#and can we talk about how an option is him getting fucking GARROTTED
Note
Also nibbling on his tattoos (especially his the "and" part)
so all of this entire page is lethal. but please. please can we focus on the giveaway question and the answers.
“HOW DID FRANK IERO NEARLY DIE?”
BITCH WHICH TIME~🎃
#and can we talk about how an option is him getting fucking GARROTTED#i’m fucking dying#there are so many thoughts in my head right now#and only 3% of them are publishable here#pls#pls help#p l e a s e#frnkiebby#feralfaggotfrankkk#asks#frank iero#mcr#frnkiero#mcrmy#mcr5#frnkie#my chemical romance#my chem#ilhsm
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Disparate Pathways - Chapter 16
Read previous chapters on AO3
Chapter 16 - Mad Hat
It had taken Jefferson a long time to calm down after his argument with his handler, and he felt Belle’s eyes on him, and almost heard her wondering whether she should say something to him or just leave him be. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe out the bad taste that speaking with the man, that was supposed to have had his back, had left in his mouth.
In the end, as though she couldn’t stand the thick silence any longer, Belle spoke.
“Now what?” she asked softly. “You said something about…” She trailed off, and he sensed she had done so deliberately to get him talking and not because she couldn’t remember what he’d said.
“Going to pick up my car, yeah,” he said, and offered her a tired smile and an even more exhausted apology. “Sorry you had to hear all that. Not my finest moment, I assure you.”
“I seem to have shared a lot of those lately,” she told him, completely without any sense of malice in her voice, and as much tiredness as he had himself.
“Once I have the car, we’ll get on the road again,” he promised, and reached over to gently touch the top of her shoulder. “Take you to my… friend. He’ll keep you safe.”
The hesitation was barely there, a reflection of not knowing what exactly to call Gold. He wasn’t a friend, and yet he owed the man his life…
”You have about five seconds to start talking before my finger gets tired… maybe cramps, twitches… pulls the trigger.”
“Duneach, this isn’t what it looks li—” he started, frozen in place by the hardness of the gun barrel at the base of his skull. He got no further as the smaller man assaulted the back of his leg with a merciless kick and all but roared in the same moment that the explosion of pain forced Jefferson’s knee to give up its support of him.
“Don’t call me that!”
He hit the smooth concrete of the floor hard, but rolled to his back to keep the other man in sight; to keep the gun in sight as he stared up into the dark hollow of its muzzle.
“Who you are isn’t it?” he gasped.
The answer came not as an argument or denial, but as another swift kick aimed at the balls. He rolled. The immaculately polished toe of the man’s expensive shoe hit hard against his inner thigh instead. Still painful, but not debilitating, and that was, he figured, vital at that point.
He snatched at the man’s ankle before he could withdraw the foot, and pulled it toward him. His already off balance opponent was taken down easily with such a tactic, snarling and spitting accented curses like a rabid animal. Jefferson’s mind raced as he fought to decipher the words. He’d long suspected this one was different than the others… no softer, but it was clear to the young agent that the man didn’t approve of what the leader of the organization - no less than his mother - was doing. Duneach, they shared a name, and yet this man denied it.
Jefferson scrambled to his knees. If he was going to test his theory, he needed to keep the man down; subdued so he could reason with him, and already he’d lost precious seconds. He tried to to pin the man, but that precious time lost was the difference between success and failure. Duneach’s son threw him off, and followed with a rolling forearm smash to the middle of his back, winding him into immobility again even as he could hear the man behind him moving.
He heard it at the last minute. The sickly melodic slide, and then the tremulous single note as the air vibrated along the length of the wire. He felt the sting of it wrap around his neck, at his throat, the garrote starting to cut into his skin as Duneach pulled hard; tightened the wire around his neck even as he leaned down to half growl, half whisper as if in intimate innuendo, “Who are you?”
“I…” he rasped. Hard to talk when he was being half throttled, half sliced to death. He made himself complete the sentence; not to panic. One wrong word… “I’m on your side, man,” he scratched out. “I’m on your si—” The tightening wire cut off the words, and he felt the run of blood, hot and wet down the sides of his neck, his throat.
“FBI…” he gasped, risking everything on his hunch, do or die. “FBI!”
“Jefferson?” Belle’s cold fingers brushed the back of his hand, and he blinked, realizing with a start that he was clutching at the scarf around his neck. “Are you all right?”
He took a trembling breath, let it out slowly to try and steady himself, and swallowed hard.
“Let me…” he began hoarsely, ignoring the question and the worried look he saw in her eyes. “Let me call Ryde. We… we need to get out of here.”
**
“You need me to wait?”
By the time the Ryde arrived and had driven them to the twenty-four-seven storage facility to which Jefferson had directed them, it was well after two in the morning, and aside from the fact that he was starting to feel the worse for wear, Jefferson could tell that Belle was struggling.
Once they had his car though, things would be better… easier. Belle could rest and he could drive them a way north, take a break at some non-descript motel somewhere out of the way where no one would ask too many questions, and maybe manage to get in touch with Gold with more than just panicked, encrypted emails.
“Nah,” he said to the driver, who looked somewhat doubtful of the answer. “We’re good from here.”
“You sure, bro?”
It took all of Jefferson’s self control not to snap at the guy. He knew he was only trying to be helpful, and he could tell that his concern was genuine too - unlike a lot of people in his position.
“Yeah, I…” Something made him hesitate. Maybe the guy’s doubt was rubbing off on him, maybe it was something else, but the thought crossed his mind that it would be just like Rebecca to pull some kind of stunt with his car and—
“Tell you what,” the driver offered when Jefferson didn’t say anything else for another minute or so, lost in worried thought as he was. “How ‘bout I wait say… fifteen, twenty minutes or so - no charge, it’s my lunch break anyway, and then… if there’s problems, I can take you somewhere you and your lady can rest up. If not,” he shrugged. “No harm - no foul.”
Jefferson considered the option for a while until he felt a light touch on his arm, and turned to see Belle’s gaze quite sensibly, but silently imploring him to listen to the man.
“All right,” he said before he turned back to the driver, “Yeah, thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
He offered the man as much of a winning, though almost bashful smile as he could muster as he began to guide Belle toward the gate, where he punched in his access code, half expecting it not to work. After only a moment though, the gate swung open slowly on its automated hinges, and he let out a breath as he nodded to Belle to precede him.
The walk from the gate to the storage unit in question wasn’t a long one, and it was a ground floor unit. It would have to be, after all, since it was meant to be nothing more than a glorified garage. The second unit, somewhere in the compound, not so much. That had the rest of his life safely packed away inside with all the memories of the happier times before he’d lost Cilla. He tried not to think too much about it, but simply being at the storage facility held too many deep, grief filled memories.
He took a deep breath, pushed the thoughts away, at least to the back of his mind for the moment as he came to a stop outside of a double padlocked storage unit with a roller door.
“This is us,” he told Belle. “We’ll be on our way soon.”
She nodded wordlessly, moving to lean against the wall between his unit and the one beside it as he unfastened the padlocks and began to roll the door open. Part way, when the light from outside illuminated the darkness within, he saw with growing anger that he had been more than right to be suspicious of his sister-in-law.
She had blamed him for her sister’s death, and took every opportunity to let him know about it in any way she could. Nothing was beneath her, and she knew all of his buttons to push.
”Empty Promises, Jefferson!” Rebecca’s expression spoke of bitterness… blame. Contempt. “Always the same with you though, isn’t it? So, Can’t count on you for anything.”
Anger flared in Jefferson, white hot and violent and he took a step toward Rebecca before he knew what he was doing, until the tension of it brought him up short.
“How dare you suggest I would ever abandon my Grace!” he couldn’t even force his tone into the icy cold he wanted, simply yelled the words right into her face.
“That’s practically what you have done,” she spat back, her face twisted into an ugly knot that destroyed all similarity to her sister that he might have previously seen. “Left it to us to feed her, clothe her, pay for her care when she’s sick…”
She might have gone on, but he roared her down again. “Fuck you, Rebecca! You are more than well compensated for taking care of Grace.”
“This isn’t about the money, Jefferson,” Rebecca had flushed, and he saw she clenched her fists at her side.
“That’s exactly what this is about,” he contradicted her, pointing a long finger almost right at her face. “You were happy enough to snatch Grace from my arms when they said they wanted me under deep.”
“Well what was I supposed to do? Let you put her into foster care for God knows how long?” she snapped. “She’s family.”
“No one ever mentioned foster care, Bex.” Jefferson paced, ran a hand through his hair as he turned back to her, arms open in a helpless gesture. “You told me I should do it; told me you’d be happy to look after Grace until I could come home. Now suddenly she’s an inconvenience? I could have told them no.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Her look turned ugly again. “Because then she wouldn’t have grown up without her father.”
He clenched his jaw and snarled softly at first, but his tone escalating, “She didn’t. I came whenever I could.”
“Not nearly often enough.” Her words were a slap to his face. “So now you’re saying three months…? Six? Another year…?” She shook her head. “Like I said, Jefferson. They’re empty promises.”
He spun around, not even bothering to close the door again and almost ungently grasped Belle by the arm and began to lead her back toward the gate.
#rumbelle#angst#graphic violence#character death#hurt/comfort#implied noncon#drama/romance#UST#eventual smut#disparate pathways#i will always write jefferson
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