Band Oneshots

Like an angel in disguise

July 27th

Journal,

My name is Gerard Way, not that you'd care. You are an inanimate object, after all.

I work for an organisation named Sweet Stems. To outsiders, it may just sound like a florist shop. To certain people, however, it is a stalking business.

Just incase you don't understand, journal, a select range of people know about this business. They will contact us if they need to 'observe' somebody. They would do it themselves, but it may be too dangerous, or they just don't want to be caught. There are a lot of people working in this business, and I've met a good chunk of them, since I have been working in this stalking business for about four or five years. However, there are still many I haven't even heard of before.

Anyway, enough about that. It's what happened today that is the interesting part.

I haven't had an actual vacation, or time off, from work since I started. Now, after five years, my boss (Bob Bryar) has insisted that I take a few weeks off, even though, due to my lack of family and friends, I have absolutely nothing to do.

So, doing the most normal thing I could possibly think of, I went supermarket shopping. Now, it wasn't the shopping that was so interesting, but the man that was there.

He was short, really short. He had very dark brown hair, and a lip piercing. I was pretty far away, but I even thought I saw eyeliner.

He looked confused, like he'd never been in a supermarket before. He was looking at the plastic bags used to collect the fruit, as if he wasn't quite sure how to work it.

I walked over to him, as he looked up, startled. I gave him a small smile as I unwrapped the plastic bag and handed it to him. He gave me a sheepish smile before taking it from my hand, and started dropping the apples in. Four in total. He had finished getting his apples, but yet neither one of us had walked away.

"I'm Frank," he smiled, holding his hand out, the one that wasn't holding the bag of apples.

"Gerard," I replied, taking his hand and shaking it.

"So what brings you the supermarket?" he asked, clearly at a lack of inspiration to ask anything else.

"Feeding elephants. Yeah, it's really exciting," I replied sarcastically, my heart slightly fluttering when he chuckled.

"I can see that. Riveting stuff, for sure,"

"So, Frank, have you got anywhere you need to be?" I asked, a smile on my lips.

"No, why do you ask?"

"Because there's a lovely coffee shop just up the road, and I'd be honoured to take you there," I smiled, rustling my hair with my hand.

"Why Gerard, are you asking me on a date?" he smirked knowingly, twisting the bag of apples around.

"I might be. So what do you say, Frank?"

"I'd be delighted."

After he payed for his apples, and I for the taco shells I was holding, we walked the short distance to the coffee shop. I, for one, was nervous. I hadn't been on a date since high school, and even then it was one and it ended badly. I could feel my palms sweating as I wiped them on my skinny jeans, then opened the door to the small coffee shop I had grown accustomed to.

After ordering (a latte for me, whilst he ordered a hot chocolate), we sat down in a booth near the back, partially hidden from anyone else. After about ten seconds of an awkward silence, Frank spoke up with a, normally, harmless question.

"So, Gerard, where do you work?"

I panicked. He couldn't know where I actually worked, that was against the rules and I could get fired.

"I'm a florist," I lied, getting anxious when he shot me a suspicious look. He quickly covered it up with a laugh.

"Wow, Gerard, you're practically gushing rainbows," he chuckled, sipping his hot chocolate.

"Excuse you, but flowers happen to be very manly. If you haven't noticed, they come in blue. Blue is a sexist boy colour,"

"How is blue sexist?"

"It's labeled a boy colour. Apparently girls can't like blue without wanting to be a boy, and boys can't like pink, also a sexist colour, without wanting to be a girl,"

"But the colour specifically isn't sexist. What people have labeled it as, that's sexist. The colour itself isn't sexist,"

"Good point," I noted, gulping down my latte. "Blue is a labeled sexist colour,"

We talked for about twenty minuets more, then Frank left.

This is where it gets interesting, journal.

About an hour after the coffee shop date, I dropped into Sweet Stems. Bob wasn't in, but my friend Ray was.

He was sitting at his computer desk when I came in. Ray was our tech, meaning he kept track of files. He knew where almost everyone in the entire state lived. It was pretty impressive.

"Ray, I need a file," I said as I barged in. He glanced up at me unfazed.

"Aren't you supposed to be taking a break? Why do you need a file?" he asked in a bored tone.

"I'm doing some outside work on a guy named Frank. Do you think you could search the database?"

"Even when you're told to stay away from the job you still can't stay away from the job. Description?"

"Uh, dark brown hair, lip piercing, short, I'd say about 5'1, brown eyes, scorpion tattoo on his neck," Ray looked up at me in shock.

"Frank Iero? What do you want with him?" I looked at him suspiciously, noticing he hadn't even run the database.

"I don't know, he didn't tell me a last name. Do you know him?"

"Yeah, I do. Why do you need his file?"

"You know I like to do a background check before I get involved with someone,"

"Oh. Oh," he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. I felt my cheeks heat up.

"Shut up. Can I just have his file?" he sent me a cheeky grin before walking over to one of the many filing cabinets lining the walls. After a minuet or two, he walked back over with a cream paper folder. I opened the folder to find his picture paper-clipped to one of the pages.

I left the building without looking up, my head buried in Franks file.

Date of birth: October 31, 1981

Eye colour: Brown

Hair colour: Dark Brown

Height: 1.68 m

Work place: Sweet Stems

I stopped walking when I saw what was written under work place. Apparently someone else decided to stop as well, because after a second I felt another body collide with mine. I fell on the ground, hearing the sound of paper fluttering.

I looked up, only to be greeted with Frank himself.

I first looked at his face, then my eyes traveled down to his hands. Or more specifically, what he was holding in them.

My file.

I could see my picture, my picture taken for Sweet Stems paper-clipped onto one of the pages, with all my details printed neatly below it. I looked back up to Franks face, to see a mix of confusion and guilt. He had spotted his file that I was reading, now laying on the floor.

"Well I'll be damned,"