Search & Seizure (Brendon Urie Fanfiction)

Alone

A/N: Medical terminology used defined at the end

Brendon was having a dry spell in his songwriting. It's happened before, it usually just takes a few weeks and he's back at it. Today he woke up ready to go and you love the little glint in his eye when he's excited. He went out back to the studio.

You didn't feel great, still sleepy and groggy, so you decided to flick on the tv. You drift back off to sleep

You woke up and your stomach was tied in knots, being pulled tighter.

Fuck fuck fuck

Your arm started to disappear.

"Bren?!" you tried and your voice weakened, "Bren?"

He's still in the studio. You struggled and got your phone from the coffee table, fumbling to get to Brendon's number. He doesn't usually bring his phone into the studio, but it was worth a try.

You hear his phone ringing in the next room.

Fuck

Your panic spins out of control. You get down on the floor, stepping on poor Bogart in the process. You know you're way too close to the coffee table but you don't have the strength to push it out of the way. You were too weak to get anywhere else, so you resigned yourself to this dangerous spot, laying on your side.

Your thoughts were becoming progressively less clear. You have a last minute thought to call Zack but it's too late. The world dropped away.

It turns out Brendon was not as successful as he had hoped. Everything he recorded just sounded wrong. He decided to take a break, get some water and clear his head.

He walked out of the studio and saw Bogart inside the house, clawing at the glass door, anxiously awaiting his arrival.

"Jesus bud, you gotta go that bad?" Brendon laughed as he opened the door, expecting Bogart to run out into the grass, but he didn't go anywhere. He just stayed at Brendon's feet, looking up at him. "Okay, suit yourself," Brendon shrugged and closed the door.

Brendon walked into the living room and saw the tv on, but the couch unoccupied. He wondered where you were. Probably in the bathroom or getting changed. Bogart jumped up on Brendon, scratching him down his legs.

"Ow, what is your problem?" He said, shaking him off. He strolled towards the kitchen and did a double take.

He saw you on the floor, flat on your back.

"Y/n?" Brendon said in shock as he ran over to you. "Shit shit shit," he muttered as he threw the coffee table aside to get next to you.

"Y/n?!" he called to you, dropping to his knees. Your body was relaxed and your eyes were open but looking nowhere in particular. He saw blood and spit dripping from each corner of your mouth and quickly rolled you onto your side. Barely anything came out. Something felt wrong to him, like you were barely even breathing at all.

He followed his instincts and places a hand on your chin, gently opening your mouth. Brendon's glad he did–you were then able to gag and clear the significant amount of blood from your mouth. Your breathing sounded muffled and labored, but at least you were breathing.

"Fuck," he said quietly. He saw your phone next to you and snatched it up, quickly dialing 911, smudging blood across the screen. He wiped your mouth so it could remain clear as he waited for someone to pick up. None of the blood on your face was dried, so he was hopeful that you hadn't been lying there long. Why were you on your back? he cursed himself.