A/N/TRIGGER WARNING: Okay, so, I'm pretty sure when as many warnings as I need to put in the summary don't even fit anymore, I have too many. -.- Anyway...trigger warning on the next few chapters for a mild-ish eating disorder.

Chapter title is from the song They Say You Won't Come Back by Breathe Carolina.

Chapter Eighteen

Don't Go, You Won't Come Back

It was official. Frank absolutely loathed the night.

He hated sleeping—no, he hated dreaming and not being able to sleep. He didn't like being tired, either, of course, but it was a better alternative to going through what he had almost every time he allowed himself to fall asleep. He'd already gone through it too many times—he couldn't stand knowing it would only happen again.

He shifted his position lying on the floor, pressing his back to the cold wall, releasing a long, silent breath. He knew he couldn't stay awake forever. It'd now been somewhere around five days that they had been staying at Ashton's, and not one night had he slept more than two hours. Maybe if he finally passed out from exhaustion he'd be able to rest without the nightmares; or at least, he hoped he would.

The truth was, he hadn't known how much what Korse had done to both him and Gerard had affected him. Clearly, he was just as appalled and disgusted as Gerard was, but it'd done more than injure them physically. He'd been trying to ignore it in himself until now, or at least, trying to forget it so he could function normally, but he couldn't now—not when he was so tired that he could hardly think straight.

He was terrified; of being captured again, of being hurt again, of Gerard being hurt again…of everything, really.

Gerard...

God, what was he doing? Thinking only about himself when Gerard had been through the same and worse? If he was feeling like this, he couldn't imagine how Gerard felt about it. And while he'd been trying to be there if the older needed to talk or to be comforted or anything, Gerard had noticeably started to pull away from him and the others, hardly speaking and almost never smiling, both of which upset Frank terribly. The twenty-four-year-old refused to acknowledge anything was wrong, however, even when asked, and Frank couldn't help but wonder if that's just how he was going to be from now on, jumpy and sad and only halfheartedly kissing back whenever Frank tried to cheer him up.

No...that couldn't be right. They'd get through it eventually. They just had to; they'd been through bad things before and made it okay...

Not being raped by our fucking enemy.

He shook his head, tensing up as tears started flowing out of his eyes. He would never be able to let that go. Not ever, no matter what, and he feared it would be the same for his love, maybe worse with whatever else had happened over those days to him.

The mere thought caused a dull pain to shoot through the lower part of him, where he'd ached for days afterward, and he drew his knees to his chest, letting out a soft whimper. The man could have done anything else—anything—and they would have been able to start the process of forgetting. Mikey and Ray clearly already had, and were doing a damn good job at moving on, too. Even Rejection was slowly getting better.

He would do anything for them both to do so, as well; anything to stop the vivid images in his mind from reiterating when he closed his eyes, to stop whatever was wrong with Gerard and make him happy again. He'd make them both forget it ever happened if he could. He struggled to do just that around the others, never showing how scared he felt; he refused to. If that meant denying what had occurred during the day, when he could, then so be it; that way he could be looked up to again. Because right now…he felt what had happened to him had taken that away—temporarily or forever, he wasn't sure.

God how he wanted to kill the agent. He wanted to torture him, to make him suffer like he had them—permanently fuck up his mind and then end him all together.

And even that wouldn't do the situation justice. Korse had practically destroyed him and Gerard as he'd been forced to endure and watch, powerless, and, no matter how much revenge he took on the man, it simply wouldn't erase that from his mind.

He shuddered, blinking hard as his eyes started to close. Please, something in his head begged him, please sleep.

Frank fought against it desperately. No; he wasn't safe! He would never be when sleeping—never!

He sat up as he started losing, clenching his teeth, and then his gaze landed on Gerard, who was on his side under the window, his back facing him.

Frank slowly stood, dizzy from his grogginess, and went over to him, leaning over to see his face, whispering, "Gee?"

Gerard didn't respond, his eyes closed, and Frank carefully stepped over him, kneeling and then lying down in the space between the twenty-four-year-old and the wall. He pressed his back against his love, smiling a bit at the comfort of being next to the two things he knew for sure would never hurt him. Safe—he was safe here.

Then he sighed softly, at last giving up and allowing himself to slip into the darkness awaiting, never feeling Gerard reach an arm around him, kissing the back of his head without saying a word and then drifting back into sleep.

Mikey clasped his hands together, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his legs, staring at the stand he was sitting in front of, itching to pick up the bass he had yet to look away from. He was alone in the room, and the door was closed—so why was he still scared? He wanted to feel what Frank clearly had; happiness of being able to play again, the sensation of the instrument in his arms.

He did miss playing; it had always been a sort of stress reliever for him. He'd continuously heard music was great for that, be it playing an instrument, listening to it, or singing. Of course, Mikey couldn't sing—that had always been more of his brother's area of expertise—and unless it involved some sort of movement, like at a concert, he couldn't simply listen to music and be calmed. He hated sitting still, and he was pretty sure that would never change. Even when he'd been a child, with an excuse to be hyper, he'd still been a little too energetic. He'd at least calmed his urge to act without thinking, uncertain if it had been the fact that he'd nearly died several times because of it or something else, and didn't miss it either way.

But now, he somewhat wished that he still had a bit of that left. He'd been doing nothing but thinking for what must have been thirty minutes, alone and able to play at any point and yet afraid to. He'd specifically gotten up earlier than the others to assure he had time, and he could just now see light beginning to peak through the miniscule cracks in the closed blinds, hinting to him that he was running out of that time to be left to himself.

He hesitated a moment longer before at last he gave into the desire, reaching out to grab it, plugging it up to the bass amp Bert had brought with it, lowering the level so only he would hear it, and then at last struck a chord, letting out a huff of laughter as the sound reached his ears.

He thought for a moment and then positioned his thin fingers on the neck, slowly going through a few notes with no particular rhythm at the moment, and then suddenly didn't care that he could not recall the bass line to the song. This was still music, music he was creating, and that was more than enough for him.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Mikey stiffened, nearly dropping the instrument, and then, as it opened, he stammered, "S-sorry, Ashton, I was just…"

"Were you playing?"

Mikey blinked and turned at Ray's kind voice, surprised, biting his lip as the older Killjoy limped over to him, not on his crutches and clearly having difficulty. "Where're your—"

"I'm fine," Ray insisted with a smile. "Just…seeing if I can walk without them." He looked away for a moment. "They make me feel like...like I can't do anything. Like I couldn't help even if we were doing something."

Mikey didn't respond, but he reached out with the hand not still holding the bass to drag the closest chair nearer to his. He looked up at Ray, waiting patiently, and then the older gratefully took the seat, gesturing subtly at the bass after a moment.

"No," Mikey shook his head.

"You sound great, don't you?" Ray said, and Mikey looked at him. "You haven't even heard."

"Then play for me."

"…I don't remember much," the blonde murmured slowly, attempting a convincing excuse, and Ray stared at the bass for a moment. Then he scooted his chair to be directly behind Mikey's, leaning close and gently taking the blonde's left hand, maneuvering his fingers on the frets. "First two strings."

Mikey timidly moved his index and middle fingers to the strings, grinning slightly as, when he alternated them, notes even better than whatever he'd played before rang out. He glanced at the Killjoy over his shoulder. "You played bass?"

"I played a lot of things." Ray shrugged. "Never really had much else to do, I mean…my parents were always working, so I'd go down to this old music store everyday. The guy that owned it was really nice; he'd let me hang out there and practice."

"You never said anything about it."

"Mm. It's like Ash said, there wasn't really a point talking about that kind of stuff out there."

Mikey gave an almost imperceptible shrug, and then Ray reached out to move his other hand again, his fingers just barely trailing up his arm as he pulled away.

The blonde shivered and then absentmindedly played, his attention diverted, turning his head to look at him again. "I don't feel nervous." he finally murmured, his hazel eyes going over the older's face.

Ray tilted his head a little. "What do you mean?"

Mikey hesitated. "I always get nervous when I try to play in front of someone." He unconsciously moved his hand to a new chord by himself, the memories slowly unlocking in his mind, and smiled. "I'm not."

Grinning as well, Ray leaned to kiss him, which the blonde accepted without question, feeling his stomach flutter.

"You shouldn't be," Ray quietly said when they broke away, resting his chin on Mikey's shoulder and looking up at him seriously. "Don't ever be afraid of doing something you're good at."

Mikey blushed and turned to face the bass again, biting his lip in thought, and then at last managed to play several notes from Highway to Hell.

Ray chuckled softly. "You and Frank should play together."

The younger softly cleared his throat. "I don't know," he said, fascinated by the fact that he still didn't feel frightened, even though last time the mere thought ended his will to play at all.

"Maybe."

"So," Wire began hesitantly, somewhat startling Rejection, who'd been sitting quietly on the chair in the living room for almost the entire afternoon, deep in thought.

"Sorry," he whispered as she turned to look at him. "I just…I was…wondering? I mean, I was wondering, um—" he paused in irritation. Could he make his nervousness any more obvious? "You have any idea what we're going to do now?" he finally managed.

Rejection smiled sadly and shook her head. "I haven't even been thinking about it."

Wire sat down on the couch beside her, hoping it was far enough away that it wouldn't result in causing him to stammer more. "Sorry." he repeated, more solemn than before.

She nodded. "It's…okay." She bit her lip at the obvious lie even she herself could hear was false. "I mean, it will be."

"Will be?"

"Yeah." She looked at him, and he blushed under her gaze, hoping she didn't see. Her eyes were just so…beautiful; a very light blue that resembled what he vaguely remembered an ocean to be colored. He wondered suddenly if she liked oceans...maybe he could take her to one once this was all over with. If they could find one, of course; they were in the middle of a desert. The only water they got out there was rain, and even then it wasn't really water at all, but acid, which, for the record, was the least romantic sight—or experience—he could possibly think of, having one or two tiny raindrop-size scars on his body to prove it. Almost all of the Killjoys had been caught out in at least one of the downpours of it, some of them two or more, usually during their first few months of being out in the desert, refusing to take things as seriously as they should and realize that when Dr. D announced on the radio that there was going to be acid rain, he wasn't kidding around.

"When we take down BLI," she continued, "then I'll feel better. I need to know he didn't die for nothing."

"He didn't," Wire said immediately, and she smiled. "You're sweet. But I won't feel that until we get back at them—until we destroy them."

It was silent for a long moment, in which Wire nodded several times as he struggled to find something to say, and then Rejection cleared her throat. "I miss him. A lot."

"We all do. He was really great. I wish it…could be different."

Rejection put her thumb to her mouth and began chewing on her nail like that would stop her eyes from watering. It didn't, and after a moment a tear spilled over and fell down her cheek. Wire almost instinctively lifted his hand and reached towards her, wiping it away with a finger.

Her gaze locked with his, and he froze, momentarily both confused and content, and then she at last broke the eye contact, slowly glancing over his face and then looking away completely.

Wire couldn't move for a few seconds, enthralled with what had just occurred, and then his eyes traveled down to her hand, which had moved closer to his without him noticing, unsure now if it was his imagination or what he wished would happen. "You hungry?" he squeaked at last, raising his head, and she chuckled softly, blinking back at him. "Sure."

He smiled and gestured towards the kitchen, relieved she didn't comment on how stupid that was before standing and walking towards it, glancing back at him, apparently feeling the need to break the depressing tone of the room with a childish-sounding, "Are you blushing?"

Oh my God. Wire felt his cheeks grow hotter, and Rejection laughed, evidently having fun teasing him on what she was already aware he was doing, and he shook his head, grinning to hopefully hide how awkward he was. "Me? Nah." he murmured, watching her go off.

"Kiss her already," Note suddenly came up behind him before he could follow, nudging him with a shoulder, his eyes wide in amusement.

"Go away," Wire said, though couldn't stop smiling. He turned to the eighteen-year-old, looking him up and down. "Who do you like? Moon? Because I'd love to tease you about something."

Note cocked an eyebrow. "I don't like girls."

"Oh, sorry..." Wire was suddenly blushing again. "Do—?"

"Don't like guys, either." he continued, shrugging casually, and as Wire understood, he gave Note the most annoyed look the other had ever seen, for the obvious reason that his desire for revenge for all the embarrassment was absolutely pointless. "Are you kidding me?"

"Sorry," Note laughed, gave him a little push towards where Rejection had gone, and Wire rolled his eyes, shaking his head and sighing before heading into the kitchen. So much for that idea.

Frank, Ashton, Dr. D, Show Pony, DJ, and Bert, who was off to the very side, were the only ones in the kitchen, the other Killjoys either attempting to play the instruments or listening, or still in the living room. Frank smiled tiredly at them, supporting his head on his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He'd slept through the remainder of the night and into what was now the afternoon, and although he felt nowhere near completely caught up on sleep, it was a hopeful start. He wasn't sure, however, it he finally was overcoming the nightmares, or had simply been too deeply out of it to have any. With how he'd felt then and how he still felt, that didn't seem far-fetched in the least.

"Where's Poison?" Rejection asked, and Frank's smile faded, gesturing almost unnoticeably towards the bathroom with his head and then looking down.

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know. He won't talk to me." Frank said softly, sounding a bit heartbroken at that. He'd woken up cold and alone and wondering where his love had gone. He was grateful Ashton's apartment had two bathrooms, as Gerard had been in there for almost half an hour, muttering a stern, "No." when Frank had asked if he could come in, not even giving a response when asked if he was all right.

He was clearly not all right, anyway, but without Gerard telling him anything, Frank wasn't sure if it really was still from what Korse had done to him, or something else, or all of it, or even a completely different thing all together. It couldn't have been anything going on now, however. He knew of nothing that would cause that; Ashton had been more than generous. He'd given them clothes, shelter, food, and even simple things he could easily get for very little money at his corner store, such as toothbrushes and razors, so Frank was positive that wasn't the reason. He desperately wanted to help him and yet simply didn't know how to when he refused to explain what was wrong no matter how much pestering Frank did.

Almost as if he'd been hearing the pleas Frank had silently been sending him to get out, Gerard stepped out of the bathroom, cringing uncomfortably as they looked at him and crossing his arms. He looked cold and pale, even with the dark jacket Ashton had managed to find for him after he'd been shivering too much to fall asleep two nights before. He hadn't taken it off since except to shower, and yet for a moment it looked as if it wasn't helping at all.

Frank jumped to his feet and smiled, going over to him. "Are you feeling better?" he asked, and Gerard nodded without emotion.

The twenty-year-old studied his face for a long moment; he didn't look angry or anything—just expressionless, something Frank had been noticing he seemed to be more and more. It scared him; it was as if he had been taking the medication all of them did anything they could to stay away from.

"Good," he murmured, intertwining his fingers with the older Killjoy's, tugging him towards the kitchen. "Come eat, I—"

"I'm not hungry." Gerard gently pulled free and gave him a little shrug, turning and walking into the living room.

Frank frowned and followed, catching him by his arm again. "Gee," he said, so seriously Gerard stopped and looked at him.

"Gerard, please, tell me what's wrong." Frank's hazel eyes were slightly shining in the light, like he was close to tears, pleading with him far more than his words were.

The twenty-four-year-old glanced at the floor without answering. Everything, Frank. Me.

"Please," Frank repeated, becoming increasingly desperate. "Tell me." He slid his hand down from his love's wrist to his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. "I want to help you…but you have to talk to me!"

Gerard forced a smile, a task that felt more difficult than anything he'd ever done before. "Nothing."

"Please…" Frank's voice was hardly a whisper, and he bit his lower lip.

The feigned grin was gone just as fast, and Gerard pulled his hand out of his love's grip, leaning towards him. "Nothing," he assured, kissing him on the cheek, hoping to end his worrying.

It obviously didn't, as Frank only blinked and then shook his head. "I'm glad," he murmured, too tired to continue, and then turned, going back into the kitchen.

Gerard dug his nails into his palm as hard as he could manage, clenching his teeth and going over to sit on the couch, ignoring the chatter of the others around him. He should've taken Frank's offer and gone into the kitchen to get something to eat—he knew he should have. He was more aware of that than he was of anything else. Yet there was something stopping him, something telling him that wasn't what he needed to feel better. He also vaguely knew he shouldn't have been listening to it, but it was stronger than him. Not only did he simply feel better about having control over something, as he felt he didn't for anything else, but he was also hurt—hurt by the insults he refused to tell anyone about. The insults that had started off being given by the twenty-nine-year-old jerk Ashton apparently believed was a good friend, and that instead were now being shot at him almost constantly by his own mind. He didn't know why he believed them, but he did; he'd tried ignoring them and it'd worked just about as much as telling them to go away had.

He'd had them before, though. The need to refuse to eat wasn't new. When he'd been younger, in what may have been the eighth grade, there'd been an incident at school where he'd been repeatedly called fat and worse by a large group of kids at the table across from him at lunch. They'd ridiculed him about it to the point where he'd wanted to cry and then had been teased further because his eyes had watered. No one had made a single move to stand up for him, not in the entire cafeteria—and about half of them were witness to what had been said to him—and so he thought because of that, it must have been true. He was overweight and ugly and the reason no one ever befriended him was because he just wasn't worth it.

He'd starved himself for weeks after that, only eating infinitesimal amounts here and there to keep his parents happy and blissfully unaware of what he was doing, losing almost ten pounds and then finally breaking down in a fit of sobbing when his brother had found a note he'd pinned to the mirror in his closet, the invective from the students that day written again and again all over it, and confronted him about it. The paper had been there so he could read it every morning and night—remind himself that he was doing this for a purpose. He didn't have a problem, he was dieting. And it didn't matter anyway—he'd eventually be skinny and attractive and no one would make fun of him anymore. He'd finally fit in with everyone else, something he'd always wanted to do. He'd begged Mikey not to say anything of it, wanting that fantasy to come true, but the younger had told their parents anyway, who had then brought him down into a long discussion. For the most part, he'd been successful at denying every accusation they threw at him and making excuses, only to have it all ruined when he'd finally been allowed to leave by fainting halfway to the stairs. It had only been then that he'd agreed to see a specialist they would have forced on him anyway to help him.

Now, recalling that speaking about it and confessing to the problem had led to his slow but effective recovery for all these years, relapsing only a few times during them and merely for a few days before he was sent back to recover, he loosely wondered if allowing Frank or even his brother to know about it would help. He knew Mikey wouldn't be pleased, the problem most likely only accentuating how weak and pathetic he truly had become since their capture. But seeing as there wasn't an option for him to speak to the same kind of specialist here, it was the next best thing he had. Yet he decided against it. He knew they would only be burdened by his problems; they had some of their own to worry about. They didn't need to fret over him, and, to be honest, he didn't think he cared enough to tell them. He just wanted to feel in control of himself again, and he continued to remain uncaring of how he achieved that—uncaring of everything, really. And if he had control over one more thing in his life at the moment, he was disinclined to let that disappear so easily.

He solemnly looked up as Ray and Mikey emerged from the other room, smiling at him and then joining the others in the kitchen without a word, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

"Hey," Skye said, noticing the older of the two wasn't using the crutches. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, actually." Ray said, and then winced.

Dr. D caught it. "It hasn't been long enough; you need to use them."

"I'm okay," Ray managed hoarsely, his voice a little too high-pitched for him not to be in at least some pain, sitting down heavily on the chair and stretching his leg out with a sharp exhale of relief, giving the Doc a funny looking grin. "I was just...trying."

Dr. D gave a sigh and sipped from his mug without replying, knowing he'd go back to using them. He wasn't stupid; just as stubborn as he had been five years ago.

"You're looking a lot better, anyway," Pony offered kindly, and Ray nodded, turning slightly to look at where Bert was silently sitting in the corner of the table, the left side of his bottom lip swollen. "You okay?"

Bert scowled without looking up. "I'm fine. No worries."

Ray eyed him for another moment before facing the others again, noticing Frank had his eyes closed, his head slowly tilting to one side. "Hey..."

The younger Killjoy didn't respond, and Ray smiled, reaching out to poke his arm, attempting to merely wake him and instead causing him to gasp and bring his arm back to his chest, forgetting he'd been holding a glass and knocking it over, spilling water all over the table and onto the floor.

"I-I'm sorry," Frank murmured, dazed, and Ashton stood, startled. "It's okay," he began, turning and looking at the counter for the paper towels that weren't there. "Shit, um..." He looked at the others standing and pointed to a cabinet below the sink. "Can one of you grab the roll of paper towels under there?"

"Got it," Ray murmured, getting to his uninjured knee in one fluid movement and opening the little cabinet, pushing things around before he saw them, wincing as his hand brushed up against something cold and sticky. "Ow," he muttered, and then suddenly yelped. "Ow! Ow—fuck!"

He dropped the towels onto the tile as he retracted his hand, shouting again at the awful burning sensation, and Mikey grabbed his arm in concern. "What's—"

"Shit!" Ray interrupted, trying to shake the thick white substance off his hand and failing. "Getitoffame!"

Ashton was suddenly beside him, grabbing his wrist, hauling him up by it and dragging him closer to the sink, forcing his hand under the faucet and blasting it on the coldest setting.

Ray cried out, squeezing his eyes shut, and Rainbow quickly grabbed a chair, placing it behind him in case he fell. "What happened?"

Ashton was evidently clueless, and he didn't reply, trying to keep Ray on his feet as he writhed in agony, letting out another suppressed yell, prompting the others that had been in the living room to rush in to see what was wrong.

DJ stepped forward, frowning and bending down to see in the cabinet, immediately noticing something. "Ashton?"

"Mm?"

"Do you have drain cleaner?"

Ashton frowned. "I don't—" he cut off and cursed. "Shit."

DJ tilted her head in a silent gesture of agreement with that, squinting to see that several of the objects he had down there —towels, other bottles of cleaning things—were covered in the white gunk, trailing from a bottle, on its side in a puddle of the stuff. "It's everywhere."

"S-stop!" Ray mumbled as Ashton started gently rubbing the stuff off with a small rag by the sink. "Please!"

"You want it off you or not?" Ashton demanded, and almost as if in response, Ray's knees gave way and he slumped into the chair with a moan, pressing his forehead to the counter and clutching at it with his free hand. He was unable to stop a soft whimper from escaping his lips after another moment or two, and he shook his head, hoping no one had heard him.

Mikey was struggling to comfort him still, a hand rubbing his back, whispering, "It's okay," into his ear to soothe him, and he just began to notice him, inhaling sharply. Then, as Ashton stopped touching it, he groaned in relief.

"I think I got it all," the man said, sounding satisfied.

"Keep rinsing it," Dr. D ordered. "Fifteen minutes."

"Motherfucker," Ray panted.

"You gonna be okay?" Frank asked carefully.

"I'm gonna be great," the older Killjoy managed through gritted teeth, his voice high-pitched again and dripping with sarcasm. "Amazing, really..."

Ashton shook his head. "Jesus, I'm sorry—if I'd known that'd spilt…"

"'s fine," Ray tried to lift his head and then found he couldn't, suddenly exhausted from the discomfort, and he vaguely wondered if it would cause him to faint; vaguely wanted it to. That wouldn't be good, though—he couldn't go into shock or something, and he was fairly sure Dr. D didn't have anything to treat that, with his van still outside the city. And if he did, it'd be an absolutely pathetic way to waste their limited medical resources.

Ray blinked, but his vision didn't blur or fade, and after a moment he realized the only comfort he was going to receive was from Mikey.

It was enough, he finally decided, pressing his lips together to stop all sounds of pain. It'd be over soon; he just had to make it until then.

No one noticed Gerard, further behind the others, step back and let out a sudden, very soft sob, uncertain why the hell he was abruptly on the verge of tears, as it was Ray who was in pain, not him. He was unable to control it, however, and with a quick glance at both Frank and his brother, denying the urge to go to either, he quietly returned to the bathroom, a trembling hand over his mouth to prevent any other noise from escaping until he was alone.

No one except Bert, who watched him close the door, running a tongue along his swollen lip with a wince of pain. He knew he could have said something, or told the Killjoy's boyfriend, who was standing almost right beside him.

He didn't, though.

At last, nearly half an hour later, Ray was no longer in the awful agony he had been, leaning back in the chair he hadn't left, his eyes closed as he tried to regain his breath. Dr. D had tended to the wound after Ashton had washed it long enough, paining him a bit more before finally giving him painkillers and allowing him to simply rest his reddened, already blistered hand on the counter without having it be bothered again. The pain had dulled to a tolerable level, and with Mikey still comforting him, he was almost beginning to feel okay again.

"Any better?" Dr. D asked after a while, and Ray mumbled, "Mm-hm."

The Doc sighed quietly and looked to Ashton. "You got any painkillers?"

Ashton shook his head. "Sorry. Why, you didn't bring enough?"

"I thought I had, but…I guess not." He turned to Ray. "You think you can make it through the night?"

"God, not if they wear off," Ray said frantically, blinking up at him in desperation.

Ashton waved a hand. "No problem. I'll go out and—"

"I can go," Bert suddenly cut in, and Ashton eyed him for a moment.

"Well you can't go alone." Skye murmured, and Bert frowned at her. "What? I'm twenty-nine!"

"Still—"

"I'll go, then." Frank said, watching Bert turn to stare at him. "No way."

"I wasn't offering, I was telling you. I'm coming with you."

Bert feigned a smile. "Fine," he spat, and Frank couldn't stop a little sardonic grin from forming at the edge of his mouth. He turned towards the others, holding out his arms. "Do I look like a Killjoy?"

Pony pursed his lips and then said, "No. But BLI will recognize you if they get the chance; they know what you look like, different clothes or not."

"It's almost dark…"

Dr. D eyed him and then glanced at Ashton, who shook his head. "It shouldn't be a big deal. Just," he looked at Bert, "make sure you look out for Watchers, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Bert rolled his eyes, standing and heading towards the door.

Frank went to follow him, stopping when they got to the door as he heard Gerard murmur, "W-where're you going?"

Turning to the Killjoy peering at him over the top of the couch, confused, Frank replied, "To get stuff for R—Jet."

Gerard eyed Bert behind him, who was glaring at him in impatience. He gave him an all around bad feeling; he really didn't want Frank to be alone—and vulnerable—with him. "Don't go."

Frank clearly did not understand his concern, possibly didn't even notice it, and he gave a small smile. "It's okay; I'm not scared."

Gerard frowned. "I never—"

"It's fine," the younger insisted, not letting him continue, turning to the door and opening it, stepping past Bert, who followed without another glance at the Killjoy watching.

"Which way?" Frank asked as they got out of the apartment, and Bert gestured to the street. "Come on, we've got fifteen minutes."

"Why?"

"Seven is curfew for kids."

Frank frowned. "And?"

Bert glanced at him doubtfully as he started off. "Aren't you sixteen or something?"

The Killjoy froze, his fists clenching. "I'm twenty!"

"That's nice," Bert uncaringly called over his shoulder, and Frank shook his head, muttering several curses before catching up.

"Gee?"

Gerard glanced up at his brother, not even having noticed he'd stopped playing the bass in his lap. He looked very uncomfortable at how blank the expression of the older was—he'd never heard him play, was this supposed to be his reaction? "D-did you…like it?"

"Yeah, Mikes, I loved it." Gerard nodded. "You're great."

Mikey smiled and let out a breath of relief, and Ray nudged him with his shoulder. "Told you," he murmured jokingly. "We could almost make our own band."

The blonde smiled suddenly, and then it faded as Ray cleared his throat. "Could've, I mean."

Almost literally having forgotten about the ban on music, or anything else going on for a second, Mikey sagged his shoulders. "Right."

"Maybe when we beat 'em," Gerard said comfortingly, noticing his brother's spirits drop through the floor. "Then you can play music as much as you want. And make a band."

Mikey nodded, still looking at the ground, and Gerard glanced at the Killjoy beside him like he wanted help.

"You—we can make one anyway, if you want," Ray offered, and Mikey blushed, realizing he'd been pouting like a child. "It's fine, sorry."

"No, really," Ray said, wanting to cheer him up. "I'm sure Frank would like the idea."

Mikey shrugged.

"C'mon." To be honest, Ray wanted to do it as well. Have a single plan—a dream for what they would do after BLI was gone and they all were free. They needed more of those.

Mikey looked at him, smiling a bit. "Just for the hell of it?"

"For the hell of it," Ray chuckled, and Mikey looked at his brother. "You'd sing, right?"

Gerard winced. "I don't know, Mikey. It's not real." He glimpsed Mikey's crestfallen face immediately and bent forward, an arm resting on his leg, hand supporting his chin. "Sure, yeah, okay."

Mikey didn't seem to be aware of his worry—or at least, had finally given up asking what was wrong. He looked at Ray and played another note or two. "We'd have to find a name."

Ray raised an eyebrow at how interested the blonde was in this, but it was keeping their minds off everything for now, and that was something he was more than happy about. "I don't know, I mean," he shrugged, "we don't have to right now."

"Just…give me words. Any words."

Gerard opened his mouth to do so and then closed it again, realizing he probably shouldn't have said anything on his mind at the moment.

"Ahm…" Ray mumbled, trying to think of something and looking at the window. "…Night?"

Mikey smirked at him. "Great choice, really," he murmured sarcastically.

Ray shifted and chuckled, breaking off in a sharp gasp of pain as his injured hand brushed against Mikey's jeans. "Shit!"

Gerard jumped, straightening up with a frown of concern as Ray frantically shook his hand. "Fire, burn, chemical—take your pick, Mikey!"

The blonde gently gripped his arm to stop the movement and Ray sighed after a moment of confusion as he acknowledged it actually lessened the pain, gratefully looking at him.

Mikey didn't speak for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. "Chemical Romance," he said with a little nod.

"…What?" Ray asked, confused, and Mikey leaned back, seeming very pleased with himself. "The name."

"Where'd that come from?"

"That one place we stayed at, a few years back? With all the books?"

"The ones we burned for a fire? Yeah, I remember..."

"That was one of them."

"The title? How the hell do you even remember that?"

"'Cause it was sorta…I don't know, I just…" He smiled. "It was the only one I actually opened. I thought it was a funny name for ecstasy."

"Great, Mikes," Ray chuckled. "Whatever you want."

"Why not?"

"I like it," Gerard offered, glancing at him, having felt the need to say something helpful, not knowing if it had been or not and uncaring either way.

Mikey repositioned the bass on his lap and strummed it again. "Chemical Romance," he murmured softly. "Our…My Chemical Romance?"

He looked at Ray and nodded in satisfaction, repeating it in less of a questioning tone.

That definitely sounded right.

Shit, Gee; I lied. I'm scared.

Frank had been trying to ignore the fear for a while now. In fact, the entire reason he'd wanted to go out in the first place was to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid, that he could handle being in a dangerous situation again without losing it, that Fun Ghoul was still somewhere in him.

Well…he was in a dangerous situation now, anyway. It had taken longer than fifteen minutes to even walk to the store, and Bert had insisted on taking a different path than the one they'd taken before, away from the streets.

"You, uh…you know where we are, right?" Frank asked yet again, unable to help it.

Bert heaved an irritated sigh and finally flung his arm out, simply trying to shove the small box of painkillers into Frank's hands and instead resulting in the twenty-year-old gasping and jerking back. Bert stopped and looked at him, noticing the fear he instantly began pushing away. "What'd you think I was gonna do, hit you?"

"No." he said quietly, not looking up, and Bert cocked an eyebrow but said nothing else of it, handing him the box much slower and then starting to walk again. "We aren't lost. I just…wanna make a stop while we're out."

Frank frowned and didn't speak again, casting another glance behind them. He was absolutely paranoid, and the worst part was, he had no idea whether or not he had a reason to be; if it was his instincts trying to tell him something, or if he was overreacting due to his fear of being captured again.

Finally, after a long while of silently following the older, they stopped in front of a small one-story apartment building, and Frank halted as Bert continued on up the steps to the door, turning to him once he noticed he was no longer beside him. "What?"

"What're we doing?"

Bert smirked. "I'm going to talk to someone."

"Can't we go back?" Frank asked, a slight panicked edge to his voice, and Bert nodded. "Sure. In a minute," he added after a pause, disappearing inside the glass door before anything else could be said.

Unknowingly chewing his bottom lip, Frank fit the box into his pocket and clenched his fists in front of him. He desperately wished he'd brought his gun now, but it'd been too risky. One person saw it, and everything was ruined. They were supposed to be dead—and they had to keep it like that, at least for now.

He waited for what seemed like forever, gradually relaxing as nothing occurred, and then turned to stare at the place beside him. Where was he?

He frowned. What if he was hurt? Or something bad had happened?

At last, his anxiety got the best of him, and, without quite realizing it, he was making his way towards the stairs, attentively entering the apartment, peering down one end of an empty hallway. He opened his mouth to call out, never getting the chance.

"Hey!"

Frank whipped around, not even seeing who had spoken before a fist drove into his stomach, knocking the air from him in a loud cry.

Someone grabbed him from behind before he could double over, hooking their arms around his so he couldn't move them, forcing him to stand up.

"This is private property, kid!"

Frank blinked at the guy in front of him, the edges of his vision blurred as he fought to breathe, incapable of speech.

"What're you doing here?" he demanded, and the Killjoy shook his head, exclaiming as his arms were jerked back further.

"Answer!"

"Let him go, he's with me!"

Frank slumped to the floor as he was released, gasping and curling up.

"He's with you?" the one who'd been behind him—a woman—murmured, and Bert nodded, stepping up to them.

"What, you get stuck baby sittin' or somethin'?" the other laughed.

"Shut the fuck up, Jake," Bert rolled his eyes, looking at Frank as the boy finally managed to raise his head, blinking hard.

"You good?" Bert asked as he struggled up, not offering to help, and Frank glared at them as he got to his feet, an arm tightly around his aching midsection, still slightly bent over. "No. C-can we go now?"

Bert rolled his eyes yet again, exasperated now like Frank didn't have a perfectly good reason for wanting to leave. "I'll be done in a minute! Shit...just go wait outside!"

Frank didn't move as he turned and went back into one of the rooms, and then his gaze traveled to the two. The man had pulled out a cigerette and was now lighting it, casually acting as if they hadn't just attacked the Killjoy. The women looked him over and then dug a hand into her pocket, holding something out to him. "Want any?"

"You take them?" he rasped after a moment, his eyes going from the bottle of BLI medication to her, and she shrugged. "Not all the time…"

"Just when we need a little...you know..." Jake trailed off and took another drag, and Frank suddenly understood. "You get high off them?"

"Why not?" the woman asked, smirking. "You take less than you're supposed to, and they don't mess you up for as long." She popped the bottle open, again offering. "You want one?"

Frank hardly noticed, pointing at the room Ashton's friend still hadn't come out of yet. "Bert—does he take them?"

Jake shrugged carelessly. "Sure. Shit's great for just relaxin'." He smirked. "He brings us stuff, we trade with him for these."

Frank tilted his head a little. "Brings you what stuff?"

"Dunno. Painkillers and stuff; anything we might want."

Painkillers. Doc had—that bastard! He stole them! Frank rolled his eyes. So Bert was a druggie and a thief.

Perfect, just…perfect.

They all really needed someone who took drugs—especially BLI drugs—around to help them out; in fact, that was just what they needed. Someone they shouldn't be trusting.

It of course didn't mean Bert agreed with what BLI did, or even that he took them often—but it was enough. And if he hadn't taken what he had, (and Frank was positive it had been him; there was no other explaination as to how the packets Dr. D had brought had disappeared over the days they'd been there) then Ray would've had enough to last him the night, and he wouldn't be here right now! It was a reason good enough that they would have to keep an eye on him, and it was something he had to be sure to tell the others about the moment he got back.

The women was looking him over again when he came out of his thoughts, seeming to have different plans of what he was going to do. "You're a cute little thing...how old are you?"

Frank hesitated, uncomfortable. "Twenty."

"Really? You're damn young looking for that." she said, and then stepped closer to him.

"I have to..." Frank began, his eyes darting, but she pushed him back against the wall with a hand, smirking, pinning him there with a knee between his legs. She brushed the hair out of his eyes, and he shrank back as much as he could. "Stop it."

Smirking, she didn't, leaning closer, and Frank's panic increased. He didn't want this—he never wanted anyone but Gerard to ever touch him how she was...how the agent had...taunting him with similar abuse and then going through with what it had suggested completely... "Let go!"

'There's the defiance I remember. I was starting to wonder where it went.'

"No," he whimpered, startled, and she put a hand on his chest, obviously amused by his growing fear, though it really had nothing to do with her anymore, her image blurred with another.

'I guess I'll just have to find a way to get rid of it for good, hmm?'

"Fucking let me go!" he shouted, eyes wide. He clenched his fists, and then, before he could do anything—and he would have, too—Jake chuckled, "Meg, leave 'em alone. You're gonna make him cry."

She rolled her eyes and released him, stepping back, and, shaking, Frank pushed past her. He staggered to halt outside, gripping the banister like his life depended on it, trying to blink away the flashes of memory.

'Oh yes; we left off somewhere, didn't we?'

"Stop—stop, please!" he mumbled, only slightly aware it had been to no one. You're awake, he tried to tell himself, you're awake, and alone, and he's not here!

'You know what, Way? I'd actually love for you to see something else even more.'

Frank let out a loud sob—"Please…"—and stumbled down the stairs, striving to make the rest of him realize he was moving, that he was walking, and his hands were free, and Korse wasn't about to—

'Glad to hear you're finally learning manners, Killjoy.'

He had no idea when the hell he'd started running, aiming to only get away from what wasn't even there, but when he became aware of his actions again, he was at the end of the passageway they'd come through, and then out onto the edge of the street, petrified and practically hyperventilating as he slowly came out of his stupor—and then felt his heart stop as he was suddenly lit up by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

His fear overtook him entirely, and he immediately sprinted in the opposite direction of which he'd come from, only determined to evade capture, unknowing if it'd been a Watcher or someone else and very keen to never finding out. He ducked into another corridor, staggering weakly, his hands out because no matter how many times he blinked, his vision only got blurrier, and he could no longer see where he was going.

He heard quick footsteps behind him, turned, and then moaned as he was grabbed and nonchalantly shoved up against the wall beside him. His already fuzzy head smacked back against the concrete, his knees buckled, and despite still being held he felt himself falling, mumbling the only name that crossed his mind before everything went dark.

"Gee…"