Band(s): My Chemical Romance (with a brief appearance by members of Fall Out Boy)
Pairing(s): Bob Bryar/Brian Schechter
Word Count: ~ 26,800
Rating/Warnings: NC17
Author Notes: This story was born in chat with amandazillah, fleshed out in chat with exitsign and rue_quercus. It wouldn't exist without them. farwing was brave enough to take on the job of beta reading my purple, purple prose and the story would be poorer without her intercession. Any errors that remain are strictly on my shoulders. When I originally conceived the idea for this, it was truly epic, covering six years, two continents, and several tours.

Luckily, cooler heads prevailed.

Summary: Bob Bryar is a man of mystery, even Frank says so. What if there was a reason for his reticence?

Fanmixes by fayemeadows and miss_saigon can be found here.



Bob knows, knows that the only way two people can keep a secret for any amount of time is if one of them is dead.

He just always thought that he'd end up giving a press conference, not writing an eulogy.

***

Prologue

September 2006, Los Angeles

Bob's dreaming.

He knows he's dreaming because Gerard is not his dentist and would pretty much never use a needle the size of a straw to inject Novocain into the side of his face. He's reaching for a scary looking pair of pliers when the lights start flashing in time with the grating alarm bell. Dentist-Gerard frowns and takes a giant huff of nitrous before patting the numb side of Bob's face and saying, "We'll have to finish this later, Bobert."

Then he disappears into the magic lamp sitting on the windowsill.

The alarm is still echoing through the hangar and Bob twists his head as much as he can around the restraints, looking for an off-switch he can stare into submission, but there's nothing but horses and slow moving turbines as far as he can see. The flashlight in his hand is starting to freeze and--

"What?" It's the phone on his bedside table.

"Bob?"

Her voice sounds a little funny and Bob feels his heart rate spike, "Amy? Is something wrong with Nell?"

"Nell is fine."

Bob relaxes back into the crinkly hospital pillowcase, "You scared me. What's up? I didn't miss a call, did I?"

"I scared you? Tell me why I had to hear from MTV News that you were in the hospital, Bob. Or why I had to call your Mom to find out where you were admitted?"

"Oh," Right. He should have called. "Sorry. I was sort of out of it. Fever, you know."

"Fever."

"From the staph infection."

"You had a fever from the staph infection." Amy's voice is flat and Bob wonders if she's catching a cold.

"From the burn? On my leg? From the video shoot? I thought I told you about that." Bob's memory of the last week is a little sketchy.

"You told me you got a little too close to the pyro, not that you were on fire."

"I wasn't on fire!" That he is sure of, "I just got a little burned."

"Is this like the time you broke your nose because you got in a 'little scuffle'?"

"No." God, you get in one bar fight and you never live it down. "The burn wasn't that bad."

"What did it look like?" She's insistent, and Bob's never won an argument with her yet.

"It wasn't that bad, I swear. I was just going to, y'know, scrape off the gross stuff."

"Gross stuff?"

"Yeah, Frank said it looked like guacamole, I guess."

There's a sudden, icy silence on the other end of the line and he remembers suddenly why he left that part out when he told his mom. "Amy?"

"It looked like guacamole."

"Uh, yeah. That's what Frank said."

"Your leg, which had been burned in a fire, looked like guacamole. And you were just going to scrape it off? Are you retarded?"

"Well, no, but I--"

Amy barrels right over the top of him. "You could have died. You could be dead right now, and I'd have to explain to Nell that her daddy died because he's a stubborn fucking idiot."

"When you put it that way..."

"Too fucking right, Bob. Jesus. Now what did the doctors tell you?"

"I need to keep the abscess iced and--"

"Abscess?"

"...near my brain."

The silence this time is louder than her yelling had been, somehow. Amy slowly repeats, "The abscess near your brain."

"Yeah."

"So help me god, I am going to beat you with a stick the next time I see you."

"That's probably not something Nell should see."

"I will take her to your mother's. Jesus wept, Bob. What is wrong with you?"

Bob sighs, "Amy, could you just--lay off a little? Please? I know it was dumb and I swear I won't do it again, but my leg hurts and my face is numb and I feel like shit from all the medication." He knows he's getting a little whiny, but come on.

"Fine. Just--okay. Do you want to talk to Nell? Your mom just dropped her off."

"Please?"

There's a few seconds of silence, then the sound of the phone hitting the ground before Nell's little voice comes across the line like the best medicine in the world, "Daddy?"

"Hi, baby."

"Daddy! Home?"

"No, I'm not coming home yet."

"Gramma play."

"You played at Grandma's today?"

"Cookies!"

Bob smiles as best he can at her exclamation and makes listening noises as she babbles something about the park and puppies. If he can't be with her, there's nothing, nothing in the world he loves more than just talking to his little girl. Bob stays on the phone as long as he can, but when a nurse wanders in to check on him and discovers he's got the icepack out of his mouth to talk, all hell breaks loose.

The nurse reminds him of his mom to an almost alarming degree, so he can't make himself give her too much trouble.

"Nell, baby, Daddy's got to go, okay? I love you."

"Okay, daddy. Bye bye!" She obviously drops the phone onto the table and Amy is chuckling a little when she picks up the handset.

"You'll call later to say goodnight?"

"Yeah, just for a few minutes. I need to keep the icepack in my mouth."

"Maybe this'll help you quit smoking."

"Shut up," Bob grumbles. He'll quit when he's ready, dammit. "I'll talk to you later. Bye."

The nurse has the icepack in his mouth before he even hangs up the phone.

He really wants a cigarette now.

Fuck.

***

03/30/2008 - Las Vegas, Nevada, The Joint

Brian can't help the way his leg jitters every time he stops remembering to hold it still.

Fans get on stage sometimes, they all know that. Most of the time it's just overenthusiastic kids who are more than willing to be shuffled offstage, but tonight was fucking scary and he sort of wants to fire every security guy who had been on the barrier, whether they work for him or not. He knows that they're an excellent security team and that shit just happens sometimes, but watching that stupid fuck get on stage, all he could think of was Dimebag Darrell and how fast things can fall apart. He shakes his head to dislodge that whole scary train of thought and focuses on his guys sprawled around the hotel room.

Ray has his guitar out and is playing something Brian doesn't recognize, but sort of hopes ends up on the next album. Gerard and Frank are still a little shaky, but mostly okay because Jamia is a fucking godsend and Brian would kiss her if he wasn't convinced she'd kick his ass. She and Ray talked Frank and Gerard down to the point where they could listen to reason and not start "making some calls" back to Jersey. Mikey seems to be holding it together without any problems and Brian isn't sure whether that's because he's truly handling it or if he took an extra dose of anti-anxiety meds. Brian figures as long as he's not freaking out he'll be fine.

Bob is a different story.

Oh, on the surface he appears calm and collected, but Brian's known him a very long time and he recognizes the look in his eyes. The look that says he's wishing venue security hadn't gotten their shit together quite so fast and that he'd had a chance to go after the guy. That he'd had a chance to hit him just once, to give the pent up adrenaline and fear and anger someplace to go.

Gerard's phone rings and his quiet hey babe is enough to have Jamia nudging Frank off the bed and towards the door. Bob pushes past them to get into the hallway first and Ray steers Mikey enough to prevent him from plowing into the wall while he finishes his text. Brian makes sure Gerard's door is closed behind him and he trudges towards his own room for a shower before he does one final check on his guys.

Or, you know, Bob.

Who is still practically vibrating with frustrated anger when Brian lets himself into his room a half an hour later. He's got the sliding door pushed wide open and he's parked himself on one of the cushioned patio chairs as he smokes on the balcony.

"What are you doing out here?" Brian steals Bob's cigarette and finishes it off. From the pile of butts in the ashtray, it's obvious Bob doesn't need any more nicotine tonight.

"Smoking." Bob taps another cigarette out of the pack and lights up, obviously trying to irritate Brian. He looks itchy under his skin--like he wants to move, wants to do something, but doesn't know what.

Brian grabs that smoke too and stubs it out before poking at Bob to move him back into the room. He knows he's risking Bob taking a swing, but everyone else has managed to calm down and he needs Bob to get his head on straight. "Get inside. It's fucking late."

"Fuck off, Schechter. I'm not a fucking kid." Bob has his arms crossed, leaning back in his chair and frowning at him. The tone of his voice isn't as aggressive as his words--he sounds tired, maybe frustrated. And stubborn, of course.

Brian rolls his eyes. Of course Bob is being stubborn. It wouldn't be a day ending in 'y' if one of these idiots wasn't digging his heels in about something. "I know you're not a kid, but it's four in the morning. Even you need sleep sometimes, Bob."

"No point. Not gonna be able to sleep, not for a while." Bob shrugs and shifts restlessly, drumming his fingers against his other arm. "Too wound up."

Brian can relate. He'd wanted to run out onstage himself to take a swing at that fucker. He can still feel the adrenaline pinging around in his own bloodstream and he knows he's going to have to do a shit ton of deep breathing before he gets to sleep tonight.

But none of that is going to help Bob.

Brian grabs his fingers, stopping the ceaseless drumming, and pulls Bob towards the sliding glass door, "Come on. Let's get you sorted."

"Sorted?" Bob asks, snorting. But he follows along willingly enough when Brian pulls him into the hotel room. "Listen, I appreciate the thought and all, but there's just no way I'm getting to sleep any time soon."

"Are you doubting me, Bryar?" Brian pushes Bob down onto the bed and pulls his hoodie and t-shirt off, leaving his hair a staticky mess. "Slippers off, grandpa."

Bob kicks his slippers off and lines them up next to the nightstand without looking. He obviously doesn't even realize he's tapping out the beat to what Brian thinks is a Drive By song against his knees until Brian brushes his hands off his legs.

"Up. On the bed."

Bob raises his eyebrow, but slides up until he's all the way on the bed and rolls over onto his stomach when Brian pulls on his side. "I'm pretty sure this is some form of sexual harassment, Brian."

"In your dreams." Brian kicks off his own shoes and straddles Bob's hips, doing his best to ignore the freckled expanse of skin in front of him and digging his fingers into the obvious knots in his shoulders.

Whatever smartass answer Bob might have made disappears into a semi-pained groan as Brian finds a knot the size of racquetball under his shoulder blade.

"Jesus, Bob." Brian leans forward to get a better angle and smiles when the knot dissolves and Bob sort of melts into the bed with a happy noise that vibrates up through Brian's spine. It's just about then that he realizes that perhaps he should have thought this course of action through a little more before climbing on top of Bob.

He's pretty sure jabbing him in the back with his hard-on definitely constitutes some form of sexual harassment.

But he's committed to getting Bob to sleep now, so he pushes down the attraction and affection and sheer want that color just about every thought he's ever had about Bob as best he can and concentrates on digging his fingers into the cramped muscles of his back. He gets into a zone, methodically working on a section of Bob's back, then smoothing his hands up to his neck and scratching through his shaggy hair before moving on to the next patch of skin.

Brian isn't sure how long they stay like that, but his hands ache when Bob rolls over beneath him. His eyes are bloodshot from exhaustion, but his shoulders are relaxed and he looks calmer than Brian has seen him in years. He sits back a little and freezes when he realizes Bob is hard. It doesn't mean anything, Brian knows. It's just an automatic reaction to physical stimulus, but it's so close to everything that he's wanted for so long that Brian can't help the stutter of his breath even as he kneels up just enough to break the connection between their bodies.

Bob narrows his eyes, and Brian feels sort of like a bug under a microscope until Bob sets his hands on his hips and pulls him back down to rest on Bob's body. He pushes the tips of his fingers under the hem of Brian's t-shirt then down under the waistband of his jeans and uses his grip to tug him forward until he either has to prop his hands on the bed or fall onto Bob's chest.

Brian props himself on the bed.

"Bob, what--"

Bob sighs and pokes at the insides of his elbows until Brian collapses forward onto him, then pushes his fingers through his hair and kisses him. Brian thinks about resisting, about asking Bob just what the hell he thinks he's doing, but Bob's mouth is a soft contrast to the prickle of beard and, despite all rumors to the contrary, Brian isn't made of stone. He slides his tongue into Bob's mouth and relaxes, settling down onto him. Bob makes a tiny noise and rolls until Brian is pinned between him and the bed.

Things maybe go a little fuzzy for Brian at that point.

He's been hard for what feels like forever and it's Bob kissing him and shoving his hands up under his shirt and humping against the inside of his leg, so it's understandable how his sense of reality gets a little twisted there for a while. He slams back into the world and his body at the feeling of skin on skin, at the sensation of Bob spread out over him like the world's best blanket ever.

Bob's beard scratches against his neck, over his nipples and the curve of his stomach as he bites and kisses his way down Brian's body. There's a minute of stinging pressure and Brian knows he's going to have a good sized hickey on the peak of his hipbone tomorrow morning. He only has time for a second of weird, possessive pride at the thought before Bob's mouth closes around his dick, stopping all non-essential brain function and leaving him with only the blinding pleasure tightening his groin and the soft, damp weight of Bob's hair in his hands.

Brian would be embarrassed how quickly Bob brings him to the edge, but it's sort of been a while since anyone's touched him and it's Bob. So he doesn't feel that bad it only takes a few minutes before he's close enough that he has to pull Bob off his cock and back up into kissing range to at least try to stretch things out a little.

Bob hunches over him, bending himself into an impossible angle, trying to keep their mouths together and still rub up against him. It's one of the unsung hassles of being short, but Brian's learned to compensate over the years and it only takes him a few seconds to push Bob over onto his back and get them lined up. He stretches up to catch Bob's mouth with his own and time skews again as Bob digs his hands into Brian's shoulders, holding him close.

Everything is a mess of heat and skin and the fragile bubble of a vast and nameless something growing in his chest. Brian is so hard that the drag of his skin against Bob's almost hurts, but even the thought of stopping makes him move a little faster, thrust a little harder as the pressure in his balls twists that much more.

Brian is panting and cursing, sweat pooling at the base of his spine, in the hollow of his throat, and at every spot he's touching Bob. He's mumbling desperate nonsense into Bob's skin, barely aware enough to stop the most damning of his words from tumbling out. Bob's nearly silent, and only the barest edge of a whine on each of his exhalations lets Brian know how close he is to losing control. Just before Brian comes, he feels Bob's hands clenching on his hips, digging in to his flesh and holding him still as Bob shoves up against him.

Bob's eyes are fluttering with exhaustion when Brian finally gets his shit together enough to lift his head, so clean-up is limited to a careful swipe with a hotel pillowcase and the quiet promise of a shower when they wake up. Bob slurs an incoherent response and stretches out, sprawling over the lion's share of the bed. Brian prods at him until there's enough room to slide under the sheets next to him. The last thing he feels before passing out is Bob's ankle hooking over his.

***

Brian wakes up to the crawling sensation of someone watching him and his shoulders inch up with tension before he remembers exactly who is watching him. He's glad he's got the pillow over his head because there's no way he can stop the huge-ass grin he can feel taking over his face.

He totally had sex with Bob fucking Bryar.

He wishes he could be cool and jaded about the whole thing, but Bob fucking Bryar.

They haven't talked about anything, but Brian knows neither of them are in the habit of one-night stands and he really isn't in the habit of sleeping with his musicians, so he's pretty sure last night was the start of...something. Something good. They've been dancing around whatever is between them for years and Brian isn't sure what exactly got them moving forward last night, beyond stress and a need to unwind, but he's not going to complain.

He wipes most of the grin off his face and stretches, turning onto his side as he does and wiggling over until he's plastered against Bob. He presses his face into the curve of Bob's neck and goes limp with relief when a heavy arm drapes itself over his waist and pulls him even closer.

"Good morning." Bob's voice is a little lower than normal and still blurry with sleep.

Brian hums into Bob's skin, "Is it still morning?"

He feels Bob shift around, obviously looking at the clock on the bedside table. "Almost three, so not so much, no."

Brian has a meeting at five and conference calls booked back to back until what feels like the end of time, but right now he has time enough to push Bob onto his back and climb on top of him. He rolls his eyes a little at the tangled mess of Bob's hair and brushes it back out of his face before leaning forward to kiss him, morning breath be damned. "So, good afternoon, then."

"Yeah," Bob shifts under him and squeezes his hips, fingers mirroring the almost-bruises Brian can feel under his skin. He pulls Brian down again when he would have sat back, petting at his back and arms. He's got an odd expression on his face when Brian pulls back to breathe, a combination of happy and worried that sets off alarms in Brian's head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just--" Bob moves Brian back to sit over his knees and sits up, "This is good, right? Us, I mean. We're good?"

"Yeah, I think so. What--" The rest of Brian's question is cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. "Fuck. Don't move."

He kisses Bob hard and gracelessly rolls off his lap to paw through the pile of clothes on the floor, "Hello? What? No, Jeff I told you--Yeah, no. Hang on a second," Brian mutes his phone before yanking on his jeans and t-shirt, "I have to take this. Can we talk after the show tonight?"

Bob blows out a hard breath, "Yeah, it'll keep."

Brian kisses him again and starts talking before he's out the door, "Jeff? That's bullshit and you know it."

***

30 March, 2008 - Amy Harrison, 28, of Palatine, was killed late Saturday night when an oncoming vehicle crossed the median and struck her car head on. Police believe the other driver, who suffered only minor injuries, was intoxicated at the time. Ms. Harrison is survived by her three-year-old daughter.

***

03/31/2008 - Las Vegas, Nevada, The Joint

The show that night had been awesome. They'd all forgotten, even Brian, what it was like playing to a few hundred kids instead of a few thousand, but the past week reminded all of them why they loved it.

The dates on this tour are scheduled pretty tight, but Brian's tried to get them as many hotel stays as possible--the advent of wives for the brothers Way has definitely increased the number of weekly showers, even on tour. They're all going to have to wait to head to the hotel, though, until he finishes up his phone call. Brian's listening to the guy from Bamboozle, but it's the third time they've had this conversation today so he's paying more attention to his band.

Frank climbed on Worm's back about fifteen minutes ago--clearly at loose ends now since Jamia had to go back to Jersey to take care of some Skeleton Crew stuff--half-heartedly trying to convince him to take him to a casino once they get showered. He's obviously not that invested in the idea, but Gerard, Ray, and Mikey are discussing starting a new D&D campaign and, after the Great Elf-Ranger Incident of '07, he knows there's no way Frank's getting in the middle of that geekish clusterfuck. Bob is hunched down in the corner, doing his standard late evening voicemail check. It's been a struggle all day long for Brian to stay on task, to not spend every free moment in orbit around Bob, but he managed and now he just wants to get him behind a closed door.

He stifles a yawn and rolls his eyes at the yammering in his ear. The post-show adrenaline has mostly worn off and they're all pretty mellow so it's sort of a shock when Bob swears viciously at his phone and starts throwing the rest of his stuff into his gear bag.

Brian frowns and tries to wrap up his call, but Jeff fucking loves the sound of his own voice and won't stop talking about merch table locations even though Brian is talking over him at this point. He watches Bob shove his wallet into his pocket and drop his bag at Ray's feet after saying something quietly to him.

And then he's out the door and out of the room before Worm can even detach Frank from his back. Frank scrambles off of him and Worm jogs out of the room, swearing under his breath.

"What the fuck? Where did Bob just go?" Brian hangs up on Jeff and stands up from the far makeup table where he'd been camped out.

"He just said he had to go and that he'd meet us in San Jose." Gerard is still staring at the door Bob and Worm disappeared through.

Brian sort of stalls halfway across the room, "What the--Is he joking? Is this some weirdo Bryar version of April Fools? I mean, it's after midnight, right?"

Gerard shrugs and goes back to watching the door. They all sit up when it starts to open, but deflate again when just Worm steps through.

"He caught a cab outside."

"Fuck." Brian is dialing his phone before he even finishes talking.

***

04/02/2008 - San Jose , California, San Jose Civic Center

It's a couple of hours after dawn on April second before Brian sees Bob again.

No one's been sleeping much and they're all huddled in the front lounge of Bus Married, obviously trying not to listen to Brian's increasingly frantic phone calls from the back. They've been parked at the venue for about an hour, but Brian's sure none of them have moved much beyond smoking and making more coffee. They're all worried--not even really about the show tonight so much as about Bob. Just up and disappearing when they have a show--a whole tour--to play is so far outside his normal behavior that everyone is sort of at a loss.

Brian idly presses on the bruise on his hip while he listens to the ringback on Pete Wentz's phone--Patrick singing about sleeping in old shirts (subtle Pete is not)--and waiting for him to answer. He's avoided making this call because Pete is pretty much a media whore and he's managed to keep Bob's absence under wraps so far, but he's tapped out. He thinks maybe Bob is in Chicago, but his mom is on a cruise and Pete is still the most connected guy he knows for that scene.

After a solid five minutes of redialing, it's pretty obvious Pete isn't going to answer and there's no way Brian is leaving this on voicemail, so he thumbs his phone off and heads towards the front to check on the rest of his guys. All of them are crowded around the side window and fucking Frank is trying to shove his head through the small crack letting fresh air into the bus.

"What the hell, Iero?"

"Shhh!" Frank flaps his hand back at Brian and nearly hits Gerard. He pulls his head back a little and Brian can see that it's Bob outside. He absolutely does not feel weak with relief, but he does close his eyes for a second before the rest of the scene catches up to him.

"Is Bob holding a kid?" Brian knows he sounds like he's asking if Bob's holding a cheetah or something, but what the fuck? "And since when does he have one of those douchebag Bluetooth things?"

Gerard just shakes his head, speechless. "I..."

"I'm the manager, right? I didn't make that up? I'm supposed to be told things so I can take care of them, right?"

Ray sort of nods and tips his head, obviously trying to see the tiny person clinging to Bob's neck. Brian presses up close behind him, squinting a little in the morning bright sun to see too. Her hair (she's a girl if the messy braids are anything to go by) is exactly the same shade as Bob's and it's hard to distinguish where his hair stops and hers starts. She's asleep, her little face squished up against Bob's neck, but Brian thinks he can see freckles.

Bob's mostly turned away from them, kicking idly at the giant pink duffel bag at his feet. He's wearing different clothes than when he left, but he looks tired--exhausted, really--and every bit of relaxation Brian had managed to massage into him is gone. There are thumbprint bruises under his eyes and he's moving slowly, like everything hurts. He's just far enough away that his quiet voice isn't carrying back to the bus. The kid stirs against Bob's shoulder and they all shuffle a little closer to the window, trying to get a better look. Bob rocks a little in place, one hand on the girl's back and the other crooked under her butt. He looks comfortable, practiced holding her and he automatically shifts with her as she stretches and props her chin on his shoulder, sleepily peeking out at the world through the curtain of Bob's hair.

Jesus fuck, Brian's seen those eyes before. Christ, it's like looking at a tiny, female Bob and Gerard's seen it too if his little gasp is any sort of clue. She obviously sees them all pressed against the window of the bus like it's feeding time at the zoo and she hides her face in Bob's neck again.

"Is that--" Gerard's voice is hushed.

"Yeah, I think so." Brian knows his voice is not hushed at all, but he can't help it. Bob has been fucking lying to him--to them--since day one. The betrayal of it--the sheer fucking nerve of hiding something like this--burns in his stomach, knotting and twisting up everything he'd let himself feel since Sunday night. He thought--it doesn't matter what he thought now, obviously, because Bob has a kid, a daughter, that none of them knew about.

"You think what?" Frank turns his body towards Brian, but can't seem to look away from the sight of Bob swaying in a slow waltz tempo.

"She's Bob's." Mikey's got his Sidekick out, but he's just flipping the screen open and closed in rhythm with Bob's movement.

"Bob's what? Sister? His mom's not ancient, but--"

"No, his." Brian can feel his blood pressure rise as he says it, but he's pretty sure it's something he's going to have to get used to.

That gets Frank's attention for a second, "I thought Bob was gay?"

Ray slaps him on the back of his head, "He told us he was bi, doof."

"I know, but I haven't seen him with a woman ever. In, like, five years. That's pretty gay to me."

Brian wants to hit something--someone. He wants a drink and that more than anything makes him squeeze his eyes shut and breathe for a second, shoving everything down until all he feels is the need to make sure their publicist doesn't take out a contract on him when this leaks. "Just get them settled on Bachelor. I've got to make some calls."

***

It's entirely possible Bob is dragging out the conversation he's having with his lawyer.

Not that there aren't approximately eight million things he needs to get taken care of yesterday, but there's only so much Kelly can do before six o'clock in the morning Chicago time. He needs to just man up and face his band.

If they are still his band.

He wouldn't blame them if they booted him out on his ass, frankly.

Nell will be starting to get restless soon, though, and his arms are fucking tired from holding her up. She's his little girl, but she's forty pounds of dead weight at the moment. He winds down his call with Kelly and just stands there for a second, trying to pull himself together enough to deal with what is probably going to be a long fucking day.

Nell's asleep again, if the ever increasing patch of drool on his neck is any sort of guideline, so he figures now is as good a time as any to face the music. He's not expecting to turn around and see his entire band, plus Brian, staring at him from the window. He thought maybe he could sneak in, or at least face them one by one, but no such luck for Bob.

Shit.

He's exhausted, Nell is beyond exhausted and barely understands Mommy's never coming back, his fucking wrist is killing him, and he's still got to bribe Worm to send someone out for apple juice and milk and food not soaked with preservatives. He's wavering on the edge of completely losing his shit and he thinks it must be written all over his face because Ray pushes away from the window and is outside almost before he can blink.

Ray nods at the horrible pink duffel at his feet and says, "Do you want me to carry that?"

Bob nods and lets Ray herd him towards their bus. He can hear the others following, shuffling behind them like a little duckling trail and wow does he need to spend some time with someone who isn't three. Ray drops the bag in the bunk across from Bob's then scoots past him to wait in the front with the others. And probably to stop Brian from charging back here and punching Bob right in his head.

Fuck.

Nell's still asleep, so Bob just tucks her in and pulls Mr. Unicorn out of her bag, tucking it under her arm. Making sure to leave the curtain open so she can hear him if she wakes up, he takes a minute to rub at his face before squaring his shoulders and going to face the inquisition.

Ray is leaning casually against the kitchen counter, but his fingers are twitching the way Bob knows they do when he's worked up about something. Mikey is sitting in the corner of the couch texting lazily. Frank and Gerard are practically sitting on top of each other, twitching with curiosity and obviously restraining each other from leaping off the couch. Brian is on the phone telling someone they can stop looking for Bob and studiously avoiding meeting his eyes.

Fuck.

Brian hangs up his phone and tosses it on the counter with an ominous click. "So, Bob. Care to explain why I've just spent 24 hours trying to find a lost drummer?"

Bob feels something twist tighter in his chest. He knows he should have said something, should have called--especially after the other night--but, "Amy was killed by a drunk driver on Saturday night."

There are lots of confused distressed little noises in the tiny room, but Brian's blank look doesn't change, "Amy..."

"Harrison. Nell's mom. You met her a few years ago." Bob's limited store of patience evaporates at unchanging expression and he's just being contrary at this point. He knows Brian is justifiably upset, but he's also sort of being an asshole and all Bob wants is a cigarette and to sleep for like 9 days, but he's not going to get either since he can't be smoking around Nell and they've got a show tonight.

"And Nell is?" Now Brian's got his arms folded on his chest and Bob recognizes that he's spoiling for a fight. To be honest, Bob sort of is too. It would give him a chance to yell at someone, anyway.

"My daughter. Eleanor Constance. She'll be four next month."

"Four. Really."

Bob can see the rest of the guys sort of swiveling their heads like it's a tennis match. They all know from past experience not to get between Bob and Brian when they get like this. "Yes. Four. And her mom is dead and my mom is on a cruise somewhere in the Mediterranean right now, so I had to fly across the country to pick her up before she got shoved into the Cook County foster care system. I'm sorry I forgot to call home while I was taking custody of my daughter."

Brian doesn't even flinch at the reminder of Amy's death and Bob clenches his jaw to stop himself from lashing out even more.

Ray coughs uncomfortably and asks, "So is she...staying with you? I mean, on the tour?"

Bob drags his attention away from Brian and focuses on his band, "Yeah. I mean--Or if you want, I can go. If you want to use a sub, or replacement or whatever."

The unison "No!" from Mikey, Ray, Gerard, and Frank is sort of gratifying and Bob appreciates it more than he can say at the moment.

"I know it's a hassle, but what else can I do?"

"Right. No. She's family." Gerard looks sort of teary eyed and Frank and Mikey are nodding in agreement.

Bob's a little weak with relief. He wasn't exactly sure how this was going to play out. And he does feel shitty for keeping this from them, "I didn't--It wasn't because I don't love you guys. Amy wanted to stay out of any kind of spotlight and it was just easier this way."

"Easier," Brian says, cold and precise.

Bob's eyes narrow at Brian's tone. He knows he fucked up in a million ways, but it's done. "Yeah, it was easy, protecting my daughter and her mom."

"Protecting her from us?" Frank sounds confused and a little hurt.

"No, never." Bob rubs his head, "Amy and I broke up before she found out she was pregnant. I was on tour and she told me right before I went to Europe with you guys. It was still early and she and I were hashing things out, so I didn't tell anyone. And once I got back home, I was going to finish out the summer tours I was already signed up for then go back and get a job doing sound at home, but you guys called and..." His voice trails off and the trade-off he made to join them becomes very obvious.

"Jesus, Bob."

Bob waves Ray off, "Amy and I talked about it--remember how I needed some time to think?--and she knew how much this meant to me. I was there as often as I could be and I called every night. Every night. All Amy wanted in return was to live without reporters and fans showing up. I could give her that. Easy."

"Okay, okay, I can kind of see your point of view." Gerard is nodding and gesturing with a pen held in his hand like a cigarette. "I wish you would have told us, though, because we would have figured out ways to give you more time in--she was in Chicago, right? But anyway, past is past. We will totally fucking do everything we can to help you out now. Because we're family, we've fucking got your back. Right, guys?"

They all nod and Bob could seriously cry. Gerard and Ray don't look that far off from some sort of emotional outburst either and Mikey has actually put his Sidekick in his pocket. Frank just hurls himself up from the couch and monkeys up Bob, "You're sort of awesome, Bryar."

A frankly embarrassing group hug happens then and Bob is avoiding looking at Brian because he has decidedly not made any sort of affirmations or promises. His silence and non-participation quickly become obvious to the other guys when the hug ends and Gerard says, "Brian?"

Brian shrugs them all off and answers his ringing phone as he heads down the stairs to the outside. Bob takes a step after him because after the other night, no matter how mad he is, Brian has to know how important he is to Bob, but a tentative "Daddy?" from the bunks steals his attention and he forces himself to push Brian and their issues out of his mind.

Nell appears in the doorway to the bunk area, clutching the stuffed unicorn that's nearly as big as she is in both arms. Her hair is straggling out of the neat braids Bob had struggled with earlier this morning and she's blinking sleepily at him. She notices the rest of the band and takes a shy step backwards, hiding her face in the mane of Mr. Unicorn.

"Hi, baby," Bob says. He knows his voice is softer and gentler than the guys have ever heard it, but fuck it. He'll kick ass if anyone calls him a pussy. He crouches in front of her, bringing himself down to her height. "You need anything? Water? Bathroom?"

Nell steps forward, hiding her face in his shoulder. Mr. Unicorn is kind of squished between them. "No," she says in a very small voice.

Bob picks her up, holding her and the stuffed unicorn in both arms. He turns to face the guys, his stomach jumping like the first time he played with them. "Baby, this is my band. I told you about them, remember?"

She nods against his shoulder, her little arms going around his neck as she turns her head just enough to peek from the corner of her eye. She catches Frank's eye and turns her head away fast, but slowly turns back after a second. Frank steps forward a little, "You're Nell, right? I'm Frank. I play the guitar."

She turns her whole body when she hears his name, "You broke my Daddy's drums."

"Oh, for--It was an accident!" Frank throws his arms up in very real consternation and Nell laughs at him.

"You're funny."

Mikey pulls Gerard forward by his sleeve, "I'm Mikey and this is my brother, Gerard."

Nell smiles a little at them and turns the other way, resting her head against Bob's when she looks at Ray. "Are you Ray?"

"I am."

She looks around at all of them, "My Daddy's band?" and they all nod.

She kicks a little to be let down and Bob lets her slide down to the floor. She heads towards the couch, dragging Mr. Unicorn behind her, and clambers up to sit, her little legs sticking straight off the edge. She brushes her hair back from her face and twists around to look at Bob, "I"m thirsty, Daddy."

"Okay, we have..." Bob takes a good look at the collection of diet sodas and cans of Lipton's iced tea in the fridge. "Uh, water," he says, snagging one of the last bottles. Amy will smack him if he lets Nell drink--his mind goes completely, frighteningly blank, until he blinks and realizes he's been staring into the open refrigerator for several seconds.

He brings the water back over to the sofa, where Nell seems to have overcome her shyness enough to poke her finger at the tattoos on Frank's arms.

She barely looks away when he holds the bottle out to her, just takes a careful sip and hands it back to finish tracing a line up Frank's arm to the sleeve of his shirt. "You have more colors?"

And Frank, of course, just strips his shirt off and her eyes go wide at the sheer scope of coloring on him. She looks up at Bob, all big eyes like one of Gerard's comics and he shrugs, "I don't get it either."

Bob sits on the couch next to her and she automatically crawls into his lap, kneeling on his thighs so she can look him in the eye. She just studies him for a second, using her little hands to push the whole floppy mess of his hair back before wiggling around and looking at Gerard, who's slowly been creeping closer like she's going to bite him if he moves too suddenly.

She might. She is Bob's daughter, after all.

He smiles nervously and waves a little. Nell doesn't really respond, she just keeps staring at him until he looks like he's going to break. Then she holds up her stuffed toy and says, "Wanna play?"

Gerard sort of dissolves all the way until he's sitting on the floor, "Yeah. Sure. What are we playing?"

Nell slides off Bob's lap and hands Gerard the unicorn, "Princess Rescue."

"So me and--" He holds up the toy.

"Mr. Unicorn."

"So me and Mr. Unicorn rescue the princess?"

"No," She rolls her eyes just like Bob. "I am Princess Rescue. You stole Mr. Unicorn. I have to save her."

"Mr. Unicorn is a girl?"

"Yes."

"Cool." Gerard grins at Nell, obviously completely wrapped around her little finger already. Bob knew that would happen--Nell is the cutest, smartest little girl in the universe, after all. "You know who else likes unicorns? My little brother Mikey."

Mikey glances up from his Sidekick long enough to agree, "Unicorns rule."

Nell nods seriously and starts narrating the whole universe she's built around the adventures of Princess rescue and Mr. Unicorn. Gerard is using the toy to act out what he can and Mikey is paying attention and asking questions. Something inside Bob relaxes a little. He thinks this might just work.

Frank curls up next to him, watching the Way brothers play Princess Rescue, drafting Ray to be their magical flying tree. He slides his hand under Bob's hair and squeezes his neck for a second, loosening the tension hiding there before holding up his phone, "Can I tell Jamia? She was crazy worried about you."

"Oh, man. Yeah, of course." Bob thinks about Jamia for a second and winces, "Tell her I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"I know."

"No," Bob shakes his head and raises his voice a little, "You guys know, right? That I'm sorry? I just--"

Ray glances up from the serious business of being a magical flying tree, "We know, Bob."

Bob knows he should just let it drop, and not keep harping on this, but it's important they know. He opens his mouth to start again, but Frank covers his mouth with the hand not holding on to his cell phone.

"Hey, it's me...Yeah, no, Bob's back...I--No--Just--Here, you talk to him." Frank shoves his phone into Bob's hands and scoots down onto the floor to join the playgroup.

"Hello?" Bob levers himself off the couch and heads back towards the back lounge and the illusion of privacy.

You better have a damn good explanation, Bob.

"My daughter's mom was killed by a drunk driver. I had to go assume custody of her." Bob's always been of the rip-off-the-bandage school of thought.

There's a long moment of silence from Jamia. Hold on, I'm going to conference in the others so you only have to do this once.

Bob sort of loves Jamia a little bit.

There's a series of clicks and Bob hears Alicia and Lindsey and Christa all trying to ask Jamia what's going on.

Hey, shut up a second. I've got Bob on the other line.

There's another burst of noise before they all realize he can't talk over all of them. "Uh, hey. Sorry about making everyone worry. I had to go back to Chicago to pick up my daughter."

The silence drags on until Bob realizes they're waiting for more information, "Her name is Nell--Eleanor--and she'll be four on May twenty-fifth. Her, um." Bob pauses, trying to keep his voice from roughening. "Her mom died in a car accident on Sunday."

Shit, I'm sorry, Bob, Alicia says, sounding genuinely sad for him. The others make noises of agreement.

How are you holding up? Jamia asks.

Bob sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Okay so far, I guess. It's a lot to deal with all at once."

Do you need anything? Is there anything we can do to help? Christa asks.

"No, I think we've got everything covered. I hope, anyway..." There's just so much that still needs to be figured out.

Listen, Frankie's great with kids, if you need anyone to watch her for a while. He's got a million cousins and, well, he's pretty much a five-year-old most of the time himself. Bob can hear the fond smile in Jamia's voice. The others chime in to volunteer their husbands for babysitting duty.

Lindsay says, Dammit, I really wish I could come out and meet her, but I'm on fucking tour. I know Jamia's booked up for the next couple of weeks. Alicia? Christa?

Alicia's, I'm teching through the first week in May overlaps with Christa's, I can't take any more time off work, dammit.

Lindsay huffs out a frustrated breath, OK, Bob. You better be planning on spending at least a week in Jersey when the tour is done.

Two would be better, Christa says. More weekend days.

She's right. Two weeks, at least. Jamia is using her don't-fuck-with-me-voice. We have a niece to spoil.

"You don't have to--"

Don't even think about finishing that sentence. Alicia's don't-fuck-with-me-voice is also pretty impressive. We're giving you a get out of jail free card on the yelling and hitting.

"Right. Okay. Two weeks." Bob knows a good deal when he hears one.

He spends another few minutes assuring them that he and Nell are doing as well as can be expected and when he hangs up, he feels a little lighter. He's just sitting on the couch again when the bus door opens and Worm comes up the stairs. Nell glances up at the newcomer and looks back to Bob when the sheer size of him becomes obvious.

Worm has his arms full of grocery bags and says, "I saw you when you got here and figured you'd need some stuff. I wasn't sure about allergies, so I avoided the big eight, but there's plenty of stuff for the discerning palate."

God, Bob loves his band.



Part Two
Part Three

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