The Futurist: Part Three
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Aug. 4th, 2010 | 01:00 pm
Pairing: Frerard (Frank/Gerard)
Summary: Sometimes the biggest mistakes can lead to amazing things. Even if you've just run someone over.
Word Count: 1,060
Authors Note: No beta apart from MSWord, so point out any obvious problems and i'll fix them pronto.
Disclaimer: This isn't real (as far as we know). Please don't sue me, i'm a student and can't afford it.
Warning: Character death (?)
Gerard woke to the sound of rattles and splashes, and the washing machine humming in the background. It was old and flooded frequently, but he was lucky to have his own, rather than using the building’s laundry room. He couldn’t remember using it though, and as the first moments of waking disorientation dissolved he remembered that Mikey was probably behind the noise. As Gerard sat up, he realised that he was still on the couch. It wasn’t as if Mikey was going to wake him up when he had the option of stealing the bed guilt-free. He could see a pair of shoes purposefully lined up next to the table; he shuffled into them, and made his way towards the clattering of plates.
“Hey; I made coffee.” Mikey was up to his elbows in soap suds, meticulously cleaning all of Gerard’s dishware – including, he noted, the clean stuff from the cupboards. “I did your laundry too – leaving your shirt in the shower isn’t the same as washing it.”
Gerard’s hand froze over the coffee pot.
Shirt in the shower?
He’d forgotten about that, completely forgotten, almost blocked it out entirely. It never occurred to him that Mikey’s compulsion to clean would lead him right to the bathroom. Hell, he probably started there.
“What were you painting, anyway? I can’t remember the last time I saw you holding a brush.”
Gerard turned to look at the washing machine, locking on to the blur of colours whirling around behind the glass door. His clothes were almost clean. The last bit of evidence to truly tie him to the body was being bio-eliminated with extra cleaning power on a cold wash.
He could feel Mikey watching him.
“Poster. A poster. Painting. Some business thing. Office.” The spin cycle came to a stop, and he watched the pinkish water drain out. He’d gotten away with it. With murder. Sure, there was a grieving family, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. If he went to the police and told them, they wouldn’t be able to prove anything. Besides, he was blitzed – how valid would the confession of someone who was blind drunk at the time be? There was no evidence, none whatsoever, it was all gone.
Apart from the car.
“...we don’t have to go to the comic place today – we can stay here, if you want.” Mikey was standing awkwardly in front of the sink, dripping suds onto the floor.
“No! No, we can go today. I’ll just. I’ll go check the car. Get the car ready.” Gerard rushed from the room, grabbing bleach and some rags from the hall closet. He doubled back for his paints, and ran down to the parking garage.
He would be the first to admit that his street wasn’t exactly full of stately manors, but he had held out for this building. Affordable, close enough to the city, parking garage. It took him a couple of minutes to find his car, but he finally found it sprawled haphazardly across two spaces. Of course he didn’t remember even turning into his street, let alone parking dangerously close to the wall. How did he even get out? The sunroof?
A quick walk around the car found little damage; the bonnet looked rusty, but he knew it wasn’t rust. Gerard knew the security cameras were just a formality, and they hadn’t worked since before he moved in; he had plenty of time to fix this.
The bleach removed the stains, along with some of the paint. With the brush in his hand he felt clever, carefully matching up the acrylics with the car and smoothing over the damaged paintwork. He was practically a criminal mastermind. He finished up, and observed his work; assuming it didn’t rain before he could get the car properly fixed, this was going to be fine.
Back in the apartment, Gerard stashed his little kit under his bed, and picked out some clothes; Mikey was waiting for him on the couch, and he waited more while Gerard showered again.
The store was everything Gerard had promised. It was small but well stocked, with cardboard boxes lined up on every available surface. Mikey had immediately rushed down to the basement and was now flicking though a box of plastic wrapped Batmans. Gerard mooched around by the counter - the best comics, the really valuable ones, were on the wall. He couldn’t afford them, but he had his eye on a few. The guys here knew him in a vague, mutual-geek way, so he could probably talk them into getting some reserved. At the very least, he could leave with a couple of new, cheap issues. Gerard climbed back up to street level and began browsing through the shelves of new stock. Some European comics caught his eye on the bottom shelf, and he knelt down for a better look. The creaking of the shop door sunk through his concentration, and he turned to see who had disturbed his ink-lined daydream.
Gerard dropped the flimsy comic and fell back against the shelves, his eyes now fixed on the new customer; it was him.
The guy he’d hit with his car was, unmistakeably, standing in front of him. Of course he looked a lot better than the last time Gerard had seen him, or he wouldn’t be the only one freaking out. His wide eyes raked over the tattoos and the hair and the piercings, searching for any indication that he was wrong – he had to be – but there was nothing. In a last ditch attempt to make any sense of this, he began mentally scrolling through every zombie movie he’d ever seen, searching for some sort of protocol or advice.
Then, this zombie, this corpse, this dead man walking, turned to him, and waved.
(A.N.: So basically, I finished my degree in June; I obviously stopped posting to do my finals, but then I had a choice - do I continue to post fic, or do I go and party for a solid month? I think you know what my choice was. I apologise for the delay, updates should be a bit more frequent now.)