little girl lost; Brendon-centric; pg-13
Little Girl Lost
Brendon/Bob, Tom/Victoria (Jon/Bill, Pete/Nick Scimeca). Past!Brendon/Victoria, past!Brendon/Bill, past!Brendon/Bill/Victoria, past!Pete/Brendon, past!Pete/Victoria.
PG-13. 3000 words.
We wanted to give Glittering Blackness an alternate, and somewhat less horrifically sad ending, so. Here it is. This changes nothing in that 'verse, and there will be no future parts to follow.
Coming back to Chicago is like coming home when you had the kind of parents who either never quite cared enough to give a shit about their kid or, hell, the kind of parents who knocked you around a little without leaving scars that went too deep. Brendon stays with Nate and Gabe for a couple days, with Ryland and Alex for a couple more. He meets the new kids, the new generation, and laughs at the thought that he's twenty-seven and an old timer. There's a kid named Singer, fucking tiny, but with the kind of voice that should be on the damned radio, not on street corners, and "his boy, Marshall," who is, if anything, smaller and sweet.
They all ask about Bill and Brendon offers half smiles. "He's happy," he says and no one asks any more.
He told Bill he was leaving Washington to go back to Chicago, asked in so many words if Bill wanted to come with him. Bill kissed him hard, fingers tangled in his hair, and whispered that he couldn't. He couldn't ask Jon to uproot his life and he couldn't leave Jon behind.
Through a friend of Nate's brother's girlfriend, he gets set up in a decent apartment, another big, one room loft on the sixteenth floor of a building. It's almost like the place in Washington, enough to give him a moment's pause as he walks through the door, but he pushes it away. It's a new start for him in the place where he hit his lowest point, proving to himself that he can build something out of the ruins of an old life.
There's a Starbucks on the corner directly across from his building that used to be a Peet's Coffee and Tea, but Brendon hasn't been back in so long, he hadn't really been expecting it to still be there. Chicago does him the service of looking exactly the same on the surface but changing on the inside, in the ways that really matter.
Brendon's got a job lined up, nothing special, just as a guitar tech for this tiny little band that doesn't look to be going anywhere, but probably could if they tried. They're a little older, a little steadier, and Brendon can dig that. He gets coffee with their drummer every day, and sometimes they go home together too. It's nice, Brendon hasn't had something so firm since Bill, and Bob's big hands fit well along Brendon's ribs.
It's a week until they're supposed to start recording, and they've just stumbled out of bed and across the street. The burners on Brendon's oven don't work and he doesn't have a coffee machine, so they're lounging at the Starbucks, Brendon still in his pajamas. He's forgotten how much he missed Chicago, and the light drizzle against the big picture windows is pretty.
They come here often enough that they're regulars, and it's when Bob's up at the counter getting their drinks that he sees her.
Brendon's heart stops.
He blinks, expecting her to be gone when he opens his eyes, but she'd not, she'd still sitting there in an armchair in the corner. She's got black jeans and a gray sweater, hair piled on top of her head and glasses on the end of her nose, a book spread open on her lap. She's drumming her fingers on her thigh, a steady thud of rhythm, lips moving in silent echoes of the words on the page.
Brendon shivers. The last time he saw her, she was walking away from him, pregnant, with fresh track marks scarring the skin of her arms. She was alone and scared and he was too fucked up in his own head to be able to do anything about it. Bill got Brendon out, took him away from Pete and the chemical haze, but Vicky didn't want to hear any of it and she stayed, lost the baby (their baby) and Brendon ran.
He should have expected the ghosts.
"Hey." Bob presses a hot cup into Brendon's hand and he jumps, nearly letting it fall to the floor. "You okay?"
Brendon huffs out a half hysterical laugh and Bob's brow creases. He likes Bob, likes the way his hands sprawl over Brendon's hips and the way he holds Brendon close, solid and real against his back, but Bob is new and Bob doesn't know. He cleans his throat, some excuse on his lips at the ready, and that's when she looks up.
Brendon feels it the second her gaze lands on him, can feel the freeze in her own skin, and the tremble in her chin. She opens her mouth as if to say something, or to call him away, but she's on the other side of the shop and Brendon wouldn't have been able to hear her anyone. He sees her blink, sees her mutter something to herself.
He's up and on his feet in less than a second, and he can feel Bob's gaze on his skin of his neck. He can't stop though. He can't.
"Vix," he says, when he's close enough, and she flinches, even though his voice couldn't have been that loud. "Vix, I -- " She cuts him off with a shake of her hair, tendrils of hair coming to rest on her cheeks. She looks good, rested and clean, heavier than when he'd last seen her, but healthy. Brendon feels the ground crumbling beneath his feet, and he's rubbing unconsciously at the V on his wrist.
"It's Tori now," she says tightly, not looking at him, and the pain that spears through his chest feels too severe, too desperate for something like this. He remembers her laughing and he remembers her eyes and he remembers the way she saved him, hand riding low on the small of his back, whispering soothing promises about warmth and comfort. "I'm sorry, I have to -- "
He doesn't mean to touch her. He doesn't mean to touch her, but his palm brushes her shoulder and she freezes, instantly. "Vicky," Brendon murmurs, "Tori."
"I can't, Bren." She steps back, eyes going bright. "I'm sorry, I can't."
She turns and leaves, almost running, head ducked down against the rain as she vanishes down the street and around the corner.
Brendon stands there, in the middle of goddamn Starbucks, hands shaking so hard he can feel coffee sloshing against the lid of his cup. The memories, so carefully buried away in the back of his mind, claw to the surface. Neat white lines on the coffee table, Pete sprawled out on a couch, smiling like he knew something the rest of the world could never know, Pete's hands hard and tight on his hips. He can feel the faint ghost of want still, burning faintly beneath his skin and he thinks for a split second he's going to hurl.
"Brendon?" Bob says, laying a hand on the back of Brendon's neck and her jerks away, he can't help it.
"I have to go," Brendon chokes out. "I'm sorry."
He runs outside, stomach twisting and churning, ignoring Bob's voice calling his name. He pauses, for a moment, wanting to turn the same direction she went to try and find her, to pull her close and apologize until she looks at him with the same soft smile she once did, but he's not that strong, that reckless, that brave. He dashes across the street, puddles of rainwater splashing around his feet to soak his pants, thunders up the stairs to his apartment and throws himself into the shower.
He cranks the water up as hard and as hot as it will go and crumples to the tile floor, shaking and shaking and still not clean.
--
If it were just that once, Brendon thinks maybe it would have been hard, but he would have been able to force it down and away. He never visits his old corners even though Gabe still busks now and again, and even Pete's apartment building isn't his anymore, Pete himself having been packed off and away, and, last Brendon had heard, married off and living in Costa Rica with a graphic designer.
Nothing is the same, even though there may be a slight resemblance, Brendon honestly thinks he could have been okay.
He sees her again, head ducked and scurrying across the street, cell phone pressed against her ear. She's so beautiful that he forgets how to breathe and Bob has to repeat his question four or five times for it to stick.
That night, Brendon sits on the floor of his new-old apartment, eyes closed against the whitewashed walls, missing the color, and dials Bill's number, lip caught up beneath his teeth. He picks up on the third ring, voice breathless and Brendon has to grit his teeth in an effort to not picture what that means. "Bren?"
Brendon is silent, barely breathing and the words aren't coming.
"Brendon, come on, are you alright?" Bill's voice sounds normal, sounds the same until the last note resonates and the sound cracks. "Bren?"
"I saw Vicky," he blurts, the heel of his hand pressing against his eyes, unsure of what they're holding back. Bill hisses out a breath, one, two, and Brendon can hear him moving around, can hear a door shutting and the sound of a cigarette being lit.
He counts the sounds. It takes the lighter at least three times to hold.
--
Bob takes him on an actual date with a nice restaurant and Brendon in slacks and a button down, the whole shebang. It's charming in a slightly strange way; Brendon's never actually been on a date, he realizes, not in the traditional sense of the word and it's nice, Bob knocking on his door at six thirty in an actual suit, kissing his cheek and driving. Brendon sits in the passenger seat and watches Bob, smile playing on his lips, wanting to lace their fingers over the gearshift, but holding back.
The place is small and elegant with thick carpet and small tables covered in white linens. The waiter leads them to a place in the back, sits them down and hands out elegant menus in leather covers. Brendon traces the tip of his finger on the rim of his glass and smiles at Bob, laying a hand on his. He likes this kind of courtship, slow and mellow, sweet and maybe just a little bit shy. Bill is still a constant presence in the back of his mind, Bill and Johnny-Boy curled up asleep on the couch, and Brendon thinks maybe, for once, slow is good.
"Thank you for this," Brendon says and Bob blushes, ducking his head.
He doesn't know what it says about him, but he likes that Bob is quiet and steady, drumming out an even backbone to life without asking questions or demanding answers. Bob doesn't like to talk, but he will listen and Brendon's words never have to be about anything he doesn't want them to be.
"I like you," Bob says with a shrug and a quirked smile.
They order wine and food, talking softly and in easy bursts punctuated by silence that isn't awkward, merely content. Bob holds his hand and strokes his thumb across Brendon's knuckles, tracing over the ridges in an unconscious, rhythmic sweep. Bob talks about his boys, his band, and how they like being small and unknown without having to deal with everything else; Brendon skates around the edges of Bill, telling stories about singing on street corners before things went south.
It's nice and Brendon hasn't had nice for a long time.
He doesn't notice the couple sitting a few tables to the left, so absorbed in the play of dim light across Bob's face, until he hears his name. "Urie?
Brendon blinks and turns, head cocked. He zeros in on the source of the voice, indistinct features sharpening into a face he recognizes. He quirks his mouth into a smile that doesn't quite reflect the emotion that slithers down into his chest. Tom Conrad is a friend of Jon's, met during a long weekend he spent sleeping on Jon's couch and going through what seemed like more cases of Heinekin in three days than Brendon went through at the damned bar.
"Conrad," he says, blinking his surprise away and standing. It would be rude not to say hello. They were living in cramped quarters those days, all four of them practically on top of each other, what with Bill firmly attached to both him and Jon. If Brendon wracks his brain he can just remember Tom saying something about Chicago. The world is smaller than he'd originally thought. "Hey." He grins back over at Bob and gestures him over with a toss of his head. "This is my good friend Bob, and that is -- " The world is so, so much smaller than he'd ever thought, because the words die on his lips.
Some habits are monsters to break, and the words plink around his head like stones; and that is my Victoria. He'd seen her, he'd registered seeing her, but it wasn't in the here and now, it was in some alternate universe where she was still his and Brendon could introduce her away. Tom grins, taking a swill from his drink and acknowledges Victoria with a flick of his chin.
"My fiancee Tori. Tor, this is Jon's -- " Tom grins over at him, eyes twinkling, but his smile isn't kind and Brendon can feel his stomach tightening. "Well. This is someone who just made Jon's life a whole hell of a lot easier." He winks and Brendon's hands ball into fists at his sides. Victoria's not looking at any of them and softy, primly, she says, "Nice to meet you."
The look she shoots Brendon is dark, but. But there's an edge to it, something ingrained deep that Brendon will never be able to forget. For buskers, looks mean everything, and a few minutes after Victoria excuses herself, Brendon does too.
They meet in the alley; where the hell else would they go? Vicky, Tori, Brendon mentally corrects, stands in the harsh glow of a floodlight and yet she's still beautiful, painted in pale skin and dark hair. She's in a little black dress and pearls, cigarette tip glowing in the darkness. Brendon crosses his arms over his chest and stands there in the grime and garbage, a hundred thousand words hovering on the tip of his tongue, I'm sorry and I'm better and I miss you and don't hate me..
"Why are you here?" Vicky asks, voice flat.
"I'm at dinner with my-with a friend." He can't quite bring himself to give Bob that name, not when Bob hasn't made promises and his skin remembers the ghostly echo of Vicky's hands on his back, her mouth on his neck. "Why are you here?"
"This is where Tom and I went on our first date," Vicky says stiffly, "It's tradition and that's not what I meant. Why are you back in Chicago?"
Because Bill picked Jon.
Brendon swallows and looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was a third wheel in Washington. I needed to go somewhere I belonged and, hell, Chicago's the closest I have to home. Besides, I knew I'd have a couple couches to crash on when I got here."
Vicky snorts, exhaling a tendril of smoke that rises into the air, buffeted and twined by gentle winds. "After, what? Almost eight years, you suddenly decided you needed to come back and make a reappearance in my life? Goddamnit, Brendon, that's not fair. I have a life now and it's good. I have a fiancee who loves me and a career and I don't want to go back. I refuse."
"I'm not going back," Brendon snaps. "Fuck, I'm not busking, much less...any of the rest. I'm a guitar tech, Vix, I want a new life too."
She looks at him, and maybe it's the light, maybe it's the moon, maybe it's the way her hair's coming down from the elaborate knot she'd tied it in, maybe it's everything, but this girl, this ethereal creature doesn't look like a Tori, she looks like his Victoria trussed up and playing dress up. He closes his eyes and feels the phantom touch of her teeth in his shoulder, her hands on his back, remembers the sweet ache of their hips rocking together.
"Bren," she whispers, voice low, and she must hear it too, she must feel it, and Brendon creaks his eyes open and blinks, she's still there, his Vixen, she's just hiding under the layers. It's probably better that way. "Brendon, I -- "
"I really missed you, Vix," he mumbles, and takes a step forward, hand light on her shoulder, brushing his lips across her cheek. It's the most familiar thing he's felt since Bill ruffled his hair and told him to take care of himself. He misses it, misses her with a fierceness he can't quite control, but he pulls back, forcing his lips into a grin. "You finish up your cigarette, I'll see you back in there."
She nods tightly at him, and while she doesn't smile, she doesn't look quite as pained as she had.
--
On the phone that night, while Bob is asleep, Bill's breathing is heavy, but the silence is companionable. Brendon wants to say I miss you, wants to ask how could you let me?, but settles for breathing out and looking up at his star - patterned ceiling, a faint smile circling 'round his lips.
"I'm okay, I think."
Brendon/Bob, Tom/Victoria (Jon/Bill, Pete/Nick Scimeca). Past!Brendon/Victoria, past!Brendon/Bill, past!Brendon/Bill/Victoria, past!Pete/Brendon, past!Pete/Victoria.
PG-13. 3000 words.
We wanted to give Glittering Blackness an alternate, and somewhat less horrifically sad ending, so. Here it is. This changes nothing in that 'verse, and there will be no future parts to follow.
Coming back to Chicago is like coming home when you had the kind of parents who either never quite cared enough to give a shit about their kid or, hell, the kind of parents who knocked you around a little without leaving scars that went too deep. Brendon stays with Nate and Gabe for a couple days, with Ryland and Alex for a couple more. He meets the new kids, the new generation, and laughs at the thought that he's twenty-seven and an old timer. There's a kid named Singer, fucking tiny, but with the kind of voice that should be on the damned radio, not on street corners, and "his boy, Marshall," who is, if anything, smaller and sweet.
They all ask about Bill and Brendon offers half smiles. "He's happy," he says and no one asks any more.
He told Bill he was leaving Washington to go back to Chicago, asked in so many words if Bill wanted to come with him. Bill kissed him hard, fingers tangled in his hair, and whispered that he couldn't. He couldn't ask Jon to uproot his life and he couldn't leave Jon behind.
Through a friend of Nate's brother's girlfriend, he gets set up in a decent apartment, another big, one room loft on the sixteenth floor of a building. It's almost like the place in Washington, enough to give him a moment's pause as he walks through the door, but he pushes it away. It's a new start for him in the place where he hit his lowest point, proving to himself that he can build something out of the ruins of an old life.
There's a Starbucks on the corner directly across from his building that used to be a Peet's Coffee and Tea, but Brendon hasn't been back in so long, he hadn't really been expecting it to still be there. Chicago does him the service of looking exactly the same on the surface but changing on the inside, in the ways that really matter.
Brendon's got a job lined up, nothing special, just as a guitar tech for this tiny little band that doesn't look to be going anywhere, but probably could if they tried. They're a little older, a little steadier, and Brendon can dig that. He gets coffee with their drummer every day, and sometimes they go home together too. It's nice, Brendon hasn't had something so firm since Bill, and Bob's big hands fit well along Brendon's ribs.
It's a week until they're supposed to start recording, and they've just stumbled out of bed and across the street. The burners on Brendon's oven don't work and he doesn't have a coffee machine, so they're lounging at the Starbucks, Brendon still in his pajamas. He's forgotten how much he missed Chicago, and the light drizzle against the big picture windows is pretty.
They come here often enough that they're regulars, and it's when Bob's up at the counter getting their drinks that he sees her.
Brendon's heart stops.
He blinks, expecting her to be gone when he opens his eyes, but she'd not, she'd still sitting there in an armchair in the corner. She's got black jeans and a gray sweater, hair piled on top of her head and glasses on the end of her nose, a book spread open on her lap. She's drumming her fingers on her thigh, a steady thud of rhythm, lips moving in silent echoes of the words on the page.
Brendon shivers. The last time he saw her, she was walking away from him, pregnant, with fresh track marks scarring the skin of her arms. She was alone and scared and he was too fucked up in his own head to be able to do anything about it. Bill got Brendon out, took him away from Pete and the chemical haze, but Vicky didn't want to hear any of it and she stayed, lost the baby (their baby) and Brendon ran.
He should have expected the ghosts.
"Hey." Bob presses a hot cup into Brendon's hand and he jumps, nearly letting it fall to the floor. "You okay?"
Brendon huffs out a half hysterical laugh and Bob's brow creases. He likes Bob, likes the way his hands sprawl over Brendon's hips and the way he holds Brendon close, solid and real against his back, but Bob is new and Bob doesn't know. He cleans his throat, some excuse on his lips at the ready, and that's when she looks up.
Brendon feels it the second her gaze lands on him, can feel the freeze in her own skin, and the tremble in her chin. She opens her mouth as if to say something, or to call him away, but she's on the other side of the shop and Brendon wouldn't have been able to hear her anyone. He sees her blink, sees her mutter something to herself.
He's up and on his feet in less than a second, and he can feel Bob's gaze on his skin of his neck. He can't stop though. He can't.
"Vix," he says, when he's close enough, and she flinches, even though his voice couldn't have been that loud. "Vix, I -- " She cuts him off with a shake of her hair, tendrils of hair coming to rest on her cheeks. She looks good, rested and clean, heavier than when he'd last seen her, but healthy. Brendon feels the ground crumbling beneath his feet, and he's rubbing unconsciously at the V on his wrist.
"It's Tori now," she says tightly, not looking at him, and the pain that spears through his chest feels too severe, too desperate for something like this. He remembers her laughing and he remembers her eyes and he remembers the way she saved him, hand riding low on the small of his back, whispering soothing promises about warmth and comfort. "I'm sorry, I have to -- "
He doesn't mean to touch her. He doesn't mean to touch her, but his palm brushes her shoulder and she freezes, instantly. "Vicky," Brendon murmurs, "Tori."
"I can't, Bren." She steps back, eyes going bright. "I'm sorry, I can't."
She turns and leaves, almost running, head ducked down against the rain as she vanishes down the street and around the corner.
Brendon stands there, in the middle of goddamn Starbucks, hands shaking so hard he can feel coffee sloshing against the lid of his cup. The memories, so carefully buried away in the back of his mind, claw to the surface. Neat white lines on the coffee table, Pete sprawled out on a couch, smiling like he knew something the rest of the world could never know, Pete's hands hard and tight on his hips. He can feel the faint ghost of want still, burning faintly beneath his skin and he thinks for a split second he's going to hurl.
"Brendon?" Bob says, laying a hand on the back of Brendon's neck and her jerks away, he can't help it.
"I have to go," Brendon chokes out. "I'm sorry."
He runs outside, stomach twisting and churning, ignoring Bob's voice calling his name. He pauses, for a moment, wanting to turn the same direction she went to try and find her, to pull her close and apologize until she looks at him with the same soft smile she once did, but he's not that strong, that reckless, that brave. He dashes across the street, puddles of rainwater splashing around his feet to soak his pants, thunders up the stairs to his apartment and throws himself into the shower.
He cranks the water up as hard and as hot as it will go and crumples to the tile floor, shaking and shaking and still not clean.
--
If it were just that once, Brendon thinks maybe it would have been hard, but he would have been able to force it down and away. He never visits his old corners even though Gabe still busks now and again, and even Pete's apartment building isn't his anymore, Pete himself having been packed off and away, and, last Brendon had heard, married off and living in Costa Rica with a graphic designer.
Nothing is the same, even though there may be a slight resemblance, Brendon honestly thinks he could have been okay.
He sees her again, head ducked and scurrying across the street, cell phone pressed against her ear. She's so beautiful that he forgets how to breathe and Bob has to repeat his question four or five times for it to stick.
That night, Brendon sits on the floor of his new-old apartment, eyes closed against the whitewashed walls, missing the color, and dials Bill's number, lip caught up beneath his teeth. He picks up on the third ring, voice breathless and Brendon has to grit his teeth in an effort to not picture what that means. "Bren?"
Brendon is silent, barely breathing and the words aren't coming.
"Brendon, come on, are you alright?" Bill's voice sounds normal, sounds the same until the last note resonates and the sound cracks. "Bren?"
"I saw Vicky," he blurts, the heel of his hand pressing against his eyes, unsure of what they're holding back. Bill hisses out a breath, one, two, and Brendon can hear him moving around, can hear a door shutting and the sound of a cigarette being lit.
He counts the sounds. It takes the lighter at least three times to hold.
--
Bob takes him on an actual date with a nice restaurant and Brendon in slacks and a button down, the whole shebang. It's charming in a slightly strange way; Brendon's never actually been on a date, he realizes, not in the traditional sense of the word and it's nice, Bob knocking on his door at six thirty in an actual suit, kissing his cheek and driving. Brendon sits in the passenger seat and watches Bob, smile playing on his lips, wanting to lace their fingers over the gearshift, but holding back.
The place is small and elegant with thick carpet and small tables covered in white linens. The waiter leads them to a place in the back, sits them down and hands out elegant menus in leather covers. Brendon traces the tip of his finger on the rim of his glass and smiles at Bob, laying a hand on his. He likes this kind of courtship, slow and mellow, sweet and maybe just a little bit shy. Bill is still a constant presence in the back of his mind, Bill and Johnny-Boy curled up asleep on the couch, and Brendon thinks maybe, for once, slow is good.
"Thank you for this," Brendon says and Bob blushes, ducking his head.
He doesn't know what it says about him, but he likes that Bob is quiet and steady, drumming out an even backbone to life without asking questions or demanding answers. Bob doesn't like to talk, but he will listen and Brendon's words never have to be about anything he doesn't want them to be.
"I like you," Bob says with a shrug and a quirked smile.
They order wine and food, talking softly and in easy bursts punctuated by silence that isn't awkward, merely content. Bob holds his hand and strokes his thumb across Brendon's knuckles, tracing over the ridges in an unconscious, rhythmic sweep. Bob talks about his boys, his band, and how they like being small and unknown without having to deal with everything else; Brendon skates around the edges of Bill, telling stories about singing on street corners before things went south.
It's nice and Brendon hasn't had nice for a long time.
He doesn't notice the couple sitting a few tables to the left, so absorbed in the play of dim light across Bob's face, until he hears his name. "Urie?
Brendon blinks and turns, head cocked. He zeros in on the source of the voice, indistinct features sharpening into a face he recognizes. He quirks his mouth into a smile that doesn't quite reflect the emotion that slithers down into his chest. Tom Conrad is a friend of Jon's, met during a long weekend he spent sleeping on Jon's couch and going through what seemed like more cases of Heinekin in three days than Brendon went through at the damned bar.
"Conrad," he says, blinking his surprise away and standing. It would be rude not to say hello. They were living in cramped quarters those days, all four of them practically on top of each other, what with Bill firmly attached to both him and Jon. If Brendon wracks his brain he can just remember Tom saying something about Chicago. The world is smaller than he'd originally thought. "Hey." He grins back over at Bob and gestures him over with a toss of his head. "This is my good friend Bob, and that is -- " The world is so, so much smaller than he'd ever thought, because the words die on his lips.
Some habits are monsters to break, and the words plink around his head like stones; and that is my Victoria. He'd seen her, he'd registered seeing her, but it wasn't in the here and now, it was in some alternate universe where she was still his and Brendon could introduce her away. Tom grins, taking a swill from his drink and acknowledges Victoria with a flick of his chin.
"My fiancee Tori. Tor, this is Jon's -- " Tom grins over at him, eyes twinkling, but his smile isn't kind and Brendon can feel his stomach tightening. "Well. This is someone who just made Jon's life a whole hell of a lot easier." He winks and Brendon's hands ball into fists at his sides. Victoria's not looking at any of them and softy, primly, she says, "Nice to meet you."
The look she shoots Brendon is dark, but. But there's an edge to it, something ingrained deep that Brendon will never be able to forget. For buskers, looks mean everything, and a few minutes after Victoria excuses herself, Brendon does too.
They meet in the alley; where the hell else would they go? Vicky, Tori, Brendon mentally corrects, stands in the harsh glow of a floodlight and yet she's still beautiful, painted in pale skin and dark hair. She's in a little black dress and pearls, cigarette tip glowing in the darkness. Brendon crosses his arms over his chest and stands there in the grime and garbage, a hundred thousand words hovering on the tip of his tongue, I'm sorry and I'm better and I miss you and don't hate me..
"Why are you here?" Vicky asks, voice flat.
"I'm at dinner with my-with a friend." He can't quite bring himself to give Bob that name, not when Bob hasn't made promises and his skin remembers the ghostly echo of Vicky's hands on his back, her mouth on his neck. "Why are you here?"
"This is where Tom and I went on our first date," Vicky says stiffly, "It's tradition and that's not what I meant. Why are you back in Chicago?"
Because Bill picked Jon.
Brendon swallows and looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was a third wheel in Washington. I needed to go somewhere I belonged and, hell, Chicago's the closest I have to home. Besides, I knew I'd have a couple couches to crash on when I got here."
Vicky snorts, exhaling a tendril of smoke that rises into the air, buffeted and twined by gentle winds. "After, what? Almost eight years, you suddenly decided you needed to come back and make a reappearance in my life? Goddamnit, Brendon, that's not fair. I have a life now and it's good. I have a fiancee who loves me and a career and I don't want to go back. I refuse."
"I'm not going back," Brendon snaps. "Fuck, I'm not busking, much less...any of the rest. I'm a guitar tech, Vix, I want a new life too."
She looks at him, and maybe it's the light, maybe it's the moon, maybe it's the way her hair's coming down from the elaborate knot she'd tied it in, maybe it's everything, but this girl, this ethereal creature doesn't look like a Tori, she looks like his Victoria trussed up and playing dress up. He closes his eyes and feels the phantom touch of her teeth in his shoulder, her hands on his back, remembers the sweet ache of their hips rocking together.
"Bren," she whispers, voice low, and she must hear it too, she must feel it, and Brendon creaks his eyes open and blinks, she's still there, his Vixen, she's just hiding under the layers. It's probably better that way. "Brendon, I -- "
"I really missed you, Vix," he mumbles, and takes a step forward, hand light on her shoulder, brushing his lips across her cheek. It's the most familiar thing he's felt since Bill ruffled his hair and told him to take care of himself. He misses it, misses her with a fierceness he can't quite control, but he pulls back, forcing his lips into a grin. "You finish up your cigarette, I'll see you back in there."
She nods tightly at him, and while she doesn't smile, she doesn't look quite as pained as she had.
--
On the phone that night, while Bob is asleep, Bill's breathing is heavy, but the silence is companionable. Brendon wants to say I miss you, wants to ask how could you let me?, but settles for breathing out and looking up at his star - patterned ceiling, a faint smile circling 'round his lips.
"I'm okay, I think."