude. She asked to see the store and I couldn’t not show it to her because she could see the fucking store sign and the neon ‘OPEN’ marquee from the coffee shop.” Mikey peels out into the street without even bothering to check any mirrors and promptly zooms past a line of lawful drivers. 

Gerard effortlessly switches gears to the older sibling line of questioning. “How long have you been seeing her? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Only a couple weeks. And you know why I didn’t tell you yet.” Mikey makes a big circle with both hands – leaving the steering wheel completely unmanned – and Gerard assumes he’s referring in general to the not-so-warm reception that Alicia had gotten. 

“Yeah, okay,” Gerard grudgingly agrees. 

“You know I would have, if it lasts longer than this. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’d trust you with my life a hundred times over if we’re on assignment. But then you turn into kind of a freak the rest of the time,” Mikey says. 

“Hey, I love you too,” Gerard replies mildly.  

“I love you for who you are,” says Mikey in a reassuring tone. Gerard shoots him a look and sees that there’s a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. On one hand, annoying brother who deserves a punch. On the other hand, Gerard is glad that he’s not being treated quite as delicately anymore. For a while there, it was as if everyone expected sober Gerard to immediately burst into tears at the slightest mention of a joke. 

A few minutes later, Mikey pulls into the big industrial parking lot, leaving their other lives behind. By the time they weave their way through the rows and rows of eighteen-wheelers and arrive at the right one, the rest of them are already there, swinging their legs from where they’re perched inside the truck. 

“Fucking laggers,” Frank says. He gently kicks his foot at Gerard’s shoulder; Gerard restrains himself from sneaking his hand under Frank’s pant leg and wrapping it around his bare ankle. 

“Happy truckin’?” he asks Brian instead, who’s sitting at the leftmost edge. 

Brian flicks the brim of his cap. “You know it.”

“Scrambler’s on,” Ray announces. 

Brian immediately takes off his cap and throws it aside. “Get in.” He shifts into a squat and leans over the edge to help Gerard and Mikey up into the truck as the rest of the guys move further in. Once Brian pulls the doors shut, effectively blocking out any natural light, Gerard sees six ID pictures with accompanying profiles and several candid photographs up on the blank wall at the other end of the cargo hold. Brian hunches over the small table that’s shoved up against the front corner and taps through his laptop.

“Right. This is a big one.”

“When is it not a big one?” Mikey asks, in a way that’s more curious than challenging. 

“Big ger ,” Brian amends. 

“Let’s let the man do his job,” Ray says diplomatically. 

Brian snorts. “Thanks, Ray. So, eight months ago, several pellets of plutonium were stolen from a facility in New Mexico.” Flash to close-up shots of suitcases with plutonium slotted neatly into columns, emanating an eerily orange glow. “Five of them were recovered, but we keep catching up to the remaining three a step too late. Wentz’s team were the last ones to try, and Hurley almost lost a leg during the mission.”

Gerard sees Ray subconsciously flex his hands against the sides of his legs for a brief moment, as if to make sure they’re still there. Brian continues: “There haven’t been any more leads until a week ago, when we intercepted something about a sale from Argentina. Thing is, we think the actual pellets are somewhere along the Cambodian border.”

“Wait. So,” Bob waves to the images on the wall, “those guys are selling something they don’t have?”

“Basically,” Brian nods. “The people actually in possession are a group called ‘The Third Hand’.” He presses the spacebar and the projection switches to a simple emblem, a trio of hands tilted 120 degrees apart. “The hard part is that they’re underground as fuck. We don’t know what any of them look like, or even how many comprise the group, but there are several known cohorts that we’re keeping tabs on. But to get to  them , we’re going to have to work backwards starting from the first guys, the buyers who want to sell.”

Gerard tries not to sigh. He hates these wild goose chases, flying in zig-zags all around the world and skipping back and forth over the dateline until they’re almost out of their minds, still with pieces of various disguises hanging off them. 

“I hate doing things this way,” Frank mutters into his ear, his breath hot against Gerard’s skin. Gerard actually has to pull back a little so that Frank’s face doesn’t go all blurry when he looks at him with an empathetic smile.

“ – supposed to be a safe deposit box in Sweden containing instructions. It’s probably already been accessed, but we’re hoping they were dumb enough to not get rid of everything in it,” Brian is saying when Gerard tunes back in. “The account still exists, in any case, which is a good sign. You’ll be briefed at 0900 tomorrow. I don’t have to tell you not to fuck it up, right?”

“That pleading voice accomplishes nothing,” says Ray. 

“If I lose a leg, I’m blaming you, Schechter,” Bob threatens playfully as Brian shuts off his computer while Mikey and Ray struggle to shift the bolts and open the doors. They all hop out one by one, but Gerard remains inside, arms crossed over his chest and biting his lip as he watches Brian pack up his computer.

 “Something wrong?” Brian asks when he notices Gerard still hanging around. 

The rest of the guys’ voices fade away. Gerard untucks one hand and scratches uncertainly behind his ear. He doesn’t really know what to say – he wants to say something, but he finds himself unable to articulate it at all.

Surprisingly, Brian seems to understand. “It’ll take a while to settle back into things.”

“Why did we even get the assignment?” Gerard asks suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.

Brian studies him. “Are you doubting yourself?” They have all said that Brian would make a great shrink, because he has an uncanny ability to answer questions with questions.

“No,” Gerard replies, even though yeah, he kind of is. Jesus, after the past year, who wouldn’t? “I’m just wondering why they would give us this mission after three months of being inactive in the field. There are plenty of other teams around.” He does his fake-epiphany face. “Oh, yeah, and not to mention that we just spent the past three months being ostracized and having every single ink mark on our files examined.”

“I honestly don’t know, Gerard.” Brian hefts his laptop bag onto his shoulder. “Maybe Carter sees past more of the bullshit than you think.”

“Or maybe he wants us dead,” Gerard mutters. 

“Yeah, maybe that too.” Brian rolls his eyes a little and gently pushes Gerard toward the doors.

*

September 5 2003
1220
New Jersey, USA

 

“Here.” Brian lays several dossiers over his desk, but Gerard’s only able to focus in on one. 

“Mikey?” he asks incredulously. “You’re putting Mikey in the – my – team?”

“Would it be detrimental to keep you close together? This one is actually your choice.” 

“No, no. Yeah,” Gerard says vaguely. He drags the dossier toward him, staring at Mikey’s unsmiling ID picture that’s squished into the top left corner. It gets covered up when Gerard closes the folder and puts it on top of his lap. “Who are the others?”

“Well, I think you know Frank Iero,” Brian says wryly, pushing the next file forward. Frank is also not smiling, but his chin is slightly lifted as if he’d been joking around with the photographer just a second before the picture had been taken. 

Gerard twitches the folder closer. “I don’t really know him that well – haven’t seen him around in a long time, actually.” 

He hasn’t heard anything either, which was a good sign around these parts. Brian confirms this by saying, “He’s been in deep cover. Sleeper. He’ll be back soon, though, and is already aware of the change.”

“Huh.” Frank’s eyes stare up at him. Some of the bullet points underneath the picture refer to him graduating out of The Farm unusually early, taking anger management classes, certification in capoeira and muay thai fighting styles. Gerard quickly shuts the folder and puts it on top of Mikey’s. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to have someone so experienced answer to me?”

“Iero’s been through six teams since he’s been with the agency. It’s time to try some more unorthodox arrangements.” Brian gives a small smile. “Anyway, this is Ray Toro. We snagged him from the signal intel sector – he’ll be in charge of all your communication lines, and he’s not too bad at tech development either. 

“And lastly, Robert Bryar. He’ll actually be in charge of tech. Bounced around a bit from Chicago to LA and back to Chicago. Former NSA. He’s got some field experience too, so if it’s anything you and Frank can’t handle, he can come along while Mikey and Ray support. He’s probably planted a bug the size of half a rice grain into something you own and listened in on at least one of your conversations.”

By the time Gerard has processed all this, Brian’s attempt at lightening the mood has fallen flat. “Sorry,” Gerard apologizes, holding all the files up. 

Brian waves him off. He slowly says, “I know you were a handler for some smaller projects, but it’s my first time on the job. So I guess we have that in common.”

“Yeah. Was it really that long ago that you had to come bail us out of jail?” 

“Looking back on it now, I figure it was good practice,” Brian snorts. “I have a feeling you guys are going to run me into the ground.”

*

December 2 2004
1845

Traveling at a moment’s notice usually works out pretty well for all of them. Gerard and Mikey can leave the shop to Brendon, Frank works for a temp agency, Bob has an independent home surveillance service with this guy, Jesse, and Ray works at his brother’s restaurant, where he never remembers the daily specials and provides detailed, unflinchingly honest input on all the entrees, but is pretty much safe from ever being fired because family is family.

The flight to Sweden leaves in the early afternoon, and Gerard is tired enough that he drifts in and out of sleep as soon as the plane takes off until he finally wakes up and the world outside the windows is dark. Sleeping through a sunset always makes him disoriented – he tries to blink the feeling away, stretching his arms out until his palms touch the seat in front of him. Several joints crack in response, the sounds numerous and loud in the way they only seem to get during transcontinental flights. 

“You’ve been out for days,” Frank says from Gerard’s left. He has his head tilted slightly, one earphone in and one in his hand that’s hovering in mid-air. 

“I know.” Gerard grimaces against the dry, vacuum feeling in his throat. When Frank doesn’t reinsert his earphone, Gerard says, “You can go back to your movie.”

“Nah,” Frank shrugs, removing the other one and coiling them up in his hands. “I’ve already seen this movie three times.”

Gerard peers at the headrest in front of Frank. “ March of the Penguins ? Really?”

“Shut it.” 

“Three times?”

“Drink cart.” Frank shoves Gerard’s elbow off the armrest and leans over his lap, as if the flight attendant won’t see him unless he’s practically in the aisle. Now Gerard has a view full of Frank’s head. The back of his collar is gaping open, almost touching Gerard’s nose, and he can’t help but notice that despite the processed, recycled air, Frank smells clean, just faint hints of soap and aftershave.

“She doesn’t have tunnel vision, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t a ghost row or anything,” Gerard says pointedly while sitting up straighter against the back of his seat. He would reach for the button that allows him to recline those measly few inches, but Frank’s torso is in the way. On Frank’s other side, Bob is slumped against the window with his mouth hanging open, dead to the world. 

“I’m just trying to decide. I need the menu in front of me to make an informed choice.” Frank continues to study the cart, which is squeaking forward at a hellishly slow rate. 

“Dude, you’re making me all claustrophobic. Even more so than I already was ever since getting into this metal tube,” Gerard finally tells him. 

“God, you’re such a baby.” But Frank moves away. Gerard lets out a quiet breath that’s masked by the whining of the plane engine. “Hey, get me a Coke, okay?” 

Frank neatly squeezes Gerard’s knee for a second, then leans down to retrieve his carry-on from underneath the seat, leaving Gerard free to study the movements of his shoulders as he digs through his bag to shove his headphones into a pocket. Had he always been this tactile? Was it just that Gerard had never really noticed? 

“Drinks, gentlemen?” The flight attendant smiles down at them as she guides the cart to a stop that’s marked by the clinking of glass. Gerard instinctively glances at the second row, the mini-bottles filled with whiskey, and it takes a conscious effort to look away but the urge to double-fist the liquor isn’t half as bad as he had been expecting. He feels Frank studying him. 

“Two Cokes, please,” Gerard finally requests. He passes on a can and a cup to Frank, who takes them silently. Gerard cracks his drink open, but he doesn’t hear a matching  hiss-pop  from Frank. “It’s fine,” he says without looking up from watching his hand pour liquid into the cup. “I’m okay.” 

“I know. I wasn’t worried.” Frank sounds genuinely sincere; Gerard knows him well enough to tell if it’s real or fake. Maybe he actually hadn’t been suspicious, then. 

He rubs his hand over Gerard’s hair, quick and messy, and then snaps the tab on his Coke. The rest of the flight passes in a blur of travel magazines, a sunrise somewhere along the way, and Frank’s knee bumping against his every time the plane jolts along the wind currents. 

They land in Stockholm around 6:00pm local time. The airport is brimming with bright lights and squeaky clean floors and Gerard squints as he makes his way through the terminal, trundling a mostly empty suitcase behind him. As he passes the duty-free stores, a man with an open newspaper in his hands catches his eye and nods almost imperceptibly. Everything’s a go, then. His mind snaps into gear, his body follows suit, and he quickens his pace. Frank and Bob are trailing behind him, and Mikey and Ray are further back, having been seated in the second to last row of the plane. 

Customs passes unusually fast. A cold cut of wind blows into Gerard’s face as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t have time to get grumpy about it because an old man wearing a ratty trenchcoat taps him on the arm and asks, “Excuse me, do you happen to have a spare quarter and dime?”

Gerard smiles ruefully. “Sorry, sir.” 

The old man nods and continues on down the sidewalk. Bob comes to a stop beside Gerard, dragging both his and Frank’s suitcases.

“Ready?”

“Yup.”

There is a line of cabs idling to the left, engines coughing grey and white puffs of smoke. Gerard searches out a dark blue one with ‘2510’ written on the side in white decals. He leads the way there and the three of them dump their bags into the trunk and pile into the backseat. 

The cabbie glances in the rearview mirror. “Good flight?”

“Long,” Frank says with a raspy voice. 

As their car pulls into the street, Gerard catches a glimpse of the old man stopping Mikey and Ray on the sidewalk. Gerard says, “Don’t you think it’d be better to ask for Swedish money?”

“There isn’t an equivalent for ’25’ in Krona,” the cabbie grins. “Anyway, your rooms have been swept. There’ll be a car waiting outside tomorrow morning. Here.” He grabs a box from the passenger seat and holds it over his shoulder until Bob reaches over and takes it. “Phones. Schechter is already in, he’ll get in touch soon.” 

“That guy really skates the line between handler and stalker,” Frank says as Bob passes out the phones. 

“At least he keeps us out of trouble. Or covers our asses for the trouble that you get us into,” Bob replies in a bored voice. Gerard can tell he doesn’t mind, though. Maybe he even relishes it a little, because he gets antsy when too many things are going right. 

Gerard stares at Stockholm as it passes in a smudge of buildings and people and hopes to god that Bob’ll be antsy for the rest of this mission.

December 4, 2004
1120
Stockholm, Sweden

“Southern oil kings,” Mikey says. 

“Southern oil kings,” Gerard repeats. “Southern oil king heirs?”

“Southern oil king heirs,” Mikey agrees. He pushes the knot of his tie up to his neck while staring at the mirror. 

“ – and it says that my dad – god rest his soul – had a safe deposit box here. Our cousins may have come and accessed it already, but we’re his sons and we have a right to it too,” Gerard drawls. He has no idea if he’s overdoing the accent or what. It doesn’t even matter, since the bank attendant probably only understands about a quarter of the words Gerard’s rattling off anyway. Spewing a lot of bullshit and making no sense will get you a long way in any country. 

“Okay. You want the manager?” the attendant responds hesitantly. 

Gerard flashes a smile. “Please, ma’am. Thank you.” 

She walks off, tottering on high heels. The moment she disappears around the corner, Mikey jumps over the counter, dress shoes squeaking against the marble top, and lands on the other side. He sticks a keycard into the computer and starts typing. 

“Are you in yet,” Gerard mutters. 

“I’m going to refrain from taking the opportunity for a ‘that’s what she said’ joke and just tell you that no, we’re not in yet,” says Ray through the earpiece. Frank is laughing somewhere in the background, a sound that always sticks in Gerard’s head. 

“Tell him to meet me halfway,” Mikey orders distractedly. 

“Mikey says to meet him halfway,” Gerard relays, indifferent to the fact that he has no idea what that means. He glances at his watch when there’s no confirmation of success from neither Ray nor Mikey. The attendant is going to be coming back any second now. “Hurry up,” he hisses, looking over both his shoulders. The place is like a mausoleum and he’d be able to hear anyone approaching due to the echo of footsteps, but still. 

“Hold on, Jesus.” Mikey’s fingers spider quickly over the keyboard, pressing letters and numbers at an impossibly quick pace. 

It’s times like these that Gerard wonders just how stupid he is not to have noticed Mikey’s computer exploits when they were younger. Things had become a lot more clear when Mikey had leaned up against Gerard’s doorframe, pushed up his glasses, and basically said something like, “You know how you think I’m just downloading unreleased Disney movies and selling illegal copies on Ebay? Yeah, well, I’m also hacking into the NASA network on my down time, ha ha ha.” The CIA had been thrilled to get a two-for-one deal on the Way brothers. 

“Date opened – date accessed – ” Mikey says under his breath. “Numbered accounts – okay – 6B2397,” he mutters to Gerard before ejecting the card and jumping back over. Gerard decides to help gravity out and pushes him completely down onto the floor when the clacking of high heels starts up again, giving him time to stash away the keycard while out of sight. 

“Everything all right?” the attendant asks as she nears, followed by a short man with graying hair and a round belly. 

Mikey gets up, dusting off his slacks. “Slipped,” he explains flatly. “I’ve got a bum leg.”

Jesus Christ , Gerard thinks – Mikey never learns to stop throwing out random facts about his cover that are impossible to remember, but the man beams.

“Mr. James, I am Erik Lind.” He holds out a hand. “Pleasure.”

“You betcha,” Mikey replies with a smile that Gerard’s never seen him bestow upon a stranger before. They shake, and Mikey gestures toward Gerard with an open palm and says, “My brother, Arthur.” 

“Ah. The James brothers, follow me, please.” Mr. Lind leads the way through a narrow hallway at the end of the foyer, pausing briefly to swipe his keycard through the pad and thumb in a quick code – 7214, and Gerard commits it to memory as a precaution – before opening a door to the left, this one made of thick, impenetrable silver. 

The room is air-conditioned to just this side of chilly, and each wall consists of columns and columns of thin rectangles that compose one end of countless safety deposit boxes. Gerard tries to figure out how it all works without looking around too much. Everything is a smooth, glossy black, and there aren’t any keyholes that he can see. 

Mr. Lind asks, “And your box number is?” 

“6B2397,” Gerard answers.

There’s another keypad on the wall adjacent to the door, which Mr. Lind swipes through and types in the box number. “If you could just enter the password,” he says, turning it slightly so that the screen faces them. 

“Of course.” Mikey steps forward and pokes at the keys hesitantly with his index finger, as if the keyboard is unfamiliar because he usually has a team of lackeys type for him. 000523907244. Thank god for his penchant for numbers and his childhood mission of memorizing all digits of pi. 

One of the rectangles pops out with a hiss and Mr. Lind smiles, like he’s just as relieved as they are that the code wasn’t wrong. He removes it from the wall and hands it to Mikey before excusing himself for the allotted ten minutes. As soon as the door thumps shut, Mikey drops the box onto the metal table that stretches through the middle of the room and Gerard pries the cover off. Inside there’s an empty gun holster and a single sheet of paper folded into thirds. 

“We flew to Sweden for this?” Mikey holds it up in the air where it hangs limply from the creases. 

12/17/2004
Atlanta – Peachtree and Lennox
Bert McCracken 

“It’s something,” Gerard says grimly. “Eyes only, right?” He memorizes the information, makes Mikey memorize it too, and they exit the bank as quickly as possible, waving and yelling goodbye and generally sounding like cheesy Western movie characters. They hop into their rent-a-limo sitting outside, illegally parked on the curb, and head back to the hotel. 

“McCracken’s got a file,” Brian says later, after Gerard tells him about the note. He presses the scroll button on his mouse. “Looks like he’s got a history of dealing with unsavory people.”

“Unsavory people, who the hell says that,” Bob says with a grin. “Hey, unsavory people, you guys.”

Brian doesn’t look up from his computer. “Shut the fuck up, Bryar, Jesus.”

But Bob keeps repeating it, and Ray catches on, and soon they’re all calling each other unsavory people until Brian finally shouts over the din. “Fuck, you guys! Go down to the lounge or something, you’re pissing me off.”

“Oh, come on, Brian,” Frank starts, but Brian cuts him off.

“Seriously. I have to take a call with Carter soon and I don’t want you around for that all like,” and Brian pulls a dumb face that’s presumably supposed to stand for eavesdropping on a conversation, “listening in and shit.” 

It takes Gerard a moment to realize that everyone is deferring the decision to him – because he’s the designated ‘leader’ or because they’re wondering if he can handle being around people who are drinking, he doesn’t know. In any case, a twinge of annoyance flares up but he shrugs it off. “Okay okay, we’re going,” he says, and follows Mikey, Bob, and Ray out of the room. 

“Yeah, we’re going to hang out with unsavory people,” Frank stresses. He barely makes it out before something heavy thunks against the door. 

The lounge is fairly packed for it still being early in the evening. Businessmen, tourists, and some locals are sitting around chatting, holding glasses that reflect the low light. Lots of modern décor, thin lamps that splay out like pond reeds, some tacky glass sculptures that make Gerard grimace on instinct. Somewhere, in some other life, he’s probably a sneering art critic or an interior decorator. 

“It’s cool,” Gerard says before anyone can ask. “Go, get drinks, whatever.” But before Mikey can get out of range, Gerard grabs his shirt sleeve and says, slightly embarrassed, “Get me a cranberry juice, okay?”

“Sure,” Mikey shrugs, and Gerard appreciates him not smiling indulgently or anything like that. 

He settles down into a booth as the rest of the guys start filing back with glasses in their hands. It’s only when Gerard starts sipping his juice that he sees Frank isn’t there. A scan over the bar and he catches sight of the familiar dark hair – Frank is chatting up a leggy blonde, and he actually looks over as if he can feel Gerard staring. Or maybe not, because now he’s pointing them out to the girl and they’re making their way over. 

“Hey,” Frank says when he reaches the booth, one hand splayed over her shoulderblades. “This is Maja.”

They say hello, and really, this isn’t surprising considering that Frank can sweet-talk his way into or out of anything and anyone. He slides onto the seat next to Mikey, and Maja follows. There are introductions all around, and then Gerard sort of fades into the background pretty literally, slumping against his seat as he watches the rest of them. He would like to think that they’re all mingling and just having a good time, but aside from the conversation – Ray spouts some story about a guys’ week away, “Europe, crazy, yeah!” – he can see the tightness in Frank’s shoulders and the faraway glaze that comes over Bob’s eyes every once in a while; it’s not easy to close the door on the dayjob, despite the fact that they’d gotten what they had come here for. 

“So, Maja, what do you do for a living?” Frank smiles, managing to make this question charming instead of boring.

“I’m a police officer,” she tells him. 

“No shit!” Frank looks delighted. Everyone else makes appropriate noises of awe. “Do you know 26 ways to kill me?”

“27, actually,” she jokes. 

They all laugh at that, Gerard included, even though the reawakened jealous part of his brain thinks, whatever. He totally knows 34 ways to kill someone.

As the night goes on, he keeps finding himself snapping his eyes away from Frank without ever remembering when he started looking in the first place. It’s stupid, and he doesn’t know why all this shit keeps plaguing his mind more than ever these days, given that he’s known Frank for years now. Maybe it’s because when he met Frank, he’d been mostly drunk and perpetually recovering from the night before. 

By the time he finishes his drink, the lounge is packed with people as dozens of voices clash with each other, creating a low level buzz of noise. Every once in a while, there’s a sharp burst of laughter and Gerard is more relaxed than he thought he could get in this place. 

“Hey.” Frank is half-standing, reaching across the table with a hand curled around Gerard’s empty glass. “Refill?”

“Sure.” Gerard watches Frank and Maja make their way back to the bar. Maja says something and Frank throws his head back to laugh before they’re both swallowed up by the crowd. 

Like this job being the closest he could get to his childhood daydreams of being a superhero, saving people and fighting villains, this was the closest that he could get to Frank. Frank, with his casual touches and smiles that came so effortlessly, with his hot temper and fierce loyalty to Gerard and all the other guys; Frank, who had stuck by and been a stubborn fuck when Gerard had been at his worst. In any other case, all of it would have been more than Gerard ever expected out of anyone, but in this case – Gerard allows himself to finish the thought before he berates himself for being all maudlin and self-pitying – it stops just short of being enough.