master of karate and friendship (skoosiepants) wrote,
master of karate and friendship
skoosiepants

Anywhere You Let It Go: Alternate Ending

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Anywhere You Let It Go: Alternate Gratuitous My Chemical Romance Ending


“Our lovebirds are escaping,” Pete says, stepping out behind the church, watching Brendon and Spencer skulk across the parking lot. They’d gone out the front, apparently, which was surprising, but now they’re darting furtive glances towards the back of the chapel. Luckily, the doorway’s hidden in shadows from the bell tower and the late afternoon sun.

Frank grins at Pete from around his cigarette. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Bob disabled their ride.”

“That’s our Bob,” Mikey drawls. “Always thinking ahead.”

The three of them watch as Spencer attempts to start up the engine, the whir-whir-whir resulting in a weak thunk.

“They’ll go for Ryan’s next,” Pete says idly. He leans back against the stone next to Frank, crossing his arms.

“Taken care of.”

“You guys got a vested interest in this ceremony?” Pete asks, eyebrow arched.

“Bob’s wearing crushed velvet, dude.” Mikey shakes his head. “There’s no way he’s letting them out of this.”

Pete thinks the outfits are sort of snazzy. He straightens up from the wall, tugs on his jacket and clears his throat. “If you wanna collect them when they’re done trying to jack everyone’s cars?”

Frank gives him a salute. “Sure thing, Wentz.”

Pete is off to find his Patrick and his Charlie-bear, hoping to avoid all contact with the devil woman, whose innate evilness is apparently only exacerbated when forced into proximity with Ryan Ross, mandroid.

Pete thinks Patrick definitely had something to do with those two collaborating – although collaborating’s probably not quite the right term for it; the only thing they agreed on was that Pete wasn’t allowed to help, but, whatever - since Patrick occasionally holds these really awesome grudges, and there was that whole ‘Adrian is a queen among women’ speech, and Ryan still has the cookie-hiding incident to pay for.

Patrick can be sort of devious. It’s one of the things Pete loves best about him.

*

Ryan is only slightly worried when he can’t find Spencer. And by slightly, he means a really fucking lot. “Have you seen the grooms?” he asks Jon, because Jon is just standing there, grinning stupidly.

He scratches the back of his neck. “I think they left?”

“They left,” Ryan deadpans. He’s thinking of killing someone. He’s pretty sure he can get away with it; pin it on Adrian, maybe, who’s like a tiny screeching harpy. Or one of those half-man half-goats, with the hooves and horns and the horrible taste in fabric.

Jon grins wider and says, “Walked right out the front doors.”

“Of course.” There are times when Ryan wishes they all never met, that he’d stayed in Vegas, ended up a lounge singer on the Strip with big hair and bigger dreams. There are times when Ryan thinks that would’ve been awesome.

And then Jon does that thing that he does; that indescribable sparkling-eye thing that’s even more potent than his grin.

“Damn you, Jon Walker,” Ryan says, trying very hard to scowl. He shifts his weight onto his hip, tugs off his hobo gloves and tosses them onto the podium where the guestbook is open and waiting. He really likes their matching jackets, too, and now what’ll they do with them?

“I make you a better man,” Jon says mock-earnestly, clasping Ryan’s shoulder.

Ryan would argue that, except he’s pretty sure it’s true.

*

Brendon is giggling by the time they figure out that none of their cars are working, and that it’d be tricky lifting any other keys without getting caught.

Spencer thinks it’s kind of funny, too. This has Bob stamped all over it.

“You know what we have to do,” Brendon says, schooling his face into what he probably thinks is a sober expression, but really just makes him look constipated.

“I really don’t,” Spencer says, and then Brendon is tugging him back around the corner of the church, towards the front, and Spencer digs his heels in and says, “Oh, no way. Nuh-uh, Brendon. No.”

Brendon’s kind of strong for his size, though, and Spencer’s suddenly blinking at the press again, Brendon behind him, hands firm on his shoulders, grinning against the back of his neck.

He sing-songs, “My little pony, my little pony—”

Brendon,” Spencer hisses, because there is no way, no fucking way he’s escaping on one of the ponies Brendon hired for the day. There are three of them, sorrel and plump and big enough to hold them, really, except Spencer is not using them to run away from their wedding, oh my god.

They have pink and white ribbons in their manes, braided through their tails, and they. They glitter in the sun. They’re prancing, right there on the sidewalk.

“We’re little, we can share one,” Brendon murmurs, laughter in his voice. “It’ll be sweet.”

Spencer can feel his resolve weakening in the wake of Brendon’s Mischief Boy tone, the same damn endearing one that’d gotten Spencer to say yes to all this, this marriage, in the first place, but he still protests, “We can’t.”

“Ponies, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, poking his side. “Ponies.”

Brendon and his fucking weird hoofed animal fetish.

People are yelling at them now, shouting their names, camera flashes are going off, and sooner or later Ryan’s gonna hear the commotion and come running out to slaughter them.

“You’re so going to pay for this,” Spencer mutters.

He takes Brendon’s hand, pulls him so they’re even in front of the first pony – “Sprinkles,” Brendon tells him, practically bouncing out of his shiny dress shoes – and the weird thing is, the really odd or maybe just appropriate thing is that this is all Spencer ever really wanted. Brendon’s hand in his, open and unafraid and happy, and the ponies are, like, his concession to Brendon.

If he thinks about it like that, it’s not so hard to grab the polished bridle crossing Sprinkles’ cheek, to smile over his shoulder and say, “You first.”

*

There are rare few moments in Bob’s life which he would call defining. Joining My Chem, definitely. That time he almost died - or one of the times, the worst one, because the others he was just really fucking lucky, and he didn’t consider luck to be anything special, not living as he did. And letting Ross dress him up in a green crushed velvet suit, while perhaps not remarkably life-changing, is actually a pretty pivotal moment for Bob.

Bob’s wearing it for Spencer. Bob agreed to the matching pants for Spencer. Bob’s letting himself be photographed and videoed for Spencer, because somewhere along the line he’s drummed up an unhealthy amount of affection for the kid.

And if Spencer isn’t getting married anymore, somebody else better fucking step up to the altar.

“There were ponies,” Jon says, biting his lip, hands fisted so low in his pockets his dress shirt’s pulled loose of his belt.

“Ponies,” Bob echoes. He’s doing it as a blatant intimidation attempt, since he could care fucking less if there were ponies. It’s Brendon. Bob’s just surprised they didn’t have horns glued to their heads and, like, fucking sparkly capes.

Jon doesn’t seem very intimidated. He lets a laugh slip, even. “They, um, rode off into the sunset?”

Bob can see Frank out of the corner of his eye, palm pressed over his mouth and shoulders shaking in an effort to hold in his fucking manic giggles. Shithead.

“I’m not amused, Walker,” Bob says. He’d entered through the front of the church hours before, just like the rest of his band, and he’ll be in magazines, newspapers, web sites, he’ll be all over, and it isn’t going to be for nothing, not if Bob had his druthers. Bob’s really good at getting his druthers.

Gerard – he matches Gerard, and, okay, that has happened more times in the past than Bob would possibly like, but they’re dressed like fucking lounge singers, and Gerard is all smiles about it – but Gerard strolls over and drapes an arm across Bob’s shoulder and starts humming about fucking rainbows, what the fuck?

“There are two possibilities. Or probabilities,” Gerard amends, nodding.

“What?” Bob asks.

“One,” Gerard holds up a finger, “Adrian and Ryan break down and sob uncontrollably, and-or start ripping out each other’s hair in what will surely go down as the best catfight in history.”

Bob thinks on it, and he decides he would be slightly mollified if something like that were to happen. He gives Gerard a go-on gesture.

“Or two,” Gerard presses two fingers to the side of his nose, “Adrian and Ryan are sneakier than we thought possible.”

He stops, doesn’t elaborate, and Frank starts actually giggling, and Bob asks again, “What?”

“They let Brendon have ponies,” Gerard says meaningfully.

Bob is usually good at picking up subtleties. He has no fucking clue what Gerard is getting at. “I know that,” he says, careful-like, so Gerard knows he’s very close to strangling him. “And the only thing I want to hear you say right now is that someone, I don’t care who, is getting fucking married.”

“I vote for Pete and Patrick,” Jon says, rocking back on his heels. He grins at them. “You know. Since Pete and Patrick went ahead and got a license already.”

Bob eyes him, making sure he wasn’t lying to get Bob to back down, but no. None of Bob’s bullshit alarms are going off, and Jon looks really, really smug. “What the hell are we waiting for, then?”

Gerard frowns. “I wanted to marry Frank, though,” he says, and Frank’s out-and-out hysterical now, face mottled red and eyes leaking and his hands are on his knees, bent over.

Bob can’t tell if Gerard is being serious. Bob can always tell when anyone’s lying except for Gerard, ‘cause Gerard looks fucking angelic most of the time, despite the zombie makeup. So Bob punches Frankie in the stomach, hard, and Frank goes down howling, and he’s still laughing, the little piss ant, seriously.

“That was kind of uncalled for,” Gerard says, but he’s smiling again.

“Whatever,” Bob growls. “Somebody get the fucking minister.”
Tags: anywhere you let it go, bandslash, completed stories, fall out boy, my chem, panic! at the disco
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