Brendan Brady had been sitting in the cell-like office for the last forty minutes, ever since he had retreated through the crack in the wall into his dark, engulfing nightclub from the balcony outside. He sat, leaning forwards, fingers resting open on the desk as though he was about to spring into action at any moment. The wad of invoices lay before him, untouched.
He was replaying it in his mind, over and over. Those desperate hands running through that sandy hair, that pinched voice restraining an ocean of uncried tears. He should stop. This wasn't helping.
For months he had been certain that it could never be over for them, never finished. He had watched Stephen build a life with someone else, a life without Brendan. He had listened to Stephen tell him that he didn't care about him anymore, that he couldn't touch him now.
He had watched and listened, but he hadn't believed.
Again, he tried to pick up the pen that rested on the desk before him, to shake the thoughts out of his head and fill it with order numbers instead. The pen trembled between his fingers. Frightened, he threw it down and rested his open fingers on the desk again, steadying them.
When Stephen had come to see him in the hospital, Brendan had been lying broken, from an explosion of fire and an explosion of memories. To tell him he was engaged.
In that moment Brendan finally understood. He saw it. With excruciating, awful clarity, he saw exactly how vast that gully was keeping him from where he wanted to be. It wasn't a deli, or an American boyfriend, or an engagement ring. It was Brendan. It was everything that had happened to make him everything that he was. Incapable of normal love.
There was a soft knock at the door, making him jump. He gave himself a quick shake, pulling the top invoice from the pile and picking up the pen again before shouting as impatiently as he could, "Come in!"
"Ashley," he declared, dropping the pen he had just picked up and reclining back in his chair regally as the blonde girl entered the room. He had been expecting her since his retreat from the balcony.
He felt himself tense slightly when he caught her expression, as though she was steeling herself to say something, but he was careful not to let her see it. He liked the girl, the way her cockiness belay a well-concealed vulnerability. He wondered how she had come to be that way. What secrets had she had to hide from the world as she grew up?
"Well, spit it out," Brendan prompted. "I don't have all day."
He gestured at the invoices covering his desk. He liked her, but he was wary of her. Especially today. Today, he couldn't handle too much more.
"I ran into Ste earlier," she accused. She never stammered, even when she was nervous. He liked that about her too.
"And…?" Brendan responded, picking up his pen again. Carefully, he dropped his gaze to it, not fully trusting his long-honed composure. Not today.
"And he was really upset," Ashley continued, the accusation fading from her tone. She sounded upset herself. Stephen could do that to people, Brendan knew. He still found it incredible. That breath-taking, unashamed vulnerability that spoke to the world.
Brendan continued to study the nib of the pen carefully. What was she hoping for, he wondered. For him to jump suddenly from his chair and cry that this was his fault, that Stephen's despair was on his hands? Did she really believe that he hadn't been screaming that internally for the past forty minutes?
"Is that so?" he asked, disinterestedly. Did she really believe that he didn't care for him with every shred whatever twisted, vile version of love he was capable of?
His hand was steady, now, holding the pen. He turned it over in his hand. "What about?"
"About you," she said, slowly. Judgmental, he thought mirthlessly.
"But you already know that, don't you?" she continued.
She paused for a moment. "What have you done to him?"
It was the way she said it. No judgement, no anger, no cocky triumph. Just sadness.
He felt winded, like he'd been punched hard in the stomach. And like he'd been punched, he felt his stony expression crumple, just for a second. Terrified, his eyes flew to her. This was the girl who had tried fruitlessly to unmask him before. Had she seen?
Miraculously, her eyes were fixed on the floor.
By the time she raised them, his face was rigid again, his eyes black holes boring into her.
"Are we done here?" he asked, stonily.
Wordlessly, she exited. He listened to the heavy door of his cell clang shut behind her. He felt breathless in her wake. What have you done to him? The question echoed around the stone walls of the cell.
What had he done to him? In that hospital bed, listening to him bumble about getting engaged, Brendan had known that the only way to save him from the barren, loveless fate that was his own was to let go. He had let go, he pleaded to himself. But then threat of Walker, dangling above Brendan's broken head like a dagger, alone and desperate… He had leaned on Stephen, weakly, he had needed Stephen. And when Walker pointed that gun, Brendan had acted in the only way he could… But Stephen had seen it, then. He'd seen the depth and breadth of Brendan's devotion. He had poisoned him. Poisoned him with infective, twisted Brendan Brady love.
The walls were closing. They pushed their rough stone surfaces into his face. The scraped and screeched as they advanced, pressing in. Fury pounded in his head, pulse rushing in his ears. He wanted to break something, someone.
He leapt up, forgetting his crutches, and hurled himself out the prison door, crashing into a customer. Arms flailing pointlessly for his forgotten crutches, Brendan swayed dangerously before careening to the floor, dragging the innocent bystander with him.
They both lay crumpled together on the sticky nightclub floor, a mess of intermingled limbs.
"Sorry, Stephen," Brendan said, pressing everything he could into those words as he looked desperately into familiar blue eyes.