Into the Woods 1

[manipulant]

One

When Spencer comes to, he's already running, flat-out sprinting through some unfamiliar woods, dodging trees and hopping over fallen logs and rocks. The sunlight is filtering down through the green of the trees, and for a few heartstoppingly long seconds Spencer has absolutely no idea what's going on. There's a disconnect between his body and his brain where they both wonder, independently of the other, just what the fuck is happening. And then Spencer slams back into his body, present again, and gasps in a deep breath, nearly choking.

Behind him, there are crashes and shouts that alert him to the fact that he's not alone in these woods (seriously, where the fuck is he?) and that he should probably keep fucking running. Fucking run faster, if he possibly can. He picks up his pace, fast as he can without stumbling over tree roots or fallen branches, and feels his face growing hot, his heart racing from both the exertion and untempered terror.

"Come back, milady, we don't mean ye harm!" comes a rough, wheezy, definitely harmful voice, calling through the trees from far behind him. Spencer doesn't bother looking back, just grits his teeth and tries to run faster. He runs and runs and runs and runs, until he can barely hear the crash of people behind him, until his lungs feel like they're about to collapse or burst or both. Spencer brushes his hair back from where it's sticking to his cheeks and his forehead, and keeps running.

He breaks through a tangled snarl of underbrush and suddenly, the woods aren't there anymore. The world opens up, and stretching out in front of him, wide and yellow and sunlit, is a huge field of grass. Spencer blinks dazedly into the sun, and then realizes that the crashes in the woods behind him are getting nearer again, and he plunges down into the field, whipping through the stalks and strands that reach almost above his head.

Spencer pants as he struggles to keep up his pace - the ground is softer here, wetter, and Spencer has a startling realization that he's running through an actual field, lying fallow. He starts looking around, over the top of the grass, trying to find whatever house or barn or whatever that the field actually belongs to, something that might promise shelter or other people. Other people would be good. His eyes keep scanning the horizon worriedly, not finding anything promising until he hops over a tiny brook running through the middle of the field and follows it, twisting around a line of huge trees and finding himself - seriously - two or three miles from the fucking Disneyland castle.

"You've got to be shitting me," he wheezes, wincing as he presses a hand to his side, trying to stave off the cramp that's threatening to form there. He presses in a little harder, still running, until he realizes that his fingers are inadvertently tracing some sort of...dude, his clothes are seriously fucking tight, no wonder he can't breathe.

Spencer looks down, confused, and notices for the first time that his fingers are actually skimming over the hard rib of a corset. A corset, which is underneath a very very frilly, very very tattered-looking dress.

He stops dead in the middle of the field, shocked into incomprehension as he stares down at himself.

His dress is pink and lace and a delicate pattern of daisies.

"What the f - " he starts, but then he's tackled from behind.

Call it conditioning from having had to put up with Brendon's constant spazzing for the last six years, but Spencer quickly and efficiently flips himself over, elbowing the asshole who tackled him in the junk, scrambling away after he hears a gratifying yelp. He whirls around onto his feet, skirts twisting in a graceful arc as he pulls back and punches, hard and fast and quick as he can, into the bald, paunchy guy's gut. "Fucking bastard, what the fuck," he hears himself hissing, not giving the guy a chance to answer before he just hauls off and beats the shit out of him, not stopping until the guy is a whimpery, bloody mess and Spencer's knuckles are all bruised and cut to fuck.

"Shut up," he spits, straddling the guy's chest and holding his fist up menacingly, perking his head up to listen as he hears the whishing of grass not very far away. The man underneath him quiets down obediently, and Spencer waits until it's been quiet for at least a minute before he slides off and gives the man a disgusted look. He stands again, delivers one more kick to the fallen man's ribs, and silently slides back into the grass, heading at a more moderate pace in the direction of the castle. The thin, wailing profanities and cries of the guy Spencer left on the ground are starting to filter over the field, and Spencer makes sure to keep quiet enough that he'd be able to hear someone coming, as he pushes through the grass. He's shaking, he realizes as his feet hit cobblestones instead of dirt, he's vibrating from adrenalin and low-level pain. He's pretty sure a couple of his fingers are actually broken. He's wearing a dress. He can't see his feet because of the voluminous skirts of said dress, but he has a sinking suspicion he's wearing heels.

Spencer glances down at himself again, and carefully picks blades of grass and leaves out of his hair and out of the folds of lace on his shoulders. He does up the couple of pearl buttons on his right sleeve that have come undone, and he bites his lip against a bright flare of pain as he takes a few steps forward onto the uneven cobblestones - he's pretty sure he wrenched his ankle at some point. He takes a couple of deep breaths, and continues, pretending not to notice the startled, scared looks of a couple of Amish-looking guys driving a horse and cart up the street. Spencer follows behind them, keeping his eyes on the edges of the road, watching warily for anyone who looks like they might've just chased him halfway to hell and back.

He zones out for a little bit, watching the fields as he passes, trying to block out how his legs and feet and now his hands are all really starting to throb. He's so checked out, in fact, that he almost runs into the Amish guys' cart in front of him when they stop suddenly. Spencer glances up, in front of him, and realizes that he's in front of what appears to be a toll stop, or a checkpoint, or something. Weird.

He sighs and figures they'll have a phone he can use, or something, but when the Amish guys get out of the way, Spencer's left staring at a couple of burly men in honest-to-god suits of armor. He blinks, unsure how to proceed.

They blink back at him.

"Seriously, what is this, some kind of secret Colonial Williamsburg thing?" he wonders aloud. The guard on the right looks confused, and tilts his head a little, taking Spencer in.

"'Ere, what happened, miss?"

Miss, Spencer thinks darkly, scowling at the man. "Some guys fucking chased me through the woods and through that field over there! They were trying to rob me or something, I dunno!" he says, his voice getting shriller as he goes on. "One's probably still in the field somewhere, I kinda...he deserved it. I think I broke his nose?"

The guard on the right tsks. "Poor dear. What's your name?"

Spencer sort of wants to break this guy's nose too. "Spencer Smith," he replies, glaring so fiercely that the guard on the left takes a step back.

"Spencer...Smith?" Both men's eyes widen. The closest guard gives a nervous, fumbling salute and touches the tip of his helmet. "Thousand apologies, your highness, only we weren't to be expecting you til tomorrow."

Spencer blinks. "This is fucking weird," he mutters. "Look, just. Did Brendon put you up to this? With that stupid book? I mean I don't get the point of making me think I was about to get killed or anything and now I feel kinda bad about beating the shit out of that guy, but really - "

The left guard, the tall lanky one with the slightly stupid smile, positively lights up at the mention of Brendon's name. "The Prince?"

Spencer stares at him, hands unconsciously coming up to rest on his hips. The boning of the corset and the flare of the skirts make it really comfortable, he finds. "Yeah, the prince," he says sarcastically. "Take me to the prince."

Both guards fall all over themselves to salute and bow and salute again, and then they fall all over themselves to flank Spencer on their way through the gate and into this Twilight Zone Ren Faire Brendon managed to find out in BFE. After half a mile, Spencer's everything hurts enough that he gets one of the guards to find him an empty carriage thing - he'd always wanted to ride in one anyway - and Spencer crawls inside and curls up on the supremely uncomfortable bench and actually falls asleep for the time it takes him and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to get to Cinderella's castle. He is going to fucking murder Brendon when he sees him.

"Miss?" a whispered voice cuts through his sleep, pushing Spencer into opening his eyes. "Your Highness, we've arrived."

"Super," Spencer manages, voice gravelly as he struggles to sit up, groaning as the ribs of the corset dig into his waist and his leg muscles scream in protest. "Ow."

"You've been announced to the Court, they're waiting to greet you," the tall guard says, beaming at him until he realizes Spencer's giving him a look that could probably kill small animals. "Er."

"Yeah, awesome, because I really feel up to saying hey to whatever goddamn Medieval Times Ice Capades cast Brendon's talked into - nevermind," Spencer sighs, gingerly inching his way out of the carriage. "Ow, fucking ow, fucking - fuck, okay, hang on." He sits on the floor of the carriage and cradles his injured hand to his chest, crossing his legs and tugging his skirt up over his knee. Both the guards gasp and turn away, carefully standing in front of him so no one else can see. "Whatever," Spencer grumbles, unable to muster the strength to be pissed about that too, as he cranes down to unlace and finally just tug off first one dainty, ridiculous little heeled boot and then the other. He gasps, and then groans his relief, leaning against the side of the carriage frame as feeling floods back into his feet. "Oh god."

One of the guards turns around nervously. "All right, your high - "

Spencer chucks one of the shoes over the guard's shoulder, and then the other. "Awesome," he says, tugging himself up with his one good hand, wobbling a little bit before he hops down out of the carriage. "Let's go find Brendon and kill him," he says, almost chipper.

Both the guards stay beside him, and Spencer gets the distinct feeling that they're as awed by the inside of the castle as Spencer is. The three of them gape up at the ceilings, the marble and velvet and tapestry, until some snooty-looking official in a laughable outfit comes and escorts them deeper into the castle. Spencer whistles, then gravitates towards a fucking amazing set of ancient war drums just hanging out on one of the walls, gaping at them until one of the guards clears his throat loudly and gestures for Spence to catch up. Spencer sighs, and dutifully trots after.

Finally, they get to whatever room it is they're supposed to get to, and the official opens a couple of huge-ass doors, and Spencer and the two guards (he's almost starting to think of them fondly now) shamble inside.

"SPENCE!" comes a loud, familiar shout. Spencer is startled at how he goes cold and hot and sort of wobbly with relief as he sees Brendon push through a line of people and all but run towards him.

"God, you total asshole," Spencer manages when Brendon's within hearing distance, the sight of Brendon's fucking ridiculous smile sending something warm and worrying curling all through him. "I was almost killed, what the f - "

"Hey! Hey hey hey. Hey," Brendon interrupts, his beam quickly morphing into the someone's listening so pretend to be happy forced smile that he used to give all of them during interviews. "Spencer Smith, we weren't expecting you until tomorrow!"

"Yeah?" Spencer asks, unable to keep himself from frowning, giving Brendon a dark look. "Sorry to be an inconvenience, it's just that, y'know, some guys tried to rob and murder me on the road and I kinda had to run for my life, so I guess I got here a little earlier than planned."

"Oh, you poor dear," another slightly familiar voice cuts through the room from farther away. Spencer blinks, and can't help looking a little incredulous as Brendon's mom makes her way through the crowd (actually, the crowd seems to part for her), coming to stand on his left. "Though that does account for the state of your dress," she says, taking Spencer in slowly, tsking.

Spencer bristles and pulls himself up to his full height. He's never been Mrs. Urie's biggest fan but he's always been polite, but if she can't do the same, then by all means -

"So!" Brendon cuts in, giving everyone a nervous smile, walking forward a few paces so that he's in between Spence and his mom. "That's terrible, gosh, we should really increase patrols on the main roads, especially with the market coming back into force. Can't have roving bands of thieves preying on unsuspecting princesses," Brendon says pointedly, giving Spencer a significant look.

Spencer folds his arms and glowers. "Yeah, speaking from experience, it really blows."

Brendon's mom makes a slightly strangled noise, and gives Brendon a pained look.

"I'll bet," Brendon says, stumbling over his words a little in an effort to fill the awkward silence. "That must have been really scary, for someone so delicate and proper and helpless," he says, giving Spencer a pleading look.

"Yeah," Spencer says, drawing the word out as much as he can, til it's absolutely leaking venom. "It was. Especially when that one guy caught me and I broke his nose."

Brendon goes red and clears his throat loudly.

"...and then I fainted," Spencer adds after a moment, dully. "And burst into tears." Seriously, Ryan would be proud of the monotone he's got going. "And fainted again."

He's pretty sure the sound Brendon makes then is from choking on a laugh.

"It must have been terrifying," Mrs. Urie - Queen Urie, he should probably say - says drily. "Well! As you've arrived earlier than expected, Spencer, your quarters aren't quite prepared. But I'm sure we can find someplace for you to, ah. Freshen up," she says, and Spencer really can't be imagining the little curl of her lip as she looks him over one more time.

"Thank you very much," Spencer replies, giving her an icy smile. He hopes she isn't waiting for - for a curtsy or anything, fuck that.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Mom, Spence can use one of the rooms in my wing," Brendon says briskly, walking forward and holding his hand out expectantly. "See you at dinner!" he calls over his shoulder, widening his eyes at Spencer until Spence grabs his hand and gets dragged quickly back towards the doors.

"But Brendon - " Spencer can hear Mrs. Urie protesting, before he and Brendon are out the door and halfway running down the hall.

Spencer waits until they've rounded three corners and nobody seems to be following them before he tugs his hand out of Brendon's and leans against the wall. "Seriously, ow," he says, frowning.

"Jesus, Spence," Brendon says, sucking in a breath as he gently tugs on Spencer's wrist, looking over his mangled knuckles and fingers. "There's a good doctor, I'll get him for these."

Spencer's a little ashamed of the high whining noise he makes when Brendon accidentally brushes against his fingers, and he pulls his hand away. "Fucking - what. What the hell is this, Brendon, where are we?" he snaps.

"Dude, it's the book," Brendon replies, giving Spencer a hurt little look. "I dunno, just. First thing I knew, I was waking up in a feather bed and everyone was calling me Prince Brendon and talking about balls and Mom and Dad trying to find a wife for me. It's been really weird."

"Yeah, sounds like it's sucked," Spencer says drily, giving him an unimpressed look. They just look at each for a long time, Spencer's gaze going sharper as he gets more and more annoyed with the whole situation, and by extension, Brendon. "You look ridiculous." Brendon does look ridiculous, he looks like an extra from Merlin. He's wearing a multicolored doublet, and a hat with a feather, and what Spencer strongly suspects are tights.

Brendon raises both eyebrows and lets his gaze drift down to Spencer's dress. "Really, Spence? Really?"

After a moment's standoff, Spencer's shoulders slump. "The book, really?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Weird." Spencer looks down at the floor, and pushes his toe against the seam of a tile. "Fucking...top secret fairy tales, what the hell. I told you that book was a bad idea, books that look like movie props are always books of evil."

"If we had a Falkor, you wouldn't be bitching so much," Brendon points out mildly.

"That's because Falkor was a badass. And that wasn't a Tim Burton movie," Spencer retorts.

"Yeah, point." Brendon looks oddly apologetic, and then reaches to put a hand lightly on Spencer's waist. "Come on, I promise I won't let the doctor do any bloodletting, or anything with leeches."

"Awesome," Spencer sighs, letting himself be led down the corridor, Brendon's hand gently guiding him down the hall.

The doctor has to reset a couple of his fingers. They were a clean break, he says, and he tells Spencer that in a few weeks, they'll be as good as new. He gives Spencer a big glassful of brandy and something to bite down on, and Brendon keeps Spencer looking at him, looking away from his hand, and he holds Spencer's good hand and doesn't wince when Spencer gasps and grips it so hard Brendon's knuckles go white and bloodless.

Afterwards, Spencer feels tired and woozy and half-drunk from the brandy. Brendon gets him to the east wing of the castle, the wing that Brendon's claimed for his own, and manages to wrangle Spencer onto a bed in the nearest bedroom.

The room is all done up in pinks and greens, and there's a bed in the center of the room that must be at least seven feet high, complete with its very own stepladder. Spencer turns and gives Brendon his best What the everloving shit? expression, and Brendon just shrugs. Spencer feels a twinge of annoyance at that - the bed and the fucking color scheme and at the whole princess issue before he just gives up. He crawls haltingly up the stepladder and sinks down into the feather mattresses and sighs, his eyes fluttering shut.

Then he winces, and opens them, and tries to sit up.

"Hey," Brendon chides, still standing on the top rung of the ladder beside him, pressing a hand lightly to Spencer's shoulder. His skin is warm, and Spencer exhales slowly. "Dude, just rest, okay?"

"I can't fucking - Bren," Spencer says, giving him a hazy, defeated look, his blue eyes clouded over, his hair pressed damply to his cheek. "These stupid clothes, I can't breathe."

"Oh." Brendon bites his lip, frowns a little, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment. "Okay, roll over. This shouldn't be too hard."

"That's what she said," Spencer mumbles, his eyes sliding shut. He makes a grumpy noise as Brendon pushes against his shoulder, but goes with it, rolling on the mattress until he's on his stomach. He huffs a breath against the pillow and reaches up to push it down out of his face a little, then stills. Brendon watches him carefully, and slides up onto the bed, hovering over Spencer's back for a moment or two. He reaches down and unties the laces at the back of the dress, loosening them until the material pools off to Spence's sides, away from his body.

"Jesus, ouch," Brendon winces, trying to wiggle a fingertip underneath the line of the corset, where he can see it digging into Spencer's back. He stops as soon as he hears Spencer suck a breath in painfully. "Here, hang on," he says, "I can't - yeah, sorry, tell me if your legs start to go numb, okay?" And then Spencer's eyes open, startled, at the small whump above him as Brendon throws a leg over and straddles him, sitting back on Spencer's thighs. "Okay?" Brendon asks, a few seconds later. Spencer nods.

He shivers and presses his face a little harder into the pillow as he feels Brendon shove the material of the dress away, follow the boning of the corset down past his waist, down to the bottom edge, where it's tied. Brendon makes short work of the knot at the end, and Spencer can't help a sharp breath of relief as he feels the first give of material. Brendon's fingers work slowly, and he mutters to himself, half-breathed exclamations of jesus and fuck that, weirdly enough, make Spencer feel a little better. Like at least he isn't imagining that this situation is just completely fucked, at least Brendon's here to witness it too.

"Jesus, Spence, you've got like," Brendon whispers above him, once he's got the damned thing half-undone, "grooves in your skin." Spencer nods and breathes a little easier, his eyes sliding closed.

"Everybody keeps calling me 'miss'," he grumbles halfheartedly, shifting underneath Brendon's weight a tiny bit.

"Fairest princess in the land," Brendon promises, his voice warm and teasing. He yelps and laughs as Spencer tries to buck him off, and grabs onto his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, stop, I've almost got the corset off. You wanted to get out of it sometime tonight, right?"

Spencer groans and flops back down onto the bed. "This sucks," he whines, submitting impatiently, keeping quiet as he tries to figure out what, precisely, the warm slide and press of Brendon's fingers mean he's doing up there.

Finally, Brendon gives a triumphant ha! and there's the zip-whoosh of fabric being yanked through a small aperture. Spencer jolts, startled. "Done?"

"You're a free man!"

"Thank god," Spencer says, stretching luxuriously for a minute, his arms above his head. "Holy shit, range of movement. Holy shit, deep breaths, I missed them."

"You're welcome," Brendon tells him solemnly, before he pokes Spencer in the side and slides off onto the mattress. "Tired?"

"I ran a half-marathon in heels today, dick," Spencer tells him, though with no trace of malice in his voice. He twists up onto his side, curling towards Brendon a little, looking up at him. "While you were ordering your servants around."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Get some sleep. I'll find you some new clothes and wake you up in time for dinner."

"Sweet," Spencer says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn as he flops onto his back and sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut against a burst of pain as the mattress rubs against raw skin. "Fuck."

"Careful," Brendon tells him uselessly, reaching to pat his arm before he stands on the ladder and tugs a heavy blanket off the foot of the bed and up over Spencer's bare shoulders. "See you in a little bit."

Spencer nods, and reaches behind his head to punch his pillow into submission a couple of times before he settles into something faintly resembling comfort. "'Kay," he yawns, nodding his head a little, his eyes sliding shut again. He hears Brendon get down the ladder and close the door behind himself, and Spencer's only aware of the warm light on the other side of his eyelids, and the way the blanket over him smells like fresh-cut grass and flowers, before he's fast asleep.

When he wakes, the sun has set, and the room is almost pitch black. Spencer sits up, sucking in a breath as the skin on his back burns, and peers nervously around the room before he realizes a small amount of light is being produced by an oil lamp on the bedside table. He slides out of bed and onto the ladder and down. Then he picks the lamp up, cupping it in his hands as he moves slowly, cautiously around the room.

Near the windows and the chair, he finds a few clusters of tallow candles, and lights them with just a little difficulty. Eventually the room glows with a half-light, shadows jumping and twisting over the walls as the candles flicker and spit. Spencer sets the oil lamp down in its original place, and notices that on the chair there's a new set of clothes - two new sets, actually. He grins and reaches for the shirt and breeches delightedly, shrugging the shirt on over his head, pushing his hair out of his face. Out of habit, he reaches to skritch at his beard and nearly rakes his nails over his fuzz-free face, and Spencer's smile dims a little.

Then he sees the note pinned to the - ugh, the dress Brendon brought, lying on top of the bed. I know, it sucks, but I think we have to play along. Mom's being demanding, I'll see you at dinner! - Bden

ps - IN THE DRESS!

pps - YOU in the dress, not me

ppps - sorry, again

pppps - the dresses are cute. I think we have our next tour concept!!!

Spencer rolls his eyes and tosses the note back onto the chair. He glares down at the dress (blue this time, at least) for a while, before he sighs and tugs the breeches on first. If he's got to suffer the indignity of wearing a dress and being called "miss" all night long, he's going to be wearing pants underneath the skirts, if only for his own peace of mind.

He stops running when he sees a cluster of servants at the other end of the eighty-first parlor in a row he's had to make his way through. Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep his chest from heaving as he demurely sits on the nearest chair and tries to subtly put his shoes back on (he couldn't fucking run in those things, and he was already running late).

One of the footmen is already on his way across the room, but Spencer manages to get his shoes on and stand, meeting him almost halfway, giving him a game smile. "So how lost am I?"

The man blinks, and his mask of solicitude and efficiency slips, betraying a quick grin. "Rather, your highness," he tells Spencer, gesturing for them to continue walking through the parlor. "There are, however, a few back stairways, if you don't mind a less scenic route?"

"No, that sounds awesome," Spencer breathes, barely curbing the impulse to clap the guy on the shoulder, since it probably wouldn't be very princess-y.

The less scenic route turns out to be a much more direct way into the main part of the castle, and it's about twelve thousand times more interesting than wandering through baroque parlors and sitting-rooms. Spencer actually gets to go through a secret passage in the castle, although afterwards he's sworn to secrecy by the servant, since apparently not even the royal family knows about that one (except for Brendon, because even here, everyone loves Brendon).

Spencer's actually managed to make the guy laugh for the first time, and is still beaming over his accomplishment, when they round the corner and almost run smack into the Queen.

The man immediately stops laughing, and goes a little pale. "M-Majesty," he stutters, before turning to dart a quick look at Spencer, who's trying his best not to look nervous or guilty about anything. "We found her."

"Lovely," the Queen drawls, curling her lip at both Spencer and the man in a way that makes Spencer want to punch things. It has the secondary effect of being really weirdly comforting, though - in the real world, in his world, Mrs. Urie would never, ever act like this. It's a relief to be able to divorce her so entirely from the woman standing in front of him. "I imagine you have chores that need attending?" she prompts, still sneering at the poor guy in front of her.

"Yes, your Majesty, thank you, your Majesty," the guy stammers, bowing and barely giving Spencer a smile before he almost runs for the safety of the exit. Spencer blinks, and then turns a cool, level gaze on the Queen, making damn sure he looks as unimpressed with her as he feels.

"Come along, we're already behind schedule," the Queen sighs, turning on her heel and clacking down the hallway, safe in the assumption that Spencer will just trail behind. He does, grudgingly, though he does take a certain vicious pleasure in lagging so long that at the last room before the hall, the Queen is tapping her foot impatiently by the time he arrives.

"Sorry," he says, giving her a wide, insincere smile. "The rooms are just so beautiful, I get so distracted looking at everything."

"Plenty of time for that," she replies, frowning a little, "when this is your home." She sounds about as excited at the prospect as Spencer would be at a root canal.

"Of course, your Majesty," he says politely, clasping his hands behind his back. "Looking forward to it."

"Well," she sighs, reaching for the door and holding it open. "Brendon always did have such interesting tastes."

Spencer rolls his eyes and grins as he saunters inside.

He's sitting beside Brendon, at least. The King and Queen have somehow rustled up about forty members of the Court and all of them are jockeying for position, subtly shifting name cards to gain closer access to the King or the Queen or whatever lady or lord in waiting is in favor this week. Brendon smiles constantly, laughs at a couple of unfunny jokes, and Spencer keeps his arms folded, raising an unamused eyebrow at a squat little man who keeps telling terrible joke after terrible joke in hopes of making "the lovely Princess Spencer" smile. Fucker.

"Why are they all looking at me like they want to eat me?" Spencer mutters to Brendon as soon as the Queen makes her grand entrance (ten minutes late, natch) and everyone's settled and beginning the first course. Brendon snorts and glances around the table, down its length, before he leans in, sliding an arm around the back of Spencer's chair proprietarily.

"They assume since you're a princess that I'm going to marry you and you'll be their queen," Brendon says, managing to keep his smirk mostly at bay, until Spencer gives him a thoroughly horrified look. Brendon breaks into snickers, biting his lip viciously. "Queen Spencer. It's got a ring to it, y'know?" he says, eyes shining merrily.

"Fuck you," Spencer says primly, taking a spoonful of mashed potatoes and "accidentally" flinging them onto Brendon's lap, enjoying the yelp he makes. ""Why isn't it completely obvious that I'm not exactly queen material?" he asks plaintively. "I have a dick. I had a beard."

"Can't speak for the dick, but the beard was impressive," Brendon agrees, wiping away the last of the potatoes off his clothes. "I think it's got to be the stories, they just assign you roles and make everyone go along with them."

"You don't have a beard, you should've been the princess."

"I guess the book just thinks I'm more princely and charming," Brendon sighs, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously at Spencer, until he snorts and gives Brendon a grudging half-smile. "Or it instinctively just knew that you were the prettiest girl on our label, up til the beard grew in."

"Fuck you," Spencer says again, for emphasis. "I am not princess material," he says, pointing his fork threateningly at Brendon, squinting his eyes, before he turns the tongs down to spear a cooked carrot. He smiles a little at the soft laugh Brendon gives, and gazes down at his plate for the next few moments.

Everyone's attention is distracted when the squat man who'd called Spencer "lovely" (Spencer sort of wants to kick him around. Like a very large, squeaky soccer ball) seriously stands on his chair and proposes a toast. Spencer's stomach barely has time to plummet, his cheeks barely have time to heat through before he hears the man launch into his spiel: "To our honored guest. Her eyes are as pure and blue as her bloodline, her skin as fair as - " and that's as far as Spencer gets before he ducks his chin and considers hitting his head on the tabletop hard enough to just lose consciousness. Beside him, Brendon's squirming with glee at his discomfort, reaching out at one particularly awful rhyme to actually grab Spencer's arm and squeeze.

"Shut up," Spencer hisses to him, trying to tug his arm away. "Make him stop, this is so fucking - "

"No way, I'm stealing these lines for lyrics to a song," Brendon breathes, eyes shining with pent-up laughter. "Spencer, Spence, your lips are red as poppies and twice as intoxicating, your - "

"Shut up," Spencer hisses, his face going a brighter and brighter red. He's reminded, for a minute, of the time in eighth grade that he came in dead last during the quarter-mile run in P.E. class, even after all the girls, the mixture of curiosity and pity in their eyes. "Seriously, Bren, shut him up before I kill someone at your parents' fancy dinner party."

"That's not very princessy," Brendon points out, giving him an expression that manages to combine a leer and a pout.

"I'm not a princess," Spencer spits, scowling at him and twisting to look somewhere - anywhere, really - else.

By coincidence, his gaze falls onto the Queen, who is staring at Spencer. Unblinking assessment is naked in her eyes and despite his anger, Spencer feels himself shrinking back a little - he gets the feeling that the Queen agrees with Spencer's self-analysis. Wholeheartedly.

Fuck, Spencer thinks, just before he rises from his chair, effectively cutting off the asshole still standing on his chair, expounding on Spencer's lovely instep or whatever. "It was nice to meet you all," Spencer says stiffly, making himself push his shoulders back, unused to being the absolute center of attention. Forty pairs of eyes are on him, just as eager to pass judgment as Brendon's mom was, and Spencer swallows. "Excuse me," he finally manages, before he reaches shaking hands to push his chair back and then back up to the table. "Goodnight," he says, almost over his shoulder, as he makes his way as quickly as he can towards the nearest exit without actually running.

"Spence?" He hears Brendon stand, the scrape of his chair against the floor. "Hey, Spence, hang on." Spencer walks faster, pausing at a fork in the corridor, unsure, before his memory reasserts itself and he turns down the right-hand hallway. "Spencer."

Spencer whirls around, frowning even more fiercely at how his skirt - his skirt - billows out gently, twisting around him. "Fuck off," he snarls, clenching his hands at his sides so he won't have to think about how they're still trembling. Behind him, Brendon actually stops, frozen in the corridor, his hands raising up in defense.

"Whoa. Sorry."

Spencer glares at him for a long, tense moment, before he makes himself breathe out, and rubs a hand over his face frustratedly. "Look, just." He exhales sharply, through his nose, and puts his hands on his hips, frowning down at the floor. "That sucked. I hate shit like that."

"Yeah, I know," Brendon says, his hands slowly moving back down to his sides. "Just. Damn, Spence."

"Sorry," Spencer manages, the word leaving his mouth reluctantly. "Just - you know I hate that, okay? And I'm already wearing a dress and being fucking Princess Spencer because of a book, could you cut me some fucking slack?"

Brendon has the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, his cheeks turning a very light pink. "Yeah. ...Yeah, okay. Sorry, man."

"Yeah," Spencer sighs, twisting his palms into the material of his dress, drying them off from where they'd gone all clammy during the dinner. "Will you tell them I went to bed, if anyone asks?"

"Okay," Brendon says, nodding too enthusiastically, his eyes still a bit wide as he looks Spencer over. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer nods, frowning a little, more at himself now. He sighs and folds his arms over his chest, squeezing his arms tight around himself for a second. "Yeah, it'll be fine. If your mom doesn't go, y'know, Queen of Hearts and cut my head off in the morning."

Brendon snorts, and offers him a small, sheepish smile. "She's pretty scary here. It's kind of weird."

"I'll bet." Spencer smiles too, lopsided. He glances back behind himself, and gestures towards the first door to his left. "That's where I was before, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, looking sort of young and nervous suddenly. "We'll figure it out in the morning, Spence. Okay?"

"Okay. 'Night," he says, turning on his heel and shuffling towards his room.

"Night," Brendon calls after him, just before the door closes. Spencer exhales, long and slow, and thinks for a minute before sliding the lock into place. He turns and notices that all but two of the candles he lit before dinner have gone out, burned down to the stub, and he rolls his eyes at himself (could've burned down the fucking castle, dick) before he starts to fumble with little buttons and ties and go through the laborious process of getting undressed for bed.

He's already beginning to feel pretty stupid for that meltdown during dinner, but fuck it, he'll worry about it tomorrow.

After a good five minutes of frustrated cursing and a couple of ominous rips somewhere in the fabric, Spencer manages to get the dress off, climb the rickety ladder, and he slides underneath the covers of his bed, shirtless and only in the pants Brendon left him. He grumbles a little, and then cranes to blow out the last candle, the one on the bedside table.

The dark of the room is unfamiliar and, at first, a little creepy. Spencer finds himself pulling the bedcover up a little higher, almost til it covers his nose, and he snorts at himself and forces himself to lie down still, squeezing his eyes shut. The sounds of distant laughter and music are drifting through the windows from the other side of the castle, where the feast is still under way.

Spencer's hand is starting to throb again, and he sighs and curls onto his side, tucking his hand against his chest protectively, his splinted fingers pressed against his skin. Even though he's still so tired his eyes keep threatening to cross, Spencer can't stop moving, shifting restlessly on the bed, his skin itching with exhaustion.

He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Maybe he'll fall asleep and whatever selective mass hallucination he and Brendon are both having will be over in the morning. Maybe he'll wake up to Bogart whining to go out, to the sound of the automatic coffee pot grinding and dripping. Maybe Brendon won't remember this, won't remember Spencer wearing a corset, won't remember getting him out of that corset, won't remember Spencer flipping out at some state dinner. That'd be nice.

Spencer sighs and fidgets on the mattress for a few minutes more, pretending he's not remembering how Brendon's fingers were deft and quick and warm when they were unlacing that torture device on his back. He presses his face into the pillow until it grows hot, and then, a few moments after he turns his face to breathe, he finally slips into sleep.

"Spence." The voice is far-off and muted, like it's coming from underwater. Spencer frowns and presses his face harder into the pillow, but then he can feel a hand shaking his shoulder gently. "Spence."

He grumbles and turns, slitting his eyes open. "What?" he growls at the figure hovering above him. He rubs his eyes, heels of his palms pressing in hard for a second, and when he finishes he recognizes Brendon standing beside his bed. "Oh, hey."

"I figured it out," Brendon tells him, mouth set in a thin, determined line. He looks exhausted, his skin almost grey, with dark shadows under his eyes.

"Jesus, Brendon, are you - "

"Come on," Brendon says, reaching underneath the covers, grasping his arm in cold fingers. Spencer winces, but sits up, pushing his hair off his face impatiently. "Come on," Brendon repeats. Spencer nods, still half-asleep, and slides out of the bed after Brendon stands. He yawns again, stretching, and then notices the look of distaste Brendon is giving his bare torso.

"What?" Spencer says, stung and defensive, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't tell me you want me to put the dress back on."

"No, it's fine," Brendon says after a long pause. Spencer blinks at him, and feels a small thread of fear start to stitch itself into his stomach. "Follow me," he says, opening the bedroom door and walking silently down the corridor, obviously just assuming Spencer's going to follow along behind him.

Spencer scowls, but does follow. The cool night air makes him shiver, his skin going all over goosebumps as he trots to catch up to Brendon as they make their way quickly out of Brendon's wing and then out of the castle altogether, stepping out onto the grounds. The grass is cool and damp beneath Spencer's bare feet, and he shivers again, teeth beginning to chatter with the cold. "You could've mentioned we'd be going outside, dickhole," he mutters. Brendon just shrugs, and turns his head, giving Spencer a blank stare for a few seconds before he starts walking again, determinedly crossing the lawn.

Spencer sighs and follows after him, trudging along the grass, not really looking up for a while and following Brendon's tracks in the wet grass until they end, abruptly. He glances up and gasps, breath dying in his throat as he realizes he's standing on the very edge of a huge cliff. He stumbles back a few feet, nearly falling onto his ass, except Brendon is somehow there to catch him, hold him until Spencer can get his feet back underneath him again.

"Jesus Christ," Spencer explodes, glaring at Brendon, shoving his chest. "You couldn't have mentioned I was about to walk off a cliff? How the hell did you get behind me, I thought I was following you!"

"You weren't looking," Brendon says simply, watching Spencer with dark eyes. In the moonlight, with the shadows ringing his eyelids and striping underneath his cheekbones, Brendon looks almost inhuman, Spencer thinks. It's fucking creepy.

"You're an asshole," Spencer snaps back, folding his arms. "Seriously, it's fucking cold and you just almost killed me, now fix this like you said you could so that I can go back to bed."

"Okay," Brendon says. But he doesn't move.

"Well?" Spencer asks, frustrated.

Brendon bites his lip and doesn't meet Spencer's eyes. It's turning blue from the cold, but he doesn't seem to notice. He reaches to rub Spencer's arm lightly, up over his shoulder, cupping his hand there. Spencer sucks in a breath as Brendon's thumb rubs circles into his skin, his hands are like ice.

"I need a princess," Brendon says softly, almost apologetic.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, unamused. "Sorry, but I'm pretty attached to my dick."

Brendon's hand tightens. "It's. ...I need a princess," he says again, and his eyes actually move up to meet Spencer's. He finds himself taking a step back instinctively - Brendon's eyes. His eyes are wrong. Dark and flat and shiny and completely unexpressive, and oh shit, oh shit. The small curl of fear in Spencer's stomach suddenly explodes, and Brendon grabs his shoulder hard.

"I'm sorry, Spence," Brendon says, still sounding apologetic, still all blue lips and black eyes and grey skin and no color that's alive. "It won't work if it's you."

"No, look, Brendon, you - " Spencer starts, stumbling over his words, trying to wrench out of Brendon's grasp. He should be able to, but Brendon's hand is clamped down on him like a vise. "It doesn't have to - "

"Yeah," Brendon breathes, taking a couple of steps forward. Spencer tries to get away, keep as much distance as he can, until he realizes shit, the cliff. "Yeah, it does."

"Brendon," Spencer squeaks, reaching up to just grab his arm, hold onto him as he's backed up further, his heels barely still on land. "Brendon, don't."

"Sorry," Brendon says again, with his flat black eyes, his face completely expressionless and so fucking alien that Spencer wants to scream. "I'm sorry, Spence. I'll miss you."

"Don't," Spencer manages, though his lungs don't seem to want to work anymore, and his hands start shaking hard as he watches Brendon's expression break, watches a slow, horrible smile start curl itself all over his face, something dark and terrifying snapping in his eyes as his hand starts to let go -

Spencer jolts awake and flails, and promptly falls out of the bed. There's a huge crash, and the oil lamp on the bedside table threatens to spill over, and for a few seconds Spencer's pretty certain he's actually managed to kill himself. Eventually he groans and breathes and manages to sit up. "Ow," he tells the room feelingly. "I am really fucking tired of this whole pain thing," he grumbles as he pushes himself to his feet.

He checks himself over for actual bleeding, and makes sure that the oil lamp is secure, and futzes around with the open windows at the other end of the room for a bit. By the time he's had enough of that, he's shivering from the cool of the night, and he figures he's probably awake enough not to inadvertently kill himself if he tries to climb the ladder up to bed.

After he's safely under the covers, Spencer sighs and shuts his eyes and waits for sleep to overtake him. He yawns and curls up on his side, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He switches to his other side, and mentally goes through the drum sequences for most of Pretty. Odd, and still he's conscious.

Frustrated, Spencer flops onto his back and flings his arm over his eyes and actually tries to count sheep.

The problem, he realizes between 150-200 sheep, is that the fucking mattress keeps poking him in the back, or something. Which is insane, because not only are there probably like thirty layers on his bed, he's pretty sure that castles didn't generally have spring mattresses that can break. He's not sure what's causing all the discomfort, but still - right there, smack between his shoulderblades, is something. He twists, but whatever it is seems to follow him. He rolls over onto his stomach and hisses softly as he feels something digging in between his ribs, in just the right spot to cause the most pain.

"Come on," he tells the room and the bed and life in general, pushing a pillow down between him and the mattress. That seems to work for a little bit, but then the pillow just starts to itch against his skin, and seriously? Seriously?

Spencer sits up, completely fed up, and weighs his options. Obviously the bed is evil and hates him. It already tried to kill him once. After he contemplates that for a few minutes, Spencer's way forward seems pretty clear, and he gingerly feels his way towards the edge of the bed, grabs the bathrobe that he remembers seeing there, and climbs down the ladder, holding on tight til his feet reach the floor.

He swings the bathrobe on, shivering against the chill of the castle. Then he takes the oil lamp from the table, and holds it shoulder-level as he goes over to the door, unlocks it, and steps outside into the hallway.

It takes him ages and three dead ends, but eventually Spencer manages to find a doorway with a bit of light spilling into the hallway from the other side. He knocks softly, but doesn't get a response, so he tries the handle. It gives easily, and Spencer pokes his head inside. "Brendon?" he says, quiet. He pushes the oil lamp inside the room, squinting as his eyes adjust - there are a few candles still lit in the room, which helps.

After a minute, he's able to make out a bed, and someone lying on it, on the other side of the room. Spencer bites his lip, then figures that hey, it's not like he can embarrass himself more than he already did earlier that evening, right? He shuffles into the room and closes the door softly behind himself, and then slowly makes his way towards the bed. "Bren?" he whispers.

The person on the bed sighs and flops over, and Spencer has a hard time restraining himself from making victory arms and spilling hot oil all over his head - it's Brendon. "Urie," Spencer says, a little bit louder, now that he knows he's not potentially waking up the Queen or something. He smacks the end of the bed, the sound echoing in the room. Brendon jumps a little, and his head pops up.

"Whuzzat? S'going - Spence?" he asks, frowning and peering up at him. "The hell are you doing? I was sleeping," he says grumpily.

"Your fucking castle hates me and the bed in that room you gave me is evil. Scoot over," Spencer demands, coming over to the side of the bed and setting the lamp down.

Brendon gazes sleepily up at him for a few seconds, then nods and yawns and shimmies over a little. He holds the covers up, and shivers. "Hurry up, it's cold."

Spencer doesn't waste time - he slips underneath the covers, stretching happily, his body shivering one more time before it lets him go still. A wave of relief washes through him, so strong he could cry - there's nothing in Brendon's bed that wants to kill him or poke him in the back or scratch him (except probably Brendon). "Thanks," Spencer says, the word cracking in half on a huge yawn.

"Welcome," Brendon replies, patting his arm genially, "Still mad at me?"

"What?" Spencer mumbles, eyes closed. "Oh. No," he admits. "Sorry."

"Good," Brendon sighs, just before he scoots back over, pressing up to Spencer's side and - and fucking twining around him. Spencer whines a little, but he's too tired to do anything else, so he just goes with it. It's not uncomfortable, after all - Brendon's warm and he smells good, like old soap and honey. "Spencer Smith the Fifth," Brendon sighs, his mouth somewhere near Spencer's ear (Spencer can feel the heat from his breath). "Night."

"'Night, Brendon," Spencer murmurs, snaking an arm around his thin shoulders and squeezing. He presses his cheek against the warm line of Brendon's neck, and twists his fingertips through the ends of Brendon's hair. The rhythm of their breathing is what eventually lulls him to sleep.

Spencer wakes to sunshine and the smell of baking bread and the sound of Brendon Urie and his mother having a screaming fight on the other side of the room.

"THE SERVANTS ARE ALREADY TALKING ABOUT IT," his mother screeches, and Spencer's sort of shocked at how grey her hair has gone - she must have been wearing a wig at last night's dinner. "THE MAID SAID SHE COULDN'T TELL WHICH ARMS WERE WHOSE."

"Then stop fucking sending in servants before breakfast, Mom, jesus!" Brendon explodes, gesturing wildly, his hair a mess. He's still half-dressed, wearing a set of loose pants and that's it. Still in bed, Spencer's frozen, too afraid and too entertained to risk moving and deflecting any attention onto himself. "People always talk! It's what they do!"

"NOT LIKE THIS," Brendon's mom shouts, the veins in her neck and forehead starting to become more prominent. "I can't believe you!" she snaps, folding her arms, obviously trying to compose herself. "I can't believe you fell for - do you just let any old social climber into your bedroom these days? I thought your father and I - "

"Hey!" Brendon shouts, folding his arms as well, every line of his body going taut and defensive. "Spencer isn't a social climber, and - "

"Oh, Spencer. A first name basis, how intimate - "

" - I don't let just anyone into my rooms, and I trust - "

"Don't be so naive!" the Queen shouts. "She's not even a princess! She said so herself!"

Brendon gapes at her. "Yes he - she is too!"

Suddenly, Spencer's had enough eavesdropping, and sits up in the bed, giving Mrs. Urie an unimpressed look as she just stares at him. "Everyone seems to think I am," he points out calmly. "And even if I wasn't, I would still have enough self-respect not to try to trick someone into having sex with me, what the fuck," he scowls. He folds his arms. "The only reason I'm here is because the damn bed I was in originally was so fucking uncomfortable I couldn't sleep, okay? Now for fuck's sake, can the two of you move it outside? I'm tired as hell."

From across the room, Brendon gapes at him, and then claps a hand over his mouth to try to suppress his small burst of laughter. The Queen just looks like she's been smacked in the face with a fish. "You...the bed? It was too uncomfortable?"

"Yeah," Spencer says snippily. "Something kept poking me in the back." He can hear Brendon's muttered that's what she said, even from across the room.

The Queen gapes at him for a long moment, then at Brendon, then flies from the room, throwing the door open and stomping down the hallway. Brendon gives Spencer a helpless look and follows after. After a minute, Spencer rolls his eyes and slides out of bed, rubbing his arms for warmth as he follows Brendon out the door and down towards where the Queen has gone, back to the room he was in last night, with the seven-foot-tall bed.

He suspects the Queen has had some break with reality (like the rest of them haven't), because once he gets there, he sees her frantically tugging mattresses and pallets and blankets off the bed, squawking angrily as they threaten to topple over on her, growling under her breath.

"...Mom?" Brendon asks, nervous, coming to stand beside Spencer. He puts a hand on the small of Brendon's back, stilling him, as they both watch her completely wreck the bed, making short work of all the layers until it's at a normal height.

"Ma'am, what exactly - " Spencer begins, stopping mid-sentence when the Queen whirls around and gives him a filthy look.

"You said so yourself, you said you weren't princess material, you - "

"Yeah, but what does destroying the bed have to do with - "

"It's STILL THERE," she shrieks, pointing to the last mattress, flailing her hands. "It's still there."

Brendon gives Spencer a worried look, and the two of them edge over to the bed, trying not to anger her further. "Mom, what - " Brendon starts, before he sucks in a breath and actually starts to laugh. Helplessly.

Bewildered, Spencer cranes his head over Brendon's shoulder to see just what the hell is happening. It takes him a while, but finally he sees it - the red-faced Queen is pointing at the middle of the mattress where there lays a single green pea.

He blinks. "You've got to be shitting me."

Brendon turns, his eyes crinkled up and almost teary with mirth. "Congratulations, Spencer Smith, you're a real princess! You can totally marry me!" He wraps both arms around Spencer's middle and clings, still shaking with laughter.

Spencer pats his head bemusedly, and opens his mouth to respond. And then he feels it - a swooping, familiar tug just behind his bellybutton. "Aw, fuck," he manages, before the world and Brendon drop away, replaced by a blinding flash of white.

Two