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The first thing that came to his mind was that he was fucking hungry.
He was driving through a hazy desert, with his hands on a wheel, and leather at his back. Mikey was beside him in the car, but when Gerard turned his head to the side, his brother wasn’t, and never had been there. He didn’t know why he’d ever thought he had been.
The leather was making his head hurt. He rolled onto his side and squinted his eyes together. The car seats were a wooden floor. He was driving through the desert on a floor.
It took some effort to crack open his eyes: they were stuck together at the tips. The light that flooded his retinas was burningly bright. It made him wince, which made him wince harder as the action drew his head into what appeared to be a fire.
When his eyes managed to focus, he recognized the stain on the floor from somewhere. A voice crackled into his memory, rough and bitingly sharp. “One oh nine,” he muttered. The Doctor hadn’t used this room for his radio broadcasting for a while: the man was paranoid as a rat, and with any passing rumour of Draculoid or Scarecrow, he fled a place for one of his countless others.
Gerard reached a hand up to the side of his head, and found that it was slightly sticky with dried blood, which explained the little bits of red falling from his eyes onto the chapped skin of his hands. He scrubbed at his eyes, squinting them closed until the blood crusting over his eyes was in a small pile on the wood below him.
Show Pony would never have left him on the ground.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, and cracked his neck. He pushed himself to his knees, and looked around. The desk that the Doctor had once used was still shoved against the wall. Crumpled underneath it was a pile of bruises and dirt-crusted rags. His heart sunk down to his toes as he recognized the patterns creeping towards the man’s wrist.
“Thriller?” Gerard whispered, wincing at the noise and at how rough his voice was. His jaw was sore, and he swiveled it around before he inched over towards the figure. Thriller’s face was colourful, and his nose was definitely broken. Gerard reached two trembling fingers down to his neck.
He paused, sinking his fingers into the flesh. Bu- he let out his breath at the feeling of the answering bu-dump under his skin. “Shit,” he breathed. “Drugging junk of a son of a bitch.”
He wasn’t in any shape to carry Thriller out of there, and to safety, wherever that was. What the hell had happened before he’d been knocked out?
The door creaked behind him, sweeping dust and air as it swung open.
Gerard turned. The cold chuckle made him flattened himself up against the wall as boots crunched over glass broken on the floor.
“Awake, are we? And just in time for your treatment.”