The first thing she noticed was the raging migraine, like a disorganized madrigal of Jolly Chimp cymbals were clanging through her head.
Secondly came the feeling of emptiness, one much more throttling than she had ever experienced before.
Then she remembered.
She squinted against the light. Her hand fell to her stomach. She looked to the man sitting nearby, his head bowed in sleep.
"David," she said in a voice that was not her own.
He mumbled something and shifted in the chair.
"David," she repeated, a stronger decibel despite the raw feeling in her throat.
"Bren?" His eyes flew open, those beautiful blue-grays staring straight at her. "Oh my God, Brenda. You're awake."
"David, what happened?"
He squeezed her hand, pressing a tiny kiss to it.
"Hold on. Let me get Brandon and Donna. They're gonna be overjoyed to see you."
"David, wait; where's -"
He had scarcely left when he returned with the other two, who ran towards Brenda and stopped short of her bed.
"Brenda. Thank God," said Donna, her fingers blurring in the sign of the cross. She had learnt it at a young age and still brought it out on occasion, choosing to grasp onto it as hope during the troubles of her dear friends - of which there were many.
The Walshes had been Presbyterian during the twins' youth and, though she wasn't sure that she herself believed, Brenda had always been fascinated by Donna's steady faith. It was a faith that matched that of her grandparents, the one that brought out the family Bible during Christmas evenings and sang old hymns well into the night.
She had avoided Minnesotan Walsh Christmases, declining invitations always accepted by Brandon in the hope that Dylan wouldn't feel uncomfortable by the opinions so contrary to his own.
She supposed that no longer mattered, now that she would be a single mother with an ex who would attempt to pay her alimony and child support.
That didn't matter, either, for Brenda did not want a damn thing from Dylan McKay.
Well, unless he could discover the secret of time travel and turn the clock back to before they had ever met. Brenda would have walked with Donna that day down the stairs instead of Kelly, which may have resulted in an entirely different ending with a completely different first boyfriend who wasn't known for entrancing half of West Beverly.
She would have gone to the spring dance with someone else. She would have married someone else.
That Brenda would have woken up not in a hospital bed for reasons she did not yet understand, but rather in the bed of her spouse, whose gaze would have focused solely on her.
"I really thought we'd lost you." Donna's hand quivered against her lips.
"Don." Despite the ache in her muscles, Brenda swung out her arms.
Smiling through her tears, Donna launched herself into the embrace.
"Careful," Brandon grinned.
"Oops. Sorry." Donna inched away.
"'Is okay," Brenda replied with her own soft smile. "Brandon?"
"Hey sis." He kissed her forehead, grazing a hand over her hair. "You gave us quite the scare."
"What happened?" she asked again.
They told her then: about the LAX shuttle, her mangled car, her days of unconsciousness and the surgery.
"How's the -" She couldn't get the words out. They nosedived into the whirlpool in her throat, just as lost to her as her marriage.
"The baby?" Brandon helped.
"Yes." Brenda tried to nod, stopping when the movement increased her headache. "Baby. How's my baby?" She absentmindedly stroked her stomach, the way Dylan normally did in the mornings before she awoke.
She had to force herself to start forgetting him. He didn't care. Why should she?
"Bren," Brandon sighed, digging a hand through his hair, "You - you were seriously hurt in that crash. I mean, we didn't even know if you - if you would live and your injuries, they -" He carried a heaviness not often seen on Brandon Walsh. "They brought on early labor."
Brenda sat up, edging out of the hospital sheet.
"Bren? Where are you going?"
There were many sleepovers between them - or chatovers, their parents had joked. In the months between moving back from London and reconnecting with Dylan, Brenda had shared an apartment with Donna and Clare. She sometimes wondered if she knew Donna Martin better than she knew herself; yet, in that moment, she didn't.
Even Donna Martin's voice wasn't ordinarily coated in nearly as much sympathy as Brenda now heard.
"To see my baby," she replied. "In the NICU?"
"Brenda, you just woke up from a freaking coma. You shouldn't be going anywhere." Brandon's gentle touch cupped her shoulders.
"I want - wanna - want to see my child."
"I wish you could, Bren." Brandon's face became contorted in sympathy. "I really wish you could."
"Brandon?"
"I'm sor -" he swallowed, "so sorry."
"Brandon." Her voice became smaller.
"Brenda," Donna draped an arm around her shoulders, "Honey, it was just too much for such a tiny little thing, even with those strong Walsh genes."
"Walsh-McKay," said Brenda on instinct, before shaking her head. "Never mind."
It began to set in: Donna's implication.
"What - what are you saying, Don?"
"Brenda," more tears glimmered in Donna's eyes as she leant forward to embrace her friend, "oh sweetie, I'm so sorry."
"N - no." Denial clung to Brenda's throat like a rancid aftertaste of expired peanut butter. "No."
"Do you want me to get anyone, Bren?" Brandon's face held helplessness, sympathy and a whole range of other emotions she never wanted to see him wear. "Mom, maybe? Dad?"
All Brenda wanted, however, was her child.
"Where's Dylan?" The question, so prevalent in her mind, exited her lips before she could stop its utterance.
Brandon exchanged a look with Donna. "Do you want us to get him?"
Brenda thought it over. Did she want her husband there, to mourn with her, to offer a comfort to her that would intensify her pain?
Yes.
No.
No, she mentally punctuated, deciding that if Dylan cared, he would have been sitting in David's place - David, whom she now noticed had quietly slipped away during the conversation.
"Fuck Dylan," she answered instead. "If he cared, he'd be here. He obviously doesn't give a shit about me or my child, so fuck him."
She noticed a Ziploc bag containing her wedding band on the table beside her and weakly hit at the plastic until it fell to the ground.
That ring was supposed to be lost somewhere on Casa Walsh's driveway, or perhaps in the bushes nearby. Brenda wondered what the fuck it was doing anywhere near her.
She decided she would give it to David. He could sell the damn thing in a pawn shop or on eBay and use the money for that video production company he had talked about starting.
"Brenda -" Donna began.
"Don't even try to make excuses for him, Don."
"I'm not," she said with a twinge of hurt.
"Bren, Dylan; he's -" Brandon tried.
"Really, Bran? You're really gonna defend him after he fucked your girlfriend?"
"Of course not. He hurt you," Brandon replied, and that was the end of that as Brenda turned to her side, weeping.
It was a whole week before Brenda saw him, disheveled and scruffy. He had not yet turned back to liquor to solve his problems, but Brenda had not known that at the time and, had she known, she wouldn't have cared.
Or, she would have told herself she didn't care, as she would tell herself many times in the following years.
"Thanks for calling me," Dylan had said, briefly glancing at her from the driver's seat.
"I didn't," she had answered curtly, staring ahead rather than at his mournful face.
"Then thank your stage manager for me," he had amended, adding, in a murmur, "Bren, I miss you." A hand had stretched across to graze her shoulder, a gesture that would have typically been answered with the leaning in of her face into his palm.
This time, however, Brenda had stiffened until she was convinced she had morphed into cardboard, and replied that she did not miss him.
"You do miss me, Bren. You know you miss me, even if you're scared to admit it," Dylan had countered, stroking her shoulder.
"Scared?" she had scoffed. "Scared of what? Why should I miss my ex?"
"You not wearing your ring doesn't automatically make us exes."
It angered her that he had had the gall to still wear his. For a moment, she had imagined ripping the band off his finger and throwing it out the window, into the cooled kite weather.
"Would you prefer adulterous ass of a husband? Or how about best friend fucker? Oops, my bad, ex-best friend."
Dylan had once talked the possibility of flying a kite, with the child they no longer had. They then spent the afternoon searching for the perfect kite, only to end up crafting one themselves with Donna's help.
That kite now sat in a landfill, slowly disintegrating along with Brenda's dreams.
There was one dream she could still cling onto. In order for it to be fulfilled, she had determined that she would need to do everything possible to shut out Dylan, to make him hate her as much as she longed to hate him.
But the jerk wouldn't budge.
His hand had faltered as he flinched. "The doc said you shouldn't be alone right now. You may hate me for shit I can't figure out, but I'm still your husband and that means something to me."
"Means something to you?" she laughed bitingly. "What, as your easy prey? Someone for you to fuck when you feel up to it and toss aside when you don't? I never thought Stuart would look so good in comparison. I should've just run off with him. Maybe I still can."
"Run off with that fucking -" Dylan had begun to mutter, then cut himself off with a shake of his head. She had noticed the way his muscles tensed through his loose white shirt. "I know what you're doing, Bren, and it's not gonna work. You can't make me hate you. You can't stop me from loving you, and I do. I do love you. If you don't believe me on anything else, if you won't let yourself believe that I didn't sleep with Kelly, then at least believe me on that. You can't stop me from trying to save us, especially when," and here he had clenched at the wheel, "when you were thisclose to knockin' on Death's door. We both lost a lot that night, but we don't have to let our grief destroy us."
"Please, like you know anything about my emotional state."
"I know you've already thrown yourself into work to avoid dealing with your grief. I know you feel like slinging a grenade at the world, because I feel the same."
Fuck him.
"Don't go through this alone, Bren. Trust that you're my universe and let me - let me take care of you. I'd really," he shakily inhaled, "I'd really like to take care of you. Baby, I'd like to come home."
"It's half yours."
"I'm not talking about the place, Brenda."
"It's the only home we have."
"We?" he had inquired with radiating hope, which would be dashed the following day when Brenda asked Brandon to help pack up her belongings whilst Dylan was out.
Getting groceries.
Like it was just another Sunday.
She left Dylan behind without a second glance on a Sunday. She boarded a plane to Paris on a Sunday. She got engaged to Finn on a Saturday and then booked a ticket for LA on a whim, on a Sunday. It was a Sunday when Dylan handed Brenda her old ring on an Oxnard beach, a Sunday when he granted her a divorce and, as Brenda once again awoke in a hospital, she was relieved to hear the television broadcaster announce in the clipped English accent of a non-native speaker fluent in the language that it was a Thursday; for this Sunday, she was determined to spend in Dylan's arms.
"Brenda." Brandon jumped out of the chair. "Hey. You've come around. Welcome back."
She asked where she was, then why she was there and finally, who he was.
"You don't know who I am?" asked a crestfallen Brandon.
"Are you my doctor?"
"No one wants me to play doctor, trust me." He bit his lip, shifting uncomfortably. "Maybe I should get one."
"Oh, but you made such a cute doctor in pre-K."
"Brenda!"
"As if I'd forget you, Bran."
"You really had me going there." His face was torn between annoyance and relief. "We found you slammed up against the wall. You could've easily jarred something in your brain."
"Well, I didn't." She tapped his hand reassuringly, looking around the room. "Where's Dylan?"
"He wants to be here, believe me. They won't let him."
"Won't let him?" Brenda asked incredulously. "You didn't tell them to keep him out, did you?"
"No no, nothing like that. He's in recovery, like you. Been awake longer than you, though. Already tried to sneak out of bed once before. The nurse caught him. Maxim had to translate, but it was easy to tell she was pretty pissed."
"Is she a pretty nurse?" Brenda asked on instinct, but then continued on after deciding she would ignore all reflexive thoughts of envy. "Never mind. What do you mean, he's in bed?"
"Brenda, he was shot."
"He was shot?" she tried to scream, but it came out in more of a light yelp.
"Marchette fired a gun at Finn. Dylan jumped in front."
"My Dylan McKay saved the life of Finn Cavendish?"
"I know. Hard to believe, isn't it?"
"I need to see him."
"Finn?"
"Dylan. I need to see Dylan."
"I don't think that's such a good idea, Bren. It's only been a few hours since you've been off the ventilator. You really should stay in bed."
"Brandon, I'll heal a lot more quickly if I see him."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Brandon, please?"
They continued squabbling over the matter until Brandon gave up, checked with a doctor and brought in a wheelchair.
"The second your lungs give way, you're coming right back here," he groused.
"Love you too, Brandon," she said cheekily.
"Look, I'm fine, okay? I have to get to my wife!"
He was sitting up in bed, arguing with two others, and yet to Brenda, the sight was magnificent.
She would have cleared her throat, but as she found she could not, she nudged Brandon to do so for her.
"Brenda." Scads of relief invaded Dylan's features. "You're off the vent."
"He says you're my husband," Brenda said, nodding at her twin.
"Says?" She could almost see Dylan's palpitating heart rocket into his throat. "Brandon told you I'm your husband? You mean, you - you don't remember?"
"I vaguely remember having a husband, but it's been an awfully long time since I've wanted to acknowledge it."
"Not funny, Brenda," Dylan scowled. "The crash nearly left you brain-dead and here I found you unconscious, again. I was so terrified I was gonna lose you for real, that I'd have to bury you with our daughter. Don't ever joke around like that."
"Okay, I won't." Brenda rolled the wheelchair forward. "Hello, hero," she said, reaching for his hand.
"I'm not a hero." He grasped hers.
"Well, today you're Finn's hero." She spoke slowly, her voice quiet, breathy; healing after her second round of intubation. She prayed it would be her last. "And therefore, also mine."
"They told you?"
"How you saved my ex's life?" Brenda coughed. "Yeah, Brandon did mention it."
"You should be in bed." Dylan surveyed her disapprovingly.
"That's what I told her," Brandon piped up from the corner.
"I'm fine," Brenda said.
"Brenda."
"Okay, so I'm not fine - in fact, I ache all over; it's even painful to talk - but I had to see you."
"You see me," Dylan smiled, wincing as he held out his arms. "Not the best shape, but I'm here. I'm alive. And so are you, despite your little joke."
Brenda turned to gesture with her eyes at Brandon, who took his cue and slipped away long after the other two already had.
"You really should be resting, Bren."
"Does this count?" With the help of Dylan's good shoulder, Brenda raised herself out of the wheelchair and into his waiting arms.
"Probably not," said Dylan, but he kissed Brenda's hair and snuggled her against him regardless. "God, I've missed you."
"I've missed you, baby," she said, and she knew he picked up on the double meaning of her words.
It had been years since she allowed herself to miss him, but the truth was that she had missed him nevertheless. In Dylan's embrace, Brenda felt all the peace she would ever need and it confirmed what she had already accepted.
She didn't belong with Finn Cavendish; Rick from Wisconsin with the surname she never bothered to learn; Tony Miller, her prom date; Jim Townsend, her first fling; Zachary Hotchkins, her kindergarten crush; Tim the cardio funk guy; or the man whose name she would endeavor to erase from her memory.
She belonged with Dylan McKay.
Brenda Walsh and Dylan McKay. That was their choice, sealed on a beach in Oxnard, nearly broken by outside forces she had once thought to be imaginary. That was the choice she now wanted to make again, if he would still have her.
"Sand dollar for your musings," said her husband.
Her husband. That reminded her that they still required a discussion.
"It's a penny," she said.
"Don't you remember the legend?" he asked.
Brenda remembered two legends of the sand dollar: the one she had been taught in Sunday school with her cousins sitting beside her and the one Dylan's mother had told them during a visit to her home atop a pineapple mountain.
"Atlantis."
"Yes." Dylan pressed his nose against hers, rubbing their noses together until their foreheads touched. "Lost currency of Atlanteans. They worshipped Poseidon."
"Poseidon? You remember?"
"You thought I wouldn't?"
"No. I knew you would." She tucked her head into his uninjured shoulder, lightly tracing the dressings wrapped around his other. "Does it hurt?"
"Remembering?"
Brenda gave him a look.
"Oh. The shoulder. Feels like a tractor zoomed across it, but as you can hear, I'm doing well all things considered. Breathing's fine. Talking's fine. Bullet didn't bounce around to any major organs."
"They gave you drugs, didn't they?"
"They did." Dylan shifted her ever so slightly. "Oxycodone, hydrocodone; dunno, one of the 'codones. But I swear I'll go straight to an NA meeting when we get back."
"You're hurt," Brenda pointed out. "You're allowed drugs."
"You could kiss it." He spoke nonchalantly, locking their hands atop the dressings.
"Don't think that would help."
"Won't know unless you try."
"You said the same thing before my first surf."
"And I was right. You loved it."
"Love," she corrected. "Love surfing. Love riding - on horseback and your bike. And I," Brenda fought the burn in her throat, trying to speak the words she had sought to keep buried for so long even when they both knew precisely how she felt, "love - I love -"
"It's okay, Bren. I know."
"No, let me - let me get this out. Dylan, I love you. It's im - impossible to stop loving you and I - I don't want to stop. I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" In twenty-nine years of existence, Brenda was certain she had never seen anything more alluring than Dylan's beaming grin. "Brenda, you've just made my year. If I haven't stressed it enough, the love I have for you is an amount so great that few have ever adequately expressed it. You'd have to combine a few hundred poets and novelists to try."
"I'm sorry for letting you - letting you sign those papers when you - when you didn't want to. I'm sorry for choosing Finn."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when Carson grabbed you. We heard the whole thing on Kelly's phone and I - I -" His gaze lowered. "Bren, I've got a confession."
"What is it?"
"While you were fighting Carson and Donna was knocked out, I was," Dylan hung his head in self-beratement, "I was in a damn bar."
Stunned, she asked, "Did you drink?"
"No." He furiously shook out his curls. "But I bought a drink, a fucking Amber Moon."
"Did you want to drink?"
"Not at all."
"Then don't beat yourself up over it."
"Beat," he echoed. His stare latched onto the bruises carved into her arm. "Did - did he try to beat you into submission?" Dylan's eyes whipped shut. "I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me."
"It's okay," Brenda said, though they both knew the situation was hardly acceptable. "Actually, he tried to hypnotize me."
"Hypnosis?" Dylan's jaw twitched.
"World-renowned hypnotist, apparently."
"Must not be that great."
"Must not," Brenda smiled.
"Explains why he was so convinced you'd wake up in love with him."
"I'm only in love with you."
The contours in Dylan's chest began to dip in and out. "You're - you're not in love with two?"
"No. Just you."
He clumsily reached for the clear bag on the nearby nightstand, knocking over a digital clock as he did so.
Brenda laughed. "Let me." She lifted the bag from the table and gave a small gasp at its contents.
"I think this is yours." Dylan scooped out a chain. "May I?"
She nodded, fingering the necklace he clasped against her collarbone.
"You found it."
"You were clever enough to leave it."
Brenda glanced down at both halves of the heart. "Don't you still want your half?"
"I don't need a broken heart, Bren, and neither do you. I want you to have our complete, intact heart. I'll take the half whenever we're apart, which I hope won't be often." He dug out her ring from the bag. "Do you," he asked in a puff of air, "do you want this back?"
"Did Sherice tell you what I said?"
"She did, but after everything that's happened, if you need to wait or you've changed your mind, I'll understand -"
Brenda silenced him with the touch of her lips to the curve of his neck.
"I do. You're my husband, Dylan. I'm your wife and I do want my ring back."
There they were, the dimples that caused her heart to break out into a samba.
"You have no idea how happy that makes me." He slipped the band down her ring finger, settling it with a kiss. "Please don't take it off again."
"I won't," Brenda promised, and began to laugh.
"What is it?"
"I was just thinking of when I threw it at your head."
"I put it right back on."
"I know. It was on the bedside table when I woke up. Only recently figured out why."
"So this is déjà vu."
"Definitely déjà vu."
"With a different ending."
"Which is just another beginning."
Dylan again set his lips to her finger. "Right back where it belongs."
"Right back where I belong," Brenda emphasized.
"Yeah." He kissed her cheek. "Right back where you belong." She caressed his dimples. "Nous monterons les sentiers -"
"Y escucharemos al mar -" Brenda continued, on cue.
"Juntos," they said in unison.
"We will ride the trails -"
"And listen to the sea -"
"Together." A peace fell over Dylan, his hand settling along her stomach. "Just you and I and," he hesitated, "Bren?"
"Mm?" Sleep beckoned. Brenda fought it, wishing to relish in their reunion.
"Is there a chance we slept together one of those nights we were really exhausted and just didn't know it?"
"I think I'd remember sleeping with you," she smiled.
Dylan heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I'd remember sleeping with you, too." He carefully lifted her chin. "And you're sure that test Bran and I saw was actually negative?"
"I'm sure."
"There's no chance you and Finn; I mean, when you left with him, you didn't, ah, didn't sleep -"
"We didn't."
Dylan nodded, slowly, though he was far from relieved. There was, instead, an intense sorrow inked across his countenance. The sparkle that had brightly shone in his eyes now dimmed considerably. "Then I want you to know that no matter who the father is of this child or how they came about, I'm gonna love him or her like my own." He gently grasped Brenda's abdomen. "They'll be a McKay in all the ways that count."
At first baffled, Brenda realized the context behind Dylan's odd comment before she questioned his statement.
"You think I'm pregnant?"
"I mean," he looked confused, "the prenatals and Carson - Carson said - but, but we all know he's a fucking liar. You aren't?"
"No, Dyl. I'm not. Promise. I just told him I was."
The explanation only heightened Dylan's puzzlement. "Why would you tell him that?"
"To save Finn."
"Brenda, you're just confusing me more."
She proceeded to tell him of the storyline in the early seasons of her series, when Anabelle Bellerose faked a difficult pregnancy to avoid testifying against her old boyfriend, Sacha, before they learnt that Anabelle was indeed expecting.
"I remember that," Dylan said. "Didn't they find out the kid was Rémy's and then Sacha skipped town after the real killer was caught?"
"You watch my show?"
"Sometimes," he smiled. "I'm kind of in love with the lead. Is she still with Henri?"
"Technically."
"Technically?"
"She's with Henri, but Rémy's drawing her in again."
"Well that's because Rémy's the love of her life and they have mad chem." Dylan grinned wickedly.
"Maybe. Depends who you ask."
"I say he is."
"Anabelle thinks so, too."
"What does that have to do with Cavendish?" Dylan asked, interlocking their fingers.
"Stuart threatened him and you and Brandon; everyone, really." She took a moment to explore the wrinkles on his fingers and catch her shortened breath before continuing. "I convinced him that it'd be better to gain Finn's connections than kill him."
"By pretending to be carrying the Cavendish heir. If Carson told Finn's parents he had hold of the mother of their grandkid, they would've given him anything," Dylan realized.
"Exactly."
"That's pretty genius, Bren."
"Merci beaucoup."
He stared at her lips, running the pad of his thumb along their corner. "It's taking everything in me to not kiss you right now."
Her eyes darted to his. "I want you to, but -"
"But it's too soon," he nodded, understanding.
"It's not soon enough," she corrected, sliding the dorsal side of her fingers across his chest. "I just - I'm afraid that -"
"That it'll hurt?" His thumb paused on the spot Stuart had gnawed her lip until it bled.
God, she must look an utter wreck; yet, he gazed at her like she had just stepped in front of a throng of cameras at the César Awards.
She shook her head. "I'm afraid it will bring on a memory, a memory I desperately want to forget."
"I understand," he said. His evident sadness was disheartening; his acceptance, appreciated. "We can take our time. I don't want you to feel like you have to force yourself before you're ready. I don't want you to be scared when I kiss you." He caressed her hair. "We have our whole lives to snog each other senseless."
"Snog?"
"Okay, so I might've spent a bit too much time with Cavendish lately."
"Talking about snogging me?"
"No, he was talking about his niece asking his mum - er, mom - what snogging is."
"So you told him when we helped Iris tell Erica about sex?"
"I didn't get to that point, but that reminds me, Bren." He kissed her knuckle. "Someday, hopefully soon, when you're ready, we'll have sex again."
"Passionate lovemaking," she corrected.
"Passionate lovemaking," he grinned. "And that might lead to another little Walsh-McKay, or seven."
"Three McKays."
"Three McKays," he agreed, jubilantly stroking her ear. "So do me a favor. Next time you need a hospital, don't let it be until you're in labor." He paused. "On second thought, there might be something to that home birth thing. We should look into that."
"We picked a terrible time to walk in. I mean, I'm glad you two are obviously back together, but I did not need to hear about your planned sex life, even if I do get another niece or nephew out of it."
"Erica!" Brenda looked to the familiar face in the doorway - somewhat familiar, that was. Erica's features held several similarities to how she had appeared as a teenager, but it had been such a long time since Brenda had seen her that it was also an unknown face, all at once.
"Welcome to my world. I did warn you," said Brandon, though he smiled.
"Yeah yeah," said Erica, but a similar sparkle to her brother's contradicted her disgust. "Can I hug you, Bren?"
"It's may I hug you," Dylan teased.
"Oh shut up, Dyl. I know that, but it's can in this instance. I don't wanna hurt her or anything."
"I would love to get a hug from you, Little E."
"It's been so long since anyone's called me that," Erica said and for a moment, she resembled the youth Brenda remembered who had run into Dylan's and Brenda's bedroom to complain that she couldn't have a nickname like they and their friends due to the simplicity of her name.
When they had told her that Andrea and David were both without nicknames, Erica pointed out that Brandon had called the former Chief and the latter Davey. It was then when Brenda had begun using Little E, which stuck.
"Me first, Little McKay."
Erica's other nickname, said only by -
"Val! I - I thought you -"
Brenda ducked her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"Why is she crying?" Valerie demanded. "Dylan, what did you do?"
"Why do you always assume I did something?" he asked, annoyed. His arm automatically tucked behind Brenda's back.
"Because it's you."
"Erica, you're supposed to defend me, your older brother, not agree with Val," Dylan huffed.
"Well, maybe if you hadn't left my cat in a closet with the door closed for a whole day and a half -"
"I still don't know how the hell that cat even got into the closet in the first place," Dylan grumbled.
"It's not Dylan," Brenda got out between her sobs. "I - I thought Stuart had killed you, like - like Donna."
"Babe, no, I'm fine." Valerie rushed over to embrace her. "Truly, I'm good. See? My traitor coworker did try to get me, but I'm very much alive, just like you, and his ass is facing the feds." She pat Brenda's back. "What do you mean, like Donna?"
"Stuart, he - he said -" She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to voice what she had heard about Donna Martin Ashe, or that would make it final. "He said; Donna, she - she -"
"He told you Donna was dead."
In a rare moment, Brenda found herself grateful that Dylan could read her mind.
"That fucking bastard told you your best friend was dead," he repeated, his tone coated in steel.
"He showed me a picture. Robinson and David. In a graveyard."
It baffled her that Dylan appeared more upset over the discussion than over their friend's murder.
"Bren. Oh, baby." He tucked his nose into her neck. "We went to visit Aurora. Me, B, Silver and Robinson."
"We thought it might help Dylan," Brandon said. "Take his mind off everything for a moment, and I hadn't been to the stone since I went East."
"The new stone," Dylan corrected. "It came while you were - while you were -"
"Missing," Brandon said.
"They weren't there to bury Donna?"
"No, Brenda. There'd be no point in burying Donna; in fact, burying her would be illegal." Valerie took her hand. "She's alive, Bren."
"She's alive?"
"Yes. She's alive," Dylan confirmed.
The entire Himalayan range lifted off of Brenda's chest and, despite the raw feeling in her throat, breathing seemed to come more easily.
"What about the baby?"
"He came early, but his lungs are strong. Didn't even need the NICU."
"He?"
"Yup. The Ashes had a boy."
"Named Demario," said Brandon.
"After Dyl, and Robinson's grandfather," Valerie explained. "Donna and Demario got to go home the other day. They're both waiting for you."
"I want to see them. Can we go home, Dyl?"
"Not yet, Bren. You just recovered from a severe poisoning most people only hear about in medieval stories. Brandon said you went into cardiac arrest the first night we were here." Dylan hugged her from behind. "I'm not taking the chance of you flying before you're healthy. We'll go home soon, but not yet."
"My turn," said Erica, and she pushed Dylan away to embrace Brenda.
"Excuse me," Dylan said. "I did just get shot, you know."
"And you've been awake for a whole day trying to talk the staff into letting you see Bren so that I've already been able to tell you how glad I am that you didn't die. Brenda, on the other hand, was not only out longer, but hasn't even seen me since I was a kid."
"I would rather like to embrace Brenda myself, if that would be acceptable."
"Finn." Another breath of relief, for though Brenda had heard Finn had not been injured by Marchette, it was an entirely different feeling to see for herself. "Is that okay, Dylan?"
"If you hug Cavendish like you hug Sanders and Silver," he joked.
"Ooh, then I guess David hasn't told you about Paris."
"What happened in Paris?" asked a horrified Dylan and Valerie in sync.
"Nothing," said Brenda casually as she accepted Finn's warm embrace.
"Brenda!" said Dylan. "What did you do with Silver in Paris?"
Finn, who knew precisely what Brenda had not done with David Silver in Paris, laughed.
"Brenda, if you don't tell me, I'm gonna assume I have to yell at and/or pound one of my best friends for putting the moves on my wife."
"Okay, we almost kissed. Almost," Brenda emphasized. "We got drunk when he was on tour and almost kissed."
"That's it?" asked Valerie. "You almost kissed? That's it? Jeez, I hooked up with your ex and all you did with my future boyfriend was almost kiss."
"She means when you were in London," Dylan rushed to explain.
"I mean, our lips touched," Brenda said sheepishly. "He's the one who stopped it when he saw I was wearing my St. Genesius medal."
"Your medal?" Dylan asked, and his eyes widened. "You were wearing the medal?"
"I had a taping and must've grabbed it out of my jewelry box on reflex."
"I'm surprised you still had it," Dylan said. "No ring, no heart, but you had St. Genesius. Okay, Cavendish, that's enough."
"Delighted to see you awake and talking," Finn said, shifting away from Brenda as Dylan again pulled her into him.
Brenda looked at Finn, at Brandon and Dylan, at Valerie; all the people Stuart had threatened, none of whom had been lost to her.
"Glad to see you breathing," she responded.
"You have your husband to thank for that."
"Yes, I do." Brenda lay her head against Dylan's chest. "My husband is a hero."
"Quite right," said Finn.
"Am not," said Dylan.
"Finn, do you know Erica, Dylan's sister?"
Dylan groaned against her hair, though Brenda did not understand the reasoning.
"We have made an acquaintance," Finn smiled.
"An acquaintance?" Valerie scoffed. "They were making plans to rock climb in Spain on the way in here."
"I just told Finn about the group I'm in and invited him along next time he's over that way," Erica hurried to tell Brenda.
"I didn't know you rock climb, Little E."
"It's a hobby she picked up in high school," Dylan said.
"In high school, it was a hobby," Erica corrected. "In universidad, it's a lifestyle. But if Finn and I hanging out - or, in this case, hanging on - makes you uncomfortable or anything, Bren, then I'll rescind the invitation."
"Or I will decline," said Finn.
Brenda glanced between them, trying to decide if the idea of her sister-in-law befriending her ex-fiancé caused her to feel anything in particular. Jealousy, perhaps. Disgust. Anger. The urge to tear them apart; anything at all similar to what she had felt watching Dylan and Clare on the pier, when all they had done was play a few games to win some prizes.
To Brenda's immense surprise, all she felt was apathy.
"I'm a married woman and you're both adults. You don't need my permission," Brenda said, meaning every word.
"But," Erica hesitated, "you almost married him and -"
"And I broke it off with Finn to be with your brother."
"You really don't care, Brenda?" Dylan asked skeptically.
"Do you care that my brother's in love with Kelly?" She answered him with a question of her own.
Brandon sputtered, as if the entire room didn't already know of his affections.
"No," Dylan said, "but I wasn't engaged to Kelly all of two weeks ago."
"Dylan, if it weren't for - for - for him," Brenda said, since she hoped to think of Stuart Carson rarely and mention him even less, "you and I would've moved to Paris together. I might've never met Finn. We certainly wouldn't've been engaged." She grasped Dylan's waist. "Finn, has Dylan told you he taught Erica to ride?"
"Ride?" Finn asked. "As in, horseback riding? You ride horses?"
"Brenda, what are you doing?" whispered Dylan so quietly that only Brenda heard.
"Nothing. Not a thing," she whispered back.
"You aren't trying to set up my sister to help Cavendish feel better about losing the greatest girl in the world?"
"Nope," Brenda said flippantly.
It wasn't her fault that both Erica McKay and Finn Cavendish had been award-winning equestrians in their youth. It couldn't be helped that both rock-climbed and that both had lived in Spain; Finn, for a few months during secondary, before he had returned to school in Provence.
The last one might have been a bit of a stretch, Brenda acknowledged.
She recalled something else, something Erica had confided to her long ago.
"Did Santa ever bring you that hot air balloon excursion you asked for? Finn loves those things."
"Brenda," said Dylan.
"I can't believe you remember that," Erica said, flabbergasted. "Santa got me something else that year, but I gave myself that trip a couple years ago."
"You did?"
"Yes, at the European Balloon Festival. They were there at the same time. We know this part already," Dylan said irritably.
Brandon, meanwhile, stood uncontrollably laughing in the corner.
"What's with him?" asked Brenda.
"He thinks this is karma," Dylan said.
"Karma?"
"Never mind. I think Brenda's voice needs a break, don't you?" Dylan hinted at the others.
He was correct, though she would not have admitted it out loud.
"Want me to wheel you back to your room, Bren?" asked Brandon, after the group had said their temporary goodbyes and went in for second hugs.
"I'm content here, Bran, but thanks." She cautiously lay back on the bed, waiting for Dylan to slide down beside her.
"One sec there, Bren. What happened, B? After I passed out. You haven't told me. Did they get him?"
"They got him," Brandon nodded. "Stewie's in custody."
"Fucking finally," Dylan whooped. "Peters?"
"Dead."
"Bastard got what he deserved," Dylan said and, if Brenda hadn't already been enormously relieved to hear of Donna and Valerie's well-being, she would have been to hear of the death of her tormentor.
Stuart had been physical. Marchette had chosen cunning manipulation. But Peters; Peters had targeted Brenda's psyche, figuring out the situations that would affect her the most and putting them into action.
Dylan must have felt the way her skin broke out into goosebumps, for he rubbed his hands down Brenda's arms and kissed her hair.
"He's gone, Brenda. Peters is gone. He can't come near you ever again."
She wished that reassured her, but just hearing Peters' name made it impossible.
"What about Marchette?" Dylan asked, tucking himself around Brenda in a hammock of comfort.
"We'll talk later, D." Brandon's voice changed.
"Brandon."
"D, we'll talk later," he repeated, with emphasis.
"Motherfucker!" said Dylan as he caught on.
"What? What is it?" Brenda asked.
"Bren, do you trust me to keep you protected? I failed before, but do you have faith I will now?"
"You didn't fail, Dylan. You thought I was with Finn."
"Exactly what I've been saying," said Brandon with a nod.
"Brenda, I didn't even have my phone on."
"And why would you?"
"I sat in the bar, phone off, full glass in front of me while you called and texted. I wouldn't've even known you were trying to get in touch if Sherice hadn't called Brandon to tell me you stopped by and by then, it was too late."
"Dylan -"
"Brenda, I don't know half of what you went through in that manor. It's up to you whether you ever wanna tell me. I know I'm not at fault for it, but nothing you or Brandon say will change the fact that when you needed me, I was unreachable."
"Baby, I don't blame you."
"I know, Bren, but I blame myself."
Dylan's expression tore at her now mended heart.
"I don't want you to blame yourself."
"I can't help it." His eyes glistened.
"You weren't the only one she tried to call and text, you know. I was unreachable, too," Brandon pointed out.
"Because you were driving over to stop me from doing something stupid after I signed those papers," Dylan said.
"Ah, he's got me there, Bren."
"Then we might as well blame me for letting you think I wanted you to sign them."
"Brenda, that's ridiculous."
"Yeah, Dylan. It is ridiculous."
He took a moment to acknowledge her meaning and then asked, "You didn't want me to sign?"
"No. I was shocked you did."
"We all were," said Brandon.
"Bren, I thought it was what you wanted. You'd told Finn and I that you'd chosen him. You asked me about coming to your wedding."
"And I thought I'd grabbed Finn's hand on the beach, which you let me think, when you knew very well that I grabbed yours."
"I'll, uh, leave you two alone. Glad you seem alright, Bren." Brandon slowly backed out of the room.
"You remembered grabbing my hands?" Dylan asked, astonished.
"Yes, but not until after Finn was clearly confused about the whole thing."
"We both were."
"Well, I guess neither of us are all that great at choosing."
"Guess not. I chose wrong all those years ago and it cost me you for the rest of high school and start of college."
"I chose wrong and it almost cost me you."
"I think we've moved past our wrong choices," Dylan said, lifting her ring finger in reminder. "Cavendish is just a friend now, yeah?"
"Are you okay with that? Me being friends with my ex?"
"Since when do you need my permission for anything?"
"Since we just got back together." Brenda traced his jawline. "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"Brenda, trust me. If you want us to stay friends with Finn, then I'm fine with that."
"Us?"
"Well, yeah. Us. Kinda hard to get involved in a fight with a guy in Peru and not come out of it some kind of friends."
"What were you doing in a fight in Peru?"
"Long story. Let's just say St - he whose name we won't say had some, ah, associates there."
"And the other St? How is he? Did he - did he bleed out?"
"Nope. Asshole lived to see another day."
"Dylan."
"Sorry, Bren. Steve Sanders and I have a long way to go until we're anything close to friendly."
Empathizing, Brenda turned so that her eyes were locked onto his, although Dylan's tried desperately to avoid hers.
"I hope you know you aren't anything like Jack."
"I'm probably more like Jack than either of us wanna admit."
"Actually, Dylan, I think you're more like your mother."
"Okay, and that's a clear indication that you need sleep," he laughed, shaking his head.
"I'm serious. You're a hopeless romantic, just like her."
"Hopeless?" He nibbled at Brenda's nose.
"Minus the less."
"So hopeful?"
"More like hoping."
"Hoping for what?"
"Hoping that your shoulder will heal soon so you'll get your spot back on your bike," she smirked.
"Brenda, don't even try to drive my bike. Your ankle is broken in three places." He pointed to her cast, which now began to itch. "You've got staples in your back. You aren't doing any riding - on a bike, a board or a horse - for at least a few months."
"We're a mess," she giggled.
"Yet you still manage to look insanely beautiful."
"You lie."
"About how you look? Never. Just quit trying to become an angel, okay? I can't bear to see you on another potential deathbed. Thrice is more than enough."
"You only saw me on one."
"Yeah, well, not for lack of trying." Dylan's intoxicating lips curved downward. "Bren, what was the real reason you wore St. Genesius?"
"The real reason?"
He nodded, kissing her fingers.
"The real reason was that I was really missing you that day," she admitted in a rush of breath. "And I almost kissed David because I was angry that I could still miss you." Her voice dropped. "Hooking up with your best friend would've - would've felt like vengeance, but I - I couldn't do that to Donna."
"If you missed me, you could've just come home." Dylan grazed her shoulder. Brenda leaned into his touch.
"I really did try to end us, you know."
"I know. I'm glad it didn't work."
"It didn't. You were right."
"I didn't need to be right, Bren. I just needed you."
"We needed each other," she admitted. "I wish I had come home sooner."
He tore his lovesick gaze off of her, for they both knew where it would lead. "Well, we're home now, and that's where we're gonna stay." His lips pressed against her hairline. "We should probably get some sleep before we're admonished for talking too much or you strain your vocal cords."
"Can I just do something first?" Brenda asked, bending as much as her body allowed.
He stared at her with an intense hunger. "Careful, Bren. We wouldn't want you rushed back into surgery."
"I'll be careful," she promised, and then dipped her lips into his chest.
It was later, when Brenda awoke in a cold sweat and saw that she had been moved back to her own bed with an oxygen tube inserted into her nose, that she realized she had completely avoided discussing the fate of Tony Marchette.
Judging from Dylan's disgruntled reaction, she assumed that they still needed to be on the lookout when it came to the mafia don of Malibu.
It almost seemed silly for the wealthy shores of Malibu to even have a mafia, but Brenda unfortunately knew firsthand that it certainly did have one and Tony Marchette was unquestionably its head.
Peters was dead. Stuart was in jail; according to Stuart, so was the bartender. When she healed, Brenda would request one final face-to-face with Stuart. She would force from him the whereabouts of Bert and E, if there was indeed an E. Brenda didn't know what she would do when she found Bert, but she did know it would be a crucial step to taking back control of her life. Above all, she needed to figure out how to take Tony down because neither she, nor Dylan, would allow his continued prosperity.
Tony Marchette had deliberately targeted the McKays. He had almost shot Finn, did shoot Dylan, killed Jack McKay, poisoned Brenda and, despite what he claimed, was the man responsible for the tampering of her car.
He would die, alone and penniless in every currency; Brenda would make sure of that.
And nothing, not a damn thing, would ever hurt her family or interfere with her marriage again.
In a hospital in Beverly Hills with the pain of stitches in her stomach and Brandon sitting nearby, Brenda had been done with Dylan for what she had convinced herself to be the final time.
Now, in a hospital in Ukraine with the pain of staples in her back, a foot that needed to heal all over again and Brandon once again sitting nearby - asleep, as David had been - she was done with the obstacles that had kept them apart.
Looking down at her ring, Brenda read the inscription and pressed the metal against her lips.
"Nous monterons les sentiers, Dylan," she swore. "Trails of life included. If things get rocky, we'll face it head-on. We're McKays. That's what we do."
She would not know until he told her later that across the hospital wing, in his own bed, Dylan was inwardly swearing the same as he again argued with a nurse.
In the meantime, Brenda dreamt of how her life would change now that Dylan was securely back in it. They had quite a lot to discuss, but that could all wait for another day, when neither required antibiotics to function.
-x
Last chapter of the year! I anticipate Seven and Illumination to both end some time in 2022.
Red is the Cruelest Colour was the first fic I had written since 2018 and the first fic ever for the BD fandom, which has frequently embraced my writing since. For that, I am grateful, as well as amazed to already have one BD story with over one hundred reviews and one with over two hundred from this year alone (which is by far the most reviews I have ever had.) I have been asked if I will continue to write fics for BD after these two finish; I guess it depends on the ideas, because I certainly didn't expect to write anything after Red. Illumination came along, then Knight, then Seven and the rest, as we know, is history. It still surprises me how ridiculously easy these characters are to write, and puts into perspective how the ones paid to write them could have gotten it so wrong.
Back to Seven. A little BTS: BD were initially going to get back together at the end of chapter 20, then the end of chapter 21.
Are we Team Finnica, Finare, Finn/OC or Finn/You?
The French might be a bit off. If it is, please feel free to correct. I do not profess to be a medical professional whatsoever, which means that Brenda's amount of dialogue following her health condition may require suspension of disbelief.
May you all have a happy New Year and "see you" in January! Stay healthy, safe (and check out my new BD video on YT, under wishuponadream.) x