Fic: How to Survive a Recession 3/5

[piecesof_reeses]

Sighing to himself, he shakes his head. It probably doesn’t matter anyway. Slowly, he pulls open his email, and opens up the survey attached. It’s anonymous, which makes Brendon feel slightly better.


The first questions are easy, all about the recent changes and how Brendon feels about them. They definitely don’t warrant Jon’s worried, mopey face, and Brendon half-asses them, flying through until he reaches a tiny section at the very end. It’s labeled, in large black letters, Personnel Retention.


Well. Shit. Brendon rubs at the corner of his eye, wearily. So this is what Jon meant.


There are only two questions under the heading, anyway, so Brendon tries to hope for the best before reading them. The first one says: Name, in your opinion, the most valuable employee in Island Electronics. And then, on the next line, What about least valuable?


William certainly didn’t mince any words, did he? With great trepidation, Brendon stares at the question and tries to think. But his mind refuses to work, balking at the absolute offensiveness of it all. What kind of person would force people to be responsible for their colleagues’ jobs? It’s ridiculous. Absurd. And it feels…slimy, almost. Just—dirty and unclean and gross. And God, Brendon really just can’t deal with this shit right now.


Abruptly, he shoves back from his desk and stands up. He’ll take lunch first, that’s what he’ll do. He’s half an hour late as it is, and maybe extra calories will help him think better. It’s not like this survey is optional. Fuck, with the way things are going, William seems as likely to fire someone for not filling out a survey as for an actual, legitimate reason.


When he gets to the cafeteria, though, things are strangely subdued. People tend to have their groups of friends, yeah, and they tend to sit with them while eating lunch, but the lines are suddenly much more delineated. People across lines won’t even look at each other, instead bowing their heads together with their respective groups and conversing in whispers.


It’s really fucking unnerving, and Brendon almost turns around and walks back out, but then he steels himself. He’s being stupid. These are his friends, colleagues that he’s worked with for years.


He’s just going to—yeah, he’s going to go find Greta and see what the fuck is going on.


When he walks up, though, and taps her on the shoulder, Greta flinches violently.


“Greta?” Brendon says uncertainly. “Something wrong?”


“Oh, Brendon!” The sudden, bright smile on her face looks frighteningly fake. “I didn’t hear you come up behind me!” She laughs, a plastic tinkle that ends as abruptly as it began.


At her table, conversation has completely stopped, and in lieu of talking, Darren and Bob have begun staring at Brendon. It almost looks threatening, and Brendon blinks. That’s…odd. He’s probably seeing things.


“Um, is everything alright?” Brendon asks again. “Things seem to be kind of weird around here.”


“Oh, Brendon,” Greta repeats, but this time it’s softer, more genuine, which is why it’s so weird that she sounds much sadder. “I don’t…” She stops and sighs. “Why don’t you go find Ryan and Spencer and Jon?” she says, and Brendon really can’t compute, because her voice sounds incredibly soft and sympathetic, but the words are…


Brendon’s breath hitches, and he steps back, almost involuntarily. “I—all right,” he says, helplessly.


And he walks away, slowly, trying to keep his smile from wobbling. All around him, the situation is the same, with people drawing in closer and turning away as he walks past, conversations dying sudden deaths. He tries to look around for Ryan or Jon, (he doesn’t let himself think about Spencer) but he can’t see them fucking anywhere. It’s a nightmare, is what it is, like fucking high school or whatever all over again, so when he sees one sad, lonely, empty table, he makes a beeline for it. Just eat, and run, he repeats to himself.


But before he gets there, a hand grabs his arm. Brendon looks down to see long, white fingers with silver nail polish. It’s Victoria.


“Brendon, why don’t you sit down over here?” she says, and Brendon immediately relaxes. It’s weird, because he and Victoria almost never talk, but they actually go pretty far back, from high school. They’re not especially close or anything, but Brendon likes her.


“Thanks,” he says, embarrassingly grateful.


“No problem,” Victoria says. Her eyes are dark and wide, and she’s looking at him concernedly. Beside her, Ryland and Alex talk about America’s Next Top Model, and Nate’s texting something on his phone. It’s refreshingly normal, and Brendon relaxes even further as Ryland comments very knowledgably on bone structure and legs.


“Place has turned into a pigpen, huh?” Victoria says, chewing on the straw of her soda.


“Yeah. Um,” Brendon hesitates, almost afraid to ask, “What’s even going on?”


“You haven’t realized?” Victoria asks.


Brendon shrugs, self-consciously. “I was kind of cooped up in my cubicle all morning.”


“It’s pretty stupid, really,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “People are dividing into alliances over the stupid survey. You’ve seen it, right, with the question about the best versus the shittiest worker? Anyway, people are freaking out. It’s like Big Brother, only with less screaming and crying. Actually, wait, no. The amount of screaming and crying is about the same. You are so lucky you missed it when it all went down in Design a few hours back.”


She pauses to take a sip of her coke before continuing. “No one’s talking to people of other alliances. Something about trust issues and betrayal and member protection? I don’t know, Gerard was talking really fast. Him and Frankie and all of those guys are one alliance, by the way, and Greta’s banded together with Darren and Bob, as, um,” Victoria pauses delicately, “I’m sure you’ve realized. Also, I’m pretty sure Patrick and Andy and Joe are sticking together.”


“What about you?” Brendon asks hopefully. It sounds like she’s risen above this whole madness.


But Victoria blushes and ducks her head. “I think I got roped into one with Gabe and Ryland and everyone without noticing.”


“That’s cool,” Brendon says, trying to smile at her. Mostly he tries to stop wondering if he’s the only person left in this whole damn building without a fucking “alliance.”


Victoria shrugs. “I guess. I just want this whole farce to be over.”


“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Brendon shifts uncomfortably. Then something occurs to him. “Hey. Where’s Gabe, anyway? Isn’t he part of your alliance?”


“Oh.” Victoria pauses and purses her lips. “He’s not here right now. I think he’s, um. I think he’s gone to go buy lunch. You know him, always living to break the rules.” Her eyes slide to the left, tellingly, but Brendon doesn’t push. What does he care where Gabe really is, anyway?


“Oh. Um. Well, then, do you know where Ryan and the others are?” Brendon asks, biting his lip.


Victoria frowns. “They went out, too, actually. To go buy lunch at the local sushi place? They were even waiting around here at the beginning of lunch, seeing if you’d make an appearance, but they left about ten minutes later. ‘Cause Jon said you were working on an ad, or something?”


Brendon swallows. “Yeah, that’s right. I mean, I was working on an ad.” He pulls at the edge of his polo, fraying it.


“You know, I bet you could catch up to them, if you wanted? We still have a good twenty minutes left of lunch,” Victoria says, looking entirely too sympathetic.


“Um, no, that’s fine.” Brendon clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m actually not that hungry, so I’ll probably just go back to work.”


He walks back, ignoring Victoria’s look, and quickly bins his paper bag lunch. He might as well just finish the survey now. It’s not as though he needs to strategize for it, anyway, since Ryan and Jon (and Spencer, his mind provides unhelpfully) are all gone and besides, what does it matter? It’s just a stupid fucking survey. Brendon doesn’t care.


He makes his way back to the cubicle, and drops back into his chair, pulling the survey back up at the same time.


He stares at it a moment, thinking. Out of the corner of his eye, against his will, he catches sight of Spencer and Bob leaning against a wall and talking.


Brendon stares a moment, before noticing that his mouth is slightly open, and he closes it. Well. It looks like Spencer didn’t go along with Ryan and Jon to eat sushi. No, it looks like Spencer decided to stay back at the office to have a nice, cozy chat with Bob fucking Bryar. Spencer’s grinning, and flipping his hair to the side. And Bob’s smiling back. The guy has a fucking lip ring. Why hasn’t William made him take it out yet?


Now Spencer’s laughing, and leaning slightly towards Bob, which is when Brendon forcefully wrenches his gaze away.


Taking a deep breath, and willfully ignoring the way it sounds wet and uneven and desperate, he forces himself to turn back to the survey.


He just needs to finish the survey. Just the survey.


So. Brendon shuts his eyes and tries to focus himself. Most valuable colleague? Least valuable? For one single, awful moment, Brendon has this overwhelming urge to write down Bob Bryar as least valuable. And he almost does.


But the thing is, Brendon’s never been very good at being petty. He’s not. He’s always the nice kid, the good guy, the one who’s understanding when being dumped and friendly when meeting exes and ready to take the fall when a friend frames him for a prank (like putting a sexually explicit wallpaper on a colleague’s computer). And, well, maybe now’s not the best time to start breaking the pattern.


Also, even more importantly, he can’t keep letting Spencer affect him like this. Spencer’s made everything...very, very clear. Brendon just needs to—get his head sorted out.


He sighs and looks back at the question, determinedly not letting his eyes stray to see if Spencer and Bob are still there. Brendon should probably tackle least valuable colleague, first. Better to get the tough question out of the way.


Brendon bends his head down and starts brainstorming.


Frank might be a candidate. He’s definitely got a temper problem. But he’s also got a little sister, and he’s paying for her college. And Brendon…Brendon knows family, okay. He can’t bring himself to do that, and Brendon kind of thinks that if he could, he would really need to reevaluate some of his priorities. (His sister’s smiling face comes to mind, the way she put her arms around him and gave him a huge hug and even forked over some of his rent money when he’d come out to his parents. Brendon really needs to give her a call one of these days.)


So, what about Gabe? Gabe’s almost certain to leave, anyway, if William has his way, what with all the shit he’s been pulling. So if Brendon puts him down, it’s not going to be like he’s tipping the scales.


But just as Brendon’s about to type it in, something stops him. It’s a flare out of the corner of his eye, actually, and Brendon rubs at it before looking again. Gabe’s dropped his snake pendant, and it’s catching the light, as it frequently does, only this time the glare is much more irritating because the stupid thing’s been bedazzled.


Brendon fiddles with his pen as he stares at the necklace. The flashy ostentation is all Gabe, and Brendon reluctantly thinks back to that first day, when Gabe had come in with that outrageous get-up, zebra-striped pants and all. He remembers the way William had blanched, and how, even after they’d talked for half an hour, Gabe still got away with breaking the dress code a dozen different ways. It was…really fucking awesome.


Gabe’s been the only one out of all of them to be brave enough to stand up to William to his face, to blatantly defy his orders. Gabe’s a leader, in his own way, and Brendon is pretty sure, if the company continues down this path riddled with efficiency consultants and dress codes, that they’re going to need someone like him. They’re going to need a leader.


Scrubbing a hand over his face, Brendon tiredly searches for other names to type down. He’s pretty sure this isn’t supposed to be so fucking hard.


Half-heartedly, Brendon runs down his mental staff list. What about Gerard? Dude never showers, and that nic habit is kind of frightening. But then again, Brendon also knows that he lives in his mom’s fucking basement. It would be so terrible if Brendon put him down, got him fired, and Gerard was never able to make the money to move out and actually become an independent human being. It would be awful. Brendon’s a strong believer in independence.


But it’s like…there’s no one left. There’s no way Brendon could ever write down Ryan or Jon or Greta or Patrick, and everyone else is too competent. He’d be lying. It’s just…


Frustrated, Brendon massages his forehead. This is completely stupid. The only person left is…him. And Brendon’s not that suicidal.


But the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. If Brendon does end up getting fired, he can find other work, and if he can’t, he’s got family, six other siblings who are wildly successful. Other people here don’t have that. Ryan doesn’t have anyone. And all Gee has is his brother, and, apparently, his mom.


Plus, Brendon’s not the greatest worker here. He’s self-aware enough to realize that. He’s too jittery, he can’t concentrate for long enough, and he’s always distracting other people, too. And he’s never been the cleverest in the Marketing Department. That honor’s always gone to Ryan.


Brendon is just kind of…He’s mediocre, is what he is, and furthermore, he’s got a safety net. He’s not going to help fire other people just because he’s too selfish to face it. This is just…It’s the right thing to do. He knows that.


Decision made, Brendon turns back to the computer and resolutely types in his own name, Brendon Urie, the sound of the keys sharp and loud and firm.


He doesn’t let himself think about it anymore, instead forcing himself to ponder the question of best colleague. Most everyone is pretty competent here. Gabe’s great, Ryan’s a genius, and Jon and Joe are whizzes at human interaction. But Brendon doesn’t think he has to write those people down, because everyone knows they’re great at their jobs. It, like, goes without saying. Brendon should save this for someone who’s great, but isn’t recognized for it. Someone who focuses on the details that no one else thinks about. Someone who holds the company together and keeps everything running, even though no one actually realizes it.


And…the only person who fits that description is Spencer. Brendon bites down on the edge of his thumbnail, hard, but the thought won’t go away.


No one really appreciates the receptionist. He’s just always in the background, quietly doing his piece to keep the company afloat. Brendon isn’t stupid enough to think he isn’t biased about Spencer, like he always is, but no one can deny that Spencer’s fantastic at what he does. And that without him, the company would descend into something a lot like chaos.


And besides. This is kind of like—kind of like closure. Just one last thing Brendon Urie does for Spencer Smith.


Suddenly, he remembers Spencer’s mother, and that, more than anything, is what pushes him over the edge. He’s doing a good deed. He’s being the good guy. Brendon’s great at playing the good guy. So he does.


Quickly, he types in Spencer Smith, and then hits send immediately, before he can chicken out.


It was the right decision. Brendon knows, because underneath all the worry and unhappiness and hurt, he feels…peaceful. Like this is what he was supposed to do.


Brendon really wants to go home to Dylan.


There’s half a workday left until he’s free to go, so Brendon rests his head on the wall of his cubicle, just for a bit. Thank God it’s Friday.


* * *


Dylan’s soft and warm and sympathetic, and doesn’t tell Brendon to shut up or, even better, to stop wiping his snot all over him.


The dog whuffles at Brendon’s cheek, sneaking out a warm, scratchy tongue to lick against his skin. It’s wet and kind of gross and the best thing Brendon’s felt all day. He sniffles a little bit and smoothes a hand down Dylan’s fur, skritching at the itchy spot right behind the dog’s ear.


Dimly, he registers his cell phone ringing. He sighs and flops over, trying to decide if he wants to answer it. He doesn’t, not really. But this is stupid. He’s wallowing, and he’s supposed to be a responsible adult now.


So resolutely, Brendon sits up and rummages through his pants pocket. His caller ID tells him that non-fat vanilla latte is calling, and now he really doesn’t want to answer it. (Brendon programs people into his cell phone according to what coffee they like, because it’s an easy way to remember when he’s doing coffee runs, and also, the rare times he forgets, it’s kind of fun calling the number attached to something like white chocolate mocha and guessing who’s going to pick up.)


Brendon rubs his cheek against Dylan’s fur for a few more rings, before grimacing and flipping the phone open.


“Yeah,” he says. “What do you want, Ryan? I’m busy.”


Ryan’s snort vibrates through his phone, sounding phlegmy and gross. “Yeah, right, dude. I bet you’re lying on your bed, playing your stupid pocket Guitar Hero game.”


Brendon scowls, because at least half of that description isn’t correct.


Ryan clears his throat, then says, “Look. Um. Spencer said something to you, didn’t he?”


Brendon chews on his thumbnail. “Spencer says lots of things,” he finally says.


“You know what I mean,” Ryan says, sounding like he’s trying not to sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry I mentioned to Spencer that I knew about him and you. It just slipped out; I wasn’t thinking. I mean, I should have known how he would react.”


“Yeah,” Brendon says meaninglessly. “I mean, okay. It’s fine. It was bound to happen eventually, you know? If we had kept on…” Brendon flounders for a moment, and then just decides to move on. “If we had continued, someone would have found out, and we would still be where we are now. So. Really, you just saved us some time.” Brendon tries to laugh, a little, but it doesn’t come out quite right.


“No, look!” Ryan sounds exasperated now. “I don’t—this isn’t coming out right. I’m not very good at this.”


“At what?” Brendon asks. “Apologizing? Because I already said it was fine.”


“Not apologizing, numbtard,” Ryan says, apparently having decided that Brendon isn’t too fragile to withstand a few insults. “Okay. Spencer’s stupid, you know that, right?”


“Spencer’s not stupid,” Brendon says, sighing. “He’s smart. He’s fucking smarter than all of us. I mean, he really has his priorities straight, you know what I’m saying?” Brendon snorts a little, brushing his hand against Dylan’s back. “He knows he needs this job. And he does, he really does, because of his mom and all. He’s making the right choices.”


The words taste bad on Brendon’s tongue, and he has to lick the roof of his mouth a few times before it feels like he can swallow again.


“You’re stupid, too,” Ryan tells him. “Spencer likes you! Like, he really likes you. God knows why, but—“


“You think I don’t know that?” Brendon interrupts, his voice low and scratching the back of his throat. “I mean, God, Ryan. I know that! And I don’t fucking want to know. It makes the whole thing worse, don’t you understand?”


Ryan’s silent on the other end of the line, and Brendon can practically see him furrowing his eyebrows.


So Brendon sighs and patiently says, “I don’t want to know how much Spencer likes me, Ryan. I don’t want to know how far I got, how fucking close I was. Because it doesn’t change fucking anything. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I wasn’t close enough, I didn’t get far enough. And you know what? I can’t even fault him for needing to put his job over me. It’s 2009, dude! There’s a recession going on, did you realize?”


Brendon has to stop and knuckle at his stupid burning eyes before continuing.


“Look. Whatever. I just—I don’t need to know how much he might like me. I don’t, I mean, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. We’re not together now, and nothing’s changing; the recession isn’t going away, his mom’s not getting better, the company’s fucking going down…We’re not going to get together, not in some kind of pretty fairytale happy ending. It’s not going to happen.”


“But Brendon, you don’t understand,” Ryan is trying to say, but Brendon can’t listen to this, he just can’t, so he talks over him loudly.


“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Brendon says. “Thanks for calling and trying to, you know, make me feel better.”


Ryan’s stopped trying to talk, and Brendon can hear him sigh audibly. “Brendon…”


“I’ll see you on Monday,” Brendon tells him. And then he hangs up.


He should get up and order some take-out, or something. Maybe later, after Brendon feels a little more up to holding himself together.


* * *


On Monday, Brendon thinks that it’s slightly possible that he isn’t being the most rational person about this, but whatever. Brendon’s had enough of rationality these past few days. And if more than one person looks at him weirdly as they pass by him, Brendon’s fine with that, too.


Besides, skulking around in the hall isn’t that weird for Island Electronics, jeez. Brendon’s just trying to wait for an opportune time to go and give Spencer his caramel macchiato.


And by opportune time, he means whenever Spencer leaves his desk to go use the restroom, or something. Unfortunately, it looks like Spencer has an industrial-sized bladder.


It would have been a lot easier if Brendon has just skipped giving Spencer coffee altogether this morning, but that would have been noticed, and Brendon kind of wants to just move past this whole mess already. The past is the past, right? Brendon’s not going to make a big deal out of this. (Especially after brooding over it the entire weekend.) He’s not.


Finally, Spencer scoots away from his desk, walking down the other end of the hall, and Brendon pounces, sliding the macchiato onto his desk and then walking away as quickly as possible without actually running.


It turns out that Brendon might have kind of outsmarted himself, though, because as he approaches his cubicle, there’s already someone there. And that someone has shiny brown hair, is wearing a suit, and Brendon’s positive that if he turns around, he would have blue, blue eyes.


Shit. Brendon briefly contemplates just turning back around and making himself scarce. But he can’t. He’s got work to do. And besides, this will be good for Brendon, like closure, or something. (Brendon doesn’t think about how he’s had about a million instances of fucking “closure.”)


“Is something wrong?” Brendon asks as he approaches Spencer.


Spencer starts, and turns around quickly. “Um, no. I just, ah.” He pauses, looking visibly uncomfortable.


“I stopped by your desk,” Brendon says, just to say something. “Left your caramel macchiato there, if that’s what you were wondering.”


“Oh. Thanks.”


“Yeah.”


“Look, Brendon, that’s not why I’m here,” Spencer says, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to—I wanted to apologize.”


Brendon grimaces, and transfers his gaze to the ground. Fucking Ryan, always meddling. He must have gotten Spencer to do this.


When Brendon doesn’t say anything, Spencer continues, awkwardly.


“I, um. I was really, incredibly out of line saying those things to you. And I didn’t, I mean. I didn’t mean them, Brendon, I was just being awful and hurtful, and—God, Brendon. Would you just look at me?”

Spencer reaches out to lift Brendon’s chin, but Brendon flinches, and he immediately withdraws.


Relenting, Brendon looks up. Spencer looks unhappy, and anxious, and guilty. Ryan must have put a hell of a guilt trip on him.


“You really didn’t deserve that,” Spencer says. “I was an asshole.”


“Yeah, kind of,” Brendon says, lifting his lips in a tiny smile. “But, well, you had reasons. Your job, and stuff.”


“That still doesn’t make it okay,” Spencer says, fiercely. “I was such an ass. And, I mean, I liked you. I do like you. You’re, um. You’re a cool guy.”


Spencer blushes, and Brendon smiles a little more.


“It’s fine,” Brendon says, shrugging. It really is. And maybe that’s because Brendon’s always been a pushover when it comes to Spencer, but still. “Like. We’re friends, yeah?” Brendon says.


Spencer blinks. “Yeah. Friends. Of course.”


“Cool,” Brendon says, keeping his voice steady.


Spencer walks off, and Brendon pretends like he’s not watching him. It’s really no different than usual, so Brendon tries to content himself with it.


* * *


“I can’t believe this,” Greta is saying, pushing back her hair with shaky hair. “I just. Oh my god, what am I going to do?”


Brendon stands next to her, helplessly. All around them, people are gathered, faces drawn and somber. William and Carden had orchestrated their first round of lay-offs to occur after the lunch break, through email. The word is that, down the hall, Gerard, Frank, and Andy have been cut as well.


It’s mostly silent, only a few murmurs of sympathy as people try to comfort Greta. But Brendon can still see the looks, the sideways glances people are giving others in their so-called “alliances.” They’re relieved. They’re pleased, even, in a twisted way, and they can’t even keep the emotion from their faces. Brendon has to turn away, stomach knotting up, because he’s relieved, too, and it’s a humiliating, nasty feeling.


But then he has to look back at Greta, and her eyes, not even tearing up, just blank with surprise and denial, are skipping all over the place, resting for just a moment on each person’s face, as though looking for some sort of respite, or catharsis.


Suddenly, her eyes pause, right beyond Brendon’s right shoulder. Brendon turns around slowly to look, feeling a sense of foreboding.


It’s William. And he has a weird little smile playing about his lips, his fingers tight around his belt loops. He’s wearing a blue tie today, with lighter blue diagonal stripes.


It seems like Greta’s entire face just clenches. Brendon swears he can hear her teeth grind.


“I’d like to offer my sympathies for your job termination,” William says, still smiling that weird little smile. (Brendon doesn’t realize until later that it looks weird because it looks uncertain, and William never looks uncertain.)


“Offer me your sympathies?” Greta repeats, letting out a harsh laugh.


“Yes,” William says, his lips tightening.


“Right. Of course.” Greta shuts her eyes, as though she just needs a break from the world for a second, and then she opens them again, smiling. “You are so fucking slimy and two-faced, you know that? And don’t even get me started on your methods of information gathering,” she continues, picking up speed. “What the hell kind of professional bases lay-offs on subjective surveys given out to our colleagues? What, does our past job performance count for absolutely nothing? You guys are complete frauds,” she spits, and William’s face whitens perceptibly.


No one is moving to shut Greta up, and Greta doesn’t look inclined to shut herself up, either, not any time soon, not when she doesn’t have anything left to lose, anyway, so who cares?


“You know,” she says, shaking her head, “I really despise people like you. You must be ecstatic about the whole recession, yeah? You’re making thousands off of it, living and thriving off other people’s bad luck, other people’s disasters. You’re like vultures, coming in and picking whatever money you can off some poor company’s carcass; you don’t even care about any of this! You don’t care at all, not as long as you get your fucking paycheck and as long as you get to fire a few people so you can point to a job well done, another company set back on the path to fucking efficiency!”


William’s face has taken on a greenish tinge, and he looks sick, but unable to move, unable to say anything in response.


He looks exactly like Brendon feels, completely nauseous and just fucking disgusted with the whole stupid situation. Brendon thinks he’s going to vomit, cry, or punch William, all at the same time.


Greta’s chest is heaving, but she just fixes William with a steady stare. “You don’t even have anything to say to me, do you?” she says. “Don’t have a little polished speech prepared for just this occasion? That was a gross oversight on your part, I must say.”


William mumbles something, and Brendon’s throat tightens. The tension in the room is suffocating, and he wants to throw up; he can feel the bile coming up. It’s not even William, or Greta’s accusing eyes, or the dropped gazes of all their colleagues, it’s that this is going to happen again and again and again, and it’ll happen to Ryan and it’ll happen to Jon and it’ll happen to Spencer and it’ll happen to Brendon, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. It’s just this slow, roiling, nauseating inevitability.


As William continues to fidget, Brendon slips away silently. He just…He needs to get away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the closed down break room, and he makes a beeline for it. The door isn’t locked, and as Brendon eases it open, he realizes the light’s already on.


It’s Spencer, sitting alone at the table, mug of what smells like coffee in his hands. He looks up at Brendon, and offers a small, short smile that quickly fades as the stress lines in his forehead reappear.


“You’re being a delinquent,” Brendon says quietly, inanely.


Spencer snorts. “I figure it’s not really going to matter, soon.”


“Yeah,” Brendon says, voice dropping. “I mean, I can’t really…I feel like I still can’t really believe this is happening, you know? Did you hear what was going on out there? How Greta just laid into William?”


Spencer stares at the table. “Yeah, I did.”


“And she was right, you know?” Brendon says. “I mean—this is all so fucking arbitrary. They’re just using shitty surveys to weed us out bit by bit, and in the end, this company is still going down. It’s completely pointless.”


Spencer just regards him without saying anything, blue eyes resting on him seriously, like Brendon’s actually got something important to say. It’s kind of…heady.


“I don’t really…it just feels so wrong,” Brendon begins again, just to fill the silence. “The whole process. I mean, if things were going the way they should’ve, Greta wouldn’t have been the first one fired. Of course not. It would have been someone else. Me, probably,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes and trying to lighten the atmosphere.


But Spencer’s eyebrows draw together. “You? Why?”


Brendon shrugs. “You know. I’m always walking around, doing everything other than work. Distracting everyone. Getting you your fucking caramel macchiatos,” he says, nudging Spencer with his arm.


“Dude. That’s not—that’s not true,” Spencer says, frowning.


“Yeah, it is,” Brendon says. “And I’m not trying to fish for compliments or anything, so relax. I’m not exactly a genius at Marketing, and everyone knows that.” Brendon fidgets with his fingers, pulling on his thumb. “Was always better at singing, actually, if you’d believe it.”


Spencer smiles a little at that. “I would. You were always fantastic at office karaoke.”


Brendon grins, and ducks his head.


“But also, seriously,” Spencer says firmly, like this actually matters to him, “you would not have been the first person fired, especially not if they were going by the survey.”


Brendon looks at him.


Spencer shrugs, looking self-conscious. “You’re always so optimistic, man. And happy, it seems like. You put up this really big cheerful front, and it makes everyone else feel better, even if you’re not necessarily in the best of moods. And, you know, you go out of your way to help people. Like me with my caramel macchiatos. You seem to be inherently uncompetitive, and intent on making sure everyone else does their best possible work here. It’s…it’s nice. People really like you, Brendon.”


Brendon blinks, feeling a little like he’s been run over. “Really?” he manages, flushing.


“Yeah. I mean, you know.” Spencer shrugs again and drinks his coffee very intently.


“Dude,” Brendon says, feeling a grin grow on his face. “You totally missed your calling as a motivational speaker. That was good, man.”


Spencer rolls his eyes, but he can’t keep his lips from turning up.


“I’m serious! I can just imagine you, in front of a group of senior citizens, pepping them up to rejoin the workforce because their pension plans have imploded.”


“That sounds hard,” Spencer remarks. “What would I say? Sorry about your 401K’s, but hey, at least you’ve stopped dyeing your hair blue since you can’t afford it anymore?”


“Nah,” Brendon says. “Too personal. Be more generic, man, like—“ he sweeps his arm out in a grand, sweeping gesture and says, in a deeper tone of voice, “—‘Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.’ Yeah, they’ll eat that shit right up.”


There’s a moment of silence as Brendon briefly considers suicide—did he really just quote Yoda to Spencer? Maybe he’s dreaming. Oh, God, please let him be dreaming—and Spencer stares at him, mouth open.


“I didn’t, um. I didn’t really,” Brendon begins in a small voice. He’s not too sure what he was planning on saying. Pleading temporary insanity, maybe?


“You want me to quote Star Wars lines as a motivational speaker?” Spencer says, voice choked.


Brendon chews on his thumbnail. Maybe if he closes his eyes, this will all go away.


But then Spencer is laughing, huge belly laughs that tinge his cheeks red and make his eyes squint adorably. He still looks slightly shocked, but also delighted. “Dude. That’s awesome. I would be so good at that. Like, oh, what about ‘named must be your fear before banish it you can?’”


“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering,” Brendon rejoins, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.


“I didn’t know you liked Star Wars,” Spencer says.


“I’ve got layers, Smith. Like an onion,” Brendon says.


“Did you just quote Shrek at me?” Spencer asks, eyes narrowed.


“Hey, you’re the one who recognized it,” Brendon defends.


“I’ve got younger siblings,” Spencer sniffs.


“I am the younger sibling,” Brendon says triumphantly.


Spencer’s lips twitch, and he’s laughing again, and Brendon joins in, and it just feels so good to forget about all the stress of the past few days and laugh about something as stupid as movie quotes. (Although Star Wars isn’t stupid. Star Wars is never stupid.)


Suddenly, Spencer says, a daring glint in his eyes, “I’ve got something to show you.”


“Does it involve nudity?” Brendon asks before he can censor himself. Eyes wide, he slaps a hand over his mouth.


“It could, if you wanted,” Spencer says, looking mischievous.


A few minutes later, Brendon is threatening to sue Spencer for false advertising.


“That so does not count as potential nudity,” he says, pouting.


“You can take off its clothes,” Spencer says stubbornly.


“Oh my god, you are so lame,” Brendon says gleefully.


He’s holding the little Yoda action figure that Spencer keeps in his desk drawer in his hand, cradling it carefully. It’s so weird, and vaguely creepy, but it somehow means a lot that Spencer’s showing Brendon his stupid Yoda and Han Solo action figures. It’s a gesture of trust, and, strangely enough, more intimate than anything they’d done in the supply closet. Of course, it might just feel like that because Brendon is a gigantic geek about Star Wars, but still. Brendon feels warm and contented right in that space under his ribs.


“These don’t look very well taken care of,” Brendon comments, giving Spencer a judgmental look. “Yoda’s head looks kind of chipped.”


“Oh. That.” Spencer palms the back of his neck, looking embarrassed, and now Brendon’s really intrigued, because what could be embarrassing after showing someone your Star Wars toys?


“Sometimes I pretend it’s Pete,” Spencer confides, “And then I take out some aggression on it. It’s kind of like therapy, only cheaper. You know, whacking a toy against a wall doesn’t cost very much money.”


“I see the resemblance,” Brendon says, considering, and he looks over Yoda’s short stature and beady eyes solemnly. Spencer snorts, and Brendon can’t hold his solemn face, just starts grinning like an idiot.


“Yeah, I can definitely see Pete as Yoda,” Brendon says after a while. “Can you imagine?” He combs some hair over his eyes and looks through them intensely. “Electronics you must sell,” he intones. “But first, Patrick have I mentioned?”


Spencer laughs at that, much harder than the joke actually warrants, but Brendon doesn’t actually care because he’s laughing along too, helplessly, and when he gets the usual urge to brush Spencer’s hair back from his face, it’s easier to keep himself from doing it, because this? This is almost better.


Some time later, Ryan comes by and sees them, with the action figures, and rolls his eyes eloquently before leaving. Brendon sticks his tongue out at Ryan’s retreating back, feeling gratified when Spencer flips Ryan off and yells after him, “It wasn’t too long ago that you were begging me to watch The Empire Strikes Back with you for the tenth time, Ross!”


* * *


It’s a weird thing to suddenly think about, but as Brendon walks back to his cubicle, he can’t stop wondering. It’s official, now; there have been four lay-offs today. That means Gabe wasn’t let go. But Gabe’s been so openly antagonistic to William that it doesn’t make sense for William to let him survive another day.


Unless it’s some kind of fucked up mindgame, stringing Gabe along and stressing him out. But that sounds kind of sadistic even for William. William might simply have forgotten to lay Gabe off, but that doesn’t seem very likely either. Gabe is pretty much the constant focus of William’s attention, at least when William isn’t seemingly making a conscious decision to move onto other parts of the building.


Brendon continues thinking about it, when he hears a small, choked off noise. It’s coming from the supply closet—the door is slightly ajar. And okay, so Brendon doesn’t like to think of himself as a snoop, but, well, he was a youngest sibling at one point in his life. Snooping is practically genetic.


So he stops, and slowly, quietly, inches over to the supply closet. As he gets closer, he can hear heavy breathing, and suddenly, he realizes what’s going on. And he almost makes himself turn around and just walk back to his cubicle, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He can’t even imagine which of his two coworkers might be getting it on.


So he gradually tilts his head until he can see through the crack between the door and its frame, ready to snatch it away at the first hint he might be seen. But it turns out he doesn’t even have to worry about it.


Because inside the closet are William and Gabe.


And they’re centimeters apart from each other, completely wrapped up in what they’re doing. It’s clear that they’ve been, well, fucking (Brendon feels like an embarrassingly virgin Mormon for whispering the word inside his own head, but old habits die hard). But something’s off about it all.


Gabe has William’s thin, white wrists pinned above his head, to the shelf with all the reams of copy paper. He’s standing between William’s legs, and his face is dipped into the curve of William’s neck, mouth brushing his ear.


Then, Gabe speaks, although breathes might be a more accurate word. Brendon strains his ears to listen.


“Bill,” Gabe is saying gently, “if you don’t stop this soon, I’m doing it for you.”


William turns his face away, abruptly scowling.


“Okay?” Gabe presses.


“Okay. Fine,” William snaps in a whispered tone.


And then Gabe starts moving, still pinning William’s wrists, but shifting his left hand to slide under William’s sharp hip, lifting up and grinding them together, and wow, yeah, Brendon is definitely leaving now.


He walks away briskly, trying to get rid of the images burned into his eyelids. But he can’t stop thinking about it. What the hell had Gabe meant? Stop what? Firing people? But—that doesn’t even makes sense. Brendon sighs to himself, and rolls his eyes. It probably doesn’t even matter what Gabe meant, not with the way things were around here.


Ryan meets him at his cubicle, and Brendon supposes he must be pretty obviously shellshocked, because Ryan’s guiding him to his chair, looking concerned (or as concerned as Ryan ever looks. He furrowed his eyebrows, anyway).


“Dude, are you okay?” Ryan says. “You and Spencer seemed fine when I left you guys. You didn’t fight again, did you?” He sighs exasperatedly.


“Spencer? Oh, um, no. We didn’t,” Brendon says absently.


Ryan narrows his eyes. “Then what is it?”


“I just.” Brendon licks his lips, wondering if he should tell him, and then thinks, screw it. They’re all going to be fired soon, anyway. “You won’t believe who I just saw in the supply closet.”


Ryan rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. It was Pete, Patrick, and Ashlee again, wasn’t it? I swear, those three have the worst impulse control.”


Brendon gapes. “What? Pete and Patrick and Ashlee?”


Ryan blinks. “It wasn’t them, then? But, yeah, they’ve been fucking for forever. Only you could fail to notice,” he adds fondly.


“But—“ Brendon sputters. “What about that rule? That no intra-office fraternization rule? Pete’s the manager!”


Ryan shrugs. “That’s pretty much the rule that everyone knows but no one follows, you know? Actually, that’s the same of pretty much every other rule here, but, well.” He waves a hand casually.


Brendon tries to stop himself from thinking about Spencer, but it’s like his brain’s hardwired to connect everything to Spencer these days.


“So, if Spencer and me really had…done things,” Brendon says slowly, “it wouldn’t have mattered?”


Ryan’s face suddenly shutters. “Brendon, Spencer’s just…He’s kind of neurotic.”


“You’re neurotic,” Brendon says automatically.


“I know,” Ryan says. “It’s why we’re friends. But anyway,” he continues, obviously searching for another subject, “who did you see in the supply closet? Tell me.”


“Um.” Brendon frowns and tries to focus. “I saw Gabe and William.”


Ryan whistles lowly. “Wow. Although not entirely unexpected, I guess.”


“Yeah, I guess. It was kind of weird, though.”


Ryan snorts. “Everything involving their relationship is bound to be weird, Brendon.”


“You’re probably right,” Brendon murmurs, but Gabe’s words are still niggling at him. Something isn’t right there.


* * *


The next day, it feels like everyone’s tiptoeing around, afraid to even breathe too loud for fear of attracting attention. William is noticeably absent, and it’s not like that’s any great loss, but Gabe’s not there, either, and Brendon’s wondering, okay? It seems like a hell of a coincidence.


Carden’s there, though, skulking around and being generally creepy. But he seems to have kind of lost his edge, not going out of his way to freak someone out or make someone cry. It’s odd, and Brendon would almost think that Greta’s little diatribe had some sort of sobering effect if he didn’t know for a fact that at least Carden’s heart is cold and black and dead, and therefore incapable of being touched by either logic or tears.


In between thinking and working and pretending to work, Brendon’s nervous, jittering his knee and elbow and fingers. He’s trying to keep nonchalant—never let them smell your fear, his band teacher used to say—but the tension around the entire building is increasing hour by hour, and it’s a little hard not to get caught up in the whole thing when people are whispering and flinching and casting hunted glances over their shoulders.


Brendon was planning on holding his breath until after lunch, because that’s when yesterday’s lay-offs were sent out, but today it looks like William and Michael have decided not to drag out the suspense, because it’s only ten A.M. and already there are murmurs coming down from Design that a few people have gotten the cut.


And right behind him, Joe’s stopped humming For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, and is instead doing a remarkably good impression of not breathing at all.


“Joe?” Brendon asks, quietly, not wanting to startle him (because Joe actually startles really easy, for all that he seems like the mellowest, most laid-back stoner). “What is it?”


The question’s kind of superfluous, though, because Brendon’s turned around, and he can see Joe’s face, and he knows that look. A heavy feeling settles in his stomach, and he walks over, lays a pointless hand on Joe’s shoulder because even though he knows he can’t say or do anything to make this better, he can still make an effort.


“You okay, dude?” Brendon asks when it looks like Joe isn’t going to say anything, just blink rapidly.


“I don’t…” Joe’s voice dies out, and he clears his throat. “I’ve had this job since I got out of college. Since Pete got here and clawed his way to manager. It’s been…it must be ten years by now, I think.”


His voice is quiet, reflective, and he’s rubbing the speaker on his headset over and over and over again.


“I’m sorry, Joe,” Brendon says uselessly. He swallows, a reflexive motion to get rid of the lump in his throat.


“It’s okay. I just. I hadn’t really realized it had been so long, you know? It’s kind of funny,” Joe says. “Never really thought about it. Until now, of course.”


“Yeah?”


Joe shrugs. “Yeah. My very first real job, sitting here with this crappy headset. Never really expected to keep doing this, actually. I had planned on finding some real work, some actual computer engineering job. But it’s been ten years. Funny how things work out, yeah? Really funny, life is.”


Joe seems really adamant on this point, so Brendon nods.


“Sure. Funny,” Brendon says, twisting his lips.


Joe rubs the corner of his jaw, over his stupid mountain-man beard that he had started growing to freak Patrick out and just decided to keep.


“I don’t think I even know where my resume is,” Joe says.


“Well,” Brendon says, striving for something to say, “I’m sure you’ll find it. And Pete’ll write you a great recommendation; you know he will.”


“Yeah,” Joe says. “Yeah.”


Joe’s running his hands through his hair shakily, still blinking a lot, when Pete bursts into the room.


There’s really no other word for it, either, he just bursts in, all barely contained energy and long, angry strides. He’s craning his neck all around, clearly searching for someone.


He finds him the same moment Brendon does. Carden.


The guy’s lounging against one of the walls. He’d blended so well into the décor that Brendon hadn’t even seen him there, and it makes him flinch automatically, even though Carden’s not even looking at him. He’s looking at Pete, and somehow, his eyes get even flatter, even more dead and soulless.


“Carden,” Pete says very calmly, and then, in the next instant, “what the actual fuck?”


Carden raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. This is about what’s-his-face, right, Patrick Stump?”


Pete’s lips thin, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah, it is. Why the fuck is he fired?”


“We have our methods,” Carden drawls. “Stump was a clear choice for elimination, so we took it. I’ll remind you, Mr. Wentz, that every step of our process was both examined and thoroughly approved by Mr. Greenwald. And Stump was the next logical step in our journey together, Mr. Wentz. Our journey to efficiency. This is what we’re here for, after all. I’d like to respectfully remind you of that.” Then Carden smirks. “Try not to let your personal feelings get in the way.”


Pete’s face reddens dangerously. “Personal feelings? Bullshit. Patrick has logged more fucking hours than anyone else in Design. He’s come up with more prototypes, more breakthroughs, made more money for Island Electronics than you ever will. He’s an integral part of this fucking company, and it is a colossal mistake trying to fire him.”


“That’s not what our data says,” Carden says, still smiling. “And we’re not trying to lay him off, Mr. Wentz. We already have.”


“Re. Consider,” Pete hisses, barely an inch away from Carden’s face.


“I wouldn’t lose any more sleep over it, Mr. Wentz,” Carden says. “He’s got a great severance package.” And then Carden bares his teeth in a grin.


“You fucking fucker,” Pete grits out between clenched teeth, fisting his hands.


“Although I must say,” Carden says, “I’m a little concerned about your behavior. You don’t seem to be very objective about this whole situation, Mr. Wentz. In fact, I would venture to say that you seem to be very involved in Mr. Stump’s future prospects. Personally involved, even. I wonder how Mr. Greenwald would feel about that.”


“Greenwald?” Pete says in disbelief.


“Yes. Your boss,” Carden adds helpfully.


Pete doesn’t say anything; can’t, Brendon supposes. He just stands there, glaring ferociously. Carden’s the first to move, sliding out from where Pete had him cornered and leisurely walking away into the hall.


No one says anything when Pete whirls away and knocks his fist into the nearest wall, not hard enough to do any damage, just enough to skin his knuckles and blow off steam. Then he stalks off, in the opposite direction of Carden, avoiding everyone’s stares and muttering under his breath.


Joe says, quietly, after a few moments, “I wonder if Pete realized I had been laid off, too,” and Brendon doesn’t know what to say to that.


So he just sits down tiredly, rubbing his eyes, and tries not to think about the future.


Part 4

Comments

[sharpisignature.livejournal.com]

HA CHA! I knew it! I fucking KNEW it! Oh Gabiiliam...you own my heart. I can't believe you axed Gerard! and Frank! and Andy! and Greta! and joe! and oh my god!! PATRICK?!?! I am way to attached to all of these people.

I am SO happy Spencer and Brendon are working things out. But, BOB. BOB fucking BRYAR. He's possible one of my favorite people EVER besides Spencer Smith and Patrick. You seriously distracted me with his appearance. And dude. Carden...he is so fucking asking for it. Pete's gonna beat the shit out of him. I cannot wait.

P.s. Favorite line(s):
Suddenly, Spencer says, a daring glint in his eyes, “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Does it involve nudity?” Brendon asks before he can censor himself. Eyes wide, he slaps a hand over his mouth.

“It could, if you wanted,” Spencer says, looking mischievous.

A few minutes later, Brendon is threatening to sue Spencer for false advertising.

“That so does not count as potential nudity,” he says, pouting.

“You can take off its clothes,” Spencer says stubbornly.

“Oh my god, you are so lame,” Brendon says gleefully.

Ha. I was all excited then he brought out Yoda and I'm thinking "ah man!" Lol, I feel like such a creeper.

[piecesof-reeses.livejournal.com]

Hahah, your comments are so awesome! I felt really heartless but also kind of powerful when I was writing this, laying off all those people. >:D