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YOU REACHED OUT A HAND
to grab the metal railing as you rounded the corner before starting up the glass steps. The S.H.I.E.L.D key card dangling from your utility belt created an audible smack as it hit against the top of your thigh with each rise of your leg; you made a mental note to request a re-do of your customized uniform – one that ensured that the garment wasn't almost entirely made out of latex.
Agent Smith – or Spencer, as you'd come to know him as – passed you as he walked the stairs in the opposite direction, sniggering as he watched you snarl and angrily rip the card from your belt, having finally had enough of the horridly annoying sound.
You tossed him the filthiest look you could muster up, along with a very impolite hand gesture, which only made him laugh harder and send an over exaggerated wink your way. That was the dynamic of the relationship you had built with him over the past couple of months; both of you would seize any opportunity you could to annoy the crap out of the other. In fact, you were ninety-nine percent sure that he was the one who had arranged for your uniform to be manufactured out of such god-awful material.
It was all in good fun, though; playful banter pushed aside, you both genuinely cared for and looked out for each other. And that was more crucial than one might think – especially in such trying times.
You and Spencer found solace in the fact that you were both stuck in the same dreadful reality – a world without Brendon Urie.
Even though you had busied yourself with focusing on getting a grip on your powers practically immediately after the funeral, there was no escaping the crippling ghost of grief. There was a constant dull ache inside of you that, despite what you were doing or who you were with, would not go away. It felt as if a vile concoction of anxiety, dread and anguish was coursing through the blood in your veins in a continuous loop, returning in stronger concentrations with every beat of your heart.
There were nights when it literally made you sick. Where you would stay hunched over the toilet bowl, expelling only small volumes of bile because what little food you'd managed to stomach throughout the day had already come up hours ago. And you'd stay there on the floor, not wanting to go back to bed because you knew that when your head hit the pillow and your eyes closed, all you'd see was his face.
