Archive of Our Own

2011: January

Bry feels weirdly calm. She's on her knees in a shitty diner bathroom, puking up her breakfast for the fifth morning in a row and all she can think is oh.

Which is about when Lindsey walks in. "Oh shit, what's up? Bad eggs?"

Bry wipes her mouth on her hand and stands up on knees that shake a little. "Bad condom," she says and waits for Lindsey to get it.

"Shit," Lindsey breathes, leaning her ass against a washbasin and folding her arms across her stomach. "Are you okay?"

Bry nods. The water from the faucet tastes like shit but it's better than how her mouth tastes. She sticks her face under and swallows a couple of big mouthfuls. "I'm pretty good," she tells Lindsey then makes a face at her hollowed out reflection.

"What about the dad?" Lindsey asks, opening her purse and handing Bry a couple of wet wipes. Bry wipes her face and tidies up the places where her eyeliner has smudged down her cheeks.

"Haven't told him." She scrapes her hair back into a messy ponytail and smiles at Lindsey's reflection. "You're the only one who knows."

Lindsey's reflection smiles back at her. "I'm gonna hug you," she warns Bry. "It's gonna be totally girly, sorry."

Bry laughs, curling her hands around Lindsey's wrists when Lindsey's arms wrap around her from behind, hands splaying out across her still-flat stomach.

"How's he gonna take it?" Lindsey asks quietly.

Bry shrugs. She feels her cheeks heat and watches them go tellingly pink. "It's Bob, so, you know."

"Wait what?" Lindsey asks, letting her arms drop and pulling Bry around so they're facing each other. "Bob Bob?"

Bry nods. "The Bobest of them all," she says solemnly.

"Jesus Christ." Lindsey's smile reappears, growing scarily fast. "Oh my god, you and Bob."

"Hey, don't." Bry holds her hand up in warning. "It's not a thing, okay. We just, you know, fuck sometimes."

"You and Bob," Lindsey repeats, all fake-saccharine and dreamy and Bry smacks her with her own purse.

Bry and Lindsey make their way back out into the diner, where the guys and Worm are wallowing in early morning cups of coffee.

Bob looks up at her, blinking sleepily. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Frank pipes up, "You were gone forever."

"Oh, Frankie," Lindsey says, patting the top of Frank's head. "You only wish you knew what girls get up to in the bathroom together."

"Yeah, I do," Frank agrees, grinning.

Bry rolls her eyes. Her stomach still feels delicate and she doesn't think she wants to sit around smelling all this grease, even for the fun of teasing Frank. "Okay, I gotta head back," she says, pointing over her shoulder at the bus.

Lindsey squeezes her hip and Bry smiles, tweaking one of Lindsey's braids.

"Bry?" Bob calls when she's on her way out the diner; she knows she didn't answer when he asked if she was okay. She turns in the doorway and waves to him, lifting her lips in an almost-grin before she escapes.

They have three buses on this tour. The Baby Bus for Gerard, Lindsey and Bandit, the Non-Way Bus for Bob and Ray and the Oh-God-They're-Going-To-Kill-Themselves Bus for Frank and Mikey.

Bry has been riding on the Non-Way Bus and it's blessedly cool and empty when she opens the door. She pours herself a long glass of orange juice, looks longingly toward her bunk then gets to work at the kitchen table.

After ten minutes of staring blankly at her organiser, Bry stands up, shakes herself and takes a walk around the kitchen.

Okay so she's pregnant. It's… not exactly a part of her life plan.

She'd like to give herself a day to freak out but she doesn't have that kind of time. They're three weeks into the tour for the new album; she's out with them for another three days and then she's flying out to catch up with Drive By. She doesn't have time to sit down and think about this and she sure as fuck doesn't have time to be pregnant.

Possibly she should have thought about that before she and Bob fucked with the only condom left at the bottom of his holdall - one that had probably been there since back when they started fucking for fuck's sake.

Her phone rings and she latches onto that, pushing everything else out of her head.

It was coming up on dark, still hot and sticky from the day, and Detroit was glimmering dully down below. There was a Nirvana tape in Bry's walkman and she was almost content.

The crunch of gravel and raised voices behind her told Bry that other kids had arrived to take their turns at the skate ramps some unknown someone had set up way back when. She'd been here all day, had no plans to leave unless the cops came by to clear them out again.

Bry dropped her board, kicked off and practised flips while she waited her turn. She knew a lot of the kids here but they knew better than to talk to her when she had her headphones on. She liked that about being out here; no one tried to get her to talk.

"Hey!" someone called out and Bry looked up with everyone else in time to watch one of the senior boys, Chris something showing off on the lip like he was fucking Neil Blender or someone. He ended with a Jolly Mambo, skidded at the very end of the fakie and had to jump off and twist around not to land on his ass. He got a couple of laughs but mostly appreciation. Bry's knees itched to have a go.

She pulled her headphones down around her neck and scrambled to the top of the ramp.

"Yo," one of the boys with Chris said, nodding to Bry. She rolled her board up in greeting and launched herself down the ramp, not trying anything fancy just wiping the cobwebs off her brain with the rush of air through her ears.

They were still waiting for her when she got back to the top and it just wasn't physically possible for Bry to back down from a challenge, even a silent one, especially not from boys who'd tried to see if they could fit her in a locker last year when she'd been a sophomore at their school. She'd punched Chris in the nose and it hadn't directly led to the whole expulsion thing but it probably hadn't helped.

There were tricks that Bry tried when she was alone and tricks she did in front of other people. The first set were way more likely to end up with her on her ass than the second; embarrassing herself in front of other people was not high on her list of priorities. Today though, she was feeling feisty.

"Watch this," she tossed over her shoulder and ollied over the side rail at an angle into an overcrook grind before dropping off into a hurricane, trying it frontside on a whim.

She ended up on her ass. It still felt fucking awesome though and she was laughing when she rolled up onto her feet.

"Not bad," someone said, handing over her board. It was Chris.

Bry shrugged. "Yeah, thanks," she said, hoping she wasn't blushing. He might be an asshole, sure, but he was fucking good skater.

"Yo, Schechter." It was Chris's friend again, the one who'd nodded to her. "Heard you're in Catholic school now."

Bry lifted her chin. "S'right," she agreed. If he asked to see her uniform he was getting cockpunched.

He grinned cheekily and she swapped her board to under her left arm, fist already clenching when headlights swept through the park and everyone looked up, startled, even as shoulders dropped and kids groaned.

"Fucking police," Chris said, "Be seeing you."

"Sure whatever," Bry threw back, already stepping back into the shadows. They weren't doing anything wrong, technically, but the cops liked to hassle them and Bry did not need any more trouble from her parents at the moment.

She half-tripped over a kid, a boy, no taller than her, going in the opposite direction and grabbed his arm. "Wrong way," she hissed, not sure why she was bothering, and pulled him along with her.

"Um," the kid said but he kept pace until they were away from the park and down into the old graveyard, leaning against the mausoleum wall to catch their breaths.

The boy was panting. "Thanks," he said, "Fuck."

Bry shrugged and shook her head. "Don't thank me."

He smiled kind of uncertainly. Bry groaned inwardly; he had the look of a boy who thought he should be nice to her, because she had tits and that was what his momma had always taught him. "That was scary?" he tried.

Bry laughed, trying not to act like she was laughing at him even though she kind of was. "That? Seriously? That was fun." The kid was looking at her like she was crazy so she added, defensively. "When the hell does anything ever happen around here, huh? At least when we piss off the cops, something happens."

She pulled a half pack of her mom's cigarettes out of the back pocket of her cargo pants and shook one out before offering it to the kid. He shook his head, no.

"Is it safe to go home yet, do you think?" the boy asked her, looking around nervously like he thought he was in fucking Blade Runner or something.

"Sure," Bry told him because if he wanted to be melodramatic who was she to stop him? People had to make their own excitement around here. "But you be careful, okay? Don't let the cops spot you or they'll know where you live."

The boy nodded seriously and crept away with a furtive right-left-right. Bry thought about him creeping all the way home, jumping at shadows and tried to feel bad about it. She couldn't.

The summer was dragging on worse than normal that year.

Bry had been working for local promoters since she was a freshman. There were always bands looking for kids to hand out their fliers and in return they'd sneak her into gigs, theirs and other peoples', so she spent her nights watching shitty bands she didn't enjoy and a couple of great bands she could barely hear over the run-down clubs' falling apart sound systems.

She was too young to drink and small enough that she looked it, no matter how much make-up she let her friend Crys cake onto her, but however bad the music the dancing and the lack of beer was, it beat out staying at home and listening to her parents scream at each other.

Bry found out the name of the kid from the skate park. Lee. He was a year younger than her, didn't sneak out, didn't drink beer and skated because he liked it rather than because everyone else did it.

As August continued to stretch out endlessly and Bry found herself falling off her skateboard more and more just because the scrape of gravel and the flash of blood across her palms were the only things that seemed to wake her brain up, her parents told her they were getting divorced, her dad moved out, her mom cried nightly.

The day she found out her dad had been cheating, had a kid on the way, Bry went to the park, dragged Lee under the ramp and unbuckled both their pants.

Lee was a good boy, better than her, and he asked her things like was she sure, did she want to wait, was she okay, was he hurting her, until she had to stick her fingers in his mouth just to shut him up. They fucked in the cold, shadowy darkness under the most broken of the ramps that night and every night after for the rest of the summer.

By the time school started, Bry's mom was pulling triple shifts and barely able to get out of bed when she was home.

Bry's older brother was away at college so it was up to her to make breakfast for her kid brother and sister, to make some attempt at cleaning the house when the dust got so thick that her mom would run her fingers through it and sigh, and to answer the phone when her grandparents called and lie and tell them everything was fine.

Nothing was fine and Bry was starting to live for the day she could get out of there.

Crys had been Bry's best friend since grade school. She played drums and base guitar in a queercore band of college kids.

They were easily Bry's favourite band at the moment, not just because they let Bry hang out in their practice space even though the most musical thing she could manage was to play was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on her kid brother's recorder.

Bry was curled up on a ratty sofa in the corner, reading ahead in her history text book, looking for sex scandals, while Crys and Shelly noodled in the background when their guitarist, Jack, slammed into the room, hands flailing and already mid-rant.

"What's up?" Bry asked, having learned early on that it was a good idea to interrupt him before he became shrill enough to hurt.

Jack looked over at Crys and Shelley, looked back at Bry, then dropped down on the floor next to Bry's seat. "Those fucking bastards at The Pit," he said, earnestly - the way he said everything. Bry nodded. Those Fucking Bastards at the Pit were well known to everyone on the scene. "They pulled our gig."

"What?" asked Bry, sitting up straight. The band was due to be playing in five days; they'd been rehearsing for months. "No, what? That's fucked up."

"It really is." Crys came over and sat on the arm of Bry's chair. Bry squeezed her knee; she knew how excited Crys had been. "Why?"

Jack shrugged. "We're not what they're looking for."

"Not what they're-?" Bry repeated, incredulous. That was totally fucked up. She thought about how hard the three of them had been working, how disappointed they all looked now and scrambled to her feet. "We'll fix it," she promised.

Bry had a knack for fixing things. Mainly by being a stubborn bitch until people let her have her own way, but whatever. It worked. Taking on the owner of the biggest club in their town was just one more challenge.

She pulled on her tallest boots, her heaviest pants and her kick-ass leather jacket, hopped the bus down the to venue and then had to stop at the front door and take a really deep breath.

She could totally do this.

She pulled up her hood, slipped on her sunglasses and marched through the club.

The main office was locked and she had to knock three times before anyone opened the door. The guy who opened it was huge. Two heads taller than her and three times as wide.

"Yeah?" he asked slowly, looking her up and down.

Bry folded her arms. "Are you in charge here?" She pitched her voice low and serious, adult hopefully. He nodded. "I need to talk to you about Sharp Eyed Kangeroo." Internally, she winced. Fuck but that was a stupid name.

The guy laughed. "Jesus, kid, are you even old enough to shave?"

Bry raised her eyebrows. And her bullshit levels. "Yeah," she drawled, hands going to her fly, "Wanna see?"

The guy's eyes went wide and he peered at her closer. "Oh fuck me, you're a girl."

Bry took her hands off her pants and folded her arms. "Well done," she said. "Now are you going to talk to me?"

He was still watching her like some kind of circus freak. She really wanted to slap him but, well, she'd promised her mom she'd stop doing that. "How old are you, fourteen?"

She bristled. No fucking way was she telling him he was only a year out. "You agreed to let them play. You're in breech of contract." Bry had done some research and watched a lot of Law and Order; hopefully she sounded like she knew what she meant.

The guy just smirked at her. "Did you see me sign a contract?" he asked, "Do you have this imaginary contract?" and she was so relieved that he was actually prepared to talk to her about this that it took her a second to realise that they were probably screwed.

"A verbal contract is legally-," she started but he just laughed and shook his head.

"It really isn't, kid," he told her and steered her very firmly out.

Back outside, Bry leaned against the wall and sighed. Fuck. Now she was going to have to do something big and she'd promised her mom no drama this year.

It turned out to be pretty easy to talk the band into plan b; Jack looked at her like she was his own personal saviour, Crys draped her legs over Bry's lap, finished drawing skulls onto her fingernails and beamed quietly. She was used to Bry's crazy plans.

They had to find a stagehand to bribe into hiding the instruments at the side of the stage and getting them tuned, but Jack solved that problem two nights previous by hooking up with one of the boys who worked weekends and then asking very nicely.

They waited until the first act had played, Crys, Jack and Shelley growing more and more impatient beside her and Bry felt like a Civil War general or a great conductor when she nodded her head and set them racing for the stage, grabbing up their instruments and starting to play before anyone thought to stop them.

Bry watched the owner going red with anger in the wings, watched Crys throw herself into her bass, listened to Shelley screaming out their song and laughed solidly for the one point five songs they managed to cling to the stage long enough to play. They pulled her up for the last point five and she was still laughing, watching the crowd mosh and dance and laugh along with her.

Lee was standing in the back corner of the club, laughing, a soda warming in his hand for her, when she finally tripped down from the stage.

"You're fantastic," he said, pressing the drink into her hand. "You're so fucking great."

Bry laughed. "That was so much fun," she told him, tipping her head back against the wall and downing her soda. Some of it spilled down her chin, dripping into the collar of her shirt but she didn't give a shit. She felt alive, her skin humming with energy like she hadn't felt in forever.

Bry didn't put in any work for her PSATs; she already knew she wouldn't be going to college. She'd gotten a bit of a reputation after that stunt at The Pit and people and bands that she'd only known in passing before had started talking to her, asking her questions she didn't know the answers to but bullshitted her way through until she went somewhere and found out the answers. It was amazing and heady and exactly what she wanted to do with her life.

So yeah, she didn't work for the tests but that didn't stop her spending ten minutes just blinking blankly at her results. They were good. Really fucking good. Holy shit.

Top two percent in the fucking country; there wasn't really much further to go with that, was there? She'd done the education thing and won and now she kind of wanted a whole different challenge.

It was pretty sweet to see the looks on the faces of a couple of her teachers though - who knew the punk ass chick who hung with the 'bad influences' from the school she'd gotten kicked out of actually had a brain under her pink and blue hair?

Sister Elsa, who Bry suspected had always sort of liked her even if none of the other Sisters did, gave Bry a smile and a pat on the back and Bry grinned brilliantly at her before running around the corner of the building, jumping in the air and pumping her fist mouthing yes!

Then she put her gameface back on, cut school and went home to tell her mom that she was done with education.

Her mom freaked, obviously. But she was too exhausted to do it vocally, so she packed Bry off to her dad's in the hope he'd have a go.

Bry thought that was a pretty shitty plan.

"No. No way on earth." Her dad actually looked up from the bouncing bundle of baby puke his new whore- sorry, wife - had popped out last month.

"You can't stop me," Bry said, pretty reasonably she thought, considering she wanted to pick one of the dirty diapers out of the hamper and crush it down on her dad's head. "This was just a courtesy call."

"Bryony," her dad said. He almost stood up, almost actually engaged her in a full-on conversation, but the baby squalled and instead he sighed and sat down. "You're not dropping out of school."

Bry watched the baby's hand curl around their dad's finger, around the new gleaming gold band that replaced the cheap, tarnished one he'd worn for her mom. "Go to hell," she said flatly and walked out.

It was kind of an empty gesture considering she didn't have a car and had to sit on her dad's front lawn for two hours until her mom could pick her up.

Her dad never came out to see if she was okay though, so that was that.

Lee didn't say anything when she told him. Just nodded and smiled a twisted up grin and said, "Well, duh. Of course you're getting out."

Bry felt kind of stupid for not realising she was breaking up with him until that moment.

Her mom cried when she packed up her bags, which made Bry feel shitty.

"I'll be gone three months," she said reasonably. It wasn't like she was moving away forever, just the length of a three month tour around the fucking country. She had to tap down on a victory bounce; the furthest she'd been before now was fucking Chicago.

"And Crys is going to drive you down?" her mom asked. Again.

"Yeah, Mom," Bry said patiently.

"And you've got an apartment lined up? Somewhere safe?"

"Safe as houses," Bry promised. "I'll call you when I can, okay?"

"You'll call me every town you stop in," her mom contradicted firmly and Bry nodded. She picked up her duffle bag and swung it over her shoulder.

"Bye, Mom!" she said brightly. Nerves suddenly welled up in her belly underneath all the excitement, but she crushed them down ruthlessly.

Her mom sniffed, blew her nose and pulled Bry into a hug. "Oh god, be careful," her mom whispered into her hair, like she was sending Bry off to war or something.

Bry smiled, readjusted her hold on her bag and got the hell out of there.

In the car, Crys turned to say something but Bry just shook her head and pointed urgently forward. "Drive," she said, "All this lying is making my head hurt."

Crys shot her a look in the rearview mirror but gunned the engine like the good friend she was. She didn't say anything until they were on the highway and then it was, "You know I really would drive you down if I could?".

Bry rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't worry about it." They were reaching the outerlimits of town and Bry clutched the handle of her bag. "Here's good," she said.

Crys slowed down but didn't look convinced. "Sure?" she asked, looking doubtfully at the near-empty stretch of road.

"Sure." Bry tapped her foot impatiently until Crys pulled up. "Millions of people drive to Chicago every day, right? One of 'em's got to give me a ride."

"And not kill you," Crys stressed, like that part of the plan might have slipped Bry's mind.

Bry grinned easily. "Yeah, that too."

"Bry," Crys started to say but Bry didn't want to hear it. Crys was someone whose opinion she actually respected; if she started saying things like don't go, this is a crazy idea, Bry might actually give into the part of her that wanted to run home, curl up in bed and not do this.

"I'll see you," Bry promised. "And when I make it, you've got to come out and let me manage you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Crys said and darted across the gear stick to kiss Bry's cheek quickly before Bry got out of the car. "For sure."

It took an hour for anyone to stop for Bry. When they did, it was a two ton guy in a twenty ton truck who leered at Bry out of his passenger-side window. "Hey, honey," he said and no, Bry thought, no.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "New York?"

The guy just looked at her for a long minute before driving on. Bry heaved a sigh of relief and sat back down on the grass verge.

It wasn't like she didn't know how to get guys to stop for her. If she popped a couple of buttons on her shirt, maybe let her hair down, she was decently hot. She wasn't going to suck anyone's cock for a ride though and she didn't even want to pretend like she was.

In the end, it was two girls in a beat-up old van who drove her half way to Chicago and a businessman in a slick suit who drove her the rest of the way. Bry was comfortable with the girls, but the guy kept shooting her looks out of the side of his eye, like he was fantasising about maybe stopping and seeing what he could get her to do, even if he didn't have to balls actually to try anything.

It had been a long day and Bry was really fucking tired but she forced her eyes to stay open and fixed on the highway ahead, one hand wrapped around the pepper spray in her pants pocket, not trusting what might happen if she let her guard down.

Chicago was fantastic. She sat on the L going nowhere the whole of her first day there, listening to tapes on her walkman and watching people watching her.

A woman she'd met back in Detroit had offered her a job selling merch on a three month tour with a couple of bands Bry had never heard of and she'd set Bry up in a hostel for a couple of nights until they were ready to leave.

Bry got off the train at Navy Pier, bought herself some cotton candy and rode the ferris wheel for hours, feeling the same sense of freedom and fresh air as she did when she skated.

She grinned, took a bite of pink candy and breathed deeply. She could so totally do this.

Drive By are in the studio, which means life has less drama than when they're on the road, but it's still not drama free.

Within an hour of arriving, Bry's already had to mediate one screaming fight about a bass line while Chris sits patiently in the corner not even bothering to join in, take two phone calls from Jae's mom and go out on three Starbuck's runs.

It's on the third run that she drives past her doctor's office and - almost accidentally - finds herself parking and walking inside.

"Congratulations," her doctor says. There's the tiniest bit of rising intonation in her voice and Bry wonders what kind of vibes she's giving off that make that not a foregone conclusion.

Bry shrugs. "Not exactly," she says. "But thanks."

The doctor's smile gets smaller but it also looks more genuine. Bry appreciates that. "Let's go through your options," she says.

Bry nods.

When Bry was twenty-two she had an abortion. The dad was a scene guy she was casually seeing and neither of them were in any place where they could raise a kid. She doesn't regret it; she's never really wanted to be a mom. But.

She's not sure where it's coming from, but this time there's definitely a but. She's older now and while she's definitely not ready to settle down, she thinks she might be ready for another challenge.

"Thanks," she tells the doctor at the end of her appointment. "I'm pretty sure I'm keeping it."

Okay then. It looks like she's keeping it.

Bry catches up with My Chem on the Sunday afternoon, an hour before soundcheck. She's completely exhausted and all she wants to do is sleep but she can't even let herself lie down on the giant bed in the hotel room they've saved for her.

"Where are they?" she asks Cortez when she bumps into him waiting for an elevator. She wants to lean her head against the wall, which is mirrored and cool-looking, but instead she pulls her shoulders back and tries to stand up straight. She skipped lunch and now she's lightheaded. Awesome.

"Downstairs," Matt tells her. He frowns down at her. "You okay?"

"Sure," she says, shrugging easily. "Fucking tired."

Matt grins. "You should have been here last night. Par-tay, dude."

Bry groans. "Awesome. Am I gonna get billed for anything valuable?"

It's Matt's turn to shrug. "Probably not," he says thoughtfully which is nowhere near comforting. It does distract her from how much she wants to lie down, though.

Matt directs her to a private room with a pool table and a lot of - really tempting - sofas then wanders off to wherever he was heading before.

"Hey," Frank says, looking up when Bry comes in. He's the only one in the room but Bry doesn't worry - so much - about this band when she can't see them, not as much as she used to anyway.

"Yo," Bry says, hearing the tiredness in her voice. "Where are the others?"

Frank takes another mouthful of the burger he's eating and ticks names off his fingers, talking around his food. Bry's stomach turns over. "Bob's on the phone with his mom. Gee and Lindsey are fucking. Mikey found someone with a puppy and Ray's making sure he doesn't steal it." He grins up at her. "I'm not supposed to know where MSI are, right?"

"Right," Bry says and tries not to look at the sauce on his teeth. She's never been squeamish; pregnancy sucks.

"What no thanks?" Frank asks, pouting.

Bry sighs and flops down on the sofa opposite Frank. "Thank you, Frankie," she says.

Frank shrugs. "Want?" he asks, holding out the unchewed half of his burger.

Bry gets a whiff of onions and fake meat and, "Urgh, get that away from me," she says, covering her mouth with her hand.

Frank's expression turns evil and Bry groans inside. She should never have let him know he's gotten to her that easily; she's not a rookie at Frank Iero.

He leans forward and pushes the burger up under her nose, following her back across the sofa with it and oh, god, here she goes again. She pushes Frank's arm and Frank's stupid burger out of her way and grabs the first thing she can find to puke in.

It's a trashcan thank god, though it'd serve Frank right if it were his shoe.

"Um," Frank says, hovering, when she stops for breath. He pauses, hesitates then asks, "You're not hungover are you?"

Brian's head snaps up. "I swear to god, Iero, if I could stand right now I would punch you in the fucking face."

"Sorry!" Frank scrunches his mouth up apologetically. "But you look kind of hungover."

Fuck. It's on the tip of her tongue to shout at him that she's kind of pregnant, but she's not going to tell Bob's friends before she tells him. "Ate something bad on the plane," she lies then has to turn back to the trashcan for another round of heaving.

When her stomach has finally calmed the hell down, Frank is still biting his lip and still hovering.

"What?" she snaps, irritable. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and thinks longingly about her mouthwash.

"Sorry," Frank says, kneeling down beside her. His hand flutters around her elbow before finally settling down to squeeze. "I didn't mean-."

She rolls her eyes but she feels bad for snapping at him and bad for lying to him. "It's fine, Frankie."
He lets go of her and leans back. "Go get cleaned up," he tells her awkwardly, "I'll sort this out."

Bry wants to argue because cleaning up puke is kind of her job but she doesn't.

"Thank you," she makes herself say and Frank smiles.

It's dark when Bry wakes up. She curses and rolls off the bed. She needs to get a grip on this; there's no way she can afford to be this useless for the next eight months.

She's more clear-headed now, more awake, and she really needs to find Bob.

There's a quiet knock on her door and she wonders if that's what woke her in the first place. "Hang on," she calls and goes to check her reflection in the mirror. She's sleep-flushed and her hair's a fucking mess but she doesn't look sick so that's okay.

The knocking happens again. "Hang the fuck on," she snaps, crossing the room. "What?"

It's Bob.

"Oh, hi," Bry says. She finds her hand half way up to flattening down her hair and forces it back down and into her hoodie pocket.

Bob's eyes scan over her assessingly. "Frank said you weren't feeling good," he says gruffly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Bry says slowly. "Come in."

Bob comes into the room and Bry shuts the door behind him. She wishes she wasn't half dressed, that she at least had her shoes on so she could look him in the eye without tipping her head back like a fucking penguin. She wishes Bob wasn't rumpled and sweaty and that the hair on the back of his neck wasn't starting to curl-

"Shit, did I miss the show?"

- that he didn't look exactly the way that got her into this situation in the first place.

"Yeah," Bob says, definitely frowning now. "That's why I came to check you were still alive."

Bry makes herself smile but it feels cracked on her face. She takes a deep breath and shit, she never gets nervous normally.

"Bry?" Bob asks carefully.

Bry hates being coddled. "Sit down," she says, waving him toward the bed. Bob sits. "Okay," Bry says, "So here's the thing-."

Bob looks up at her, all blue eyes and soft, shaggy blond hair. Bry feels suddenly way more than nervous. She and Bob aren't the romance of the century or anything - they're not actually any romance; they just fuck - but he is her best friend. He better not freak out about this.

"Okay, so I'm knocked up," Bry says bluntly.

There's a seriously long pause. Bry puts her hands on her hips and forces herself to keep looking steadily at Bob. Bob looks like he's been hit in the face with a lump of concrete. He stands up.

"Shit," Bob says and Bry grimaces, waiting to see what the next word is. Assuming he manages another word. She hadn't realised that she'd been counting on him being… if not pleased then supportive, until right now. "Um." The rubs his palm over his chin, a nervous habit. "Who's the dad?"

It takes Bry a beat to process that she's actually heard that. Then she draws back her hand and punches him in the jaw.

Bob's pretty solid and Bry is tiny but Bob still rocks back a couple of steps into the bed which fills Bry with a righteous sort of glee.

"Who the fuck do you think is the dad?" she snaps. "The mailman? Worm? The concierge at that hotel we stayed at last month where, oh yeah, I fucked you, no one else."

Bob brings a hand up to his jaw and stares at her with huge, blue eyes. "Christ," he says. "Did you have to hit so hard?"

She puts her hands on her hips. "Did you have to be so stupid?"

The next day, Bry doesn't see Bob until he comes looking for her after the show. He's got an angry purple bruise on his jaw that she feels bad about if not exactly sorry.

"Anyone else know?" is the first thing he asks.

She shrugs, shoving her hands in her pockets. They're between the venue and the bus and it's fucking freezing out here. " Lindsey. No one else."

Bob makes a face. "Yeah I thought so. I think she would have hit me if it wasn't really obvious you already had."

She shrugs again; she doesn't know what he wants her to say. "You gonna smoke?" she asks. She hopes he isn't seeing as how she can't.

Bob makes a frustrated sound. "Of course I'm fucking not."

Bry doesn't look at him. She shivers and pulls her shoulders up to her ears.

"Christ," Bob mutters under his breath and takes off his jacket, offering it to her.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not weak just because I'm knocked up, Bryar."

Bob grabs her hand, pushes the jacket into it. "I don't think you're weak," he snaps, crossly, "I think you're cold. You would have taken it last week, so take it now."

Bry blushes and pulls on the jacket. She's normally the more logical one. "You being bossy doesn't turn me on," she tells Bob sullenly.

There's a beat and then Bob laughs. When she looks up at him, startled, he's grinning at her. "Lucky we have different kinks then, huh?" is all he says.

She pulls the zipper up to her chin and glares. "Are you calling me bossy?"

He holds up his hands and gives her his most innocent look. It's not convincing.

Bob drags her off the bus as soon as they stop at the next venue and takes her to the nearest Starbucks.

"Coffee?" Bry asks hopefully. She can't find a book or a website that agrees on whether or not she can have caffeine so she's been drinking Gerard's fancy teas and getting increasingly cranky.

"Hmm," Bob tells her, leaving her to find them somewhere to sit while he gets in line.

He comes back carrying two mugs overflowing with whipped cream and Bry makes a face. Hot chocolate is awesome but it isn't coffee. Bob just rolls his eyes and hands her one of the mugs. "Just drink it," he says.

Bry takes a sip, getting cream over her fingers and looks up sharply. "Mocha?" she asks.

Bob grins. "I called my mom. She says coffee's fine as long as you don't drink shit loads."

"Bob Bryar, I love you-," Bry says fervently, licking away the cream so she can get to the sweet, sweet coffee. Then the caffeine kicks in. "Wait. You told your mom?" Shit, Bry really likes Bob's mom.

Bob licks cream off his lipring and Bry tries not to suck on her own in response. She fails. "I didn't tell her why I was asking," he says, "I figured you wanted to keep this on the downlow for now."

Bry should probably feel bad about the swoop of relief in her belly when she hears that. "Okay," she says, "Thanks."

Bob doesn't say anything. Bry doesn't say anything else. She pulls her feet up onto the sofa under her and glares at the pink-haired barista when he looks like he might object.

"Okay," Bry says eventually. "Did you ask me out just to look at me?"

Bob's eyebrows draw together. "I figured we needed to talk." Bry snorts and he asks, "What?"

Bry shakes her head. "You want to talk about your feelings, Bryar?"

"Fuck you," Bob says comfortably. An old lady walking past them gives him a sharp look. Bry laughs into her coffee.

"Okay," Bry says, feeling her laughter dry up. "So we're having a kid."

Bob's fingers clench around his mug. "We are?" he asks.

It takes Bry a second to get what he's asking. She scrapes a bit of dried chocolate off the rim of her mug. "I'm keeping it," she says quietly.

Bob doesn't say anything. When Bry peeks up from under her eyelashes, he's very still.

Bry bites her lip. Fuck. It's not like she was expecting Bob to move in and raise the baby with her or anything but she was kind of hoping he'd be supportive; he always supports her. Besides, Bob's a soft-hearted guy underneath it all and she'd put money on him wanting kids.

Of course, that doesn't mean he wants them with her.

"No pressure on you, okay?" she says quickly. "You can have as little as you want to do with all this." Fuck, she's pathetic but she doesn't want Bob to stop being her friend because of this. That would suck way too hard to bear.

That gets Bob vocal again. "You think I could have a kid and not be part of its life?" he asks, frowning like he's worried she might really think that.

Bry shakes her head. "I just want you to know that I'm not expecting anything from you. This is my body and my decision and-."

"Right," Bob says, interrupting. "I get it."

He sounds off and Bry uncurls one leg and pokes her toes against his knee. "Bryar?" she asks.

Bob rubs his thumb against the rim of his mug, concentrating on that and not on her. "I said I get it."

Good, Bry thinks. Because that's good, right? "Good," she says. She makes it half a question but Bob doesn't correct her. "Good," she says again, more decisively.

1992

Tour life was half exactly what Bry had expected it to be and half completely different.

She was selling merch for the headlining band who were really not the greatest band of all time but were all pretty nice guys, good to a sixteen year old girl who was away from home for the first time. The tour manager was a shit and didn't give a damn that Bry was underage as long as she did her job and didn't get in the way.

Selling merch was not exactly difficult and it didn't give her much to do every day before the fans arrived. She wasn't the only girl on the tour but most of the rest seemed to be the girlfriends of someone in a band and she didn't want to be associated with that; she was here to kick start her own dream not get tied to anyone already living theirs.

She was hanging around backstage at the latest venue, drawing skulls on the back of her hand and thinking about Crys when one of the techs caught her eye. Bry had seen her before, tuning guitars and necking beers with a couple of other techs; she had one full sleeve of tattoos and a cluster of three piercings in her cheek.

"Hi," Bry said, getting up and moving over to a closer crate, careful still to keep out of the way. "I'm Bry."

The girl looked her up and down and smiled distantly. "That's nice," she said. "I'm Zoe and I'm busy." It didn't sound like she was trying to be unfriendly, just like she really was busy.

Bry jumped up. "Can I help?"

This time Zoe didn't even both to look at her. "Can you lift boxes?" She didn't wait for Bry to reply before she was shoving a box of - shit, bricks? metric ton weights? - into Bry's hands.

Bry held back a grunt as her knees tried to buckle but she just tightened her arms, hefted the box further up her chest and followed where Zoe was leading.

They got the equipment moved and set up in a couple of hours and Bry felt sweat drying fucking everywhere all over her body. The stage looked ready for the opening band though and she had helped do that. It was a great feeling.

"Who are you?" Zoe asked, handing over a bottle of water and a lit cigarette. Bry took both and grinned her thanks.

"Bry Schechter," she said again.

"Yeah sure." Zoe nodded. "But who d'you belong to? Are you someone's kid or girlfriend or what?"

Bry bristled immediately, feeling vaguely disappointed but mostly angry. "I don't belong to anyone," she said fiercely.

Zoe laughed for a second then looked at Bry thoughtfully. "Oh shit," she said with another laugh. "You're another one, aren't you?"

"Another one of what?" Bry asked, still prepared to get pissed if need-be.

"On of us," Zoe said. "You're doing this because you want to be here for good, right?"

"Yeah?" Bry said warily. She didn't think that was that weird.

"Shit, kid," Zoe said, "You've picked a hard life for yourself."

Bry shrugged. "So?"

"So nothing," Zoe said but she was smiling properly at Bry now, almost fondly.

Bry didn't really get what Zoe meant for a long time. Sure, tour life was hard but it was also excellent. She was good at what she was paid for but she was better when Zoe let her help out with stagehand stuff. She was busy all the time and she was doing shit with music, which was all she'd ever wanted, really.

Then three weeks before the end of the tour, Bry overheard a couple of venue security guards talking trash to Laurie, the opening act for the last shows. She had an unusual act, just her and her drumkit but she was pretty good and anyway, that wasn't the point.

The point was that Bry honestly could not sit around listening to them being assholes and not say anything about it.

"The fuck?" Bry demanded, storming up to where Asshole Security Guy One was leaning in and tweaking one of Laurie's blonde braids, laughing when she slapped his hands away and asking if she was a dyke.

Asshole Security Guy Two looked up at Bry and snorted. "Uh-oh," he said, all faux-terror that made Bry want to punch him. "Think this one heard you calling for dykes."

Bry gave him the finger. "Laurie, you okay?" she asked, ignoring Asshole One.

Laurie nodded and tossed her hair. "Fine," she said but her eyes were scared and Bry's blood boiled up.

"Mark wants to see you," she lied, getting a hand behind Laurie and pushing her out of the corner those assholes had pressed her into. "Come on."

Laurie's fingers found Bry's sleeve, gripping tight, as they stepped away together and as much as Bry really wanted to kick some ass, she was just congratulating herself for negotiating this like a adult when someone, Asshole One or Asshole Two, pinched her on the ass.

Bry shook off Laurie's fingers and turned around so fast that Asshole Two didn't even get a hand up to stop her before she slapped him.

"Fucking bitch," he snarled, eyes going wide then narrow and angry.

"Keep your hands to yourself unless you want to lose them," Bry snapped at him, which was something she'd said a lot in her lifetime and rolled off her tongue easily.

He caught both her wrists in one hand, grinding the bones together and Bry had a long second to think fuck before there was someone else there, pulling Asshole One's hand away from her and shoving him back one step then another.

Bry looked up to see one of their security people glaring over her head with a fixed, angry expression. He didn't look much older than her, a Thundercats t-shirt stretching across his chest over puppy fat that was slowly turning into muscle.

"Finished?" he asked. Assholes One and Two looked mutinous but walked away.

"Thank you," Laurie said immediately, touching their guy's arm.

"I was handling it," Bry heard herself say even though she knew she should be saying thanks as well. It was just so fucking galling to stand up for herself over and over and have it do not good.

The guy nodded. "You were handling it good," he agreed and Bry looked close but she didn't see any mockery. "Just thought I'd lend a hand."

"Right." Bry drew herself up to her full height. "Thanks then."

That earned her a grin. "No problem," he said. "Bry, right? And Laurie?"

Laurie nodded. "Yeah,"

He held out a hand. "I'm Worm." Bry snorted but Worm just grinned wider, showing his teeth. "Like your name's any better, little girl."

Bry tried her very best to bristle at that but he was so obviously teasing that she couldn't. "Fuck you," she said easily. "You know anywhere around here we can get coffee?"

"Sure," Worm said, "Long as you're buying."

"Oh fuck you," Bry said again but she didn't really care.

After that, Bry wasn't sure if Worm was around a lot more or if she was just noticing him more. There was nothing she could call him on; it wasn't like he was stalking her or anything. He was just there.

When a guy hit on her at an afterparty and she couldn't shake him off, Worm would suddenly loomed up behind her and asked her something totally innocuous until the guy was gone. And when Bry got into fights - mostly word fights now, not fist fights; she really was growing up - she was always distantly aware of her Worm-shaped shadow silently backing her up.

It was part way comforting and part way infuriating.

"Stop it," she snapped at last, when she'd turned around five times in the last hour and found Worm within a twenty-foot radius every time.

"Stop what?" Worm asked blankly. "You stop it."

Bry grit her teeth. "I don't need a bodyguard," she said.

Worm snorted. "Yeah, you really fucking do," he said. "I've never known a girl to get in as much shit as you do."

Bry put her hands on her hips. "I swear to god I will bitch slap you if you don't leave me alone."

"Okay," Worm said slowly, frowning like she'd actually offended him or something. "Whatever." He turned on his heel, stalking off and Bry found herself feeling kind of bad.

"Okay, so I could have been nicer earlier," she said later on, passing Worm a can of stolen beer.

Worm took the beer and fiddled with the ring pull. "I wasn't trying to be creepy," he said at last.

Bry grinned into her own beer. "Shit, I know that," she said. She never felt uncomfortable in Worm's presence, just annoyed. "Just. I don't need looking after. I'm not a little girl."

"You're the youngest person on tour," Worm said, holding a hand up before she could protest, "And yeah, I'm not much older and shouldn't be here either, I know. Nothing wrong with us two sticking together, is there?"

Bry thought about it. "I'm not going to sleep with you," she said finally.

Worm choked on his beer. "I should fucking hope not," he told her. He ducked his head, cheeks going red. "Anyway, I'm sleeping with Laurie."

"Yeah?" Bry asked, surprised. She elbowed him. "Awesome." She hoped he could hear the thanks and the sorry and the appreciation that she meant to say but didn't know the words for.

He looked up at her and elbowed her back. "Yeah," he agreed, "She is," and that was that.

2011: March

Bry isn't stupid and being pregnant hasn't made her blind so she knows that she's said something to make Bob, not exactly mad at her more like disappointed but she doesn't understand what.

Having Bob pissed at her is making an already bad couple of weeks even worse. She's tired all the time and she can't seem to keep her temper. When she hears herself snap at Mikey, she knows it's time to give herself a timeout.

"Well," Bob says, appearing out of nowhere and pushing a water bottle across the table toward her. "The good news is that no one's guessed you're pregnant."

Bry winces and fiddles with the seal on the bottle. "What's the bad news?" she asks eventually.

"Gee and Ray are worried you're using again."

Bry's head jerks up so fast, she almost cricks her neck. She can feel her eyes go wide and knows how startled and open she looks; that was about the only thing Bob could have said to her that she wouldn't have a glib answer for.

Bob scoots around the table and squeezes the back of her neck. "Dude, you don't think maybe it's time to tell them?"

Bry shakes her head. "Not yet," she says. She can't really put it into words, but none of this feels real yet. She's kind of feeling her way through this one step at a time and she'd like to be sure she knows what she's doing before she gets anyone else involved.

She is glad Bob knows though and she reaches up impulsively, putting her hand over Bob's where it's still resting on her neck. Bob ruffles the shorn sides of her hair, where it's growing out of an ill-advised buzz.

"Ready to go back in?" he asks her.

"Fuck, no," Bry says but she drags herself back inside anyway.

Everyone looks up, wearing various expressions ranging from wariness to concern and she puts her hands on her hips. "Guys," she says to Gerard and Ray, and Frank for good measure, "I'm not on anything, okay?" Gerard smiles and Ray nods like he never really thought she was. "And Mikeyway? I'm sorry."

Mikey unfolds his legs and tugs her down onto the sofa beside him. He keeps his fingers around her wrist and she doesn't shake him off; when Mikey touches anyone, it's at least fifty percent because he needs the contact himself. "Are you okay?" he asks really quietly, so quietly the others probably don't hear.

"Yeah," she whispers back, feeling bad for lying. "I just haven't been feeling so great."

Somehow, everyone hears that and she spends days after having to put up with a lot of fairly socially inept guys trying - and failing - to cure her of a magical, mystery ailment.

Bry grits her teeth and works to keep her temper in check and her fist out of Bob's smirking teeth.

Somewhere outside Minnesota, Bry's doctor calls and starts talking about sonograms.

"Wait, what?" Bry asks. It turns out she has to have one. After that little surprise, Bry goes out and stealth-buys all the pregnancy books she can find. She hates not knowing what to expect.

"Are you sure you don't want anyone to go with you?" Lindsey asks; her eyes fixed on her bass while she tunes it rather than on Bry.

Bry shrugs and leans back on her elbows, staring up at the pipes criss-crossing the venue ceiling. She's grateful for the ambiguousness of Lindsey's 'anyone'. "What's the point? I'm just gonna be lying down, right?"

"Sure but-." Lindsey stops. When she looks up, she's smiling. "But it's up to you."

Bry knows that Lindsey thinks she's doing this pregnancy thing wrong, that she should be asking for help and getting everyone involved, but she's grateful that Lindsey isn't actually saying that. "Damn right it is," Bry says mildly.

Bry's baby is basically a blob. It possibly has a tail or tiny horns or something. Bry squints at it and tries to think baby really hard, but it doesn't make much of a difference.

"Would you like to see if we can hear the heartbeat?" the technician asks.

"Already?" Bry asks, not looking away from her blob. Her pregnancy guides say it normally takes longer than this.

The tech clucks her tongue. "Let's see, shall we?" She presses a couple of buttons, taps a screen and then, very faintly, Bry can hear a heartbeat. It's soft, like Bob practising one line over and over in the middle of the night when he's trying to be quiet.

Bry swallows hard. "That's it?" she asks then clears her throat, embarrassed by the thickness of her voice.

"That's it."

"Okay." Bry's heart is beating too fast; her eyes are stinging. "Can you turn it off now please?"

Bry is still feeling jittery when she makes it back to the venue. She sees Lindsey and Kitty across the room and wonders how many cool points she'd lose if she went over there and asked for a damn hug already while none of the guys are around to see. Girls do that, she's pretty sure.

She steps through the doorway just as a burst of static screams across the room, latching onto her already shaky nerves and making her jump.

"Shit," Bry snaps, making a grab for her folder and missing. It hits the ground with a slap of paper and pops open, spilling the contents everywhere. "Shit."

The floor is cold under her knees and she curses again for no real reason. She's not enjoying today.

A shadow falls over her and someone laughs softly. Bob, great. "That was clutzy," Bob says, kneeling down beside her and helping her pick shit up.

Bry tries to laugh but it won't come. "Yeah, don't," she says. "Not today."

Bob hands her a sheaf of papers but catches her hand before she can pull them away. "You okay?" he asks.

Bry swallows. "Sure," she says. Bob's thumb strokes carefully over the back of her wrist, his expression worried and she has to snatch her arm away because it's too much right now.

Slowly, Bob turns back to collect up more of Bry's papers and then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees him get even slower. "What's this?" Bob asks. His tone is clipped, approaching angry and Bry looks up, startled.

Bob's holding her sonogram picture.

"Oh that's-." Bry feels suddenly, irrationally guilty. "That is 2.3 inches of foetus, Bryar," she says glibly.

Bob's fingers clench around the picture and Bry reaches out to take it away from him. Bob ignores her, straightening it out himself. His thumb strokes over the creases he's made in the corner, smoothing them away. "Didn't you-," he asks, keeping his eyes on the picture. "For fuck's sake, Schechter, didn't you think I might want to come?"

"What for?" Bry asks automatically then realises that was kind of an assholish thing to say.

Bob throws the picture at her and stands up. "Fuck," he snaps and Bry scrambles to her feet as well. "You know what," Bob tells her in his quietest, most serious voice. "I'm not okay with this. This is my kid too; I'm not okay with being frozen out."

Bry is vaguely aware of the door opening behind her, the sounds of the rest of My Chem spilling in, but all she can really hear is the buzzing in her ears. "I am not freezing you out. Bob, what the fuck?"

Bob folds his arms. He's all flushed and puffed-up with anger. "Your body and your decision and your kid, you said."

Bry gapes at him. "I never," she says, waving her hands to try to convey that he is a crazy person. "I never said my kid. Fuck's sake, Bob, this is our kid."

"Yeah well so far my only contribution has been an orgasm four months ago."

And okay, that's it. Bry is having a shitty day and she loses it. "Oh I'm sorry, would you like more of a role? Would you like the morning sickness or the backache or the stomach cramps or the peeing every ten seconds? Take your pick."

Bob's expression breaks a little, losing some of his anger. Fuck that, she doesn't want that. "Sit down, Bry." Bob tugs on her hand and it just makes her madder.

"Let go of me," she snaps and slaps his hand away. Everyone is looking at them. She can feel eyes on her. Fuck it, Bob can explain if he wants but she just doesn't care right now. She turns on her heel, marching away before she really makes a scene.

Gerard finds her three minutes later. Her toes really hurt from kicking that wall.

"What are you looking at?" she asks, glaring up at him from her place on the floor.

He sits down next to her. "A pregnant lady beating up a wall?" he suggests and she doesn't mean to smile but it sort of happens.

"You got it," she agrees. She sighs, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Sorry, I was going to tell you."

Gerard bounces on his toes. "I'm very hurt that you didn't," he says but he's smiling.

Bry sighs. "Was I just like the biggest bitch of all time?" She doesn't think she was, but sometimes Gerard sees things in ways she doesn't.

"Nah." Gerard shakes his head. "Lindsey's yelling at Bob. He was kind of bitchy too." She doesn't say anything and he tips his head and lays it on her shoulder. "I was so excited when Lindsey told me she was pregnant," he says quietly.

Bry turns her face into Gerard's hair. "Yeah?" she asks.

He picks up her hand and starts to trace the edge of her tattoo sleeve. "Then I got really scared."

"Why?" Bry asks quietly. She's pretty sure she knows.

Gerard snorts. "Like, I couldn't reliably take care of myself and now I had to take care of a kid? Yeah, that was pretty scary."

"You had Lindsey though. You knew you guys were going to be a family."

Gerard lifts his head enough to stare at her with his big, sincere eyes. "Bob is stubborn, you know that. But I bet you he'd like to be part of your baby's life."

Bry snorts. "Yeah?"

Gerard shrugs. "If I'm wrong, you can come live with us. It'd be awesome. We could start like, a commune."

Bry closes her eyes and leans her head against Gerard's. "You just want the free love," she says and smirks at his instant denials.

Gerard kisses her nose. "We all love you lots," he says earnestly.

Bry closes her eyes. "I know," she promises, hoping that's an end to it. Gerard never shuts up when she wants him to though.

"You need to talk to Bob."

"I know," Bry sighs. "Fuck, I know."

Bry finds Bob pretty much where she left him. He's moved over to the stage and is sitting there, swinging his leg and staring moodily into space.

"Hey," she says, hoisting herself up to sit next to him.

He doesn't say anything for a minute and she decides to be the bigger person. "I'm sorry okay." She scoots closer. "I didn't know you'd want to come," she tells him.

He doesn't look at her. "Yeah, you did."

There's not much she can say to that. It's pretty obvious now, what with hindsight being a bitch and all, that obviously Bob would like to be there for the first glimpse of his kid. But still. "How the fuck was I supposed to know?" she asks calmly; she's too tired to yell. "You've been avoiding me."

That gets Bob looking at her. "I was giving you space," he says.

Bry waves a tired hand in a carry on motion. He doesn't. "Did I ask you for space?" she asks. She didn't; no more that she normally asks for.

"You told me there was no pressure on me," Bob says.

Bry shakes her head. "And there isn't. But there isn't any pressure on you to stay away either, okay? You have to pick one way or the other. But if you want to be part of this process then I-." She wants to say that she'll be totally cool with that, but she knows it's not exactly true. She's never been good at sharing herself and that's probably not going to change. She can try though. "So, do you?"

Bob draws a slow breath in and Bry holds her breath as she waits. "Yeah," he says, "I do."

They sit quietly for a while. Bob's good at quiet; it's the first thing that made Bry start seeking him out, back when he was new to the tour, fresh and so young-looking that she felt like Mrs Robinson every time they screwed.

Bry feels suddenly, unbelievably homesick for their friendship. She reaches between them and touches his wrist. She's not very good at affection but he must get the message because he holds her hand and doesn't let go until it's My Chem's turn for soundcheck.

The Used were the first really big challenge Bry had as a tour manager. They were worth it in the end but it took her a long time to stop wanting to punch them in the face and see that.

"Bryacinth," Bert sang, wrapping his arms around her neck. "Bryonica. Bryctoria."

His breath stank of booze and Bry shoved him off. He landed on his ass, still sniggering.

"Get up," Bry snapped. "You're four fucking hours late, asshole. We're supposed to be on the road now."

Bert flopped pitifully over onto his belly and pushed his hair out of his face to grin at her, showing all his teeth. "Aw, sugar, don't be mad," he crooned, grabbing her ankle then her knee then her belt to pull himself up.

His hand wound up on her crotch and she snarled, not in the mood to give him any leeway right now.

"Sorry, sorry," he slurred, "Hand slipped."

"Right," Bry said shortly and shoved him toward the bus. Branden met them in the doorway, rolled his eyes and pulled Bert inside.

"Fucker," he said and threw Bert at Quinn.

Bry slumped against the doorway, just for a minute, not sure if she was more angry or relieved; not being able to find your fucking singer for most of a day, including the time at which you were supposed to be leaving the fucking state was no joke.

When she opened her eyes, Branden was looking at her. "What?" she asked tiredly. Branden just looked for another minute then shrugged and sloped off.

Bry let her head bang against the wall and muttered, "Fuck," quietly to herself. She knew she didn't have good enough control over this band; she didn't need anyone's silently accusing stares rubbing it in.

She made her way to the front to tell the driver they could finally get moving, then she steeled herself and march into the back lounge. Bert was curled up around Quinn, foot between his thighs, nose in his ear, like the clingy fucking spidermokey that he was.

"Uh-oh," Quinn sing-songed, poking Bert in the knee. "You're in trouble."

Bert burped and hid his face behind his hair. He wasn't as cute as he - or, Quinn apparently - thought he was.

"You know what?" Bry said, exhausted, "I don't give a fuck if you want to drink yourselves to death, okay? But as long as you're still alive, I expect you to be where I say, when I say it."

"Where I say, when I say it," Quinn echoed solemnly, nodding and poking Bert in time with the words.

"Where I say, when I say it," Bert giggled then again and again, pitch rising higher each time.

Bry just watched them, feeling her energy for this bullshit seeping away. She never backed down from a fight, but this wasn't a fight, this was an impossibility.

She slammed out of the room, shut herself behind the curtain of her bunk and slammed her palm in the slats above, over and over, until she was sure she wouldn't cry.

They arrived at the venue late (obviously. Though not as late as they should have and she bought the driver a coffee and an ice cream as a thank you for that). Bry had plenty of things to occupy herself with so she didn't look too obviously like she was avoiding her band.

When she got back on the bus in the mid-afternoon, everything was silent. Bry tensed, expecting a trick but Jepha just raised his eyebrows and pointed at the doorway over the bunkroom where someone had stuck two pieces of cheap printer paper side by side to make a sign.

SILENCE, MOTHERFUCKERS! it said in large, careful capital letters.

"Bert," Jepha whispered. "Quinn's got a migraine."

"And Bert's taking care of him?" This Bry had to see. She slunk quietly up to the door and peered around it until she could see inside.

Quinn's bunk was in shadow but Bry could see Bert kneeling on the floor with his head on Quinn's pillow, murmuring words in surprisingly soothing tones and pressing something that looked like a damp cloth to- well, the majority of Quinn's face, but Bry guessed he was aiming for his forehead.

Jesus. Bry blinked and rubbed her eyes, but the picture stayed the same.

Bert McCracken being sweet. Who knew?

Bert's eyes were soft and serious and he was talking quietly, touching Quinn's hair awkwardly but clearly sincerely.

"Thanks," Quinn whispered and Bert's smile was a little bit heartbreaking to see.

Bry crept away silently.

When Bert left Quinn to sleep, Bry cornered him. "Okay," she said, "Now I know you're not actually an asshole, this is how it's going to be."

"Okay," Bert said, he sounded tired and he didn't bother to make any cracks while she laid down the law.

Now that she was looking, now she wasn't just looking at the stereotype (which was a trait she hated in other people), she could see just how in need of some kind of friendly bullying he was, someone with his best interests at heart to keep him in line. So she gave him some new rules, what she would and would not put up with.

When she was done, Bert smiled at her, a little bit cheeky and a little bit shy. "Can I have a hug?" he asked.

"Uh," Bry said, thrown. "Sure." She grabbed his hands before leaning into to hug him carefully. "Touch my tits and die, McCracken."

He giggled into her shoulder and waited a whole fifty seconds before trying to lick her cleavage.

"When we get to Seattle I'm gonna disappear for a night, okay? So don't freak out."

Bry looked up at Jeph, almost surprised; they were waiting around backstage and he'd been so quiet that she'd almost forgotten he was in the room with her.

"Yeah?" she asked, trying not to sound too interested. Jepha was pretty private and didn't tend to talk much to her.

"Catching up with a friend," he told her, smiling in a lazy, private way that told her what kind of a friend. "Sometimes you just got to get it out of your system, you know?"

"Sure," Bry said, even though she hadn't gotten laid in so long she was half-convinced her virginity must have grown back.

Jepha looked at her for a long time. "I could probably find someone for you too," he said, "Just say the word, sweets."

Bry was tempted for maybe half a second. "No thanks," she said easily.

"What, don't you like sex?" Jepha asked at, great, exactly the moment Quinn stumbled out of the bunk room, followed by Bert.

"Who doesn't like sex?" Bert asked. He paused in the doorway to spend a couple of minutes scratching his ass, sniffed his hand thoughtfully then ambled over to the sink to rinse his fingers.

"Bryony," Jepha told him even though Bry was trying to kill him with her brain.

"That's because you haven't had the right man yet," Quinn said with a lazy thrust of his hips.

Bert giggled. "Or woman," he said, making kissy faces at Bry.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she smirked then pulled her hood up over her head so they wouldn't see her smile.

By the time they left the venue, there was a line of fans waiting for them; Worm winked at her over the tops of their heads and she grinned back. Yep, they were totally doing something right, this tour.

"Okay, guys, one picture each," she said, stopping at the end of the line. It was Branden and Quinn tonight; Jepha had gone off to meet his friend and Bert was either too wasted or too hung over to be presented in public - Bry didn't know which. Despite what he might think, she wasn't his fucking mom.

They worked their way down the line, getting closer to the bus and freedom and a chance for Bry to sit down when Branden skidded to a stop in front of one particular girl, eyes bugging out for a second before he cleared his throat and shot Bry a look.

Bry worked her way closer and only just stopped herself rolling her eyes in the face of a girl who had her shirt pulled up and no noticeable bra, do me now, scrawled across her tits.

"Jesus," Bry sighed. Putting a hand on Branden's arm, pulling him along. Branden was about the least likely of the guys to take that girl up on her offer but still, that kid couldn't have been more than fifteen and Bry was not a big fan of getting sued.

Sometimes, Bry just wanted to sit down girls like that and tell them to go home. She wanted to tell them that guys in bands were assholes; they'd fuck you but forget your name in the morning. Except that wasn't totally fair, not really.

She remembered being that age, going to shows because the music helped her forget everything else going on in her life and gave her a safe space to scream out her issues. Besides, for every girl who wanted to do a band boy, there was one who wanted to be in a band and, for that, Bry would never try to close down the lines.

2011: April

It's dark, it's quiet, Ray has gone to bed and Bob and Bry are sharing the sofa in the back lounge. This is pretty much exactly the kind of time when usually they'd be fucking and she wants to, she still really wants to. It's not a good idea though.

Bry looks up and Bob's looking at her; the way his eyes darken tells her that he's thinking along the same lines she is.

"We're not going to fuck," she tells him and he jolts, cheeks flushing.

"Did I say I wanted to?" he asks, lifting his chin in that way that he has when he's embarrassed about being embarrassed.

She kicks out her legs across his lap and stares him down until he slips off her heels to rub her arches. "Okay, look." His thumb presses exactly where her shoes have been killing her all day and she breathes out a groan. Why exactly is she not having sex with him? Oh, right. "It's probably a good idea if we stick to just being friends from now on."

Bob presses down extra hard between her toes and she'd complain except that feels awesome. "Right?" he asks, "You think so?"

She shrugs. "I just think it'd give the baby more stability."

"Right. Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." He doesn't look upset but he doesn't exactly look pleased either. She guesses on some level that's flattering.

"Come on," she says, digging her toes into his thigh. He carefully but firmly removes her foot. "Don't look like I'm giving you a death sentence, dude. There are plenty of other girls who'd kill for a piece of Bryar action. None of them are as hot as me obviously, but."

Bob laughs, grudgingly but it's still a laugh. "But definitely friends?" he says.

She sits up and puts her head on his shoulder. It's the kind of move she'd normally make on Mikey not Bob and maybe that's the point. "Friends."

One of the main reasons why Bry believes she can do this baby thing is how well Gerard and Lindsey have taken to it. The two of them have adapted brilliantly to being on the road with their kid.

If Bry had known five years ago that she'd ever look to Gerard Way as her child-rearing role model, she'd have laughed herself sick. Or possibly cried. But the truth is that he's a good dad.

Mikey, also, is a total surprise; he's a pretty fantastic uncle. Bry is hanging out with Mikey and Bandit, pretending like she knows anything about kids beyond what she's read in books and picked up from accidentally winding up as this one's godmother.

She's kind of at a loss when Bandit holds out a red, plastic spoon.

Bry frowns, not totally sure what Bandit wants her to do with it. Feed her, maybe?

Mikey coughs. "It's a present," he tells Bry and great, now she feels stupid.

"Right," she says then bends awkwardly to take the spoon from Bandit. It's damp with saliva at one end and something she doesn't want to identify at the other. Just what she always wanted. "Thank you, sweetie," she says, brushing her palm over Bandit's dark hair.

Bandit babbles something in her soft little voice and Mikey gets a listening expression on his face and drops down on his knees to hear her better. When Mikey looks back up at Bry, he's grinning. "She says it's for your baby, Auntie Bry."

Bry has no idea how he can understand what she's saying. It must be a Way thing. "Oh," she says awkwardly. "Thank you." She feels honest-to-god tears sting her eyes and looks away, laughing at herself.

When Mikey stands up, he's got Bandit tucked against his hip. She bats against the "Way" of his Mikey Fuckin' Way shirt - the U of Fuckin' now starred out to make it niece-appropriate.

"You're good with her," Bry tells him, smiling.

Mikey shrugs. "She's Gee's kid. I don't think I could be bad with her."

"You better be careful," Bry says, trying to sound like a tiny kid hasn't completely thrown her for a loop, "I'm going to make you chief babysitter for this one too."

"Sure," Mikey hums, totally failing to rise to her bait. "I wouldn't care. I like kids."

"Aw," Bry says, reaching up to pinch Mikey's cheek. He flails at her one-handed, ducking out of the way. Bry laughs and tries not to worry that she doesn't like kids, not really. She's hoping that that'll just kind of come when it's her own.

It's one of those afternoons when everything goes wrong and everyone pitches in when and where they can. Bry has spent the last hour or so lifting boxes and she's loading her seventh amp when a soft, low-level ache twinges in her belly. It's nothing major, but it reminds her that she should maybe take a break. Still, she reaches for the eighth, not wanting to fall behind. She lifts it to knee height then lets go, gasping at a shooting fucking pain that leaves her doubled over, gasping for breath.

"Bry?" there's a tech - Jay? Joe? - at her elbow, helping her upright. "You okay?"

She shakes her head. Her stomach hurts. Oh god. "Can you, um?" She takes a deep breath. Freaking out would be bad. "Can you find someone?" She means Bob, fuck but she wants Bob.

Jay/Joe is still hovering. "Are you hurt? Seriously, are you okay?"

She's just about to really yell at him when Worm is just magically there. "What happened?" he asks, slipping his huge hand around Bry's waist. Bry doesn't know if she needs the help or not; there's panic clawing at her insides.

Joe/Jay sounds confused, which is fair she knows; the local crew don't know about the pregnancy yet. Worm's arms tightens around her. "Okay," he says, sounding cool and in charge which is Bry's role dammit. "Jay, do you have a car?"

"Yeah," he says slowly.

"Give me the keys. And then I want you to find Bob Bryar and tell him to meet Bry and me at the hospital. Okay? Can you do that?"

"You want my car-?"

"Give me the fucking keys," Worm says sweetly and Jay must do because Bry blinks and she's sliding into the passenger side of a pretty sweet GTO.

"It's going to be fine," Worm says, putting the car into drive then reaching over to squeeze Bry's knee.

Bry nods. She spreads her hands out over her belly and wishes she felt half as confident.

2002

Back in Utah, about to start another tour, they took on new people. Bry proved herself pretty well on the last tour - mostly by not killing anyone, she thought - so she had total control over the hiring and firing this time.

It was awesome.

The first thing she did was score them a new sound tech right out from under the grabby hands of a half dozen other tours. This guy was the shit, she'd been told, and she wanted the best.

Still, Bry didn't actually get to meet him until they were packing up to leave. She was half-lost behind a wall of boxes, clipboard tucked over her arm, checking off shit like amps, batteries, condoms and juice boxes because she knew what a tour needed now and they were going to have the best stocked tour of all time.

"Hello?" called a voice from somewhere behind her box wall and Bry turned around, looking for the voice, knocked her elbow into a crate and sent it skidding off the edge.

"Fuck," she said, grabbing for it but missing. She didn't know what was in it, but chances were it was breakable.

"Whoops," said that same voice and then the box stopped falling, and a big, blond guy appeared holding it.

"Thanks," Bry said, automatically snatching the box back and putting it back on the pile. "Don't you know better than to creep up on people who can't see you?"

The guy smiled, apparently not bothered. "I do," he agreed and held out his hand. "Bob Bryar. You're Bry, right?"

Bob Bryar? Bry ran through her mental list of names until she hit on his. Fuck, the sound tech. "Yeah. Yes, hi." She took his hand, squeezed it firmly. "Sorry. You caught me at a bad time." She stopped, grinning ruefully. "Expect to be doing that until the tour's over, okay?"

Bob nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked kind of awkward. Not exactly shy but like he wasn't quite sure where to put himself. "You need any help?"

Bry needed help from people who knew what they were doing, not guys who just wanted to help. She shook her head. "I'm good," she said. "But thanks." She turned to the next crate, checking it off her list then hefting it up into the back of the van.

"Seriously, I'm not doing anything else. Sure you don't want any help?" Bob's voice asked from behind her and she rolled her eyes; god save her from chivalrous men.

"I'm sure," she said then forced herself to smile when she turned around. "Dude, you need to go claim yourself a bunk before we get moving. They'll land you with the shittiest one otherwise."

Bob hesitated and Bry knew she'd scored. He looked like the kind of guy who would appreciate somewhere decent to sleep. "Go," she emphasised, flapping a hand. He went.

Over the years, Bry had gotten used to having Worm as a silent shadow, so it took her a while to notice that she'd gained another one.

"Here," Bob said to her after the second night of the tour. He was holding out a beer and a take out box toward her.

"Please tell me those are both for me," she said, putting down her cell phone where she'd been sorting out her organiser.

"Yup," Bob said and bopped her lightly on the head with the take out carton before handing them both over and sitting down beside her. "You didn't get any dinner tonight."

Bry narrowed her eyes at him. "How'd you know?" she asked. She hardly ever remembered to go down early and grab some food before the ravening hoards of artists descended. Apparently Bob had learned quicker than her.

"Because I'm a creepy stalker," Bob said dryly, then ruined it by waggling his eyebrows.

Bry snorted into her beer and offered him some take out. Chinese; her favourite.

Bob picked up a couple pieces of duck and stuck them in his mouth, licking his fingers clean. "What were you doing?" he asked, nodding to her cell and the organisers surrounding her.

"Working out hotels," she told him. She took another long swallow of beer. Fuck but she was tired. "This is a fucking big tour; inevitably someone ends up sleeping in the bathtub."

Bob winced. "Comfortable," he said. He stole some more duck, not stopping until Bry wrapped him on the knuckles with her chopsticks. "Anything I can do?"

It was on the tip of Bry's tongue to tell him no; she liked to do everything herself, that way she knew it was done right. She felt bad about always turning down Bob's help though.

"See this list," she said, dragging her eyes half open to point to the right clipboard. "Can you go through and check I've got contact names and numbers for all of them?"

"Just that?" Bob asked.

Bry grinned at him. "Trust me. It's a help." She closed her eyes again and focused on the comfortable buzz of beer at the back of her brain and the lift of a weight from her shoulders.

Bry got used to Bob being around during their down time, bringing her food and helping her out with little things while she ate and she was okay with that, that was something she was comfortable with. She should have predicted that things weren't going to stay that easy.

Bry was giving the soundtechs a hand setting up the outdoor stage for later that day, shifting around a speaker when it was unexpectedly lifted out of her arms.

She stumbled. "The hell?" she asked, looking up to see Bob with the speaker held firmly under his arm. "I can do that myself."

Bob shrugged, not looking bothered. "Sure." He turned away, still carrying the speaker. "Over here, yeah?"

"Yes," Bry snapped, "No." She followed after him, frustrated.

Bob put down the speaker and frowned at her. "What's the problem? I don't have anything else to do."

Fuck, Bry thought, she should have seen this coming. "The problem is that it isn't your job. I'm not paying you to be my fucking…" She searches around for a word. "Lackey."

"Dude," Bob says, leaning against the speaker. "It's not your job either. Besides, this thing weighs more than you do. D'you see me trying to lift shit that weighs more than me? That's just asking for a fucked up back."

Bry opened her mouth to argue, blinked, and closed it again. "Come over here," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to one side. When they had a little privacy, she lowered her voice. "No, okay? No."

Bob scratched the back of his neck. It was obvious he didn't get it. "No?" he repeated.

"This is the biggest tour I've done, okay? The biggest chance I've had to prove myself. I'm still on shaky ground with some people and I cannot be seen to be doing anything less than a guy tour manager would do."

"No, hey," Bob said, shaking his head, "I wasn't trying to help because you're a girl."

Yeah, Bry believed that; Bob was kind of clueless not chauvinistic. "I know that," she said, "And you know that, but we're not the only people on this tour. Okay?"

Bob sighed. "Yeah, okay. I get it." He knuckled his forehead looking frustrated. "I'll fuck off and mind my own business, yeah?"

Internally, Bry breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah." Before he turned away, she touched his arm. "Feel free to bring me beer tonight though, okay?"

Bob snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sure, then you want me," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, cry me a river," Bry called over her shoulder, heading back for the next speaker.

The first time they fucked, they were drunk.

It felt to Bry as if it were happening in a series of shutter slides. One minute they were doing shots at the back of a run down little bar, celebrating a motel night and the halfway point of the tour then she blinked again and they were kissing; blinked and Bob's mouth was still on hers but they were in her room; blinked and her hands were freeing his cock from his jeans; blinked and Bob was pulling open her shirt, ripping buttons in his hurry; blinked and they were naked and he was holding her up against the wall and sucking on her nipples.

"Shit," Bry muttered, hooking her right leg more securely around Bob's hips. She could feel her cunt sliding wetly against his thigh and she shuddered. Her head was spinning and this was such a bad idea but god she wanted it. "Bryar, fuck, c'mon on."

Bob growled against her chest and bit lightly at the skin below her nipple before lifting his head. "What?" he asked. His pale skin was flushed drunk and his bottom lip was bleeding slightly; she wondered when she'd bitten it.

"Fuck," she breathed again. "Condoms? Do you have condoms?"

Bob breathed out against her throat, sweaty skin pressed against sweaty skin for a drawn-out moment before he set her down so her feet could touch the floor and pushed off from the wall. She leaned back and watched his ass and the play of muscles in his thighs and along the top of his shoulders as he turned away from her and started to root around in his duffle.

"Wall or bed?" he asked, straightening up. She shook her head; she didn't care. She just wanted him inside her.

"Now," she said instead of an answer, though she guessed it was a good enough answer because he laughed and made his way back to her, stumbling slightly over air on his way.

Bry caught him by the shoulder when he was close enough, pulled him closer. "You're drunk," she said, feeling part way between amused and his mother.

Bob grinned at her. "So are you," he said, then frowned, shaking his head and blinking. "Wait. Are you too-?"

Bry rolled her eyes. "I'm plenty sober enough to know what I want, Bryar. Are you?"

Bob didn't answer her in words, just pushed her up against the wall again and bent his head to kiss her really fucking dirtily. Bry wrapped her arms around Bob's neck and did her best to give as good as he was giving her. She sucked hard on his tongue, noticing this time when she bit his lower lip by the coppery taste of blood.

"Ow," Bob said, wiping his mouth across the back of his hand and smearing a bright line of blood to the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry?" Bry said, but she wasn't and she didn't sound it.

Bob just grinned at her. "Bed," he said and started pushing her along the wall. The bathroom doorway loomed up behind her back and she stumbled back through it, laughing and shaking her head.

"Bed's the other way, Bryar," she told him but what the hell. There was a counter behind her ass now and this was as good a place as any, especially with Bob boosting her up onto it and crowding between her knees. She brought her legs up so the toes of one foot were curved over the edge of the counter, her other foot ending up in the washbasin, the mirror cold behind her back.

Bob stopped for a second, standing over her and looking down. She wondered how she looked and then, almost like the world was shifting to answer her questions, Bob kicked the bathroom door closed behind them and she could see them both, exposed in the long mirror running down the inside of the door.

Bry blinked, trying to get her eyes to focus, curious. Most of their reflection was taken up by Bob's broad, bare back and tight ass but she could see herself too, messy hair and smudged make up, naked and flushed, legs loose and spread. Bry tipped her head back until she could barely see them anymore then glanced up at Bob through her eyelashes.

"This is your engraved fucking invitation," she told him, running her fingers down past the tattoo most people didn't know about and down over her clit.

"Oh god," Bob breathed and then he was fumbling on the condom, fingers shaking enough that Bry watched him carefully to check he didn't rip it. He didn't. And then he was pushing her legs further apart, pressing inside of her and Bry arched all the way back until her hair stuck slickly to the mirror at her back and the ceiling lights were going blurry in front of her eyes while Bob practiced a few initial, shallow strokes.

Bry wrapped her legs around Bob's back, pulling him in tighter and groaned out, "Fuck me."

"Harder?" Bob asked, shoving back into her. She nodded. "Harder?" Bob asked again, and he was really fucking her now, hands promising bruises on her hips.

"Harder," Bry gritted out between her feet. Her elbow skidded on the damp counter and she reached behind herself, hands slipping on the mirror as she pushed herself out to meet Bob's thrusts.

"Jesus," Bob said, "You're fucking demanding, you know that right?" He was panting and groaning above her and Bry didn't think it was a criticism.

"I know," she promised. "I know, I-." Bob pressed his thumb down roughly on her clit and she broke off from what she was saying with a greedy moan. "Bob, Bob, Bob," she said instead and everything about the way Bob reacted to that told her that he liked it. "Bob," she said again and he swore loudly and jerked inside her, coming.

Disappointed, Bry flopped down onto the counter, letting Bob sag against her for a minute before she kicked him off and stood up on seriously shaky legs. "Thanks for that," she said archly, raising her eyebrows.

Bob was flushed pink from his belly button to his hairline and his eyes were foggy with postcoital sleepiness but he still managed pretty well at rolling them.

"Did I say I was finished?" he asked and pushed three fingers into her cunt.

"Mm," she managed, scrambling back up onto the counter and holding her legs open to give him room. Bob leaned over her, kissing her lazily while he finger fucked her, rubbing rhythmically over her clit with his thumb on every other thrust.

Bry felt hot all over, orgasm building through her thighs and her belly; her nipples were rock hard and she pinched them between her own fingers, rolling them, groping her breasts until Bob knocked one of her hands away with his free hand and took over.

"Okay?" he asked her, "Can you come like this?"

Bry could so easily come from this, she was about ten seconds from doing so, but she was curious. "What other tricks you got, if I can't?" she asked. In answer, Bob let go of her tit and folded down onto his knees instead. He had to tilt his head up to reach her and she let her legs flop down over his back, weight supported mostly by his hands cupping her ass while he ate her out.

"Fuck, fuck," she swore and then she couldn't string it out any longer, coming hard enough that the world, already tilting lazily, threatened to flip all the way over.

Bob was leaning back against the opposite wall by the time she managed to get herself together enough to sit up. He'd gotten rid of the condom somewhere and his cock was half hard in a nest of pale blond hair. He was a bit too soft around the middle to be totally built but he looked good, strong and solid and awesomely muscled across his chest and arms, a drummer's body, Bry thought appreciatively, letting herself think for just one minute what a shame it was that this couldn't happen again.

In the morning, Bry was more appalled at herself for having stayed the night in Bob's bed than she was for having fucked him in the first place. And she was pretty appalled at herself for having fucked him.

Bry was always professional, always. Fucking a guy who worked for you was really unprofessional. Especially, when he could easily go out the next morning and tell everyone else who worked for you all about it.

"Oh fuck," Bry groaned, cradling her aching skull in her hands. "This absolutely cannot happen again."

"Why not?" Bob asked her, pressing a glass of water into her hands. His eyes were red and bloodshot in his pale face. He didn't sound like he was whining, just like he was curious. Bry boggled at him; it made her feel nauseous so she stopped.

"Because I'm your boss, Bryar," she snapped. She'd finished the water and now she needed caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine. The room swayed in a way that told her she wasn't fully sober yet, when she climbed out of bed and headed for the coffee table.

Bob caught up with her at the coffee machine and took the jug away from her. Her hands shook; she thought it was pretty unfair that his didn't. "Yeah, you're my boss," Bob agreed, "But that was great sex."

She rolled her eyes. "Nice to know you're thinking with your cock," she told him, sitting up on the side table and watching Bob make them coffee.

"So that's a no then?" Bob asked. He filled a mug with the first of the coffee and passed it over to her. His hands closed around hers until he was sure she had hold of the mug and Bry didn't let herself react to the touch.

"It's a no," she agreed and tried not to sound like she wished it wasn't.

The second time was, if anything, even worse of an idea than the first. They weren't even drunk.

Bob had been cranky all fucking week and Bry was getting sick of it. She didn't want to admit that she'd gotten used to having a friend, someone to hang out with who didn't try to look down her top or treat her like the enemy because she was in charge, but yeah. She'd gotten used to having a Bob.

They'd recovered pretty well from their night of sex-related stupidity and Bry was reasonably confident that Bob hadn't even mentioned it to anyone. Certainly, no one had hinted to her that they knew so that was - almost - good enough.

"Bobert," Bry said, coming to stand in front of Bob where he was slouching behind the van, smoking. "What's up?"

Bob twitched and frowned at her, pulling his hat down to cover more of his eyes. "Don't call me that," he said crossly.

Bry rolled her eyes. "Sorry. C'mon, dude, what's wrong?"

Bob waved his cigarette her way. His foot was tapping out an agitated beat on the grass.

He didn't answer so she clicked her fingers under his nose. "Bob?"

Bob blinked, looking up at her. "What? Nothing."

Bry frowned. She didn't actually know how to wheedle; she'd never really needed to. Normally people just told her shit or she thought fuck them and didn't worry about it. Bob wasn't someone she could just leave when he was clearly upset though; he was too important to the tour.

"I'll buy you a beer if you tell me," she said and at least that got him to laugh.

"I swear to god, Schechter, I'm fine," he promised. "Just tired."

"Okay," Bry said, not convinced. They smoked in silence for a while before Bry realised that Bob was shifting around like he had sudden onset ADD or something. She lifted her head, about to ask what was wrong when he noticed where he was looking. She was wearing a short skirt today over heavy panty hose and Bob was looking at the place where her skirt was stretched across her thighs, his knuckles going white as his fingers clenched into fists.

She swallowed hard, her pulse picking up speed. She forced herself to laugh. "Seriously, Bryar? You're being this much of a bitch because you're horny?"

Bob jumped, eyes snapping up to her face. "What? No."

It was easier for Bry to laugh this time; he just looked so caught. It was kind of sweet actually.

Bob's eyes narrowed and it occurred to her that yeah, she probably shouldn't be laughing at him. "Fuck you," he muttered and stomped off.

Bry watched him go, frowning but still kind of amused. She'd never seen Bob get mad before.

She bumped into Bob three hours later when she went looking for Branden and found Bob at his kit, beating the shit out of the drums. She stopped in the doorway, impressed. He was good. Very angry apparently, but good.

"Bryar," she said, stepping forward when he broke a stick and had to stop a second to grab a new one. "You can't turn into an asshole just because you're not getting laid, dude."

Bob stood up and came around the drum kit. Bry stood her ground; she wasn't scared of Bob. "Who says?" he asked, getting up in her face.

Bry took a deep breath so she didn't slap him out of it. "I say. You need to find yourself someone to fuck because you're no use to me right now."

"Are you offering?" he asked and there was something nasty in his voice. Something mean and un-Bob-like.

"Asshole," she said and shoved him. Bob didn't budge, so she shoved him again. He stumbled, catching himself on the cymbals with a curse.

"Ow fuck," he muttered, holding up his palm where a line of blood was welling up.

"Idiot," Bry snapped, catching his hand between hers. It wasn't bleeding much, just a graze and she pressed her mouth to the thin line of blood before she'd thought it through, smacking a kiss there in an angry imitation of a mom's kiss.

Bob's breath caught and then his hands were in her hair, dragging her head up and leaning down to kiss her.

She shoved him again but she was kissing him back and she kept kissing him and kept shoving him until they hit the wall. Bob was hard against Bry's stomach, catching and releasing her hair in carefully controlled frustration and Bry thought fuck it and got down on her knees.

Bob swore, sounding surprised then swore again when she kissed his cock, clumsy and hard, through the thick material of his jeans. He fumbled his pants open for her but didn't try anything else after he'd pulled out his cock, didn't try to direct her mouth or touch her head or anything so Bry took her time, teasing him before she sucked him down.

They didn't have much time to waste; someone would come through here soon enough so Bry didn't worry about technique, just went for a fast, hard blowjob, lots of tongue and suction, a little bit of teeth because she was getting the feeling that Bob liked it harder than he knew he did.

It only took a couple of minutes until Bob was muttering incomprehensibly, punctuating wordless vowel sounds with curses, his thighs going tense under her hands and his cock growing thicker in her throat, and Bry had to wonder exactly how long he'd been walking around like this, unfucked and horny.

She pulled back, scraped her teeth deliberately over the head of his cock and smirked when he started to come, finishing him off with her hand and catching his jizz in her palm.

"Oh Jesus," Bob said weakly, sliding down the wall in a spent puddle of limbs and limp muscles.

Bry looked at her spunk covered hand for a long minute before grabbing Bob's dark green sleeve and wiping her hand off. Bob wrinkled his nose but was apparently too comfortably fucked out to argue.

This was the point where Bry should get up and walk away. Instead, she punched him in the thigh. "Hey, that wasn't a freebie," she said pointedly, grabbing his hand and putting it on her thigh.

Bob grinned at her, the loose, easy grin she'd missed. "Hang on," he said, climbing to his feet. "Just gonna lock the door," he said, "Unless you want the guys to see me eating you out."

"Good point," Bry said and didn't mention how Bob hadn't been worried about anyone walking in while she was on her knees for him.

She had her panty hose off and her skirt up by the time he made his way back to her. He smiled at her in a way that didn't gel with an afternoon quickie. "Lie down," he said.

She smirked at him. "You lie down."

He raised his eyebrows at her, but did. Bry hiked up her skirt and straddled his chest, shifting forward on her knees and clenching her fingers in his hair to put them both in a better position. "I'm not the kind of asshole who gets pissy when I don't get laid," Bob told her with his hands sliding up her bare inner thighs.

"What kind of asshole are you then?" she asked, pulling on his hand until her was cupping her, rolling her hips appreciatively.

Bob hitched up one shoulder in a horizontal shrug. "You're hot and you're around all the time."

Bry didn't really know what to say to that, so she shut him up by sitting on his face.

After that, came the third time, the forth time, and the eleventh time. Bry still felt like she was hovering on a precipice, waiting for the day when Bob announced to the tour that he was fucking the tour manager, but it hadn't happened yet.

2011: April

An hour later, she's dressed in a stupid white hospital gown that doesn't cover her knees or her ass and sitting on the edge of a bed, waiting for someone to get back to her.

She's been poked and prodded and frowned at but no one's freaking out so Bry's doing her best not to either, but shit she feels stupid. She's been working so hard to act like nothing's different, like she can have a baby and not change one other thing she's doing and now. Shit. If she's hurt her baby by being stubborn, she's never going to forgive herself.

Bry doesn't cry, not ever, but she thinks this might be a good time to start. Her eyes are burning like they want to anyway. She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, wiping her nose on her forearm like that's going to help.

"Ms Schechter?"

Bry looks up, adrenaline spiking when she sees the doctor. He's short and balding and carrying a stack of clipboards; he looks like her ninth grade history teacher and that doesn't make her feel any better.

"Yeah?"

He smiles at her. "Good news," he says, "Your baby's fine." Bry makes a totally involuntary sound, which he kindly ignores. "Think of this as a warning to take things a little easier, all right?"

Bry can't find her voice so all she can do is nod.

"If I discharge you, do you promise me you'll rest?"

She nods. "Yeah," she says, "Yes." She wants to say thank you but it sticks in her throat with all the other words she's ever known.

The doctor nods and leaves her alone, just in time for her to give into a batch of really embarrassing sobs.

She's just catching her breath and starting to feel ridiculous when the curtain drags back again and Bob comes stumbling inside. He's pale and one look at her face makes him paler. "Oh fuck," he starts to say but she's off the bed before he can finish the thought.

"It's fine," she says, wrapping her hands around Bob's wrists. "Bob, everything's fine." Her voice comes out wobbly at the end and she swallows hard.

All the tension goes out of Bob and he stumbles a little. "Fuck," he says, "You're sure?"

She laughs. "Well unless the doctor was lying," she starts then chokes when he wraps his arms around her and the rest of her sentence gets lost against his chest. "Bob, fuck," she says, squirming but Bob only loosens his hold a little before pressing his face into her hair and holding on tight.

She knows exactly how he's feeling so she doesn't try to break away, just pats his back and mutters soothing nonsense into his collarbone. He is far too tall for her to hug comfortably in just her socks.

"Okay?" she asks eventually and he lets go, standing back and clearing his throat.

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. "Fuck, when they told me you were-." He stops, getting that look on his face like he's going to nag her so she cuts him off.

"Don't, okay. I know."

But Bob ignores her. "What the hell were you thinking?" he asks, "Jesus, Bry."

She was feeling pretty affectionate towards him a minute ago. She's not now. "I was doing my job, asshole."

Bob turns quickly, slapping his hand against the wall before turning back to glare at her. "That is not your job. Your job is to manage us not schlep boxes like a roadie."

She puts her hands on her hips, feeling ridiculously exposed in just her hospital slip. "I'm not some fucking Victorian woman going into my confinement," she snaps.

"That's not what I'm saying; I-." Bob cuts himself off, takes a breath and rolls his eyes. "How about we fight later, yeah?" he asks. "You've got make-up dripping off your nose, it's just gonna make me laugh at you if we fight now."

"Fuck off," she snaps, too tired to put much heat behind it.

"Come here," Bob says and pulls his sleeve over his thumb, wiping the bridge of her nose and then the skin under each eye.

She sniffs and tries to pull away but Bob's got a very determined arm around her. He lowers his other hand and hovers it over her belly. "Can I?" he asks.

Bry nods and squeezes her eyes shut when his hand splays flat and warm over their baby. "I could maybe slow down a little," she says quietly.

Bob squeezes her hip with his other hand. "S'all I'm asking," he says.

Bry spends the next day resting on her bunk and exchanging increasingly rude IMs with Jeff while they try to beat out a schedule they're both happy with.

He's pretty set on her not being on the road during her third trimester and she's torn between calling him an asshole and privately agreeing. It's tough being Bry; she hates giving in.

2011: May

Taking things easier doesn't mean stopping altogether and Bry can still talk even if people seem to want to stop her doing anything else. She's on the phone talking numbers with Warner. The new single is doing great and everyone's stoked but that doesn't mean that they're any more inclined to be as generous to their artists as Bry would like.

Her feet are sore and her ankles ache. She kicks off her shoes and dumps them on Bob's lap.

He lifts his eyebrows at her and she gives him the I'm carrying your spawn look that she's been perfecting. Bob gives her the finger but puts his hands around her right foot and starts to massage it, just below her toes.

It's all she can do not to purr. She's not sure how great an impression she'd make on Warner if she started purring at them. By the time she's finished her call, Bob's finished with her feet and is sliding his hands up to her knees and down again.

She won this round with Warner and she's feeling good and relaxed. She hooks her ankle around Bob's back and tugs him in closer. He lies to one side of her, hand on her hip.

"Hi," he says, smiling at her crookedly. She blames her fucked up hormones for the fact that his smile makes her all warm and cosy inside.

She leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. His eyes close and he twists his hand in her hair. "Thanks for the footrub," she says, finding herself moving back in to kiss him again even though she really, really wasn't going to do this. They'd agreed on the just friends thing.

Bob licks her bottom lip then bites it gently. "We're not doing this," he says, breaking contact.

"What?" Bry asks before his words sink in then, "No," she says, sitting back abruptly. "Right. We're not."

She goes to stand up, to put some physical space between them to match the mental space that Bob's just reminded her they're supposed to have but he catches hold of her wrist. "Stay," he says and, when she hesitates, "We can hang out without fucking, Schechter." He lifts his eyebrows meaningfully. "Unless you think you can't."

She snorts. "Right. I just can't keep my hands off your sexy bod, Bryar."

Bob grins at her. "Come the fuck here," he says, opening his arms.

"Such a fucking girl," she mumbles, scooting back across the sofa to lay her head on his shoulder. Bob's arms come up around her, safe and (almost) entirely platonic. She breathes out slowly and relaxes against his chest.

Bry doesn't remember falling asleep, but when she wakes, it's dark and the bus is moving.

She's too hot, the kind of claustrophobic she only gets when she's sleeping beside someone else, and she shifts, realising as she does so that her head is on Bob's chest and his arms are still snug around her. Someone's spread a fleecy blanket over them both. She presses her nose into it, sniffing curiously. It smells like Gerard.

Not wanting to wake Bob, Bry twists carefully, shifting her arm until the blanket falls down to her waist and she can breathe cool, bus-scented air again.

Bob's chest is moving steadily under Bry's cheek, regular and calming. Sometimes when she's stressed, he'll take her hand and count time against her wrist; this is soothing in the same way.

If Bob were awake or Bry were less exhausted and comfortable, she wouldn't be doing this. She's not good at needing, at relying on other people for comfort. Curled against Bob's chest, Bry can't help but think about the week after she came out of rehab when she and Bob spent hours in Bob's double bed, hiding from the world and not doing anything remotely less than platonic.

Bry is on the cusp of falling back to sleep when she feels something in her belly, a strange, fluttery tightness, like a wave of warm air or a marching beat behind her belly button.

It takes her a minute to realise what it was then fuck, she mouths silently, wonderingly, feeling her face split into a grin she can't control. She curls her hand over her stomach, where her bump is starting to grow, amazed by this evidence of life.

She should wake Bob, she knows that, but right now this is hers. She curls a little tighter around her baby and taps back to it, saying hi.

2006

Bry didn't realise she was self-destructing until she woke up slumped across the backseat of a bus, being shaken awake by a woman with a shopping bag.

"Miss? Are you all right?" the woman asked. "This is the last stop."

Bry dragged her eyes wider open and rubbed the heel of her hand over her mouth. Her head fucking pounded. "What?" she asked, slowly waking up, "I mean, where are we?" She didn't remember getting on a bus, couldn't think where she could have been going.

"We're at the depot." The woman was backing away from her now and Bry wasn't surprised; Bry stank bad enough that she could smell herself: cheap booze and puke and cigarettes.

She cleared her throat. "Thanks," she said, focusing on that, on being polite and calm and a proper fucking citizen rather than freaking out because she did not remember what she was doing here, where here even was.

She made it out of the bus depot and around the block before she threw up. On her hands and knees on the corner of a god knew where, wearing one shoe and pants that pressed against bruises she couldn't remember getting, rips in her favourite jacket, she closed her eyes and fought down tears.

"Fuck," she whispered to herself and wrapped her arms around her belly, falling back against the nearest wall and pressing her face against her knees. Fuck.

She'd had a day of meetings Friday and she remembered wanting to unwind after, remembered finding her stash empty and charming a couple of pills out of girl in a club but after that all she could remember was how bad she hadn't wanted to go home, how much she'd just wanted to get out of her head and then… nothing.

By some miracle, her cell phone was still in her jacket pocket and she fumbled through to the first number she found.

"Bry?" Bob answered on the first ring; he sounded strained and scared. "Bry?"

"Yeah, I-," Bry managed. Her throat hurt from all the crying she wasn't letting herself do.

Bob didn't bother to wait for her to be able to talk. "Where are you?" he asked. Yeah, definitely scared.

"What's happened?" she asked. She didn't feel much lately, but she knew she was supposed to be worried if Bob was scared; she could fake it.

Bob's laugh was brittle and horrible. "What happened? You disappeared for three fucking days," he choked.

Bry frowned and rubbed the ache between her eyebrows. "It's Saturday," she said, confused.

Bob was definitely a little bit hysterical. "It really fucking isn't," he told her.

It turned out she wasn't that far away from Gerard's so he was the one to pick her up. Bob was there by the time she stumbled out of the shower.

Her head hurt, her throat her and she wanted to be sick but there was nothing left to throw up. "I don't want to hear it," she said, pushing past Bob to get to her clothes. Bob didn't want to be moved, staying solid against her shove and she was so weak and so tired that she almost fell, only staying on her feet because Bob caught her arms.

He looked down at her for a long minute and Bry, who could always meet anyone's eye, couldn't meet his.

"Let go of me?" she asked, hating how pathetic she sounded.

"No," Bob said but he released her arms. She was confused until she realised that he'd taken her request in the metaphorical sense. She wasn't sure now that that hadn't been how she'd meant it.

Martha Grant was a giant, mountain woman kind of person. She put her hands on her hips, took away Bry's cell phone, make-up and drug addiction. In that order. The last one took a lot longer than the first two.

Bry was allowed to make one call every evening; she almost always called Bob.

She called her mom the first night but couldn't find anything to say, so they talked about the weather for Bry's allotted time and Bry never found the right time to add so hey, mom, I'm in rehab in Utah, fun huh? Martha gave Bry a look and shook her head after that call.

The next time, she called Gerard. He cried and she ended up crying and it was all a really snotty mess by the time they were finished. Weirdly, Martha seemed to approve of that one, but Bry still didn't call Gerard again.

Bob was fine. He was solid and calm and he talked about whatever she asked him to talk about or he sat in silence and breathed in her ear. In her therapy sessions, they asked if she was seeing someone and she always said no, but for the first time ever she found herself wishing she were. Not Bob specifically, but someone Bob-like. Someone she could be quiet and calm with, someone who could make her feel like maybe the whole world didn't sit on her shoulders.

When she came home, her first instinct was to fly to the band and let them know how sorry she was for nearly fucking everything up.

But they knew that. She knew they knew that. The real reason she wanted to fly to them was because she needed them and she didn't think that was very healthy.

She sat in her own apartment for three days, taking calls from the boys where they told her how recording was going and from Mikey where he didn't say much at all.

She'd gotten so used to speaking to Bob every night during rehab that it felt strange not to keep doing it, but after the third night running that she called him and he didn't answer, it didn't take long for her to realise that he was avoiding her.

"He, uh, he went home for a couple of days," Gerard told her, the first day she went into the studio and found only three fifths of her band present. "It's fine, we're still laying down guitars and-," He waved a hand around, "Things."

"You can't be without your entire rhythm section," she said, because it was easier and more grown up than why doesn't he want to see me? but she felt like a heel as soon as she said it because Gerard's face closed down, washing over with misery and worry for Mikey.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Bry said. She curled her hand under Gerard's elbow and tugged him out of the sound booth. "Is something going on I should know about?"

They'd tried to keep the Mikey thing from her while she was in rehab; the last thing she needed was for them to keep something Bob-related from her too.

Gerard shuffled, looking supremely awkward. "No?" he tried.

Bry gave him a look.

"Bob's. Bob's just." Gerard floundered for another minute then said all in a rush, "He was really worried about you."

Bry winced. "Yeah."

"No, like, really worried." Gerard bit his lip. "You know how Bob's all stoic and shit, right? Well he was really stoic while you were gone and I think he just needs some time to go and be, like, unstoic for a while."

"Unstoic?" Bry repeated, lost.

Gerard squeezed her arm. "You scared him. He's gone home to freak out."

Bry's stomach turned with something that was half guilt and half annoyance. "Oh goddamn it," she muttered, already mentally booking herself onto another flight.

The flight from LA to Chicago was hell. Bry was angsty and weirdly nervous, annoyed with Bob for not having his freak out in LA, where she could have smacked some sense into him, for not talking to her about it at all.

It was an evening flight and the people on both sides of Bry were knocking back wine. She curled her hands around the armrests and hummed to herself the whole way. Possibly they thought she was crazy, but that was okay. As long as she was sober and crazy.

"You really didn't need to chase me across the country," was the first thing Bob said to her after "Bry?" and "What?" and "Are you okay?"

Bry rolled her eyes and paced around his living room. She was convulsively picking stuff up and putting it down, looking to see if Bob's home had changed any. She felt like everyone's lives had moved on years rather than just the twenty-eight days she was away.

"If you didn't want to see me, Bryar, you could have just called me up and told me. You didn't need to run out on the band." Shit, that didn't come out how she'd meant it to.

Bob straightened up. "I didn't run out on anyone," he said. "Fuck's sake, I'm taking a couple of days, why is that so hard for you?"

"I-. Because-." Bry hated being lost for words. Except this time, she had the words. She just wasn't sure she could say them.

"What?" Bob asked, stepping closer. "Are you okay?"

Bry shook her head. "I'm sorry. I do get why you don't want to see me." She felt stupid all of a sudden. She shouldn't be here, but Bob made a jerky movement when she went to move away, like he wanted to reach for her but couldn't make himself.
Bry stopped, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, she pursed her lips and looked out towards the window. "I got used to you being there," she said, feeling stupid. "I guess I sort of expected you would be, when I got home."

"Shit," Bob said, "I'm sorry."

Bry shook her head. It was pounding all of a sudden. She sat down heavily on the sofa and after a few minutes, Bob sat down beside her. His thigh pressed warmly against hers and it had been years since he'd joined the band and they'd stopped having sex, but apparently her body still knew it was okay to relax against his.

Bob put his arm around Bry's shoulders and Bry wanted to make some kind of quip, but she couldn't. She put her head on Bob's shoulder and closed her eyes.

It was nice just hanging out in Bob's apartment. Bry knew she couldn't do it for long; they both had to get back to LA, but for a few days, she was okay with hanging out in Bob's bed all day, watching daytime TV on his giant plasma screen, kicking his ass at Donkey Kong and eating takeout pizza.

Bry didn't have to think about anything else, and that felt good.

It was pretty much no surprise when Bob kissed her, the night before they'd agreed to go back to LA.

It took them a long time to get naked. Bob wouldn't stop touching her but that was fine; Bry didn't want him to stop. She hadn't been touched in so long and there had been nights recently where she'd laid awake, tracing the tattoos on her own forearms and feeling really fucking lonely. She didn't know whether if it was the drugs she missed or if it was the drugs that had stopped her noticing that she was lonely all along.

When they were both all the way naked, Bob blanketed her and kissed her neck and throat and collarbones, the upper curve of her breasts and she wrapped both arms around his neck, so the back of his skull was cradled in the crook of her elbows and just breathed.

Bob was kissing her carefully, keeping it chaste and tongue-free, just kissing and kissing and kissing her. Confused, not really knowing what else to do when she was naked in bed with someone, Bry reached down to palm his cock. He was half-hard but he took hold of her wrist and pulled her hand away and when he pulled her closer, Bry could feel his cock softening against her thigh.

"Bob?" she asked, turning her head just far enough out of the kiss to speak. She could still feel his lips against the corner of her mouth and she pressed closer, needing the contact.

"Shh," Bob said. His voice was shaking. Bry dragged her eyes open and almost thought she must be imagining it when she saw the tears making his eyes shine. She felt like shit, a total bitch, she had no fucking right to be upsetting Bob. Bob was all things good; she shouldn't be dragging him down with her.

"No, hey," Bob said, grabbing her when she tried to move. "Don't go anywhere."

She twisted her arm in his grip but not hard enough to get free. "You didn't even want me here," she said and, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be-."

"Come here," Bob said and pulled her close to kiss again.

Bry turned her face away.

It was just, it was too much. Far too much. To be here and to be able to think clearly, to remember the things she'd said and done to Bob over the last few months, the shit she'd put him and the others through. It was ridiculous, impossible, to believe that he was just here waiting for her, letting her back into his life when if she were him she would have shut her so far out.

"Hey, Schechter," Bob whispered softly again her cheek, "Big girls don't cry."

Bry choked on a shaky laugh. "Fuck you," she said and wiped at her face, trying to dry her eyes with her palms. After a minute, she had herself under control enough to ask, "So did you just get me naked for the thrill of it, or something?"

"Sure," Bob said. He started to stroke the shoulders, down over her arms. It was all she could do not to start fucking purring at the touch. "It wasn't at all because I've been worrying about you or anything like that."

"No," she agreed. She thought about it then decided to be honest. "I've missed this," she confessed. "Dumb, huh?" She'd had to distance herself from Bob after he'd joined the band, had to for her own sanity. But it had started getting harder not to get lost in her own head when she no longer had Bob to go to for distraction.

"Not dumb," Bob told her. He wrinkled his nose. "Missed you and shit too."

Bry tipped her head back on the pillow and laughed. They were so fucking eloquent, the two of them.

2011: May

After that first time, Bry doesn't feel the baby kick again for nearly a week. She's not worried, but she does feel guilty. She should have woken Bob; she still hasn't told him it happened.

Obviously, because the universe likes to be entertained, the next time it happens, she's in the middle of arguing with Frank about appropriate times to wear pants. TV, she thinks, is uniformly an appropriate place, and she's in the middle of explaining that very calmly and concisely, with only a handful of expletives thrown in when the baby decides to shift.

She breaks off mid-word, automatically bringing her hand up to feel it. It doesn't hurt, but it is weirdly startling.

"What?" Frank asks immediately. "Are you okay? Fuck, I'm sorry. I'll wear my pants. I'll wear your pants." He looks stricken.

"Dude," Bry laughs. "Chill. It was only kicking."

Frank's eyes go wide. "Oh, for real?" he asks, "Can I?" His hand hovers over her belly. Bry doesn't think it'll happen again but he looks so hopeful that she agrees anyway. A minute or so later, there's another flutter and Frank frowns, leaning in. "Was that it? That was it, right?"

"Yeah," Bry says. She's smiling stupidly again, like her kid has done something to be proud of. "That was it."

Frank rocks back on his heels, beaming at her. "Should I get Bob?"

Bry hesitates for a second then tells herself off for it. "Yeah. Yeah, Frankie, that'd be good."

Bob arrives a couple of minutes later, being dragged along by Frank and calmly protesting all the way. "You know what's going on with this asshole?" he asks Bry, finally shaking free of Frank's hands.

"The baby kicked," Bry tells him and feels three times as guilty when Bob's face breaks into a wide, delighted smile.

"Yeah?" he asks, "Can I feel?"

"It stopped," Bry says regretfully, but she takes Bob's hand anyway, presses it to her belly. Frank leaves them alone and they sit there for the rest of the afternoon, chasing after any twitch their baby makes.

They hit Chicago during Bry's seventeenth week. She's definitely showing but if she wears big hoodies and stands up straight it's not glaringly obvious.

Bob's mom, who Bry has always though was omniscient, notices within minutes of them all meeting up with her after the show.

"Oh my God, Bry," Linda says, passing Bandit back to Lindsey and grabbing up Bry's hands instead. "I knew when Bob started asking me about babies that it wasn't hypothetical. But he didn't tell me it was you."

This last is directed over her shoulder at Bob. Bob clears his throat awkwardly.

"I asked him not to," Bry tells her. Her hands are twitching in Linda's grip, not trusting herself or someone else not to let slip that she's not just pregnant, she's pregnant with Linda's grandkid. "I haven't told my mom, yet."

And oh, she feels bad about playing the emotional blackmail card, but Linda knows the shit Bry goes through with her mom; it should distract her. Linda squeezes her hands, looking stern and sympathetic in that way that she pretty much always looks at Bry. "Come on, hon," she says, ushering Bry along, "We'll talk over dinner, okay?"

"Sure," Bry agrees because what else can she say? Bob's mom has always been awesome to her. She can't help looking back over her shoulder, mouthing help! at Bob because if she's going to lie, she's not going to do it alone.

The whole giant group of them plus Bob's mom end up getting dinner in Chinatown. The waiter gets colouring mats for Bandit and ice water for Bry and Bry has a strange moment where she realises that she automatically ordered a soft drink because she wanted one rather than because she told herself she had to.

She grins at Gerard and squeezes his knee under the table. He beams back at her, without any idea why.

By the end of the night, Bry is feeling relaxed and sleepy. She also has a shopping date with Linda tomorrow.

"Hey," Bob says, catching her elbow before she can follow Ray into the taxi they're taking back to the hotel. "Schechter, how'd you feel about a night in a real bed?"

She must look pretty fucking keen because he laughs at her.

"C'mon. I'm staying at Mom's and there's a spare bed and real water pressure and enough sockets that you can plug your hairdryer and your straighteners in at the same time."

Bry laughs. "Dude, are you sure you're not trying to lure Mikey home with you?"

From the taxi, Mikey gives them a three fingered wave followed by a thumbs up. Bob snorts. "C'mon," he says, and Bry lets herself be led to Linda's car instead.

Linda lives in the same house she brought Bob up in. Bry knows Bob's offered to buy her a new place, but the most Linda has agreed to is a new bathroom.

Bry is currently very happy with this decision. The house is warm and homey, and the shower is fanfuckingtastic. She stands in the shower, letting the water wash down over her from three different jets at three different pressures and sighs. Touring these days is no where near as grimy and disgusting as it was when she started out, but this, still, is heaven.

Soaping herself up, it's hard to miss the things that are changing about her body. She's always been wiry, but now she feels curvy for the first time ever. Her stomach is getting round, and she's definitely carrying new weight on her ass and hips and chest.

She feels sexy, which is rare for her, and she's been horny for the last fortnight, about since the morning sickness tapered off. It would be really, really bad to get herself off in Bob's mom's bathroom, she tells herself. Except by then she's already got two fingers between her legs.

She palms her breasts with the other hand, rubs her hand over her hips and feels like she's with, like she is, someone else.

Getting herself off in the shower helps to ease the itch in Bry's body for a while, but by the next day, she's horny and uncomfortable again.

They always try to schedule some downtime in Chicago and this tour they've got two days here for Bob to hang out with his mom and everyone else to do their own things. Today, Linda's working in the morning so it's just Bob and Bry alone in the house and Bob seems to be everywhere.

He's wearing loose sweats and a too small t-shirt and Bry wants.

Bry likes a guy who can lift her up and fuck her against a wall. She also likes a guy who'll let her tie him to the headboard and ride him for hours. Bob Bryar is that guy. He's also the reason why she's so fucking horny right now which makes it suck twice as hard that he's the only guy she really must not sleep with right now.

Mid-morning, she gives up and escapes upstairs to the guestroom. She flops down on the bed and slides her hand under his shirt. She runs her fingers over her belly, hoping that just touch will be enough.

It isn't.

"Fuck," she mutters, just as there's a knock on the door. "Fuck. What? Bryar, I'm sleeping."

Bob pushes the door open, which wasn't at all what she said to do. He opens his mouth to say something, focuses on her lying there with her t-shirt pushed up and her legs parted and restless, and goes very pink.

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat, "You okay?"

"Do I look okay?" she snaps then regrets it. She didn't mean to give him anything that sounds like an invitation.

Bob's mouth twitches like he's amused. "You need a hand?"

"Fuck you," she spits, then "Hey, where are you going?" when he turns to leave.

Bob shakes his head but comes back to sit beside her on the bed. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" Bob says quietly. He's trailing his fingers up her ribs and she shudders, involuntarily leaning into his hand.

"I'm trying to be sensible," she tells him but then he pushes aside the neck of her t-shirt to mouth at her collarbone. Fuck.

"Let me," Bob says and he isn't exactly pleading. If he'd been pleading, she'd have been able to say no. It still makes her stomach swoop when he adds "Please," though. He's pushed her t-shirt down off her shoulder and now he's licking her star tattoo, tongue tracing the lines that meet in a point at the top of her left breast.

Bry can't hold back a startled moan and fuck, fuck, fuck it, she doesn't want to stop. She grabs two handfuls of Bob's hair and holds his head against her chest. Bob pulls at her t-shirt some more, only stopping when there's a ripping sound from the seam, but he's gotten her tits exposed by then so she's too distracted to bitch him out for being careless.

He slips both hands into her bra, squeezing one tit and rolling the other nipple between two fingers, fingertips worn smooth from drumming. Her breasts aren't huge and they disappear under Bob's palms and the splay of his fingers.

Bry sinks back further into the bed and presses her hand down over Bob's making him squeeze her harder, hold her firmer. It feels fucking fantastic after not being touched so long - and because it's Bob, who knows what gets her hot already.

"This is bad idea," Bry tells him, pushing her hips up against his. He's hard through the layers of their sweats, but he starts to pull away at her words. She grabs his shoulder hard. "Fuck you, if you stop-."

"Sure," Bob says leaning back in, words against her jaw, "Whatever you say."

She rolls her eyes but then he's unhooking her bra and pulling it and her t-shirt off so her eyes aren't so much rolling as rolling back.

Bry sits up to throw her shirt away then tries to tug Bob down on top of her but he hesitates, settling to one side instead. "I'm too heavy," he says, laying one large hand over the rise of her belly.

Bry wants to tell him that they - she and the baby - are not as delicate as they look but Bob's kissed his way between her breasts, down to her bump and clearly gotten distracted, touching and kissing her stomach and Bry closes her eyes, feeling almost like she's an intruder. Other fathers probably get to watch the bump grow, she realises, not like Bob, who only gets snatched glances in the mornings before she hides it away under her hoodies.

Bob's mouth on her stomach isn't exactly erotic but it is very, very nice. She feels almost completely calm right in this moment and the frantic itch under her skin is - not gone but - bearable. It doesn't mean she's going to complain when Bob finally spends enough time doting on their kid and remembers Bry has needs too.

"Lift up," Bob tells her and she does, lifting her ass off the bed so Bob can pull her sweatpants down and off.

"Any requests?" Bob asks when he's settled between her thighs. His mouth is close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath on his clit.

"Yeah, for you to be less of a tease," she snaps. She's wet and can feel herself getting wetter and if Bob's not going to take advantage of that then she will.

She slides the pads of two fingers down over her clit, hissing through her teeth at the touch. Bob makes a harsh sound and lowers his head, sealing his mouth over her fingers, licking between and over them.

"Fuck," she says appreciatively, tipping her hips up to keep his mouth on her while she carries on touching herself.

Bry gets close quickly but even after Bob's pushed two thick fingers into her, it's still not quite close enough.

"Bryar. Bryar. Bob," she complains breathlessly, twisting her hips in tight, impatient circles. "Fuck me, c'mon."

Bob pulls his fingers out and replaces them with three, fucking them in and out of her with wet, dirty sounds.

"I'm not going to fuck you until after you've come," he tells her. Because he's an asshole.

Bry pulls her hands out of his hair and digs them into her shoulders instead. "So make me fucking come."

Bob turns his head and lightly bites her forearm. "Working on it," he tells her, crooking his fingers inside her and rolling his thumb nail over the head of her clit.

"Jesus, fuck," she groans and arches up for more.

Her orgasm, when it hits, is hard and fast like being smacked in the face by a heatwave and she curls up toward Bob, making noises that make her grateful Bob's mom's not anywhere in a two block radius.

"Hey," Bob says when she's catching her breath. He's lost his shirt somewhere, which Bry is very appreciative of. She has a thing for Bob's crazy-pale, freckled skin, especially when it's slick with sweat and within arms reach.

Bry slides her hands up Bob's chest and over the smooth slopes of his shoulders. She kisses him, tasting herself on his lips then pushing him down onto his back with a hand against his sternum. His jeans scrape the insides of her thighs when she straddles him and she rolls her hips once against his zipper, sharp and shocking, before climbing off.

"Get naked," she tells him and for all his love of teasing her, he's quick to obey this time.

"This is okay, right?" Bob asks, when he's naked and she's straddling him again. "I mean for the baby."

Bry reaches forward to squeeze his cock. "It's fine," she promises, patting his thigh until he scoots down the bed further, probably loosing his feet off the end of the bed. It puts his cock directly below her ass and oh, she sits back, fumbling his cock into her pussy when the movement lines them up.

She rolls her hips, testing out the angle before beginning to fuck herself slowly, thoughtfully on Bob's cock. Two can play the teasing game.

"Shit," Bob says throatily, grabbing onto her hips, thumbs soft against the rise of her belly but fingers digging hard enough to bruise into her back.

His hair's a mess across his forehead and there's colour rising in his cheeks, across his mouth which is swollen from eating her out.

She wants to kiss him and she shifts forward to do so even though it means that only the first couple of inches of his cock are still inside her. Bob pushes his tongue into her mouth and she rises further on her knees, grabbing his cock when it slips out of her and rubbing the damp, sticky head against her hole and clit. It's harder to achieve than normal, now she's negotiating four months worth of pregnant belly, but she has incentive.

They both groan.

Bob bats her hand off his cock and pushes back into her. "Now who's fucking teasing?" he asks, pushing his hips up hard. She leans back into the thrust, getting him deeper and incidentally restricting the movement of his hips pretty much completely.

Oops.

Bob groans, hands falling to her thighs and his head tipping back, while she fucks herself on his cock. She's good at getting herself off, great at knowing what she likes, but it's nice to do this with Bob because he knows what she likes too; she can make him help her. Bry picks up one of Bob's hands and sucks his fingers into her mouth, pushing her tongue between his index and middle fingers then down over his palm.

"Shit," Bob says, pushing himself up with his other hand so he can get closer to her, slide his fingers out of her mouth and mover them to her nipples while he pulls her down and kisses her. Her belly presses against his, keeping her tits frustratingly far from his chest while their kiss turns nasty, all teeth and tongue.

She pulls his hair and he pinches her nipples and she's so fucking ready to come again but he beats her to it, making soft uh-uh sounds into her mouth and coming inside her. There's something about watching him come that makes her shudder and Bob's barely got a hand to her clit before she's coming again.

She feels weak after, arms shaking, thighs burning. She wants to fold herself down on Bob's chest and fucking cuddle and that's not something she's ever really wanted to do after sex. Sex gives her energy normally, but now she wants to sleep.

His hands are on her forearms, bracing her. "Hey," he says, thumbs stroking her arms, "Okay?"

She forces herself to roll her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you're a sex god," she says.

Bob doesn't flip her off or anything like she's expecting. Instead, he surprises her by collapsing back against the pillow and pulling her down with him.

Bry shifts so her head is on the pillow and laughs softly; guys are so fucking floppy after sex. "Dude, are you okay?"

"Mm," he mumbles. He's touches her arms again, her shoulder and the side of her throat. His eyes are cracked open and there's something lost and tender in his expression. The look makes her uncomfortable but the touch is nice, so she closes her eyes, reaching up to touch him back.

Bry isn't the type to get embarrassed easily, but she does feel kind of flustered going to meet Linda at Marshall Fields that afternoon when she can still feel the bruises on her hips from Bob fucking her - and the bruises on her thighs from him fucking her again.

Linda apparently has a lot of shopping planned - things for the baby, things for Bry, maternity clothes, special bras and panties and support stockings that Bry would have been happier not knowing existed let alone owning.

Bry tries to explain that they're touring, travelling light, but Linda is basically the hardest person in the world to say no to, so Bry eventually caves. Plus, there's the guilt of all the lying about the baby's father. But still, support stockings. Bry isn't sure that any part of her is ever going to need that much support.

"Look at this," Linda calls, holding up a little pink onesie with a Jolly Rodger on the front. Frank would really like it.

"No pink," Bry says automatically. "Or blue."

Linda smiles, turning the onesie over in her hands. It's so fucking tiny. "Maybe I'll buy it anyway, scare Bob a little. He has to give me grandchildren eventually, right?"

Bry swallows convulsively. "Right," she says unsteadily. She's suddenly exhausted; this is stupid, she can't even remember why she's keeping this a secret anymore.

"Linda?" she says, stepping closer.

"Mm?" Linda asks, just as her cell starts to ring. "Oh hey, honey, sorry. Can it keep?"

"Yeah," Bry says nodding and (mostly) relieved. "Yeah, it was nothing."

While Linda's on the phone, Bry pulls out her iPhone and calls Bob. "Bryar," she says to his voicemail, "I give up. We need to tell your mom."

They take Linda out to dinner and wait until they're walking home to tell her. When they were planning it, that had seemed safest.

She stops dead in the middle of the street and Bob has to tug her over to the sidewalk. "Oh my god," she says, her eyes shining. "You two."

Bry shuffles her feet awkwardly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you yesterday."

Linda cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry about it. You though-," she turns and smacks Bob in the stomach. He oofs. "Did I teach you nothing about contraception."

Bob winces. "You did," he assures her, rubbing his belly. "It was scarring."

Linda looks between them. "Why didn't I know you were dating?"

Bob spends a lot of time around his mom blushing. Normally, Bry finds this hilarious. "Because we're not?" he says.

Linda smacks him again. He makes an exaggerated ow face. "Why on Earth not? Girls like Bry don't come around often, you know?"

It's Bry's turn to blush.

"Yeah," Bob says, awkward and uncomfortable. He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "I know, Mom."

2003

Bry knew My Chemical Romance were going places from the first time she heard their demo. As a tour manager, demos regularly came her way but My Chem's was one of the few that really made her sit up and listen. It was just a shame that they weren't right for her.

When Bry thought about her post-touring future, she always imagined herself crusading for truth, justice, and girls in the music scene. She'd picture herself managing female artists and female bands because that was where her passion lay, showing that girls had a place in the scene and a right to take it up. If My Chem had had just one girl in their line-up, she would have given serious thought to getting off the road for them.

Still, she liked them and, when she played their demo to The Used, so did they, so it made sense to invite them on tour; even if she couldn't take them on, she knew people who would and she wanted to play some part in their future.

They had a good sound: they were old school like she hadn't heard in a while, their tunes were catchy and they had a lot of energy.

Then, three shows into the tour, Gerard, their lead singer who oozed a sort of clumsy, disjointed stage presence, pointed to a girl down by the barrier and told her to put her shirt back on.

"Your breasts are lovely," he said and somehow managed not to sound like a creep, "But none of us up here need to see them." He raised his voice. "Ladies, if a band wants to see your tits before they'll play you a song, are you sure it's really a song you want to hear?"

Bry blinked. Huh. Interesting.

They weren't hard to find after. They were sprawled over a couple of picnic benches, smoking and drinking beer, all except the singer who was smoking and downing coffee like one was oxygen and the other was elixir.

"Hey," Bry said, leaning her hip against a slice of free bench. "Good set."

Ray, the guitarist with all the hair, looked up and smiled. "Thanks," he said, nodding.

She didn't get any more from them than that so she rolled her eyes internally and tried again. "So we haven't really had a chance to talk yet. You guys been playing long?"

"Not that long." Ray again. Maybe the others were mute.

"Okay," she said, walking around the table until she was face-to-face with Gerard. "I know you can talk."

He blinked at her, lowering his mug. His eyes were bloodshot but sparked with adrenaline from their set. "Sorry?" he said.

Bry smiled - the smile with all her teeth, the one she'd learned from Bert. "I like your sound; you're good."

He smiled at her, looking pleased. "Can I ask you something?" he said, beckoning her closer.

She didn't come closer but she nodded. "Sure?"

"How do you deal with the sexism inherent in the music business?" Down the table, someone groaned.

"Um," Bry said, "I just get on with it?"

Overall, her first conversation with Gerard Way was pretty similar to the same kind of conversations she was still having with Gerard Way, nearly a decade later. He was interesting, painfully idealistic, but interesting. He'd clearly read a lot of gender theory and taken it to heart.

"I went into school in drag once," he told her, "It really opened my eyes to the way women are treated by society, you know?"

Bry looked him up and down, taking in his big, serious eyes, and pale, delicate features. Yeah, she could imagine how society had treated him if he'd managed to make a convincing girl.

"And that's awesome," she told him, "But I live that every day, dude. I cannot be making big, gender-defining statements every day. I'd burn out."

Gerard didn't look even slightly put-off. "You are a gender-defining statement, just doing what you do." He was beaming at her like she'd done something to make him personally proud of her. "And, like, that's what we want to do. With the band? Be a voice for people who don't get to have their voices heard yet."

Bry couldn't help it; she could feel herself being won over.

"Fuck," Bry sighed to Bob later that day. "Fuuuuck."

Bob laughed at her. Because he was an asshole. "They're good, huh?"

She rolled over and threw a handful of grass at him. "They're really good. And they're fighting for the same shit that I want to fight for. It's like-." She narrowed her eyes. "It's like someone took them to one side and told them all the things to say that would win me over. You didn't, right?"

Bob just looked at her. "Oh yeah, sure, because I have that kind of spare time." He cracked open another beer and passed it to her. "You want to manage them, Schechter; I can see it in your eyes."

She ignored the beer in favour of putting her hands over her eyes. "Fuck me, but I do."

It was totally screwing with her life plan, but it was true.

Bry went looking for Gerard around their van later, but the only person there, tucked into the backseat, was Mikey Way.

"Hey," she said, "I was looking for your brother?"

Mikey shook his head. "They've all gone out."

She hadn't really spoken to Mikey much yet but it seemed wrong to leave someone sitting alone in a van in the mostly dark. "You okay?"

He shrugged but nodded.

"Want some company?"

This time he just shrugged. That was pretty much all the encouragement Bry needed, so she sat down on the opposite end of his bench.

"Do you want to manage us?" Mikey asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

Bry opened her mouth to automatically deny but said, "I'm thinking about it," instead.

Mikey smiled slightly. "Gee started the band," he told her, "It's his baby." He swivelled around to face her. "If you convince me, I can probably convince him."

For a second, she thought he meant convince him, in the euphemistic sense involving her mouth and his cock, and she was about to walk the fuck out, but then she noticed how his eyes slid over her, like he hadn't noticed she had a rack at all.

"Okay," she said and started to tell him about her plans.

Bry had no idea it was nearly morning until Frank and Gerard came banging back into the van, letting in milky, dawn light. Their eyes tracked over Bry and Mikey, now shifted together in the middle of the back bench. Gerard's eyes widened but Frank smirked.

"Bry and I were talking about music," Mikey said. He'd brightened up as the hours wore on, the trace of melancholy from earlier gone, as he told her about his job at Eyeball and their reluctance to sign to a label and their lack of a manager - Bry tried to stay poker-faced when she heard that. She hadn't meant to want this band, but she really kind of did.

"Talking," Frank said, nodding slowly, meaningfully, and Bry could see what he was thinking.

"Yeah, fuck you, no," she said, standing up and stretching, shuffling forwards until they were toe to toe. Frank was about her height, she could totally take him.

"Frankie," Gerard said warningly, looking between them with a foggy, morning-after expression. To Bry he added, "We don't need a manager. But thank you."

"You don't want a manager," Bry told him, tearing her eyes away from Frank and stepping back. She picked up her jacket and shrugged it on. "But you do need one." She pulled out her card, grimacing a little when she saw it was one of the ones Bert had stolen and drawn on when she first got them printed. She didn't trust any of the band not to lose it, so she stuck it to the window instead.

2011: June

Bry makes it into her sixth month before photos of her pregnant self start appearing on the internet. For some reason, My Chem's internet fangirls are pretty taken with her - she knew it was a bad idea to be so visible in the Life on the Murder Scene DVD - and suddenly there's speculation everywhere she looks online about whether she's really pregnant and who the father might be.

Bry has to stop herself logging onto the My Chem blog and telling them all to go fuck themselves and that she's just been eating a lot of carbs lately.

"Yeah, no," Bob says, lifting her hands off the keyboard. Okay so maybe it isn't Bry stopping herself.

She spins around in her chair and glares at him. "There's a whole thread on there full of people debating whether I'm having Gerard's love child for fuck's sake."

Bob shrugs. "Yeah, that sucks. You should set Lindsey on them." He glances away then back at her. "More people thinking it's mine though," he says, not quite hiding a grin.

"Yeah." She studies her nails. Maybe she and Bob weren't as discreet as she always thought.

He sits on the table and gently nudges her ankle with his shoe. "We're going to have to make a statement soon."

Yeah, she knows. With Bandit, she and MSI's manager had everything planned and out in the open months before this. "Or we could not," she says, letting herself not be a manager for one selfish minute.

"Fuck that," Bob snaps, more vehemently than she'd been expecting. "You're not a secret and this kid isn't a mistake." He subsides, looking embarrassed. "Or something that doesn't make either of us sound like Scarlett O'Hara."

Bry laughs. She likes it when Bob gets passionate about stuff. Then she groans. "Oh fuck, I'm going to have to tell my folks now, aren't I?"

Bob looks at her oddly but thankfully doesn't act surprised that she hasn't already. Bob knows that Bry's relationship with her mom and stepdad is… interesting. She loves them and they love her but the idea of each others' lifestyles brings them out in hives.

Bob puts his foot on the seat of Bry's chair and she obligingly lifts her feet off the floor so he can spin her chair around until her back's to him. "Your dad going to come after me with a shotgun?" he asks, beginning to massage her shoulders.

She groans and tips her head back. "Nah, he's a card-carrying Democrat. He might run you over with his eco-car though."

Bob's fingers dig into the back of her neck, making a stiff muscle pop nicely. "So I'm fucked."

"Yep," Bry tells him unsympathetically. It's easier to mock Bob than it is to decide how the fuck she's going to tell her parents that they've got a grandkid on the way. Grandchildren were always supposed to be her brothers' and sister's department; she made them agree to that when she was still in grade school.

"So," Bob says. "You want me to come with you when you tell them?" He sounds as if he's asking if she wants him to come with her to an execution.

Bry makes a face at him. "I'm not going to tell them in person," she says. The idea of sitting her mom and stepdad and birthdad down in the same room is too horrific to contemplate. "I'll call them. You work on some kind of statement for your fangirls. Deal?"

Bob doesn't exactly look as if his execution has been stayed but he agrees anyway. "Yeah, sure, deal."

"Hey, mom," Bry says.

"Hello?" Bry's mom says then, "Oh, hi darling. Sorry, I can't hear you. It's so loud in here, your stepfather's watching Deal or No Deal." Her voice drifts away. "Nick, turn that down! It's Bryony."

Bry winces. "Mom?"

The background noise dies down and then her mom's back. "How are you?"

Not in the mood for small talk. "Mom, sit down okay."

"Okay?" her mom says cautiously. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Jesus." Bry takes a breath. She and her mom haven't had an entirely comfortable conversation with each other since Bry called home and told her parents she was an addict. "I'm pregnant."

There's a very long silence. Bry strains her ears but all she can hear is Howie Mandel on the TV.

"All right," her mom says. She doesn't sound hysterical, which is nice. "How far along?"

Bry winces. "Six months."

Her mom goes quiet again. Fuck, Bry should have called her months ago. "Right. So! Who's the father?"

"A good friend of mine," Bry says quickly. "Bob Bryar? You met him a couple times. I think you liked him?"

Her mom doesn't give an opinion one way or another. She probably doesn't remember. Bry's introduced her to My Chem twice and each time she's looked completely out of her depth. "I suppose it's too much to hope that he's a good friend of yours who's also your husband?"

Bry can't help it; she laughs. "Nice try, Mom."

"Yes well." Her mom sighs. "I had to try."

Bry grins, rubbing her thumb around the casing of her phone and feeling the knot that's more or less always in her chest ease a little. "Oh, yeah. A+ for subtlety, Mom."

2011: June

If you're friends with Bob Bryar for long enough, you come to terms with the fact that he can damage himself in wildly bizarre ways at any given time of day.

Bry has never liked how careless Bob can be with his own safety, but she likes it even less when they're having a kid together. When she finds him on the roof of their bus, unharnessed and in nothing but her socks, she sees red.

"Bob Bryar, what the fuck are you doing?" she yells up at him.

Bob shifts around on top of the roof, making her wince. "The skylight's broken," he tells her. "I think I can fix it."

Great. "Are you kidding me? The sky light's broken? Well that's great; when our kid asks where its dad is, at least I'll be able to tell it that you died for a good cause."

"Hang on," Bob says and he disappears from view. She waits to hear a crash, but instead, he appears by her side. "It was totally safe," he tells her.

Bry rolls her eyes. "Right," she says and glares at him until he shifts, grimacing.

"Okay, so it was mostly safe."

She raises her eyebrows. Then she ruins her glare a little by yawning. "Okay, I'm taking a nap," she tells him. "Try to still be alive when I wake up?"

Bry wakes a couple of hours later to a high-pitched scraping sound above her head. She cracks her eyes open and curses when she sees a person-shaped shadow through the skylight. She is honestly going to kill Bob.

She storms off the bus, building up a nice hurricane of rage inside her chest and contemplating whether she wants to hire a hit man or do the job herself, when she rounds the corner and walks straight into Bob. Who is standing on safe, solid ground and directing Cortez, who is up on the roof, wearing appropriate safety gear and everything.

"Oh," Bry says, the wind going out of her sails.

"What?" Bob asks, innocently. "The kid's gonna need a dad, right?" He shrugs like it's no big deal, but she can see the beginnings of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

She smacks him. "Asshole," she says, but she can't hold back a little bubble of relieved laughter. She hits him again, harder, to make up for it. "I hate you."

Bob reaches over and pulls her hair; it's just long enough for a ponytail for the first time in years and she knew growing it was going to be a mistake. "I figured Cortez was expendable, right?" he asks, pitching his voice for Cortez to hear.

"Oh totally," Bry agrees and laughs when Cortez shuffles around in a careful circle to flip them both off.

2011: July

The last day of the tour falls on the first day of Bry's third trimester. The road is her life but just this once, she's relieved that they're headed home. She needs to sleep somewhere that isn't a bus or a hotel; she wants her own bed.

Bry's been fielding calls from Gerard ever since the Waybaby was born so she's already done tons of research on the correct way to hold a baby and how not to drown one in the bath and a dozen other things, so in some ways she feels pretty prepared. On the other hand, she's about one more piece of 'concerned' advice from various friends, acquaintances and business associates from choking a bitch.

So, you know, she wouldn't say she's totally calm.

There's a million and one things to sort out: shit like how long she'll have to wait to bring the baby on tour. What work Jeff can handle and what she'll be doing from home. How much maternity leave she can take.

Depending on when the kid comes, it looks like she's either going to be renegotiating contracts for Drive By's new album while in labour or hanging out backstage at Warped nine months pregnant and ready to drop.

And then there's the fucking birth. Those hours that she's gonna have to spend shoving a person out of her cunt. Bry is - though she hates the word - fucking petite; she doesn't have childbearing hips and her tits are barely big enough for a half cup of milk.

Three days after she gets back to LA, she wakes up at two a.m. her brain still foggy from a dream in which she could hear her baby screaming for her but couldn't fucking find it. Her hands are shaking, her heart beating too fast, her head spinning. The phone is in her hand before she even thinks about it.

"Ray," she says. She's maybe hyperventilating. She doesn't know why she called Ray except it's two in the morning, she's totally on her own, and he's the one she calls when she needs to be reassured that there actually will be a band in the morning or that their next CD really will hit the shops before President Obama has to run for re-election.

"Bry?" Ray asks thickly. He sounds like she woke him up which, duh, of course she did and in the background, she can hear Krista asking if everything's okay.

"Sorry," Bry says. Her voice sounds high and too-thin to her ears. "I just. I wanted to check-." Shit, she can't even think of a decent lie.

"Oh hey," Ray says sounding like he's waking up, "I am so glad you called, dude, wait til you hear this killer riff I was dreaming about. Hang on one second and I'll play it for you."

Bry wants to tell him that it's okay, she's just having a moment and she really doesn't need to be humoured but instead she listens to the sounds of Ray scrabbling around and then the first strum of a chord. She screws her eyes up tight and focuses on breathing. Her eyelids feel damp but she eventually feels calmer.

"Good?" Ray asks her when he's done.

She doesn't know if he means the song or her but, "Yeah," she says anyway, "Good."

She's been home less than a month before she realises that she needs a new place to live. Her apartment is awesome, she loves it, but it's not the kind of place a kid should grow up. Kids need a yard and neighbours, other kids to play with. Sure, she's basing this on shows like Boy Meets World and Gilmore Girls but that doesn't mean she's wrong.

Damn it.

It turns out that there are a lot of houses for sale in LA at the moment and a quick double-check of her finances tells her that she can afford a lot of them. It's pretty wild.

She opens up about a million tabs then checks her IM. Sure enough, Bob's there. Let Bob go home and he's as much as an internet geek as Mikey is.

sch3cht3r: make yourself useful - I need a new house
bcb: but u love that place
sch3cht3r: shut up - look at this link: http://www.househunt.com/b-la-cty.htm.
bcb: how the fuck do I know where u want to live?
sch3cht3r: where does your *kid* want to live bryar?

Which is how she ends up letting Bob come with her to look at houses. Shit, houses, when did she turn into that kind of girl?

2004

The day after Matt quit the band, Bry left the other four staring blankly at each other and flew to Chicago.

Bob barely got out a hi before Bry had him pinned against the wall, sucking on his tongue and scrabbling at his pants like this was their last time. She tried not to let herself think about the fact that it almost definitely was.

"Jesus," Bob said after. They'd somehow made it to his bed though Bry wasn't sure how. She propped herself up on her elbows and smirked at the long, red scratches standing out starkly on his pale chest. "Where the fuck d'you learn shit like that, Schechter?"

Bry pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at him levelly. "Well it wasn't from the nuns," she said and grinned when Bob's eyes went wide.

"You went to a Catholic school?" Bob asked.

Bry rolled her eyes.

"You were a Catholic schoolgirl?" Bob said. Again.

Bry whipped her hand out sideways and punched him in the shoulder. "You can keep saying it, Bryar. It won't make it any less true or whatever you're fantasising about any less sick."

Bob rolled onto his side and grinned at her. "You still got the uniform?"

"Shut up a minute," Bry said regretfully, not letting herself think about straddling Bob while wearing her old school skirt, tying him to the headboard with her tie. "I need to talk to you about something."

It didn't take many words to ask him to save her band and when she finished, Bob stayed quiet.

"If I join the band, you're going to say we have to stop this, aren't you?" He waved a hand between them.

"Yeah," Bry said, relieved he knew her well enough that she didn't have to say it. "It's really not professional to fuck your manager." She didn't point out how unprofessional it was to fuck your tour manager; they both knew that one.

"Yeah," Bob said slowly, "I'm not sure. That might be too high a price to pay."

Bry laughed - because obviously he was joking. No one gave up a place in a band they loved in order to preserve a buddy fuck. After a couple of beats, Bob laughed to.

"You'll do it, right?" Bry asked and tried not to sound too desperate. "You want to?"

Bry tugged on her bangs until she lifted her head and smiled at her, his smile was quiet, more serious than it should be; he had a band, he should be jumping for joy. "Yeah, I want to," he said.

2011: August

"Madison?" Frank asks. "Olivia? Hermione?"

"Hermione?" Bry asks. "The fuck?"

Frank spins around in his chair then spins back to point to the webpage he's got open on Bry's laptop. "It's the fourth most popular girls' name, Bryony, says so right here."

Bry thinks about telling him to call her Bryony one more time and die but he already knows that. She wonders if Bob would do the actual murdering for her; she's just gotten settled on the sofa and it takes her ten years to stand up again these days.

"What are you doing, Frankie?" Bob asks, coming back into the room. "Bry looks like she's plotting the easiest way to kill you."

Bry tips her head back and grins up at Bob. "I'm plotting the easiest way for you to kill him," she contradicts. "I'm way too fucking heavy to be stealthy."

Bob rolls his eyes. "Sure, now you want me to do your dirty work for you." He stops behind the sofa, arms braced on either side of her head and smiles down at her. "Now?"

"Hey," Frank squawks, "I'm helping here."

"Helping how?" Bob asks.

"Baby names," Frank tells him. "You fuckers haven't gotten anywhere on your own so I'm helping out."

"Uh," Bob says, looking the special kind of panicky he always gets when someone reminds him that this pregnancy isn't going to last forever and eventually there will be spawn.

"We don't need help, Frank," Bry says for the seven hundredth time, even though they maybe really do. She and Bob are doing okay at the moment; waiting for the baby feels like limbo and they've carved out their own little niche in it. After the birth things are going to be different, they'll be sharing custody and that might get weird.

Frank just looks at them. There's no way he can know exactly what Bry's thinking but, "You totally need help," he tells them. "Now. Bobert, any thoughts?"

Bob shrugs, but it's his not sure he wants to share shrug rather than his actual not having an opinion shrug and Bry sits up, curious. "Bob?"

He picks at a nail awkwardly. "I kind of like Cory for a boy?" he says quietly.

Bry nods; she only has to think about it for two seconds. "Yeah," she says. "I like that."

Bob's head snaps up. "Yeah? It was my mom's dad and-."

"I like it," Bry interrupts. She only realises she's put her hand over Bob's when he squeezes her fingers in return.

Frank clears his throat. "Awesome. I'll send you my bill. Schechter, you got a hankering for Bryony Junior for a girl?"

"Fuck no," Bry tells him. Her parents took shit loads of photos of her when she was growing up but there's one that sticks in her mind - she was eight or nine and wearing a white lacy dress with ruffles around the collar that her great aunt made for her. She remembers being miserable and in the photo her smile is stretched and strained, her eyes panicked. That little girl is the epitome of Bryony to Bry, the good little girl her parents wanted but didn't get.

"Bryony Bryar," Frank's saying. His eyes go wide and he giggles. "Wow, you two can never get married."

Bry frowns at him. She hopes like fuck that she isn't blushing and can't work out why she'd even want to. It's not like she wants to marry Bob. "The fuck, Iero?"

"Bryony Bryar," Frank repeats and collapses into more giggles. Bry hates him. She also cannot stop herself laughing along with.

"Oh Jesus," she says, grinning, "Wow, Bryar, we can never get married." It's easy to joke about that; she doesn't need a wedding ring.

Bob's smiling too, but not outright laughing. It doesn't reach his eyes. "It's not like I'd expect you to take my name," he says quietly.

Beside Bry, Frank's laughter turns into a startled 'ulp' sound and he falls off the couch. "Holy shit, Bob, you've thought about it?" he asks from the floor.

Bob is definitely blushing. "No I fucking haven't," he growls at Frank. "I was just, you know. Saying." He shifts not meeting Bry's eyes. He looks uncomfortable, trapped and Bry jabs his arm with her elbow.

"Your surname sucks," she tells him.

"Your first name sucks," he shoots back.

Bry laughs. "Do you see me arguing?" she asks.

Bob's quiet for a second then, "Actually, it's kind of pretty," he says. Frank hoots, Bry definitely blushes and Bob stands up abruptly. "We're meeting the realtor at four, Schechter."

"Yep," Bry says carefully, levering herself off the sofa. She clears her throat. "Give me a minute; your kid's sitting on my bladder again."

"Nice," Frank snorts. Bry shuffles over to him, very slowly flips him off then licks her finger and sticks it in his ear for good measure.

Frank flails, hesitates half way toward slapping back at her and falls off his chair again instead. Bry feels suitably vindicated. She winks at Bob on her way out the room and Bob's laughing too hard to do anything but give her an approving thumbs up.

"House hunting?" Frank's voice carries down the hall as she reaches the stairs.

"Bry and the baby need a new house," Bob tells him. There's something in his voice, some tone that Bry doesn't quite recognise. It's almost the defensive one he uses around reporters but it's not quite that. It wouldn't be, shouldn't be anyway, not with Frank.

Bob has been Bry's best friend for years and most of the reason they get on so well is that they agree on most of the big things and disagree on three-quarters of the little stuff.

It shouldn't be surprising then that they conclude their house hunting each with a house that they love. A different house that they each love.

"Look," Bob says, pushing up his shades and dragging Bry inside the house he's picked for another look. It's a big, open plan house, dark stained floorboards and warm-painted walls. It's a lovely house.

Bob pulls her from room to room; it's strange to see him so excited. "Look," he says again, "Tell me this isn't the most goddamn perfect house ever."

It is. It really is. Bry looks where Bob tells her to look and yeah, she can imagine their kid running through these rooms, chasing Tilly and the other dogs or being chased and… she can't.

She can imagine it, sure, but not without Bob living there too.

"It's a good house," she admits. "But I'm still going with the other one."

2011: September

When Bry looks in the mirror, she looks like she has a giant beach ball under her shirt and she can't wear her heels anymore so she's basically doing a great impression of a really short beached whale.

A lot more of her meetings are taking place over the phone or via email, partly so she doesn't have to struggle into clothes more complicated than sweatpants and the t-shirts she keeps stealing from Bob and partly so she can finish getting the house set up.

She's standing in her new house in the middle of what will be the baby's room, staring at the walls and wondering when the fuck she decided that mint green was an appropriate colour for the walls and how quickly she can get rid of it before Gerard sees it and bitches her out for offenses to art.

It's peaceful in the nursery. The bright LA sun is shining brightly outside but inside it's muted by the white curtains with little Umbrella Academy umbrellas that Gerard found at one of his conventions.

Bry jumps when the house phone rings and she closes her eyes for a moment before waddling over to answer it.

"What?" she answers and Bob's laugh comes over the line.

"Nice to talk to you too, Schechter."

Bry's a girl but she's not a girl so the only reason for the swoopy feeling in her belly is indigestion. "What?" she repeats patiently, "Bob."

He laughs again. "Got any plans for next weekend?"

"Oh sure, yeah, I've got a hot date," she says automatically. He's silent so she rolls her eyes. "Bryar. I'm the size of a small horse and I'm not sure I fit through my front door, so no I don't have any plans."

Bob snorts. "I'll bring some oil to slide you out then."

She frowns. "What? Where am I going?"

He hesitates, which in her experience is never a good sign.

"What?" she asks cautiously.

Bob clears his throat. "My mom had an idea that you might want to go away somewhere for a break before the baby comes?" he says, sounding unusually uncertain.

"Go where?" Bry asks, looking down at herself. She barely manages to waddle out to her car.

"It doesn't have to be far. Mom suggested a resort a way up the coast that her friend's daughter liked." He hums. "It doesn't matter. I just thought maybe you could use the rest."

It's kind of sweet, in that she doesn't immediately want to shoot the idea down. "Thanks," she says, meaning it. "But there are contracts and-."

"Jeff can handle them," Bob interrupts her. "And it'd be my treat." He pauses. "Not that I'm saying I'd have to come with or anything."

Bry closes her eyes for a second. She hates it when Bob really wants something; she's shitty at saying no. "Who else can I make fetch me ice and massage my feet?" she asks, cursing herself for being so easy.

"So really you'd want a slave?" Bob asks, but he sounds relieved, happy.

The resort Linda suggested is three hours up the coast towards San Francisco. Bry drives, Tilly navigates, and Bob complains every one of the nine hundred times that Bry and/or Tilly need to stop to pee.

There's palm trees, white sand, beach huts and massages. It's the kind of place Bry would normally run screaming from, but the idea of five star, all inclusive treatment is really tempting at the moment.

Working on reception, there's a tall, shiny-haired redhead with curves in all the places Bry just has baby, who starts to chat Bob up when they arrive and continues on and off all day.

"Uh, hello?" Bry wants to ask her, barely restraining her cattiness because okay, maybe she and Bob aren't together but they must look like they are. The idea that maybe they don't leaves Bry feeling really sad. Hormones, she decides.

Still, Bry isn't out to stop Bob having a life and, later in her room, she hears herself say, "You can take that girl out tonight, if you want."

Bob lowers the room service menu he was reading and frowns at her. "What?"

Bry waves a hand, going for airy and unconcerned. "It's cool; she was hot. There's no reason why you can't have some fun." She hopes she sounds like she means it.

Bob's mouth works silently for a minute and he's calm and quiet when he says, "Fuck you."

Bry frowns, honestly confused not just faking it to annoy him. "What?"

"You know I don't want her," Bob says, standing up. "You know that. Just. Just stop acting like you don't know, okay? It isn't fair."

"What?" Bry asks again. "What's not fair? Fuck it, Bob, I was trying to be nice."

Bob snorts. "Yeah, it's nice to remind me that you're never gonna want me like I want you. Thanks, Bry, real nice."

Bry stares at him. She's still staring when Bob turns on his heel and makes for the door. She can't exactly run after him, but she can waddle pretty fast and she gets to the door at the same time he does.

"When you say 'want'?" she asks, pressing her back against the door so he can't get past.

Bob sighs heavily. "Come on, Bry."

"No," Bry says, shaking her head. "I don't know. Tell me."

"I want the whole-," He makes angry gestures with his hands. "The whole nine yards, okay? You and me and our kid as a family." He holds up a hand before she can speak. "But I know you'd hate that. So." He shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes.

"I-," she manages. She flounders for a minute and then she gets really pissed. "Who the fuck are you to tell me what I want?" she snaps, hands on her hips.

Bob rubs his hands over his face. "Because I know you?" he asks, talking to his palms.

That stops her for a minute. It's true; he does. "You want to what?" she asks, testing the waters, "Marry me?" She'd do a hell of a lot for Bob but she can't do that.

"No." Bob drops his hands. "No, not that. Everything else maybe." His face is so red, she'd be able to feel the heat coming off his skin if she moved any closer.

"Bob, is this because we're having a kid?" she asks him because she's never asked him for that.

Bob looks down. When he looks up, he's wearing his most determined expression. "It's because I'm in love with you," he says.

Bry develops a sudden need to sit down. "Um," she says, staying on her feet with difficulty. "You what?" She sounds reedy, stunned.

His cheeks flame redder but he keeps his head up. "You heard."

"That's uh." She flails out a hand helplessly. "That's pretty sudden." That's really sudden. He's not supposed to spring things like that on her.

Bob shakes his head. He grabs her hand and leads her over to the sofa. She's still pretty staggered so she follows without any kind of argument. "It's really not sudden," he tells her when they're sitting down. "It's been a while."

"How long?" He hasn't let go of her hand and Bry doesn't want to mention it. Bob looks away so Bry shakes his arm a little. "C'mon. How long?" If he says any time within the last eight and a half months, she's probably going to slap him.

Bob shrugs. "You remember that time in Kansas when Bert picked up a hooker and they were fucking outside the bus?"

She nods, currently too taken aback to laugh even though in hindsight it was pretty funny.

"You emptied the dirty washing hamper over their heads and then you insisted on driving her home because we were in a shitty neighbourhood."

Bry can't do anything but nod again. She remembers that, sure. It was about a year after she and Bob first met. The baby does a somersault in her belly and yeah, Bry knows exactly how it feels.

"Bob." She's struck pretty much dumb. "Bob, that was years ago." It's just not possible that he's been in love with her that long; she would have noticed.

Bob shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

"Wow," she says and punches him in the arm. "Holy fuck," she upgrades to while he's cursing her and rubbing his arm. "Asshole, you could have fucking told me."

"I'm telling you now," he protests.

"Yeah, when I'm too pregnant to suitably kick your ass. Bob, for fuck's sake."

Bob's shoulders draw up and he tries to pull his hand away. She grabs on, sinking her nails a little way in. "Bob," she says again. She feels kind of lost, breathless all of the sudden. "Bob." She wants to crawl into his lap and just… hold on. She's not that flexible right now though. "Come here," she says, trying to pull him around.

Bob hesitates. "So you can kick my ass?" he asks. She just pulls on his arm again and Bob sighs but rolls up onto his knees so he's facing her. She slides her fingers into his hair and carefully touches his cheekbones with her thumbs. This is pretty huge; she really doesn't want to fuck it up.

Bob swallows. Bry sees his adam's apple move up and down, hears the click of his dry throat and for some reason that makes her have to kiss him.

"Let me think about this, okay?" she says against the corner of his mouth and ten minutes ago she wouldn't have known that was the answer she would give to this but now she can feel pieces of her brain slotting together, faster than she can keep track of, and it's the only really fair answer that she has.

2007

Watching Bob play through the New Jersey Bon Jovi show was one of the worst things Bry had ever seen. He was Bob, so he wasn't exactly moaning in agony throughout it or anything, but the look on her face told her that he wanted to be.

His skin was grey-tinged with pain, sweat rolling down his cheeks that she didn't think had anything to do with the heat in the stadium. He was missing cues and dropping the beat and Bry wanted nothing more than to march out there and drag him away.

She got Ray's attention during a break between songs. "I know," he said, before she could say anything. "I know. But fuck, we've tried talking to him." He rubbed a hand through his hair, sweat dripping off the curls; he looked about as sick as Bry felt.

"I'll talk to him," Bry said firmly. She looked across the stage at Bob. He was bent over, one hand cradled against his chest, the other shaking while he tried to take a drink from his water bottle. He was carefully not looking toward her, so Bry snapped her attention back to Ray. "Are you going to be able to finish the set?"

Ray pursed his lips. "Maybe," he said, "We're gonna try." He gave her a look, and she nodded. He didn't need to say anything else; this was Bon Jovi on home turf, of course they were going to try to finish.

Twenty minutes later, they cut the set short. Bob pushed past Bry to get off stage and then she got stuck consoling the others, so it was another half hour before she could get him alone.

"Don't," Bob said, before Bry could say anything. He was lying back on his hotel bed, wrist strapped and a bottle of Percocet on the night table. Percocet sounded like a really awesome idea right about then and Bry briefly hated Bob for making her think that.

"Don't?" Bry echoed incredulously, closing the door with a slam and marching over to the bed. "Okay, I just won't then, huh? I'll just forget I'm your fucking manager and you fucking lied to me."

"Hey," Bob protested, sitting up. "I didn't-."

Bry threw up her hands. "You did. I asked if you were okay to play and you said you were fine."

Bob's expression closed down. "I thought I was," he growled. "Do you really think I would have fucked up like that voluntarily?"

"I think you're a stubborn asshole, Bryar. You fucked that set up for everyone," she shouted and his face just kind of crumpled.

"I know," he said, all the fight gone out of him. He pressed his lips together and turned his head away from her. "I know I did."

Bry sighed. Message delivered and unwilling to watch Bob slowly admit defeat, Bry picked up Bob's cigarette pack and retreated out onto the balcony.

She was just starting her third cigarette when Bob joined her. "Give me one of those," he said gruffly, slumping down against the railings by her feet.

Bry folded down to sit next to him, giving him her cigarette and lighting a new one for herself.

"I talked to your doctors," Bry said quietly. "You need surgery."

Bob shook his head, but he didn't argue. "I know," he said. "I fucking know I do, but fuck."

Without looking at him, Bry reached over and squeezed the back of his neck. "You'll hate yourself if you let the guys down again," she reminded him.

Bob laughed but it was a frantic, bitter sound. "If I get the surgery, there's a chance I'll never play again," he said, his voice flat.

Bry didn't have much to say to that; it was true. "If you don't get the surgery, you're going to fuck yourself up so bad that you'll for sure never play again."

Bob leaned back into Bry's hand. "I know," he said. He was quiet for a long few seconds. "I really fucking love this band. I can't lose that."

She tightened her grip. "You won't," she promised. "You get the surgery and it'll be fine. And-," She swallowed. "And if it's not, I will sort something out for you, okay? You can go back to the soundboard or you can work for me or something. You won't have to stop touring, I promise."

Bob rolled his head toward her and she couldn't resist any longer, had to look across at him. Bob licked his lips. "I-," he started then seemed to run out of words.

"Yeah, you're welcome," Bry told him quickly, totally uncomfortable with hearing any gratitude when she hadn't said any of that to be nice. She'd said it because she'd just realised that she didn't want to be out here without Bob after all these years on the road together.

2011: September

They're back home and Bry has a plan.

By which she means she has a plan. A printed one that tells her how to assemble flat-packed furniture. She wishes she had one for her life as well; she'd even take one like this with the dubious English and the carefully labelled contents list that doesn't include half the shit in the pack.

Bry is in charge of telling Bob what goes where; Bob is in charge of fucking up his fingers on sharp edges. They're currently at an impasse over who's in charge of any lifting. Bry is pretty sure that wrist surgery trumps pregnancy, but Bob's a stubborn asshole and not easily convinced.

"The flat bit goes there," Bry tells him, pointing.

Bob spits out a screwdriver that he was holding between his teeth to say, "Where?"

"There."

"Here?"

"No." She slides down onto her knees and slaps his hands away from the pieces of TV cabinet that they're currently working on. Most of Bry's furniture came ready built but she couldn't resist a quick trip to Ikea as well.

She pulls the half-built side of the cabinet over onto his lap. He huffs and pulls it back. "I thought you were supervising," he says pointedly, but he's laughing.

It's a cloudy day and there's no explanation for the way he suddenly seems to light up in front of her eyes, something going ping in Bry's brain until she can't take her eyes off him.

This is Bob. Bob who has never once made her feel like she's a chick in a man's job, who always sticks by her and sticks up for her and puts up with her bullshit, who trusts her with his bullshit, who's sat back and let her have her own space, even though they're having a baby, even though he's apparently in love with her, who doesn't want to own her and is working his fingers bloody to build a home for her in a house he doesn't even like.

"Oh," she says, feeling stupid in a really wonderful way. "Oh hell."

Bob smiles at her uncertainly. "Hell?"

Bry puts her hands on his thighs and cocks her head. "Fuck's sake, Bryar, I'm in love with you."

Bob's laugh takes a second to come but, when it does, it's bright and loud and so fucking relieved that Bry has to kiss him. And then she has to kiss him again.

2011: September

LA is so fucking hot that Bry can hardly move. Of course, Bry can hardly fucking move anyway because she's just too big and too heavy and too fed up with life to bother.

It's possible the heat is getting to her just a little bit.

"Hey," Bob says and she waves a hand toward him but can't find the energy to turn her head all that way to actually like, look at him. Bob laughs like she said all that out loud and comes to sit next to her on the bed. The skin of his knee is scratchy against her bare shoulder but it's cool so she presses against him. "Your life, so hard, right?" Bob asks fondly.

"Fuck off," Bry mutters but she doesn't mean it. Bob's sitting between her and the sun, casting a heavy shadow over her and it's heaven.

"Okay, I brought ice cubes, orange juice and there's ice cream in the freezer."

That gets Bry to look at him. "You are my goddamn fucking hero, Bryar," she tells him earnestly. Bob grins.

He tugs on the hem of her thin, washed-out t-shirt, pulling it up until her belly's exposed then further until she feels air conditioning on her breasts as well.

"Bob," she mumbles, "Seriously? It's way too hot."

"Hush," Bob tells her and then his hands are on her skin and holy mother of god they're cold.

She hisses between her teeth and curls up, not sure if she's trying to move toward or away then making up her mind and realising that those hands are never, ever allowed to leave her. "What?"

Bob grins. "Ice bucket," he tells her, pointing to the bedside table where, yep, he's stood an ice bucket. He puts his hands in it again and when they come out, they're wet and dripping.

Bry catches his wrist, holding one hand above her belly and sighing in relief as cool drops of water pool around her belly button and roll down the sides of her swollen stomach. "God," she whispers and pulls his hands down so they're cupping her tits. She hasn't worn a bra since her breasts went through their last epic growth spurt and the feel of Bob's cold hands directly over her sweaty, sore skin is fantastic.

"Bob," she says and Bob laughs and leans down to kiss her.

"Lie still," he says and gathers up more water and a little bit of ice, cooling off her arms then pushing up her skirt to do her legs. She lets her legs drop open, feeling kind of embarrassed as she does so, but Bob doesn't have any problems running his hands up her inner thighs and around the v of her groin.

Cold fingers brush her folds and she's suddenly wet with more than just ice water.

"Mph," she mutters, "If this was your insanely roundabout way of trying to get me in the mood, it's working."

Bob looks up at her, eyes wide and genuinely guileless. "Seriously?" he asks, touching her breasts again with one hand.

Bry shakes her head. "Not there," she tells him and pulls her skirts up higher to give him the idea.

Bob laughs even as he settles down between her thighs. It's light and easy, his tongue on her clit while he rubs ice up and down her inner thigh with the hand not holding her open. When she comes it's lazily too, easy, not exactly rocking her world or anything but that's okay, her world has been rocked enough lately.

She tugs on Bob's arm until he crawls back up the bed towards her then does her best to kiss him like she's coming to learn Bob should always be kissed. He sighs into her mouth, licking gently at her tongue.

"You're going to have to do all the work," Bry tells him, rolling onto her side. He spoons up behind her back and pushes her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.

"Is this okay?" Bob asks. She can feel the brush of the backs of his wrists against the small of her back when he unzips himself. He pushes his cock between her thighs and she tightens them around it. She wants him in her though. "Can't sex this near the end bring on labour?"

Bry reaches behind herself and palms his cock. "That's orgasms," she says, "And it's a bit late for that." She's a week off her due date; she's pretty sure the kid's ready for some world by now. She knows she's ready.

Bob laughs and leans over to kiss her mouth. "Know-it-all," he says fondly. She hears I love you.

Bry goes into labour the next day. Bob gives the impression of someone who'd be saying I told you so, if he wasn't so busy also looking like he was going to pass out.

bcbryar: baby boy. Cory. 3.17pm. 8lbs 4. Mom&bb gd.

gerardway: @bcbryar congrats dudes! Whens gd for visits?

michaeljamesway: @bcbryar ray frank and me booking flight now. Congrats!

gerardway: @coryschechterbryar welcome to the world little man!

bcbryar: @gerardway bry says wtf our son has a twitter?

2011: October

It's early evening and Cory is sleeping, one hand curled around the horn of the unicorn Mikey and Alicia gave him. He's six days old and Bry is exhausted.

She should probably be asleep right now, except she can't stop looking at him. He looks like Bob and not much like her but she doesn't care. Bob keeps telling her that all babies have blond hair and blue eyes and he'll probably grow out of it, but Bry hopes he doesn't.

Cory has ten fingers and ten toes, which Bry knows because she counts them pretty regularly. She'd be embarrassed about that, if she didn't keep losing Bob in the night and finding him standing over Cory's crib, just watching him breathe.

Bob's sacked out on the floor, Cory's spare blanket over his eyes. It's a good plan so Bry lies down next to him. He reaches out blindly and pulls her closer.

"I hate this house," Bry says quietly after a minute of silence.

Bob's head snaps up. "What?"

She looks away, feeling ridiculous. "Do you think it's too late to put in for the other one?"

"Bry." Bob rolls over and frowns down at her. "I thought this was your dream house."

She shakes her head. It sounds so stupid to tell him that she started to realise she was in love with him when she didn't buy the house he wanted her to get.

"C'mon," Bob says, poking her gently in the side; she squirms. "Tell me."

This whole relationship thing is going to get old fast, she thinks, slapping at his hand then giving him the finger. "I, uh." She looks away. "I didn't want to live in the other house without you, okay?" she tells the closet. The closet doesn't look surprised.

Bob's quiet for long enough that Bry contemplates giving up her careful study of every other part of the room that isn't his face.

"Fuck," Bob says eventually, quietly. "Jesus, just when I think I've gotten you figured out."

She smiles and lets herself look at him. "I wouldn't want to be boring," she tells him.

"You're not," he says sincerely and kisses her. She wraps her arms around his neck and bites his bottom lip - because, yeah, she's never going to be boring and he better get used to it.

/End