❝ this is your bodyguard for the next little while, agent brendon urie. ❞
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𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.
𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐂𝐔, 𝐏𝐑𝐄-𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑.
𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄...
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✧ ✧ ✧
CONSIDERING THAT – OVER THE COURSE OF THE PAST FEW MONTHS – YOUR PARENTS HAD BEEN BRUTALLY MURDERED, you had been ripped from normal life, your friends had gotten caught in the crossfire between the people trying to hurt you and those trying to protect you, you had been forced to go into hiding and cut any form of communication with the outside world, you have had to live in a drab, uninviting room instead of your own house, you had been tortured by someone you thought was your friend, you were constantly arguing with your bodyguard, you went on a super important mission to Germany where you just barely escaped death (yet again), you had uncovered your dad's secret journal and you were just being overall kept in the dark about most things going on within and directly impacting your own life, your 22nd birthday wasn't as bad as you thought it would be.
After your wonderful wake-up call of coffee and a delicious cupcake – courtesy of your bodyguard – you were in a great mood, which only got greater once you went to breakfast. Brendon had prepared your favourite breakfast: Croque Madame.
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At breakfast.
As soon as you stepped into the break room, the wonderful aroma of your choice breakfast food embraced your nostrils, and your face lit up with hope.
"Is that..." you started, taking a seat at the circular glass table in the middle of the room; you gasped happily when Brendon set the plate down in front of you, "It is! Croque Madame!" you gushed, wasting no time in grabbing a knife and fork and digging in.
"Your favourite," he commented, taking his place opposite you.
Chewing and swallowing the bite you had in your mouth, you gave him an incredulous look. "How did you know that?"
"I pay attention," he shrugged, taking a gulp from his coffee cup.
"Are you ever gonna give me anything more than just cryptic answers?" you sighed.
Brendon narrowed his eyes at you, tapping his fingers against the pale porcelain of the mug, before opening his mouth to speak. "Tuesday at training, while you were in the middle of one of your many proclamations about how much you hate me," he began; you averted your gaze in shame, "You said that given the chance, you'd run me over with a car for nothing more than a chocolate cupcake and a Croque Madame. Call it a hunch."
