Fic Post: When the Shadows Appear
Feb. 28th, 2010 03:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
harborshoreTitle: When the Shadows Appear
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, none of what happens in this story (or immediately preceding its beginning) is true.
Summary: Jesus, this band's fucking hard on their drummers. California, present day.
Warnings: Uh, none. Angst, but things get better.
Word Count: 2330
Author's Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
torakowalski and desfinado for looking at this, and to thesamefire for hand-holding and reminding me how to write sex. Brian's opinions as a POV character are not necessarily the same as mine.
When he opens the door to find Bob on the doorstep, jaw set and bag in his hand, Brian doesn't say I told you so.
Brian doesn't say I told you so, and he doesn't say anything about the way Gerard couldn't look up from the table when he told Brian that the band needed to go new places (translation: they were getting a new management), and he doesn't say anything about the text Mikey sent him, after. It said "sorry" and "i'll miss you," and it's still in Brian's phone.
He just opens his door wider and lets Bob in.
Bob doesn't say much either. He has a look in his eyes that Brian hasn't seen since after the first surgery, when he didn't know if he'd ever play again.
"My couch is your couch," Brian says, and Bob nods, drops his bag on the carpet and wanders into the living room. Brian wants to tell him he doesn't have to be stoic, and he wishes he'd hugged Bob when he opened the door and found him on the doorstep, but he knows Bob probably wouldn't have been open to that.
Not yet, at any rate.
"I don't have any beer," he says, "but I can make you some coffee."
Bob nods, flexing his wrists. Flying sucks for him, Brian knows, the way it sucks for everyone whose bodies aren't quite what they used to be. Brian always aches when he's been in the air too long. Touring left him with scars, metaphorical and otherwise, and the stunt training isn't exactly helping with that.
When he brings Bob the coffee mug, he gets a tiny smile and a, "Thanks, Schechter."
"Don't thank me before you've tried it," Brian says. "I haven't gotten any better at making coffee anything but strong."
"Strong's good," Bob says. "Long flight."
"Yeah."
And they're right back at what Brian's sure Bob doesn't want to talk about. Not that Brian is all that keen on going there either, but he's pretty sure they need to at least bring it up at some point.
"So," he says.
Bob winces. "Don't."
"I was just going to ask," Brian says mildly.
"It was shitty," Bob says. "It was shitty and I'm tired."
"Did they make you do the interview?" Brian says.
"No, don't think Warner wanted them to."
"Your fan base is too big."
Bob grimaces. "Yeah, that and, yeah. I think Frank's doing it. Or did it."
"We could look," Brian says, but he knows Bob won't want to.
Bob shakes his head. "I wish I could just--" Bob trails off, scratching his beard.
Brian waits patiently. People think Bob doesn't talk, but that's just because they don't wait him out.
"I don't know why," Bob says finally. "Somehow this argument was different than all the other times, and I don't know why."
Brian just nods, because saying something about how Gerard Way is the only one in that band who gets to fuck up loudly and visibly without being thrown out, who gets a thousand chances, well, it's neither helpful nor entirely fair. The others haven't exactly done anything to warrant being given that many chances, except for Mikey, and no one would blame Mikey for that shit.
Also, it's not like Brian regrets all the nights he spent with Gerard on the other side of the phone, talking and talking and listening until Gerard's breathing slowed down and Brian knew he wouldn't do something stupid if he hung up. He doesn't regret that, and he doesn't regret paying for Europe, and he doesn't--he's still angry, but he wouldn't change a thing. The music was that good; he wouldn't change a thing.
Life is what life is. He's angrier on Bob's behalf than for himself, at this point.
"How are your wrists?" he says.
Bob snorts. "You too? They're not great, but they're fine. I worked pretty hard to get them that way, remember?"
Yeah, Brian remembers. He remembers the last round of it too, when he technically wasn't supposed to be around anymore, but Bob kept leaving him messages with all the stupid rehab stories he could think of, and Brian would call him back and talk about how he was looking into stunt school and that Bob should take classes too: "It'd be right up your alley, Bryar, the students get set on fire every day."
And fine, that wasn't precisely the truth, but it made Bob laugh at the time.
"But it was the wrists?" he persists.
Bob shrugs. "That and I made, like, a fucking suggestion that didn't fit with the vision, right?"
Brian knows enough to know it probably wasn't exactly like that, that it was a longer and more gradual process (just like last time; Jesus, this band's fucking hard on their drummers), only this time he wasn't there to smooth it over and prolong it. Which he did, back then, because he was pretty clear on the fact that a band potentially falling apart should at least play the shows they're paid to do, which they can't do without a drummer.
He wonders if they're falling apart now, if the band will break up and they'll all go their separate side project ways, but he really doesn't think so. He's at a loss for why they'd get rid of Bob, though. Stupidest fucking move ever. He managed to hold on to Bob, didn't he, even when he left Bob's band. Or was fired. Or when they "changed management." Whichever version you prefer.
"Must have been quite the suggestion," he says, instead of all the angry things he wants to say about idiot motherfuckers who don't know what they've got, because he's always preferred the laugh-your-way-out-of-pain method. When there aren't any handy planes to dive out of, that is.
Bob does laugh. It's short and sharp, but it's a laugh. And then he starts shaking, hands cramping into fists in his lap.
"You need your meds?" Brian asks, but he knows that isn't it.
He reaches out and carefully circles Bob's wrists with his hands, not squeezing, just holding.
"Hey," he says.
Bob isn't looking at him.
"Hey," he says again, nudging Bob's knee with his. "Let me, okay?" It's been so long, it's been so goddamn long, but they've come back to this again and again, and Brian thinks this time might be it.
Opening his eyes, Bob says, "You can't fix this, Schechter."
"Shut up," Brian says, in the softest, most earnest tone he ever uses, and Bob nods, then.
"I'll let you try, I guess." He doesn't sound like he thinks it'll help, and Brian may not know everything, no matter what Bert used to proclaim loudly when he was on stage, but he does know Bob.
Brian puts Bob's hands on the couch, palms down, and then he gets down on the floor, so that he's on his knees in front of Bob. Who breathes in sharply but doesn't say anything.
"Hips up," Brian says, reaching forward to unbutton Bob's pants, and Bob obeys, still quiet, but oh, is he ever looking at Brian now. "Keep your eyes on me," Brian says, just in case, and then he has to close his eyes for a second when he gets his mouth on Bob (it's been so fucking long) but Bob's still looking at him, Brian can feel it.
He hums around Bob's dick and Bob makes a helpless noise but he doesn't touch, he's so good, his hands are still on the couch. Brian lets him know how well he's doing by sliding one hand over to thread his fingers through Bob's, and then he swallows and rides it out when Bob moves, rides it out and goes further down.
Brian's not sure how long he's there; he feels it in his knees and his jaw but it doesn't matter, really, not as long as he's got Bob there, arching into his mouth, fingers flexing against Brian's. His own jeans are getting uncomfortable, but he doesn't give a fuck, not yet. He wants to take his time.
When he decides it's been long enough, he starts tracing Bob's inner thigh with his free hand, scraping lightly over the thin skin there.
"Please," Bob says then, like he has to, like he can't hold the word back any longer. Brian squeezes Bob's hand and stays, just stays, until Bob starts to come. Bob makes another sound, thin and high and like he's letting go, and then Brian slides off and turns his chin up. He's always liked it, being marked like this, and given the way Bob's staring, he hasn't changed his mind about finding it hot.
"Come here, fuck, Brian, get up here," Bob manages, running his fingers across Brian's face, getting his hand wet and apparently not giving a fuck.
Brian takes his shirt off, dislodging Bob's hand and then wiping his face, and yeah, then he gets up there. Bob is still breathing hard and his hands are clumsy but sure on Brian's shoulders, sliding down his arms to his waist and pulling him into his lap.
Brian shakes his head when Bob tries to unbutton his jeans, says, "Later."
Bob kisses him then, deeply and thoroughly the way he always kisses, and Brian smiles into the kiss as he feels Bob's hands running up his back.
"Any new tattoos?" Bob says, and Brian shakes his head.
"Can't decide where I want the plane," he says, and Bob grins.
"Or the parachute. You realize you can never ever make fun of me for getting hurt ever again, right?"
Brian rolls his eyes. "Except I'm pretty sure we have safety regulations and protective suits and shit. To prevent, say, our actual skin from catching on fire."
"You like the scar, don't even try."
"It's very manly," Brian says, and Bob bites him in retaliation.
"You're just jealous you don't have any of your own. You probably will soon, though."
Brian knows he'll get hurt doing stunts, but he's pretty set on not ending up marked by life-threatening danger like Bob is. Even if he does like Bob's scar. "Let's go to bed, Bryar."
Bob looks a little confused at the abrupt transition. "You change your mind?" His hand starts moving back toward Brian's jean button.
Shaking his head, Brian reaches out and pokes Bob's shoulder. "Nah, but I think you should sleep." Before you get worked up about not having a job anymore and undo all the good I did you.
"You just gave me coffee."
Brian gives him a look. "Like that'll stop you from sleeping." Other things might, if Bob does start thinking about the whole mess again, but the coffee won't.
"Fair enough, I suppose. You have to get off if we're moving, though, I'm not carrying your ass."
"You like my ass," Brian smirks, then moves off and out of range when Bob grabs for him. It quickly turns into a chase, obviously, and while Brian's always been faster, Bob has a lot more range and the apartment isn't very big.
It's not like Brian minds getting caught, anyway.
They're laughing when they tumble into bed, Bob on his back and Brian on top again, because back when they last did this, for three weeks while Bob was recovering from his first surgery, they got very good at making sure Bob was never in a position where he was straining his wrists.
Brian bends down to kiss him, and then he rolls off, squirming out of his jeans.
"Sexy," Bob comments, mouth quirking.
"Shut up," Brian says, and pulls the covers up to cover them. "We're sleeping."
"You didn't use to be this selfless about orgasms."
"Oh, you'll make it up to me, never fear. You're just too tired to be any good right now." Tired enough that he might actually sleep, Brian hopes.
"Too tired, am I?" Bob's not quite growling as he slides his hand into Brian's boxers, and Brian yelps at the dry grip.
"A little--"
"A little what?" Fuck, he missed Bob sounding innocent like that, and he missed Bob's hands, shit.
"Don't, fuck, don't fuck up your wrists, asshole," Brian pants, squirming into Bob's steady hold.
"You won't take that long," Bob says, twisting his grip, and yeah, okay, he's right. Brian's been turned on since the blow job and Bob is really goddamn good at this, so it only takes another two pulls, and then Brian is done, done, done, arching his back, the sparks under his skin like a fucking supernova. He says something, he's not quite sure what, and then he blinks his eyes back open to the most smug smile he's ever seen.
"You think you're all that, huh," he tries to say, but it comes out more like, "you're all that," and Bob nods like he agrees before kissing Brian again.
"Let's sleep now," Brian decides, coming out of the kiss, and Bob closes his eyes.
"Not gonna make me talk?" There's something heavy in his voice, but Brian thinks he sounds tired enough to not lie awake for hours. Bob usually can sleep, anyway; Brian never had to worry about him when the band had a bad show, not like he had to worry about either of the Ways.
"Tomorrow, Bryar, tomorrow."
"I had to come here, didn't I," Bob mutters.
Brian stays awake until Bob's breathing evens out, slows down. Then he lets go, too, and sleep comes easy.
--
Later, tomorrow or the next week, or maybe even the next month, Brian will tell Bob what he's working towards. He's betting on himself, yeah, but he's also been thinking about all the kids like him, too smart for their own good and no outlet for it, and the kids like Bob, smart as hell but no one believes it, feeling angry and lonely and--yeah.
"You want to start a music school," Bob will say and Brian won't be able to tell what's in his voice. Disbelief? Shit, this is why he hasn't told anyone yet.
"Yeah," he'll respond, and he'll try not to sound defensive or to say too much. It's not like he intended to save up money to start a school when he decided to do the stunt thing (that was more about getting to jump off cliffs), but one day he woke up and saw it, saw it so clearly.
Then Bob will look at him like he did when--Brian won't be able to finish that thought. "Can I help?"
Brian will kiss him, easy, so easy, and that will be that.
Almost.
They'll fight about using Bob's royalty money, but Bob will win that one. And later, much later, when they're a week away from opening, there'll be a check in the mail in a plain envelope. Brian will shake his head and Bob will smile ruefully, and they'll name one of the classrooms something sentimental and tell the press (there's a surprising number of journalists at their opening) that their old friends have been helpful.
Happily ever after? Sure, why not.
Rating: R
Pairing: Bob/Brian
Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, none of what happens in this story (or immediately preceding its beginning) is true.
Summary: Jesus, this band's fucking hard on their drummers. California, present day.
Warnings: Uh, none. Angst, but things get better.
Word Count: 2330
Author's Notes: Thanks to
torakowalski and desfinado for looking at this, and to thesamefire for hand-holding and reminding me how to write sex. Brian's opinions as a POV character are not necessarily the same as mine. When he opens the door to find Bob on the doorstep, jaw set and bag in his hand, Brian doesn't say I told you so.
Brian doesn't say I told you so, and he doesn't say anything about the way Gerard couldn't look up from the table when he told Brian that the band needed to go new places (translation: they were getting a new management), and he doesn't say anything about the text Mikey sent him, after. It said "sorry" and "i'll miss you," and it's still in Brian's phone.
He just opens his door wider and lets Bob in.
Bob doesn't say much either. He has a look in his eyes that Brian hasn't seen since after the first surgery, when he didn't know if he'd ever play again.
"My couch is your couch," Brian says, and Bob nods, drops his bag on the carpet and wanders into the living room. Brian wants to tell him he doesn't have to be stoic, and he wishes he'd hugged Bob when he opened the door and found him on the doorstep, but he knows Bob probably wouldn't have been open to that.
Not yet, at any rate.
"I don't have any beer," he says, "but I can make you some coffee."
Bob nods, flexing his wrists. Flying sucks for him, Brian knows, the way it sucks for everyone whose bodies aren't quite what they used to be. Brian always aches when he's been in the air too long. Touring left him with scars, metaphorical and otherwise, and the stunt training isn't exactly helping with that.
When he brings Bob the coffee mug, he gets a tiny smile and a, "Thanks, Schechter."
"Don't thank me before you've tried it," Brian says. "I haven't gotten any better at making coffee anything but strong."
"Strong's good," Bob says. "Long flight."
"Yeah."
And they're right back at what Brian's sure Bob doesn't want to talk about. Not that Brian is all that keen on going there either, but he's pretty sure they need to at least bring it up at some point.
"So," he says.
Bob winces. "Don't."
"I was just going to ask," Brian says mildly.
"It was shitty," Bob says. "It was shitty and I'm tired."
"Did they make you do the interview?" Brian says.
"No, don't think Warner wanted them to."
"Your fan base is too big."
Bob grimaces. "Yeah, that and, yeah. I think Frank's doing it. Or did it."
"We could look," Brian says, but he knows Bob won't want to.
Bob shakes his head. "I wish I could just--" Bob trails off, scratching his beard.
Brian waits patiently. People think Bob doesn't talk, but that's just because they don't wait him out.
"I don't know why," Bob says finally. "Somehow this argument was different than all the other times, and I don't know why."
Brian just nods, because saying something about how Gerard Way is the only one in that band who gets to fuck up loudly and visibly without being thrown out, who gets a thousand chances, well, it's neither helpful nor entirely fair. The others haven't exactly done anything to warrant being given that many chances, except for Mikey, and no one would blame Mikey for that shit.
Also, it's not like Brian regrets all the nights he spent with Gerard on the other side of the phone, talking and talking and listening until Gerard's breathing slowed down and Brian knew he wouldn't do something stupid if he hung up. He doesn't regret that, and he doesn't regret paying for Europe, and he doesn't--he's still angry, but he wouldn't change a thing. The music was that good; he wouldn't change a thing.
Life is what life is. He's angrier on Bob's behalf than for himself, at this point.
"How are your wrists?" he says.
Bob snorts. "You too? They're not great, but they're fine. I worked pretty hard to get them that way, remember?"
Yeah, Brian remembers. He remembers the last round of it too, when he technically wasn't supposed to be around anymore, but Bob kept leaving him messages with all the stupid rehab stories he could think of, and Brian would call him back and talk about how he was looking into stunt school and that Bob should take classes too: "It'd be right up your alley, Bryar, the students get set on fire every day."
And fine, that wasn't precisely the truth, but it made Bob laugh at the time.
"But it was the wrists?" he persists.
Bob shrugs. "That and I made, like, a fucking suggestion that didn't fit with the vision, right?"
Brian knows enough to know it probably wasn't exactly like that, that it was a longer and more gradual process (just like last time; Jesus, this band's fucking hard on their drummers), only this time he wasn't there to smooth it over and prolong it. Which he did, back then, because he was pretty clear on the fact that a band potentially falling apart should at least play the shows they're paid to do, which they can't do without a drummer.
He wonders if they're falling apart now, if the band will break up and they'll all go their separate side project ways, but he really doesn't think so. He's at a loss for why they'd get rid of Bob, though. Stupidest fucking move ever. He managed to hold on to Bob, didn't he, even when he left Bob's band. Or was fired. Or when they "changed management." Whichever version you prefer.
"Must have been quite the suggestion," he says, instead of all the angry things he wants to say about idiot motherfuckers who don't know what they've got, because he's always preferred the laugh-your-way-out-of-pain method. When there aren't any handy planes to dive out of, that is.
Bob does laugh. It's short and sharp, but it's a laugh. And then he starts shaking, hands cramping into fists in his lap.
"You need your meds?" Brian asks, but he knows that isn't it.
He reaches out and carefully circles Bob's wrists with his hands, not squeezing, just holding.
"Hey," he says.
Bob isn't looking at him.
"Hey," he says again, nudging Bob's knee with his. "Let me, okay?" It's been so long, it's been so goddamn long, but they've come back to this again and again, and Brian thinks this time might be it.
Opening his eyes, Bob says, "You can't fix this, Schechter."
"Shut up," Brian says, in the softest, most earnest tone he ever uses, and Bob nods, then.
"I'll let you try, I guess." He doesn't sound like he thinks it'll help, and Brian may not know everything, no matter what Bert used to proclaim loudly when he was on stage, but he does know Bob.
Brian puts Bob's hands on the couch, palms down, and then he gets down on the floor, so that he's on his knees in front of Bob. Who breathes in sharply but doesn't say anything.
"Hips up," Brian says, reaching forward to unbutton Bob's pants, and Bob obeys, still quiet, but oh, is he ever looking at Brian now. "Keep your eyes on me," Brian says, just in case, and then he has to close his eyes for a second when he gets his mouth on Bob (it's been so fucking long) but Bob's still looking at him, Brian can feel it.
He hums around Bob's dick and Bob makes a helpless noise but he doesn't touch, he's so good, his hands are still on the couch. Brian lets him know how well he's doing by sliding one hand over to thread his fingers through Bob's, and then he swallows and rides it out when Bob moves, rides it out and goes further down.
Brian's not sure how long he's there; he feels it in his knees and his jaw but it doesn't matter, really, not as long as he's got Bob there, arching into his mouth, fingers flexing against Brian's. His own jeans are getting uncomfortable, but he doesn't give a fuck, not yet. He wants to take his time.
When he decides it's been long enough, he starts tracing Bob's inner thigh with his free hand, scraping lightly over the thin skin there.
"Please," Bob says then, like he has to, like he can't hold the word back any longer. Brian squeezes Bob's hand and stays, just stays, until Bob starts to come. Bob makes another sound, thin and high and like he's letting go, and then Brian slides off and turns his chin up. He's always liked it, being marked like this, and given the way Bob's staring, he hasn't changed his mind about finding it hot.
"Come here, fuck, Brian, get up here," Bob manages, running his fingers across Brian's face, getting his hand wet and apparently not giving a fuck.
Brian takes his shirt off, dislodging Bob's hand and then wiping his face, and yeah, then he gets up there. Bob is still breathing hard and his hands are clumsy but sure on Brian's shoulders, sliding down his arms to his waist and pulling him into his lap.
Brian shakes his head when Bob tries to unbutton his jeans, says, "Later."
Bob kisses him then, deeply and thoroughly the way he always kisses, and Brian smiles into the kiss as he feels Bob's hands running up his back.
"Any new tattoos?" Bob says, and Brian shakes his head.
"Can't decide where I want the plane," he says, and Bob grins.
"Or the parachute. You realize you can never ever make fun of me for getting hurt ever again, right?"
Brian rolls his eyes. "Except I'm pretty sure we have safety regulations and protective suits and shit. To prevent, say, our actual skin from catching on fire."
"You like the scar, don't even try."
"It's very manly," Brian says, and Bob bites him in retaliation.
"You're just jealous you don't have any of your own. You probably will soon, though."
Brian knows he'll get hurt doing stunts, but he's pretty set on not ending up marked by life-threatening danger like Bob is. Even if he does like Bob's scar. "Let's go to bed, Bryar."
Bob looks a little confused at the abrupt transition. "You change your mind?" His hand starts moving back toward Brian's jean button.
Shaking his head, Brian reaches out and pokes Bob's shoulder. "Nah, but I think you should sleep." Before you get worked up about not having a job anymore and undo all the good I did you.
"You just gave me coffee."
Brian gives him a look. "Like that'll stop you from sleeping." Other things might, if Bob does start thinking about the whole mess again, but the coffee won't.
"Fair enough, I suppose. You have to get off if we're moving, though, I'm not carrying your ass."
"You like my ass," Brian smirks, then moves off and out of range when Bob grabs for him. It quickly turns into a chase, obviously, and while Brian's always been faster, Bob has a lot more range and the apartment isn't very big.
It's not like Brian minds getting caught, anyway.
They're laughing when they tumble into bed, Bob on his back and Brian on top again, because back when they last did this, for three weeks while Bob was recovering from his first surgery, they got very good at making sure Bob was never in a position where he was straining his wrists.
Brian bends down to kiss him, and then he rolls off, squirming out of his jeans.
"Sexy," Bob comments, mouth quirking.
"Shut up," Brian says, and pulls the covers up to cover them. "We're sleeping."
"You didn't use to be this selfless about orgasms."
"Oh, you'll make it up to me, never fear. You're just too tired to be any good right now." Tired enough that he might actually sleep, Brian hopes.
"Too tired, am I?" Bob's not quite growling as he slides his hand into Brian's boxers, and Brian yelps at the dry grip.
"A little--"
"A little what?" Fuck, he missed Bob sounding innocent like that, and he missed Bob's hands, shit.
"Don't, fuck, don't fuck up your wrists, asshole," Brian pants, squirming into Bob's steady hold.
"You won't take that long," Bob says, twisting his grip, and yeah, okay, he's right. Brian's been turned on since the blow job and Bob is really goddamn good at this, so it only takes another two pulls, and then Brian is done, done, done, arching his back, the sparks under his skin like a fucking supernova. He says something, he's not quite sure what, and then he blinks his eyes back open to the most smug smile he's ever seen.
"You think you're all that, huh," he tries to say, but it comes out more like, "you're all that," and Bob nods like he agrees before kissing Brian again.
"Let's sleep now," Brian decides, coming out of the kiss, and Bob closes his eyes.
"Not gonna make me talk?" There's something heavy in his voice, but Brian thinks he sounds tired enough to not lie awake for hours. Bob usually can sleep, anyway; Brian never had to worry about him when the band had a bad show, not like he had to worry about either of the Ways.
"Tomorrow, Bryar, tomorrow."
"I had to come here, didn't I," Bob mutters.
Brian stays awake until Bob's breathing evens out, slows down. Then he lets go, too, and sleep comes easy.
--
Later, tomorrow or the next week, or maybe even the next month, Brian will tell Bob what he's working towards. He's betting on himself, yeah, but he's also been thinking about all the kids like him, too smart for their own good and no outlet for it, and the kids like Bob, smart as hell but no one believes it, feeling angry and lonely and--yeah.
"You want to start a music school," Bob will say and Brian won't be able to tell what's in his voice. Disbelief? Shit, this is why he hasn't told anyone yet.
"Yeah," he'll respond, and he'll try not to sound defensive or to say too much. It's not like he intended to save up money to start a school when he decided to do the stunt thing (that was more about getting to jump off cliffs), but one day he woke up and saw it, saw it so clearly.
Then Bob will look at him like he did when--Brian won't be able to finish that thought. "Can I help?"
Brian will kiss him, easy, so easy, and that will be that.
Almost.
They'll fight about using Bob's royalty money, but Bob will win that one. And later, much later, when they're a week away from opening, there'll be a check in the mail in a plain envelope. Brian will shake his head and Bob will smile ruefully, and they'll name one of the classrooms something sentimental and tell the press (there's a surprising number of journalists at their opening) that their old friends have been helpful.
Happily ever after? Sure, why not.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-28 02:33 am (UTC)ahhhhhh, so lovely. I really liked Bob finally letting Brian take care of him.
(is Bob actually leaving? :( )
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-28 08:55 am (UTC)(i don't think so! there's a really unreliable site posting rumors about him being fired, and the possibility made me so sad i had to write this, but i don't think it's true.)