Chapter Text
Bullets lodge themselves in the reinforced window. The rev limiter impatiently reminds Frank to shift as he tries to floor the gas pedal outright. He gathers his bearings and launches the once-polished, now dented black Cadillac CTS-V out of the alleyway where red pools of drying blood now surround the bodies of his former men. Frank swears and hammers on the steering wheel.
He had no way of knowing the men with him on that drug trade would turn coat. He had little to no chance of getting his remaining capo out alive without biting it himself. Much less, a chance of completing the job that was supposed to set him up for a long-deserved vacation. Already dreading the earful he’s sure to receive for this, he decides he's earned an early break.
Frank returns home after fifteen minutes of weaving through Newark traffic to ensure he lost any tail he may have picked up after the firefight. He absentmindedly hopes the car is spared visible damage as he pulls it into his garage. With a cursory glance around the body, he confirms that the armoring mostly held up, save for the very obvious bullets stuck in the rear windshield, and some in the fenders. But his tires are still inflated, so he considers that a win.
He shoulders open the door to his apartment. His boots squeak on the tile floor of his entryway as he reaches down with his good arm and unlaces them before kicking them off. They trail dark blood and limestone grit behind them across the shiny grey surface. He makes his way through the dining area adjacent to the kitchen and hazily notes he’s left the TV on as he glimpses the end of a Making the Video for Nirvana. His guitar case lies closed across the arms of the rigid armchair he never sits in; at least he’d remembered to put her away.
Frank all but collapses onto the leather couch and starts removing weapons from his person: a knife, or three, hidden in pant legs and sleeves, his favorite pistol - a Beretta M9 - from his waistband, and his backup, a small Colt Mustang out of his blazer’s inner pocket. He sets them on the glass coffee table and reaches for his bong placed in its tray with a wry thank you to his morning self who left the bowl full in his rush to get out the door. He smokes to quell the discomfort in his stomach and the ache behind his eyes, then heaves himself off the couch far from effortlessly.
The adrenaline wears off and makes way for exhaustion as he stiffly shrugs out of his torn blazer, sheds his leather gloves, and tears away the velcro holding his ballistic vest together. The rest of his suit hits the floor in pieces; a trail from the living room to the bathroom. He inspects his blood-soaked black dress shirt and twists his mouth up in vexation. There’s no hope in mending the scorched tear in the sleeve. He tosses it in the trash and makes a disgruntled mental note to buy a new one soon.
Frank stumbles into the shower and rinses away the viscera coating his right arm. His new injury makes sure to let him know it isn’t happy with the temperature or the pressure of the water. When he peels his eyes open to look, his stomach churns. It’s a raw, ragged tear from the ever-so-slight graze of a bullet, blackened on the edge where it entered. Like a bad case of road rash on just the wrong side of shallow; Not deep enough for stitches, but deep enough that it will leave a nasty scar and be nothing short of a nuisance for the next couple of months, give or take. He rests his forehead on the cool tile wall and sighs. He still has so much to do.
Once he’s sufficiently rinsed, he gets out, and towels off his hair, it’s starting to get long. As he gazes at his grim appearance in the mirror now, it’s shagging in his eyes, curling around his ears and at the ends. He pushes it back out of the way as cleanly as he can and dresses his wound with the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet. Then he puts on a new suit, identical to the last one; all black. He forgoes the tie this time.
He downs a hefty amount of Acetaminophen with a tumbler of whisky before reequipping his body armor. He grits his teeth and breathes harshly through his nose while he pulls his blazer back on and the sleeve constricts around his bandages. He ignores the feeling of his heartbeat suddenly radiating through his bicep, stores his weapons, and heads back out. Not without hastily digging bullet tips out of the Cadillac’s exterior. He winces at the fractured craters in the outer polycarbonate layer of the back windshield.
He returns to the scene of the deal gone wrong cautiously, his head on a swivel for any rival family members. Or worse: more of his own. After he assures the coast is clear, he pops the shrapnel-ridden trunk on the Cadillac and gets to work putting bodies in bags. It takes him longer than he's willing to admit to anyone to haul the bodies into the trunk. His arm is fucking killing him.
Frank delivers the Cadillac to John “Hambone” McGuire; a capo he knows he can trust and the closest thing Frank’s ever had to a friend within the Family. Despite being a normally chatty guy, he takes one look at Frank's countenance and hands him the keys without a word. They trade identical vehicles, and Frank begins to make his rounds to the businesses in the area that have yet to kick up to the boss.
Extortion is his least favorite part of the job. He’s at least lucky he gets to choose the people and businesses he has to give friendly reminders to, favoring sleazy club owners and disrespectful pimps. Guys who he has no trouble shoving his gun in their faces. But it’s still exhausting. He knows none of his associates fear him, much less respect him; just the influence of his father and grandfather that follows him everywhere, whether he wants it or not.
Frank is about to pull out of the parking lot of a crooked defense attorney's office with an unlit Marlboro dangling from his lips when his cell phone rings. He nearly groans aloud at the caller ID. He mutes the Black Flag wailing out of the new Cadillac’s speaker system.
"Hey, pop." He immediately wonders why he bothers with the greeting, because the response is all business, as usual. He takes the moment after he speaks to flip open his Zippo and light up his cigarette.
"Boss wants to talk to you." Frank's father informs him.
"Y'know it's weird when you call him that. It's like you forget he's your dad." Frank replies tiredly, snapping his lighter shut and ashing out the window he has cracked open.
"He's my boss first and my father second. It may behoove you to internalize that." Frank wouldn’t be shocked if his eye roll could be heard through the phone. He takes a long drag of the smoke between his gloved fingers before responding.
"Yeah, sure. What does he want?"
"Just get down here. And try not to keep him waiting all night. From what I’ve heard, you have quite the mess to clean up."
Frank hangs up and contemplates pitching his BlackBerry out the window.
Gerard whoops as they dump the clutch, pull the handbrake, and slide into a donut in the area past the makeshift finish line; a hastily sprayed streak of red paint. A glimpse in their rearview once they stop shows a miffed yet jovial Ray slamming the door on his Corvette. Gerard kills the engine and steps out, momentarily ignoring the adoring crowd to look at their friend.
"No hard feelings, I bet on you to win anyway. Just remember, if you were in that boat of a Challenger, I'd have wiped the floor with you." Ray winks and saunters off to collect a roll of bills from Mikey on the sly. Gerard shakes their head with a chuckle and meets up with the officiator to collect their race winnings.
"Another one in the bag, eh, Gee?" Lindsey congratulates them and hands over a thick stack of cash, which Gerard pockets all but $100 of.
"All in a night's work, Linds." They slap the bills into her hand. "Speaking of, I'd like another run tomorrow night if that's cool."
"You know I love making easy money!" Lindsey grins. Gerard smiles at her and bids her goodnight before they head back to their Trans Am, where Mikey and Ray are waiting for them.
"I had two grand on you; if you lost, you were paying my rent." Mikey smiles and squeezes their shoulder. Ray finishes putting his winnings in his worn leather wallet and tucks it away.
"Yeah, right, like you didn't smear that poser with the Audi. Thanks to that huge turbo I installed, might I add." They look around for the rich guy who had come around flashing his R8 keys as if he'd freshly blown a paycheck, not surprised to find out that the guy is nowhere to be seen. Mikey downright embarrassed him in his NSX, and Gerard assumes they won't see him again. Mikey simply shrugs as his attention is caught suddenly by a cute dark-haired girl parked next to Mikey's car, standing by a light blue Acura Integra GS-R and giving him a shy wave. He walks off without another word. Ray and Gerard share a look, amused.
"You celebrating too?" Ray asks Gerard, only to receive a doubtful raise of an eyebrow.
"I don't see anyone parked by my ride, Toro. Unless you wanted to take me home?" Gerard teases, nudging him in the ribs playfully.
"I don't know, do you finish as fast as you do a drag race?" Ray shoots back with a smile.
"Sounds like jealousy, my friend. Less than ten seconds alone with my hand it is, I suppose." Gerard jokes, digging their keys out of their jacket pocket. Ray spins his own around his finger a few times. It's an endearing habit- Mikey always says it makes him look like a kid who just got his first car, before hugging Gerard and congratulating them on their win.
"I'll see you at work!" He calls, squatting down into his Stingray before the 427 Chevy Engine fires up, rattling Gerard's ribcage a little. They nod their acquiescence and toss him a wave before climbing back into their Firebird and heading home.
The Pontiac rumbles to a stop in the first bay of the auto shop. Gerard steps out and releases the chain holding the garage door open. They step around their car, running a fond hand along the blood-red paint job as they crouch down to inspect the depth of the tread on their rear tires, running their fingertips along the rubber. The burnout they had done before the race started to warm their tires had worn down the last good life on them. Gerard decides they’ll spend tomorrow morning swapping over to a new set of drag slicks. As they climb the stairs to the garage’s office, they shut off the final light and head inside, through the office, and up another flight of stairs to their apartment.
The second they step through the door, the sound of eight little legs pounding down the hallway greets them in the dark. When they flip on the light switch, two silver masses of fur were winding themselves around Gerard’s legs, meowing incessantly. They place their Converse beside each other on the rug in the Foyer.
“Hi Mitch, hey Jupiter.” They laugh and make their way to the kitchen so they can feed them, narrowly avoiding tripping over their furry friends on the worn hardwood. Once the cats’ bowls are filled, Gerard busies themself with picking up the armada of coffee mugs around the apartment. They glance at the clock on the stove as they hastily hand-wash the mugs in the sink. It’s past 3 AM. They should be exhausted, but the thrill of winning a race, and bringing in a sum of money they could only dream of making in one day at the shop is enough to keep them up; more than any cup of coffee could.
Gerard wanders into their bedroom, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of their pocket and lighting one up before tossing their jacket over the corner of their door. They retrieve the roll of bills from another pocket to fill their wallet with the cash they’ll need for the foreseeable future, and store the rest in a safe on the floor of their closet.
Gerard kicks their way out of their jeans and flops onto their bed, humming contentedly at the feeling of their plush comforter welcoming them back. Mitch and Jupiter join them not long after they reach over to stub out their smoke in the ashtray on the bedside table. They pull out their phone to see a text from Mikey:
Not ded. Staying ovr nite in Echo Park. Batshit party house. C u @ work tmrw.
Gerard snorts to themself and fires back a response.
Sounds good, bring breakfast
They toss their phone on the nightstand and get comfortable. Mitch promptly settles himself between their legs. Jupiter is only a little more considerate and opts for pressing into Gerard’s side. Gerard feels a wave of fatigue hit them finally, and yawns when their cats start purring. They drift off to sleep with vague dreams of racing along an abandoned airport runway with Mikey and Ray in their rearview.