Work Text:
Frank shuffles from foot to foot, worrying the envelope between his fingers. Stationary is expensive out in the Zones, and largely impractical, so Frank had fashioned his own envelope out of a piece of paper he bought from a trading post on the edge of Zone 3. He'd purchased a second piece of paper to write a letter that is now folded inside his makeshift envelope. The envelope is singed black in one corner and smeared with grime, but it's the only one he has. He hopes his family understands that.
In front of him stands a colorfully painted mailbox. The large blue drum redone in various shades of pink, red, green, yellow, and some colors Frank couldn't name. He'd put some of the paint there himself, coating the little door where the envelope is placed with black paint and carefully painting the word “farewell” overtop of it with white paint. Despite many other Runners turning the rest of the box into a work of art no one has defaced his paintjob. He's a little proud of that.
He glances down at the envelope and runs a thumb over the word “Grandpa” written in bold black marker, the only writing utensil he had. He closes his eyes and grips the envelope tighter.
“Ghoul?”
Frank jumps straight in the air with an unflattering yelp of surprise.
“Sorry, sorry,” Party says quickly, holding up his hands, placating. “Didn't mean to startle you.”
Frank presses a hand to his chest and feels his heart rate racing. He glances around and sees Party Poison's junker bike parked a few yards away, camo green nearly hidden in the scrub brush. Party is standing just a couple of feet away from him. Red hair sticking up at odd angles and a yellow helmet with the words “good luck” boldly plastered across the visor tucked under his arm. If Party had been a Drac Frank would be dead, he needs to stop zoning out like that.
“How long have you been there?”
Party shrugs, flicking some greasy locks of hair off his face with a flip of his head. The move bares his neck for a moment and Frank swallows deliberately, forcing himself to look away. “A couple minutes. What are you doing here?”
“How did you find me?”
“You can sorta see this area from the Route. Did you walk here?”
Frank nods.
“How long did that take you?”
“A while.”
“How are your stitches?”
“They kinda itch.”
Party nods. “That means they're ready to come out.”
Frank nods and turns back to the mailbox.
*
Frank owes Party Poison a lot.
Frank had found one of the supply lines a couple weeks ago. A route that BLI semis would take, transferring cargo from fuck knows where into the City. It was a jackpot. He told no one, not that he had anyone to tell. He had always flown solo in the Zones, finding that to be the least emotionally compromising option. No one to run with meant no one to mourn when they were gone. The part of Frank that fed on social interaction found this sickeningly lonely.
Frank's grand plan to attack the supply line and stick it to BLI while gaining a few trade-able goods for himself was ridiculously simple. He'd dug a few potholes in the road deep enough that the truck had to stop and carefully maneuver around them. While the truck moved at a snail’s pace Frank had slunk around the trailer, strategically placing plastic explosives.
When the explosion had gone off Frank's only though had been That was too much C-4.
He'd woken up flat on his back staring up at the most beautiful angel he'd ever seen. But this angel didn't look like any of the ones he'd seen in paintings or books during Catholic school. This one had tight pants, a blue leather jacket, and hair that looked like it had been peeled off the side of a pre-BLI fire engine.
“Hey,” Frank had said, “come here often?”
The red-headed angel looked at him in concern. “You have shrapnel in your side.”
Frank looked down at himself and spotted a piece of what had probably been the truck’s trailer poking out of his side.
“Would you look at that?” He flopped back on his back. “That's gonna hurt later.”
“What's your name?”
“You're pretty.”
“You're in shock.”
“And you're still pretty.”
The angel rolled his eyes. “Kobra! He's alive! Let's get him to the diner!”
Party Poison, as the angel later introduced himself as, and Kobra Kid brought Frank to their hideout in a rundown diner. Here they carefully extracted the shrapnel from his flesh and bound the wound up. A few hours – maybe days, Frank slept a lot – later a doctor came in to stitch Frank up. A real live doctor with medical training introduced himself to Frank using a code name – Riot Pyret, the hell is a “pyret”? – patched him up, and never radioed BLI to bust them all.
It was the most absurd thing Frank had ever seen in the Zones.
At first Frank thought he'd have no chance with Party. He and Kobra were so close that Frank thought they might be a couple. They certainly fought like a married couple – about Frank, food, Frank, weapons, Frank, Riot – but when Riot wasn’t treating Frank he was spending time with Kobra. Riot Pyret and Kobra Kid were clearly an item. The quick glances Frank saw them send each other were far too loaded to be anything but romantic tension. Riot Pyret didn’t stay for long and when he left Kobra stood watch until the jeep disappeared from sight.
Frank reveled in his new surroundings as he healed. The two Runners never strayed very far from the diner, dividing their time between taking care of Frank and tinkering with their shoddy motorbike. Frank could almost always see one of them where he lay on a dirty mattress and when he couldn’t see them he could always hear them, working, talking, and sometimes even singing.
One day, when he was feeling well enough, Frank offered to help them with their bike. Kobra wheeled the bike into the diner, setting it as close to Frank’s mattress as he could. Together they worked on the bike with Kobra acting as Frank’s hands while Party wandered in and out occasionally.
During one of Party’s absences Frank got up the nerve to ask Kobra something that had been bugging him his entire stay.
“Why did you guys save me?”
Kobra had shrugged, not taking his eyes off the bike.
“Most Runners wouldn’t have done that. They’d’ve left me to die.”
“They would?” Kobra looked genuinely curious.
Frank shrugged. “An injured Runner is dead weight. Most would’ve just taken what they could salvage and took off. The nicer ones might’ve put a bullet in my head, rather than let me suffer.”
Kobra blinked and then took the wrench Frank handed him. After another minute of tinkering he finally spoke up.
“There was nothing to salvage, the blast pretty much destroyed everything.”
“Oh,” Frank said. “That sucks.”
Kobra hadn’t responded, but he never fought with Party about Frank again.
Despite the wound in his side, those days were the happiest Frank had been in a while.
When he was finally able to move around on his own Frank knew that these happy days would soon end. When he was fully healed Party and Kobra would kick him out for sure. Frank was growing used to being around the Runners and no longer wanted to be on his own. Despite the potential loss that comes with leading their dangerous lifestyle Frank wanted to stay at the diner and run with Party and Kobra. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he had to be on his own again.
The letter he’d penned to his grandfather still sat carefully tucked in his pocket. Grandpa Iero had always been someone Frank could talk to whenever he needed advice. And now he needed advice more than he had since he left the City.
*
“I- Ghoul?”
Frank glances over and sees that Party has stepped closer, looking concerned.
“Yeah?”
“You, uh, you wanna come back to the diner? Get your stitches out?”
Frank nods, he would love that, but the knowledge that this is all so temporary weighs him down still. “Yeah, just give me a sec, okay?”
“What is this?” Party asks.
Franks scratches at the back of his head, struggling to find the right words. “It's the Mailbox. You, uh, you put letters in here when you don't have anywhere to send them.”
“Oh,” Party says. “Oh! I interrupted.”
“Kinda.”
“Sorry.”
“It's okay.” Frank waves the envelope gently. “I was going to bring this here after the thing with the semi. It's for my grandfather. I- I don't know where he is.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It's not your fault,” Frank says. He steps forward and opens the little envelope door. He places the letter inside and closes the door gently. He hears the soft thump of the letter landing on top of other letters. He stays there for a minute, holding onto the little metal handle. A million questions buzz through his head, but with Party nearby he can’t settle on a single one to ask his grandfather.
“My grandma died when I was a teenager,” Party says. “She was the only person who believed in me. Well, she and my brother.”
“Oh, is that who Kobra is?”
Party nods, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I want to make him smile like that, Frank thinks.
“Yeah, he's.” Party pauses, Frank waits. “He's my everything.”
“I was an only child.” Frank's not sure why he says this, just that he felt he should.
“Do you- Can we draw on this?” Party points to the Mailbox.
“Oh yeah, yeah. Just don't cover up anyone else's stuff.”
Party nods. He digs a blue marker out of his pocket and scrawls something on a blank spot on the side of the Mailbox. When he steps back Frank can see the name “Elena.”
Party caps then marker, but stays standing where he is.
“Do you need a minute?” Frank asks.
Party chuckles sadly. “I, uh, I think I do.”
“I'll wait by the bike.”
Frank is perched on the seat when Party returns to the bike. He hops off so Party can get on first, but Party makes no move to do so.
“So, Fun Ghoul,” Party starts. “Would you, um, would you like to have a couple brothers? We like having you around. You’re a good person, a good Runner, and we’d like it if you stayed.”
Frank blinks at Party, stunned.
“I mean, you don't have to,” Party says quickly. “We can just get your stitches taken out and you can go. Maybe find a bike since the explosion totaled your last one.”
“You want me to run with you guys?” Frank asks.
Party nods.
“Kobra does, too?”
Party nods again. “You’re growing on him. Trust me, I know he’s not very expressive or anything, but he likes you well enough.”
Frank smiles. “I've always wanted brothers.”
“You'll stick around, then?” Party asks, still looking a little unsure.
Frank nods enthusiastically.
Party smiles and Frank offers a hand to shake. “I'm Frank. Frank Iero.”
Party's grip is firm and warm and perfect. “I'm Gerard Way.”
“I like that name,” Frank says. “Gerard. It's interesting and it suits you.”
“Frank suits you, too,” Gerard says.
“But it's boring.”
“But you're not.”
Frank blushes and ducks his head. Gerard climbs on the bike.
“We need a new vehicle,” Gerard says. “Something that’ll hold three people.”
“A fast car,” Frank suggests, climbing on behind him.
“A muscle car,” Gerard corrects.
Frank smiles. “I know a few places we can look. Junk piles and such.”
“That’d be awesome. Maybe we could start looking tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Hell yeah!”
Gerard starts the bike and they head off to the diner. To Frank’s new home.