Title: and weather in the heart alike
Author: carleton97
Pairing: Bob/Trish (always a girl! Patrick), ~16,700 words
Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: If you googled yourself, or someone you know, go away.

The title of this and the cut text are from Adrienne Rich.

Thanks to:

exitsign for the first 8,000 words of this story & rue_quercus for the last 1000. Without the two of them, who knows if this would ever have happened.

fayemeadows and lallybroch were brave enough to offer to beta this monster. Well, fayemeadows offered. lallybroch was conscripted even though she's not a part of bandom, she's not crazy about any of the bands, and her husband ruthlessly mocks Dead On Arrival whenever he plays Rock Band. They're both awesome for reading through my craziness and any and all mistakes left are mine.

Notes: OK, so these are totally going to be tl;dr. Sorry.

This all started back on at the end of October, right after I fell headlong into bandom. exitsign and I would spend days emailing back and forth all squeetarded about THEIR PRECIOUS FACES! I had just finished reading nafs fantastic Patrick/Nick Carter story and desperately wanted to write some Bob/Nick Carter, but exitsign shut that down pretty quick. Instead, I got the image in my head of Bob getting turned into a wee tiny child and we spent a couple of days going back and forth about that (it's hilarious and if she gives the OK, I may post it just as chatfic), and at the end of it, out of the blue, I say:

You know what I was thinking this morning that I've never seen, but would BE THE BEST THING IN ALL THE WHOLE WORLD?

girl!Patrick/Bob. Either always a girl or genderswitch. homg.

That was October 31, 2007. It's taken me four months, and nearly 17,000 words, but I wrote it. And now you should read it.



The first time Bob ever sees Trish, he can't actually see her at first. He's twenty, home from school for Thanksgiving, and his buddy Kyle drags him out to a club to see some band that sucks.

When Bob tells Kyle this, he shrugs and says, "They've got a fill-in drummer tonight."

But, no.

Whoever the drummer is hidden behind the kit, he's about four hundred times better than the rest of the band combined, but Bob's pretty sure Kyle's trying to hook up with the bass player, so he doesn't say that. When the fucking eternal set finally ends, Bob follows Kyle as he pushes through the scene kids to the stage. He was right about Kyle and the bassist - the guy drops off the stage and into Kyle's personal space as soon as he sees him. Bob rolls his eyes and turns back to the stage, hoping to catch the drummer to talk shop (and maybe something more, if he's interested - yeah, he was that good).

Bob likes to think that he's not easily shocked. He's been playing and teching shows since he was old enough to sneak into clubs without getting caught and he's seen some shit go down, man. Hell, he knows Pete Wentz, but when this absolutely tiny girl climbs out from behind the kit he actually feels his jaw drop.

It's not just that she's little (but she really is, he'd be surprised if she was over five foot), it's that she's so obviously young. Like, younger than jailbait young. So young that the guy Bob knows owns the bar is hovering around her nervously as she proficiently packs up and carries out the drum kit.

The vaguely dirty thoughts he'd been having about the anonymous, obviously talented drummer during the set sort of make Bob feel like a creepy pedo and he leaves the stage area without talking to her.

***

The first time Trish ever sees Bob, she doesn't actually see him at all. She's fifteen and at a show that sounds a thousand times better than the last time she saw these guys. They're not the worst band on the scene, but she's pretty sure they haven't improved this much in a month.

She's always known a good sound tech could make or break a show, but this is the best example of it she's ever heard. She sort of wants to head towards the sound booth and pick the tech's brain, but she sees a bouncer jerk his thumb at her and knows she's got to go.

***

The first time Bob hears Trish sing is when Fall Out Boy joins up for the back end of Warped '04. He's backstage because he's known Wentz for years and is actually glad for the crazy little dude. He's been hearing good things about the band and they're solid.

It's the lead singer, though, that totally rocks his world. She's short, really short, but not all bony like most of the chicks in the audience and she's kicking ass on rhythm guitar, her hands moving through the chords like they're nothing. Bob's heard through the grapevine that she writes the music and deciphers Wentz's crazy talk into lyrics, too. All of that is awesome and sort of makes him fall a little in love, but it's her voice, god, her huge fucking voice that's making his jeans feel tight.

It's halfway through their set, when Wentz is bullshitting to the audience, that she looks up from tuning her guitar and smiles over her shoulder at their other guitarist and Bob recognizes her. The jailbait drummer from like five years ago.

Jesus.

***

The first time Bob meets Trish is a party towards the end of Warped '04.

'Meet' is probably too loose of a term, though.

Bob is hanging out with the bulk of My Chemical Romance, trying to distract Frank and Mikey from Gerard and Bert's conspicuous exit, when a sizable enough ruckus to distract most people from partying starts moving from the bus area towards the bonfire.

"Oh, fuck. I hope that's not Gerard." Frank scrambles up Ray's back as he's talking, trying to get a better view.

Bob hopes so too.

When Pete Wentz flings himself behind Bob, it becomes obvious it is not Gerard at all. Pete wraps his arms around Bob's chest and forcibly pulls until he's between Pete and his lead singer. She (Trish Bob's mind whispers) is soaked in ... something gel-like; her hair is hanging in lank clumps around her head and her t-shirt and jeans are clinging to her in a way that Bob would appreciate way more if it didn't look like she was about two minutes from a total meltdown. Her face is red and she's panting from anger and exertion. She tries to dart around Bob to get to Pete, but the little fucker is stronger than he looks and he jerks Bob around in a half circle.

"What's wrong, Patty?"

Trish's eyes narrow and she actually screams in rage for a second, "I'm going to gut you, you cocksucker."

Pete tsks from his hiding place and Bob thinks he's either a lot braver or a lot stupider than he ever thought. "Now, Patricia, you're not making a good first impression on - oh, hey Bryar! How've you been, man?"

Bob shrugs, keeping an eye on Trish when it looks like she's contemplating going through him to get at Pete, "Can't complain. You?"

"Things are awesome, Bobby," Pete hugs Bob for a second, "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Trish, you're making yourself look bad in front of Bob."

Trish feints to the left, totally faking Pete out, before reaching around Bob and getting a handful of Pete's hair and heaving until she trips him to the ground. She gets in one good kick to his ribs before someone - one of Pete's entourage - grabs her around the waist and hauls her back towards the bus village. She's yelling and fighting the entire way, squirming in the guy's arms and, at one point, Bob's pretty sure she twists her head back to bite him.

Pete struggles to his knees and uses the hem of Bob's shirt to pull himself to his feet, wincing when he presses on his ribs. He watches the spectacle of Trish being hauled off to where the hoses are set up and shakes his head before starting to follow, "She's got a bit of an anger management problem sometimes."

"You think?" Frank finally slides down from Ray's back and picks up his beer again.

Bob knows he probably shouldn't have found the whole thing inappropriately hot.

But he totally did.

***

The first time Trish sees Bob play is MCR's first performance at Warped '05. She knew they'd replaced their old drummer, but she's spent the past few months a little too worried about her own band imploding to be concerned about anyone else's.

She doesn't like to think she's that girl, but she's pretty sure she's in love by the end of 'Vampires'.

***

The first time Trish meets Bob (that she remembers), is about two weeks into Warped '05. She's on Pete recovery duty and everyone already knows that the key to finding Pete is finding Mikey Way. She knows herself well enough to know that she'd probably think the whole thing was adorable if she hadn't nearly gone blind walking into the back lounge of the bus a couple days before.

When she rounds the corner of the MCR bus, she's sort of surprised to see four of them sprawled out on camp chairs, drinking diet Coke and reading comics, "Um. Hey."

"Hey, Trish," Gerard waves and lets his copy of The Authority drop to his lap. "Diet Coke?"

"No, thanks. Have you guys seen my bassist?"

Frankie snorts into the pages of his The Authority, "Why do you think we're all out here?"

Trish makes a face she's pretty sure is an exact copy of the one Gerard is making, only without the gagging noise. It's awkward for a second after that because, bassist love aside, Trish doesn't really know these guys all that well. Gerard had pretty much been a mess last year and the rest of the band had been busy trying to keep him together.

Plus, she's trying really hard not to stare at their new drummer.

It's sort of hard, though. He's all big and blond and shining in the sun as he pages through Batman. Trish is glad, most of the time, that her whole band is pocket-sized since it makes her feel less like a Hobbit, but she misses being around (with) someone who could just surround her.

"Oh, hey. Have you met Bob yet?" Gerard sits up a little and waves between the two of them.

"No, I - "

"Yeah, you have," Frankie has a look on his face Trish doesn't really trust. "You probably don't remember, though."

"No, I'm pretty sure I haven't." The fuck? Trish doesn't really drink all that much, and she knows she's never been drunk enough to actually lose time. She glances over at Bob and he's smirking a bit.

Crap.

"It was at the end of last year," Ray, at least, seems apologetic. "You were, um, mad at Pete?"

Oh, jesus. She vaguely remembers a tall, man-shaped blockade between her and Pete at one point. Trish feels herself turning bright red and wishes she could blame it on the sun. She is never, ever going to be able to look Bob Bryar in the face again, "Um, if you could send Pete our way when he surfaces? Thanks."

She isn't sure about discretion, but retreat is totally the better part of valor.

***

The first time Bob seriously thinks about having sex with Trish, she's just finished 'Venom'.

***

The first time Trish seriously thinks about having sex with Bob, he's just picked Frankie up, tossed him over his shoulder, and walked back to the buses without even stopping his conversation with Andy.

***

Interlude: TABLE

"I now call this meeting to order!" Pete bangs on the dinette table with a coffee mug until Andy reaches over and jerks it out of his hand. He shoots Andy a dirty look and clears his throat, "Today's first order of business - "

"Pete. Why are we here?" Gerard gestures to the cramped kitchen of the Fall Out Boy tour bus.

"I was getting to that!" Pete clears his throat again, "The first order - "

"Hey, where are Trish and Bob?" Joe looks up from the copy of Spin in his lap and glances around the crowded room.

"Okay, the next motherfucker who interrupts me is getting their bunk pissed in, I swear to fucking god."

Frank opens his mouth to say something that will undoubtedly end up with the whole MCR bus smelling like pee and, really, now that Gerard is sober, that's not something he thinks he has to deal with, so he claps his hand over Frank's mouth and smiles at Pete, "Please, carry on."

"Right. Okay." Pete takes a calming breath and sets both hands flat on the table, "Today's first order of business is to establish reciprocity in the matter of the attraction Patricia Marie Stump holds for one Robert Bryar."

"Oh, my god. Trish is going to kill you," Andy buries his face in his hands.

Pete's fascinated by the entirely silent conversation MCR seems to have with just eyebrows and quirked mouths. After a few seconds, Ray nods decisively and says, "Established."

"Awesome." Pete doesn't even bother to contain his gleeful clapping. "The second order of business..."

Thus, TABLE* is born.

* Trish And Bob Love Experience (Pete isn't allowed to create any more acronyms. Ever.)

***

The first time Trish and Bob live together is in L.A. when they're both recording their albums. Neither is exactly sure how it happens since Trish had been planning on staying with Pete and Bob had specifically rented his own apartment to get away from people for awhile, but Pete decides he's going to gut and remodel his house at the last minute and everyone else they know in L.A. has had their housing set for weeks.

So, they're roommates.

***

The first time Bob sees Trish in less than two layers, they're both home from recording and sweating in their dark apartment thanks to a rolling blackout. It's after midnight and Bob's pretty sure it's about one hundred eight degrees in his bedroom, even with the door and windows open. He's on his way to take another cool shower when he glances through her open door.

She's sprawled out across her bed in nothing more than a skimpy tank top and somebody's boxers - Joe's probably since Pete and Andy are scrawny little fucks - dead to the world. There's so much skin that Bob almost doesn't know where to look first.

Not that he should be looking at all since Trish would probably castrate him if she woke up. Then again, maybe not.

He's not blind and he's read FOB's press, so he knows Trish has some body issues, (which is retarded since she's just about the most gorgeous woman ever), but she's also basically lived in a van with Pete and Joe and Andy since she was fifteen, so she's sort of lax about closing doors sometimes.

("What? Pete would just open it anyway, so I learned not to bother."

"Even the bathroom?"

"After I busted him in the mouth, he stopped opening the curtain. Mostly."

"But he still sits in the bathroom and chats with you while you're showering."

"The one time I tried to lock the door, he wouldn't stop banging on the door or shut up about the distance between us and how much he missed me, how much he needed me, how he was already forgetting what I looked like blah blah blah. I was like, 'Fuck off, Pete, I'm washing my hair.' But then somebody gave him a butter knife and he pried that bitch open to get to me, so I stopped fighting it."

"And your parents let you tour with him?"

"He's strangely charming.")

Bob sort of doesn't get her issues.

***

The first time Trish walks in on Bob in the shower is totally an accident.

It's ass o'clock in the morning and the seventeen or so bottles of water she drank at the studio yesterday have been waking her up every couple of hours. She just wants to pee and sleep until her alarm or her bladder wakes her up again. She's curled up against her pillows before it even registers that the light was on when she opened the door. That the shadow behind the frosted glass door was way too tall to be Pete. That the whole time she was using the toilet and washing her hands, the shower was running.

Is still running.

She remembers Bob saying something about an early interview for an east coast radio station and wants to die. She peed while Bob fucking Bryar was in the shower. Naked.

She totally blames Pete and his complete lack of personal boundaries.

Trish buries her head under a pillow and figures she can feign sleep until the lack of fresh air kills her. Or, you know, until Bob's out of the apartment and she can spend some quality time thinking about naked, wet Bob. She eventually gives up on the asphyxiation and has to tunnel a little oxygen path because Bob is taking forever to finish. Not that that's out of the ordinary. Bob seems to be as weirdo and OCD about showering as he is about dishes in the living room. She sometimes wonders how he survives on tour when everyone and everything is just fucking gross.

When he finally, finally, leaves the apartment, Trish has her vibrator out and gets off, like, three times in five minutes. When she's nothing but a panting, sweaty heap on the bed, there's a minute where she's a little afraid she broke herself.

***

Okay, so it's not the first time Bob's jerked off in the shower thinking of Trish, but it is the first time he's done it after she wandered into the bathroom while he's naked.

He thinks maybe he's imagining things when he first feels the draft from the open door, but when he turns his head, blinking water out of his eyes, he can see Trish's outline using the toilet before washing her hands, all sleep-drunk and clumsy. He's frozen in place, hands in his own hair and thick trails of shampoo sliding down his back, until she closes the door behind her.

He hasn't really been planning on jerking off that morning - he's running a little late as it stands - but after that, it's definitely on the schedule. It's a mishmash of images in his head as he reaches down and starts to jerk off - Trish sliding into the shower with him, "Mind if I join you?" All water soaked hair and slick, curvy body as he boosts her up on to the ledge running the length of the tiled shower.

Or in his bed, his mouth all over her body.

Fucking her slowly as the steam from the shower swirls around them.

Pinning her down, bruising her hips when he goes down on her for hours.

He has to catch himself on the ledge when he comes, his hand slipping a little on the wet tile. It takes him a minute to even out his breathing and his brain is still sluggish as he rinses off and turns off the water. It's not until he's staring at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth, that he starts feeling like a dirty, pervy, asshole freak.

***

Interlude: Confessors

"... lot of things together, you know? I mean, 99% of the dudes I've dated just don't get it and I end up looking like a bitch and dumping them because they're jealous of Pete. Pete! He's my best friend, Andy. That trumps some starfucker who wants into my pants."

"You have to admit that, from the outside, your relationship with Pete looks strange."

"That's what I don't get! Best friends here. What's so strange about that?"

"Trish, that last photo shoot for Rolling Stone, what was it?"

"Uh, that Adaams family wedding thing."

"And those photos that hit TMZ in March?"

"Me and Pete asleep on the couch?"

"How many times has Pete grabbed your boob in public?"

"Too many to count, you know that, Andy!"

"What happened to that one guy in Denver who grabbed you?"

"I punched him in the junk."

"I'm just saying that our heteronormative society has certain expectations of male-female interaction and you and Pete resist easy categorization."

"Basically, everyone thinks we're fucking."

"Yes."

"Well, shit."

"But Bob knows you're not, so you should go for it."

***

"I still don't understand why you don't just go for it."

"Come on, Gerard. We've been over this."

"Exactly! We've been over how you think she hangs the moon and she has cartoon hearts in her eyes when she looks at you and you should just stop being a pussy and have a dozen little drummer babies."

"I've told you, I feel all skeezy - "

"Blah blah, saw her when she was a kid, yeah, I know the story, Bob. Get over it, she's like twenty now."

"But she wasn't!"

"You realize you were, like, twelve once too, right? You didn't spring full grown from your mom's skull."

"You're missing the point! And stop talking about my mom."

"You know what this situation needs?"

"I'm afraid to even ask."

"This needs the magic touch of your Fairy Gerardmother. Father. Whatever."

"Oh, dear god."

***

Interlude: TABLE talk

"OK, I call this meeting of TABLE to order." Pete has acquired an actual gavel since the last meeting, "The first order of business has two parts. A) Why is Trish complaining about not getting laid in forever and b) why is she complaining to Andy and not me?"

Andy raises his hand, "If I may address the second part first?" At Pete's nod, he nudges Joe, "Joseph and I have prepared a dramatic reenactment of last week's conversation between Trish and one Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III."

Andy arranges himself on Pete's couch, his body language eerily mimicking Trish's. As soon as he's settled, Joe wedges himself sideways into the small space between Andy and the arm of the couch and wraps his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. He rests his forehead on Andy's temple and heaves a giant sigh, "You know I'd do anything for you, don't you, Tricky Trish?"

Andy reaches up with one hand and pets Joe's shoulder, "I know, Petey."

"And that you can tell me anything."

"I know."

"I want you to be happy."

"I know."

"Seriously, Trish. Anything." He licks Andy's cheek.

"You're freaking me out."

Andy and Joe take their bows and duck the pens Pete throws at them, "Fuck you guys, that wasn't what happened. Besides that doesn't answer my question."

"It totally does, dude," Frank looks up from where he's sprawled across Gerard and Ray's laps, "Trish is afraid you'll show up at their apartment with condoms and porn and lock the two of them in a room until they fuck."

"Plus, I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be singing Trish Made Me Change the Title of this Song (But She's Totally In Love With Bob Bryar) on your next album," Mikey doesn't even bother to look up at Pete.

"Fuck all you guys. Anyway, that doesn't answer the question of why Bob hasn't hit that yet." He waves off Andy chiding look at his phrasing, "I'm just saying, is there something you haven't told us about Bob? Is he gay? A eunuch? what?"

"Hey, how is this Bob's fault?" Frank struggles his way off the couch and kicks at the table, "Bob's totally hot, so why hasn't Trish hit that? Is she a lesbian? Frigid? What?"

"Oh, you did not," Pete's clambered on top of the table and is halfway across it before Joe gets a hold of him and drags him back into his chair.

"You probably don't want to say things like that about Trish," Andy doesn't look much calmer than Pete, actually, "We've all gone to the mat with bitchy scene kids for her, whether she knows about it or not."

"We just stopped telling her after she kicked Pete in the balls for 'interfering'," Joe has Pete in a sort of bastardized arm lock that's a lot closer to cuddling than wrestling.

Gerard pulls Frank back to the couch, "Frank was out of line for saying those things about Trish, but so was Pete, right?"

Pete wiggles free of Joe and flops back in his chair, "You're right. That was uncalled for. I just don't understand why they're both so..."

"Retarded?" Ray offers when it's obvious Pete can't find the words to express the complete and utter obliviousness of their friends.

Pete deflates a little, "Yeah."

***

The first time Trish sees Bob after they move out of what she lovingly called "Porn Star Central", is at the Summer 2006 Invisible Children fundraiser.

Pete decrees that this is a Very Important Event and they all must dress accordingly. That, "Yes, Andy, you have to wear a tux. No, your shoes don't have to be leather. No, Joe. White tie is for douchebags and James Bond. Trish, come with me, we've got some shopping to do."

Trish totally pretends Pete's demands aren't based on the fact that PMS plus three articles insinuating she was fat plus Joan Rivers plus two (admittedly reluctant) fuggings on GoFugYourself equals crying in the shower. She normally ignores all of that bullshit the best she can (what else can she do?) but every so often, it gets to her.

So she lets Pete have a week to drag her around Los Angeles. She lets him push her at designers all across the city and zip her into dresses made for women a foot taller and twenty pounds lighter. She lets him fuss and prod and spends the day of the event at the spa with him.

She draws the line, however, at letting him do her makeup. For that, she calls in a professional because, really, what's the point of having a bajillion dollars if she can't hire someone to do shit she hates?

After her hair and makeup are done and after the tailor has come and gone and after she's made sure she's not going to fall on her ass wearing three inch heels, Trish has to admit that she looks okay. She's still short and she's still more round than not, but even in the full length mirror in her bedroom at Pete's house that normally makes her look kind of like a troll, she looks okay.

The guys are milling around in the entryway, waiting for her and she is very, very glad her dress isn't full length as she works her way down the stairs. When she stops on the last riser, it's very obvious Pete is doing his best to not fling himself at her and, perhaps, hump her leg. Joe gives her two thumbs up and Andy copies him.

"You look fantastic, Trish."

Pete finally manages to break whatever compulsion was holding him still and he bounces up to her, "Fuck you, Hurley. Trish always looks fantastic. Tonight, she looks fucking unreal."

Andy flips Pete off, Joe extends his arm to escort her out to the limo, and it's not until they're almost to the venue that the panic sets in. Everyone she knows in L.A. is going to be at the fundraiser, Pete made sure of that. What the fuck was she thinking letting Pete talk her into buying this four thousand dollar dress?

She thinks maybe she's having a panic attack. Or a stroke. Maybe a seizure. That would explain her complete inability to follow Joe and Andy out the limo door. Pete's fingers on her wrist jolt her out of her increasingly incoherent thoughts.

"Breathe, Patricia." He starts to slide towards the door, tugging on her arm to get her to follow him, "You're beautiful. Trust me."

Fuck. She may not love Pete like that (anymore), but she knows she'll never be able to resist him when he's being all sincere. He steps out of the limo and turns around to hold out his hand to her. That gesture is enough to get the crowd buzzing since Pete isn't even rumored to be dating anyone at the moment and Trish normally hauls herself out just like the rest of them.

She puts her hand in his and steps out onto the red carpet. Pete and Andy and Joe are standing in a tight circle, blocking her from most of the crowd and cameras. She smoothes down the skirt of her dress and pulls her shoulders back, forcing her nerves down just like she does before going on stage, "Are we ready for this shit?"

Her boys grin at her and, almost in unison, they step aside to let her lead them into the building. The red carpet is, as always, a gauntlet, but instead of people asking her about Pete's dick or the new album or the fucking cause they're supporting, they're asking her who she's wearing. Like she's fucking Gwyneth or some shit.

People are fucking ridiculous sometimes.

When she thinks back on it, the rest of the night is sort of a blur, only a handful of moments having any sort of clarity.

Gerard elbowing Pete out of the way to dance with her first, being a completely adorable spaz and asking if he could draw her into his comic book because she looks 'just like a porcelain doll! Seriously, Trish.'

Dancing with Joe, all the lessons his mom forced him to for his Bar Mitzvah finally paying off.

Eating dinner with Ray and Mikey, laughing at stories about high school in New Jersey.

Sitting with Andy, nodding along with his lecture about the irony of "all this money, Trish. Jesus, look around us. All of this could have gone to Africa."

Pete and Frank huddling together in a corner, very obviously plotting something.

Dancing with Bob, who smells like soap and tobacco and looks just as uneasy in his tux as she feels in her dress. She barely comes up to his shoulder, even in the fucking shoes that are killing her feet, and his hands huge and warm and calloused in familiar ways on the bare skin of her back and around her hand.

She's girly enough to admit it's one of her favorite memories of night.

***

The first time Bob sees Trish after he's been set on fire is when he wakes up in the hospital after the VMA's.

He feels slow and kind of stupid from the antibiotics and whatever else is in the IV cocktail he can see out of the corner of his eye. His leg is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and his mouth tastes like week old ass. The entire left side of his face is numb from the icepack strapped to his head, but under that, everything feels weirdly stiff like he wouldn't be able to move it even if he tried. He remembers the doctors saying something about an abscess and temporary facial paralysis.

He maybe should have listened to Ray when he told him to go to the doctor last week.

His room is surprisingly quiet; the last time he woke up, Frank and Mikey were arguing over a particularly vicious thumb wrestling match and Gerard was bitching at them both to "shut the fuck up for fuck's sake." He doesn't really want to move his head around and disturb the ice pack, but from what he can see, the room is empty.

He really wants a glass of water.

"Hey, you're awake." Trish is standing at his bedside and Bob feels the right side of his face twist in confusion. They aren't stay-at-the-hospital friends, are they? Did the staph infection eat through his brain while he was asleep? If he had hooked up with Trish and forgotten about it, he is going to be so pissed.

"Your guys had to meet with the label to reschedule some stuff, so they called me and asked me to stay until they got back." Trish reaches out and produces a glass of water and a bendy straw, "Gerard said you've been pretty thirsty?"

Bob tries to answer, but his throat is so dry all he can do is make a weird clicking noise.

She smiles a little at him and it's probably the drugs when everything seems to glow golden, "I'll take that as a yes." The smile fades a little as she contemplates his mostly horizontal position, "You're not supposed to move around too much, right?"

He hums a positive noise the best he can and she nods to herself before stepping closer and sliding her free hand around the back of his neck and lifting his head a few inches so he can drink without choking. He finishes half the glass before pushing back against her hand. She sets the glass back on the side table before carefully lowering his head back onto the pillow. Her fingers are strong and calloused when they squeeze his neck once before slowly pulling away, scratching gently over his skin.

And Bob knows, knows there are painkillers in his IV because that is the only damn explanation for saying, "So, no nurse's uniform, then?"

But Trish's eyes just widen for a second before she laughs and smooths down his hair where the band holding the icepack on has tangled it, "How about when you're not high as a kite, Bryar?"

Bob's totally holding her to that.

***

The first time Bob tries to kiss Trish, he ends up with a black eye.

They're a few dates into the Pete-and-Gerard organized My Favorite Things tour and Bob still isn't sure how their labels were talked into this crazy ass extravaganza featuring everyone Pete's known, ever, on one bill, but he really can't put anything past either of those insane motherfuckers. It's sort of like Warped, but more fun, frankly. And the crowds are way less hostile than some of the Warped ones.

Bob pretends he hasn't heard Pete and Saporta calling it the Fangirl Fantasy Tour.

He and Trish have been experimenting with the setup of his kit since the beginning of the tour. He sort of hates all the extra drums the new songs need and they've been trying to come up with something to make it all work. She's sitting on the drum riser, swinging her legs a little. "It's too bad you couldn't have two kits and a revolving riser."

"Yeah, my whole kit should spin like Tommy Lee's too," Bob laughs and falls back against the amp when she pokes him in the shoulder with her shiny green sneaker.

"Shut up, ass. You know what I mean," She kicks at his shoulder again and he catches her foot this time. He tugs a little, moving her a couple of inches closer to the edge of the riser, and she squeals once before snapping her mouth shut and looking embarrassed. It's completely adorable and Bob tugs again, trying to get the same little noise out of her. She narrows her eyes for a second before her face changes and she curls her foot around his arm and bends her knee, pulling him towards her.

Bob lets her foot go, but keeps moving forwards until he's almost pressed against her knees. He lets his hands rest on the edge of the riser next to her hips and tries to ignore the heat he can feel seeping into his cheeks. Sitting on the riser, she's a couple of inches taller than he is and he stretches up on his toes just a little, "Hi."

"Hi," Trish leans forward until they're only a couple of inches apart and licks her lips nervously. Bob copies the gesture and puts a little more weight on his hands as he closes the gap between them.

He's just off balance enough so that when Pete - shooting blindly behind himself with a Super Soaker and chased by what looks like half the tour - comes racing around the corner of the stage and bounces off his back, he goes down like a ton of bricks. He feels Trish grab at his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, but he's too heavy and she's too small so she ends up toppling down after him. He twists as best he can to keep himself between Trish and the stage and he's mostly successful, catching the brunt of her weight on his chest.

And her elbow squarely in his eye.

***

It takes them almost an hour to get checked out by the paramedic in the First Aid tent - "What if something's broken?" "Nothing's broken." "But what if something is?" "Trish - " "Please?" "Fine." - and get settled in the dark quiet of the back lounge of his bus. He's got an icepack pressed to his eye and he's pretty sure he's going to have an impressive set of bruises up and down his back and chest, but no permanent damage was done, so he considers himself ahead of the game still.

Trish is hovering around him, almost fluttering, and Bob is afraid she's about two minutes away from tucking him in and putting him down for a nap. He catches her hand and pulls her down onto the couch next to him, "Hey, stop."

"Sorry," She gestures towards his face, "Just - Sorry."

"This wasn't your fault," Bob starts to lower the icepack, but she covers his hand with hers and sets it back against his face, leaving her hand on his.

"Yeah, okay."

Bob curls his free hand into the soft hair at the back of her neck, but Trish is the one who moves forward, tentatively pressing her mouth to his, like she's waiting for the bus to collapse around them. After a few seconds of disaster-free contact, the corner of her mouth curls into a tiny smile and she licks over the chapped edge of his lip. Bob returns the favor and the throaty moan he can feel better than hear almost distracts him from the way she's shifting next to him.

Until she manages to work herself onto his lap without disturbing the icepack or jabbing him in his fresh bruises.

He wraps his free arm around her waist, steadying her and pulling her closer, the soft weight of her body pressing against his chest. She relaxes into him, draping her arm over his shoulders and rubbing at the skin behind his ear with careful touches. It's a strange counterpoint to the truly dirty way her mouth is moving against his, all lips and tongue and the sharp scrape of teeth.

Bob decides he really loves kissing Trish. She's way more assertive than most of the women (and a few of the men) Bob's kissed in his life and it's sort of nice to just let her take over. To drop his head back into her hand and just be with her. She sets her teeth in his lip, just for a moment, before kissing down over his chin and neck to where his beard ends. She leaves a soft line of bites to his ear and tugs at his earring before shifting back to his mouth.

She still has one hand over his, keeping the icepack in place, and Bob needs his hand free. Her knees are digging into the cushions on either side of his hips and she's not really resting on his legs at all, so Bob's pretty sure if he had his hand free, he could test the shape of her hip, set his thumb into the curve of her waist, learn her.

They both jump when the door to the lounge hits the wall and Ray backs in carrying a small amp.

"Bob, Matt said you were in the First Aid - Whoa! Sorry!" Ray spins back towards the door and tries to catch the edge of it with his foot as he walks out again, "I'll just - yeah. Bye."

They can both hear the beep of Ray's cell dialing even through the door.

Trish drops her head onto Bob's shoulder, "He's calling everyone we know right now, isn't he?"

"Pretty much," Bob rubs her back for a second before resting his hand on the strip of skin between her jeans and t-shirt.

"Fucker." Trish hums into his neck when he slips his fingers under the hem of her shirt, "Eh. Everyone would have figured it out eventually anyway." She's quiet for a moment before she sits back on his knees, "How's your eye?"

Bob shrugs and pulls the icepack away from his face. He absolutely does not miss the warmth of her hand over his. She touches his jaw to turn him towards the light a little and brushes a barely-there kiss over the cold skin, "You'll live, tough guy."

Trish rearranges herself until she's sideways in his lap and rests her head on his chest. Bob drops his chin onto her hair and wraps his arms around her. He knows they've only got a few minutes of quiet before both their bands show up and he'd rather not get caught with his figurative pants down.

Besides, they've got time now.

***

The first time Trish gets her hands in Bob's pants, she almost ends the Bryar line for all eternity.

They're ... someplace in the venue. Bob says he teched here a few years back and he knows all sorts of hidden rooms that most people walk right by. As appreciative as Trish is of Bob's ninja room-finding skills, she's almost to the point where she doesn't care if Pete and Gabe give color commentary on the action. They haven't had more than five minutes alone together since both their bands tumbled into My Chem's back bus lounge four days earlier.

She'd think it was a conspiracy except for how everyone is so genuinely apologetic every time they stumble across Bob with his hands on Trish's ass. Or halfway up her shirt. Or his knee between her legs.

"In here," Bob hurries her into the tiny room with a hand on her back. He glances back over her shoulder and locks the door behind them in a rush. Trish would laugh at him for being a paranoid freak if she wasn't feeling a little hunted herself.

Bob tugs on the flimsy door one last time and rests his forehead on it, "I'm really trying not to be an asshole and just grab you, but if you don't get over here, I think I'm going to die."

Trish is moving before he's done talking because yes. It's not that this is some random hookup just for sex or anything - she likes Bob and is pretty sure it's mutual - but she needs to touch him in a way that's new and disconcerting. She wraps herself around him from behind for a second, resting her cheek against his back, before sliding around and pushing between him and the door. She goes up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek and whisper in his ear, "You're not going to die. It'll just feel like it."

Bob groans a little and drops his hands to her waist, hauling her up a few inches so that it's easier to get to her mouth. He kisses her a little desperately, pressing her back into the door and rattling it on its frame. His hands are hard on her hips and Trish grabs onto his shoulders, her toes brushing the ground as she kisses back just as fiercely, sucking on his tongue and pulling at the long ends of his hair.

His hips are moving restlessly against her and it feels good. Better than good. It would be easy to wind her legs around his waist, to move with him until they both come, but after the last week, he - they - deserve a lot more. She wiggles a little and pushes against his chest until he lets her slip down his body to stand on the floor again. He pushes back a little, hands flat on the door, and she smiles up at him, turning her head to bite at his bicep as she slides her hand under the waistband of his pants.

"Oh, fuck," Bob drops to one elbow against the door, his other hand tipping Trish's face up for another kiss.

The prickle of his beard and the diet- -and-smoke taste of his mouth straddle the line between new and familiar for Trish and she gives herself over to the sensations as she works his pants open and pushes her hand under the band of his boxer briefs. He's hot in her hand, already more than a little hard, and when she slowly strokes up the length of him, he shudders and breaks off their kiss. He drops his head to rest on his shoulder and slides his hand back to tangle in Trish's hair.

She sets a steady rhythm with her hand, not racing to get him off, but not teasing either. She has her other hand anchored on his hip, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. Bob's crowding her against the door, the clench of his hand in her hair matching the push of his hips, and the noises he's making in the back of his throat make Trish want a mic and two days in the studio with Gabe and Victoria. She presses up onto her toes to lick at the sweaty skin of his neck, needing to feel the sounds trapped there.

Trish knows exactly how her voice can affect people, so she bites Bob's neck one more time before tipping her chin up and telling him, low and a little rough, all the things she wants to do with him, to him. That she'll let him do to her. Bob turns his head into her voice, nuzzling her forehead and whispering, yes and please and god trish against her skin.

She wants to get him off, to feel him come in her hand, on her skin. She wants him to get her off. Soon. She tightens her hand a little bit more and twists her wrist as best she can. Bob jerks, his hips making a tight little circle that really intrigues Trish, and she knows he's getting close.

It's dangerous, she knows, to let herself get overwhelmed like this, to not even care about the noises she can hear approaching on the other side of the thin door, but Bob is thrusting into her hand, hot and wet. He's making the most gorgeous sounds she's ever heard and just the smell of him, something barely familiar, is enough to make her close her eyes and just feel him around her, in her head and on her skin.

When the door behind her shakes from the force of someone's fist, it's more than just unexpected. It's foreign. Like a dinosaur just appeared in the middle of the street or some shit. So she totally flails.

And maybe pushes at Bob.

And perhaps trips over her own feet.

And possibly forgets to let go of him.

Trish can hardly hear Bob over the sound of Pete screeching about 'Fiends! How dare you steal my Trish away in the night!' but he's obviously swearing up a storm. He's half-fetal on the dirty cement floor next to her, cupping his balls and rocking the tiniest bit. Trish scoots a little closer and lays a tentative hand on his back, entirely too relieved when he doesn't shrug her off and call her a horrible, nut twisting bitch.

Or something.

Pete is still pounding on the door, offering up Dirty, a package of new underwear, and all the Skittles he can find as ransom. Trish drops her head onto the peak of Bob's shoulder for a second before yelling back, "God, Pete! Shut up!"

"Trish! You were gone and I was all alone! The fiends kidnapped you right out from under my nose!"

"There are no fiends in here, Pete. Just me and Bob."

"They stole Bob too?"

And Trish has to laugh, because, really. Fiends? Stealing her away? "Pete, please. Go away."

He pounds on the door again, but it's obviously half hearted, "But I love you."

"I love you, too, Pete. But I need, like, an hour to get off, okay?"

"An hour? Really? Usually it only takes you - "

"You can totally go away now, Pete." Trish never, ever wants Pete to finish that sentence.

"Fine. Be that way." He kicks the door one last time and Trish waits until she sees his shadow move away from the door before slumping against Bob's back.

"I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" She pets Bob's arm and kisses the side of his head.

"I'll live," He uncurls and sits up carefully, wincing a little when he's upright. "I don't think an hour is going to happen, though. I don't think anything is going to happen right now."

Trish sighs and weasels her arms around his chest, hugging him tight for a second, "Come on. If you can walk, we'll go trace Pete's path of destruction and make apologies as needed."

"You sure know how to show a boy a good time, Stump."

"I try, Bryar. I try."

***


Continued here
Outtakes here