Work Header

i'll be your detonator

Work Text:

The Trans Am skids off the broken highway with a quick jerk of the wheel, tires squealing as the rear end fishtails in the soft dirt and gravel rains down on the windshield and hood. Gerard punches the brakes hard and gives the wheel another sharp yank; the radio is fucking blaring, The Mad Gear and Missile Kid screaming loud enough to rattle the windows, and Gerard has his gun in his hand before the car shrieks to a stop. It rattles into an arching Saguaro with bulletholes in both its upraised arms, and Frank frowns at the rough building up ahead in the distance, a plywood and sheet metal lean-to pushed up against an outcropping of weathered, desert stone.

"Is this the place?" Frank shouts, sliding out of the passenger seat.

The car is still running, because Gerard lost the keys years ago, can't start it back up without sparking the frayed wires under the dash. He never shuts it off when they're on a raid, otherwise too much of their getaway comes down to chance. With the doors closed, Black Dragon Fighting Society is nothing but noise, just a thin wail over a dull and filthy bass.

"Yeah, it is," Gerard replies, his mask waiting on top of his head, bright yellow against the greasy red fall of his hair. He dyed it a couple of nights ago; his hands and jaw are still stained a faint, sickly pink. "Doesn't look like much."

It looks empty, but that doesn't mean anything. If the dracs are in there, they'll kill them. If the dracs aren't, they'll total the place anyway.

The wind kicks up with a low whistle, skirts past the tumbleweed at Frank's hip to spray sand over the toes of his dusty boots. Gerard's hair whips around his face, wreathing it like a ridiculous, dirty halo, and Frank knots his hand in it, pulls Gerard's mouth down to his.

Frank doesn't say goodbye anymore, hasn't said it since the world went to shit, but he needs to tell Gerard something before a raid, and his tongue in Gerard's mouth and his thumb hooked in Gerard's belt are the only words he has left.

A steady and high-pitched whine rips through the silence -- Mikey and Ray, crashing their bikes through the desert underbrush, following the curve of the cracked, dry river bottom that loops back behind the building. Gerard slides his hand over the back of Frank's neck and hides a kiss behind Frank's ear.

"You ready?" Gerard asks, his mouth still against Frank's skin.

"Yeah." Frank pulls his gun, hears boots crunching over the sand. "I'm ready."

Gerard smiles, crooked and a little deadly. "Great. Let's make some noise."