Chapter Text
Epilogue
August.
There was a thunderstorm during the night, and the day dawns cool and crisp. It's a welcome break from weeks of sweltering heat.
Brendon lies awake listening to the birds, the sound of footsteps on the floor above, the quiet breathing next to him. He doesn't have to turn to know there are two with him in the bed. Ryan joined them sometime during the night, slipping in silently while they both slept. It happens a couple of times a week; Brendon will wake up to the sound of two people breathing rather than one, or quiet whispering from where Ryan and Spencer are curled together, or Ryan sitting on the bench by the window, his legs drawn up and his expression thoughtful.
The second time that happened, Brendon sat next to him on the bench, yawned and said, "He's not going to vanish in the night."
Ryan was staring out the window, not looking at him, and he only said, "I just like to know." Brendon can't tease him for that, because he likes to know Spencer is there every night too, warm and solid and sprawling, with an annoying habit of stealing Brendon's pillow and a much less annoying habit of waking Brendon on some mornings with soft, feathery kisses over his shoulders and chest.
Brendon slides out from under the sheets, yawns and stretches. His shoulder still twinges when he moves it too much or too fast, but he's gotten used to it, knows what he can't do. He dresses slowly, standing in front of the window as he buttons up his shirt, and scrubs a hand through his hair rather than combing it. They have a comb now, set on the vanity beside the razors and wash basin and silver mirror. Ryan found them all one day while looking for a pair of scissors to cut his hair. Even though the set belongs to Gerard it felt like a gift when Ryan brought it to their room and said dryly, "You can at least pretend not to take all your grooming tips from the wild men of the forest."
Brendon doesn't much care about grooming, but he likes the way the room has belongings in it now: the clutter on the vanity, shoes on the floor and clothes draped over the chair, ink and paper on the desk where Spencer practices reading and writing, a chipped mug on the bedside table.
He doesn't try to be silent while he dresses, and when he's done he leans over the bed, his hands planted in the still-warm spot he's just abandoned. Spencer's lying on his back and Ryan has an arm draped over his chest, anchoring him as though he expects Spencer to float away.
"Good morning," Brendon sings quietly, close to Spencer's ear. "Another day is on its way, we must -" He pauses and looks up thoughtfully, then sings in a rush, "We must do something-that-rhymes-with-day without delay. That doesn't scan, does it?"
Spencer wrinkles his nose and says, "Mmmph," and on his other side, his voice muffled against Spencer's shoulder, Ryan mumbles, "Go away." He reaches out blindly across Spencer, but his hand doesn't come anywhere near close enough to shove Brendon away.
Brendon laughs. "That's good. Go away, that totally rhymes."
In answer Ryan grabs the edge of the sheet and pulls it over his head. A second later Spencer wrinkles his nose again and shoves the sheet down.
Brendon smiles to himself and turns away. He figures he'll give it an hour or so before he comes back and adds another verse. Someday soon, he thinks, they'll realize that as long as they keep groaning and hiding under the covers, he's going to keep singing to them. There's no particular reason for them to be up this early anyway, and they're kind of cute when they're like this - like snoring, boneless, grumpy puppies, though Brendon's only ever said that to Jon, and Jon solemnly agreed it was both very accurate and probably not an observation they would appreciate.
The floorboards creak familiarly as Brendon leaves the room, walks down the hallway and down the stairs. There are voices in the kitchen: Jon's laugh, Frank's high giggle, the quick chatter of two women. Their names are Alice and Holly, and they're the last of a dozen women rescued from an auction three weeks ago. They're only staying so long because the baby has been sick. Neither of them is his mother - they don't talk about it much, but Brendon thinks she was a friend who died in childbirth - but they've adopted him and won't hear any arguments about it.
Brendon stops in the doorway of the kitchen and leans against the wall. It's a moment before anybody notices him. Frank is telling some story - his usual kind of story, involving a lot of excited gesturing and creative swearing and wild exaggeration - and the two girls are laughing. Jon is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the door to the pantry, holding a tiny, sleeping puff of black fur in his lap. One of the cats that lives in Lyn's stable in the village had kittens, and the moment they were old enough Jon snatched one of them away. ("Seriously?" Ryan had asked incredulously, when Jon brought her back to the manor wrapped up in an old shirt, letting her gnaw on his fingers and cooing at her in a ridiculous voice. "Seriously?" And Jon replied, "You guys have to help me think of a good name." It was Spencer who suggested they call her Summer.)
"Morning," Jon says, smiling up at him.
Brendon sits down beside him and reaches out to scratch Summer behind the ears. She stretches her little head out and purrs loudly. "Good morning," Brendon says, leaning his head on Jon's shoulder. "It's not raining anymore."
"The storm knocked down some branches," says Jon. "And if there's any more wind like that I think that dead oak will crash right into the stable. We should cut it down."
Holly shifts the baby from one hip to the other and says, "The window in our room leaks. There was water all over the floor this morning. We have to fix that too." She glances at them nervously when she says it, but she doesn't waver and she doesn't hesitate.
"Sure," Brendon says. "We'll look at it." And he's thinking, good, that's good. He doesn't know her story, where she came from or how long she was a slave. He still likes that it's only taken her a couple of weeks to learn to be a little bit bossy, to ask for what she wants without fear.
"Need extra help?" Frank asks.
Jon raises his eyebrows. "You sure you don't have plans today? Go to the village, learn a little bit more about blacksmithing, maybe hammer some things..."
Frank tries to glare at him, but it only lasts a few seconds. "Fuck off, Walker. I'm learning to make knives."
Brendon grins against Jon's shoulder. "Is that what they call it down in the village?"
Frank makes a rude gesture in response, and they all laugh again.
Brendon eats breakfast quickly and goes outside with Jon before the rest of the house wakes up. The Ways aren't exactly morning people - Brendon's pretty sure they would both be completely nocturnal if they could - and the kids will sleep as long as they can possibly get away with. There are only the five of them left out of the original group, Cash and Ian and the three Alexes. Sometime around mid-July, after a number of plans that fell apart and arrangements that never went through, everybody just stopped assuming they were going to leave. Brendon suspects this is mostly Mikey's doing. He seems to like having them around, eager to soak up every random, rambling thing he has to say about music.
The oak tree by the stable really does look like it's about to fall over, so Brendon helps Jon carry out the saws and hatchets. He doesn't mind working outside around the estate, not when there are chores to be done and nobody gets punished if they leave a task half-finished at suppertime. He's not sure how much Gerard even notices the improvements they've been making to the house and grounds throughout the summer. It took him five weeks to notice the new curtains in the dining room, and another two weeks before he believed that Bob - who was a sailor long ago, before he was captured, and is surprisingly skilled with a needle and thread - was the one who made them.
There's still a lot of work to be done, but at least it feels like a house now rather than an ornate crypt.
"I'm climbing," Jon announces as soon as they're outside.
Brendon scowls. "I can climb."
"Can you climb and chop at the same time?"
Brendon looks up at the tree. He's pretty sure his arm is strong enough to hang on while he uses the other to chop, but he's not absolutely certain. "Maybe?"
Jon laughs. "I thought so. Let's not do anything that'll make you break your neck today, okay?"
Brendon huffs and crosses his arms. "You're no fun." But he stays on the ground, collecting the broken branches Jon tosses down and hauling them over to the firewood block.
They've been working for a couple hours when Spencer comes out to join them, and Jon climbs down so they can take down the main trunk of the tree using the two-handed saw. Brendon stands back a safe distance, shouting helpfully and laughing at their replies -"Put your backs into it!" "Fuck you, Brendon," "Use your knees more!" "No, really, fuck you," - until the tree finally comes down with a magnificent crash.
"Cool," Brendon says approvingly.
"Don't encourage them." Ryan is standing right behind Brendon's shoulder. Brendon hadn't noticed him approaching. "They'll cut the whole forest down to impress you."
Brendon rolls his eyes, but he smiles a little bit too. "Nah, they'll get bored and start building a stick fort for Summer before they do too much damage."
Ryan laughs and Brendon feels the familiar thrill in his chest. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of making Ryan laugh. "Well, at least we know where their true affections lie," Ryan says. "Stolen away by a kitten - do you hear that?" He tilts his head to one side suddenly and looks toward the driveway.
Brendon does. "Somebody's coming." He can hear horses' hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels. He walks with Ryan around the front side of the stable. They aren't expecting any visitors, and even though there are only a few escaped slaves in the house, definitely not enough to arouse suspicion, he still feels a pang of worry.
The visitors come into view a minute later. There are two riders ahead of a sleek black carriage, moving from sunlight to shadow under the overarching branches of the trees that crowd the side of the drive.
Ryan says quietly, still standing at Brendon's shoulder, "That's Saporta's carriage."
Brendon starts to ask him how he knows - the man has never been to the Ways' estate as far as he knows, certainly not since they've been here - but he stops short as the riders come nearer. He feels his mouth drop open and Ryan is asking him something but he barely hears it. The riders rein their horses to a halt in front of the house, and it's only as they jump down that Brendon finds his voice.
"Ryland?" He runs forward a few steps and stops abruptly. "Alex?"
He's too stunned to move, but Ryland takes the last few steps for him, catching him up in a hug that lifts Brendon's feet off the ground. "It is so fucking good to see you, you little brat," Ryland says with a laugh, releasing Brendon and ruffling his hair.
"But what - what are you doing here?" Brendon asks.
Alex hooks his arm around Brendon's shoulder. "What, you're not happy to see us?" He's smiling, but there's something serious behind his words, and Brendon knows that's not what he's really asking.
It's been a year. A year since they disappeared in the night and left Brendon behind. A year since he was awoken by strangers in the house, dragged from bed and beaten in the courtyard, locked in chains and taken away to auction. A year, and worse has happened since then, but Brendon's chest feels tight and his clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
He steps away from Alex and looks at each of them in turn. He has no idea what they see on his face but Ryland exhales sharply and says, "Shit, Brendon, we're -"
"What are you doing here?" he asks again. He takes a step back and bumps into Ryan, still just behind him, still close enough to touch. He takes a breath and calmly asks, "Are you here on business?"
Alex and Ryland exchanges glances, then look over their shoulders at the same time as the smart carriage rattles to a stop behind them. Brendon doesn't recognize the driver.
"Something like that," Alex says. "Is Walker around?"
Brendon looks over his shoulder. Jon and Spencer are walking up, dirty and sweaty with leaves in their hair, and Jon is still carrying an axe. He's frowning slightly but he looks more confused than worried. This visit is a surprise to him too.
The carriage door swings open. A woman steps out, her long blonde hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head, and just behind her comes a man. He's tall and thin and flamboyantly dressed, with a hat tipped at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He casts a quick, appraising glance over the group gathered outside the carriage. "Well, isn't this grand," he says, smiling. "Our merry band of conspirators is here to greet us."
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to say 'what a pleasant surprise'?" Jon says. He shakes his head a little, but he's smiling as he steps forward. "You could have let us know you were coming, Saporta. We would've chased the bats out of the guest bedrooms for you."
Saporta laughs. "Where's the fun in that? There's no sense checking up on you if you've got time to prepare."
Jon rolls his eyes and lifts his axe to rest it over his shoulder. "Damn it," he says dryly. "Now you're going to find the moonshine and shut us down for sure."
"Oh, no," says Saporta. He turns back to the carriage door and offers his hand to somebody inside. "That's not what I've got planned for you, Walker."
Whatever Jon says in answer Brendon misses, because Saporta is helping somebody down from the carriage, a woman in a blue dress, and Brendon sees her shoes and her hand and the dark fall of hair over her shoulder and oh.
Oh.
Lady Victoria withdraws her hand from Saporta's and smiles. "Hello, Brendon."
It's like - it's like falling flat on his back and having the wind knocked out of him, so sudden and strong he feels like he's gasping for breath. Of course, of course, Ryland and Alex wouldn't be here - he should have known as soon as he saw them. Brendon can't find the words to answer - hello or you left me or I'm free here or why didn't you tell me or - Victoria's smile starts to fade uncertainly the longer Brendon remains silent, and he doesn't notice that he's swaying until he feels a hand on his elbow, the grip almost too tight to be reassuring. But it's Ryan, Ryan always holds on too tight.
"Hello," Brendon says. The greeting dangles, half-finished. Brendon wonders if he's the only one who hears the my lady deliberately dropped from the end. He feels eyes on him, watching and waiting. He looks away from Victoria quickly, down at the ground, over at Jon and Spencer, at the horses, at the forest, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to say.
Saporta gives him a quick, keen look, then returns his attention to Jon. "Well?" he says expectantly, gesturing at the house. "Aren't you going to show me what the hell you've been up to out here in the wilderness?"
"Sure," Jon says. "I don't know if the Ways are even awake yet." But he doesn't move. He looks at Brendon, then meets Spencer's eyes for a second. Neither of them says anything, but Spencer nods slightly, and Jon gestures with his axe, motioning for Saporta to follow. "Come on," he says. "I'll give you the grand tour."
The blonde woman and Alex and Ryland follow too, and the driver of the carriage leads their horses toward the stable.
Victoria steps forward and she lifts her hand like she's going to reach out, then flicks a glance over Brendon's shoulder and drops it quickly. Brendon doesn't have to turn to know Spencer is standing behind him and Spencer can look intimidating when he tries, he's been taking lessons from Bob or something, Brendon doesn't know but he's glad for it. So fucking glad, and it's not even difficult to pull his elbow out of Ryan's grasp and step toward her. Her smile gets wider, less forced, and something in Brendon's chest unknots.
"Hi," he says. "Fancy meeting you here."
And she laughs, startled and bright, and puts her fingers over her mouth to stop herself. The gesture, the laughter, they're so familiar Brendon feels a little giddy. He had thought he would never hear it again. Victoria says, "Gabe has something to say to you - to all of you." She looks over Brendon's shoulder again, her gaze settling first on Ryan, then on Spencer. "I'm sure he'll tell you all about it," she says. "Brendon and I will be right along."
It's a dismissal. It hasn't been so long that Brendon's forgotten what that sounds like, but maybe it's been long enough. He feels Ryan bristle beside him, and for some reason it's reassuring rather than worrisome. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them nervously, looks down at his feet and back up at Victoria, but he doesn't say anything, and he's grateful that Ryan and Spencer aren't walking away.
Victoria narrows her eyes for a moment, then she tilts her head upward, toward the house or the treetops or the sky. When she looks at Brendon again she's smiling sadly. "I want to talk to you," she says.
"No," Ryan snaps. He takes a jerky step toward her, standing not quite in front of Brendon. "You don't own him anymore. You can't - you don't give him orders anymore."
Victoria's eyes widen in surprise, and Brendon can see how she wants to snap back but stops herself. "I know," she says instead. "I'm not. I'm asking. Brendon, may I talk to you for a few minutes?"
Brendon doesn't answer right away, not until Ryan turns to look at him, his expression worried and questioning, not until Spencer says quietly, "You don't have to, Bren. Only if you want."
"Okay," he says finally. He gives them a smile he knows won't convince them. "It's okay. It's not a big deal."
Ryan looks like he's about to argue, but Spencer says, "Okay. We'll go. Come on, Ry."
He touches Brendon's arm briefly before walking away, and after a few seconds Ryan follows. Brendon watches them go up the stairs to the house. When the door shuts behind them, he turns back to Victoria.
"They're very protective," she says, still smiling a little.
"They're just -" Brendon stops. He hasn't thought about it like that before. They're only being themselves, in the way Ryan finds an excuse to remind them every day they aren't slaves anymore, the way Spencer is always watchful, always caring. "We look out for each other," he says, and he feels like laughing for how inadequate an explanation that is.
"That's good," says Victoria, nodding. "It's good that you found - that's good."
She falls silent, and Brendon watches the breeze playfully catch a wisp of her hair.
He says, "Why didn't you -" and she starts to ask, "Is there someplace -" but they both break off quickly. "Go on," Victoria says.
Brendon shakes his head. "You first."
"Is there someplace we can go?" She looks around and stares briefly at the driver unhitching the horses from the carriage. "Rather than standing in the middle of the drive?"
Brendon looks at the house for a moment. There are too many people inside, talking about too many things. "There's the garden," he says. He turns to go around the back of the house, stops short when he realizes he's ahead of Lady Victoria, then feels stupid and starts walking again so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. He's allowed to walk in front of her, to tell her where to go. This is his home, not hers, and she's not - she's not even a noblewoman anymore, not since all her property was seized.
"It's not really a garden," he says. He wants to look back to see that she's following but he doesn't. "I mean, it used to be, I guess, but Gerard and Mikey, they're lousy at doing any kind of maintenance. It's been overgrown for years."
"Oh, lord," Victoria laughs as they round the corner of the house. Brendon does let himself look then. She's only a few steps behind him, holding up her long skirt so it doesn't snag on the untrimmed shrubs. "'Overgrown' is a generous word for it. Is there even a path here?"
"Sort of," Brendon says, laughing. He kicks at a few dried, dead vines and stomps on a thin branch to clear a makeshift path. "There probably is one under all the vines. Spencer was going to plant some things, but we got busy with other stuff. And we tried to get the kids to clear it up a little, but as soon as somebody overheard them pretending to be explorers chopping their way through the jungle they stopped. They think they're too old to pretend."
"The kids?" asks Victoria. She's following him without complaint, even though her shoes are getting scratched and her stockings snagged. "Haven't they all been moved to foster homes?"
"Some of them are staying." There's a curved stone bench near the edge of the garden, beside what used to be a fish pond but is now only a dry, cracked basin of dark gray stone. Brendon stops beside the bench and waits for Victoria to sit down first - not because he has to, he thinks, but because that's what a gentleman does. "We tried to find a family that would take five teenage boys, but none of them worked out," he says. "And I think Gerard and Mikey actually like having them around. Not that they'd ever admit it."
Victoria sits on the bench and arranges her skirts, looking for all the world like a guest at a fine garden party. Brendon sits next to her and looks down at his hands. They're dirty and scraped up from the work he did earlier, and there are holes in the cuffs of his sleeves. There are a thousands things he wants to say, before, questions he's been collecting and discarding for the last year. He never truly believed he'd have a chance to ask. But now that he does, now that she's here, sitting beside him in the sun, he can't remember any of them.
She says suddenly, "Gabe says the younger brother, Mr. Way -"
"Mikey," Brendon interrupts without thinking. "He hates being called Mr. Way." Victoria blinks at him, and Brendon feels his face grow hot. "Sorry," he says, looking down.
But she only says, "Gabe says he's quite a musician. Do you play with him?"
"Yes," says Brendon. "Yeah, I do, all the time. Mikey mostly likes strings but he has all kinds of instruments, and he knows a lot. The kids, they play too, sometimes. We're teaching them - well, I am, mostly, but Mikey's paying more attention now that they're getting better." He can't help the note of pride that slips into his voice, and this, this is easy, talking about the people around him, the things he does, the things that are his. "They didn't know anything at first. They were gladiators - they didn't even know how to sing, just shout a lot, but they really like it and it's fun. It's fun," he repeats, and he stops talking, suddenly awkward again.
Victoria is watching him, squinting in the midday sun. He thinks about how she never remembered to bring a parasol on picnics, how other noblewomen would tut-tut and worry that her face would line, how she would only laugh at them and throw her head back, close her eyes and smile in the sunlight. A year has passed and Brendon doesn't think she looks older. Only sadder.
"You've changed," she says quietly.
I'm free now, he thinks. I'm not a slave anymore. But what he says is, "A lot has changed."
Victoria makes a sudden movement, drops both of her hands to the bench beside her and squares her shoulders. She looks out across the garden with a determined expression on her face. "I have something for you," she says. "There's been a lot of trouble in town lately. There have been - well, problems."
When she doesn't go on right away, Brendon asks, "What kind of problems?" Jon tells him all the news he gets from the other agents in the Cobra, but he knows that lately Jon has been frustrated with the lack of information.
"It's not - you'll find out later," says Victoria, not looking at him. "It is important, but not - not right now. Only that - a few weeks ago there was a man, a judge, somebody rather important, and there was a scandal." She shakes her head quickly, as though dispelling unwanted thoughts. "The details aren't important. Maja was following the man - you saw Maja, she's Gabe's bodyguard - and she, she found some papers, some documents belonging to one of the man's acquaintances. And she found this."
Victoria reaches into a hidden pocket in her skirt and draws out a folded sheet of paper.
"What is it?" Brendon asks.
"Take it," she says, holding it out to him. "Take it. It's -" Her voice trembles slightly, and she pauses to swallow, lick her lips, and she's still not looking at Brendon. "It's yours."
Brendon unfolds the page and looks down. He notices the word scrawled across the bottom first, beside the neat circle of Victoria's seal. His breath catches and there's a roaring in his ears and - his name, it's his name, his handwriting, he remembers writing it because - because she asked him to, she said do you trust me? and he answered yes without hesitation and he signed because she asked him to and -
The page rattles and he lowers his hand to his knee to keep it from shaking as he reads the rest. At the top of the page: the name of her estate, the province in the north, the date, all written in Victoria's elegant handwriting. And below that:
Let it be known that on this day, the Nineteenth of August in this Year of Our Lord, I, Victoria Asher, Countess of Arndale, have liberated, manumitted and set free the slave Brendon Urie, aged twenty years old; and I liberate and discharge him from all services or demand of services by me or any person or persons representing or claiming to represent me or any other entity claiming ownership. As witnessed in my hand and seal upon the date above written,
At the bottom is Victoria's signature, bolding and looping on the tattered page just above Brendon's. Beside it is Ryland's, the word "witness" printed neatly underneath.
Brendon stares at the words without blinking for a long time.
"I meant to set you free," Victoria says, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I thought - when we left, I thought they would find this and they would know -"
"They did find it," says Brendon. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears, and his heart is pounding painfully in his chest. He remembers the page lying on the floor, the unseen man's casual dismissal. "They - they did. They just didn't care."
Victoria makes a tiny noise, but when he looks up her face is as composed and serene as ever. "I should have known there was a chance that would happen," she says, now at a normal volume. "The officials, they have no honor. They'll do whatever they want. I should have known." She clears her throat and folds her hands neatly in her lap. "It's meaningless now, just a piece of paper. You're already free. You don't need that. It's only a worthless piece of paper."
"Why -" Brendon looks down at the paper again. The words blur before him and he blinks rapidly, and the words are tumbling out before he can stop them. "I didn't know, when they came, I didn't know - I told them. About Nate coming to visit you, about - I didn't know, I only saw his back but you said - Pete Wentz's stable boy, that was Tom, wasn't it? Tom was at the house and I told them and that's how they knew to - to look for him, for him and Jon, because I told them and they -"
"It wasn't your fault, Brendon," she says quietly. "None of it was your fault."
She's still not looking at him and he wants her to turn, he wants to reach out and touch her shoulder, her neck, her face, the smooth skin he used to know so well. But he's never touched her without permission. The kisses, the caresses, even the playful breaths on ticklish spots that made her squirm and giggle - never without permission, and now, now everything is different and he only wants to touch her, but she looks as though she might shatter under a comforting hand.
He holds onto the paper with both hands to keep from reaching out and brushes his thumb over the ink, imagining that he can feel the words etched into the paper. Brendon Urie. "I never knew before," he says, mostly to himself. He turns the surname over in his mind, tries it on his tongue, looking for some spark of recognition, but there's nothing. It might as well be a stranger's name. "My family name. None of my owners ever said."
"You were freeborn," Victoria says quietly. "It's - it was on your papers."
"Nobody ever said," he says. He looks up and across the garden, then turns to study her profile. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He isn't asking about his name, and she knows it.
She doesn't answer right away. The day is growing hot and there are fat bees humming through the garden, dancing from flower to flower in wobbly lines. On the third floor of the house some of the windows are open, curtains billowing out in the breeze. Brendon counts over from the end, one-two-three-four, that's the room he shares with Spencer (and sometimes Ryan - and sometimes Jon, those late nights when they're all talking and laughing, serious and silly, voices falling lower and words slurring tiredly until they're all more asleep than awake, wrapped together in a too-warm pile in a too-small bed). Somewhere in the house one of the women is singing, a cheerful, bouncy song to entertain the baby.
"I should have," Victoria says finally.
Brendon looks at her, watches her shoulders move as she draws in a breath.
"I should have told you. I always thought I would," she goes on. "Someday. When it was safe, when it was different. My father had always owned slaves, my parents before they died, and people expected me - you were a good cover." She looks at him then, for the first time in several minutes, and her eyes are too bright. "Nobody suspects silly Lady Asher of having revolutionary ideals, not when she's trotting her pretty little musical pet out to play a song at every dinner party."
Brendon flinches at her words and the angry twist in her voice. He opens his mouth to say something - something, anything, to ask if that was the reason all along, if she knew from the day she bought him what use he would be, if she ever thought during those four years - four fucking years – that he should know, that he could help; to point out that her guests weren't the only ones applauding while he played. But he can't make a sound; his voice refuses to cooperate. His chest hurts and he feels hollowed out inside, detached and light, and the only thing he can feel is the heavy, fine paper between his fingers, creased and soft and gritty with dust.
"I always planned - someday. But I was selfish, I didn't want - I didn't expect you to be so -" She lifts one hand from her lap and reaches toward him. It's gentle and familiar and Brendon is closing his eyes before he can think about it, leaving into her touch. Her fingers are warm on his cheek, lingering for a moment and drawn away too quickly. "So you," she says, and he has to open his eyes again, he has to see, because that's almost a laugh. Almost, but it's gone, and her breath is uneven for a moment before she continues, "They're probably waiting for you inside."
"What?"
"Gabe has something to say to you," Victoria says. She shifts subtly, turning just enough that she's angled away from Brendon, her hands once again folded in her lap. "Important news, big plans, you know, the usual madness. Well. You don't know, I suppose, but you should get used to it."
"But -" But that's it? That's all you have to say? Brendon licks his lips and looks at the document in his hands. "Waiting for me?" he asks.
"They can't make their plans without you."
Brendon stands up, but he doesn't walk away yet. Victoria's head is angled down, her finger brushing over the petals of a wilting purple flower. He looks at her for a moment, and she knows he's watching, there's no way she can't. But she doesn't go still until he leans down and takes her hand, brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss over her fingers. Then he turns and walks away.
He's halfway across the garden before he hears her say, "Brendon."
He stops, half-turns, waits.
"I'm sorry."
Brendon closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, the sun is just as bright, the leaves just as green. "Me too," he says.
Inside the house is shadowy and cool, and he meets Spencer in the hallway just inside the door. "Hey, I was just going to come find you," Spencer says. "We're waiting for - are you okay?"
Brendon nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. What's going on?"
"Are you sure?" Spencer takes a step closer to him and puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder, the way he always does when he thinks Brendon needs calming, or is in danger of bolting, or just needs to be touched. Brendon knows his habits by now and that familiar gesture; it takes some of the tension from Brendon's shoulders. "You look - what is that?"
Brendon's still holding the paper in his hand. He stares at it for a few seconds, then folds it neatly into quarters and tucks it into his pocket. "Nothing," he says. "Just a piece of paper."
"Brendon?"
Brendon lets out a shuddery breath, and that's all the cue Spencer needs to wrap him in a tight hug, rub one hand up and down Brendon's back and press a soft, whispering kiss to his hair. Brendon rests his head on Spencer's shoulder and closes his eyes, and for a minute, maybe two, he doesn't think about anything except the feel of Spencer's arms around him, the sound of his heartbeat.
He finally pulls back a little and Spencer lets him go. "You okay?"
Brendon nods. "Yeah. I am. Just - later, all right?"
"Sure," Spencer agrees easily. "Come on, they really are waiting for us."
Ryan and Jon are in one of the drawing rooms on the first floor. Saporta is sitting in a crimson wing-backed chair across from them, his long legs stretched before him. His bodyguard Maja stands behind him, her face still and serene. She's dressed in silky dark clothes that cling to her curves and wide trousers that drape elegantly and show off her long legs, and there are fine dark lines of paint around her eyes and a twist of red ribbon in her carelessly knotted blonde hair. Six months ago Brendon would have assumed courtesan, the way Saporta's associates are probably supposed to. Now he's met Frank and Bob and Alicia and he knows better. Her lazy stance is half a step off combat-ready, her eyes are alert, and he doesn't doubt for a second that the elaborate folds of her clothes hide weapons.
Ryan isn't looking directly at her, just the same. He's leaning on the desk by the window, arms folded, looking out at the garden, and if you didn't know, Brendon thinks, you might not be able to guess anything was wrong, might miss the flat line of his mouth and the sharp twist of his spine.
Though you could probably tell by looking at Jon. Jon is standing jealously beside him, close enough that his hip is pressed up against Ryan's, glaring. Brendon and Spencer don't even have to look at each other before they're moving too, Spencer going to Ryan's other side and putting a hand on the small of his back, meeting his eyes, while Brendon goes to stand halfway across the room, blocking the strangers from looking at him, crossing his arms and glaring too. "You wanted to talk to us?" he says.
Ryan snorts softly behind him. Brendon glances back and sees that he's looking at his own feet but smiling a little, and he's straightened up, relaxing into Spencer's touch, and Jon's, like they're steadying him. That's good. Brendon looks back at Saporta and Maja and wonders where the others are, if this is a Cobra meeting. He wishes Gerard and Mikey were here: they would stand beside him. Even if he'd been free all his life he thinks he'd have a little trouble defying a man with eyes like Saporta's.
Saporta's face twitches up into a half-smile which quickly vanishes again. He leans forward in his chair and plants his hands on his knees. "I did," he says. "First things first. Mr. Walker, if you look at the desk behind you, there's a newspaper from last week. Take a look at page four."
All of them turn to look as Jon blinks and picks up the paper, which crackles softly in his hands. He turns to the page and his eyes go wide as he reads out, "Dangerous fugitive Jonathan Walker… drowned?"
"Oh yes," says Saporta. "An eagle-eyed soldier spotted you crossing the border near the Beckett place, and after wasting most of a month wondering if anyone would listen to him, he cautiously mentioned it to his commanding officer. That efficient gentleman wisely spent another week dithering before he descended with a squadron upon the Beckett manor, only to find the Beckett heir in residence." He grins. "Lord William was not at all happy to see them and was even less happy when they discovered clear evidence that a hole in the ground he insisted was a disused smuggler's hideout had in fact been occupied fairly recently. He was so upset, in fact, by the thought of some peasant criminal daring to abuse his hospitality, that he insisted on hiring some of the country's finest bounty hunters to help our military friends track you down. And they followed you all the way to the coast, where last Thursday they discovered no fewer than eight men prepared to swear blind that they'd seen you rendezvous three months ago with the captain of a known pirate ship that was in fact sunk by the Navy the week before last. And now the sailors of the good ship Temerity have been alerted to the possibility, most of them are pretty sure they saw you there - especially if it means they get a share of the bounty."
Jon gapes.
Saporta raises an amused eyebrow and says, "It took a little doing. Don't thank me. Now, I wouldn't recommend introducing yourself to any officers of the law any time in the immediate future, but you should at least be able to walk down the street unmolested." He pauses, thinking about it. "If you wear a hat. And maybe shave."
"I –" says Jon, and he laughs a little. "A hat, fuck." He's clutching the newspaper tight enough that it crumples and tears a little in his hand.
Ryan puts an arm around his waist. "You're not stuck here any more," he murmurs.
They all know that Jon's been going a little stir-crazy, though it's worse some days than others. He's used the traveling, carrying messages and helping people across provinces and borders, from one end of the country to another, but with a price on his head it's dangerous for him to go far from the estate. There are days when he doesn't want to talk to any of them, even Ryan, when he snaps at Brendon and won't meet Spencer's eyes, when Gerard's histrionics and Mikey's quiet weirdness don't amuse him but make his jaw tighten, when the kids know to stay away from him, when Frank and Bob watch him narrowly. Those are the days when he vanishes after lunch and doesn't come back until evening, and even then doesn't do anything except sit cross-legged on the bed he shares with Ryan and play with Summer.
It's the least fair part of everything that's happened, Brendon thinks, that the rest of them were set free, but Jon ended up trapped in a mansion a few miles from where his best friend was murdered.
Jon leans into Ryan's hold a little, closing his eyes. Then he opens them again, stands up straight, takes a step forward and says, "Where do you want me?"
Saporta looks like he's forcibly restraining himself from making a dirty joke, but the leer says enough. "All sorts of places, Walker," he says. "Matt and Eric and Disashi have a big bust planned for this year's Coronet market. They say they could use a hand but Travis'll probably go down to help them if you don't. Pete still needs messenger boys, but you won't be able to live under his roof any more. I've got opportunities set up all along the south coast that could use an experienced agent overseeing them – you come from down that way originally, don't you? – and Nate's up to something up north. And over and above all that, we've got trouble in town. The choice is yours."
Jon looks sort of stunned. He shakes his head a couple of times and says, "I don't –" He stops and looks around at the rest of them. His gaze lingers longest on Ryan, just, and Brendon knows what he's thinking. Whatever Saporta wants or plans or thinks is important, Jon isn't going anywhere without the rest of them.
"You don't have to decide at once," says Saporta. "The situation here seems to be under control, for now. I might send Brian down to keep an eye on them once you've left. But before you make any plans about what you're doing next, I have a few things to say to the rest of you."
"About what?" Ryan asks suspiciously.
"Trouble in town," says Saporta. "Maja?"
Maja's been watching the whole exchange in sharp-eyed silence. When she speaks, she has a slight accent that Brendon can't place. "We are no longer as secret as we should be," she says. "Pete, especially, is under suspicion. There have been incidents."
"When you're married to one of the Simpson girls you can be under as much suspicion as you like and no one can touch you," says Saporta. "Thank god for Ashlee and her connections. But it's not too hard to work out Pete's not in this alone. We think there may be –"
"There is," corrects Maja, "a team on our case. We do not know their names. We only know one of their faces. But they are very good." She draws a rolled-up sheet of paper from a hidden pocket in her shirt and strides across to the desk to spread it out. They all crowd around, Ryan's elbow jostling Brendon's ribs, Jon leaning across him, Spencer frowning on Ryan's other side. Saporta comes to stand behind them. The paper has a drawing on it, an artist's impression of a man's face. It's strangely familiar, and Brendon blinks at it as Maja says, "This is the only one we know. I have seen him four, five times, in places he should not have known enough to be in. He is –"
"Bob," says Brendon suddenly.
"What?" says Maja.
"I – his name's Bob," says Brendon. "I've seen him before, at - when they came for Lady Victoria." I liked this job a lot better when we were hunting down serial killers instead. A man in the shadows giving orders. A beating.
Brendon had been alone.
Spencer gives him a concerned look across the table, and then nudges Ryan, who blinks and looks up and then shuffles closer to him. Jon puts his hand on Brendon's shoulder.
"Bob," mutters Saporta. "That's more than we knew before."
"There was another one," says Brendon. "A woman."
"We think – I think – there are four," says Maja. "We do not know who gives them orders. Someone is trying to hunt us down."
"What does that have to do with us?" says Ryan. There's a sharp edge to his voice.
"We run a great deal of business through a certain property of Pete's," says Saporta, stepping back. They all look up from the picture to watch him as he starts to pace the length of the room. "Angels and Kings. A club. You know, music and gambling and dancing girls. Moderately fashionable, very silly, very much above – or rather, below – suspicion. We're worried that's going to change, now they don't have the wild goose chase after Walker here to distract them. Maja says she's seen this Bob lurking around there, anyway. The people Pete has running the place are solid but they don't know too much, for safety's sake, and we don't want to tell them – again, for safety's sake. So I want an agent on base there to keep an eye on things."
"I don't know what you're thinking, Saporta," Jon says, "but I'd stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that. I'm not –"
"We weren't thinking of using you," Saporta says.
Jon falls silent, looking confused.
"Oh," says Brendon.
Oh. Of course.
Spencer and Ryan look as lost as Jon does, but he's not sure why. It's pretty obvious what Saporta's suggesting.
Saporta smiles. "Victoria suggested it," he says. "Patrick backed her up at once. Both of them agree they can't think of a better man for the job – and of course, if you're one of the performers, you've got a reason to be there every day –"
– playing music for a crowd, with other musicians, and honestly, Brendon thinks, it would sound – it would sound perfect, except –
Brendon shifts from foot to foot. They never left him. He had thought they would - thought they should, before they forgave him, before everything changed - but they never left him. They're with him every morning when he wakes up, every day as they plan and scheme and dream of ways to save people, every night when he falls into bed. He won't leave them either.
He bites his lip. Saporta is watching him closely, his expression unreadable.
"I don't know," Brendon says.
"No," says Ryan flatly.
Brendon looks at him in surprise, but he's not talking to Brendon. He's speaking to Saporta.
"I beg your pardon?" Saporta says.
"No." Ryan folds his arms, looking stubborn. Brendon feels an arm wrap around him from behind and he blinks and looks round: it's Spencer, and he's glowering. Even before Ryan goes on, Brendon understands, and warm, bright feeling washes over him. He leans back into Spencer's embrace and lets Ryan explain. "He's not going anywhere without us," says Ryan. He glances at Jon and adds, "Neither of them is."
Saporta raises his eyebrows. "I wasn't suggesting that, as a matter of fact. When I've suddenly got three brand new agents, I like to use them. It's a peculiarity of mine. And none of you is any use to me here."
"Then what do you want?" says Spencer.
"You're Smith, aren't you?" says Saporta. "We've met before, but you probably don't remember. You've acquired a bit of a reputation in the organization, you know. You seem to impress people everywhere you go."
"I'm not –" Spencer breaks off and falls silent. When Brendon twists out of his arms to look at him his face is flushed and uncertain. Brendon puts a hand on his arm, reassuring.
"Aren't you?" says Saporta, skeptically. "That remains to be seen. And in the meantime Maja needs back-up."
"She does?" murmurs Jon. Brendon can see his point. Maja is kind of scary.
Maja shrugs. "I have come too close to being seen too often," she says. "It is not –"
"Safe," finishes Saporta. "At the end of the day, she's too easily traced back to me, and from me you can find everyone."
Spencer doesn't say anything. "What do you want him to do?" says Ryan.
Saporta lifts his eyebrows. "A little of this, a little of that. It depends. Can't he speak for himself?"
Ryan goes pale and Spencer goes still and Jon's eyes go angry, but Brendon cuts ahead of them all by saying, "Ryan can speak for all of us." After a second he feels Spencer relax against him again. Jon nods, folding his arms. Ryan inspects his cufflinks for a moment but when he looks up he throws Brendon a smile, just a quick small one. Ryan doesn't do big smiles anyway.
"Hmm," says Saporta, which could mean anything.
Ryan says quietly, "And what did you have in mind for me?"
"Me? Nothing," says Saporta. "But Pete wants to talk to you, and I've learned to trust his instincts. He sends his love, by the way."
Ryan looks at his cufflinks again, and then at Spencer for a long moment. Spencer takes a half step towards him and says, "Ryan."
"You want us to go to town," Ryan says to Saporta.
"That's the idea," says Saporta.
"Ryan," says Spencer again. Brendon tries to catch Jon's eye, but Jon seems as confused as he is, his eyes cutting between Ryan and Spencer uncertainly.
There are still so many dark places, Brendon thinks. So many things none of them say. It's safer that way, now that the worst of the hurt has been swept away. It's safer to leave the past where it is and not think about it, and live only in the now, in the summer.
Spencer is still looking at Ryan, but he doesn't say anything else. He seems to be waiting for something, or maybe it's Ryan who's waiting. Spencer doesn't say anything, but something in Ryan's expression changes, like he has the answer he was expecting. Ryan looks at Jon, and Jon nods slightly, then he turns to Brendon. Brendon smiles.
Ryan folds his arms. "All right," he says.
"All right?" repeats Saporta.
"All right," says Ryan. "We'll go."
The End