Dead Girls Like Me

"And your name, sir?"

Somehow, Victor thought he'd be more prepared for this moment. They'd decided on the psuedonym he was using weeks ago, after all. He'd practiced saying it to himself and to Alice's aunt and uncle until the words fell easily from his lips. And yet, when faced with this rather bland, unassuming, clearly bored man, they came off his tongue in a rush: "Vincent! Vincent Brown!"

The registrar looked at him, one eyebrow quirked. "Vincent Brown?"

Victor nodded, not trusting hs voice. Oh dear, was he suspicious? Was this where it all went wrong? Was this the moment where the registrar declared, 'I think not, Victor Van Dort,' and then the papers were contacted and his other self's parents started making a scene and he and Alice had to flee to the Nexus to avoid completely destroying everyone's reputations and lives?

The registrar shrugged and noted it down. "Well then, congratulations, Master Brown."

Master Brown. . .

Victor sits on his bed, eyes on his knees, his mind a million miles away. Those two words have been running through his head ever since they got back from the registrar's. He doesn't know why -- he's been content with the idea of using a fake name ever since he and Alice started their wedding plans (which have gotten completely out of control with both Susan being extra-picky about the dress and trying to sneak in little extras AND the sudden disturbing revelation that Alice's universe runs slower than theirs -- what's taken merely a few weeks by her count has been months according to their calendar). It's always been his face he's been most worried about -- though with April's assistance and the general disinterest of underpaid clerks, obviously it's not going to be an issue. Being known by a name that isn't his own in Alice's world didn't really bother him much -- until he actually heard the registrar say it. And he wouldn't say it bothered him as much as. . .

He turns his chosen alias over in his mind. Vincent -- well, there's nothing special about Vincent. He picked that simply because Lord Everglot called him that on the one occasion he spoke to him. It's a V-name, easy to remember and to cover up slips. 'Vincent' doesn't mean anything to him -- he's a 'Victor' through and through.

But Brown. . .

He's been a Van Dort all his life. And over that time, he's come to associate it with various things. Van Dort is being teased and bullied for being the nouveau riche kid. Van Dort is being alternately ignored and scolded by parents who are so wrapped up in their own lives they often seem to forget they have a son. Van Dort is never feeling like you matter -- that people only see your name and never you. Van Dort is loneliness and sadness and a heavy feeling in your chest when you see your parents' reaction to your 'death' is to immediately start arguing over 'who's to blame for him being so delicate.'

Brown, on the other hand. . . Brown is a message in his magical sketchbook, welcoming him to the madness that is Chicago, inviting him over to play piano after reading how much he missed it, checking in on him to make sure he was safe after discovering the Nexus. Brown is a deep voice that's constantly filled with energy, wrapping him up in words he doesn’t quite understand but nevertheless thrills to hear. Brown is a shock of white hair that never lays flat, and big eyes that crackle with electricity, and hissing steam and gear-notched elbows, the mechanics somehow both alien and as comfortable as an old shoe. Brown is getting furious when it appears someone's broken his heart and getting ready to fight on his behalf. Brown is making sure he's safe and comfortable no matter what. Brown is friendship and caring and encouraging him in his dreams, not someone else's. Brown is --

home.

Slowly, Victor rises from his bed and heads into the hall. Just a few moments later, he's at Doc’s garage lab. He hesitates briefly, nerves spiking -- but then he nods, expression growing determined, and knocks. “Doc? Can – can I t-talk to you?”