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Oct. 20th, 2007 10:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordslingingMade From the Sharpest Things, 2/?, 3/?
Fandom: *mutters* Bandom RPS, but heavily, heavily AU.
Rating: PG13 so far, for language, implied violence and sort of vaguely implied if you squint sexuality.
Summary: Step 1: Watch the music video for "A Little Less Sixteen Candles..." Step 2: Listen to "Vampires Will Never Hurt You". Step 3: Mix liberally.
Warnings: It is 100% Pete Wentz and Gerard Way's fault that I'm writing this. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. If the fact that it's bandom vampire AU hasn't already sent you running, I don't think there are any more warnings I need to give.
Notes: Now with an actual title! As well as an introduction to New Jersey, which is trying to steal all my attention and leave Chicago abandoned, even though I'm trying to represent them more or less equally.
Gerard has never been one to make fun of the Anne Rice kids, as they usually get called. For one thing, he doesn't make fun of kids for being into whatever they're into--if he thinks it's stupid or anything, he keeps it to himself. For another thing, he used to be one.
Well, not really an Anne Rice kid (okay, so Interview is a classic, and okay, so Gerard had spent a few months when he was sixteen wanting to be Lestat. But it's not like she's the be-all and end-all of vampire fiction, and anyway few things get under Gerard's skin like celebrities mistreating their fans, and Anne Rice has been known to be kind of a bitch to hers). But the point is, Gerard used to be exactly the kind of kid to get seduced by the vampire mystique. That's how he ended up with fangs of his own, after all.
It was supposed to be so great--one big Halloween party for the rest of eternity. Bert had been...well, he'd been charismatic and mysterious and Gerard had had a thing for him that just got worse when he'd turned out to be a vampire, he can admit that. And it wasn't like Gerard wasn't living in a basement and shunning sunlight already.
It had even been easy to rationalize the idea of drinking blood, to tell himself that he would just be one step higher on the food chain, a predator whose need for prey wasn't any worse than an average human's craving for a hamburger. That had lasted right up until the first time he'd actually done it, until he'd had a boy who could have been his own brother in his grip, screaming and pleading for his life. Gerard had drunk--because it was too late to go back at that point, right?--and less than an hour later, unable to stop thinking about it, he'd been violently sick and lost most of the blood anyway.
Bert had laughed at him, and laughed even harder when Gerard said he couldn't do it again, until Gerard managed to get it across that he was serious.
"What, you're deciding this now?" he'd demanded. "You don't think maybe it's a little late for that?"
"I didn't know it would be like that," Gerard had said, weakly. He sounded like an idiot to his own ears, because it's not like he had any excuse for not knowing, but--but it had been fantasy before, even when Bert turned him it had been fantasy, and now it was horribly, inescapably real. "I can't. I'd rather starve."
Bert had just shrugged, with no hint of compassion. "You will, if you don't come around. Wish I'd known you were gonna wimp out on me."
The next night, Bert had gone out hunting, confident that Gerard would come around when he got hungry enough, and Gerard had shivered and ached and stayed where he was. Just before dawn, Bert had rolled his eyes and shoved his own wrist at Gerard's mouth, and Gerard hadn't had the strength to push it away. The next night, he'd gotten desperate enough to stumble out into the nearest alley and catch a stray cat. That wasn't much better, but he'd managed to keep the blood down, at least.
The night after that, Gerard had broken into a nearby hospital, rummaged around until he found a freezer full of blood in plastic bags, and stuffed as many as he could into the backpack he'd brought with him.
And then, faced with the choice of going back to Bert...anywhere else, Gerard did the only thing he could think to do.
He went home.
howd you find out? Pete types. He'd replied to Mikey's email from last night as soon as he got back from tonight's hunt, and they've moved from there to IM, which always feels more personal than email for reasons Pete can't really explain.
he went missing for 4 days, then showed up even paler than usual and wouldn't let me see his teeth, Mikey sends back. i'd already figured out vamps were real--this kid i went to high school with got attacked by one once, but he got away. i even know some local hunters, but i haven't told them about gee.
This is the first time Pete's talked about this, really talked about it, with anyone who wasn't Patrick or Joe or Andy or Dirty or Father McLynn. He tells himself he shouldn't be enjoying it so much, but there's something about making a connection with this kid from New Jersey, sharing this kind of information, that Pete's sort of getting a kick out of.
its wild, isnt it? finding out all this stuff is for real. i mean what the fuck.
yeah, Mikey agrees, and then, pete, do you, um. do you know who the vampire who turned you was?
--Well, there goes Pete's uncharacteristically good mood. fuck yeah. it was fucking william beckett, man.
...the one you guys have a file on? the leader of the dandies? shit.
yeah. im totally gonna kill him some day so, you know, well be even then. but anyway, why do you ask?
Mikey's answer is a bit slow in coming, but it comes. i was gonna ask if you'd had any trouble with your sire or what, which obviously you have.
Now Pete thinks he can guess where this is going. why, has your brother had trouble with the one who turned him?
'Sire' is on the list of stupid pretentious vampire terminology Pete refuses to use.
yeah. he's pissed about gee not wanting to be undead bff with him anymore. plus he mostly blames me for it, since i'm gee's main tie to the world of the living or whatever.
just how bad does he blame you? Pete asks. He likes Mikey--hasn't found himself liking anyone this much this quick since he met Patrick--and doesn't like the idea of him being on some vamp's grudge list.
well. he came after me a few days ago, but i carry holy water and i don't go out much at night anymore.
good for you. holy waters the new mace, dont leave home without it. still, there arent a lot of things more stubborn than a vamp with a grudge, and trust me, i know what im talking about there. i think you should waste him.
dude. Mikey types back. i don't even kill spiders in the bathroom if i can help it. i'd be, like, the worst vampire hunter ever.
youd be surprised, Pete tells him. i mean, none of us exactly saw ourselves doing this before we got into it. anyway, didnt you say you already know some hunters?
what, so i just take out a hit on him and that's that? i don't really want to get too close to any hunters if i can avoid it.
they dont have to know about your brother, dude. unless youre a really bad liar or something. look, mikey, trust me on this. any vamp whos got something personal against you, hes gonna be big trouble sooner or later unless you take care of it.
There's another long pause before Mikey finally types i'll think about it...and thanks for talking to me about all this, pete. it helps.
anytime, Pete writes back. guys like us need to stick together.
It's all very well for Pete to suggest that Mikey sic some hunters on Bert without letting them find out about Gerard. One of the things Mikey hasn't told him yet (because the amount of things he has told Pete in just two days kind of staggers him, and makes him want to hold back on some of it) is that the hunter Mikey talks to most often is one of Gerard's few real friends from high school. As far as Ray Toro is concerned, Gerard moved back to New York a week ago, and Mikey has no plans to let him find out otherwise.
Someone needs to do something about Bert, though, and Mikey sure as hell can't do it alone. So he heads to the Eyeball, which is where you go in Jersey if you've been having a vampire problem. The clientele there tend to be one of three things: hunters, dealers who supply hunters, and kids who want to be hunters.
Mikey's been to the Eyeball enough times in the past few weeks that when he jostles his way up to the bar, the bartender gives him a nod and a "Yo, Mikey Way!"
"Hey, Alex. Toro or Schecter around tonight?"
"Toro is," Alex says, jerking his head toward the back of the bar. "Just look for the hair."
Ray's in a booth with a guy Mikey hasn't seen before--broad shoulders, blonde hair and a scruff of beard. They're in the middle of what seems to be a serious discussion, but when Ray spots Mikey, he says something to the other guy, then waves Mikey over.
"Mikey Way, Bob Bryar," he says when Mikey reaches them. "Bryar's new in town. Just came from Chicago."
Mikey's eyebrows go up as he slides into the booth next to Ray (it'd be a tight fit if he wasn't so skinny). "Chicago, huh? I hear the scene there's pretty wild."
Bryar blows cigarette smoke at the ceiling, then looks at Mikey with pale eyes and a hint of a smile. "Let me guess--you've heard of Pete and Patrick."
Mikey smiles crookedly. "Yeah, I've talked to Pete a little online. Do you know them?"
"I know Patrick better, but you can't really know him and not know Pete. And pretty much everyone in Chicago's at least heard of 'em, these days."
"Pete's the one who's supposed to be a vamp and a hunter, right?" Ray asks. He sounds pretty skeptical, Mikey notes with a sinking feeling.
"Yeah," Bryar says, then shrugs. "I was kind of skeptical about that, but...if you see him in action, there's no fucking doubt he's serious about hunting."
"I don't know, man," Ray says, with a slight shake of his head. "I mean, he is what he is."
"Which is what makes him such a damn good hunter," Bryar points out.
Ray's cell phone buzzes, cutting off any further conversation. He glances at the number, then flips the phone open and brings it to his ear.
"Brian? Yeah, we're at the Eyeball--wait, what?" He freezes, listening. "Fuck. What about--okay, you're gonna go get him? Right, we'll meet you back at the loft. Okay. Be safe, man."
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Ray looks over at Mikey.
"You remember Frank Iero?"
"The holy water kid? Sure." There are a lot of things Mikey really, really hates about the whole vampires-existing deal, but moments like this are one of the worst. "Is he okay?"
"He's not hurt, but I'm not sure I'd call it okay," Ray says, grimly. "They got his parents."
Frank Iero's pretty well-known in the Jersey scene, mostly because he's Catholic.
Because Frank is Catholic, he'd been an altar boy at St. Michael's church when he was in high school. Because the priest at St. Michael's was kind of old and not the sharpest tool in the shed anymore, Frank had ended up never having to give back his key to the church when he stopped being an altar boy.
So, when he'd clued in to the existence of both vampires and hunters, Frank had done what any enterprising young ex-altar boy with a key to his parish church would do--became one of Jersey's leading underground suppliers of holy water.
Hey, Saint Michael was a demonslayer himself, he would totally have approved.
Frank had started out just dealing to kids he knew at school, but they'd referred him to their friends, who had referred him to their friends. It had been pretty sweet.
That is, until his reputation spread enough to make the vamps come looking for him.
Brian Schecter is not a hunter. He just works with them.
What Brian specializes in is connections. If you need something, he can get it, or knows a guy who can. He's got a practically flawless memory and he knows who's who in Jersey and the surrounding area, and not just the high profile ones.
He's also Ray Toro's roommate. Which means that when the cops clear Frank's alibi and cut him loose, and Brian picks him up from the station ("Didn't know who else to call," the kid mumbles more than once, in spite of Brian's assurances that it's fine), they end up back at the loft to find Ray already making up a bed for Frank on the lumpy sofa.
Anyone who's met Frank knows him as a loud, energetic kid. The most worrying thing about him as he huddles on the couch, hood drawn up over his head and normally bright eyes dull, is how still he's sitting.
Ray gives him a hug that's mostly disguised as a many shoulder-clasp. Mikey hovers anxiously, wanting to help and not knowing how. Bob Bryar drops down next to Frank on the couch, sets a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two shot glasses down on the coffee table, and turns to hold out a hand.
"Hi. I'm Bob, and I'll be getting you drunk now, unless you have any objection."
Frank doesn't smile, but there's a flash of his usual self as he shakes and replies, "Hi, I'm Frank and I think I love you."
"Thought you didn't drink," Ray comments from the other side of Frank.
"I don't drink for fun," Bob clarifies, pouring.
Frank downs his first shot like a pro, but coughs like an amateur after he swallows. "Fucking needed that. Thanks."
"You can crash with us as long as you need to," Brian says from where he's leaning against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You got any other family?"
Frank shakes his head. "None in the state. Besides, I--I don't really want to go stay anywhere where I have to pretend I don't know what really happened. Don't think I could handle that right now."
Brian nods. "Long as you need to, dude, seriously. It's not like you take up all that much space."
"Thanks," Frank says before downing his second shot. He rolls the empty glass between his hands for a few seconds before speaking up again. "Hey, Toro?"
"Yeah, man?"
"We, um. We talked, a little while ago, remember?" Frank's still staring at his shot glass. "I told you I'd been thinking about doing some actual hunting, not just dealing, and you said I shouldn't try it unless I really wanted to get involved?"
Ray nods. "Yeah, I remember."
Frank looks up, meeting his eyes. "I want to. I want to find whatever son of a bitch did this."
Ray braces his elbows on his knees and winds his fingers together meditatively. "I'm gonna ask this once. You sure?"
"Pretty fucking sure, man."
Bob refills both their glasses again, then holds his up for a toast. "Congratulations. That's the first step."
The next step, after Frank's gotten well and truly drunk, cried, punched a couple of innocent walls, slept off his hangover and been forced by Brian to eat something, is to try and figure out exactly what son of a bitch they need to be going after. Frank hadn't been in any shape to notice anything that might be a clue when he found the bodies, which means getting hold of crime scene photos.
"No problem," Brian says, predictably. "I know a guy."
So he heads over into the square of loft designated (by duct-tape lines on the floor) as his office and makes some phone calls, while Ray and Bob get to work on Frank. Ray knows him better, but Bob has more experience working with new hunters. Between the two of them, it doesn't take long to draw up a list of the pros and cons of training Frank.
Con: He's never been in anything more serious than a fist-fight at school.
Pro: He's willing to work as hard as he needs to to be able to do this, and seems like a fast learner.
Con: He's eighteen and so fucking tiny Bob can grab him and hoist him over his shoulder with one arm.
Pro: He's fast enough that Bob can't catch him again after the first time, and one hell of a tough little bastard.
Pro: He's got energy and dedication in spades.
Con: If he doesn't dial it down a bit once he's actually out there fighting vampires, he's going to burn out in less than a year.
It's Bob who finally calls a halt for the day, even though Frank's clearly exhausted.
"You gotta ease up, kid," Bob tells him, hunkering down next to him as Frank sprawls on the floor. "You're never gonna make it if you don't."
Frank shakes his head stubbornly, wiping sweat out of his eyes and breathing heavily for a moment before he can answer. "Easing up won't get me what I need."
"Neither will pushing yourself too far, too fast," Ray points out dryly, handing them both bottles of water as he comes over. "We do actually know what we're talking about here, so you might want to maybe not ignore us?"
"Got it." Across the room, Brian snaps his cell phone over and walks over to where the others are grouped in Ray's practice space. "So, good news and bad news. Good news is that the vamp we're looking for is one of those cocky bastards who likes to mark his kills."
Frank gives a barely-perceptible flinch at kills, then looks up at Brian, hazel eyes hard and wary. "And the bad news?"
"The bad news is that it's Jepha."
That's greeted by silence, until Ray says, quietly, "Bert McCracken's Jepha?"
"You know any other Jephas in town?"
Frank surprises them all by laughing, flopping on his back with his hands over his face.
"Aw, man," he says after a moment, between giggles. "We're fucked, aren't we?"
Fandom: *mutters* Bandom RPS, but heavily, heavily AU.
Rating: PG13 so far, for language, implied violence and sort of vaguely implied if you squint sexuality.
Summary: Step 1: Watch the music video for "A Little Less Sixteen Candles..." Step 2: Listen to "Vampires Will Never Hurt You". Step 3: Mix liberally.
Warnings: It is 100% Pete Wentz and Gerard Way's fault that I'm writing this. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. If the fact that it's bandom vampire AU hasn't already sent you running, I don't think there are any more warnings I need to give.
Notes: Now with an actual title! As well as an introduction to New Jersey, which is trying to steal all my attention and leave Chicago abandoned, even though I'm trying to represent them more or less equally.
Gerard has never been one to make fun of the Anne Rice kids, as they usually get called. For one thing, he doesn't make fun of kids for being into whatever they're into--if he thinks it's stupid or anything, he keeps it to himself. For another thing, he used to be one.
Well, not really an Anne Rice kid (okay, so Interview is a classic, and okay, so Gerard had spent a few months when he was sixteen wanting to be Lestat. But it's not like she's the be-all and end-all of vampire fiction, and anyway few things get under Gerard's skin like celebrities mistreating their fans, and Anne Rice has been known to be kind of a bitch to hers). But the point is, Gerard used to be exactly the kind of kid to get seduced by the vampire mystique. That's how he ended up with fangs of his own, after all.
It was supposed to be so great--one big Halloween party for the rest of eternity. Bert had been...well, he'd been charismatic and mysterious and Gerard had had a thing for him that just got worse when he'd turned out to be a vampire, he can admit that. And it wasn't like Gerard wasn't living in a basement and shunning sunlight already.
It had even been easy to rationalize the idea of drinking blood, to tell himself that he would just be one step higher on the food chain, a predator whose need for prey wasn't any worse than an average human's craving for a hamburger. That had lasted right up until the first time he'd actually done it, until he'd had a boy who could have been his own brother in his grip, screaming and pleading for his life. Gerard had drunk--because it was too late to go back at that point, right?--and less than an hour later, unable to stop thinking about it, he'd been violently sick and lost most of the blood anyway.
Bert had laughed at him, and laughed even harder when Gerard said he couldn't do it again, until Gerard managed to get it across that he was serious.
"What, you're deciding this now?" he'd demanded. "You don't think maybe it's a little late for that?"
"I didn't know it would be like that," Gerard had said, weakly. He sounded like an idiot to his own ears, because it's not like he had any excuse for not knowing, but--but it had been fantasy before, even when Bert turned him it had been fantasy, and now it was horribly, inescapably real. "I can't. I'd rather starve."
Bert had just shrugged, with no hint of compassion. "You will, if you don't come around. Wish I'd known you were gonna wimp out on me."
The next night, Bert had gone out hunting, confident that Gerard would come around when he got hungry enough, and Gerard had shivered and ached and stayed where he was. Just before dawn, Bert had rolled his eyes and shoved his own wrist at Gerard's mouth, and Gerard hadn't had the strength to push it away. The next night, he'd gotten desperate enough to stumble out into the nearest alley and catch a stray cat. That wasn't much better, but he'd managed to keep the blood down, at least.
The night after that, Gerard had broken into a nearby hospital, rummaged around until he found a freezer full of blood in plastic bags, and stuffed as many as he could into the backpack he'd brought with him.
And then, faced with the choice of going back to Bert...anywhere else, Gerard did the only thing he could think to do.
He went home.
howd you find out? Pete types. He'd replied to Mikey's email from last night as soon as he got back from tonight's hunt, and they've moved from there to IM, which always feels more personal than email for reasons Pete can't really explain.
he went missing for 4 days, then showed up even paler than usual and wouldn't let me see his teeth, Mikey sends back. i'd already figured out vamps were real--this kid i went to high school with got attacked by one once, but he got away. i even know some local hunters, but i haven't told them about gee.
This is the first time Pete's talked about this, really talked about it, with anyone who wasn't Patrick or Joe or Andy or Dirty or Father McLynn. He tells himself he shouldn't be enjoying it so much, but there's something about making a connection with this kid from New Jersey, sharing this kind of information, that Pete's sort of getting a kick out of.
its wild, isnt it? finding out all this stuff is for real. i mean what the fuck.
yeah, Mikey agrees, and then, pete, do you, um. do you know who the vampire who turned you was?
--Well, there goes Pete's uncharacteristically good mood. fuck yeah. it was fucking william beckett, man.
...the one you guys have a file on? the leader of the dandies? shit.
yeah. im totally gonna kill him some day so, you know, well be even then. but anyway, why do you ask?
Mikey's answer is a bit slow in coming, but it comes. i was gonna ask if you'd had any trouble with your sire or what, which obviously you have.
Now Pete thinks he can guess where this is going. why, has your brother had trouble with the one who turned him?
'Sire' is on the list of stupid pretentious vampire terminology Pete refuses to use.
yeah. he's pissed about gee not wanting to be undead bff with him anymore. plus he mostly blames me for it, since i'm gee's main tie to the world of the living or whatever.
just how bad does he blame you? Pete asks. He likes Mikey--hasn't found himself liking anyone this much this quick since he met Patrick--and doesn't like the idea of him being on some vamp's grudge list.
well. he came after me a few days ago, but i carry holy water and i don't go out much at night anymore.
good for you. holy waters the new mace, dont leave home without it. still, there arent a lot of things more stubborn than a vamp with a grudge, and trust me, i know what im talking about there. i think you should waste him.
dude. Mikey types back. i don't even kill spiders in the bathroom if i can help it. i'd be, like, the worst vampire hunter ever.
youd be surprised, Pete tells him. i mean, none of us exactly saw ourselves doing this before we got into it. anyway, didnt you say you already know some hunters?
what, so i just take out a hit on him and that's that? i don't really want to get too close to any hunters if i can avoid it.
they dont have to know about your brother, dude. unless youre a really bad liar or something. look, mikey, trust me on this. any vamp whos got something personal against you, hes gonna be big trouble sooner or later unless you take care of it.
There's another long pause before Mikey finally types i'll think about it...and thanks for talking to me about all this, pete. it helps.
anytime, Pete writes back. guys like us need to stick together.
It's all very well for Pete to suggest that Mikey sic some hunters on Bert without letting them find out about Gerard. One of the things Mikey hasn't told him yet (because the amount of things he has told Pete in just two days kind of staggers him, and makes him want to hold back on some of it) is that the hunter Mikey talks to most often is one of Gerard's few real friends from high school. As far as Ray Toro is concerned, Gerard moved back to New York a week ago, and Mikey has no plans to let him find out otherwise.
Someone needs to do something about Bert, though, and Mikey sure as hell can't do it alone. So he heads to the Eyeball, which is where you go in Jersey if you've been having a vampire problem. The clientele there tend to be one of three things: hunters, dealers who supply hunters, and kids who want to be hunters.
Mikey's been to the Eyeball enough times in the past few weeks that when he jostles his way up to the bar, the bartender gives him a nod and a "Yo, Mikey Way!"
"Hey, Alex. Toro or Schecter around tonight?"
"Toro is," Alex says, jerking his head toward the back of the bar. "Just look for the hair."
Ray's in a booth with a guy Mikey hasn't seen before--broad shoulders, blonde hair and a scruff of beard. They're in the middle of what seems to be a serious discussion, but when Ray spots Mikey, he says something to the other guy, then waves Mikey over.
"Mikey Way, Bob Bryar," he says when Mikey reaches them. "Bryar's new in town. Just came from Chicago."
Mikey's eyebrows go up as he slides into the booth next to Ray (it'd be a tight fit if he wasn't so skinny). "Chicago, huh? I hear the scene there's pretty wild."
Bryar blows cigarette smoke at the ceiling, then looks at Mikey with pale eyes and a hint of a smile. "Let me guess--you've heard of Pete and Patrick."
Mikey smiles crookedly. "Yeah, I've talked to Pete a little online. Do you know them?"
"I know Patrick better, but you can't really know him and not know Pete. And pretty much everyone in Chicago's at least heard of 'em, these days."
"Pete's the one who's supposed to be a vamp and a hunter, right?" Ray asks. He sounds pretty skeptical, Mikey notes with a sinking feeling.
"Yeah," Bryar says, then shrugs. "I was kind of skeptical about that, but...if you see him in action, there's no fucking doubt he's serious about hunting."
"I don't know, man," Ray says, with a slight shake of his head. "I mean, he is what he is."
"Which is what makes him such a damn good hunter," Bryar points out.
Ray's cell phone buzzes, cutting off any further conversation. He glances at the number, then flips the phone open and brings it to his ear.
"Brian? Yeah, we're at the Eyeball--wait, what?" He freezes, listening. "Fuck. What about--okay, you're gonna go get him? Right, we'll meet you back at the loft. Okay. Be safe, man."
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Ray looks over at Mikey.
"You remember Frank Iero?"
"The holy water kid? Sure." There are a lot of things Mikey really, really hates about the whole vampires-existing deal, but moments like this are one of the worst. "Is he okay?"
"He's not hurt, but I'm not sure I'd call it okay," Ray says, grimly. "They got his parents."
Frank Iero's pretty well-known in the Jersey scene, mostly because he's Catholic.
Because Frank is Catholic, he'd been an altar boy at St. Michael's church when he was in high school. Because the priest at St. Michael's was kind of old and not the sharpest tool in the shed anymore, Frank had ended up never having to give back his key to the church when he stopped being an altar boy.
So, when he'd clued in to the existence of both vampires and hunters, Frank had done what any enterprising young ex-altar boy with a key to his parish church would do--became one of Jersey's leading underground suppliers of holy water.
Hey, Saint Michael was a demonslayer himself, he would totally have approved.
Frank had started out just dealing to kids he knew at school, but they'd referred him to their friends, who had referred him to their friends. It had been pretty sweet.
That is, until his reputation spread enough to make the vamps come looking for him.
Brian Schecter is not a hunter. He just works with them.
What Brian specializes in is connections. If you need something, he can get it, or knows a guy who can. He's got a practically flawless memory and he knows who's who in Jersey and the surrounding area, and not just the high profile ones.
He's also Ray Toro's roommate. Which means that when the cops clear Frank's alibi and cut him loose, and Brian picks him up from the station ("Didn't know who else to call," the kid mumbles more than once, in spite of Brian's assurances that it's fine), they end up back at the loft to find Ray already making up a bed for Frank on the lumpy sofa.
Anyone who's met Frank knows him as a loud, energetic kid. The most worrying thing about him as he huddles on the couch, hood drawn up over his head and normally bright eyes dull, is how still he's sitting.
Ray gives him a hug that's mostly disguised as a many shoulder-clasp. Mikey hovers anxiously, wanting to help and not knowing how. Bob Bryar drops down next to Frank on the couch, sets a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two shot glasses down on the coffee table, and turns to hold out a hand.
"Hi. I'm Bob, and I'll be getting you drunk now, unless you have any objection."
Frank doesn't smile, but there's a flash of his usual self as he shakes and replies, "Hi, I'm Frank and I think I love you."
"Thought you didn't drink," Ray comments from the other side of Frank.
"I don't drink for fun," Bob clarifies, pouring.
Frank downs his first shot like a pro, but coughs like an amateur after he swallows. "Fucking needed that. Thanks."
"You can crash with us as long as you need to," Brian says from where he's leaning against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You got any other family?"
Frank shakes his head. "None in the state. Besides, I--I don't really want to go stay anywhere where I have to pretend I don't know what really happened. Don't think I could handle that right now."
Brian nods. "Long as you need to, dude, seriously. It's not like you take up all that much space."
"Thanks," Frank says before downing his second shot. He rolls the empty glass between his hands for a few seconds before speaking up again. "Hey, Toro?"
"Yeah, man?"
"We, um. We talked, a little while ago, remember?" Frank's still staring at his shot glass. "I told you I'd been thinking about doing some actual hunting, not just dealing, and you said I shouldn't try it unless I really wanted to get involved?"
Ray nods. "Yeah, I remember."
Frank looks up, meeting his eyes. "I want to. I want to find whatever son of a bitch did this."
Ray braces his elbows on his knees and winds his fingers together meditatively. "I'm gonna ask this once. You sure?"
"Pretty fucking sure, man."
Bob refills both their glasses again, then holds his up for a toast. "Congratulations. That's the first step."
The next step, after Frank's gotten well and truly drunk, cried, punched a couple of innocent walls, slept off his hangover and been forced by Brian to eat something, is to try and figure out exactly what son of a bitch they need to be going after. Frank hadn't been in any shape to notice anything that might be a clue when he found the bodies, which means getting hold of crime scene photos.
"No problem," Brian says, predictably. "I know a guy."
So he heads over into the square of loft designated (by duct-tape lines on the floor) as his office and makes some phone calls, while Ray and Bob get to work on Frank. Ray knows him better, but Bob has more experience working with new hunters. Between the two of them, it doesn't take long to draw up a list of the pros and cons of training Frank.
Con: He's never been in anything more serious than a fist-fight at school.
Pro: He's willing to work as hard as he needs to to be able to do this, and seems like a fast learner.
Con: He's eighteen and so fucking tiny Bob can grab him and hoist him over his shoulder with one arm.
Pro: He's fast enough that Bob can't catch him again after the first time, and one hell of a tough little bastard.
Pro: He's got energy and dedication in spades.
Con: If he doesn't dial it down a bit once he's actually out there fighting vampires, he's going to burn out in less than a year.
It's Bob who finally calls a halt for the day, even though Frank's clearly exhausted.
"You gotta ease up, kid," Bob tells him, hunkering down next to him as Frank sprawls on the floor. "You're never gonna make it if you don't."
Frank shakes his head stubbornly, wiping sweat out of his eyes and breathing heavily for a moment before he can answer. "Easing up won't get me what I need."
"Neither will pushing yourself too far, too fast," Ray points out dryly, handing them both bottles of water as he comes over. "We do actually know what we're talking about here, so you might want to maybe not ignore us?"
"Got it." Across the room, Brian snaps his cell phone over and walks over to where the others are grouped in Ray's practice space. "So, good news and bad news. Good news is that the vamp we're looking for is one of those cocky bastards who likes to mark his kills."
Frank gives a barely-perceptible flinch at kills, then looks up at Brian, hazel eyes hard and wary. "And the bad news?"
"The bad news is that it's Jepha."
That's greeted by silence, until Ray says, quietly, "Bert McCracken's Jepha?"
"You know any other Jephas in town?"
Frank surprises them all by laughing, flopping on his back with his hands over his face.
"Aw, man," he says after a moment, between giggles. "We're fucked, aren't we?"
