five scenes (girl!Brendon drabbles)
Five Scenes
set in the About A Girl 'verse
gen
These were written for why_me_why_not's meme. They are in chronological order. The first one takes place during the course of the main fic, but the others are tidbits of the as-yet unwritten future that lives in my head.
Feel free to ask questions if there's something you're not clear on; I have so much backstory and future for this story in my head, and I'm not sure it'll ever be written properly.
*
you hold the rights I'll never own
It's not an issue. Spencer's not pining. Pining is a waste of time and energy. It accomplishes nothing. It's not like he's hurting for sex or affection. Brendon isn't his girlfriend, she's his friend and his bandmate. Plus, Ryan would fucking kill him if he screwed up the band. Brent's doing a good enough job of that on his own.
Spencer is honest with himself, though. He wishes, wishes so hard, that he'd said something. Done something, anything, after Bren and Audrey broke up. Now he can only watch as Bren smiles at Jon, as she curls up next to him on TAI's bus, as Jon settles her against his shoulder more comfortably and slips his fingertips just under the hem of her shirt.
He turns away, and when Tom waves his open bottle of Jack Daniels, Spencer holds out his empty cup.
you're always talking back to me
Brendon plays maybe a half-dozen bars of the melody she's written before Ryan shakes his head.
"No, no, it's not. Just. No."
Yeah, Brendon would've been surprised if he'd like what she'd come up with. She swallows a sigh and asks, "Too fast? Too slow? What?"
"Too... forceful."
Of course. Because everything Ryan wants now is mellow. No heavy back-beat, no synth, nothing that isn't "organic", whateverthefuck he means by that. No matter that the lyrics he'd given her were begging for speed. Brendon wonders, not for the first time, if the pot-smoking and his new obsession with The Beatles have rotted his brain.
"Ryan, just listen the whole way through, okay?"
"No, it's not going to work."
Brendon has had enough. Enough of this cabin, enough of 'writing', enough of Ryan's constant negative comments about the sheets of music she creates for him.
"Maybe it would work if we collaborated instead of waiting for your inspiration."
Totally the wrong thing to say.
"If you think you can write lyrics, go ahead," he sneers.
"I'm just saying. We can write together. And it doesn't have to be a concept album."
They've got songs. She has songs. None of them are good enough for Ryan.
"It's not a concept album. It's a rock opera."
"About wolves."
"They're a metaphor. If you read every once in a while-"
"Don't even start with me, Mr. I-Stole-Half-My-Lyrics-From-Chuck-Palahniuk-"
"Hey! That's enough." Later, Brendon might be glad Spencer stops her before she can finish her insult. As it is now, she's done. She turns her keyboard off and heads for the door, shoving her feet in shoes and grabbing keys.
"I need some air."
She's halfway back to Vegas before she realizes it.
for all the times you said I got your back
Brendon can see "JWalk" flashing on her Sidekick's display. She doesn't move from her spot on the sofa. She's tempted to turn off her phone. Actually, she's tempted to change her number. For the moment, she lets it go to voicemail.
Shane, whose head is propped against the armrest at the other end of the sofa, lifts his foot enough to poke at her side with his big toe. "You gonna talk to him, eventually?"
She wriggles a little away from him.
"Yeah. I'll have to, right? Just... not now." He's part of the band, and they agreed when he signed the contract that the band was separate from their personal issues. Except that right now that band was struggling to write their second album, and Brendon was struggling to deal with the fact that Jon was a cheating asshole.
Shane hums a quiet agreement. "Spencer called earlier. Said you weren't picking up."
"I don't want to hear any excuses he'd make for Jon."
"He didn't say anything about Jon. He wanted to be sure you're okay."
Brendon shrugs. "I'm fine."
Shane sits up and tugs Brendon closer. "No, but you will be."
hold me now I feel contagious
Being sick on a tour bus is a hundred thousand times worse than being sick at home. And Brendon hates being sick. It's rare for her - she's always been pretty healthy. No broken bones, no allergies, none of the normal childhood illnesses other than a fierce bout of chicken pox in the fourth grade.
She props herself against the sink and eyes her reflection. Her hair is limp, her eyes are puffy, and her skin is pale except for the streaks of hectic color high on her cheekbones.
She would've thought that there's nothing left in her stomach to toss - this is the third time she's been up tonight. She feels disgusting, and all she wants is her bed and a heating pad, but she's not going to get anything other than her stifling bunk. She splashes water on her face and stumbles back down the aisle. It takes all the energy she has to climb up into her bunk.
Brendon wakes again an hour later, her stomach heaving and her head swimming. She tries to be quiet, but she can't quite stifle the groan that escapes when she rolls over and half-falls out of the bunk.
"Jesus Christ, are you up again? What the fuck are you doing?" comes from Ryan's bunk.
Normally she'd snipe back at him - that seems to be their only interaction anymore - but right now she's got one goal in mind. She barely makes it back to bathroom in time.
She's kneeling on the floor (it is so gross, if she hadn't already vomited herself into dry heaves she'd be sick again), curled over the toilet, and she wonders vaguely if she could just fall asleep here. It would save time for the next round of nausea. She wants clothes she hasn't been wearing for the length of the tour; she wants her mom, who always prescribed hugs and ginger ale when her brothers and sisters were sick; she wants to not be on this bus.
"Bren?"
The door opens slowly. Spencer's waiting there with a bottle of water and a blanket. She pulls herself to her feet, and Spencer's arm around her shoulder is all that keeps her upright as he leads her to the back lounge. He wraps the blanket - his blanket - around Brendon and settles her on the sofa. Instead of heading back to the bunks, though, he sits down next to her, puts his arm around her waist, and pulls until she's stretched out, propped against his chest.
"Okay?"
"Flu," she mumbles against his neck. "Shouldn't touch me, you'll get it." But she doesn't fight to get out of his arms.
I get on the train on my own
"Per-r-r-manent jetlag," Brendon growls, and then snorts with laughter.
"Okay, maybe not on the first syllable. Let's try that again," is all Neal says, but she can see Patrick and Pete gesturing and giggling, so she knows everything's cool. Which is... refreshing. It's not the first time she's been in a recording studio, obviously, but it's the first time she's been in one where the atmosphere is not heavy with expectation and criticism.
If she'd made a stupid mistake like that while recording their own album, Ryan would not be laughing, and neither would she.
"You ready?" At her nod, the opening bars of 20 Dollar Nose Bleed filter through her headphones, and she begins again.
She's still thinking about studio time and session musicians and working with Patrick and Neal again when she and Shane pile into Pete's Land Rover and head out to meet Ashlee at Nobu, and sake and toro push thoughts of music out of her head.
The next morning, though, she goes through her Garage Band files and finds the one she labeled weird dream song. Each time she listens to it, she finds something she wants to add or change, and she ends up spending most of the day working, switching around the keyboard and guitar parts, unsure about some of the drums, until she's finally satisfied. Mostly.
She saves the new version as catch me up.
She's going to let it rest, she really is, because they've got another tour to finish before they go through another round of fighting, writing, and recording, but when Spence calls her and asks what she's up to, she says, "I've got this song..."
set in the About A Girl 'verse
gen
These were written for why_me_why_not's meme. They are in chronological order. The first one takes place during the course of the main fic, but the others are tidbits of the as-yet unwritten future that lives in my head.
Feel free to ask questions if there's something you're not clear on; I have so much backstory and future for this story in my head, and I'm not sure it'll ever be written properly.
*
you hold the rights I'll never own
It's not an issue. Spencer's not pining. Pining is a waste of time and energy. It accomplishes nothing. It's not like he's hurting for sex or affection. Brendon isn't his girlfriend, she's his friend and his bandmate. Plus, Ryan would fucking kill him if he screwed up the band. Brent's doing a good enough job of that on his own.
Spencer is honest with himself, though. He wishes, wishes so hard, that he'd said something. Done something, anything, after Bren and Audrey broke up. Now he can only watch as Bren smiles at Jon, as she curls up next to him on TAI's bus, as Jon settles her against his shoulder more comfortably and slips his fingertips just under the hem of her shirt.
He turns away, and when Tom waves his open bottle of Jack Daniels, Spencer holds out his empty cup.
you're always talking back to me
Brendon plays maybe a half-dozen bars of the melody she's written before Ryan shakes his head.
"No, no, it's not. Just. No."
Yeah, Brendon would've been surprised if he'd like what she'd come up with. She swallows a sigh and asks, "Too fast? Too slow? What?"
"Too... forceful."
Of course. Because everything Ryan wants now is mellow. No heavy back-beat, no synth, nothing that isn't "organic", whateverthefuck he means by that. No matter that the lyrics he'd given her were begging for speed. Brendon wonders, not for the first time, if the pot-smoking and his new obsession with The Beatles have rotted his brain.
"Ryan, just listen the whole way through, okay?"
"No, it's not going to work."
Brendon has had enough. Enough of this cabin, enough of 'writing', enough of Ryan's constant negative comments about the sheets of music she creates for him.
"Maybe it would work if we collaborated instead of waiting for your inspiration."
Totally the wrong thing to say.
"If you think you can write lyrics, go ahead," he sneers.
"I'm just saying. We can write together. And it doesn't have to be a concept album."
They've got songs. She has songs. None of them are good enough for Ryan.
"It's not a concept album. It's a rock opera."
"About wolves."
"They're a metaphor. If you read every once in a while-"
"Don't even start with me, Mr. I-Stole-Half-My-Lyrics-From-Chuck-Palahniuk-"
"Hey! That's enough." Later, Brendon might be glad Spencer stops her before she can finish her insult. As it is now, she's done. She turns her keyboard off and heads for the door, shoving her feet in shoes and grabbing keys.
"I need some air."
She's halfway back to Vegas before she realizes it.
for all the times you said I got your back
Brendon can see "JWalk" flashing on her Sidekick's display. She doesn't move from her spot on the sofa. She's tempted to turn off her phone. Actually, she's tempted to change her number. For the moment, she lets it go to voicemail.
Shane, whose head is propped against the armrest at the other end of the sofa, lifts his foot enough to poke at her side with his big toe. "You gonna talk to him, eventually?"
She wriggles a little away from him.
"Yeah. I'll have to, right? Just... not now." He's part of the band, and they agreed when he signed the contract that the band was separate from their personal issues. Except that right now that band was struggling to write their second album, and Brendon was struggling to deal with the fact that Jon was a cheating asshole.
Shane hums a quiet agreement. "Spencer called earlier. Said you weren't picking up."
"I don't want to hear any excuses he'd make for Jon."
"He didn't say anything about Jon. He wanted to be sure you're okay."
Brendon shrugs. "I'm fine."
Shane sits up and tugs Brendon closer. "No, but you will be."
hold me now I feel contagious
Being sick on a tour bus is a hundred thousand times worse than being sick at home. And Brendon hates being sick. It's rare for her - she's always been pretty healthy. No broken bones, no allergies, none of the normal childhood illnesses other than a fierce bout of chicken pox in the fourth grade.
She props herself against the sink and eyes her reflection. Her hair is limp, her eyes are puffy, and her skin is pale except for the streaks of hectic color high on her cheekbones.
She would've thought that there's nothing left in her stomach to toss - this is the third time she's been up tonight. She feels disgusting, and all she wants is her bed and a heating pad, but she's not going to get anything other than her stifling bunk. She splashes water on her face and stumbles back down the aisle. It takes all the energy she has to climb up into her bunk.
Brendon wakes again an hour later, her stomach heaving and her head swimming. She tries to be quiet, but she can't quite stifle the groan that escapes when she rolls over and half-falls out of the bunk.
"Jesus Christ, are you up again? What the fuck are you doing?" comes from Ryan's bunk.
Normally she'd snipe back at him - that seems to be their only interaction anymore - but right now she's got one goal in mind. She barely makes it back to bathroom in time.
She's kneeling on the floor (it is so gross, if she hadn't already vomited herself into dry heaves she'd be sick again), curled over the toilet, and she wonders vaguely if she could just fall asleep here. It would save time for the next round of nausea. She wants clothes she hasn't been wearing for the length of the tour; she wants her mom, who always prescribed hugs and ginger ale when her brothers and sisters were sick; she wants to not be on this bus.
"Bren?"
The door opens slowly. Spencer's waiting there with a bottle of water and a blanket. She pulls herself to her feet, and Spencer's arm around her shoulder is all that keeps her upright as he leads her to the back lounge. He wraps the blanket - his blanket - around Brendon and settles her on the sofa. Instead of heading back to the bunks, though, he sits down next to her, puts his arm around her waist, and pulls until she's stretched out, propped against his chest.
"Okay?"
"Flu," she mumbles against his neck. "Shouldn't touch me, you'll get it." But she doesn't fight to get out of his arms.
I get on the train on my own
"Per-r-r-manent jetlag," Brendon growls, and then snorts with laughter.
"Okay, maybe not on the first syllable. Let's try that again," is all Neal says, but she can see Patrick and Pete gesturing and giggling, so she knows everything's cool. Which is... refreshing. It's not the first time she's been in a recording studio, obviously, but it's the first time she's been in one where the atmosphere is not heavy with expectation and criticism.
If she'd made a stupid mistake like that while recording their own album, Ryan would not be laughing, and neither would she.
"You ready?" At her nod, the opening bars of 20 Dollar Nose Bleed filter through her headphones, and she begins again.
She's still thinking about studio time and session musicians and working with Patrick and Neal again when she and Shane pile into Pete's Land Rover and head out to meet Ashlee at Nobu, and sake and toro push thoughts of music out of her head.
The next morning, though, she goes through her Garage Band files and finds the one she labeled weird dream song. Each time she listens to it, she finds something she wants to add or change, and she ends up spending most of the day working, switching around the keyboard and guitar parts, unsure about some of the drums, until she's finally satisfied. Mostly.
She saves the new version as catch me up.
She's going to let it rest, she really is, because they've got another tour to finish before they go through another round of fighting, writing, and recording, but when Spence calls her and asks what she's up to, she says, "I've got this song..."