Author: rufus
Dramatis Personae: PaTD, MCR, cameos by others.
Title: How Did I Get Here?
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Absolutely never happened, not ever.
Word count: 17,427 in 2 parts
Warnings: Bodyswap, possibly some *handwaving*, canon-wise.
A/N: With thanks to sinsense for beta-reading this monster twice; any remaining mistakes are my own. (And, er, this is my first bandom fic.) Title from Talking Heads' Once in a Lifetime, because I am terrible at titles.



Spencer's day started with high-pitched screaming, and went downhill from there. Excessive amounts of pre-show bickering were followed by unnecessary post-show Disney sing-alongs, and when he was finally able to pry his bandmates away from the after-party, the bus got stuck in stop-and-go traffic, which made Spencer want to hurl. Then, when Spencer went to the kitchen to find something to settle his stomach, he discovered that someone had already drunk the last of his ginger ale and eaten the last of his ginger snaps.

Spencer slammed the cabinet shut and stalked back to his bunk, but lying down in the hot, stuffy darkness just made his stomach worse. He hauled himself up again and headed for the back lounge, where there was more air and a couch long enough for him to sleep on. Naturally, when he opened the door, Ryan and Brendon were sprawled out over the couch, watching something on Brendon's laptop and giggling.

"What's so funny?" Spencer asked.

"We'll show you when you're older," Brendon said. Since Brendon had turned 21 that was his stock answer to any question Spencer asked.

"Yeah," Ryan chimed in, waving something that looked suspiciously like half a ginger-snap in Spencer's direction. "It's a 21 and over video."

Spencer took a moment to passionately hate both of them, then lay down on the floor, one arm over his aching eyes. All Spencer really wanted was some sleep on something that wasn't moving. And to be old enough to legally buy beer, so that he could pour it over Brendon's head.

"Ryan, is it time to put the baby to bed?" Brendon asked, his voice too-bright. Spencer flipped him off with his free hand.

Ryan made a rumbling noise in his throat and moved to sit on the floor next to Spencer.

"I'll sing him a lullaby first," Ryan said, and Spencer punched whatever part of Ryan was nearest. It might have been his thigh.

"Ouch, fucker," Ryan muttered. A hand settled on Spencer's stomach and began moving in slow circles, and Ryan started singing something slow by Tom Petty that Spencer only half-recognized. Two minutes later Spencer fell asleep in the middle of planning his revenge.

**

"Ice packs!" Frank announced from somewhere above him, and Bob felt something heavy and cold settle on one wrist, and then the other.

"Thanks, dude," Bob said, forcing his eyes open a fraction.

In the dim glow of the lamp on the bedside table, Frank looked hollow-eyed and worn out. Got home just in time, Bob thought, rolling his ankles slowly under the covers.

"Painkillers?" Frank asked around a huge yawn.

"Took 'em already," Bob said shifting his hips a little, trying for a more comfortable position; it didn't work.

Frank yawned again and rubbed at his eyes, then reached down to set Bob's earbuds into place and flick Bob's iPod on. He mouthed something that looked like G'night Bob, then popped the light off and vanished into the darkness of the hallway. Bob closed his eyes as the roar of American Idiot washed over him, following the beat with his fingers in open defiance of his physical therapist.

You have to take better care of yourself, she murmured in the back of his mind as sleep came up to claim him. You aren't twenty anymore, you know. Bob paused for a moment to flip her the bird, even though the only thing he really missed about being twenty was being able to play whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted and not having to pay for it the next day.

**

Outside, there was a brief silence. Three houses away, an above-ground swimming pool developed a small whirlpool, much to the surprise of the tree-frogs swimming across it. Further south, two antique pianos played the first three bars of Bat Out of Hell, though the noise had stopped by the time the owners came to investigate.

**

Spencer woke slowly, dimly aware that the bus had stopped and that his entire body felt heavy and sore. He was halfway through a resolution to never, ever sleep on the floor of the lounge again when he realized that whatever he was lying on was too soft to be the floor of the bus. And, also, the wall, his curtain and the top bunk seemed to be missing. Hotel? he thought, and frowned; there hadn't been a hotel night on the schedule. Spencer rolled over to wake up whoever was in the next bed over to ask what the fuck had happened – and there was no next bed.

Spencer was all by himself in a room that looked like a normal bedroom in a normal house. Well, a normal room with a big fucking framed poster for Nosferatu on one of the walls. That was enough to move him from dozing to wide-the-fuck-awake, and when he sat up to look around he realized his wrists were throbbing.

He looked down at his hands, which were not his hands, then closed his eyes briefly and tried again; it didn't work. The strange hands were still there, curled around foreign knees covered in black sweatpants. Further down there were sockless feet planted on unfamiliar carpet.

"The fuck?" Spencer said, and stood up. The world lurched and spun and he fell back onto the bed, hands out to catch himself without thinking about it. The fall jarred his wrists and it hurt so much Spencer almost screamed.

He moved his hands (that were still not his hands) slowly, until they were resting against his belly, then curled over them, breathing carefully until his stomach settled and the pain had simmered down to a steady burn. When he was pretty sure he wasn't going to die or throw up, Spencer stood up and took one tentative step, then another, until he could reach out and open the door.

The hallway wasn't especially well lit but it wasn't pitch black, either. There were more monster movie posters on the walls -- Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein, two from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre -- as well as some normal looking family pictures full of people Spencer didn't recognize.

"The fuck?" he repeated, and put a hand on the wall to steady himself. It was cool and solid beneath his fingers, which should have been reassuring, but wasn't.

"Hello?" he called out, raising his voice a little. "Ryan? Jon? Brendon?" He paused, listening hard, but there was no answer. "Is there anyone else here?"

There was some rustling, and then the door next to the Frankenstein poster popped open. Someone who looked an awful lot like Mikey Way walked out, wearing a ratty Smiths t-shirt and pink unicorn-print pajama pants. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut again. When he opened them Mikey Way was still in front of him, peering at him with a sleepy, concerned expression on his face.

"Hi," Spencer managed. Mikey arched an eyebrow.

Spencer sucked in a breath, then another, and swallowed carefully. Another door opened further down the hall and Ray Toro emerged, wearing an expression that matched Mikey's. He was also – and Spencer had to look twice to be sure – wearing a baby.

"Bob?" Ray said, and Spencer blinked at him. "You okay?"

Spencer looked back down at his hands, at Mikey, then back at Ray. Bob. As in, Bob Bryar?

"I-," Spencer began, and stopped. They looked real enough, but – You are an asshole, murmured a voice in the back of his mind. Wake up, you moron. "I'm dreaming? I think?"

"About what?" a vaguely familiar voice called out from somewhere behind him and Mikey leaned forward and yanked sharply on Spencer's hair.

"Ow, motherfucker," Spencer gasped, startled, as Mikey crossed his arms over his chest. "What –"

"Well, I guess you're awake now," Ray said, a thread of laughter in his voice, and Spencer swallowed hard against a surge of nausea.

He could not possibly be awake, because if he was awake he was in Bob Bryar's body, which was impossible. Fingers pushed at his elbow and he raised it automatically, still too stunned to absorb that it was Frank Iero and not Brendon trying to get past him in a narrow hallway. Even the soft brush of fur against his ankle didn't really penetrate the haze of shock.

"There's coffee and food downstairs, if you want some," Frank said, walking under Spencer's arm and moving towards the stairs.

The dog trailing behind Frank bumped its head against Mikey's knees until Mikey leaned down to scritch it behind the ears. Frank, who was rubbing the baby's back, made a low clucking noise and the dog waddled towards him, wagging its tail. The dog was definitely not Hobo, Boba, Milo or Dylan.

"Did Gerard get my crullers?" Mikey asked, sounding a little sulky, though he was already turning towards the stairs.

"He got six of everything," Ray said, after pulling his phone out of his pocket and flipping it open. "Oh, sorry, 'everything good'."

Mikey growled low in his throat. He shuffled past Ray, pausing to kiss the back of the baby's head before he started down the stairs.

Spencer closed his eyes, trying to think over the sound blood roaring in his ears. Right. If he was dreaming, he was having a very sucky, fucked-up dream that was worse than the one he'd had about Ryan getting kidnapped by aliens. Hopefully it would be over soon, because if he wasn't dreaming, then –

"Bob?" Ray said, from much closer than he had been before. "Seriously, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I just - need a shower," Spencer said, trying to buy some time. When he opened his eyes, Ray was giving him a narrow, worried look, and the baby was kicking its legs irritably. "Save me a couple of donuts?"

"Okay," Ray said, not sounding convinced, and headed back down the hall towards the stairs. "There should be towels in the bedroom, I think."

Spencer nodded at him, then waited a full five minutes after hearing the last step creak under Ray's weight to go back into the bedroom, pick up a pillow and scream into it. He waited another ten minutes before he started looking for the shower.

**

Bob woke up to the rumble of a diesel engine and a warm weight settled against his side all the way to his ankles. Puzzled, he opened one eye to investigate and was genuinely surprised to find a person curled against his side. And a brown-haired person, at that, which – what the hell? He opened the other eye to get a better handle on the situation and realized he must have made a noise when the person twitched and looked up at him.

So, not just a random brown-haired person, but Ryan Ross, whom Bob had met backstage approximately twice, once at the VMA's and once after a show in – Vegas, maybe? Ryan looked half-asleep, irritated and alarmed all at once, and he was definitely not supposed to be in Bob's bunk with him. More importantly, Bob was not supposed to be in Bob's bunk, since he was pretty sure he'd fallen asleep in Frankie's house the night before.

"I got you more ginger snaps," Ryan said. "We couldn't find any Canada Dry, though."

"The fuck are you talking about, ginger snaps?" Bob said, wriggling one arm free of the blankets to rub at his face. He was absolutely sure it was too early for this shit.

Bob's voice came out about half an octave higher than he was used to, which was weird, but what was even more bizarre was that his wrists were a little stiff but not really sore. He squinted at the hand in front of his face, which, on closer inspection, looked like it might have gotten larger in the night. It had also acquired some freckles Bob was pretty sure he hadn't had the last time he checked.

Bob was still pondering that mystery when the bunk curtain slid back and Brendon Urie appeared, holding out a mug of hot coffee. Bob sat the rest of the way up and took it from him, because finding out what the fuck was going on could wait until after caffeine. Possibly even until after his first cigarette.

"Did you guys break down on the turnpike, or something?" Bob asked, frowning at the milk in his coffee, and took a careful sip from the mug.

"Turnpike," Ryan repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.

Bob took another, larger drink of coffee and winced. In addition to the milk, someone had added far too much sugar. Still, coffee was coffee, and – he paused, wakefulness seeping in, and registered that 1) he seemed to be wearing bright yellow t-shirt and skin-tight jeans that pinched in places Bob's pants didn't normally pinch and 2) all of his hair was gone. Well, okay, not all of it – he could feel something on his face and the back of his neck – but definitely most of it.

"I'm going to kill Frank," he said, setting the mug down and standing up, only half-noticing that he had nearly knocked Brendon over in the process.

"Frank?" Brendon said, mostly to Ryan, who was also wriggling out of the bunk.

"FRANKIE!" Bob roared, or rather, tried to roar. His voice was definitely all wrong.

Actually, now that he was looking around, so was the bus. The bunk curtains were different, and what should have been Gerard's bunk above his was missing an entire tour's worth of sharpie doodles. He took a couple of steps forward and opened the door to the front lounge. Their special tv was gone, and Bob didn't recognize any of the guitars leaning against the couches.

"Who's Frankie, Spencer?" Ryan asked, and Bob felt narrow fingers curl around his elbow, ragged nails scraping against sensitive skin.

Wait, what? Spencer?

Bob paused, maybe swaying a little. He heard another door open behind him and turned his head, expecting to see Gerard, or maybe Ray, coming to explain what had happened. Instead it was Jon Walker, wearing a puzzled expression. Bob stared at the three of them, all peering at him with concern in their eyes, and managed a steadying breath or two.

"Spence?" Jon said, and Bob turned to look at him. "Are you okay? Were you having a bad dream?"

"Yes," Bob said, because of course that's what was happening.

He was dreaming. Too much heavy food before bed, or the painkillers were fucking him up, somehow. Or, more likely, goddamned Toro had gotten hold of his iPod again. Any second now the scene was going to change and he was going to be naked on stage, or, like, a dinosaur was going to fly in the window.

"It's okay, you're awake now," Brendon said, stepping forward and wrapping Bob in a tight hug.

Bob froze, because Brendon felt very warm and very real, and smelled a lot like the bunk of a tour bus and stale beer. Ryan made a huffing noise and tightened his grip on Bob's elbow. It didn't hurt, exactly, it wasn't like Ryan had pinched him, but – Brendon was squeezing Bob's ribs, Ryan was squeezing Bob's elbow, and Bob was still dreaming.

"Was it the one with the bear-sized chinchilla again?" Jon asked, letting his hand drop. Brendon snorted against Bob's breastbone, but didn't loosen his grip. "Or the special edition Nikes with the teeth in the toes?"

"No," Bob said, and brought his hands up to curl around Brendon's shoulders, pushing at him gently until he let go, dislodging Ryan as well in the process.

"Did I get kidnapped by aliens?" Ryan asked, and then his left pocket started buzzing loudly.

"What? No," Bob repeated, trying to pull his head together, trying to think, and then Ryan's pocket buzzed some more, louder and more insistent somehow.

Ryan pulled a Sidekick out of his pocket and swiveled the screen up, and a sinking feeling settled into Bob's stomach. Weren't ringing phones (or whatever) usually stand-ins for alarms, in dreams? Why hadn't he woken up?

"Want some waffles, Spence?" Jon asked, and Bob just stared at him.

"I'll take that as a yes. Give us ten minutes to find the toaster, okay? Come on, Brendon," Jon said, patting Spencer's arm gently before tugging Brendon away and out the door.

Bob sat down on the edge of the bunk and was quiet for while before he picked up the coffee mug (why had his own subconscious given him milky, horribly over-sweet coffee?) and drank the rest of it in small mouthfuls. Ryan sat down next to him and slumped against his shoulder; Bob could see his frown morphing into a little grin as he typed. It felt weird, like getting French-kissed by a stranger, but after a minute it was comforting. Bob put the coffee cup on the floor and stared at his (Spencer's) hands for a while, periodically rolled his wrists around experimentally. Twice he got up and went out to the front lounge to check the sky outside the bus for velociraptors.

None appeared.

Ryan's Sidekick buzzed five or six more times while Ryan was using it, and no matter how many times Bob opened and closed his eyes, both Bob's own bunk and Frankie's guest room stubbornly refused to appear. Go to the bathroom, he told himself a bit later, that'll do it.

"Back in a minute," he said to Ryan, who hummed an acknowledgement but didn't look up.

Ten minutes later, bladder empty, hands and face washed, Bob was apparently still asleep. He went back to the bunks and found that Ryan had disappeared. Bob could hear the distant rumble of raised voices, though, something about too much cinnamon and those were my strawberries, goddammit. It was almost familiar enough to be comforting.

Bob leaned his head against the wooden bunk divider and wondered, distantly, if he had died in the night. He didn't feel dead, particularly, though it wasn't like he had any idea what "dead" would actually feel like. Though he did suspect it would hurt either more or less. He raised a hand to his face and squinted at it; it looked solid, and hand-like, and when he tapped out the theme to the Twilight Zone on the side of the bunk he could feel a faint tugging in his wrists.

"I'm probably not dead," he said, mostly to reassure himself, and tapped out the theme to the X-Files with the other hand. Maybe you had a stroke, he thought. Or, like, something freaky happened and now you're in a coma.

"If you are, I get your belt buckles, you promised," Brendon said from the doorway, and Bob almost jumped out of his skin.

"Sorry," Brendon said, his smile faltering slightly when Bob glared at him. "I was going to tell you Jon made more coffee, if you want some, but – are you okay?"

Brendon shifted forward like another hug might be imminent, and Bob automatically took a step backwards. Brendon's smile slipped even further, and his eyebrows slid into the beginning of an anxious frown. Bob took a quick breath, then another (you'd be worried too, if it was one of your boys), and smoothed Spencer's jeans down with his hands.

"I'm fine, sorry, I'm just – long night, you know? I'll come out in a minute, okay?" Bob rubbed at his (Spencer's) face, watching Brendon's expression from behind Spencer's fingers.

"Okay." Brendon frown deepened and his shoulders rolled forward briefly. "I'll, um, save you some strawberries, I guess."

Brendon turned and left the bunks, closing the door behind him, and Bob rested his head against the bunks again and sighed. How the hell was he supposed to figure out if he had had a stroke, or slipped into a random coma or – fallen through a wormhole and into Spencer's Smith's body? He closed his eyes and let his fingers wander. He got through Thank You for the Venom one and a half times before it occurred to him that Spencer had to have some sort of phone, or something, somewhere, and maybe using it would translate as a – finger squeeze, or complex brain wave, or whatever. Or maybe he would actually reach his guys.

Bob knelt down on Spencer's bunk and felt around until he located a hard lump under the covers that turned out to be a Sidekick. When he rolled the screen up he was both horrified and grateful to find the device was completely unlocked. Then again, Spencer didn't share a bus with Frank Iero, so maybe he could afford to be careless. Bob considered calling for a moment, then decided against it. If he was simulating brain waves it probably didn't matter what he did, and if he was actually communicating in real time, texting was faster and would result in a lot less pointless arguing.

Carefully ignoring the Inbox, Bob opened a new message and paused, fingers hovering over the keys. Ray? Gerard? Brian? He briefly considered texting himself, just to see if anyone answered, and then he remembered if all of this was actually happening and there was someone else in his body, they weren't going to know Bob's password, and wouldn't be able to answer anyway. And that was assuming they could find the phone in the first place.

He settled on Gerard, in the end, and tapped out trapped in Spencer Smith's body, pls send help – Bob p.s. Im not me, don't know who's in there – bware of bdysntchrs. Pps. G yr nt drunk. He pressed send and watched the screen until he was sure it had gone through, then sent a similar message to Mikey, Frank, and Ray. Brian, he decided, could wait until later. Or possibly never.

After a minute passed with no response, Bob got out of the bunk and made his way towards the door to the front lounge, stretching his fingers absentmindedly. It burned a little, but not much, and Bob allowed himself a full minute of contemplating ways to get access to a drum kit before shutting down that train of thought altogether.

"Zack says the real coffee and trashy magazines stop is in an hour," Brendon said when Bob stepped out of the bunk area, barely glancing up from the toaster.

Bob made an agreeable noise, then opened and closed a couple of cabinets until he found mugs he was pretty sure someone had washed, half-listening to Ryan and Jon on the couch behind him, talking quietly and humming at each other over their guitars. The bowl of strawberries was between them. Jon strummed a couple of chords thoughtfully and Bob picked up the nearest drumstick-like object (a plastic spoon) and tapped out a reply against the sink without stopping to think.

"That's a little heavy, Spence, don't you think?" Ryan said slowly and Bob abruptly remembered where he was and what was (possibly) happening and dropped the spoon.

That did make Brendon raise his head, but Bob ignored the question in Brendon's eyes in favor of poking at him until he moved enough for Bob to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee.

"Not that heavy is necessarily bad," Jon said, and strummed a few more chords. "I mean, we could –"

Spencer's Sidekick went off three times in quick succession and Jon fell silent. Bob pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it, his head already starting to spin, then set the mug down on the counter very carefully and rolled the screen up. The first message, a simple WTF?, was from Gerard. The second one, from Mikey, said will ck for stems, the third a ahahahahahahahaha good one! was from Frank. After another minute the phone buzzed again, and there was Ray, with a row of question marks and a jumble of symbols that was probably supposed to be a confused-but-smiling face.

Bob sagged against the counter, squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to hyperventilate. He had not had a stroke; he was not in a coma. Bob really was in Spencer Smith's body and someone else (Spencer?) was in Bob's body.

"Spencer? What's going on? Did – did someone die?" Ryan said, voice sharp, and then there were cool, bony fingers on Bob's left arm, squeezing just a little too tight.

"No, it's just, I – I'm Bob," Bob said, and opened his eyes.

All three of them were clustered close around him, wearing matching anxious expressions. Brendon had his arms crossed over his chest and was giving Bob a particularly narrow look.

"Bob?" Ryan repeated, and Bob couldn't tell if he was confused or annoyed.

"Bryar. From My Chemical Romance. Sorry," Bob said, though he wasn't sure if it was actually his fault. "I – it wasn't on purpose."

"What wasn't on purpose?" Brendon asked, reaching one hand out to rest on top of Ryan's fingers on Bob's forearm.

"This – er – trading bodies. With Spencer. I think it's a direct swap, but I don't really know for sure," Bob said, and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.

I am trapped in Spencer Smith's body, Bob repeated to himself, rolling the words around in his mind. Part of him wanted to burst out laughing, part of him wanted to sit down on the floor and curl up into a little ball. Another, larger part was glad his to-do list for the day had mostly consisted of "sleep," "laundry," and "watch stupid movies." Really, if there was one upside to the situation, it was that it had happened after the show at the Garden.

"Trading bodies," Jon said slowly, as Ryan's grip on Bob's arm grew tighter. "Like in Freaky Friday?"

"Yes," Bob said, a sudden burst of relief at being understood giving his voice strength. "I went to sleep in my own bunk, and in my own body, and I woke up – here. Like this. I thought I was dreaming, but then I didn't wake up when the phone rang or I had to pee. I tried messaging my guys to tell them there was freaky shit going on, and they – well, they answered like they think they're being pranked – but I'm pretty sure I'm not dreaming. Or in a coma."

They were quiet for a while, absorbing that information, and then Brendon's serious expression morphed into a broad grin and he curled forward, laughing. Jon's expression softened into a smile.

"You scared me, Spencer, you fucker," Ryan said, letting go of Bob's arm in order to punch him in the shoulder.

Bob's hand was raised, moving in to smack Ryan in the head, before he remembered not your band, not your boys and dropped it, clenching and unclenching his fingers against his thigh. Ryan went very still, his eyes wide, though Bob couldn't tell if he was shocked at nearly being hit, or at not being hit at all. Bob took a breath, and then another, painfully aware of the tiny space they were all standing in, and the way his heart was pounding.

Brendon's giggles trailed off into silence and he rocked up on his toes briefly. A thoughtful yet vaguely alarmed expression moving across his face as his gaze shifted from Ryan to Bob and back again. Behind Brendon, Jon's expression was still loose and amused, but his smile had dimmed.

Bob was still trying to figure out what else to say to them when Ryan sat back down on the couch and pulled his guitar back into his lap. Jon followed him, shifting the strawberries to the floor and pressing their shoulders together. Brendon rolled up on his toes again and gave Bob a searching look, his head cocked to one side. Just as Bob was starting to think maybe he'd got through, maybe Brendon believed him, Brendon rolled back down and started singing an encouraging song to the toaster.

"I'm Bob Bryar, from My Chemical Romance," Bob said slowly, looking at each of them. Jesus, they were young. "Ray has your first record, but he's only allowed to play it on his iPod because the way Brendon pronounces caricature in that one song causes Frankie actual physical pain."

Brendon's hands twitched, and he gave Bob a look Bob couldn't decipher. Bob glanced at Jon, saw that his expression was starting to resemble the one that appeared on Ray's face right before he dragged someone into the bus studio for a time out, then took a deep breath and ploughed onwards.

"Also, Gerard was just teasing with that Die. Slow. crack, I mean, he felt really bad afterwards. And Ray gave him a hard time, too, something about the syntax wasn't even the same –"

"Dude, are you still drunk from yesterday?" Brendon interrupted, all traces of amusement gone from his face. "Because, seriously - "

"No," Bob said, then realized his hand was automatically scrabbling in his (Spencer's) pocket for a cigarette, and forced himself to be still.

"He didn't have that much to begin with," Jon said, head cocked to one side, hands flat on his knees. "Spencer, did you – did you take anything from anyone -- any drinks, anything – else?"

"I don't know, is he that much of a dumbass?" Bob asked, genuinely curious. Also, if the kid did anything stupid while he was in Bob's body, Bob was going to beat his ass.

Jon's eyebrows shot up and Ryan made a strangled noise. Bob glanced at Ryan briefly, noted that his eyes were the size of dinner plates and he had gone sort of pale (paler), then looked back at Jon and Brendon.

"What about – what was the last thing you ate?" Brendon asked, his gaze swinging down to the door to the tiny refrigerator.

"Homemade chicken parmesan, some spaghetti, and a chocolate milkshake from the diner by Frankie's house," Bob said, and drank the rest of his coffee.

There was a long silence. The waffles emerged from the toaster with a loud pop! and none of them reacted. Bob reached around Brendon and grabbed one gingerly, waving it in the air until it was cool enough to nibble on.

"Oh my god," Ryan murmured, staring at Bob, his fingers tightening around the neck of his guitar. "Spencer, knock it the fuck off right now, seriously."

"I'm Bob," Bob repeated, irritation growing even though he knew Ryan wasn't deliberately being an asshole.

"Okay," Jon said softly. "Could you – give us a minute, Bob?"

"What?" Brendon said, jerking away from the counter, but his mouth snapped shut under the weight of Jon's glare.

Bob wavered for a moment – he wasn't too keen on leaving them alone to decide his fate – and then it occurred to him if he was going to get off the bus for real coffee, he should probably shower and find some clothes that didn't pinch. He nodded at Jon and went back into the bunk area, closing the door firmly behind him.

Half an hour later, Bob digging through the bag he'd found at the end of Spencer's bunk in search of something that wasn't neon, floral or hideously ugly when the door popped open and Brendon walked in. His hair was standing up in several different directions, as if he'd been pulling at it, and Bob felt a brief pang of sympathy.

"You said your guys got back to you," Brendon said, arms crossed over his chest. "Can we – can we see the messages?


"Yeah, sure," Bob said, and crouched down to pull Spencer's Sidekick out of the other pair of jeans, grateful that he'd been able to find a clean pair of boxers to put on while he looked for something to wear. "Where the fuck are his real clothes?"

"Top bunk, on the right, green bag," Brendon murmured, not looking up from the glowing screen. "Holy shit, you guys –" he paused, raising his head, and Bob arched an eyebrow at him. "Holy shit."

Brendon stared at Bob until Bob arched his other eyebrow, and then he turned and walked back out into the lounge. Bob rubbed his eyes, then turned to investigate the top bunk. Happily, it contained both the green bag and a small collection of hats and sunglasses. Bob extracted a black t-shirt and the cleanest (and largest) pair of jeans he could find from the bag and got dressed. He was weighing the merits of two different pairs of sunglasses when the door popped open again and Ryan appeared, chewing on his lower lip.

"Jon says you can come out now," Ryan said, his voice low, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He took a step forward, and Bob shifted backwards, in case Ryan got any funny ideas about hugging him. "You don't have to if you don't want to, though."

"Be right there," Bob said. Ryan was quiet, his eyes fixed on the floor, until Bob picked up a hat and started walking towards the door.

**

Spencer paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. He had come up with a plan in the shower (1. Get dressed 2. Locate a phone and call Ryan 3. Find out who the hell is in my body 4. Tell whoever it is to get the fuck out so I can go home 5. Possibly have some breakfast) but putting it in place had already failed fairly spectacularly.

Getting dressed had been agonizing; Bob's fingers alternated between throbbing and numb tingling, and Spencer had barely been able to button his jeans or tie his shoes. He was pretty sure his shirt was on backwards and, given that he had been completely unable to brush his hair, that he generally looked like a homeless person. Furthermore, he hadn't been able to find Bob's phone, which had required changing Step 2 to Tell MCR their drummer is missing, kind of and Step 3 to Hope they don't have me committed and renumbering everything else accordingly.

Come on, he told himself. You can do this. Go in there and tell them what's happened so you can get home. He took the stairs slowly, fingers curled around the railing, eyes on his feet so he didn't fall. There was laughter coming from what he presumed was the kitchen, so he walked towards it, trying not to trip and kill himself.

"—can't believe you actually watched that shit," the vaguely familiar-looking dark-haired girl sitting next to Mikey was saying as Spencer pushed the door open.

Spencer stared at her for a minute, trying to remember where he knew her from, her name, anything, but it was all a blank. She arched an eyebrow at him and he felt himself flush as he looked away. There were two more girls at the kitchen counter, one dark and one fair, and they both smiled at him when he looked at them.

"Fuck off, I had the flu," Frank said. "Herbie: Fully Loaded is totally allowed when you have the flu."

"It really isn't," Ray said, from the other end of the table, both of his hands over the baby's ears, his phone on the table in front of him. "Also, you can't give me shit about watching Sky High ever again."

"Oh yes he can, because holy shit, Toro – " Gerard began, then trailed off into silence when he noticed Spencer (Bob, he thinks you're Bob) standing in the doorway.

Spencer took a breath, and froze as his carefully prepared speech deserted him. He suddenly felt like he was standing in an autograph line, fat and clumsy and fifteen all over again, and this time Ryan wasn't there to whisper catty comments in his ear and make him laugh. He swallowed hard and blinked a couple of times, and reminded himself he was a rockstar now, too.

"Hey, Bob," Mikey said, setting his Sidekick down on the table.

Frankie and Ray both pushed their chairs back and stood up, Ray handing the baby off to the fair-haired girl while Frankie walked around the table. The dark-haired girl at the table leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in a speculative look, and – Alicia, he thought, and then the rest came back. Guitar tech. Pete's ex girlfriend. Actually, now that he was paying attention, they were all sort of squinting at him; Mikey also seemed to be fighting a smile. Spencer hunched his shoulders forward, vaguely embarrassed and a little annoyed. It wasn't Spencer's fault Bob's fingers didn't fucking work.

Spencer opened his mouth to say I'm not Bob, but "Sky High is a good movie," came out instead.

"It is not," Frank said, and then there were small, warm hands maneuvering Spencer's arms while a different set of larger hands turned his shirt around. "It's not even allowed for, like, double pneumonia."

"Says the man who watched Solarbabies on purpose," Mikey chimed in, and Gerard looked up from his phone with an expression that was half-amused, half-horrified.

"We were in the middle of South Dakota and it was the only movie at Wal-Mart I hadn't seen four times already," Frank huffed, stretching up to finger-comb Spencer's hair into a semblance of respectability before dropping down to tie his shoes. "Also, like you have room to talk – hold still, Bob, or I'm tying them together – you made us pay money to watch The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen."

"At least it wasn't the Chronicles of goddamned Narnia," Mikey said, his eyes narrowing.

Frank straightened up, scowling, and Spencer sat down in one of the empty chairs, hoping he wasn't blushing. Frank Iero had just tied Spencer's shoes and Spencer needed a moment to recover from the shock.

"There are epic battles in that movie," Frank said, arms crossed over his chest.

Mikey opened his mouth, but closed it again when Gerard tapped his phone on the table in a pointed manner and gave Ray a look Spencer couldn't quite read. Ray shrugged one shoulder and turned back towards the counter, while Spencer shifted in his chair and tried to think of a way to tell them he wasn't Bob.

"Okay, so here's the plan," Ray said when he turned back around, sliding a cup of what looked like black iced coffee with a bendy straw in it in front of Spencer. "First we're going to clean the bus, and then Mikey and Alicia are going get pet food while Frank and Bob are at the grocery store. The rest of us are going to tackle laundry."

"Grocery stores," Mikey said, emphasizing the plural, turning to look at Spencer. "Stop n' Shop and Whole Foods, and you will get real bacon and real Doritos."

Spencer took a tentative sip of coffee and almost gagged; it was cold and bitter and utterly vile. Who drank cold coffee with no milk and no sugar? Spencer swallowed carefully, then fumbled for the sugar and dumped in a quarter of the bowl before reaching for an éclair to get the taste out of his mouth. He was halfway through a second one when he noticed they were all watching him kind of intently, wearing expressions that ranged from "impressed" (Alicia) to "vaguely betrayed" (Gerard) none of which made any sense. Maybe the éclairs were Gerard's éclairs?

"Sorry," Spencer muttered, and set the donut down on a nearby napkin. "I—"

"No, it's fine," Gerard said slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his eyes flicking from Spencer to Mikey to Ray and then back to Spencer again. "Eat what you want, it's just – I thought –"

"The last time you ate an éclair you said the filling tasted like spooge," Mikey cut in, and Spencer almost choked on his own spit. "Which, I'd still like to know who – "

"Whereas the rest of us really are not interested," Ray said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Bob is allowed to –"

"I'm not Bob," Spencer blurted out. "I'm Spencer. Smith. From Panic at the Disco. We – something happened, we – I think we switched bodies."

At least I hope we did, Spencer thought, as it occurred to him that maybe they hadn't, maybe there was some sort of body round-robin going on, and it could be anyone (the Butcher, Andy) in his body. He only got to worry about that for a heartbeat, though, before Frank started giggling.

"Yes," Mikey said slowly, his lip twitching as if he wanted to smile. "We know, we got your – Spencer's – messages. It was sweet, dude, you guys totally had Gerard going for a minute there."

"They did not," Gerard said, straightening up.

"Did so," said the dark-haired girl at the counter, her face breaking into a broad smile. The fair-haired one reached out and squeezed Gerard's shoulder, but she was grinning, too.

"Messages?" Spencer repeated, his eyes drifting to Mikey's Sidekick. Messages. Bob was in Spencer's body, and moreover, Bob was using his Sidekick.

Spencer took a deep breath, not sure if he was reassured by that development or not. He also wondered what in the world Bob had said to Ryan, Brendon and Jon. Ryan is going to kill me when I get home, he thought, and winced in anticipation of that conversation. Brent disappearing for hours at a time had been awful, but at least he had done it in his own body.

"He was going to call Brian and everything," Mikey continued, clearly warming to his theme.

"Who's Brian?" Spencer asked, a bubble of completely irrational hope rising in his chest, and Frank stopped giggling abruptly. "Did this happen before? Do you already know how to, you know, swap us back? Because I'm supposed to be playing a show tonight."

"Um," Gerard said, and the girls at the counter stopped grinning as Mikey set his cruller down with exaggerated care. "Bob? Could you – knock it off?"

"I am not Bob," Spencer said, and squashed the urge to pull at his – at Bob's – hair. "I'm Spencer. I fell asleep on my bus last night and woke up – here. And I need to get back to my band now."

There was another long silence, which was broken by the buzzing of Mikey's Sidekick.

"Pete," Mikey said when he answered, sounding both amused and annoyed, and Spencer surged to his feet.

"Yes. What? Fuck off, asshole," Mikey said into the phone, but he was smiling. "Yeah, yeah – bite me, motherfucker. What? In the kitchen at Ray's – yes, jackass, okay, okay fine, hold on."

Spencer started around the table, intent on getting the phone, but Mikey was too fast. He dodged Spencer's hands, flipped Spencer off, snagged the cruller, and ducked into the hall before Spencer could even get near him. When Spencer turned around, everyone in the room was staring at him again.

"I need to talk to Pete," he said, flexing his throbbing fingers. "I have to – I have a show, tonight. I can't – I have to get back to my guys. I do not have time for this shit, seriously."

Spencer stretched his fingers out again, suddenly acutely aware of the dull thud thud of his pulse in a way he hadn't been since the first time Brent missed a show. He closed his eyes and took a breath, than another, willing himself to not flip out. Ryan had probably called Pete, Ryan was probably having a fit, oh god. And then there were hands on his arms, squeezing gently.

"Bob." It was Gerard, his voice low and soft. "Bob? Let's go for a walk and talk about this, okay?"

Spencer bit down hard on the inside of his mouth and opened his eyes. Gerard was kind of a lot to deal with, up close; Spencer looked down at the floor and took another breath. A walk; that meant out of the house, away from Pete-on-the-phone, but Spencer knew Pete's number. He could find a phone later and call him.

"Okay," Spencer said, and let Gerard lead him out of the house.


**

"Do you guys have Halo too?" Bob asked, scooping an XBox handset off the bench in the lounge as he sat down.

Ryan nodded at him, his eyes huge in his face. Bob rested his elbows on his knees and let his head fall forward while he rolled the controller around in his hands and strained to hear what Jon and Brendon were talking about up by the front of the bus. He could catch a word here and there (Pete and Haley and something about Wilson or Conrad could maybe fill in for tonight figured prominently) but mostly they were talking just low enough that Bob couldn't hear anything.

Maybe fill in, Bob thought, puzzled, and then, almost dropping the controller, oh shit, they are on tour, and they have a show today. He raised his head and looked at Ryan. He was sitting perfectly still with his hands on his knees, and he looked kind of like Gerard had on the day Mikey had finally left the Paramour. Bob's stomach clenched in sympathy, and he ratcheted his conversational expectations down a notch or two.

"He uses a click-track, right?" Bob asked, not really needing an answer. "Let me practice a little when we get there, I can probably do it, if we can't, like, swap us back beforehand."

Ryan blinked at him, and Bob suppressed a sigh. At least Gerard and Mikey talked now, when they were having meltdowns. This thought reminded Bob that Brendon still had Spencer's Sidekick, which was the only way Bob had to reach his guys.

"Urie!" he called out, and both Jon and Brendon turned to look at him. "Give me back the 'kick, dude."

Jon and Brendon glanced at each other, then walked over to where Bob was sitting. Bob was only mildly surprised when it was Jon who fished Spencer's Sidekick out of his jeans and handed it over. Bob swiveled it open, scowled at the screen when he saw no one had called, and closed it again.

"Spencer says he can play tonight," Ryan said quietly.

Bob, who could see his hands were shaking, decided not to argue with him about names. Brendon and Jon exchanged another look, and Jon half-shrugged, half shook his head. Brendon made a noise in the back of his throat that might could have been relief or agreement and settled down on the floor at Bob's feet.

"So, we were thinking we should probably, um, call someone," Jon said, his eyes flickering from Bob to Ryan to Brendon then back to Ryan again.

"Try Ray first," Bob said, and they all turned to look at him. "He's the most likely to be awake this early in the morning after a show. Unless Gerard stayed up to work on the comic."

They all blinked at him that time. Bob was never, ever going to complain about Frank's motormouth ever again. Bob pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and longed for Ray and his bizarre ability to jam common sense into high-strung musicians without hurting them.

"You probably need to find out who has Spencer before you can swap us back, right?" Bob said, mostly to Jon, as he seemed to be in charge. "If he's with my guys, Ray will be able to, you know - " Bob broke off and waved a hand to cover all of the things Ray might possibly have to do.

Bob was about to add here, I'll give you his number when the bus shuddered to a halt, and the door popped open. The guy who got on was sort of Worm-sized and –shaped and therefore, Bob was willing to bet, did a Worm-kind of job. The other three swiveled to face him, and Bob watched as the newcomer's expression shifted from pleased to alarmed.

"Guys?" he said. Jon unfolded and stood up, hands smoothing down his jeans.

I'll buy you a bottle of Scotch when this over, Jon Walker, Bob thought, and got to his feet.

"How long do we have?" Bob asked the Worm-like dude, as the others stood up.

"Twenty minutes, but –" the guy began, stepping closer.

"Zack," Brendon said. "We, ah – Spencer – um - "

"Give me your phone, Walker," Bob interrupted, holding a hand out to Jon, who obediently deposited his own phone in it.

Bob popped it open, tapped in Ray's number, pressed the call button, and handed it back.

"Yes? Spencer? Spencer what?" Zack said, looking at Bob, as Jon edged past them and down the steps of the bus.

In fact I'll buy you two,Bob thought at Jon, ignoring Zack in favor of fishing a pair of flip-flops out from under the seat that seemed to be mostly the right size. He stuck a hand in his pocket and was pleased to find money in it – only a couple of dollars, from the feel of it, but that was enough for coffee, though not for cigarettes. Which was fine, he had a feeling that smoking in someone else's body was probably sort of rude.

"Spencer what?" Zack repeated, perhaps slightly louder than necessary.

"He – er – " Brendon started again, flailing his hands, and Bob used the distraction to slip off the bus.



part 2