But you can't be missed (1/3)
Title: But you can't be missed
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer [also Ryan/Keltie; Jon/ofc]
Rating/warning: R [boysex; implied drug use and suicidal thoughts]
Disclaimer: Totally made up, not meant to offend. Please don't google yourself.
Summary:
"No, I mean. It's like you haven't aged a single day." Ryan steals another glance, and Brendon looks uncomfortably out the window. The back streets of Vegas look a lot like he remembers them. The cars in the driveways aren't really different, people are still dressed the same, dragging their trash to the sidewalk in their pajamas. No one's in some sort of space-age suit or wearing a video visor, or walking a robotic dog. If Brendon was going to be dropped unceremoniously into the future without his consent, there could at least be robotic dogs.
Amazing fanmix by siryn99: download [here]
Tracklisting:
You Can't Be Missed If You Never Go Away - Cobra Starship
The Future Freaks Me Out - Motion City Soundtrack
Space Oddity - David Bowie
Lover, You Should Have Come Over - Jeff Buckley
Play Crack The Sky - Brand New
My Body Is A Cage - The Arcade Fire
Galaxy of Emptiness - Beth Orton
A Day Like Today - Tom McRae
Stable Song - Death Cab For Cutie
Golden - Fall Out Boy
They’ve been there for nearly a month already, and Brendon is about to kill everyone ever. The songwriting is stalled out somewhere between ‘this is weird but it might work’ and ‘this blows such chunks, holy crap’. Ryan’s been baked for three days straight, Jon broke his good camera on Tuesday and has been pissy ever since, and Shane isn’t due back from Vegas until Sunday. So for two days its been Spence and Brendon and a marathon game of Guitar Hero. That is, until Spencer ditched Brendon to go hang out on the roof and call Haley.
Brendon hadn't even been doing anything extra annoying. He'd miraculously won the last three battles, so it was fair and square that he demand that Spence get them more Cheese-Its from the kitchen, and only right that Brendon tackle him to the ground when he refused. "Come on, Smith, take it like a man," Brendon had crowed, and, okay, maybe he licked Spencer's neck, but only because it was right there, and Brendon is only human.
It's not like he'd never done it before.
Spencer had pushed Brendon off him hard enough to bang his back into the couch. "What the fuck, Bren?" he yelled, and he left the room without even bothering to pause the game. When he didn't come back, Brendon went looking for him, sort of to apologize, but mostly because he was just bored as hell. The window of Spencer's attic room was wide open, as it usually was on nice evenings, and Brendon was halfway outside to the roof before he heard Spencer's voice, low and pinched.
"No, I just can’t fucking deal with him right now, seriously you don't know what he's like--" is all Brendon caught of the conversation. But it was enough to set Brendon off into a screaming fit that might have included the phrases “fucking stoner assholes," “dickwads who only care about themselves,” and “liked you better when you were a prissy ass bitch”.
He maybe feels a little bad about it. But only a little bit. Spence has been very un-Spence-like as the weeks go by, refusing to shake Ryan into any kind of action, worrying more about their bets involving facial hair than about appeasing the label. Brendon wants to play music. They have a random show in three weeks, and they’ve got nothing new to play and haven’t rehearsed the old stuff in forever. And Spencer doesn’t seem to give a shit.
Brendon needs air. Space. He needs to not be in this cabin that reeks of weed and stale beer and old socks and Spencer's fruity shampoos. He finishes his tirade with “Fuck you, Spence! Call me when you decide to stop being a douchebag!” and slams the bedroom door behind him. He thinks about taking the car, but he’s had a couple of beers and it’s a nice evening anyway, so he just walks down the path into the wooded area behind the cabin.
He remembers when he first joined the band, how Spencer's steady gaze and dry, even voice had been disconcerting, especially coming from a guy even younger than him. But when the media frenzy started up, when all the Brent shit went down, when Ryan's dad died, they all leaned on Spencer and he was strong enough to hold them all up. Brendon's not sure if Spence would even try anymore. He seems content to just let everything stagnate around him. Brendon knows blaming Spencer isn't fair, but he figures that's what Spencer gets for taking on the roll of the guy who knows what he's doing, and then just walking away from it. Brendon wants to punch Spencer in the fucking face sometimes, but he's pretty sure Spencer could take him. Also, Spencer has a really pretty face.
Brendon likes to pretend that his crush on Spencer has been totally obliterated by his new-found stoner attitude, but that would be a lie. Spencer's eyes are pretty even when they're all pupil, and his mouth is even more inviting when he's smiling lazily up at Brendon from the couch, or wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. He also likes to think he's dealt with said crush pretty fucking well. He's nice to Haley whether she and Spencer are on or off (its hard to tell some days), he doesn't try to drunkenly kiss Spencer (except that one time in Texas, when Brendon slipped him a little tongue in the middle of a freak rainstorm, but he's pretty sure Spencer was too drunk to remember that), he's slept with a number of random girls (and a couple of guys), and when he feels like flirting shamelessly with Spencer, he just flirts shamelessly with everyone in the room, so no one is any the wiser. The last thing he needs is for Spencer, or, Christ, Jon and Ryan figuring it out. The only person he's ever told is Zack, because Brendon firmly believes that its Zack's job to know everything.
Zack just patted him on the back and said, "Man, that sucks, dude."
And now, Spencer is probably sitting up in his room telling his pretty, perfect maybe-girlfriend about how Brendon is a massive drama queen, and Brendon's not getting any credit at all for being an upstanding, non-groping kind of guy.
Everything blows.
It's chilly out, but its just barely dusk, and he's got his lavender hoodie over a long-sleeve t-shirt. Brendon walks for a good half-hour in the hills before he pulls out his phone to text Pete. my band is full of assholes. i totally quit., he types. He’s got a really sporadic signal, and he steps to the left, then the right, then the right again, holding the phone up to try and catch it long enough to hit send. His next step right is sadly down a somewhat steep hill. He loses his sidekick and almost a shoe on the slide down before conking his head on a tree branch and promptly passing out.
*
It's dark when he opens his eyes. Brendon presses the heel of his hand to his temple-- there's a dull throb there, but nothing seems to be broken or bleeding. He gets awkwardly to his knees and checks around for his phone, but he can't find it anywhere. "Fucking awesome," he mutters to himself and begins the climb back up to the path. He shakes the dirt off his jeans and wonders how long he's been lying there. Without his phone, there's no way to check. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts trudging back to the cabin. They'd better at least have been a little worried about him. Even if they aren't, he is so going to monopolize the hot tub tonight.
The lights are out when he gets to the back door, and it's locked up tight. "Seriously?" Brendon says to the doorknob when it refuses to turn for the third time. They never lock the doors up here-- no one is around to bother them, and none of them ever remember to take a key. He pounds on the door for a good five minutes before he notices the cars are all missing from the driveway. Brendon's skin flashes hot-cold, and there is a prickling along his spine he refuses to call fear. He pounds for another few minutes. "Ry? Open the fucking door, Ryan! Jonny! Spencer!! I'm sorry I called you a dick, now let me the fuck in!"
The house just creaks a little and stays perfectly dark. There's a bit of peeling paint on the door that Brendon's never noticed before. Brendon kicks the door once and heads for the main gatehouse. Carlos, the security guard, will at least be able to tell him when the rest of the guys left. Without him. Fucking assholes, he thinks. He's trying to stay angry, because if he's angry, he's less likely to cry in front of a middle-aged security guard. He thinks suddenly of Zack, at home in Chicago. If Zack were at the cabin, they never would have left without Brendon. Brendon wonders if he can pay Zack enough to rough Spencer up a little. Probably not.
The gatehouse is strangely dark as he approaches, and Brendon's heart starts beating a little faster. Sure enough, Carlos is gone too-- on the other side of the resort, maybe, or... it doesn't matter. Brendon doesn't bother wondering. He's done with this bullshit. It's getting colder out, and he's in nothing but his hoodie, and he hasn't eaten in hours, and his band left him there! He thinks about going back and breaking into the cabin, but he doesn't want to deal with Ryan's bitchface in the morning when it turns out they have to pay for a window. There's a diner half a mile up the road with a payphone. If Brendon can remember any of the guys' numbers (damn cellphones), he can call them from there. And maybe get a sandwich.
He starts walking.
Turns out the only number he can remember is Ryan's. Well, and Spencer's mom, but the clock inside the diner says its just past midnight, and Brendon really doesn't need to be in trouble with Spencer's mom right now. It's warm inside, and there's an ATM, but it rejects his card three times. Brendon kicks the machine and gets a dirty look from the waitress. He discovers a five in his wallet, which gets him a $2 can of coke (which, for a dive in the middle of nowhere is actual highway robbery) and change for the phone. He drops in fifty cents and dials. The number rings three times before a groggy female voice answers with a "Hello?"
"Ryan?" he asks, and he gets an annoyed "Wrong number" before the line goes dead.
Well, shit, he thinks. Maybe he's not as good at remembering numbers as he thought. He thinks again about calling the Smiths, but can't quite bring himself to do it.
In the end, he calls his mom. It's a number he knows by heart, but barely uses these days. However, he's stuck in a diner in the middle of the night with no car, no money, and a country station that is playing a Carrie Underwood song he's never heard before. It's pretty much the definition of 'emergency'. This time the phone rings twice before a man answers.
"...Dad?" Brendon asks, because the guy doesn't sound too familiar.
"Who is this? Do you know what time it is?" the voice says, and yeah. That is so not Brendon's dad. He flushes to his toes.
"Um, sorry, I'm just looking for the Uries?" he tries, and the guy says "No one here by that name, and don't call back" before he hangs up. Brendon blinks at the phone as the radio DJ announces "This weekend, don't forget! Tune in to try and win tickets for the sold out Cobra Starship show at the Hard Rock!". Brendon pouts. He didn't even know Cobra was playing a show at the Hard Rock. Seriously. ...Worst. Night. Ever.
*
He nurses his Coke for nearly an hour. He could go back to the cabin-- they might actually be home by now, but he somehow doubts it. Besides, it's cold up in the mountains in March, and he thinks about his apartment, and the warmth of the Vegas valley, and thinks maybe he can find the guys there, or find Shane, and just stay with him until its time to come back up. Not like the band is doing any real work anyway. Maybe he won't tell them where he is, either. He'll make them sweat a little. But then he thinks about the time in high school when Spencer's dog Bootsie ran away, and the look on Spencer's face when they still couldn't find him twelve hours later, and he realizes he's not that cruel. The rest of them might be thoughtless idiots, but Brendon at least won't do that.
As he's coming out of the bathroom he hears a trucker telling the waitress he's on his way into the city. He puts on his best smile and sticks out his hand and manages to convince the guy to give him a ride. It's a nice night, and the guy has the radio set to classic rock, and Brendon almost nods off in the passenger seat before he realizes that if he didn't have the key to the cabin, he doesn't have the key to his place. "Well, crap," he says to no one in particular and the trucker-- Mitch-- looks at him.
"What's up?"
"Can you?" Brendon sighs. He doesn't have a spare key to his swanky hi-rise apartment, and he's only had it for a month, so he's not going to bet on the late night doorman knowing him on sight. The road they're on passes right by Ryan's gated community, though, and while Brendon doesn't have his own spare key, he knows where Ryan hides his, under the potted plant next to the driveway. (He started keeping it there the third time he got so stoned he locked himself out after walks around the neighborhood.) "Can you let me off up there?" he says, pointing to the entrance, and the guy pulls over.
"You sure you're okay, kid?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
"I'm fine," Brendon says with a shrug. "Tonight is the fucking definition of Murphy's Law, you know? But I can crash at my friend's."
Mitch nods and waits until Brendon has scrambled over the gate before he drives away. Brendon doesn't stop at the guard house-- they know that Ryan is out of town and Brendon suspects he's not on some sort of 'sure they can come break into my place' list Ryan left. He ducks down the road and cuts through a backyard until he hits the winding streets of the development and manages to find Ryan's house among the McMansions.
Unfortunately, there is no longer a potted plant by the door.
Brendon feels the prickly tears of frustration start to build behind his eyes. He's about three seconds from sitting on Ryan's curb and crying when he sees a light on in the upstairs bedroom. Suddenly, the prickly feeling is less frustrated and more really fucking pissed off. Brendon stomps up the walkway to the front door and starts pounding on it.
"HEY! ROSS! YOU FORGET SOMETHING?" he yells, and kicks the door a few times for good measure. "COULDN'T LEAVE A MOTHERFUCKING NOTE?"
A dog barks somewhere in the neighborhood, and Brendon is probably making a spectacle of himself, but he doesn't really care. He's really fucking cold now, and exhausted, and maybe he's concussed or something and Ryan is upstairs probably getting stoned and watching reruns. He keeps pounding and kicking until he sees another light come on through the downstairs window. "Open the fucking door, Ryan," he yells.
The door snicks open at the same time flashing lights descend on him from behind, followed by the sound of cars coming to a quick stop on asphalt. "Put your hands on your head and get down on the ground," someone behind him yells and Brendon looks up to see a terrified woman of about 65 peeking out from the other side of the door.
"Fuck," Brendon says as he puts his hands on his head and closes his eyes.
*
They question him at their main gate office, and he's only apologized, like, a million times before someone says, "What did you say your name was?"
"Brendon Urie," he says, eyes wide. "I'm a friend of Ryan Ross, and I must have gotten the house numbers mixed up, I am SO SORRY," he tries again, but the guy is looking at him really strangely, then looking at his ID and looking back again.
"Wait here," he says, and leaves Brendon alone in the small, windowless room. Brendon puts his head on the table and tries to keep his leg from shaking with nervous tension. It's another fifteen minutes before the guy comes back. Brendon wonders if they'll let him out if he has to use the bathroom. "You'll have to come with me, young man," he says, a little gruff but not unkind. They walk him out of the building and into the back of a waiting car.
"What's going on?" Brendon asks, and he's so mortified that his voice shakes a little.
"We're going to have to take you down to LVPD proper," the guy says, and Brendon feels like he's going to throw up.
Pete is going to kill him. Unless Spencer gets to him first.
*
They interrogate him when he gets there in another small holding cell, if asking him to recite his name, birth date, social security number, and mother's maiden name over and over can be called interrogation. When the fourth officer starts asking him the same questions, a thick, worn manila folder open in front of him, Brendon looks up and gives his best goofy smile. "You're not all, like, opening credit cards in my name while I sit here, right? Because I'm really not all that rich, dude." The officer closes the file and leaves the room. They give him a breathalyser, which he happily takes, eager to not be labeled the next pop star destined for rehab. They bring him out to the main area to fingerprint him, and Brendon's mortification is tempered by his reaction to the cool fingerprint scanner they use to do it. He looks around and sees flatscreens on every officer's desk, and watches a few of them pull out touch screen cell phones. "Man, casino money must make this a decent place to work, huh?" he tries to chat with the officer taking his fingerprints. She snorts. She's about 25, with her dark hair slicked back into a ponytail, and when she looks up, Brendon almost knows her question before she asks it.
"Are you really Brendon Urie?" she says, her voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. "I had this poster, and I mean. ...You really look like him."
His cheek flush, and he thinks, at least I'm not drunk in my mugshot, before answering "Guilty. I mean, not guilty, but, just. Shit. Um, yes?" He's expecting her to smile, maybe, but she just takes a deep breath and says "Wow."
Brendon's not sure what to do with that.
*
An officer named Mendez ("call me Tony," he tells Brendon when he sits down) gets him a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. He's got really toned arms under his short-sleeved police uniform, and a smile that puts Brendon a little at ease. "So, Brendon," he starts. "We've got an unusual situation here."
Brendon swallows his bite of sandwich and blinks at him. "I mean, I know what I did was totally out of line, and I am totally willing to compensate that poor lady for anything--" he starts and Tony shakes his head to cut him off.
"Why don't you tell me about what happened before that. Where were you before you tried to find Mr. Ross?"
Brendon takes a deep breath and jumps into the story of his worst night ever, telling him about the fight with Spence, and hitting his head, and the empty house, and the diner. "I mean, it's crazy, right? If I could have found my phone, all of this wouldn't have been a problem, you know? But if you can find Spencer or Ryan, they could come down and tell you I do not usually do stuff like this."
Tony tilts his head. "You fell in the woods behind your cabin?" he asks, and Brendon nods. Tony reaches into the same worn manila folder the other officer had and pulls out a photograph. "Is this the cabin?"
Brendon stares at the picture. It's their cabin, with Ryan's car in the driveway. He looks up with wide eyes. "Where did you get this?"
"I know its strange, but I need you to just answer the question, okay Brendon?"
"Yeah, that's our cabin."
"And this?" Tony holds out another photo. It's a picture of a steep, wooded hill, and there's a small, grey thing in the middle of it.
"Is that? I mean, that's a sidekick, right? Is that mine?"
"We're working on that. Now, tell me about hitting your head." Tony leans forward on his elbows, and Brendon's eyes cut to the big mirror along the opposite wall. If television is right, and Brendon has no reason to think it's not, there could be people behind it, watching him. He takes a deep breath and puts his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking.
"It was just a tree branch, I think," he says. "I was out for a bit, I guess, since I left the cabin around 8, and got to the diner around midnight. But it doesn't really hurt," he adds. There is a knock on the door, and Tony gets up to answer it. Another officer hands him a sheet of paper and keeps stealing looks at Brendon. Brendon tries his best to look calm and put together. He overhears a few words of their conversation: "match" and "DNA" and "FBI". Tony leaves the room for a second and comes back with a fresh cup of coffee. He takes Brendon's finished cup and says, "Hey, Brendon? I'll be back in a little bit, okay? Just hold tight."
Brendon holds on to his cup of coffee with two hands. He gets up to pace a little and stops in front of the mirror and stares himself down, willing his face neutral. This is not the worst situation Brendon's ever been in. Tony seems like a cool guy. The FBI thing must have been about another case. Brendon just has to sit tight and wait for his band to come get him, and he'll be just fine.
Totally fine.
*
Brendon doesn't know how long he's in there before Tony comes back-- there's no clock on the wall in the room, which he guesses is part of some police procedure to make you think you've been stuck in a hole for three days, when its really just been an hour or so. He enters the room, followed by a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair pulled off her face with a big plastic clip. She's dressed in slacks and a rumpled blazer, and her eyes are a little puffy, but alert. She sits down across from him and smiles, and Brendon tries to smile back, but he hasn't slept in hours, and it's got to be closing in on dawn.
"This is Dr. Phillips," Tony says from where he's standing in front of the closed door.
"I'm okay," Brendon says hastily. His head really doesn't hurt unless he pokes at the little lump where he hit it. He says as much and the Doctor shakes her head.
"I'm not that kind of doctor," she says. "I'm a psychologist who does some consulting work with the FBI. I just want to have a talk with you."
Brendon doesn't even know what to say to that. He cuts his eyes over to Tony, his chest suddenly tight. "Look, I'm not really sure what I'm being accused of here, so I don't know-"
Dr. Phillips cuts him off with a friendly wave. "It's not that kind of a talk, okay? Just humor me, I'm sure you've done this a million times already today."
"Okay," Brendon replies, and his voice is barely a whisper. He's got no idea who that lady in Ryan's complex was, but somehow the FBI is involved now? And why did they have pictures of the cabin? And why hasn't anyone chased down Spencer's number like he asked them to hours ago? A sudden thought leaves him dizzy. "Wait. Is... is something going on with my band? Are they okay? Because they can be jerks, but it's really not like them to disappear like that, not without coming right back, so is someone sick, maybe?" The words come tumbling out faster and Brendon's fingers are gripped tight on the edge of the table. "Was there an accident or something? I mean, otherwise you'd be able to find them, right?"
"We're doing our best to locate Mr. Ross, I promise," Tony says, his eyes cutting to the mirror. "A few questions, and we'll try to get to the bottom of this."
"The bottom of what?" Brendon says, desperate. "Yesterday I'm hanging out with my friends and today they're gone, and the FBI is talking to me, and I'd really like to catch up here!"
"They haven't explained--" Dr. Phillips looks at Tony and he shrugs a little helplessly.
"We don't really have a procedure for this kind of thing," he says. "It's FBI jurisdiction, at this point. And we didn't want him freaking out."
"Freaking out about what?" Brendon says, his voice loud and echoing in the small room.
They both turn to look at him, and Dr. Phillips purses her lips together and leans forward.
"What's your full name?"
Brendon's breaths are coming fast and shallow, and he can't believe she's asking him--
"Come on, breathe, and tell me your full name."
"Brendon Boyd Urie," he says, catching her eyes and not looking away. She nods.
"Birthdate?"
"April 12, 1987."
"How old are you, Brendon?"
"The math's pretty easy on that one, so--"
"Please," she says. "Humor me."
"Nineteen," he replies and she clenches her jaw just a fraction. Brendon's stomach flips.
"Brendon, do you know today's date?" she asks. Her tone is casual, but her eyes are focused, sharp.
"It's hard to tell days apart in the cabin, but. Thursday, I guess? March 8th."
"March 8th of what year?"
"2007."
She sits there looking at him for long enough that Brendon fidgets in his chair and says "Really, I can tell you my social again, too. And my cell phone number? I can probably remember my address, but the zip code might be off, since I just--"
"Brendon, I want you to look at something for me," Dr. Phillips says, and her voice has changed a little. It's softer, rounder at the edges. Soothing. Brendon reaches across the table to take what looks like a newspaper. "I swiped this from the desk of an officer as I came through," she says with a rueful smile. "I want you to look at the date."
It's the Vegas Sun, with the headline President Obama Denounces Iranian Involvement in Nuclear Testing. Above that is the date: March 8, 2015. Brendon's throat closes up tight and his vision starts to blur a little at the corners. "Brendon," he hears a voice, then two, and suddenly Tony is at his side, pulling his chair back and pushing Brendon's head between his knees, kneeling in front of his chair. "Breathe, dude, come on," he says, his hand running over Brendon's back. "See what I mean?" he says with a hint of smile in his voice and Dr. Phillips comes around to kneel next to him.
"Brendon?" she starts and he cuts her off.
"This is a joke, right?"
"No, it's not. We're just as in the dark about what's going on as you are. But--" she starts and places her hand on his arm. Brendon jerks back from both of them and stands up. This is ridiculous. This is impossible.
"I don't know what you're trying to do here, but unless I'm under arrest, I would like to get the fuck out of here." He tucks his shaking hands under his arms.
"Brendon," Tony says. "Just hear us out." They stand up slowly, deliberately, like Brendon is a spooked animal. Which isn't too far from the truth. He'd try to punch Tony and run for it, if he wasn't sure that Tony would totally be able to catch him. He just stands as close as he can to the door and tries to hear over the rush of blood in his ears. "Eight years ago, you were reported missing from that cabin, wearing exactly what you're wearing now. The LVPD, the Nevada state police, and the FBI were all called in to try to find you. No one found anything except that cell phone."
"It was yesterday," Brendon says, and his voice is tinged with hysteria.
"No," Dr. Phillips cuts in. "I can bring you magazines with the date, we can go turn on CNN in the break room, but I promise you, they are all going to tell you that it's 2015. I think that--"
"I don't fucking CARE," Brendon yells, and he can feel a rush of adrenaline surge through him. Whatever fucking insane game this is, he will rip the fucking door off its hinges, and find his mom and his band and sue the fucking FBI for a zillion dollars for pulling this shit. "I want you to call my parents NOW, and i want a lawyer, and I want you to shut the fuck up!"
"Your parents no longer live in Vegas," Tony says, his voice gentle, and Brendon can feel the edge of the turkey sandwich making him sick to his stomach. Tony cuts his eyes back to the mirror and says "If you like, we can try--"
Brendon doesn't even let him finish. He takes three steps to the mirror and starts pounding on it. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but this is a sick fucking joke, and I'm done! Let me the FUCK. OUT. OF. HERE!" he yells, pounding on the glass with each word. Tony grabs his arms from behind and Brendon yells louder as he's pulled back and wrestled face down to the ground. He sort of registers a commotion in the hallway a moment later, followed by the door opening; his arms are twisted back enough that he can't move, can't look to see who just came in.
"Let him go, now," he hears and fuck; it's Ryan. Brendon is so fucking relieved he can actually feel the tears prick the corners of his eyes. "Bren, Brendon." Ryan's kneeling on the ground next to him and Brendon lets out a shaky breath as Tony releases him.
"Took you long enough," he manages to joke, giddy to finally get out of this nightmare. But when he looks up, Ryan looks like Ryan, but different-- his hair is shorter, mussed like he just rolled out of bed. He's wearing a blue t-shirt that says 'Summerville Pee Wee League' on it, and his face is fuller, like he's had one too many good meals. Behind his small wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes are bright with tears.
"Brendon?" he says again. His hands come out to hover over Brendon's arm, not quite touching, like he can't quite believe Brendon is there.
"Oh, God," Brendon says, voice barely above a whisper. Ryan's arms are around his neck a second later and Brendon is pretty sure he might pass out.
*
"It's not like its completely unprecedented," Dr. Phillips is saying, but Brendon is struggling to concentrate for more than three words at a time. Ryan is sitting next to him, their hands clasped tightly together, and Ryan keeps squeezing every few seconds, waiting with his breath held until Brendon squeezes back. It's not something anyone but the rest of the band would recognize, but Ryan's harnessed energy is thrumming under his skin enough to make Brendon's knee bounce in reaction.
"People don't just come back from the dead," Ryan says, and that is enough to make Brendon jerk his head over. He's dead, apparently, and that makes the whole thing just that more disconcerting.
"Well, no, but there have been cases of people who've disappeared only to re-appear years later, sometimes with memory loss related to trauma."
Ryan squeezes Brendon's hand hard enough to hurt, and Brendon knocks his knee to reassure him that, no, he hasn't suffered any great trauma of which he is aware. Ryan lets out a slow breath. "But you don't know that that is the case here," Ryan says, firmly, and Dr. Phillips sighs before she tilts her head.
"We'd like some medical doctors to take a look at you, Brendon," she says, and it seems like she's really trying hard to be nice and calm, and it's not that Brendon doesn't appreciate it, but.
"Can that wait a day or two?" Ryan asks. "I mean, he's obviously not in any immediate danger, and I think he just needs a little while to acclimate before we start with anything too... invasive." Brendon squeezes his hand a little harder in thanks. "I mean, you're not charging him with anything, right?" Ryan and Brendon both look at Tony, and he shrugs.
"No formal charges at this time, so we can't actually hold him here," he says, and Dr. Phillips sighs again, frustrated.
Ryan just stands up, hand still firmly in Brendon's, and says, "Okay, then I'm taking him home, and you or the FBI can contact him through me if and when there is a next step. We'll need to get the paperwork going pretty fast to get his social security number back and stuff, I'm guessing, but he's got a place to stay in the meantime." The inside of Brendon's head is swimming by this point but Ryan's voice is firm, sure, and pretty un-Ryan-like, and Brendon just lets himself be led out of the room and down the hall. It's not until they're out in the parking lot, blinking in the first rays of the morning sun, that Brendon's words catch up with them.
"Ry?" he says meekly. "What the fuck is going on?"
Ryan stops at a white minivan and looks at his feet, then at their hands, then at Brendon's face, pausing for a long time before answering. "I have no idea, Bren. You were just... you were gone, and now you're back, and I don't really want to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know?" His voice is tight and low, like it is when Ryan is trying hard not to cry in public, and Brendon just steps in closer and wraps his arms around Ryan's waist.
Ryan's hugs are exactly the same, except that the pause before he starts hugging back is shorter than Brendon's used to.
*
cont.
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer [also Ryan/Keltie; Jon/ofc]
Rating/warning: R [boysex; implied drug use and suicidal thoughts]
Disclaimer: Totally made up, not meant to offend. Please don't google yourself.
Summary:
"No, I mean. It's like you haven't aged a single day." Ryan steals another glance, and Brendon looks uncomfortably out the window. The back streets of Vegas look a lot like he remembers them. The cars in the driveways aren't really different, people are still dressed the same, dragging their trash to the sidewalk in their pajamas. No one's in some sort of space-age suit or wearing a video visor, or walking a robotic dog. If Brendon was going to be dropped unceremoniously into the future without his consent, there could at least be robotic dogs.
Amazing fanmix by siryn99: download [here]
Tracklisting:
You Can't Be Missed If You Never Go Away - Cobra Starship
The Future Freaks Me Out - Motion City Soundtrack
Space Oddity - David Bowie
Lover, You Should Have Come Over - Jeff Buckley
Play Crack The Sky - Brand New
My Body Is A Cage - The Arcade Fire
Galaxy of Emptiness - Beth Orton
A Day Like Today - Tom McRae
Stable Song - Death Cab For Cutie
Golden - Fall Out Boy
They’ve been there for nearly a month already, and Brendon is about to kill everyone ever. The songwriting is stalled out somewhere between ‘this is weird but it might work’ and ‘this blows such chunks, holy crap’. Ryan’s been baked for three days straight, Jon broke his good camera on Tuesday and has been pissy ever since, and Shane isn’t due back from Vegas until Sunday. So for two days its been Spence and Brendon and a marathon game of Guitar Hero. That is, until Spencer ditched Brendon to go hang out on the roof and call Haley.
Brendon hadn't even been doing anything extra annoying. He'd miraculously won the last three battles, so it was fair and square that he demand that Spence get them more Cheese-Its from the kitchen, and only right that Brendon tackle him to the ground when he refused. "Come on, Smith, take it like a man," Brendon had crowed, and, okay, maybe he licked Spencer's neck, but only because it was right there, and Brendon is only human.
It's not like he'd never done it before.
Spencer had pushed Brendon off him hard enough to bang his back into the couch. "What the fuck, Bren?" he yelled, and he left the room without even bothering to pause the game. When he didn't come back, Brendon went looking for him, sort of to apologize, but mostly because he was just bored as hell. The window of Spencer's attic room was wide open, as it usually was on nice evenings, and Brendon was halfway outside to the roof before he heard Spencer's voice, low and pinched.
"No, I just can’t fucking deal with him right now, seriously you don't know what he's like--" is all Brendon caught of the conversation. But it was enough to set Brendon off into a screaming fit that might have included the phrases “fucking stoner assholes," “dickwads who only care about themselves,” and “liked you better when you were a prissy ass bitch”.
He maybe feels a little bad about it. But only a little bit. Spence has been very un-Spence-like as the weeks go by, refusing to shake Ryan into any kind of action, worrying more about their bets involving facial hair than about appeasing the label. Brendon wants to play music. They have a random show in three weeks, and they’ve got nothing new to play and haven’t rehearsed the old stuff in forever. And Spencer doesn’t seem to give a shit.
Brendon needs air. Space. He needs to not be in this cabin that reeks of weed and stale beer and old socks and Spencer's fruity shampoos. He finishes his tirade with “Fuck you, Spence! Call me when you decide to stop being a douchebag!” and slams the bedroom door behind him. He thinks about taking the car, but he’s had a couple of beers and it’s a nice evening anyway, so he just walks down the path into the wooded area behind the cabin.
He remembers when he first joined the band, how Spencer's steady gaze and dry, even voice had been disconcerting, especially coming from a guy even younger than him. But when the media frenzy started up, when all the Brent shit went down, when Ryan's dad died, they all leaned on Spencer and he was strong enough to hold them all up. Brendon's not sure if Spence would even try anymore. He seems content to just let everything stagnate around him. Brendon knows blaming Spencer isn't fair, but he figures that's what Spencer gets for taking on the roll of the guy who knows what he's doing, and then just walking away from it. Brendon wants to punch Spencer in the fucking face sometimes, but he's pretty sure Spencer could take him. Also, Spencer has a really pretty face.
Brendon likes to pretend that his crush on Spencer has been totally obliterated by his new-found stoner attitude, but that would be a lie. Spencer's eyes are pretty even when they're all pupil, and his mouth is even more inviting when he's smiling lazily up at Brendon from the couch, or wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. He also likes to think he's dealt with said crush pretty fucking well. He's nice to Haley whether she and Spencer are on or off (its hard to tell some days), he doesn't try to drunkenly kiss Spencer (except that one time in Texas, when Brendon slipped him a little tongue in the middle of a freak rainstorm, but he's pretty sure Spencer was too drunk to remember that), he's slept with a number of random girls (and a couple of guys), and when he feels like flirting shamelessly with Spencer, he just flirts shamelessly with everyone in the room, so no one is any the wiser. The last thing he needs is for Spencer, or, Christ, Jon and Ryan figuring it out. The only person he's ever told is Zack, because Brendon firmly believes that its Zack's job to know everything.
Zack just patted him on the back and said, "Man, that sucks, dude."
And now, Spencer is probably sitting up in his room telling his pretty, perfect maybe-girlfriend about how Brendon is a massive drama queen, and Brendon's not getting any credit at all for being an upstanding, non-groping kind of guy.
Everything blows.
It's chilly out, but its just barely dusk, and he's got his lavender hoodie over a long-sleeve t-shirt. Brendon walks for a good half-hour in the hills before he pulls out his phone to text Pete. my band is full of assholes. i totally quit., he types. He’s got a really sporadic signal, and he steps to the left, then the right, then the right again, holding the phone up to try and catch it long enough to hit send. His next step right is sadly down a somewhat steep hill. He loses his sidekick and almost a shoe on the slide down before conking his head on a tree branch and promptly passing out.
*
It's dark when he opens his eyes. Brendon presses the heel of his hand to his temple-- there's a dull throb there, but nothing seems to be broken or bleeding. He gets awkwardly to his knees and checks around for his phone, but he can't find it anywhere. "Fucking awesome," he mutters to himself and begins the climb back up to the path. He shakes the dirt off his jeans and wonders how long he's been lying there. Without his phone, there's no way to check. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts trudging back to the cabin. They'd better at least have been a little worried about him. Even if they aren't, he is so going to monopolize the hot tub tonight.
The lights are out when he gets to the back door, and it's locked up tight. "Seriously?" Brendon says to the doorknob when it refuses to turn for the third time. They never lock the doors up here-- no one is around to bother them, and none of them ever remember to take a key. He pounds on the door for a good five minutes before he notices the cars are all missing from the driveway. Brendon's skin flashes hot-cold, and there is a prickling along his spine he refuses to call fear. He pounds for another few minutes. "Ry? Open the fucking door, Ryan! Jonny! Spencer!! I'm sorry I called you a dick, now let me the fuck in!"
The house just creaks a little and stays perfectly dark. There's a bit of peeling paint on the door that Brendon's never noticed before. Brendon kicks the door once and heads for the main gatehouse. Carlos, the security guard, will at least be able to tell him when the rest of the guys left. Without him. Fucking assholes, he thinks. He's trying to stay angry, because if he's angry, he's less likely to cry in front of a middle-aged security guard. He thinks suddenly of Zack, at home in Chicago. If Zack were at the cabin, they never would have left without Brendon. Brendon wonders if he can pay Zack enough to rough Spencer up a little. Probably not.
The gatehouse is strangely dark as he approaches, and Brendon's heart starts beating a little faster. Sure enough, Carlos is gone too-- on the other side of the resort, maybe, or... it doesn't matter. Brendon doesn't bother wondering. He's done with this bullshit. It's getting colder out, and he's in nothing but his hoodie, and he hasn't eaten in hours, and his band left him there! He thinks about going back and breaking into the cabin, but he doesn't want to deal with Ryan's bitchface in the morning when it turns out they have to pay for a window. There's a diner half a mile up the road with a payphone. If Brendon can remember any of the guys' numbers (damn cellphones), he can call them from there. And maybe get a sandwich.
He starts walking.
Turns out the only number he can remember is Ryan's. Well, and Spencer's mom, but the clock inside the diner says its just past midnight, and Brendon really doesn't need to be in trouble with Spencer's mom right now. It's warm inside, and there's an ATM, but it rejects his card three times. Brendon kicks the machine and gets a dirty look from the waitress. He discovers a five in his wallet, which gets him a $2 can of coke (which, for a dive in the middle of nowhere is actual highway robbery) and change for the phone. He drops in fifty cents and dials. The number rings three times before a groggy female voice answers with a "Hello?"
"Ryan?" he asks, and he gets an annoyed "Wrong number" before the line goes dead.
Well, shit, he thinks. Maybe he's not as good at remembering numbers as he thought. He thinks again about calling the Smiths, but can't quite bring himself to do it.
In the end, he calls his mom. It's a number he knows by heart, but barely uses these days. However, he's stuck in a diner in the middle of the night with no car, no money, and a country station that is playing a Carrie Underwood song he's never heard before. It's pretty much the definition of 'emergency'. This time the phone rings twice before a man answers.
"...Dad?" Brendon asks, because the guy doesn't sound too familiar.
"Who is this? Do you know what time it is?" the voice says, and yeah. That is so not Brendon's dad. He flushes to his toes.
"Um, sorry, I'm just looking for the Uries?" he tries, and the guy says "No one here by that name, and don't call back" before he hangs up. Brendon blinks at the phone as the radio DJ announces "This weekend, don't forget! Tune in to try and win tickets for the sold out Cobra Starship show at the Hard Rock!". Brendon pouts. He didn't even know Cobra was playing a show at the Hard Rock. Seriously. ...Worst. Night. Ever.
*
He nurses his Coke for nearly an hour. He could go back to the cabin-- they might actually be home by now, but he somehow doubts it. Besides, it's cold up in the mountains in March, and he thinks about his apartment, and the warmth of the Vegas valley, and thinks maybe he can find the guys there, or find Shane, and just stay with him until its time to come back up. Not like the band is doing any real work anyway. Maybe he won't tell them where he is, either. He'll make them sweat a little. But then he thinks about the time in high school when Spencer's dog Bootsie ran away, and the look on Spencer's face when they still couldn't find him twelve hours later, and he realizes he's not that cruel. The rest of them might be thoughtless idiots, but Brendon at least won't do that.
As he's coming out of the bathroom he hears a trucker telling the waitress he's on his way into the city. He puts on his best smile and sticks out his hand and manages to convince the guy to give him a ride. It's a nice night, and the guy has the radio set to classic rock, and Brendon almost nods off in the passenger seat before he realizes that if he didn't have the key to the cabin, he doesn't have the key to his place. "Well, crap," he says to no one in particular and the trucker-- Mitch-- looks at him.
"What's up?"
"Can you?" Brendon sighs. He doesn't have a spare key to his swanky hi-rise apartment, and he's only had it for a month, so he's not going to bet on the late night doorman knowing him on sight. The road they're on passes right by Ryan's gated community, though, and while Brendon doesn't have his own spare key, he knows where Ryan hides his, under the potted plant next to the driveway. (He started keeping it there the third time he got so stoned he locked himself out after walks around the neighborhood.) "Can you let me off up there?" he says, pointing to the entrance, and the guy pulls over.
"You sure you're okay, kid?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
"I'm fine," Brendon says with a shrug. "Tonight is the fucking definition of Murphy's Law, you know? But I can crash at my friend's."
Mitch nods and waits until Brendon has scrambled over the gate before he drives away. Brendon doesn't stop at the guard house-- they know that Ryan is out of town and Brendon suspects he's not on some sort of 'sure they can come break into my place' list Ryan left. He ducks down the road and cuts through a backyard until he hits the winding streets of the development and manages to find Ryan's house among the McMansions.
Unfortunately, there is no longer a potted plant by the door.
Brendon feels the prickly tears of frustration start to build behind his eyes. He's about three seconds from sitting on Ryan's curb and crying when he sees a light on in the upstairs bedroom. Suddenly, the prickly feeling is less frustrated and more really fucking pissed off. Brendon stomps up the walkway to the front door and starts pounding on it.
"HEY! ROSS! YOU FORGET SOMETHING?" he yells, and kicks the door a few times for good measure. "COULDN'T LEAVE A MOTHERFUCKING NOTE?"
A dog barks somewhere in the neighborhood, and Brendon is probably making a spectacle of himself, but he doesn't really care. He's really fucking cold now, and exhausted, and maybe he's concussed or something and Ryan is upstairs probably getting stoned and watching reruns. He keeps pounding and kicking until he sees another light come on through the downstairs window. "Open the fucking door, Ryan," he yells.
The door snicks open at the same time flashing lights descend on him from behind, followed by the sound of cars coming to a quick stop on asphalt. "Put your hands on your head and get down on the ground," someone behind him yells and Brendon looks up to see a terrified woman of about 65 peeking out from the other side of the door.
"Fuck," Brendon says as he puts his hands on his head and closes his eyes.
*
They question him at their main gate office, and he's only apologized, like, a million times before someone says, "What did you say your name was?"
"Brendon Urie," he says, eyes wide. "I'm a friend of Ryan Ross, and I must have gotten the house numbers mixed up, I am SO SORRY," he tries again, but the guy is looking at him really strangely, then looking at his ID and looking back again.
"Wait here," he says, and leaves Brendon alone in the small, windowless room. Brendon puts his head on the table and tries to keep his leg from shaking with nervous tension. It's another fifteen minutes before the guy comes back. Brendon wonders if they'll let him out if he has to use the bathroom. "You'll have to come with me, young man," he says, a little gruff but not unkind. They walk him out of the building and into the back of a waiting car.
"What's going on?" Brendon asks, and he's so mortified that his voice shakes a little.
"We're going to have to take you down to LVPD proper," the guy says, and Brendon feels like he's going to throw up.
Pete is going to kill him. Unless Spencer gets to him first.
*
They interrogate him when he gets there in another small holding cell, if asking him to recite his name, birth date, social security number, and mother's maiden name over and over can be called interrogation. When the fourth officer starts asking him the same questions, a thick, worn manila folder open in front of him, Brendon looks up and gives his best goofy smile. "You're not all, like, opening credit cards in my name while I sit here, right? Because I'm really not all that rich, dude." The officer closes the file and leaves the room. They give him a breathalyser, which he happily takes, eager to not be labeled the next pop star destined for rehab. They bring him out to the main area to fingerprint him, and Brendon's mortification is tempered by his reaction to the cool fingerprint scanner they use to do it. He looks around and sees flatscreens on every officer's desk, and watches a few of them pull out touch screen cell phones. "Man, casino money must make this a decent place to work, huh?" he tries to chat with the officer taking his fingerprints. She snorts. She's about 25, with her dark hair slicked back into a ponytail, and when she looks up, Brendon almost knows her question before she asks it.
"Are you really Brendon Urie?" she says, her voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. "I had this poster, and I mean. ...You really look like him."
His cheek flush, and he thinks, at least I'm not drunk in my mugshot, before answering "Guilty. I mean, not guilty, but, just. Shit. Um, yes?" He's expecting her to smile, maybe, but she just takes a deep breath and says "Wow."
Brendon's not sure what to do with that.
*
An officer named Mendez ("call me Tony," he tells Brendon when he sits down) gets him a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. He's got really toned arms under his short-sleeved police uniform, and a smile that puts Brendon a little at ease. "So, Brendon," he starts. "We've got an unusual situation here."
Brendon swallows his bite of sandwich and blinks at him. "I mean, I know what I did was totally out of line, and I am totally willing to compensate that poor lady for anything--" he starts and Tony shakes his head to cut him off.
"Why don't you tell me about what happened before that. Where were you before you tried to find Mr. Ross?"
Brendon takes a deep breath and jumps into the story of his worst night ever, telling him about the fight with Spence, and hitting his head, and the empty house, and the diner. "I mean, it's crazy, right? If I could have found my phone, all of this wouldn't have been a problem, you know? But if you can find Spencer or Ryan, they could come down and tell you I do not usually do stuff like this."
Tony tilts his head. "You fell in the woods behind your cabin?" he asks, and Brendon nods. Tony reaches into the same worn manila folder the other officer had and pulls out a photograph. "Is this the cabin?"
Brendon stares at the picture. It's their cabin, with Ryan's car in the driveway. He looks up with wide eyes. "Where did you get this?"
"I know its strange, but I need you to just answer the question, okay Brendon?"
"Yeah, that's our cabin."
"And this?" Tony holds out another photo. It's a picture of a steep, wooded hill, and there's a small, grey thing in the middle of it.
"Is that? I mean, that's a sidekick, right? Is that mine?"
"We're working on that. Now, tell me about hitting your head." Tony leans forward on his elbows, and Brendon's eyes cut to the big mirror along the opposite wall. If television is right, and Brendon has no reason to think it's not, there could be people behind it, watching him. He takes a deep breath and puts his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking.
"It was just a tree branch, I think," he says. "I was out for a bit, I guess, since I left the cabin around 8, and got to the diner around midnight. But it doesn't really hurt," he adds. There is a knock on the door, and Tony gets up to answer it. Another officer hands him a sheet of paper and keeps stealing looks at Brendon. Brendon tries his best to look calm and put together. He overhears a few words of their conversation: "match" and "DNA" and "FBI". Tony leaves the room for a second and comes back with a fresh cup of coffee. He takes Brendon's finished cup and says, "Hey, Brendon? I'll be back in a little bit, okay? Just hold tight."
Brendon holds on to his cup of coffee with two hands. He gets up to pace a little and stops in front of the mirror and stares himself down, willing his face neutral. This is not the worst situation Brendon's ever been in. Tony seems like a cool guy. The FBI thing must have been about another case. Brendon just has to sit tight and wait for his band to come get him, and he'll be just fine.
Totally fine.
*
Brendon doesn't know how long he's in there before Tony comes back-- there's no clock on the wall in the room, which he guesses is part of some police procedure to make you think you've been stuck in a hole for three days, when its really just been an hour or so. He enters the room, followed by a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair pulled off her face with a big plastic clip. She's dressed in slacks and a rumpled blazer, and her eyes are a little puffy, but alert. She sits down across from him and smiles, and Brendon tries to smile back, but he hasn't slept in hours, and it's got to be closing in on dawn.
"This is Dr. Phillips," Tony says from where he's standing in front of the closed door.
"I'm okay," Brendon says hastily. His head really doesn't hurt unless he pokes at the little lump where he hit it. He says as much and the Doctor shakes her head.
"I'm not that kind of doctor," she says. "I'm a psychologist who does some consulting work with the FBI. I just want to have a talk with you."
Brendon doesn't even know what to say to that. He cuts his eyes over to Tony, his chest suddenly tight. "Look, I'm not really sure what I'm being accused of here, so I don't know-"
Dr. Phillips cuts him off with a friendly wave. "It's not that kind of a talk, okay? Just humor me, I'm sure you've done this a million times already today."
"Okay," Brendon replies, and his voice is barely a whisper. He's got no idea who that lady in Ryan's complex was, but somehow the FBI is involved now? And why did they have pictures of the cabin? And why hasn't anyone chased down Spencer's number like he asked them to hours ago? A sudden thought leaves him dizzy. "Wait. Is... is something going on with my band? Are they okay? Because they can be jerks, but it's really not like them to disappear like that, not without coming right back, so is someone sick, maybe?" The words come tumbling out faster and Brendon's fingers are gripped tight on the edge of the table. "Was there an accident or something? I mean, otherwise you'd be able to find them, right?"
"We're doing our best to locate Mr. Ross, I promise," Tony says, his eyes cutting to the mirror. "A few questions, and we'll try to get to the bottom of this."
"The bottom of what?" Brendon says, desperate. "Yesterday I'm hanging out with my friends and today they're gone, and the FBI is talking to me, and I'd really like to catch up here!"
"They haven't explained--" Dr. Phillips looks at Tony and he shrugs a little helplessly.
"We don't really have a procedure for this kind of thing," he says. "It's FBI jurisdiction, at this point. And we didn't want him freaking out."
"Freaking out about what?" Brendon says, his voice loud and echoing in the small room.
They both turn to look at him, and Dr. Phillips purses her lips together and leans forward.
"What's your full name?"
Brendon's breaths are coming fast and shallow, and he can't believe she's asking him--
"Come on, breathe, and tell me your full name."
"Brendon Boyd Urie," he says, catching her eyes and not looking away. She nods.
"Birthdate?"
"April 12, 1987."
"How old are you, Brendon?"
"The math's pretty easy on that one, so--"
"Please," she says. "Humor me."
"Nineteen," he replies and she clenches her jaw just a fraction. Brendon's stomach flips.
"Brendon, do you know today's date?" she asks. Her tone is casual, but her eyes are focused, sharp.
"It's hard to tell days apart in the cabin, but. Thursday, I guess? March 8th."
"March 8th of what year?"
"2007."
She sits there looking at him for long enough that Brendon fidgets in his chair and says "Really, I can tell you my social again, too. And my cell phone number? I can probably remember my address, but the zip code might be off, since I just--"
"Brendon, I want you to look at something for me," Dr. Phillips says, and her voice has changed a little. It's softer, rounder at the edges. Soothing. Brendon reaches across the table to take what looks like a newspaper. "I swiped this from the desk of an officer as I came through," she says with a rueful smile. "I want you to look at the date."
It's the Vegas Sun, with the headline President Obama Denounces Iranian Involvement in Nuclear Testing. Above that is the date: March 8, 2015. Brendon's throat closes up tight and his vision starts to blur a little at the corners. "Brendon," he hears a voice, then two, and suddenly Tony is at his side, pulling his chair back and pushing Brendon's head between his knees, kneeling in front of his chair. "Breathe, dude, come on," he says, his hand running over Brendon's back. "See what I mean?" he says with a hint of smile in his voice and Dr. Phillips comes around to kneel next to him.
"Brendon?" she starts and he cuts her off.
"This is a joke, right?"
"No, it's not. We're just as in the dark about what's going on as you are. But--" she starts and places her hand on his arm. Brendon jerks back from both of them and stands up. This is ridiculous. This is impossible.
"I don't know what you're trying to do here, but unless I'm under arrest, I would like to get the fuck out of here." He tucks his shaking hands under his arms.
"Brendon," Tony says. "Just hear us out." They stand up slowly, deliberately, like Brendon is a spooked animal. Which isn't too far from the truth. He'd try to punch Tony and run for it, if he wasn't sure that Tony would totally be able to catch him. He just stands as close as he can to the door and tries to hear over the rush of blood in his ears. "Eight years ago, you were reported missing from that cabin, wearing exactly what you're wearing now. The LVPD, the Nevada state police, and the FBI were all called in to try to find you. No one found anything except that cell phone."
"It was yesterday," Brendon says, and his voice is tinged with hysteria.
"No," Dr. Phillips cuts in. "I can bring you magazines with the date, we can go turn on CNN in the break room, but I promise you, they are all going to tell you that it's 2015. I think that--"
"I don't fucking CARE," Brendon yells, and he can feel a rush of adrenaline surge through him. Whatever fucking insane game this is, he will rip the fucking door off its hinges, and find his mom and his band and sue the fucking FBI for a zillion dollars for pulling this shit. "I want you to call my parents NOW, and i want a lawyer, and I want you to shut the fuck up!"
"Your parents no longer live in Vegas," Tony says, his voice gentle, and Brendon can feel the edge of the turkey sandwich making him sick to his stomach. Tony cuts his eyes back to the mirror and says "If you like, we can try--"
Brendon doesn't even let him finish. He takes three steps to the mirror and starts pounding on it. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but this is a sick fucking joke, and I'm done! Let me the FUCK. OUT. OF. HERE!" he yells, pounding on the glass with each word. Tony grabs his arms from behind and Brendon yells louder as he's pulled back and wrestled face down to the ground. He sort of registers a commotion in the hallway a moment later, followed by the door opening; his arms are twisted back enough that he can't move, can't look to see who just came in.
"Let him go, now," he hears and fuck; it's Ryan. Brendon is so fucking relieved he can actually feel the tears prick the corners of his eyes. "Bren, Brendon." Ryan's kneeling on the ground next to him and Brendon lets out a shaky breath as Tony releases him.
"Took you long enough," he manages to joke, giddy to finally get out of this nightmare. But when he looks up, Ryan looks like Ryan, but different-- his hair is shorter, mussed like he just rolled out of bed. He's wearing a blue t-shirt that says 'Summerville Pee Wee League' on it, and his face is fuller, like he's had one too many good meals. Behind his small wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes are bright with tears.
"Brendon?" he says again. His hands come out to hover over Brendon's arm, not quite touching, like he can't quite believe Brendon is there.
"Oh, God," Brendon says, voice barely above a whisper. Ryan's arms are around his neck a second later and Brendon is pretty sure he might pass out.
*
"It's not like its completely unprecedented," Dr. Phillips is saying, but Brendon is struggling to concentrate for more than three words at a time. Ryan is sitting next to him, their hands clasped tightly together, and Ryan keeps squeezing every few seconds, waiting with his breath held until Brendon squeezes back. It's not something anyone but the rest of the band would recognize, but Ryan's harnessed energy is thrumming under his skin enough to make Brendon's knee bounce in reaction.
"People don't just come back from the dead," Ryan says, and that is enough to make Brendon jerk his head over. He's dead, apparently, and that makes the whole thing just that more disconcerting.
"Well, no, but there have been cases of people who've disappeared only to re-appear years later, sometimes with memory loss related to trauma."
Ryan squeezes Brendon's hand hard enough to hurt, and Brendon knocks his knee to reassure him that, no, he hasn't suffered any great trauma of which he is aware. Ryan lets out a slow breath. "But you don't know that that is the case here," Ryan says, firmly, and Dr. Phillips sighs before she tilts her head.
"We'd like some medical doctors to take a look at you, Brendon," she says, and it seems like she's really trying hard to be nice and calm, and it's not that Brendon doesn't appreciate it, but.
"Can that wait a day or two?" Ryan asks. "I mean, he's obviously not in any immediate danger, and I think he just needs a little while to acclimate before we start with anything too... invasive." Brendon squeezes his hand a little harder in thanks. "I mean, you're not charging him with anything, right?" Ryan and Brendon both look at Tony, and he shrugs.
"No formal charges at this time, so we can't actually hold him here," he says, and Dr. Phillips sighs again, frustrated.
Ryan just stands up, hand still firmly in Brendon's, and says, "Okay, then I'm taking him home, and you or the FBI can contact him through me if and when there is a next step. We'll need to get the paperwork going pretty fast to get his social security number back and stuff, I'm guessing, but he's got a place to stay in the meantime." The inside of Brendon's head is swimming by this point but Ryan's voice is firm, sure, and pretty un-Ryan-like, and Brendon just lets himself be led out of the room and down the hall. It's not until they're out in the parking lot, blinking in the first rays of the morning sun, that Brendon's words catch up with them.
"Ry?" he says meekly. "What the fuck is going on?"
Ryan stops at a white minivan and looks at his feet, then at their hands, then at Brendon's face, pausing for a long time before answering. "I have no idea, Bren. You were just... you were gone, and now you're back, and I don't really want to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know?" His voice is tight and low, like it is when Ryan is trying hard not to cry in public, and Brendon just steps in closer and wraps his arms around Ryan's waist.
Ryan's hugs are exactly the same, except that the pause before he starts hugging back is shorter than Brendon's used to.
*
cont.