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24 December 2009 @ 04:56 pm
WIP Amnesty  
It's Christmas Eve and we're SNOWED IN. Everyone in the world loves snow, and who gets it? Me, the eternal snow hata. Brr.

WIP Amnesty! My doctor AU. I thought, hell, it's got a Christmassy scene in it, so why not? If anyone's still around, Merry Christmas and/or Merry Friday!

Doctor AU
Ryan/Brendon, PG-13, 9000 words
(You'll have to excuse the Irish terms for medical hierarchy. If you notice, that is.)

Some mornings Brendon still woke up to the sound of gunshots. It was second nature to swing his legs out of bed while he was half asleep, walk over to the window and check that glass wasn't shattered all over the floor. That morning, however, he woke up fully when a twitch of the blinds sent sunshine lancing directly on to his retinas.

"Fuck," he muttered. He half-wanted to snuggle back under the covers, but his alarm was already beeping. Plus, today was the day: first day at a new job, in a new town, with new people.

He tamped down the feverish bubbles in his stomach with a bowl of oatmeal. He ate standing against the kitchen counter, staring out at the disheveled garden. It had been a long time since he'd lived in a place where the sun blazed so strongly at seven in the morning. He added 'buy curtains' to his mental shopping list and also - when he stood the empty bowl in the sink on top of three equally dirty others - 'buy more bowls.'

His laziness in unpacking came to bite him on the ass when he realised his ties were all in the bottom of a box - and which box was anyone's guess. He upended three, snapping the leg off a glass ballerina he actually quite liked while leaving his sister's ugly frog planter intact. The only tie visible was holding together a bunch of fake sunflowers he could have sworn he'd never seen before. This was what came of letting his mother take charge of the packing. The tie was red with a design of piano keys. It was something people who didn't know Brendon at all assumed he would like. By the time he resigned himself to wearing it, he was running late.

The bright yellow light was unforgiving on the pebbledashed paint of Brendon's second-hand Micra. He wondered if he could afford to put 'buy new car' on the shopping list yet. The rent in St Jose was far less than midtown Chicago. Then Minnie spluttered to life and Brendon felt guilty about leaving her for another woman.

The hospital wasn't far from his house - which was the main reason he'd chosen it - but even so, it would have been hard to get lost. Signs for the hospital gleamed from every corner, along with 'Courthouse' and 'Main Street.' St Jose was small enough to have a main street that was actually the main street. Brendon had glimpsed it in passing when he drove to his house the first time. There was a park and everything, with knuckly oaks and benches and a statue-cum-pigeon's-hostel.

St Jose General Hospital sat on a soft slope, the winding driveway to the main entrance dotted with buildings added after the completion of the main wing. This was a majestic redbrick creation, with rickety wrought-iron stairs running up and down the sides. It looked impractical beside the squatter, newer buildings, with their sliding doors and neat windows. Brendon still liked it better.

He spotted a sign reading 'NCHD Carpark' and hastily indicated right. Minnie sailed past the landscaped garden in front of the main wing and a row of parking spaces with discreet plaques. Brendon only recognised one name: Dr Saporta, Consultant Paediatrician. Brendon's new boss.

The carpark under the building was nearly full when Brendon arrived, but Minnie was small enough to squeeze into the spot between a badly parked Merc and the wall. Brendon grabbed his sportsbag from the backseat, hoping his stethoscope was still inside. The bag had sat in the backseat untouched for nearly two months, but it was amazing how things went wandering. Too late now, even if he'd forgotten it. He'd have to steal one off an intern.

The reception area was so quiet, Brendon couldn't believe it. The small convenience store didn't even appear to be open, although it was pushing eight. A receptionist pottered around behind the glass partition. She hadn't opened the blinds yet, but one of them was rucked up and looked like it had been for at least a decade. The sign suggested she should be open for business from seven forty-five; it was also more antique than the blinds.

Brendon hated to be rude, but he also hated to be late. He drummed lightly on the glass with his knuckles. The receptionist looked up, adjusted her bright pink glasses - Brendon had a pair almost like that at home, but he intended to see which way the wind blew before wearing them at work - and winched open the partition.

"Visiting hours are from ten to twelve and two to four, dear," she said.

"Actually, I was looking for the doctor's res," said Brendon, "but I'll keep that in mind."

The woman's eyes - already creepily magnified - widened further. "You're Dr Urie?"

"Yes," said Brendon, a little unnerved, "how did you -"

"Audrey was sure you'd be older," said the woman. "She'll be down twenty dollars, unless you're a very young forty."

"I'm twenty-eight," said Brendon, "but -"

"Not thirty?"

"No, not yet -"

"Damn," said the woman, "now I'm down twenty dollars."

The squeal of an opening door drew Brendon's hopeful eyes. The receptionist had clearly forgotten his question completely. The woman who came through the door had thick honey-coloured curls arranged in a haphazard bun, with little wisps framing her face. Brendon hoped she wasn't Audrey.

"Hello, Dr Salpeter," said the receptionist. "Would you be a dear and show Dr Urie to the res? He's the new one." She mouthed this and pointed, as if Brendon wasn't standing two feet away from her. Dr Salpeter's lips trembled, but all she said was: "Sure, Margo. I was just on my way there."

Dr Salpeter didn't say anything until they were in the elevator. She punched the second floor button and said, "Margo's very nice."

"I'm sure she is," said Brendon. Plenty of nice people took bets on the ages of people they'd never met. He knew this because he was from Vegas.

"She's been here for years," said Dr Salpeter, "and she knows everything about everyone. Everything."

"Sort of like the Mafia, then?"

Dr Salpeter's lips trembled again. "No, the Mafia tend to be more subtle. So, now that we've cleared that up -" she put out her hand and Brendon took it. "- I'm Dr Salpeter, but you can call me Greta. I'm the SpR on your team."

"Oh, excellent," said Brendon. "You can call me Brendon. So, what age did you bet I was?"

"Ninety-seven," said Greta.

"Long odds on that?"

"You'd be surprised," said Greta. "We don't get many young people coming in here. Going out, yes. The last one in was Dr Ross and that was two years ago."

"I suppose he's a sprightly sixty," said Brendon.

"Only mentally," said Greta. She didn't ask him anything about why he was here. As she rightly said, St Jose - nice though it was - was the sort of place people tried to get out of if they wanted their careers to go anywhere. Brendon had already prepared a pat little speech about 'taking a change of pace' and 'reevaluating his goals'. The truth was that no programme wanted to take on a mediocre psychiatry junior registrar who'd barely scraped the boards and walked out three months into his job. Plus, it wasn't like he'd been thinking clearly when he applied for paediatric schemes. He'd vaguely recalled that he'd liked the rotation as student, six years ago, and that it would save him buying a white coat.

The elevator clanked slowly upwards, gears wheezing like the work was a personal insult. Brendon noticed that there were only enough buttons for three floors. Someone had plastered stickers all over the actual buttons: one of them was a smiley face with x-ed out eyes and a joint falling from the curving mouth. Brendon would have liked to peer closer and see how much more inappropriate the others were, but he didn't want to appear unprofessional. Instead he coughed and pulled at his tie.

"Nice," approved Greta. "One of the kids we've got - you'll meet him on rounds - is mad about music, and also has no sartorial sense whatsover. Irving. He'll probably want to adopt you."

"I think my parents might object, but he's welcome to my tie." Brendon made a face - the one that used to make his mom shriek about his contact lenses popping out, back when they were new. "The perils of unpacking."

"Ah." Greta raised one pale eyebrow, like James Bond in a Bo Derek costume. "I'm glad. I personally can't abide novelty ties."

"Nor can I," said Brendon. "Yet I have a whole drawer-ful. Apparently I look like the sort of person who loves them."

"You do," said Greta. "But that's a good thing. Always keep them guessing."

Finally, the elevator shuddered to a halt. Brendon started forward, but Greta shook her head. Sure enough, the door winched open by minute degrees, revealing tantalising stripes of the third floor. It took a full minute to open enough for them to slide through.

"We were going to fix it," said Greta, "but then someone suggested an MRI instead. Still, there's always the stairs."

Brendon, never the most patient of individuals, thought he'd be investigating that option pretty quickly.

The doctor's res in Chicago was vast, airy and always cold, with plenty of beds for on call. From the looks of things in St Jose, doctors doing nights slept three to a bed, or on the floor. Brendon had heard plenty of rumours throughout his training and working life about the things other people got up to in on call rooms - the key point that it was always other people - but he'd always put them out of his mind with a half-formed prayer that housekeeping changed the sheets regularly. But the St Jose on call room was literally a dormitory. Brendon was hard-put to conceal his horror.

"Is this, uh," he cleared his throat, "the only place to sleep?"

"Up here? Sure. Sometimes we nap in the ED, though - it's never too busy." Greta didn't seem bothered by it. She showed him to the kitchenette and lounge - about five feet away - where a man with dreadlocks neatly combed into a plait and a tall, gangly man in a neon yellow suit were having what looked like a killer game of patience.

"Perfect," said Greta, "the team's all here. Guys? This is Brendon Urie, the new SHO."

"The new SHO?" said the yellow suit blankly. "What, has the sky fallen in? Since when do we get new SHOs? I'll have an intern, next."

"Don't hold your breath," dreadlocks advised him. "It's nice to meet you, dude. I'm Dr McCoy, but everyone calls me Travie."

"And everyone calls me the Cobra of Death!" declared the yellow suit. Brendon pawed nervously at his tie. St Jose's big attraction for him was the fact that it only had a liason psychiatry service and no inpatient ward. He was hard pressed to explain the existence of the yellow suit in those circumstances.

"Don't mind Gabe." Greta rolled her eyes. "He spends too long playing stupid computer games so he can keep up with the kids."

"It's called an Xbox," said Gabe, "actually. Also, it's vital research."

"Did you read the journal articles I emailed you?"

"Yes. No. Wait," said Gabe, with a distinctly sulky tone to his voice, "aren't you supposed to do that for me?"

"No." Greta leaned over and hauled Gabe to his feet. "C'mon, rounds. I want to catch breakfast before clinic, and I'm sure Brendon wouldn't mind a guided tour."

"I'm far too busy and important," said Gabe, standing up like it had been his idea.

"I know," said Greta, "that's why I'll get someone else to do it." She turned to Brendon. "We had an SHO about six months ago, but she moved on - as usual. Travie's been doing that work, but he's really a junior reg. For today you can just fall in with the routine, but over the next week you'll pick up the slack. Sound okay?"

Brendon nodded enthusiastically. "And when do I get to meet Dr Saporta?"

Greta's mouth trembled. She didn't seem to smile much, but Brendon recognised the set of her mouth from the ward rounds when schizophrenics would declare that George Bush was poisoning their Jello. "You already have. Gabe, come over here and act like a consultant."

Brendon blushed to the tips of his ears. "Oh - I'm so sorry, I didn't realise -"

"Yes." Gabe tapped his lip thoughtfully. "I really need to get that electric halo working again. It was extremely useful, at drive-throughs and so on."

"C'mon," said Travie, bumping arms with Brendon. "I'll show you where we keep the charts. Gabe needs another coffee before full functionality returns."

Brendon followed Travie in silence. He dared to look back once. Gabe was once more sprawled on the tatty couch while Greta checked her pigeonhole; on seeing Brendon's glance, Gabe dropped an enormous wink and mouthed something. His hand gestures were borderline obscene. At the last minute Greta turned around and caught him. As Brendon hurried after Travie, he thought he heard slapping.


The children's ward was just as rustic and - Brendon's brain thought the word before he could help it - provincial as the rest of St Jose Hospital. The walls were covered in the usual murals, but they were faded and the Disney characters were twenty years out of date. One of the wall cabinets had tinsel collecting dust on top of it, even though it was July. The linoleum was licking up hopefully in corners and Brendon couldn't see a single computer.

And yet. He liked it.

"Okay, this is Unicorn Ward," said Travie. He pulled out a pink drawer covered in rainbows to show Brendon the charts stacked inside. They were made of a crumbling cardboard Brendon hadn't seen in years. Each one had a huge pastel cloud sticker on it, filled with the child's name and a list, a sample of which included: 'I like colouring and ponies and nice nurses.'

"Doesn't that kind of - break confidentiality?" asked Brendon, pointing to a sticker informing him that Susan Bradshaw did not enjoy carrots.

Travis spoke slowly. "You think someone reading about how kids hate injections is breaking confidentiality?"

"I don't know." Brendon tried again. "It's a bit weird?"

"Kids like weird," said Travie. "They watch TV programmes narrated by a talking sponge. It reassures them."

"Oh." Brendon was on safer ground here - only where he came from, reassurance meant stopping old men with dementia from exposing themselves in the cafeteria. "I get it."

"Yeah, so." Travie shut the drawer with a clang. "We have three wards. Unicorn Ward is for medical patients, Mermaid Ward is for surgical patients and Pixie Ward is for mothers and babies. We also have a neonatal unit down the hall. It's really small - we all kind of take turns looking after it. It only has five cots, and we don't often get full occupancy."

Brendon nodded along. He reached into his pocket, expecting to find his PDA, only to remember it was at home in a box. "I, um. Could I borrow a pen? And maybe some notes paper?"

Travie laughed. "Relax, man. The routine is easy and I'll be here if you have questions. Just be chill. It's your first day."

"Yeah, so." Brendon rubbed his hands and bounced a little. "When do I get to meet some patients?"

Travie's smile widened, and Brendon knew he'd been won over. "As soon as Gabe's finished shooting up caffeine. Irving's going to dig your tie, dude."

"So Greta said." Brendon took a look at Travie's tie. Roadrunner leered out at him. "She hates novelty ties."

"Believe me, I know." There was something a little wicked about the way Travie said it.

Huh, thought Brendon, who said paediatricans were supposed to be nice?


Irving turned out to be a spunky little ten-year-old with acute leukemoid leukaemia. He was in for chemo and he had no hair. Brendon thought the others might have at least warned him.

Then again, from the way Greta kissed his stubbly head and Gabe sat down to have a serious discussion about Mario Kart with him, maybe they didn't even notice.

"Hi, Mrs Kell," said Travie, smiling professionally at a thin wisp of a woman who slid through the curtains clutching a styrofoam coffee cup. "This is Brendon, he's new to our team."

"Nice to meet you," said Mrs Kell. She pushed her limp hair out of her eyes, using a left hand without a ring on it. She barely glanced at Brendon.

Brendon had the chart and a pen filched from Greta, so he stood to attention while Gabe took Mrs Kell aside. Brendon conscientiously dated a new page and put his beep number underneath it. He hadn't had to write standing up since he was an intern, but the juggling techniques came back to him almost instantly.

"He's doing well," said Gabe in a low voice. "You'll let us know -"

"If he gets diarrhoea or coughs up blood, I know." Mrs Kell sounded impatient, but Gabe didn't betray a flicker of annoyance. Brendon felt it, and was impressed at Gabe's forbearance. "I've been through this six times already, remember?"

"Of course I remember," said Gabe. "I'm just trying to do the best I can for Irving."

"Huh," said Mrs Kell. She sat down on the armchair beside the bed and picked up a copy of US Weekly. As Greta chatted to Irving, managing to question him about his diet while admiring his Transformers toy, Mrs Kell began flicking desultorily through the paper.

"Before we go, would you like to meet Brendon?" asked Greta. Brendon started at the mention of his name - and then Irving was staring up at him, bright eyes too big in his wasted face.

It was at that moment that the panic lurking in Brendon's brain chose to attack. It had stalked him while Travie showed him the wards full of little people, screaming and yelling and doing all sorts of alien things. It had lain in wait while he scribbled notes from the Sunflower book and wondered if every childhood illness presented with vomiting and poor feeding. But now, right now, faced with a real child who was ill, Brendon froze.

Irving's pyjamas were stamped all over with little Spidermen. Brendon's knees bent on instinct and he said, his voice dopily high, "So, do you like Spiderman then?"

Irving's gaze was steady. "Not really, Dr Brendon. My aunt gave them to me. My cousin James likes Spiderman. I like the X Men."

"Oh right, Hugh Jackman," said Brendon. Irving looked at him, as bemused as Brendon felt.

"Your tie is really cool." Irving's voice was tiny and shy, as if he felt Brendon's anxiety.

"Can you play the piano?" asked Brendon. Irving opened his mouth, glanced over at his mother - who was absorbed in the latest Britney Spears scandal - and shook his head. "It's really fun. Look, I'll show you."

And he sat down and held out his tie and put Irving's small, IV-scarred hands on the keys. Irving smiled and the panic receded a little. Brendon felt relieved. Maybe he was going to survive this after all.

Five minutes later Travie suggested that he try inserting a central line in a five-month old baby, and Brendon changed his mind at the same time as the baby's screams crashed against his eardrums.

"I didn't realise they'd be so loud." Brendon was shaken, and he had blood up to his wrists.

"Dude." Travie looked like he wanted to laugh, but the mother was in tears. "They're babies. It's what they do."

"Excuse me," said Brendon faintly. He dropped his gloves in the yellow bin and ran to the nearest bathroom, where he promptly threw up.


It felt like several days had passed when lunchtime arrived. For a relatively small hospital, and an even smaller paediatric unit, the rounds had taken hours. Gabe liked to talk at length with each child, which seemed to have more to do with avoiding Greta's paperwork than anything else. Although maybe Brendon judged him too harshly; Gabe was certainly more on the kids' level than the rest of them.

"Outpatients this evening, then," said Greta, as the catering staff doled out chicken curry and salad that was well on the way to becoming compost. "I'll make sure you get most of the discharges; just check with one of us each time. You're used to that, right?"

Brendon nodded, too exhausted to even speak. Gabe disappeared at lunchtime - to some cushy consultants' retreat, Brendon assumed - but Travie and Greta stuck with Brendon, and remained as bouncy as they had at eight that morning. Brendon was utterly, utterly thankful that he wasn't rostered for call for another three days. He was pretty sure he'd fall asleep on a pile of Tonka trucks if he'd been forced to do it that night.

He zoned out of the conversation, listlessly prodding his lunch around the plate. He barely noticed when a fork zoomed in and scooped up the only decent leaf of lettuce he'd received.

"Pete!" said a scandalised voice. "You don't know where that's been!"

Brendon, shaken out of his daze, looked up into the grinning face of a man eating his lettuce. His sleek grey button-down was covered in pins and buttons; Brendon started to get a sneaking suspicion about the origin of the elevator stickers.

"Thanks, man," said Pete. "I needed that."

With a sigh, a shorter man with sideburns slid into the chair beside Pete's. He was only wearing one pin, which read 'Infection Control.' Brendon wasn't sure how the guy's fedora fit in with that, but he wasn't about to ask. Infection Control were scary.

Greta leaned around Travie. "Don't scare the newcomer, you two. We've only had him a day."

"You're Brendon Urie!" crowed Pete. Brendon blinked and nodded, wondering if everyone in the hospital already knew his name. "Welcome, welcome. This place is regrettably short on lettuce and other legumes, but it's otherwise fantastic."

"That's Pete and I'm Patrick." Patrick started cutting his vegetarian lasagne into neat, tiny cubes. "Please wash your hands between every patient."

"I do," said Brendon. He tamped down the urge to hide behind Travie or inspect his fingernails for dirt.

"Don't mind him." Pete slung an arm around Patrick's shoulders, and were those tattoo shadows Brendon could see under his shirt? Brendon tried not to stare. "I've put huge signs above every bottle of alcohol rub, you can't miss them."

Brendon hadn't missed them. The signs were written in an impressive graphic font on foot square orange card: they said 'Wash those paws OR ELSE!!!' As infection control measures went it was quite effective, especially with the grinning skull and crossbones drawn underneath.

Greta stood up and waved over a group of people dressed in searingly pink tunics. "Excellent! You can get to know some of the paeds nurses, Brendon. That's Jon, Keltie and Audrey, in case you don't remember from before."

Brendon mouthed the names to himself. He definitely remembered Audrey, because she'd decided to co-ordinate her hair and accessories with her uniform. Brendon had never before seen so much pink in such a small space. The others were less familiar. He'd met so many people in the last seven hours - both staff and patients - that they all blurred together.

Jon's hands were covered in paint and he had two red spots on each cheek, like a consumptive clown. He high-fived Travie, who said, "Did you get stuck in the playroom again, my man?"

Jon shrugged. "It's good practice." His eyes lighted on Brendon and he smiled, a slow lazy expression that made Brendon feel like they'd been friends forever. "Hey, Dr Urie. How are you settling in?"

"Like a log in quicksand," said Brendon, too tired to be dishonest. "And call me Brendon, please."

Jon reached across the table and shook Brendon's hand. His grasp was warm and dry and left Brendon with a smear of blue poster paint across his palm.

Audrey looked at Brendon with big, sad eyes. "You've cheated me out of fifty dollars," she told him. "Why did you have to be young and cute?"

Brendon's cheeks heated up. Audrey was pretty, in an obvious and intimidating way. She tucked a strand of candyfloss hair behind her ear as she held eye contact. Her fingernails were the colour of Barbie's living room, and Brendon was sure that wasn't allowed.

Before Brendon could do more than mutter, "Uh, sorry?" Patrick jumped into the conversation. It was immediately obvious that Brendon wasn't the only one who'd noticed Audrey's nail polish.

"God damn it, Audrey," groaned Patrick. He rummaged in the tote bag hanging from his chair back and emerged with a small bottle of varnish remover and a bag of cotton balls, which he send whooshing down the table in Audrey's direction. "I'm going to start charging you."

"Whatever, I had a date last night." Audrey slid her hand into the bag of cotton balls, managing to make it look cool and sexy. Or maybe that was just Brendon's brain. Audrey winked at him. "It sucked, though."

Brendon smiled at her, putting all his charm behind it. She smiled back and started cleaning her fingernails. Her hands were thin and brown, the tendons standing up in tiny cords.

"Here, sweetie." Keltie plunked a plastic cup full of - Brendon wasn't sure what - on his tray. "It's a toffee yoghurt. They're as rare as hen's teeth but a lot tastier. You look like you needed a treat."

"Wow, thank you so much." Keltie beamed at him. Despite the fact that she was young, blonde, and even hotter than Audrey, she radiated motherliness at him.

Brendon felt like crying, but he'd felt like crying for hours and had already cried twice. He reached for a spoon, only to remember that he hadn't got one. "Um, does anyone need anything from the cutlery tray?"

There was a chorus of 'no, thanks'. Brendon manoevred himself away from the table, catching Travie's hair in his watch and almost falling over Greta's bag in the process.

For such a tiny hospital, the doctor's mess was huge. People were dotted around in twos and threes, hidden by sprawling fake palms and shadowed by huge, ugly abstract paintings.

One was an angry slash of red paint across a four-foot square canvas. And that was all. Brendon was amazed that people got paid for doing things like that, but his attention was distracted by the guy sitting right beneath it. He was wearing blue scrubs, which meant surgery, and a burgundy scrub cap emblazoned with gold birds, which meant surgeon. He was also wearing a string of wooden beads around his wrist: big, chunky ones. He had surgeon's hands too - long, spindly fingers. They were currently ripping apart an orange.

Brendon ignored the sudden spike of his heart rate in favour of plunging his hand into the dish of spoons. He overestimated his reach, though, and a shower of spoons went clattering to the ground. Brendon crouched down to scoop them up. One of them had weaselled itself right under the rack. His knees clicked when he finally straightened.

The surgeon was staring at him. Brendon gave him a 'what can you do' face and got, in return, the most freezing glare Brendon had ever had the honour of receiving. Although Brendon was used to the various rivalries and snobberies that predominated doctor-doctor interactions, the surgeon was the first person in St Jose to be anything but welcoming to him. It was strangely disconcerting.

"Are you okay?" asked Travie, when he came back with a spoon and a thoughtful expression.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asked.

"Your nose," offered Travie. Greta elbowed him.

"Nope, why?" she asked.

"Nothing, it's just -" Brendon glanced over to the surgeon's table. Another guy was sitting with him now, in matching blue scrubs, but with a headband instead of a cap.

"Did Ross say something?" Audrey made a face.

"No - but I dropped some spoons and he just sent me this glare, you know? I thought I'd accidentally killed his pet fork."

"Ross is like that with everyone," said Audrey. "Even when he was dating Keltie -"

"I thought we agreed never to speak of it," said Keltie, shuddering.

"The only person he talks to is Spencer." Audrey twisted around. Ross caught them looking and his face went dark. Brendon hurriedly sat down, to be out of Ross' line of sight. "Yup, there he is. Spencer's just quiet, he's not a total bitch like Ross. Stay out of his way if you can."

"Surgeons don't mix with us ordinary doctors, are you kidding?" said Brendon. But he glanced over more than once before the meal was over, strangely drawn by the thin hunched shoulders and the dark curls escaping from the ridiculous cap.


Brendon was actually looking forward to his first night on call, even if it started with a five-year old with norovirus vomiting on his shoes. Fortunately, Travis had warned him on the first day to make sure to keep a spare change of clothes in his locker, so Brendon manfully squished to the changing rooms and pulled on his second pair. He was less nonchalant when a second child threw up on him. After changing his shirt, he had to run down to theatre barefoot and beg for a pair of clogs, jumping from one freezing sole to the other. Of course, Spencer would be the one to answer his knock. He didn't say anything in response to Brendon's fumbling explanation and plea and, when he was finished, shut the door in his face. Brendon was on the point of stealing Jon's flipflops (even if it meant Jon driving home in his work shoes, which he hated doing even more than catheterising babies) when the door opened again and Spencer shoved a pair of greyed clogs in his face.

"Thank you," said Brendon, "you're a lifesaver."

"That's what they say," replied Spencer dryly. Brendon looked down at the name inked around the soles.

"Wait, these are -" But the door was already closed. Brendon wasn't about to knock again. "Mr Ross'," he finished. "Shit."

Still, even the prospect of a night smelling of vomit in one of the poky on-call beds was preferable to going home and facing the mountains of unpacked boxes and the expanding foothills of unwashed laundry. Brendon was not one of nature's cleaners. His house was, at the moment, a cheerless, empty place. In another week or two he'd feel comfortable enough to invite a few people over for a house-warming, but at the moment he was still on the edge of too new.

He shlepped back to the wards in Ryan Ross' too-large shoes - seriously, the guy had about two heads on him; what was Spencer thinking? - to finish the discharges. The paediatrics department was of the revolving door type, and it was nine o'clock before Brendon could even think about having a snack. The canteen was closed, so he went straight to the res, where there was always free bread and sometimes muffins.

The first person he saw was Ross, staring forlornly into a cupboard. Brendon resigned himself to having a bad night and tried to shuffle the hems of his pants over his clogs. Ross seemed barely aware of the world, let alone Brendon's footwear; he said, one palm pressed against the countertop: "There is no oatmeal bread."

"There's never any oatmeal bread," Brendon pointed out, from his vast experience of a week. "Who eats that shit?"

"I do," said Ross mournfully, and he didn't look at all bitchy or intimidating - just sad and purple around the eyes.

Brendon didn't choose to look at him for too long. None of the cautionary tales he'd heard from Keltie and Co, or the less amusing but more balanced accounts from most of the theatre staff, succeeded in quelling the bright jump Brendon felt in his nerves when he saw Ross, or heard his voice - usually verbally ripping someone to shreds. Brendon wasn't a fan of the 'teaching through humiliation' school of thought, but he thought he heard more pent-up frustration than genuine misanthropy in Ross' tone.

Or maybe it was just that Brendon had a thing for tall, skinny, verging-on-pretty guys that he didn't like to acknowledge.

His eyes slid past Ross' face and settled on an astonishing site - a lone muffin sitting in the bread bin. It was chocolate, too.

With a strong feeling of heroism, Brendon said, "Why don't you have that muffin?"

Ross turned, looked at the muffin like it had personally offended his ancestry, and said, "That has chocolate in it."

"I know." Brendon went for some jazz hands. "Yay?"

Ross stared at him for a full minute and a half, before turning on his heel and stalking to the lounge. He changed the channel from MTV, which was the general consensus, to Fox News, which everyone hated. Brendon included. He looked sadly at the muffin.

"It's just you and me, kid," he said, and took it to bed with him.


Either Audrey or Pete had had an evil hand in the party decorations. Brendon had never seen so much pink and silver tinsel; it was like looking at an exploded working diagram of Hello Kitty. Rather than tack the tinsel up in traditional swags, the decorators seemed to have used it for dartboard practice. Pieces of it were looking suspiciously bald - suspicious because Pete kept throwing handfuls of glittery stuff into people's drinks and yelling, "Happy Non-Denominational Winter Celebration!"

Despite Pete's best efforts, the antique Christmas tree in the corner remained. There were nods to its inclusive status in the Hanukkah candlestick perched precariously on the deposed angel's spot, and various lopsided snowflakes and tipsy Santa Clauses. What really caught Brendon's eye, though, was the groaning food table. Zack and Dirty had gone all out for it, and Zack was helpfully herding people from 'entrees' to 'main courses' while Dirty manned the dessert station and rationed the plastic cups of wine. Brendon felt sorry for the people who were working tonight and had to miss this, even though he'd actually heard some people complaining about coming into the hospital on their day off.

When he told this to Audrey, his voice rising in indignation, she raised one dyed-pink eyebrow at him. "Guess who's one of the guys on shift?" she said, displaying a distressing tendency to smirk at Brendon's outrage. He'd forgotten how much louder he got with every passing dose of wine. "Spencer Smith. I'm surprised Ross even came without him."

"Mr Ross is here?" Brendon peered over Audrey's shoulder. Audrey shook her head and steered him around in a circle.

And there, indeed, was Ross, standing as poker-straight as if he were at the operating table and with a face to match. He was dressed in the most hideous ensemble Brendon had seen so far tonight - and given that people used to wearing the uniform equivalent of pyjamas all day did not develop the savviest sartorial skills, that was saying something. Ross was a spider dipped in mustard, decorated with the paisley remains of his victims. Yet despite that, Brendon could feel the arrogance he radiated from where he was standing.

"I don't know why he bothers coming to parties if he's just going to blow everyone off," said Audrey, and something about her word choice made Brendon's face fill with fizzy heat. He was also struck by determination.

"I'm gonna talk to him," he said. As he spoke, a new porter proudly sporting bumfluff offered Ross a drink. Whatever he said made the porter turn pale and gulp down his peace offering in one go.

"Good luck with that," said Audrey sardonically. Brendon barely heard her, already revving himself up for the challenge ahead.

It was a surprising let-down when all Ross said in response to Brendon's greeting was, "Hey, Dr Urie."

"C'mon now," said Brendon. He bared his biggest, brightest grin, and Ross recoiled a little. "You can call me Brendon. Everyone does."

"All right ... Brendon," said Ross. Brendon noticed that he didn't extend the same privilege to Brendon, but since he hadn't yet sent Brendon off in tears he counted it as a win. Ross didn't volunteer anything further; he seemed extremely fascinated by his own elbows, which were crossed over his chest.

"So, isn't this great?" Brendon enthused. His voice was coming out of the same tunnel that contained all the numb, reassuring epithets he used on patients. He could talk on autopilot like that for hours; his record so far was six. "Have you had some of the food? The quiche is out of this world. The decorations are pretty hilarious, too." He paused for breath to find that Ross was staring at him with the same fixed gaze he'd recently been bestowing on his chest. Ross quickly dropped his eyes when they met Brendon's.

"Are you always this ... enthusiastic about everything?" Ross asked.

Brendon shrugged. "This is a party. It's supposed to inspire enthusiasm. That's kind of the point."

"Yeah, but ... quiche?"

"It's good quiche," Brendon protested. "Seriously, try it! You will not be sorry."

"Geez, you're like a one-man happy parade," muttered Ross. As if on cue, someone behind them dropped a glass. Brendon grit his teeth through the shattering.

"Come on," he said, grabbing at Ross' spider buffet shirt. Ross jolted along behind him. Brendon thought it was a good thing the entrees table was just behind them; he didn't think Ross would have tolerated being manhandled for long.

"Two pieces of quiche, please and thank you," said Brendon. Zack eyed him askance.

"You've already had three," he said.

"Oh, these aren't for me," Brendon reassured him.

"I'm not going to eat two pieces of quiche," said Ross. Brendon fake-groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes.

"Thanks for blowing my cover," he said. Zack handed over two paper Barbie plates.

"If you feel like getting sick," he said, "remember to go home first."

"Love you too, Zack." Brendon blew him a kiss, the plates in his hands wobbling. Ross grabbed one and, of his own volition, steered them over to a window. Brendon was a little surprised - there were still normal tables set out, covered in Barney tablecloths - but he plumped down beside Ross on the broad, shallow lip of the windowsill.

"You know his name?" said Ross, quietly.

Brendon extracted his teeth from his slice of quiche and said, "Who? Zack? How don't you know his name?"

"Isn't he on the catering staff?" said Ross. There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. Brendon slowly put down the quiche.

"Yeah," he said, "he's on the catering staff that makes all the food in the hospital for the sick people and the people looking after them. Unless you think cooking is a job better suited for doctors."

"No, I -" Ross flushed and fiddled off a corner of the pastry. "I can't even make scrambled eggs." He pushed the morsel into his mouth, looking away.

"Really?" Brendon sniggered. "I mean, what, eggs can be challenging."

"Shut up," said Ross, but the corners of his mouth momentarily flared from their straight line.

They finished their quiche in what Brendon liked to think of as companionable silence. Brendon finished first and sat licking the crumbs off his fingers while Ross nibbled around his tomatoes. When it became clear that he was directly avoiding them, Brendon leaned over and plucked them off.

"Thanks," said Ross. "Spencer usually - I mean. Yeah."

"Now we need some dessert," said Brendon firmly, tugging Ryan by the sleeve. Brendon could see Dirty in the distance, behind a gleaming pile of jelly and sugar. In between them and this promised land lay a Pete Wentz.

"Stop, you guys!" he crowed. "Mistletoe!"

"What?" said Brendon.

"What?" said Ross.

Pete pointed and winked. Drooping listlessly from a beam was a sprig of mistletoe, the leaves spraypainted silver and the berries daubed in what looked very much like Audrey's favourite shade of nail varnish.

"That is so lame," said Brendon, grinning despite himself. Ross, on the other hand, was practically spitting with rage.

"How dare you foist such unsanitary -"

"Oh shut up," said Brendon. He bounced up on tiptoe and pressed his lips to Ross'. They were a little dry, a little chapped, but warmer than Brendon expected. He beamed up at Ross when he leaned away, feeling more nervous than Pete's delighted cackles could account for. Ross stared down at him, at his mouth, and Brendon realised Ross was going to kiss him back.

Not really analysing why that felt like such a very good thing, Brendon flung his arms around Ross' neck and pulled him down until Ross had to bend him backwards to keep their balance. It was the perfect Hollywood kiss, except for how hard Ross' mouth felt. It wouldn't have killed him to part his lips a little. It wouldn't have killed Brendon if there'd been some tongue, but that probably wouldn't fly in mistletoe-induced making out.

"Definitely the best so far," Pete approved. Brendon was pretty sure that was a cameraphone Pete was tucking nonchalantly back into his pocket. He was even more sure when Pete took down the mistletoe and carted it off to surprise some other unfortunate victims. There was undoubtedly going to be a slideshow o'blackmail in this the next time a patient was diagnosed with MRSA.

"So," said Brendon, rattling on quickly before Ross could voice any of his - justifiable - complaints. "What are you doing New Year's Eve? You should invite me over for a scary movie marathon. It would rock." He'd said this to at least three people already, all of whom took his light, joking voice at face value, clapped him on the shoulder and said what amounted to, "Yeah right, I have so many better things to do."

Ross actually looked like he was considering it. Brendon felt a leap of hope in his chest. He wasn't going home for the holidays and while working both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would distract him a lot, Gerard refused to assign him a rota on New Year's as well. Apparently even Gerard, basement recluse, thought Brendon had made good enough friends that one of them would think to invite him somewhere to ring in the new year.

"Why would I do that?" asked Ross, which wasn't 'no.'

"Well, we have swapped saliva," said Brendon. "It's only polite."

"I'll have to ask Spencer," said Ross. At Brendon's blank look, he added, "We live together."

"Oh," said Brendon. It was like the last piece of the jigsaw slotting into place. Audrey's tantalising whispers, Keltie's terrible experience with dating Ross, the rumours about Spencer's sexuality, the fact that Ross was so snappish and defensive, the mystery shrouding his rapid exit from his previous job. The lukewarm kisses. Ryan Ross, previously unconnected bits of sky, now formed a whole. A little spark that Brendon hadn't even realised he was nourishing flickered out.

On the other hand, Ross was still talking to him. He hadn't shot down Brendon's self-invitation with scorn. In fact, he looked like the only alternative to a night of watching Times Square in the company of ramen and ice-cream. Hanging out with Ross was slightly less enticing now that the scenario included his live-in boyfriend, but Brendon could deal. He'd been doing it all his life.

"You do that," said Brendon. "Tell him I'm awesome. I'll even make you some eggs."


Brendon arrived at Ross and Spencer's flat armed all the vital necessities required to make an awesome, stunning and unforgettable New Year's Eve, as well as a carton of eggs. He hadn't forgotten his jokey promise, mainly because he'd replayed the conversation in his head several (thousand) times and even repeated it to Greta in strictest confidence. She also listened, mostly willingly, to the list of items he decided to bring along. The list grew longer with each passing day. Brendon could tell Greta sometimes wanted to laugh in his face: her lips would tremble like she was kneading down on the inside of her mouth; but for some reason, she'd look over at wherever Dr Saporta happened to be and her expression would clear.

There was a long enough pause between Brendon ringing the doorbell and Ross answering it that Brendon started to think if Ross had forgotten - or worse, changed his mind. He was just dolefully wondering what on earth he'd do with fifty multicoloured sparklers by himself when Ross opened the door.

He looked incredibly grumpy and his curls - which Brendon judged hadn't been barbered in a long time - flopped limply across his forehead. He was dressed in an old, sagging pair of sweatpants that barely clung to his protruding hips and an inside-out t-shirt with sweat marks under the arms. It made quite a contrast to Brendon's natty grey button down, brown vest and skintight jeans, but he was so relieved to see Ross he didn't care.

"Hi," he said, bouncing a little on his toes, "you look like you forgot I was coming."

"I didn't," said Ross. He sounded hoarse. "I just forgot what time it was. Uh. Come in."

Brendon obediently followed Ross through a tiny, dusty foyer into a living area that opening into the kitchen. It looked a lot like Brendon's house, only a lot smaller, and he wistfully crushed his notions of swanky surgeon quarters complete with white fainting couches and single lilies in tall blue vases. There were even greasy pizza boxes open on the floor, which Ross kicked under the couch with an expression that was nearly guilt.

Spencer emerged from another door, towelling his hair and trailing steam. He stopped dead when he saw Brendon, possibly because his modesty was barely clothed by a weency Mickey Mouse towel tucked around his waist.

"Hi," he said, running his eyes slowly over Brendon - everything from his carefully styled hair to his armful of brightly coloured boxes. "You're that new paeds doctor. Brandon."

"Brendon Urie, pleased to meet you." Brendon pasted on his biggest smile. "I know you're Spencer Smith. I'd shake your hand, but they're kind of occupied."

"No, that's okay," said Spencer. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

Before Brendon could answer, Ross spoke. "I invited him over. Or, well, he invited himself, mainly."

"If I'd know you were having a guest over I'd have made you clean," said Spencer. "Sorry, Brendon. He's a total slob and we've both been working a lot of nights this week."

"Oh, it's fine," Brendon assured him. "My place looks like a pit too." Belatedly, he realised this wasn't the most tactful way to address the issue. "I mean, I'm messy too. That's what I mean. Uh, I should probably put this cake in the fridge."

"I'll show you." Ross seemed relieved to have something to do besides stand around awkwardly, so Brendon let him point out the fridge, which was easily visible from the living room.

"You brought cake?" Spencer sounded amused.

"Hell yes I brought cake, Spencer Smith." Brendon loved the alliteration in Spencer's name. He loved it in Ryan Ross' name too, but he felt shy about unleashing all his wackiness on him. "I also brought sparklers and indoor fireworks, three different flavours of chips, beer, wine, Sour Brites, Cabbage Patch Kids, Twizzlers, M&Ms, gummi worms, cheesy dip, balloons and a wide, wide range of DVDs."

He dumped his stash on the kitchen island as he spoke, and Spencer picked up a DVD. "The Neverending Story?"

Brendon nodded solemnly. "It's a classic."

Spencer cracked a small smile. "Well, I hope you guys have fun. No wonder Ryan was so reticent about coming to this party. He could have just said he was entertaining a friend."

Friend, Brendon reminded himself. Just a friend. Also, he didn't want to make Ross' boyfriend jealous. Spencer wasn't much taller than Brendon, but in his half-clothed state Brendon could see the muscles in his arms and chest. Spencer Smith was fierce, and Brendon was ... not.

At that point Brendon looked around for Ross, who had disappeared. Spencer bid him a cordial goodnight and went to his bedroom to change, so Brendon cooled his heels on the couch. While it wasn't anything like as stylish as Brendon imagined - in fact, it was brown velvet and pretty ugly - it was extremely comfortable. Brendon wiggled himself into the corner and started tapping out a rhythm on his knees. He hoped Ross would reappear soon; Brendon had skipped dinner with the intention of filling up on junkfood, and now he was hungry.

When Ross finally appeared from the bedroom beside Spencer's, Brendon caught his breath. Gone was the ratty nightwear, and in its place was a mint-green v-neck and dark jeans tight enough to rival Brendon's own. Brendon was unable to keep from smiling his appreciation. Ross ducked his head and scrubbed at his hair in an appealing show of bashfulness.

"Looking good, Ross," said Spencer, who strolled out of his room dressed head-to-toe in black, his hair slicked to his scalp. "I'm delighted you finally chose to remove those pyjamas from your stinky self."

"Shut up," muttered Ross.

"Three days he's been wearing those," Spencer informed Brendon. "Three days."

"I've been on nights," said Ross indignantly. "I - oh, shut up," he finished when Brendon grinned at him and Spencer laughed outright.

"I bet you've never done something so disgusting," said Spencer.

"No, I sleep naked," said Brendon. Spencer raised his eyebrows and shot an indecipherable glance at Ross, who'd inexplicably turned red.

Brendon hopped up from the sofa and followed Ross into the kitchen, where he was staring at the array of processed carbohydrate swamping every surface. "Surprise!" said Brendon.

"This is - um. Yeah." Ross' eyes were more hazel than brown, Brendon realised headily. "You didn't have to."

"Of course I have to, you look like you live on celery," said Brendon, to a 'he so does' from Spencer. Brendon lowered his voice and brushed his hand quickly over Ross' shoulder. "I like your shirt."

"Thanks," said Ross, his voice also soft.

The sound of Spencer shouting his goodbyes jerked Brendon's awareness away from the way Ross' long, exposed throat worked as he swallowed, and the faint, spicy smell of his skin. Bad. he admonished himself, and spun around to grab the DVDs - anything to put between himself and Ross.

"The Neverending Story?" Ross quirked his eyebrows in the exact same way as Spencer. Brendon felt a small, subtle rending somewhere inside.

"All three of them," he said, "plus as much nineties teen drama as you can handle - Clueless, She's All That, Ten Things I Hate About You and the entire first season of Dawson's Creek."

"Wow, you really - like all this stuff?" Ross glanced across the splayed DVD cases.

"No. The point is to mock and laugh at them," explained Brendon patiently. "Well, except for the Neverending Story. That franchise is golden."

"Right," said Ross. He spoke with the dry tone of an unbeliever, so Brendon spent the next fifteen minutes detailing exactly why the Neverending Story was a pinnacle of cinematic achievement, focusing mainly on the fabulousness of Luck Dragons. Meanwhile, he marshalled Ross into finding him bowls and spoons and divvied out the chips, cake and candy. Ryan chose to take a glass of wine, while Brendon picked up the sixpack of beer and carried it to the couch. No point in leaving it behind in the kitchen all lonely and undrunk.

Seeing as Ross was barefoot, Brendon didn't hesitate to kick off his flip-flops and tuck his feet under himself. The couch was actually pretty small, barely a two-seater - Brendon guessed it made it easier for Ross and Spencer to snuggle, and tried to ignore the shredding feeling coming from the direction of his heart. He valiantly ignored the fact that if he stretched out even a little, he could brush his toes along Ross' thigh.

Ross held up the remote to press play, but Brendon stopped him with a horrified noise. "We need blankets," he said.

"Uh, it's like ninety degrees out and the aircon is on," said Ross. Brendon waved away these petty details.

"You need a blanket to hide from the Nothing," said Brendon. Ross sent him a level stare. "What? The Nothing is scary!"

Ross didn't reply, but he did get up and pull a huge, hairy green blanket out of a closet. "This is the only one we have," he said, settling it on Brendon's lap.

"We'll just have to share," Brendon decided, feeling slightly less valiant than before when Ross rolled his eyes and pulled a corner of the blanket over his legs.

If Ross were any of his other friends, Brendon would have no hesitation in dumping his feet into Ross' lap and maybe demanding a footrub. For a few minutes, as Ross scrolled through the DVD setup, he debated with himself. Ross was his friend - right? Sure, Brendon might have harboured ideas about them being a little more than that, but - well. Spencer.

"Ross," said Brendon, "we're friends, right?"

Ross' large hand stilled on the remote. Brendon noticed he'd accidentally chosen German in the language setup. "I guess so."

Brendon hadn't expected such a lukewarm response. He turned bodily to face Ross. "C'mon, we are. You've totally made out with me! It would be churlish to refuse."

They'd dimmed the lights and drawn the curtains in preparation for long-haul TV-watching, but Brendon swore Ross' cheeks darkened. "Is that your word of the week?" he asked.

"And what if it is?" Brendon crept closer, coming to rest his chin on Ross' bony shoulder. Ross didn't answer for a minute.

"Yeah," he said, "maybe you should call me Ryan."


Once he had a foothold in snuggle territory, Brendon fortified his defences. He reminded his bleating conscience that Ryan was a friend - nevermind the delicious, ridiculous thrill it gave him, being allowed to say 'Ryan' - and Brendon was a tactile guy. Besides, it made it easier to throw the blanket over both their heads when the Nothing made its first appearance.

Brendon could feel Ryan's throaty laugh, feel it when he spoke as a thrumming vibration that curled Brendon's toes. "Uh, what are you doing?"

"It's scary," Brendon pointed out. "No, don't look!"

There was a stunned silence, followed by Ryan saying, "It looks like a hairy Muppet."

"Hey, don't insult Muppets," said Brendon. "I know a guy who'd kill you for just insinuating anything bad about them."

"I don't think Muppets are supposed to be scary," said Ryan. "Are you telling me that - that hand-puppet is?"

Brendon reluctantly unshroved his head from the blanket, papping out little bits of furry cashmere. "I suppose it doesn't have exactly the same effect when you're not five."

Ryan looked him over slowly before he said, "I guess not." He didn't shrug Brendon off and in fact moved his arm a little so that Brendon's head fit more comfortably into the crook of his neck. Despite the obvious perils of Ryan's overwhelming and often unexpected boniness, Brendon wasn't inclined to move. Ryan didn't even make an objection when Brendon clung to his shirt during the Swamps of Sadness scene, even though he pulled it hopelessly out of shape.

There was even a point where, if Ryan was someone else - someone without a hot and fight-ready boyfriend like Spencer - Brendon might have thought he was putting the moves on him. There was a lot of snuggling, even by Brendon's standards, where Ryan ended up with his arm over Brendon's shoulders and his fingers cool on a vee of skin exposed by his shirt. When Brendon looked up into his face, gleeful because Max had defeated the bullies and was waving to Atreyu, heat seemed to spill from Ryan's eyes and hover between them. Ryan even canted his head, lips parted. But Brendon thought he must have been imagining that, because - Spencer.

However, he didn't trust his own self-restraint in the face of Ryan's soft eyes and almost-smiling mouth, so he jumped up, announcing they needed more supplies for their Dawson's Creek marathon. And maybe balloons.

Obviously, they get together, and Irving dies. Although not simultaneously.
Current Mood: coldf'ing freezing
Current Music: polyester poetry // sugarplum fairies
oops: *chinhands*oddishly on December 24th, 2009 05:20 pm (UTC)
I am dreadfully torn between delight at the story, and sorrow that it will never be finished :((((((( TAKE THE COMPLIMENT AND RUN WITH IT :D:
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: bands PATD Brendon/Ryan backwards hugscoradh on December 26th, 2009 12:12 pm (UTC)
the claw-foot Lady: [bu/rr] find a man who'ssoftlyforgotten on December 25th, 2009 02:58 am (UTC)
Ross seemed barely aware of the world, let alone Brendon's footwear; he said, one palm pressed against the countertop: "There is no oatmeal bread."

"There's never any oatmeal bread," Brendon pointed out, from his vast experience of a week. "Who eats that shit?"

"I do," said Ross mournfully, and he didn't look at all bitchy or intimidating - just sad and purple around the eyes.


I concur with Helen! This is adorable and gorgeous, though. Although IRVING WHAT! D:

I keep thinking I should watch Dawson's Creek, but I feel like I need someone to watch it with so I can pretend I like it ironically.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 26th, 2009 12:20 pm (UTC)
Whaaaaaaat? It's a medical drama, a cute kid HAS to die, it's the Rules. :P

I used to watch some of it on TV. It's very We Have Emotions, Let Us Show You Them! You should be grateful for the advent of the OC and Gossip Girl to clean up its mess. :D
Shiva: haroldmowglimoonshado on December 26th, 2009 12:20 am (UTC)
Is this going to be finished? Eventually? I hope so! I love the setting, and the dry tone that's peppered with all these little details. Merry Christmas~
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 26th, 2009 12:10 pm (UTC)
Unfortunately I don't really see that happening, which is why I put up the WIP Amnesty flag! Still, I agree - I liked the writing in it. It's always good when it's something I can't finish. D:
tell me your heart doesn't race for a hurricanejocondite on January 1st, 2010 04:36 am (UTC)
OH, I LOVE THIS. RYAN, A SPIDER DIPPED IN MUSTARD. BRENDON'S CUNNING STATEGEMS. It's even perfect just as it is, but I would hock a kidney for Brendon and Ryan getting together. Lovely, lovely story. ♥
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: bands PATD Ryan blue shirtscoradh on January 1st, 2010 05:42 pm (UTC)
Those pictures of Ryan in the karaoke bar with Z are among my favourites of him, ngl. THEY MAY HAVE ... INFLUENCED ME SLIGHTLY.

:D! Thank you, ma cherie. :DDD