The first half of Brendon's day is taken up by tests.

Brendon goes through scans, answers doctor's questions, and has the tender bruises and wounds on the side of his head poked and prodded and examined, again and again. He's told that he's not in any immediate danger, but that the doctors want to rule out the possibility of a brain haemorrhage, or anything else that may cause further complications and pain.

All he's bothered about, of course, is Ryan. From what Spencer said, he gathers that he has to act as stable and as well as possible, despite all the pain and the worry, to be able to find out. He can't quite believe it of his own parents to keep something so huge from him, but he's not about to show his disappointment. He acts normal, and as well as possible, hoping that they'll choose to finally just fucking tell him.

The nurse informs him, as she wheels him in a wheelchair back to his ward, that the cops want to talk to him in the afternoon. He nods, biting his lip. He'd been expecting it, of course, but still... He has no idea if he should tell them who did it. What if they get revenge, in an even worse way?

The only thing he's certain about, is that he's not going to tell anybody anything, not until he knows something about Ryan's condition.

When they finally reach his room, he finds both his parents sat in it, in deep discussion about something or other. They break off as he enters, and both rearrange their expressions to those of happiness. "Hello, honey," Mrs. Urie smiles, pleasantly. "How did your tests go?"

"Okay," Brendon lies; they'd actually hurt, quite a bit, but he really doesn't want to seem any weaker than he is. "I think I'm okay now, and I'm sure the doctors will agree with me."

The nurse sighs, letting go of the handles of his wheelchair, and walking over to make his bed. She glances at Mr. and Mrs. Urie, and gives a small smile. "I don't usually trust patient prognosis, but I think that he's right. Your son is going to be okay."

Mrs. Urie breaks down into relieved tears, and Mr. Urie actually punches the air for joy. Brendon winces at this. He takes back his earlier sentiment; his dad isn't actually cool, at all. He smiles, though, crookedly at his parents, and says, "Well then. Yep. I'm fine."

The nurse glances at him, with a small smile. It seems as though she's sussed him out, perfectly. "I can't see why you can't tell Brendon what he wants to know, now."

Brendon's mouth goes suddenly dry, and he barely dares to breathe, as his parents exchange a look. Suddenly, he doesn't want to know, because what if Ryan's dead? What the fuck is he supposed to do, then? Just carry on with living? He knows he can't, he know he'll never, ever be able to live without the boy, and fuck, his mom is turning to him, and dabbing at her tear-stained cheeks.

"Well, Brendon," she sighs, running a hand through her messy, uncared-for hair. "What is you want to know?"

"I want to know about Ryan," he says, immediately, the nerves and fright and fucking terror running through his very veins. He wipes his palms against his hospital gown, as they're beginning to sweat. "Please."

"Of course you do, honey, and I'm so sorry for keeping it from you yesterday," she sighs, and reaches forward to ruffle Brendon's hair, softly. "It wasn't my choice, the doctors just thought that you should be able to recover, and --"

"Mom?" Brendon asks, unable to stop himself. "Can you please just tell me?"

She laughs, nervously, and nods. "Ryan --" she glances at her husband, who smiles, "-- Ryan's going to be okay, honey."

Brendon feels like his very heart has frozen. "Ryan's...what?"

"He's going to be okay," she repeats, gently. "We didn't want to tell you yesterday, because it was still uncertain as to whether or not he'd survive with all the blood he'd lost...but yes, we were told this morning that he'll make it. He's going to be okay."

Brendon's lips part, slightly, and he just about stops breathing altogether. "I...what? He's - he's okay?"

She nods, a smile coming over her face. "They weren't sure all yesterday; there were so many things that could have gone wrong. But I was with him this morning, and he's awake, and they're sure he'll be just fine."

There's silence. Brendon has no idea how to even function anymore because ... oh, God, Ryan is okay. He tries to say something, but it just gets caught in his throat, and somehow, he bursts into tears, feeling all of the pain and the anguish and the fearfulness of the past 24 hours fading, to be replaced by pure ecstasy.

The boy he's in love with. Ryan. Ryan Ross. He's alive. He's actually okay. He hasn't left, and God, Brendon will never let him get hurt again. He has no idea what to say, with the three adults watching him, expectantly, but before he knows it, he's whispering, "Can I see him?"

The nurse smiles. "I can't see why not."

"I'll take you," Mr. Urie says, at once, jumping to his feet. Brendon can't even manage to thank him, as he pushes the wheelchair out of the room and down the hall. He's trembling and kind of finding it hard to breathe, because he's alive. "I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, kid. We just didn't want to worry you because nobody was sure he'd live."

"It's... it's okay," Brendon manages to say, because really, everything is okay now, because he's going to actually be able to see Ryan again, which he'd given up hope of ever being able to. "It's just... I don't know. I can't. He's. He's awake?"

"He was when I saw him this morning," Mr. Urie says, and then sighs. "Right, this is the right floor. Now, the cops want to see you this afternoon, to know what the hell happened. I'll give you half an hour with Ryan, and then take you to see them, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says, distractedly. They're nearing a room that Mr. Urie seems to be pushing him in the direction of, and Brendon suddenly says, "Stop. I don't need a wheelchair. I'm fine."

Mr. Urie frowns slightly, coming to a halt. "But --"

"I'm fine," Brendon says, firmly, and stands up. His head spins a bit as he does so, but he doesn't care. He cares about nothing but going into that room, and seeing him. He glances at his dad, and gives him a small, nervous smile. "Right. See you in half an hour."

Mr. Urie smiles and claps him supportively on the shoulder, before turning and heading back to Brendon's room. Brendon bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and enters the room in which everything he needs lies.

His knees threaten to give way as his eyes fall upon the bed. There lies - pale and asleep and ill-seeming, but very much alive - Ryan, his eyes closed, and his hair swept back from his face. In his arm is a drip, and around him beep the obstructive but necessary machinery. A nurse is adjusting the speed of his drip, and she looks up as Brendon enters.

"Ah. Brendon Urie, isn't it? Mary said that you might be down here this afternoon."

"Um. Y-yes, it is," he manages to say, somehow, his eyes glued to the sleeping figure. "I - um. Is he, uh, is he --"

"He's just sleeping," she smiles, kindly. "I'll give the two of you a while alone, if you like. You can wake him up, he's only taking a quick nap."

"Thank you," he says to her, sincerely, as she leaves.

Then, he's alone, with Ryan. At last.

He sits down in the lone chair that's pulled up to the side of Ryan's bed, and with a shaking hand, he smoothes a few strands of dark hair from the boy's forehead. The boy stirs, with a small, light groan, and opens his eyes.

Ryan stares at him for a few moments, looking a little bewildered and groggy, and then his vision seems to sharpen, his eyes going wide. "Brendon?"

Brendon nods, biting his lip so hard that he draws a few drops of blood. Ryan stares at him, his breathing becoming suddenly faster, and then his hand slips out from under his covers, and takes Brendon. His grip is feeble and week, but Brendon doesn't care. It's still there, and oh God, that means the world to him.

"Is this a dream?" Ryan whispers, hoarsely.

Brendon shakes his head, with the smallest of smiles. "Definitely not."

"Thank fuck," Ryan whimpers, colour and relief flooding into his face. "They wouldn't tell me about you. I've been asking and asking, but they didn't want to stress me out further."

"They did the same to me," Brendon nods, but he can't even feel annoyed about that anymore, not now. "But it doesn't matter, because, you're actually okay. I thought you died, I mean, you were shot in the fucking chest and --"

"I thought I'd died, too," Ryan manages to laugh, a little weakly. "Every time I woke up, I wondered why I wasn't dead yet. But the bullet didn't severe any arteries, and it somehow missed my organs. I'm just - I mean, fuck, it hurts, you have no idea, but --"

"But you're going to be okay," Brendon interrupts him, with a bright, uncontrolled laugh. "We both are. Everything is going to be fine."

Ryan smiles, a large, real, beautiful smile, and Brendon can't help but lean down, and leave a tender, lingering kiss against Ryan's lips. Ryan lets out a small noise from the back of his throat at the contact, and Brendon feels the thrill of everything - of relief, of pain, of happiness, of love - run through him.

"I've missed you, so much," Ryan murmurs, as the kiss breaks. "I thought - I thought they'd shot you, or smashed your head in, or --"

"Don't worry about me," Brendon tells him, dismissively. "Compared to you, I was fine. Really."

Ryan licks his lips, and sighs, lightly, the shine of contentment clear in his expression. "You know, those fuckers are going to pay for this."

"We can't do anything to them," Brendon says, at once. "I've been thinking about it, and it'll only run the risk of us getting hurt again. I don't think we're lucky enough to survive this again."

"I know, I didn't mean it like that." Ryan sighs, a little heavier, and looks Brendon straight in the eye. "We'll tell the cops. Tell them everything. I love you, and we can't let them destroy us."

Brendon doesn't hesitate, but he nods, knowing, now he's heard it from Ryan, that it's the right thing to do. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't try to get some justice for the boy - who, fuck, is alive. As he realises, again, that the horror and the anxiousness and the pain is over, he has to kiss Ryan, again, more deeply, parting the boy's lips with his tongue.

When, half an hour later, he's told that he needs to meet with the cops, he knows exactly what he's got to do, and he does it with a smile. Timothy and Martin Ashfield, he hopes, will soon be in the hands of the police, and out of their lives. 

Out of their lives, that they're going to live, now - free, happy and, most importantly of all, together.