Archive of Our Own

Prologue

The water is cold as it laps at Brendon’s ankles, steadily turning his feet numb. He’s hunched down, digital camera propped up with his elbows on his knees, snapping pictures of two tiny hermit crabs, frolicking in the shallow tide pool.

Brendon grins when he feels a hand high on his back.

“You almost done?” George asks. “Greta’ll be closing by the time we get there.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He sighs and pushes a hand against his thigh as he straightens, twisting his back until it pops.

George is Brendon’s nearest summer neighbor, and he has a car. Which is awesome, because Brendon has a golf cart that decides it wants to actually work maybe once a month. He’d be trapped in the curve of the bay forever if it wasn’t for George’s awesome silver Mercedes, and willingness to chauffer him into town every once and a while.

Brendon angles up and snaps a quick pic of George’s face, shadowy with the sun low behind him, a scowl pulling at his lips and the breeze off the water tousling his hair.

He gently pushes Brendon’s camera away and says, “Come on, stop.”

“But you’re just so pretty, G,” Brendon says, grinning.

George rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, whatever,” he says flatly. “Let’s go, Urie.”

After two months, Brendon’s gotten used to the complete lack of inflection in George’s voice, so Brendon can usually tell when he’s really annoyed with him. He’s pretty sure George is just amused now; he notices the way his eyes are crinkling at the edges, even though he’s not smiling with his mouth.

“I just need to pick up some prints,” Brendon says, starting back towards his house, the little bungalow he’d bought four years before. It’s got a kitchen-slash-living room, a bathroom and a bedroom and it’s basically the tiniest house ever. It’s just perfect for Brendon, because the artiste in him likes clutter; likes being surrounded by his work, likes having stacks of his paintings less than an arm’s length away, and he likes being able to step outside his front door and see miles and miles of nothing: sand, brush, sky, sea. He likes to think of his home as his shell, just big enough to fit around him. Everything he wants to explore is outside.

There are other houses along the bay, but they’re few and far between, and only one or two are permanent residents like him. George is temporary. Brendon’s going to have to sweet talk Chris into fixing up Sweet Beulah before winter sets in or he’ll have to start walking the five miles into town each week for supplies.

When the sand gives way to coarse, patchy grass, Brendon bounds up his porch steps and flings his screen door open. The prints he needs to color match are spread out across his kitchen counter; he gathers them up and stuffs them into a manila folder, then slips outside again.

George is standing at the top of his gravel drive with his arms crossed, having a silent glare-fest with Mongo.

Mongo hates George. To be fair, Mongo hates just about everyone, and barely tolerates Brendon. He’s a mangy shepherd mix; gray at the muzzle, bone-thin everywhere, and Brendon suspects he’s at least half-deaf. Brendon’s taken to feeding him, and he sleeps on the porch at night and follows him at a safe, watchful distance during the day. Brendon still hasn’t figured out his game, and the dog’s been hanging around since early spring. He figures, though, that he just isn’t used to any sort of kindness from humans.

George spots Brendon and arches an eyebrow. “Ready?”

Brendon nods, holds up the folder. “Yep. Be good, Mongo,” he says.

George snorts. “That dog’s gonna rip your throat out one of these days. Or give you fleas.”

Brendon grins and scratches elaborately at his throat, arching his neck back. He gives George a playful look from under lowered lashes and George blinks at him, and hey, hey, there’s a little swallow, a tiny little flush on his cheeks.

Then his mouth tightens and George says, “Get in the car, Urie.”

George gets so embarrassed when Brendon flirts with him, which is awesome. He’s kind of epically fun to fuck with.

*

Greta is just flipping the sign out front to CLOSED when Brendon and George pull up to her boutique, and she waves at them through the window. She turns the lock and presses the door open with one hand, grinning.

“You almost missed me, peanut,” she says to Brendon.

Brendon shakes his head and says, “You totally would’ve waited for me,” because he always comes in on Wednesdays, and if he’s not going to make it he always calls. Greta is the best, most wonderful girl in the world, because she orders all his supplies for him, and doesn’t care if he needs to send some back – it’s hard to judge colors from a catalog, and sometimes they just aren’t right.

Greta flicks on a lamp and tugs out a box of oil paints from under the front counter, and Brendon flips open his folder. He’s got five photos; two hermit crab ones, a starfish, a pile of shells, and Mongo at the water’s edge. There’s a shade of blue-green in the last one that he thinks he can get if he finds the perfect bottle of dark green.

“What’s this?”

Brendon glances up at George. “Um. Mongo?” It’s just Mongo barking at some gulls in a rare fit of playfulness, sunrise setting off his fur, a boat anchored in the distance.

George is staring hard at the photo, jaw clenched. “Greta,” he says finally, “Could I, um, have a glass of water?”

Greta blinks at him. “Coke do?”

“Yeah, thanks,” George says, and he’s got his whole body coiled tight, watching Greta as she walks towards the back room.

Brendon leans into his arm and asks, “Okay, G?”

“Fine,” he says, clipped, still staring after Greta. Weird.

Brendon busies himself pawing through the box of new oils, coos at the raw umber, a slick yellow-orange that’s just this side of brushed brass. He hasn’t found a manufacturer yet that makes it exactly how he wants, but this looks promising. Maybe if he adds a tiny bit of sienna, it’ll shade the sun-drenched hermit crabs just right.

“Here you go,” Greta says brightly, sweeping up to the counter again and placing an already sweating bottle of soda at George’s elbow.

Brendon catches her gaze and smirks a little. They both think George is so completely hot, but really, really odd. Brendon’s never seen him out of jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, and he lives at the beach.

“Shit,” George says, and then Brendon feels wetness kiss up to the arm he’s got leaning on the counter, and George has his photos up, shaking Coke off the matte images – Brendon likes the color saturation better than glossy.

Brendon wrinkles his nose.

Greta whips out a roll of paper towels and makes distressed clucking noises as she blots up the mess.

George says, “Shit,” again and, “Sorry, sorry, Brendon,” and Brendon shrugs.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, they’re still on my computer. I can just print out new ones if I need them,” Brendon says.

George’s eyes narrow, but he just says, “Good.”

*

“Do you mind if I keep this?” George asks as they leave Greta’s, holding up the ruined photo of Mongo.

Brendon says, “Go ahead,” and watches as George folds it up into a small square and tucks it into his back pocket.

The drive back to Brendon’s cabin is quiet, and for once Brendon feels no compulsion to break it. He’s not fond of silences – they make him antsy – but there’s something about George’s mood, something about the way his hands are loose on the steering wheel but perfectly placed, the way his mouth is a wide, blank line as he stares straight ahead. Brendon’s reluctant to needle him, like maybe the slightest wrong move will set him off. Set him off into what, Brendon’s not sure, but he doesn’t think he wants to find out.

At Brendon’s house, he pulls to a stop, car idling in drive. He sighs, then turns to pin Brendon with sharp, brown eyes. Something slides over his face, like he’s got some sort of internal debate going on, and then he shakes it off and says, “I’m going to ask you something, and it’s important that you tell me exactly what you remember, okay?”

Brendon frowns. “Uh, I guess.”

George nods. “All right.” He shifts, tugs out the picture of Mongo again. There’re streaks of yellow-brown mottling and distorting the image. “This boat?”

“Yeah?”

“Think back, Brendon. Do you remember if anyone saw you?”

“Anyone.” Brendon furrows his brow. “I don’t think so?”

George takes a deep breath. “Are you sure? Are fucking sure, Brendon?” he asks, and his knuckles are white, fingers biting into the paper.

Brendon is not sure. He honestly doesn’t remember anything about the boat at all, forgot it was even in the picture until he’d printed out, even though he’d taken the photo, like, the day before. He doesn’t want to tell George that, though, because George looks like he’s maybe on the verge of having an apoplectic fit. “Yes,” Brendon says.

George relaxes back into his seat, covers his eyes with a palm. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, great.”

“Um.” Brendon risks a small, “Why?”

“The less you know about this the better, Brendon,” George says, a wry twist to his mouth when he turns to look at him again. He licks his lips. “Listen. I, uh. I’m going to be gone soon, and I might not be able to say goodbye.”

Brendon says, “Why not?” because, what the hell, they’re friends. They’ve hung out, like, every day for the past month. George brings him food, shakes him out of his artistic fugue. They drink beers and pass out on Brendon’s porch.

George doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head slowly, sadly.

Brendon takes a shaky breath. “Okay.” He’s gotten real used to having George around. The bay is wonderful for his muse, but it really fucking sucks for company.

George isn’t much of a toucher, tolerates Brendon’s habit of hanging off anything that breathes by stiffening up but never pushing away. Now, though, he reaches over the console and tugs Brendon into a half-hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says against Brendon’s cheek.

Brendon nods. He slides out of the car, tugs his box of paints out of the backseat, then stands by the porch steps as he watches George reverse out of the driveway.

Behind him, he hears Mongo whine. It’s his my-bowl-is-empty whine.

Brendon huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “dinner.”

Two weeks later…

Brendon wakes to a suffocating weight on his chest, and for a minute he thinks Mongo’s slipped inside the house and decided to crush him to death. And then the weight shifts up, across his throat, and Brendon blinks his eyes open to stare directly into hollow pools of black hovering just over his face. He would’ve screamed if there’d been any air getting through his windpipe.

“Where’s Ryan?” a voice rasps, and Brendon realizes the hollow black pools are shadowed eye-sockets of a very real person. A very real person intent on killing him, apparently, because he’s already feeling woozy from the lack of air.

Before he can pass out, though, some of the pressure is suddenly relieved and Brendon gasps, trying to take in as much breath as he can, feeling the spread of fingers still firm around his throat.

There’s another shift of motion, and then Brendon’s bedside lamp clicks on.

Brendon is pretty sure his eyes are the size of shiny quarters.

“Where’s Ryan?” the guy says again, and, fucking Christ, his eyes are hard and blue and Brendon is entirely sure the guy could snap his neck with a twitch of his fingers. They tighten again when Brendon doesn’t answer. “Well?”

Some fight instinct must kick in then, because Brendon’s hands come up to scrabble at the man’s grip and Brendon twists underneath him, bucks up, trying to dislodge the weight straddling his waist, but the guy is bigger than him – not huge, but bigger, and Brendon’s not helpless but the most he does for exercise is stroll the beach and lift stacks of canvases. The guy doesn’t even budge, just watches him with grim amusement until Brendon gives up, flops loose on the bed, panting.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, and he looks – Brendon shudders – he looks like he wants Brendon to stay quiet, like he’s just itching to take Brendon apart and maybe put him back together wrong. “Where is Ryan?”

Brendon manages a shaky, “Who?” He doesn’t even wince when his voice breaks, because he thinks it’s pretty awesome that he hasn’t completely fainted in fear yet.

Rage flashes over the stranger’s face and Brendon flinches and starts fighting again, this time catching the guy’s nose with an elbow, and he loosens his grip enough that Brendon can roll his upper body, squirming out from under him, further up the bed. Brendon kicks out blindly, feels the solid thump as his bare foot hits the guy’s stomach, but then fingers clamp over his ankle, tight and bruising.

Brendon yelps and flails an arm out and knocks the lamp over. The bulb pops as it hits the floor, draping the bedroom in darkness again. The guy isn’t letting up on his foot, and it’s like all his panicked energy left Brendon with the light; he slumps face down in his pillows, and feels fucking tears pricking his eyes.

“Fuck,” the guy breathes.

Brendon feels him move again, slipping his grip off his ankle, and then there’s an arm banding around his waist, hand shackling one wrist, hauling him backwards and up against his chest. Brendon lets him manhandle him without complaint. He’s too fucking tired, wrung out, afraid.

The guy’s breath is hot in Brendon’s ear when he says, “Fuck,” again, and Brendon shivers.

Brendon hangs his head and sniffles and the arm around him flexes tighter, sliding Brendon more firmly into the cradle of the man’s thighs.

“Shit,” he says, growls. “Are you crying?”

Brendon rubs his free hand under his nose. “No,” he says wetly.

“Jesus Christ.”

Brendon presses his palm flat on his bare leg. “Sorry,” he mutters, then feels a hot full-body flush when he belatedly realizes he’s naked, all the covers kicked off him now, and that his ass is snug right up against this guy’s crotch. He can’t help the sudden shakes that rattle his teeth, tiny tremors as budding panic tenses him up. His eyes blur behind tears, even as his mind is racing, debating if he can jab his elbow back hard enough to surprise the guy into letting him go again.

“Don’t,” the man says, like he’s reading Brendon’s mind. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

Brendon lets out a watery laugh, throat sore and ankle throbbing.

The guy’s hand opens up on Brendon’s side, fingers petting along his skin in what seems like an absent gesture. “That’s not hurt,” he says, low and quiet, like a threat, like he could show Brendon just what hurt is if he pushed him. “You’re fine.”

Brendon kind of wants to argue that, but it’d be really stupid. Brendon doesn’t always have the best common sense, but he’s not a complete moron. “’Kay,” Brendon says thickly.

“Good.” He pats his hip and Brendon sucks in a breath. The guy ignores it, though, just holds him still and says, “You’re Brendon?”

Brendon bites his lip and nods, feels the back of his head brush the guy’s face.

“All right, Brendon. I’m Spencer. We’re just going to have a little chat, okay?”

Brendon nods again, then asks, “Can I, um, put on some pants?”

“Can you—” Spencer freezes, as if suddenly realizing where his hand is, how Brendon’s basically in his lap. Then he laughs, just a rough chuckle, but Brendon can feel it vibrate his chest against his back. “Sure.”

As soon as Spencer lets his hand go, loosens his grip on his waist, Brendon’s scrambling away and off the other side of the bed, groping in the dark for his glasses, for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. “I just need to,” he says, sidling towards the bathroom. “I’ll just be a minute.” He flips the switch, light catching Spencer’s face, the flat set of his mouth, despite his laughter seconds before. Brendon angles in and slams the door and thanks god for windows.

The bathroom doesn’t have a lock, so Brendon tugs on his clothes as fast as he can, catches a fleeting look of himself in the mirror – big eyes, pale skin and blotchy cheeks - and shoves up the window screen. He stands on the toilet to boost himself out the small window. He has to squirm to get his shoulders and then his ass through the tiny opening, but then he’s falling face first into the bushes and rolling to his feet.

The night is warm and dark under a new moon, only starlight throwing shadows across Brendon’s sandy backyard. In the distance, he hears Mongo howl and a sliver of dread trips down his spine.

Sweet Beulah’s in the shed at the end of the yard, the key hanging just inside the door. He can drive her into town – hopefully Spencer won’t know about the cart, and will think he’s taken off on foot down the beach. The biggest problem, though, will be trying to get the moody bitch to start.

“Awesome,” he says quietly, hands shaking as he slides behind the wheel of the golf cart. “My life is fucking awesome. This is crazy. And now I’m talking to myself.” He turns the key in the ignition and SB whirs and coughs a little, then sputters out.

Brendon considers banging his head against the steering wheel, but decides it’d take too much precious time. He just tries and tries again, but SB remains stubbornly silent and immobile. Brendon is getting this heap of junk trashed, just as soon as he gets out of this mess alive.

“Well, this is a shame. I guess I’m gonna have to tie you up now.”

Brendon’s forehead hits the horn. It makes him jump a little, hands tightening around the wheel.

“Let’s go,” Spencer says from the doorway.

Brendon grits his teeth and steps slowly out of SB, but doesn’t move any closer to the door. He’s not going to make it fucking easy for this guy.

Spencer’s a hulking silhouette, framed by the rough cut shed, backlit by the stars. He’s got his arms crossed and a hip cocked. He says, “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

Brendon shuffles back as Spencer ducks into the dark shed, moves until he hits the sheet metal wall. His nervously grasping fingers brush a wooden handle off to the side, which is pure blind awesome luck. By the time Spencer’s within three feet, Brendon has the shovel up and clutched between both hands. He swings the flat of it through the air, and there’s mellow twang when it hits Spencer across the shoulder.

Brendon hadn’t actually expected it to connect, not really, so the tingling shock of it glancing off Spencer causes him to drop the shovel onto the hard packed dirt by their feet.

Spencer staggers sideways. “Motherfucker,” he shouts, and Brendon spares a wide-eyed holy crap, I did that moment before making a wild break for it.

He tries to dive past Spencer, but Spencer recovers quickly and catches him around his middle, still off-balance enough that they both crash into Sweet Beulah’s front bumper.

“Holy fuck,” Spencer says harshly. “You hit me with a fucking shovel.”

Brendon lets out a semi-hysterical giggle. He’s pretty sure Spencer’s going to kill him now.

Spencer breathes heavily through his nose, holding Brendon close, curved into him as he leans against the golf cart. He drops his forehead onto Brendon’s nape, fingers clenching and unclenching in the thin material covering Brendon’s stomach, calluses on the pads brushing Brendon’s skin as the t-shirt slowly gets rucked up into his fist.

It’s not soothing, it’s definitely not soothing, but Brendon feels himself reluctantly relax against Spencer anyway.

Brendon is going to die in his shed, with Sweet Beulah the only witness. He kind of wishes Mongo was a guard dog. And didn’t hate him. Maybe then he wouldn’t have woken up with a crazy dude who can’t seem to keep his hands to himself.

Just as Brendon gathers up enough courage to ask Spencer how, exactly, he’s going to enact his slow painful death, something buzzes past Brendon’s ear, so fast and so close it flutters the ends of his hair. There’s a punch and a pop, and Brendon blinks in confusion as Spencer curses and pushes Brendon to the ground.

“Stay down,” Spencer says, then he tugs a gun out the back of his pants, and Brendon can’t believe his life.

Yesterday, he’d been painting a freaking sand piper, and now he—he has people shooting at him apparently, because he’s pretty sure that was a bullet whizzing past his head.

“What the hell is going on?” Brendon asks, clutching at Spencer’s jeans from his crouch on the ground.

“Shut up.” Spencer squeezes out a round, then says, “Fuck, it’s too dark.” He glances down at Brendon, and Brendon can’t see his expression but he’s pretty sure it’s still pissed off. Only maybe now he’s not so much mad at Brendon as he is at the people intent on riddling them with tiny, deadly holes.

Brendon presses a hand over his mouth and bites down on his palm to keep from screaming. He can feel his heart all the way up in his throat.

“All right,” Spencer says. “We’re getting out of here. I need you to stay behind me, okay?”

Brendon doesn’t want to go anywhere. Brendon wants to curl up into a ball and hide behind SB. There’s no reason for anyone to shoot at Brendon, see, so he figures these guys are after Spencer, and once Spencer gets the hell out of there, Brendon’ll be fine and dandy all by his lonesome.

“Hey.” Spencer reaches down and grabs hold of Brendon’s upper arm, dragging him to his feet and deeper into the shadows. “Stay behind me,” he says tightly. “Do you understand?”

Brendon gives him a shaky nod, but says, “Um, no.”

“Brendon, we don’t have fucking time for this.”

“But—”

Spencer pulls him closer, curls fists into the front of Brendon’s shirt. Spencer leans down and his mouth touches the corner of Brendon’s as he talks. Softly, he says, “No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’m here, Brendon, which means those guys shooting at us? They’re here for you.”

Brendon freezes. Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit, what the fucking fuck? Brendon’s an artist! He sells cheap seascapes to tourists; he takes photos of birds, of fucking crabs and shit. There is absolutely no reason in the entire universe why anyone would want him dead, and yet here he’s got whoever the hell Spencer is, strangling him, and whoever the hell these guys are, trying to gun him down.

This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to normal people.

“This kind of stuff doesn’t just happen,” Brendon says, hands coming up to circle Spencer’s wrists.

Spencer’s fingers clench, making the collar of Brendon’s shirt bite into the back of his neck. “You’re right,” he says dangerously. “It doesn’t.”

Brendon’s pretty sure Spencer’s implying something here, and he doesn’t appreciate it. He opens his mouth to argue, but Spencer cuts him off with, “It’s too quiet. I only counted three men, but I couldn’t tell for sure. If we don’t get out of here now we’re going to get trapped. I’m parked about a half mile down the main road. We’re gonna run for it, okay?”

Brendon has no shoes on. Brendon’s wearing loose sweats without underwear. Brendon’s pretty sure he’s going to have trouble running anywhere.

Spencer doesn’t give him any time to protest, though, just grabs his wrist with one hand, hefting his gun – Brendon’s still having problems processing that – and tugs him out into the open again.

They aren’t immediately shot at, which Brendon counts as a win.

Spencer mutters, “Fucking hell, Ryan,” mostly to himself – who the hell is Ryan, anyway? – and leads Brendon away from the house and into the thick brush, the stand of trees that blocks the rear of Brendon’s cabin from the road.

Behind them there are shouts and several vicious barks from Mongo, but still no more gunfire as they slice their way through the woods, Spencer practically dragging Brendon, levering him up by his arm when Brendon inevitably stumbles.

Brendon is pretty sure this is the worst day of his entire life, all twenty-six years of it.

His lungs are burning by the time Spencer slides to a stop, gravel skidding under his shoes. The bottoms of Brendon’s bare feet are starting throb, and he lets Spencer shove him into passenger seat of a dark sedan, crawls in and collapses on the plush upholstery. He swipes at his face with his palms and they come away sticky-damp with more tears, because, fucking hell, he’s been shot at and kidnapped, and Spencer gives him a dark, brooding scowl before he starts the car.

This is not Brendon’s fault.

Brendon curls up as far back in his seat as he can, jammed up against the door handle. He crosses his arms over his chest and pulls up his feet, hissing in pain as they press into the cushion. “What now?” he asks. He hardly even recognizes his voice, small and hoarse.

“Now we get the hell out of here,” Spencer says gruffly, leaving the headlights off as he makes a swift u-turn off the side of the road.

He doesn’t turn them on until they hit the edge of town, and Spencer doesn’t slow as they pass the police station, Greta’s shop, the Hill Street Diner. The town’s deserted at this time of night, and Brendon presses his fingertips to the car window, watches the houses get bigger and bigger the farther they get away from the bay.

Spencer is quiet. Eerily quiet, not even his breaths make a sound, so Brendon twitches violently when he finally says, “We’ll stop for the night soon.”

Brendon stifles a snort. It’s still dark, but he figures it’s almost time for the sun to come up. Brendon feels like he hasn’t slept for a week, though. His limbs are heavy and his head aches and he presses his eyes closed, dropping his forehead onto his still upraised knees.

“Hey,” Spencer says, too loud again, only Brendon just tenses up this time, doesn’t flinch.

Brendon shifts his head so he can look at Spencer. “What?” He can just barely make out Spencer’s expression in the wan pre-dawn light, the in-drawn eyebrows and downward curve of his mouth, before Spencer turns back to the road, giving Brendon only his profile.

“You okay?” Spencer asks.

Brendon laughs, presses the heel of a palm up against his mouth. It hurts his chest, makes his eyes sting. He figures that’s answer enough.

*

Spencer is really fucking pissed. Spencer doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before, and most of it, a huge fucking chunk of his rage, is because of this tiny speck of a guy, this Brendon, who refuses to tell him what the hell happened to Ryan, and, oh yeah, got him fucking shot at, and, see, there’s a reason Spencer doesn’t do this shit anymore. Ryan owes him big time. He grimaces, rubs three fingers over his left eye. If he can find Ryan. If he can figure out what the fuck went wrong.

He glances up to see Brendon watching him warily from the foot of the bed, and Spencer snaps, “What?”

“Um. There’s only one bed.”

Spencer smirks. “It’s either this or I get to tie you up. I didn’t think you’d be so hot on that but, hey, I’m totally willing to—”

“No,” Brendon shakes his head, keeps on shaking it, “no, no, that’s fine, this is. Fine.” He tugs on the hem of his t-shirt, shifts on his feet before making a pained face and dropping his gaze.

He looks like a kicked puppy.

Spencer curses and stalks over to him. “If you’re going to be a baby about this,” he says, and Brendon yelps as Spencer swings him up into his arms. He staggers a little under his weight – he looks small, but he’s kind of solid – before righting himself and glaring down into Brendon’s face. He looks hilariously indignant, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Brendon asks as Spencer carries him into the motel bathroom.

He sets him down on the lip of the tub – drops him, more like – and twists on the hot water. “Cleaning your feet,” Spencer says. He unwraps a bar of soap and grabs a washcloth, settling down on the closed toilet seat.

Brendon fists his hands in his lap, mouth an unhappy line, but he doesn’t say anything when Spencer picks up one of his feet, just sucks in his breath at the first touch of the warm cloth on his skin.

There’s only a little blood. His right is worse than his left, and Spencer soaps up the skin, gently picks out gravel and other little irritants. He lets the tub fill a quarter of the way up, then sets both newly clean feet in the water, pats Brendon’s shoulder and says, “Let ‘em soak a minute.”

Spencer gets up and steps out off the bathroom. His shoulder throbs, burns a little, and he massages it gingerly. He’ll have a hell of a bruise, but it isn’t anything major; he’s had worse. He still can’t believe Brendon hit him with a fucking shovel, though. He’d be kind of impressed if he didn’t think Brendon was hiding something vital about Ryan from him. There’s no one in the world more important to Spencer than Ryan.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, Spencer tugs out his cell phone and dials Jon.

Jon picks up after the first ring. “Any luck?” he asks instead of hello.

“Not yet,” Spencer says. “Any word from Gerard?”

“Nope. Whatever happened, they seem to think Ryan’s cover with Wentz is still good.”

Spencer snorts. He fucking disappeared, no message, no nothing. Spencer may’ve been out of the game for over a year now, but he still knows that’s a bad sign. “Yeah, well, we just got shot at, so.”

Jon whistles. “We?”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. “I sort of kidnapped a guy.”

There’s a pause. Then Jon says, “Spence, what does he—”

“He knows what happened. Fuck, Jon, he has to know. Those guys weren’t after me, couldn’t have known I’d even be there, right?”

“Oh, hey, you do what you gotta do, Spence.” Jon pauses. “Is he hot?”

“Jon,” Spencer says sternly.

“That totally means yes, awesome,” Jon says, and Spencer can hear the grin in his voice. Jon has a bad habit of being completely inappropriate at all times. It drives Ryan crazy, but Spencer usually finds it amusing.

“Fucker.” Spencer smiles, quick and fleeting. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Of course it matters. Number one rule of the Agency, never kidnap an ugly dude.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Spencer says.

“Hell, yeah.” Jon sighs. “Ryan’s okay, Spence. He can take care of himself.”

“Ryan usually has Kennerty,” Spencer says.

Jon’s quiet for a weighty moment – Ryan doesn’t do solo work, at least he never used to. They both know this is Ryan trying to prove that Kennerty’s defection hadn’t touched him. They’d both spent those months in the Ritter compound. Spencer never doubted Ryan’s loyalty for a second, but the Agency is tight. They haven’t let Ryan forget the loss of Kennerty, and what it meant to their team. That kind of shit is part of the reason Spencer had left.

Jon finally says, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything from Gerard. You heading my way?”

“Yeah,” Spence clears his throat, “yeah, man, sometime tomorrow probably.” It’s the best arrangement he can think of. He needs a place where he can keep Brendon, at least for a little while, until he can figure out what’s going on. He may not like the guy, but Brendon’s a civilian, and Spencer’s not going to let him get killed, not if he can help it.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Jon says, then there’s only dead air.

By the time Spencer gets back to the bathroom, Brendon’s got all but his ass through the narrow window over the toilet, knees slipping off the porcelain back. Spencer is actually pretty sure Brendon’s stuck. He decides to find this funny, rather than really fucking annoying.

Brendon jumps a little when Spencer curls his hands around his hips, thumbs digging into the top of his ass.

“I like this view,” Spencer says, enjoying the way Brendon tenses up. He moves his thumbs higher, dragging along the loose waistband of his sweatpants. He kind of wants to bite one of his cheeks through the cloth, see what Brendon would do. He just digs his fingers into his hipbones, though, and tugs backwards.

The top of Brendon’s head knocks the window frame, but Spencer ignores his pained, “Ow,” and clamps a hand over his nape when he’s standing on the ground again.

It’s kind of fascinating, the way Brendon goes absolutely still, slumped against the sink, but they’re both worn out – Spencer can see it in the gray cast to Brendon’s face in the mirror. He’s surprised Brendon even had enough energy to boost himself out the window.

“We’re going to bed,” Spencer says, slipping his hand off Brendon’s neck, urging him around with hands on his hips instead, until Brendon’s practically sitting on the counter.

Brendon tilts his head back and looks up at Spencer with huge, watery eyes, red-rimmed, and Spencer does not need more tears. He fucking hates tears.

“What’s going on, Spencer?” Brendon asks, and Brendon’s good. He’s got that wide-eyed innocence thing down pat. Spencer would think Brendon really had no clue, if he wasn’t already so sure Brendon had been an integral part of Ryan’s disappearance.

“Later,” Spencer says firmly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Brendon nods, and Spencer maneuvers him out into the main room, tugs the covers down on the double bed while Brendon just stands there like a zombie, staring unblinkingly down at the ugly flowered bedspread.

Spencer rolls his eyes. He plucks Brendon’s glasses off his face and pushes on the small of his back until Brendon gets the hint and climbs into the bed, tugging the sheet up to his chin, laying flat on his back. Spencer sets his gun carefully on the bedside table, toes off his sneakers and shucks his jeans. He crawls in after Brendon, then rolls over, up onto his side, and swings an arm across Brendon’s stomach, lets it rest heavy to keep him in place. Spencer wants to fucking sleep, and he doesn’t want to have to worry about Brendon trying to sneak out again.

Brendon fidgets against him, legs restless, breathing shallow, and Spencer shoves his thigh over Brendon’s and growls, “Fucking keep still.”

“Sorry,” Brendon says softly.

Spencer snorts. “Just go to sleep,” he says. He lets his entire body relax into Brendon’s, feels Brendon’s breath hiss out through his teeth before he sort of deflates into the mattress.

Spencer doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up with Brendon sprawled half on top of him, and one of Spencer’s hands is down the back of Brendon’s sweats, palming his ass. Brendon’s breath is heating his throat where his head’s tucked into the crook of his neck, and he’s got one thigh pressing into Spencer’s dick. So Brendon’s a cuddler. Spencer isn’t, but he’s not going to complain. He’s hard and Brendon’s warm, and he remembers the night before, more vividly than he’d like to, Brendon naked and settled all along his body, the way he’d writhed against him and fought, so he leaves his hand where it is and hitches Brendon closer.

“Brendon,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

Brendon shifts a little, stretches, and Spencer’s mouth opens on a soundless groan as Brendon’s leg flexes against him. Brendon yawns along his throat, mumbles, “What?”

Spencer sweeps his thumb over Brendon’s skin, brushes his tailbone, just a little lower. “Are we being friendly this morning?” he asks.

Brendon instantly stills. He says, “Spencer?” half-warily, and Spencer hooks an ankle over Brendon’s calf and rolls them, pinning Brendon underneath him on the bed, hips cradled together. He shifts some of his weight onto his knees, slips his hands from under Brendon’s ass and slides them up, up along his bare ribs, pushing at his t-shirt as he goes, and instead of getting up and off of Brendon, like he so totally should, Spencer—Spencer angles his head down and kisses him.

He takes advantage of Brendon’s startled mouth, parted lips. He buries his hands in his sleep-mussed hair, tilting Brendon’s head back as he licks past his teeth, and he wants to shift forward again, wants to grind down into Brendon, feel the heat flare out from his groin, catch his spine on fire. He forces himself to leave it just a kiss, though, thumbs pressure points under Brendon’s ears.

Spencer hasn’t kissed anyone for a while. He has no idea why not – no time, no inclination, maybe – but Brendon feels good under his hands, feels nice.

Spencer’s not sure how long it takes for Brendon to kiss him back, seconds or minutes, but as soon as he feels Brendon’s fingers curling into his shirt, feels Brendon’s tongue swipe cautiously over his own, he pulls away.

Brendon blinks up at him, eyes dazed, mouth slick and soft. Spencer suddenly really wants to fuck him, wants those lips around his cock. So he moves all the way off Brendon and turns away and says, “Get up. We have to get moving.”

He hears Brendon rustling the covers behind him, the squeak of the bed springs as he gets up, and he waits until the bathroom door slams shut before pressing the heel of his palm into his dick and groaning. He’s such a fucking idiot.

Cursing himself, he tugs on his jeans and sits down in the room’s singular chair to put on his shoes.

Brendon’s in the bathroom a good fifteen minutes, water running, before Spencer thinks about the fucking window, and how if Spencer has to fucking chase Brendon down again he’s seriously going to kick his ass. When he jerks open the door, though, Brendon’s wide eyes catch his in the mirror over the sink.

Spencer scowls and says, “Hurry the fuck up,” and Brendon twists the water off and soundlessly slips past him in the doorway, their bodies brushing as Spencer refuses to move.

He catches Brendon’s slight shiver, the blush on his neck as he ducks his head. Spencer resists the urge to run his fingers over the pinked skin revealed by the loose collar of his t-shirt, curls his hands into fists.

Spencer barely takes five minutes to piss and collect himself, splashing water on his face. When he emerges from the bathroom, Brendon’s sitting docilely on the end of the bed, staring down at his folded hands. He looks even smaller than he really is, bare feet piled one over the other.

Spencer settles down across from him in the chair. He digs a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and chucks it onto Brendon’s lap. He says, “Tell me everything you know.”

Brendon’s fingers tremble a little as he opens the paper, and then he glances up at Spencer in surprise. “This is. This is mine. I gave it to George,” he says, and Spencer nods, because, okay, George. He can work with Ryan being George; that makes some sense.

“Turn it over,” Spencer says. The photo is the only piece of evidence Spencer could find anywhere in Ryan’s neat-as-a-pin beach house. It’s got Brendon’s name and house number scrawled on the back in red pen, circled several times.

Brendon looks up at Spencer again. “That’s why you—what does George have to do with this? Did something.” He sits up straighter. “I haven’t seen him for a few days. Did something happen to him?”

Spencer just shakes his head. “Brendon, this is important. What’s this a photo of?”

“It’s a dog.” Brendon shrugs. “George seemed kind of worried about the boat, though.”

Spencer stands up abruptly, ignores the way Brendon’s body flinches away from him. He grabs the photo and squints at the boat, a slightly blurry shape in the background. No matter how hard he looks, though, he can’t make out the name painted on the hull. “Do you have any more like this?” Spencer asks.

“Maybe? I mean, yeah, probably, at home.” Brendon stares up at him, wide-eyed, and Spencer knows he’s thinking about the gunmen from earlier, and Spencer isn’t all that thrilled about going back to the house, either, but they don’t have much of a choice. If Ryan had been worried about this boat, worried about there being a picture of it maybe, then Spencer knows it’s important in figuring out just what the fuck happened.

“Then we’re going home,” Spencer says.

Brendon gives him a completely unenthused, “Yay.”

*

Brendon is all for going home, he totally is. All he wants is for Spencer to let him go, because he has no idea what’s going on, he has no idea what this has to do with George or that stupid fucking boat and, oh god, home is where someone had tried to kill them.

Brendon totally doesn’t want to go anywhere near his house, not for anything. “Maybe you can just drop me off at Greta’s in town,” Brendon says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Spencer doesn’t say anything.

Spencer is not any less scary in the light of day. He’s got some mean stubble, too.

Brendon touches his mouth lightly with the pads of his fingers and tries with spectacular failure not to think about how he’d been woken up that morning, with Spencer’s hand on his ass. And then his body on his body and his mouth on his mouth, and Spencer is hot, Brendon thinks, if you go for that crazy, can kill you with one hand type of guy.

Brendon never thought he was into that. First chance he gets, he’s totally going to knee Spencer in the balls and take off. Seriously, he so is.

It takes forty-five minutes to get back to Brendon’s house, and Mongo is sitting on the top of the porch steps, watching them as they pull up.

Spencer says, “Stay in the car,” and then takes out his gun. Brendon knows enough about guns to know that he doesn’t like them, but that’s about it. He watches Spencer flick something on it, watches him unfold his legs out of the car and take a cautious look around.

Mongo barks once, sharply, but cuts off when Spencer waves a hand towards him. The dog whines a little, then sits back on his haunches and slides his front feet forward to lie down. Brendon’s reluctantly impressed. Mongo normally just ignores anything Brendon asks him to do.

Spencer disappears around the side of the house, and then ten minutes later he’s walking out Brendon’s front door, gun away and hands on his hips. He jerks his head, gesturing, Brendon supposes, for him to get out of the car.

There is no way Brendon’s getting out of the car.

Spencer’s eyes narrow.

Brendon grins at him through the windshield, then reaches over and locks all the doors. It’s kind of an empty gesture, considering Spencer has the car keys, but Brendon feels that it’s important not to get too compliant here. Spencer’s maybe not part of the posse of bad guys that wants him dead, but Brendon is all too aware that he isn’t the good guy either.

“If I have to come get you,” Spencer shouts from the porch, “neither of us is going to be very happy.”

Brendon bites his lip, hand hovering over the lock. He hesitates maybe a second too long, though, because Spencer’s face gets dark, jaw clenched around a scowling mouth, and he takes long, purposeful strides down the steps. Brendon squeaks and scrambles over the center console of the sedan and fumbles with the lock on the driver’s side. He’s got it unlocked and opened by the time Spencer’s turning the key in the passenger side door, but he’s only got the upper half of his body over the seat and Spencer makes a grab for his leg, catching his ankle before he can fully slither out the other side.

He kicks out and Spencer growls, “Fucking stop, Brendon, I swear to god,” and yanks him back into the car, back over to the passenger side. Spencer’s got one knee up on the seat and Brendon’s legs are bent, back biting into the console as he stares up at him, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

Spencer says, “If you kick me one more time, I really am going to tie you the fuck up.”

Brendon swallows hard and licks his bottom lip.

Spencer leans forward, knee sliding further down between Brendon’s still bent legs. “Honestly, I’m really going to love tying you up, Brendon,” he says, soft and menacingly. “So you go ahead and try it.”

“Spencer,” Brendon says, and it comes out embarrassingly hoarse. He feels his cheeks heat.

And then Spencer abruptly moves back and out of the car, crossing his arms over his chest, and Brendon scrambles out after him, head down. He walks past Spencer and up towards the house without glancing at him once.

Mongo makes a pathetic I’m-hungry sound and Brendon automatically picks up his empty food bowl to bring into the kitchen. He drops it with a metal clatter just inside the door, though, when he spots the complete fucking mess that is his living room.

“Fuck,” he say. Everything is trashed. Everything; his old sofa’s torn, tables are turned over, canvases slashed. Brendon traces the jagged edge of a painting of a sand crab he’d just finished last week, surf foaming up around it. Brendon’s not—he’s not a great artist, he knows this. He’s okay, he’s good even, but he doesn’t delude himself into thinking he’s anything special. Greta sells his paintings to tourists breezing through town, people that want beach scenes for their beach houses, and he makes a comfortable living that way. But he puts a lot hard work into the paintings and he loves them, and it’s tough to see every effort he still had on hand completely ruined. “Well. This fucking sucks.”

He must sound pretty dejected, because Spencer cups his shoulder when he steps up behind him.

Brendon shrugs him off and says, “So the pictures are on my laptop. Which is,” he looks around, “somewhere.” He sighs, then gestures towards his bedroom. “I’m gonna go change.” The one good thing about going back home is that he can at least get a pair of shoes.

“Pack a bag,” Spencer says.

Brendon pauses slightly mid-step before nodding. His bedroom isn’t any better than the rest of the house, but Brendon tries not to focus on the mess as he switches his sweatpants for boxers and jeans, tugs on socks and sneakers. He stuffs a small duffle with some underwear and t-shirts and grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom. By the time he wanders back out into the living room, Spencer’s got his laptop spread out over the coffee table. In pieces.

“Do you have copies of the photos anywhere else?” Spencer asks.

“No. I, um, might have uploaded some to my flickr account, though,” Brendon says.

Spencer nods. “Okay. That would be great.”

Brendon tangles his fingers in his shirt. Spencer is being suspiciously easygoing about this, considering the fact that he keeps threatening to tie him up. “Yeah.”

Spencer stares at him, and Brendon feels a hot flush start up from his neck, in from his ears. He drops his shirt and wipes damp palms on his thighs, and then Spencer’s gaze shifts to the left, over Brendon’s shoulder, and he frowns.

“What’s that?”

Brendon turns and sees a print of George pinned to the corkboard just outside the kitchen. He’s silhouetted by a sunset, just a black shape, really, unrecognizable unless you’re familiar with the way George holds himself when no one’s looking, slightly slouched, head tilted, one leg bent.

“That’s—” Brendon stops, eyes wide on Spencer, who’s—who is smiling. It’s not a very big smile maybe, but there’s something fond in his eyes and it transforms his whole face, and Brendon is kind of stunned. Brendon suddenly feels like he wants to do everything in his power to keep Spencer smiling all the time and, wow, is that a stupid, stupid thought. He swallows hard. “Um. You can have it if you want?”

Spencer shakes his head, smile slipping.

Brendon still has no idea what’s going on. He has no idea why Spencer had shown up at his house in the middle of the night, he has no idea why he’s been shot at, why Spencer is so angry with him, and he has no idea who this Ryan person is, and why Spencer seems to think his photos are going to help. He sets his duffle on the floor by his feet and stares down at his hands. He says, “Spencer?”

“Yeah?” The couch squeaks a little when Spencer gets up, and Brendon watches him out of the corner of his eye.

“Is this. I mean.” He bites at his thumb, fidgets on his feet, back and forth, before finally glancing up again and blurting out, “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow.

“No,” Brendon spreads his hands out. “No, I really want to—I’ve been fucking shot at, Spencer, so I think maybe I deserve to know what the fuck is going on here.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing I can tell you right now that would make sense.”

“Oh right.” Brendon bobs his head. “Then I think I’m just going to stay here.” Brendon does not actually want to stay there. Brendon’s pretty sure he’s never going to feel safe in his own home again. But he can certainly walk the miles into town and beg Greta for her spare bedroom. He is not above making soulful puppy eyes at her, and she’s always been unable to resist those.

“No,” Spencer says.

“Yes.”

“No,” Spencer repeats, and tries to loom over Brendon, but Brendon isn’t having it.

Brendon is pissed off and exhausted and his feet hurt and he isn’t going anywhere with Spencer ever again. He very valiantly does not take a step back, but squares his shoulders and tilts his head back a little and looks Spencer dead in the eye. “I’m staying.”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look. Look, Brendon,” he says tightly, “I’m sorry for—”

“Sorry for what? Trying to kill me?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Kidnapping me? Because, hey, the threats on my life have been awesome, and molestation,” he shoots Spencer a thumbs-up, “thanks for that, too.”

“Brendon,” Spencer curls his hands around Brendon’s upper arms, leans down so their noses are nearly touching, “no one knew I was here last night, remember?”

Brendon remembers. He knows—he knows that the implication there is that those guys had been after him, not Spencer, but it still doesn’t make any freaking sense. “But why would—why would anyone shoot at me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Spencer’s voice is almost soothing now, even though his grip on Brendon’s arms is still vice-like.

Brendon deflates a little. “Fuck.”

“We’re going to stay with a friend of mine,” Spencer says. “You’ll be fine, okay?”

Brendon pulls back, and Spencer, surprisingly, lets him do it, loosening his hold and sliding his palms down Brendon’s arms, squeezing his wrists once before dropping them completely.

Brendon doesn’t say anything; there’s really nothing to say. He just bends down to pick up his duffle bag again, hitching it up high over his shoulder.

*

Spencer has no idea what to do with Brendon.

He’s going to take him to Jon’s, yes, and then they’re going to figure out why Ryan had been worried about that boat in Brendon’s picture, but he’s going to have to contact Way about Brendon, and they’re going to have to deal with him, because Spencer is no longer a part of the Agency. This isn’t Spencer’s job anymore. Brendon is none of Spencer’s business. Except he really kind of is.

Spencer’s angry that Ryan made Brendon his business, because whatever Ryan had been doing there with Wentz, whoever he was trying to set up, it certainly hadn’t been part of his mission to befriend his neighbor down the beach. He had to have known that would’ve blown up in his face.

Brendon’s dog is breathing down his neck from the backseat, and Spencer reaches over his shoulder and pushes his muzzle away. “Mongo, quit it.”

“I told you we didn’t have to bring him,” Brendon says.

Spencer spares him a disbelieving glance. Brendon’s sort of huddled into himself on the passenger seat, big dark eyes watching him. “You’d just leave your dog?” Spencer’s a dog person. He’s a big fan of dogs. Cats, not so much. Jon’s cats kind of hate him a lot.

“He’s not really mine. He’s a stray. He. He doesn’t even like me very much.” Brendon shrugs.

“You feed him,” Spencer points out.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want him to starve.” Brendon straightens up a little. “He’s old, though. I figure he’s earned the right to do whatever he wants, you know? So he,” he waves a hand, “hangs around.”

“You named him,” Spencer says. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing the point, but at least Brendon’s relaxing.

“George named him. I’d been calling him Old Dog for months.”

“George, right.” Spencer taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “You two were close?”

Brendon shrugs again, but doesn’t say anything.

Spencer has to force himself to keep his hands lax on the wheel. He doesn’t like the thought of Brendon and Ryan being close. In fact, he really kind of hates it. Huh.

Brendon starts fiddling with the radio, tunes in an alternative station and then hums along.

They ride in relative silence for hours, eat fast food from drive-thrus, turn into the occasional rest stop to let Mongo out and to use the bathrooms. When Spencer starts feeling the pull of exhaustion, he turns off into the next motel he finds. He runs okay on little sleep, so it’s late when he checks in, paying for the room in cash.

Brendon’s conked out in his seat, head lolling on the window. Spencer pokes him in the side after he parks in the space in front of their door.

Brendon bats at his hand. “Stop,” he murmurs.

“Come on. Bedtime.”

Brendon yawns, arches his back in a stretch as he blinks open his eyes. “What?”

“We’re stopped,” Spencer says. “Get out of the car, Brendon.”

Brendon yawns again and fumbles for the door handle. He scrubs a hand over his face, then staggers towards the open-air corridor in front of them, Mongo following at his heels.

Spencer rolls his eyes and grabs Brendon’s bag before joining them.

The room is musty, like it hasn’t been used in a while, but Spencer’s too tired to care. Brendon collapses facedown on the bed nearest the door, and Spencer rifles through his duffle, pulls out a tube of toothpaste. He considers using Brendon’s toothbrush too, but just uses his finger instead, rinsing out the stale taste in his mouth from days on the road. He rubs a hand over the thickening burr on his cheeks and chin. He’s grown out a beard before; sooner or later it’s gonna start itching like a bitch.

Brendon’s snoring by the time Spencer gets out of the bathroom – faint, whiffling snores, but still snores – and Spencer watches him for a minute, staring at the sweep of dark eyelashes on too pale skin. He’s on his stomach, face turned to the side, one hand fisted under his chin, glasses pulled off and lying haphazardly on the pillow in front of his nose. He smacks his lips and flutters his eyes open, like he senses Spencer’s gaze on him.

Spencer moves forward then, says, “Hey,” and, “You should get your shoes off at least.”

Brendon just looks at him, the glow from the overhead light painting a starburst in the corner of his eye. Then he sighs, closes his eyes again, breathing almost immediately evening out.

Spencer doesn’t even really think about it, just bends over Brendon and tugs off his sneakers. He pushes at Brendon’s shoulder until Brendon rolls over onto his back, boneless, and Spencer’s fingers hover over the button on Brendon’s jeans, hesitating barely a second before opening them up, urging the zipper down with one finger.

“Are you molesting me again?” Brendon asks sleepily, and Spencer starts a little, but doesn’t pull away. He just tugs on Brendon’s belt loops meaningfully.

Brendon lifts his hips, letting Spencer draw his jeans all the way down his legs and off. There’s even a tired smile on his face when Spencer maneuvers the covers out from underneath him, and he curls up on this side once he’s snug. Spencer brushes the hair off his forehead, then feels his face burn when he realizes he’s petting Brendon, Jesus, and he snatches his hand away, quick.

Brendon just murmurs, “Thanks,” though, and Spencer retreats to the other bed.

He kicks off his shoes and lies down on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, and he stares up at the ceiling for a long, long while.

He wakes up to Brendon’s face hovering over his. He blinks. “What time is it?” he asks.

“There’s someone outside,” Brendon whispers.

Spencer tenses. “How—”

“The door. I heard noise at the door. Spencer, do you think—”

“It’s probably a maid,” Spencer says, sitting up. It could be a maid. Or it could be someone who’s followed them from Brendon’s. The important thing, though, is to keep Brendon from panicking.

Then there’s the distinct sound of someone working the lock. Spencer curses under his breath. Once the lock is picked, the flimsy door would be a piece of cake to kick in, even with the bolt latched. Their only advantage is that whoever’s out there thinks they’re asleep, and is trying to be as quiet as possible, so it’s slowing them down.

“Get dressed,” Spencer hisses. He pulls on his own pants and quickly laces up his shoes, then grabs his gun and heads for the bathroom. The single window is small, but he’s pretty sure they’ll fit through. He shoves it open and punches out the screen.

“Spencer, what—”

Spencer takes Brendon’s bag out of his hands and tosses it outside. “Let’s go.” He gestures for Brendon to follow his bag. “Hurry up.”

Brendon’s eyes are huge and he scrambles up on the toilet lid, pulling himself through the window. Spencer steadies his legs so he doesn’t fall on his face, and then he climbs right out after him. His shoulders scrape the frame, but he thankfully doesn’t get stuck. He tucks into a roll so he won’t land on his face or arms, then scrambles to his feet and pushes on Brendon’s back to get him moving. It’s only a matter of time before they crash into the room and find them missing.

It’s a murky gray dawn, heralding rain, but the wan light is better cover. They’re just turning the corner of the building when Spencer remembers Mongo. “Shit, fucking fuck,” Spencer says.

“What?”

“The fucking dog,” Spencer says, and Brendon goes, “Oh, shit,” and then, “Bet you wish you listened to me now, huh?” and Spencer says, “Fucking shut up,” because he has to think.

First things first, they can’t take Spencer’s car. He picks a shitty, nondescript hatchback and cheers under his breath when the door pops open, unlocked.

“All right, get in and wait for me,” he tells Brendon. He searches for keys – in the console, glove box, visor – but comes up empty.

Brendon slides into the passenger seat and slumps low. “You’re going back?”

Spencer’s fingers fumble under the steering column. He hasn’t done this in while, but he pries off the plastic, feeling for wires. It’s a risk, hotwiring the car and then going back for the stupid fucking dog, but, other way around, he might not have enough time. When the car sputters to life, he allows himself a brief flash of satisfaction before ducking out of the car again.

He’s not worried that they’ll hurt Mongo, not really, not if they’re Wentz’s men. For all his renowned ruthlessness, Wentz has an unexpected soft spot for animals. It’s stupid, going back for him. Brendon doesn’t even seem to like the mutt, but for some reason Spencer feels it’s important. Like Mongo is one tiny speck of normal in Brendon’s life right now and Spencer is a fucking soft-hearted moron. Ryan always loves to point that out about him.

By the time Spencer leaves Brendon and heads back towards the motel, barely five minutes have passed.

Rabid barking suddenly echoes across the pavement, along with several startled shouts, and then gunfire rings out from somewhere off to the side, nowhere near the building, and it’s official. Spencer’s completely off his game; it hadn’t even occurred to him that they’d have more men watching the lot and it fucking should have. He berates himself for acting like a fucking newb. Apparently, forging a normal life for himself this past year – he’s a fucking chef, he doesn’t do this shit anymore – has dulled his senses to the point of idiocy.

And then he gets shot.

*

The first words out of Brendon’s mouth when Spencer jerks open the passenger side door and shoves him over into the driver’s seat are, “Where’s Mongo?”

“He’ll be fine,” Spencer growls, “just motherfucking drive.”

Brendon feels like he should say something here, ask what the hell is going on, but Spencer says, “Fucking drive, Brendon,” urgency and something else in his voice, and he just reverses out of the spot and floors it. He hears pinging, making the car jerk, and he’s vaguely aware they’re being shot at. He’s a little numb at this point. He thinks they’re going to have to ditch this car too, though.

Brendon glances sideways at Spencer, says, “Am I—” He pauses, takes a sharp breath. There’s an awful lot of blood covering Spencer. He’s a little ashamed it took him that long to notice. “Oh my god, what—”

“Drive, Brendon,” Spencer says tightly. He’s clutching at his left shoulder.

“But are you—what, is that yours?”

Spencer gives him a pained laugh. “Um, no?”

“You fucking liar, oh my god, you’ve been shot!” Brendon wants to slam on the brakes and flail his arms and then run his hands all over Spencer, checking for bullet holes. He doesn’t, but only because Spencer would probably try to punch him if he did, and that would be bad, what with all the blood loss. Oh god.

“I have,” Spencer says matter-of-factly, just as bullet exploded Spencer’s passenger side mirror. “How are you at evasive driving?”

Brendon swallows, tries to concentrate on keeping up his speed, tries not to think about the black SUV trailing them about ten car lengths away. “I drive a golf cart, Spencer. If you want to find a green, I’m pretty sure I can lose them by the eighteenth hole.”

“Funny.”

It’s Brendon’s turn to choke out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

“It’ll be fine,” Spencer says, and Brendon has no idea how he can be so calm. Brendon can feel his heart beating in his throat. “We need to get into traffic.”

“It’s fucking six in the morning,” Brendon says, but they’re closing in on the main drag, and they’re close to the highway, so they’re lucky that other summer travelers are already up and on the their ways.

Spencer has him screech into turns so many times Brendon’s not even sure where they are, but ten minutes later he flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror and he can’t see the SUV anymore. It had been the longest ten minutes of Brendon’s entire life. His fingers feel like they’re fused with the steering wheel.

“I’m going to throw up,” Brendon says.

“Hey, I’m the one who’s got the gaping bullet wound.”

Brendon gives Spencer an incredulous look and catches the tail end of a smile. “Are you fucking joking about that?”

“Just keep driving, Brendon,” Spencer says.

Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye as Spencer reaches down for Brendon’s bag. He hisses in pain as he jerks the zipper down, roots around inside one-handed, other one still cupped over his shoulder.

“I’m ruining a shirt,” he tells Brendon.

Brendon keeps shooting him little looks. He says, “Not the—”

“Brendon, seriously,” Spencer says, and proceeds to wrap Brendon’s Strictly For My Ninja’s t-shirt under his armpit and up over his shoulder, knotting it awkwardly with one hand, using his teeth to yank it tight.

Brendon winces in sympathy at the sound Spencer makes. “We need to find a hospital.” He has no idea what town they’re in; presumably somewhere still in Oregon, but he doesn’t even really remember stopping the night before.

“No.”

“But—”

“Hospitals are the first places they’re gonna look,” Spencer says. “We keep going. I’ll find a new car once we get out of town.”

“You’ve been shot!” Brendon doesn’t think Spencer gets the enormity of that – he could die.

“I’ve been shot before. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Brendon says vehemently, and he wonders when he started worrying about Spencer, wonders why his chest had squeezed a little when Spencer had said he’d been shot before. Like it’s something he’s used to.

“It’s fine,” Spencer says again, and Brendon hopes that’s false brightness in his voice, because, really, what the fuck. “You’ll learn all about cleaning wounds later, too. It’ll be a fun bonding experience.”

Brendon shakes his head. “You’re crazy.”

Spencer says, “I think I must be,” only it’s so low Brendon isn’t sure he heard him correctly, and he’s doubly sure he wasn’t supposed to.

Brendon flexes his fingers on the wheel. “Where to, then?” he asks quietly.

“Southeast.” He flashes Brendon a tight grin. “We’re going to Vegas.”

“That’ll take all day,” Brendon protests.

“Brendon,” Spencer says through his teeth, “I need you to stop talking now.”

Brendon glances over at him again. He’s got his head back, eyes closed, breathing fast and shallow. He’s too pale. Brendon doesn’t like it. “I don’t like this,” Brendon whispers.

“Brendon. Please.”

Brendon shuts up and presses his lips together, even though he doesn’t like the quiet. It itches under his skin, but he doesn’t want to risk even turning the radio on. He can hear Spencer breathing.

After about an hour of uncomfortable silence, Spencer says, “Pull into that CVS, but park around back.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, and then he dutifully gets out when Spencer tells him to, silently repeating all the items Spencer listed that they’d need in his mind, so he won’t forget anything - gauze, tape, scissors, peroxide, Neosporin, Tylenol. He gulps. Brendon is totally squeamish, and he is so not looking forward to this.

He’s antsy inside, like the clerk can tell he’s getting ready to tidy up a bullet hole and he smiles nervously as she rings him up. She gives him a bland, “Have a nice day,” and Brendon’s hands are shaking as he takes the bag, stuffing the change into his pocket, crumpling the receipt between his fingers. He can’t—he can’t do this. This is fucking insane.

He wonders what’s going on at home, if Greta’s noticed he’s missing yet. Probably not. He’d visited town just the day before Spencer showed up, so Greta probably thinks he’s holed up in his house, painting.

He spots the payphone as he exits the store, and doesn’t even think about; he just fishes out some quarters and dials Greta.

“Lighthouse Gifts, Greta speaking.”

“Greta, hi.” Now that he’s got her on the phone, Brendon isn’t exactly sure how to say: I’ve been kidnapped and someone’s trying to kill me, but no worries, it’s all under control.

“Brendon! Hey, sweetpea, what’s shakin’?”

“I, um. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out of town for a little while,” Brendon says. He jostles the plastic bag along his thigh.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, last minute trip to see the fam, so—”

“Do you need me to check on Mongo for you?” she asks.

Brendon winces. “I’ve, uh, taken him with me?”

Greta laughs. “You’re not sure about that?”

“No, um. No, seriously, I’ve got him. Just didn’t want to take off without letting you guys know. You know. Just in case.” You stopped by and noticed my entire house is torn apart.

“Okay, hon,” Greta says. “Have fun with your folks, all right? See you when you get back.”

“Yeah, see you,” Brendon says weakly, and then hangs up. He’s still having a little trouble digesting all this. A small part of him expects to wake up back at the beach tomorrow, all set to motor over to Greta’s in Sweet Beulah.

Instead, though, he’s got a hot stranger bleeding out in a stolen car.

Spencer’s not in the car when he turns the corner towards the back of the CVS. He’s leaning against the passenger side and he jerks his head towards the gas station next door. “We’re gonna go over there and get cleaned up.”

“You’re just—I mean,” Brendon waves a hand, “you’re covered in blood.”

“No one’ll notice,” Spencer says. “And if they do, they won’t say anything.” He’s still way pale and his eyes look strained and Brendon’s worried that he’s going to collapse or something.

Brendon sidles up next to him and cautiously wraps an arm around his waist. Spencer doesn’t say anything, just lets Brendon take some of his weight as they start off across the parking lot.

In the gas station bathroom, Brendon cuts off Spencer’s shirt and tries not to pass out from all the blood. He swallows hard.

“Check the back,” Spencer says. His jaw is clenched, and he’s leaning heavily on the sink.

The back looks even worse from the front, flesh torn where it punched through the outside of his shoulder. A graze almost, maybe, but deeper. Brendon sucks in a breath and says, “Spence—”

“Exit wounds are messy.”

“The whole thing—” Brendon cuts himself off with a semi-hysterical laugh.

“Just clean it up,” Spencer says calmly. He’s looking down and over, chin tucked in, trying to see where the bullet entered. “This is fucking A-Team shit.”

“What? No one ever got shot on the A-Team.”

Spencer laughs a little. “BA, dude. But my point—” He hisses as Brendon douses the back of his shoulder in peroxide, and Brendon says, “Sorry, sorry.”

“My point’s that it’s always a shoulder wound,” Spencer goes on. “Fleshy, non-vital. It’s a fucking graze. I’m, like, a walking one-hour eighties action show.”

Brendon thinks maybe Spencer’s getting delirious. “And you’re complaining about that?” Not that Brendon agrees. Getting shot is getting fucking shot, no matter how you look at it.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, and Brendon glances at his face. He’s got his eyes closed, and Brendon thinks he’s holding his breath.

“One sec,” Brendon says softly. He’s still one hundred percent sure Spencer needs a doctor. The bleeding’s slowed almost to a stop, but there’s no way his back doesn’t need stitches. He presses thick pads of gauze onto both ends of the wound. Spencer gropes one hand up and presses down on the front for him and Brendon digs around one-handed for the tape.

He’d gotten an ace bandage, too – it’s better than ruining another one of his shirts – and once the holes are clean and dry, he starts unrolling it over Spencer’s shoulder.

Spencer catches his wrist. “Wait. Use some strips of gauze for that. We need to immobilize my arm.”

“We need to go to the fucking hospital,” Brendon grumbles, but he switches out the bandage for the flimsy gauze and ties it as tight as he can around the wound. He helps Spencer very carefully tug on another t-shirt, stretching out the armhole so he doesn’t have to move his arm that much and pressing on the bandage to try and stop it from bleeding again. Then Spencer holds his arm still over his stomach, and Brendon leans into him, passing the bandage between his hands around his back over and over again until he runs out of length and tucks it into itself at the small of Spencer’s back. “There.”

Spencer takes a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

Brendon blinks up at him. “Um. You’re welcome.”

“Ready to go?”

Not really, Brendon thinks, but he nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”

*

Spencer is seriously tempted to shoot Brendon. Brendon’s driving him crazy. They’re maybe five hours outside of Vegas, and Brendon won’t stop singing Newsies songs, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Spencer would call him on it, but he doesn’t feel like owning up to the fact that he does, indeed, recognize the musical.

In desperation, Spencer punches on the radio again, even though they haven’t been able to find a decent channel for miles.

“Oh, hey, am I—” Brendon glances over at him, sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “Sorry, I’ll. I’ll shut up.”

Spencer glares at him. He fishes out the bottle of maximum strength Tylenol and swallows three dry. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back on the seat and tries to find a comfortable position, one that doesn’t make stabbing pain pulse through his arm. He’s not really successful.

And then Brendon starts humming along with whatever shit is pouring out of the stereo and Spencer is getting ever closer to homicide for real. Brendon thinks he was trying to kill him before? Yeah, right.

“Brendon,” he growls.

“Spencer, seriously, I’m going—this is—how much longer?” he asks.

“Hours,” Spencer says. “And if you don’t shut up I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

Brendon snorts. “Yeah, okay. Can you even move?”

Spencer cracks open an eye and turns his head towards Brendon, catching his grinning profile. “Wanna try me?”

“Um.” Brendon’s smile falls and he throws Spencer a wary look. “No?”

“Good answer,” Spencer says, then settles back again. The radio’s basically giving them white noise now, and it’s almost soothing. He finds himself nodding off, despite the throb in his shoulder.

When he wakes up, it’s dead silent. No radio, no humming or singing. “Brendon?” he asks, voice thick, before he even has his eyes fully open. He feels a little like he’s been beaten by a baseball bat. And then he realizes they’re not moving anymore, and that Brendon’s not in the car. “What the fuck?”

The door pops open and Spencer gropes under the seat for his gun, but he’s fucking slow from sleep and getting shot, so Brendon’s already settled back behind the wheel by the time he even grasps the handle.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Brendon says. He waves a snack cake at him. “HoHo?”

Spencer blinks at him. “No. Thanks.”

Brendon shrugs. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Spencer straightens up as best he can without jostling his arm. The sun is down, and the digital clock on the dash reads just after eight. “Why are we stopped?”

“Well, see,” Brendon says, ripping open a package of HoHos and stuffing one into his mouth, “we’re in Vegas.”

At least, that’s what Spencer thinks he says, considering he’s talking around a delicious cake of chocolate and cream. Spencer kind of wishes he’d said yes. “We’re in Vegas,” Spencer echoes, just to make sure.

Brendon nods, licks his lips. “Yeah, so. I could’ve taken you to my mom’s, but somehow I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, um.” Spencer rubs a hand over his face, tries to get his bearings. When he looks up again, Brendon’s got a hand out, three white pills in the middle of his palm. Spencer takes them gratefully, swallows them dry again.

Brendon starts the car, and Spencer takes a moment to look around. Luckily, they’re actually not too far from Jon’s. He directs Brendon back into traffic, and five minutes later Brendon parks out front of Jon’s building.

Spencer lets out a slow breath of relief. So far so good. He manages to get out of the car under his own steam. He feels stiff more than anything else, and he waits for Brendon to round the front of the car before walking slowly towards the dimly lit doorway. He leans a thumb on the intercom.

“Yes?”

Brendon tenses up all of a sudden, and Spencer gropes for his wrist. He doesn’t feel like dealing with Brendon taking off again. “Let us up, Jon,” Spencer says tiredly. He tightens his hold on Brendon when he tries to squirm away.

“Spence. You made—really crappy time,” Jon says, and then a buzzer sounds as the door lock is released.

Spencer lets go of Brendon and waves ahead of them. “After you.”

Brendon scowls and rubs at his wrist. “I wasn’t—”

“Inside, Brendon. I’d kind of like to make it upstairs before I pass out.”

Brendon’s eyes widen and he steps into Spencer’s space, wrapping an arm around his waist as he reaches for the door. Spencer bemusedly lets him maneuver him inside. Spencer had been exaggerating – he’s a long way from fainting. His shoulder hurts like a bitch, and he certainly feels the pull of exhaustion, but he’s had much, much worse. It’s kind of nice to lean on Brendon anyway.

Thankfully, there’s an elevator, and Jon’s door is propped open when they step out onto the fourth floor. Jon’s hanging in the doorway, and he takes one look at them and his affable smile disappears.

“Jesus Christ, Spence, what the hell happened?” he asks, moving aside to let them into the apartment.

“Ran into some trouble on the way here,” Spencer says. He drops down onto Jon’s couch with a sigh.

Jon stretches a hand out towards Brendon and says, “Hey, I’m Jon Walker.”

Spencer watches as Brendon tentatively takes hold and shakes Jon’s hand. He smiles a little in response to Jon’s own mouth curling up and says, “Brendon. Hi. I’m, uh, Spencer’s hostage? Prisoner? I’m not really sure how to categorize this, since he’s kind of saved my life a few times.”

Jon turns to Spencer and waggles his eyebrows. “Prisoner?” Spencer knows exactly what Jon’s thinking, because Jon is a pervert.

Spencer ignores him and says, “We need to use your laptop.”

“Um, Spencer, shouldn’t we check your gaping wound?” Brendon asks.

“It’s not a gaping wound,” Spencer says. He wants to snatch the computer out of Jon’s hands when he stops in front of the couch, but he doesn’t think he can handle it. Instead, he waits for Jon to set it up on the low coffee table.

“Maybe he’s right,” Jon says, eyeing him up. “You’re sort of bleeding through.”

“After, okay? This is important.” Spencer opens Firefox and surfs to the Flickr site. He says, “Give me your account information, Brendon.”

Brendon rattles out the address and says, “They’d be in the June or July folder,” fingers twisting together anxiously.

“What are we looking for?” Jon asks, settling down next to Spencer on the couch.

Spencer mouses over a few photos of Mongo before he gets a clear shot of the yacht, the dog blurry in the foreground. “That,” he says. It’s the Tricky Wind, according to the name etched on the bow. Spencer had been right about Wentz being involved, then. He clicks on the next thumbnail and sucks in a breath. “Holy shit.”

“Is that—that’s Suarez,” Jon says.

“Call Way and tell him to get Ryan the fuck out of there,” Spencer says, quickly moving onto the next photo. Another clear shot of Suarez and Wentz’s right-hand man, Stump. “This is what they want.” He lifts his gaze to Brendon, but Brendon’s just staring at them blankly.

Jon’s still looking at the laptop screen, mouth gaping. “Fuck, Spence,” he says. “Saporta isn’t going to like this.”

“No shit. Fuck.” The Cobra is bad news, and evidence linking Saporta to Wentz? Even worse. Bad shit is going to go down. If Wentz can’t destroy this, Saporta’s gonna destroy Wentz, and Ryan’ll go right down with them. He clicks on the next photo and it’s the most damning – Suarez, turned towards the camera, hand halfway up. Any hope that Suarez hadn’t known he’d been spotted was pretty much down the fucking toilet.

“Who did you say was shooting at you?” Jon asks him.

Spencer says, “I didn’t.”

*

Brendon likes Jon. Jon’s pretty cool and he has great hair and he smiles at Brendon a lot, and Brendon doesn’t feel quite so lost. Plus, he’s got two super awesome cats. Brendon spent twenty minutes playing fetch with one while the other one curled up in his lap.

Dr. Adam shows up at the same time as the pizza Jon ordered, so he’s got a pizza box in one hand and one of those cool black doctor’s bags in the other. He has a prominent chin and lashes that curl up and a big, big smile, even though he’s there to sew several layers of Spencer’s flesh back together.

Brendon still thinks they should take Spencer to the hospital – germs! Infections! Gaping wounds! – but he doesn’t say anything. Just curls his lips in over his teeth and holds his tongue.

Dr. Adam pumps Spencer full of antibiotics and painkillers – as many as Spencer will let him give him, which isn’t all that many – and after he leaves, Spencer passes out in Jon’s spare bedroom.

Jon tells Brendon to get comfortable. They watch TV and eat pizza and Jon doesn’t ask him about the past few days at all. It’s nice.

Too bad Brendon can’t seem to shut his brain off. He licks his lips. “George is Ryan, right?” Brendon asks softly.

“Huh?”

“I mean, um, Ryan.” Brendon worries the hem of his t-shirt. “He was pretending to be my friend George.”

Jon shrugs. “I guess so?”

“But why—”

“Look, Brendon, the less you know the better, okay?” Jon pats his shoulder. “For now, you’re safe, so just relax. No one knows you’re here, they can’t trace you to me or vice versa. You’ve gotta unwind, dude.”

“Oh, but.” Brendon widens his eyes and something like panic flutters in his stomach, which is ridiculous, because Jon’s right. No one important knows where he is. But— “I wouldn’t say no one.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to tell me what you mean by that?”

“Not really.”

“Brendon.”

Brendon hadn’t really thought of Jon as dangerous before, but Jon’s doing an awfully good Spencer-impression right now. He swallows. “I might have told this, uh,” he scratches the back of his head, “girl back home that I was visiting my parents.”

“And your parents live?” Jon prompts.

“Summerlin.”

Jon curses under his breath. He jabs a finger at Brendon and says, “You’re telling Spencer.”

Brendon shakes his head, but Jon just says, “The minute he wakes up, buddy. Actually, I think I’ll just go wake him up now.”

“No,” Brendon says, trying to catch Jon’s sleeve as he sweeps past him. “Please, Jon, he’ll kill me.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

Brendon has a split-second of yay, reprieve! before his sarcasm registers. Jon starts back towards the bedroom again, and Brendon has to jog to catch up. “This is a bad idea,” Brendon says, huddling behind Jon as he pushes the door open. “And I’ve known Greta for years. It’s not like—”

“Why are you talking?” Spencer’s voice is thick with sleep. “Why am I awake?”

“Brendon here has something he wants to tell you,” Jon says, rocking back on his heels.

Brendon scowls at him. Jon is a mean, spiteful son of a bitch. He’s maybe only known him about three hours, but Brendon is absolutely sure this is true.

“Is that so?”

“No,” Brendon says. “Jon’s just mean and wanted to wake you up.”

Jon punches Brendon in the arm.

“Ow, dude, not cool.” Brendon shakes his head.

“What. The fuck,” Spencer says. In the dim light spilling in from the hallway, Brendon can see Spencer sprawled out on the bed on his back.

Jon pushes Brendon forward – Brendon stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the mattress - then spins around, sneaks out and shuts the door behind him. Bastard.

Spencer sighs. He struggles up into a sitting position, propped up against the pillows, then snaps on the bedside lamp. He points to the end of the bed and says, “Sit.”

Brendon sits. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to make his eyes as big as possible. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine.” Spencer stares at him. Stares at him some more. He’s really awesome at that. It’s like his eyes are calmly threatening death, and the scruffy beard just adds to the effect.

Finally, Brendon cracks and says, “So I kind of told Greta that I was going to be in Vegas.”

Spencer’s left eye twitches. “Kind of?”

Brendon waves a hand. “Um, so I’m actually from here, right? And I mentioned that I was visiting my folks, so.”

“And she knows they live here.”

Brendon nods, risks a smile. Spencer’s really taking this well. He’s not lunging for Brendon or anything. Seriously, he doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal. Greta’s a sweetheart. There is absolutely no reason to worry about her knowing where he is.

“Brendon,” Spencer says. His hands are knotted in the sheets; Brendon can see a flash of white knuckles. “How many people knew you took those pictures?”

“Um.” Brendon scrunches up his face. “George. And Greta—Oh, shit.” Brendon is totally not dumb, okay, but it’s Greta. Greta’s been a fixture in town ever since he’d moved in four years ago. It doesn’t make any sense. “But, but. They totally saw me,” Brendon says desperately. “They saw me on the beach. You said that Suarez guy pointed me out, right?”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s no way they could have known exactly who you were, Brendon. Either Ryan gave you up,” the no way is implied by his tone, “or your lovely friend Greta told Wentz where to find you.”

Brendon suddenly feels all nauseous. He takes a shaky breath and presses a hand over his mouth, and his stupid itchy eyes start to tear up, and swear to god he isn’t normally this weepy, but fuck.

“Hey, hey, no crying,” Spencer says, voice strained.

“I’m totally not crying,” Brendon says. He digs his palms into his eye sockets and lets out a sob.

“Oh, come on.”

Brendon feels the bed shift, and then there’re fingers around his arm, tugging his hand away from his face.

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer says, and Brendon knows he’s lying.

“Yeah, okay, not that bad.” Brendon snorts. “My parents—fuck, my parents. Spencer, what about—”

“Everyone decent?” Jon asks as he opens the door and pokes his head through, grinning. He’s got a cell phone pressed up to his ear and says into it, “No, I know,” then to Brendon, “So what’s your parents’ address, buddy?”

Brendon sniffles and wipes his nose and tells him. He’d maybe be more embarrassed about the tears if his parents weren’t in mortal danger.

Jon keeps his grin. “We’re on it, dude, no worries, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Brendon says, even though it’s impossible not to worry. It’s his mom. And it’s all his fault.

When Jon flips the cell shut, he says, “Okay, so they’re sending in the Alexes for Ryan.”

“Their extraction team is The Cab?” Spencer says with a groan.

“No, just the Alexes. According to Gerard, they’re super excited.” Jon shifts his gaze from Spencer to Brendon and back again. “So I’m just gonna go grab some sleep. Way on the other side of the apartment. I’ll probably have my iPod on real loud.”

Brendon blinks at him. He can hear a growl from Spencer, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Okay?”

Jon’s whistling as he shuts the door again, and Brendon really has no idea how he can be so cheerful in the middle of this complete shit-storm.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, low.

Brendon stares down at his lap. “So, uh. How’s your shoulder?” He’s pretty sure he’s already asked that, but man is this awkward.

“Fine,” Spencer says. “Brendon. Come here.”

“Um. No?” He’s not entirely certain Spencer isn’t going to strangle him for his stupidity.

“Brendon, I will haul your ass up this bed if you don’t come over here right now. Do you want me to reopen my gaping wound?”

When Brendon looks at Spencer again, his eyes are dark and soft. “No, I.” Brendon stands up and shuffles closer to the head of the bed, crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “What?”

Spencer says, “Take off your shoes.”

Brendon frowns. “What—seriously?”

Spencer arches an eyebrow, and Brendon toes off his sneakers, then shifts awkwardly in his sock-feet.

“Brendon.” Spencer reaches out with his good arm and curls his fingers around Brendon’s wrist and tugs.

Brendon lurches off balance and his knee hits the mattress, and Spencer just keeps pulling at him until Brendon’s hunched uncomfortably on the edge, biting his lip. “Spencer, you’re not—” Brendon tries to twist his wrist out of Spencer’s grip, but Spencer just tightens his hold and tugs Brendon closer, and Brendon’s bent so awkwardly that he finally just gives in and stretches his legs out, body long against Spencer’s. “How much pain medication did Dr. Adam give you?”

“Enough,” Spencer says. He’s got a little grin on his face. It’s disconcerting. Brendon has no idea what’s going on, because Spencer’s mouth is awfully close to Brendon’s, but Brendon is sure Spencer doesn’t even like him very much.

“You don’t even like me,” Brendon says. He sounds kind of breathless, and oh god, how embarrassing is that?

“I like you just fine.”

Brendon shakes his head. “You really don’t.”

“Brendon,” Spencer says warningly. His fingers flex around Brendon’s wrist.

“Um.” Brendon sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. Up close, Spencer looks tired and soft around the edges from the drugs, but his eyes zero in on Brendon’s mouth with an amazing amount of focus. He’s not so surprised, then, when Spencer kisses him.

“Open up,” Spencer whispers.

Brendon may not be the most obedient captive, but he’s kind of okay with where this is going. He smiles against Spencer’s mouth.

Spencer’s grip loosens on his wrist, travels up to palm the side of Brendon’s face, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and giving a sharp tug. “Open up,” he says. He licks a little to get his point across.

Brendon opens up.

Later, with Brendon’s clothes an undignified but triumphant heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, Brendon tries very hard not to jostle Spencer’s shoulder and cuddle at the same time.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Brendon, here.” Spencer wraps his good arm around him and pulls over so that Brendon’s half on top of him, leg flung across his thighs, head tucked into Spencer’s neck. Spencer hisses a little, shifts minutely on the mattress, but keeps his grasp firm on Brendon.

Brendon tilts his head up and yawns against Spencer’s jaw. “Your beard feels weird against my beard,” Brendon says sleepily.

“You don’t have a beard,” Spencer says.

Brendon thinks Spencer might be laughing at him, but he’s too tired to care.

*

Spencer wakes up some time mid-morning groggy, dry-mouthed and wooly-eyed and with a pounding headache. Finding himself alone in the bed only serves to make it worse.

What makes it even worse is stumbling out into the living room to find Jon sitting on the edge of the couch, one hand covering half his face, elbow propped up on his knee, other hand pressing a cell phone up to his ear, mouth scowling.

Jon hardly ever scowls, even when situations warrant it. He’s always cheery as fuck and annoyingly optimistic.

“What do you mean you couldn’t get to him?” Jon says, and Spencer’s stomach bottoms out. “Well, fucking—all right, okay, I’ll tell Spencer.” He catches Spencer’s eyes and widens his own, and Jon isn’t panicking, exactly, but it’s a close thing.

“Where’s Brendon?” Spencer asks.

Jon flips his cell closed and holds up a hand. “Look, for the record, this is not my fault.”

Spencer clenches his hands into fists, even though it makes his shoulder burn like a motherfucker. “Jon. What happened?”

“I let him call his parents,” Jon says sheepishly.

“You—okay.” Spencer nods. He takes a slow, calming breath, relaxes his hands. “So he freaked out and went to visit his parents, who are being watched. This is fucking typical of Brendon and I’m going to kick his ass when I get my hands on him, but he should be relatively easy to catch.”

“They can’t find him,” Jon cuts in. “He never made it to the house.”

Spencer is not going to hurt Jon. He likes Jon. Jon’s one of his best friends, he’d partnered with him in the Agency for nearly three years. He maybe just wants to kill him a little for losing Brendon. “This is your fault,” Spencer says.

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “No, remember the part where I said this is not my fault? Brendon’s got the common sense of a fucking four-year-old, Spence. A really adorable four-year-old that disarms you with hugs and pleas for hot chocolate, but—”

“He snuck out while you were making him cocoa?” Spencer asks, incredulous. Jon is a trained assassin, what the fuck.

Jon bites his lip. “He gave me soulful puppy eyes?”

“Okay.” Spencer rubs the muscles of his upper arm, trying to work out the kinks that had knotted up while he’d been asleep. When he has full use of both his arms again he’s going to beat Jon with his fists. “Okay, so where did they send the Alexes?”

“There is no way they’re going to let you go in for Brendon,” Jon says, but he’s already getting to his feet, opening his cell and dialing. He wanders off into the kitchen and Spencer logs into Jon’s laptop.

He’d already taken Brendon’s photos down off his Flickr account and saved them to Jon’s hard drive. Spencer quickly copies the folder onto two flashdrives and deletes it from the computer, emptying the recycle bin. They aren’t cops, aren’t even officially part of the government. Spencer couldn’t fucking care less if Wentz and Saporta are teaming up. It’d give the Agency a tidy sum if they could prove it, but Spencer isn’t willing to risk Brendon for something that just accidentally fell into their laps – he wonders idly if their alliance had anything to do with Ryan’s involvement, but it doesn’t sway his decision. It’s nice not having any loyalties towards the Agency anymore. Even before Brendon had disappeared he’d been strongly considering just destroying the evidence, getting word to Wentz to call off his goons. It’s really not anything he has to think all that hard about.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, slouching in the kitchen doorway. He’s got a slip of paper folded between his fingers.

“Making a deal. Have they gotten Ryan out yet?”

Jon straightens up and holds out the paper to Spencer. “No word from the Alexes.”

There aren’t any words written down, just two lines of numbers. Spencer nods. “I’m going to establish contact. If I’m not—”

“Oh, hell no, Spence,” Jon says. “You think I’m letting you go alone?”

Spencer smiles a little. “Well, I’d kind of hoped not.”

“Come on, lets get that hole in your arm redressed,” Jon says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Spencer lets Jon maneuver him into the bathroom and impatiently jitters his legs while he cleans the wounds exactly how Sisky had showed him, face creased in concentration. It’s not like he’s never done this for Spencer before, though. Spencer hadn’t been lying to Brendon; he’s had worse, and Jon’s been there to witness it.

Afterwards, Jon wraps his shoulder tightly up again. Spencer rotates his arm and winces. He isn’t getting much movement from it, but it’s better than nothing.

He steals one of Jon’s t-shirts and gingerly tugs it on while Jon gets dressed: dark cargo pants, dark long-sleeved shirt, shoulder holster. He tosses Spencer a navy windbreaker, and Spencer tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, covering it with the loose-fitting jacket.

“I can’t guarantee Gerard won’t send someone else,” Jon says as he checks his sidearm, slides it into place.

Spencer snorts. “Bryar?”

“Maybe.” Jon shrugs. “You’re not the only one worried, Spence. You know how Gerard is about civilians.”

“Just so long as they don’t get in my way,” Spencer says. They can send the whole fucking division and Spencer won’t give a damn unless one of them screws up and compromises Ryan or Brendon.

Jon punches the numbers from the slip of paper into his GPS as they take the stairs two at a time down into the front vestibule. “Got it,” he says.

“Where to?”

“An address in San Fran. That’s where the Alexes were sent.”

Jon drives a forest green Dodge Ram because it’s, “Badass,” and because it pisses Ryan off. Jon actually hasn’t admitted that part out loud, but Spencer sees the gleeful twinkle in his eyes whenever Ryan goes into a rant about how much gas it guzzles – even though Jon swears it’s not that bad – and how much of a douche Jon looks like, tooling around town in a fucking lifted truck that’s so shiny he can see himself in the paint. Jon just gives him lazy smiles and leans up against Ryan, arm oh-so-casually draped over his shoulders, and calls him, “Sugar,” and asks him to go off-roading with him sometime. This is why Ryan doesn’t particularly like Jon all that much. Which is stupid. Because it’s just Jon’s retarded way of flirting, and anyone with eyes and a functioning social compass can see it. Too bad Ryan’s always been awkward.

Spencer hefts himself up into the passenger seat of Jon’s truck and slams the door shut. When Jon climbs up the other side, he arches an eyebrow at him. “If this fucks up the job for good, the Agency isn’t going to like it,” Spencer says.

“Let Gerard worry about that,” Jon says. He smiles, boyish, belying the sharpness of his eyes. “I’m kind of hoping to maim a few people myself.”

*

Brendon is a really good liar. Brendon is a fantastic liar, apparently, even though he’s never had much opportunity to actually lie before.

And this is why he’s bound up in the back of a van, on his way to god knows where.

He should have told Jon, but he’d panicked, and Brendon really epically sucks under pressure. Brendon easily freaks out, and he’s practically an idiot in tense situations; this has been proven many times over in the past two days.

His mom’s voice had been off. Brendon isn’t exactly close with his family – the lack of support over the years is pretty damning – but he loves them a lot anyway, and he knows his mom, and his mom never sounds that clipped and short with him. She always acts as if the intervening years, the years since they’d kicked him out at eighteen, had never happened. She always acts like a doting mother on the phone, even if Brendon never even gets Birthday cards from her anymore. So he’d sent Jon into the kitchen for snacks and slipped out the front door.

It was very stupid of him, he sees that now.

The good news, though, is that he isn’t dead yet. There’s some small comfort in that, even if he’s got his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold on.

He has no idea how long he’s been in there. At one point, he’d even managed to nod off, but his arms are practically numb and the jar of the road underneath him makes the rest of his body just as uncomfortable. It seems like forever before the rumble of the engine shuts off. There’s a hollow echo as the van doors slam open, and Brendon flinches involuntarily.

No one speaks to him, but he feels hands gripping his upper-arms and he’s pulled to his feet, dragged from the van and dropped unceremoniously on the ground before he’s hauled up yet again, this time by the wrists. He kind of can’t help the howl of pain, even if he immediately cuts it off, teeth biting into his lower lip so hard he tastes blood.

It’s like. Okay, it’s so dumb, right, but he feels like he needs to hold himself together for Spencer. He just has to man-up and survive this and use all his wily wiles to get out of there alive, and Spencer will totally be proud of him.

Surprisingly, his legs still work, and he manages to keep his feet as he’s dragged along, a hand around one of his arms. He hears someone says, “Is that him?” and it sounds unnaturally loud after all that silence. More words are mumbled, quieter, and Brendon doesn’t bother to strain very hard to hear what they’re saying. He doesn’t want to know if they’re planning on killing him right away or something. That would suck.

Rough hands on his back push him forward again and he stumbles to his knees. No one bothers to jerk him up, though, so he figures, wherever he is, he’s staying there for a while.

There’s a soft curse, and then the blindfold is tugged off his face.

The first thing he sees is George—Ryan crouched in front of him. And then he sees Mongo, and relief wells up in his chest. Mongo is sitting hunched in the corner. He doesn’t seem happy to see him at all, which is kind of awesome and comforting. It would’ve freaked him out if Mongo had been traumatized enough to, like, pad over and ask for pats. This is normal. This is good.

“Brendon?”

Brendon turns away from Mongo and blinks at Ryan. “Um, Ryan?”

Ryan visibly jerks. “How did you—?”

“Spencer. He sort of, um, saved my life.” He’s not sure if that’s an understatement or a kind exaggeration, considering how they met.

“Okay.” Ryan nods. “Okay, that makes sense.”

Brendon has no idea why that makes sense, but he just shrugs. Which calls his attention to the burn in his arms again, pulled awkwardly behind his back. He says, “So do you think maybe you could untie my hands?”

Ryan maneuvers behind him, and Brendon feels his fingers on his wrists. Ryan says, almost absently, “This is gonna fucking suck, getting out of here.”

“Jon said they’re sending in the Alexes for you.” Brendon doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he figures Ryan will.

“Yeah, I know. They’re being held across the hall,” Ryan says wryly. “Fucking Pete Wentz. Mongo bit him, you know, but luckily he just thought it was funny. Here’s what we’re going to do.” The ropes around Brendon’s wrists tighten painfully for a second before slipping loose. “We’re gonna sit tight until Spencer gets here.”

Brendon brings his hands around and rubs at the reddened marks, shifts so he’s sitting on his ass instead of his knees. He doesn’t particularly like that plan, if only because he thinks maybe he’ll go stir crazy just waiting. The room they’re in isn’t very interesting – plain gray concrete walls, no windows, a single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Plus, okay, Spencer’s been shot. He doesn’t know if Spencer’ll be up for a daring rescue with a gaping hole in his shoulder. “Spencer sort of got shot,” Brendon says.

One of Ryan’s eyebrows goes up. It’s his you-better-be-kidding eyebrow. “Sort of?”

“He said he’s had worse?”

“Yeah, well, Spencer’s been declared dead before, so that isn’t saying very much,” Ryan says sourly. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says.

“Fuck,” Ryan says again, and then, “You know that’s not actually going to stop him, right?”

Brendon cocks his head, thinks on all he’s learned about Spencer in the past few days. He guesses that’s a fair assessment. “Okay, yeah, maybe.”

Ryan settles down next to him on the dirty floor, legs bent, skinny arms resting limply on top of his raised knees. Brendon doesn’t know exactly what Ryan and Jon and Spencer do for a living, but there seems to be an awful lot of violence involved. Ryan doesn’t look the type. Ryan looks like maybe he’d break if you touched him too hard. Brendon isn’t going to actually tell him that, though, because he suspects Ryan can do some damage with maybe just his pinky toe.

“So, uh, Greta,” Brendon says eventually, and Ryan snorts.

“Wentz pays her for information. Wish I’d known that before all this shit went down,” Ryan says. “She ratted you out and blew my cover.”

Brendon stares down at his hands, rubs his thumb along the inside of a wrist. “I really liked her.”

Ryan sighs and briefly presses their shoulders together, but doesn’t say anything.

Across the room, Mongo growls, low and soft.

Finally, Ryan says, “Okay, you know what, fuck this,” and gets to his feet. He stalks over the door and bangs on the heavy metal, shouts, “Hey, hey, I want to talk to Pete.”

Brendon watches him, wide-eyed. It takes a good five minutes of Ryan banging before the door is jerked open and a short guy with a huge fro says, “What the fuck, dude—”

Ryan punches him in the throat. It’s kind of the best thing Brendon’s ever seen.

The guy clutches at his neck and sinks to his knees, and Ryan snags both his guns from the holster around his back.

“You know how to use this?” Ryan asks Brendon, and what the fuck, is he serious?

Brendon just looks at him.

“Right.” Ryan flips something on the underside of the gun and holds it out, handle first towards Brendon. “Safety’s off. Try not to shoot me.”

“Wow, this is a horrible idea,” Brendon says, standing up, but he still gingerly takes the sidearm from him. “Worse than that time you made me pee on your foot.”

“I got stung by a jellyfish,” Ryan says, voice kind of strangled.

“Yeah, no, I told you, the water’s too cold for jellyfish. I think you got attacked by seaweed and freaked out.” Brendon had basically done it just to stop his yelling. Plus, it was kind of hilarious.

Ryan’s face is red, and he looks like he wants to shout at him or something. But then the entire building rocks with an explosion and Ryan just grabs his wrist and says, “Run.”

*

Bob Bryar is a solid guy. Spencer’s only had the pleasure of working with him once before, but they’d had no problems with each other. Spencer is revising his initial opinion, though.

“You want to fucking move or you want to argue about this some more?” Bryar says, glaring at him.

The explosion Bryar set up blew out a third of the building’s upper floor. He’d gotten there maybe fifteen minutes before Spencer and Jon – there’s no way he could have figured out where Brendon was being kept before rigging the C4 as a diversion. Spencer’s gonna concede the point that, typically, prisoners are kept on the lower levels, but that doesn’t make the move any less risky.

Jon says, “Hey, Spence, Bryar’s got a point here. How about you yell at him later, once we’ve got everyone out?” He’s grinning, but Spencer can see the strain around his eyes.

There’s a shatter of glass and then Iero’s dropping down to the ground in between Bryar and Spencer, a manic gleam in his eyes. “This is gonna be a bitch to explain to the cops if we hang around too long,” he says, and that gets Spencer moving, because there’s nothing more annoying than when the police get involved before they’ve had a chance to disappear. The Agency sort of frowns on getting arrested.

The lack of panic surrounding the building leads Spencer to believe that not a lot of people are home. This proves to be kind of false when he follows Iero through the broken window and comes face to face with a creepily calm Andrew Hurley. Good news is that rumor has it Hurley’s a pacifist. Bad news is that Asher’s leveling a gun at them over Hurley’s shoulder.

“Son of a bitch,” Iero swears, and then he sweeps Hurley’s feet out from under him.

Asher manages to squeeze out a round before Bryar has her arm twisted behind her back. Bryar’s bleeding, face a grimace, but he waves them on. “Get the fuck out of here. We’ll keep them quiet.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time moving past them, and he knows Jon’s hurrying after him. The power had been cut with the explosion, and the light filtering in through the dirty windows is twilight dim, sky darkening earlier than usual with clouds threatening rain. This is mainly to their advantage, despite the unfamiliar building.

Spencer hears the voices before he sees them. Saporta, slick and confident. “Come on now,” he says, almost soothingly. “You’re not really going to use that.”

“Brendon, shoot him.” Ryan. So it’s Ryan and Brendon and Saporta and—

“Dude, do you even know how to use that? You’re, like, holding it—use both hands, man—”

“Shut the fuck up, Pete,” Saporta says, still in that calm tone. It makes Spencer’s skin crawl.

“Brendon,” Ryan says, louder now, and Ryan never ever sounds panicky, but he’s getting pretty damn close. A prickle of unease trips down Spencer’s spine, combining with the flare of relief at finding Ryan and Brendon both alive and apparently relatively unhurt – for now.

Spencer creeps slowly and quietly up the steps, his shoulder throbbing in time with his heartbeat, keeping to the inside of the stairwell, on the opposite side of the single doorway Spencer can see ahead of him.

“Let him go,” Brendon says shakily. He sounds a little farther away than the others. Spencer hopes that means Wentz and Saporta have their back to the door.

When Spencer finally makes it to the landing seconds later, he peeks cautiously around the jamb for a quick cursory look, and nearly smiles when he sees the back of Saporta’s head, Brendon up against the window, gun up and inexpertly shoved out at arms length with one hand, the other clutching at the fur on Mongo’s neck. The dog has his hackles up, and it looks like Brendon’s holding him back. Spencer’s pretty sure it’s because Wentz has an arm around Ryan’s neck and a knife pricking the hollow of his throat.

Wentz is half-turned towards Spencer, but he isn’t paying attention to anything but Brendon, and the sidearm he has haphazardly aimed at him.

“Put the gun down,” Saporta says. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and Spencer can just imagine the smirking grin on his face.

Spencer hears the click of a hammer right before someone says, “Drop your weapon,” and he feels cold metal touch his temple. He freezes, well and fucking caught – by Stump, he’s pretty sure, he recognizes his voice from some of Wentz’s more legitimate, public endeavors - but before he can crouch down to place his gun on the floorboards, there’s another click behind him, and Jon says, “You drop your weapon.”

Spencer’s got half an ear on Stump and Jon – Stump says, “So we’re at an impasse,” and Jon says, “Seems so,” and the pressure of the gun barrel leaves his temple, even though Spencer can tell it’s still hovering close by - but he’s watching Brendon and Saporta. They both seem oblivious to their presence in the corridor.

“Brendon, just fucking—” Ryan starts, and then Brendon squeezes the trigger.

Brendon’s entire body jerks with the kick-back. His eyes are wide and shocky, but he’s still got a good grip on the sidearm, doesn’t let it fall.

“You shot my foot, you motherfucker,” Wentz yelps, dropping the knife and Ryan in favor of hopping around.

Spencer lets Jon deal with Stump and finally steps into the room, strolling right up behind Saporta and pressing his sidearm to the base of his skull. “So this is interesting,” Spencer says.

Saporta stiffens and makes like he’s going to spin around.

“Don’t,” Spencer says.

Ryan’s got a hold of Wentz’s knife now and he grins at Spencer.

The problem is, Spencer knows, that they’re not prepared to bring Wentz and Saporta down – hell, that isn’t even their job. Spencer has no idea who Ryan had been sent in to smoke, but that has nothing to do with this. But if they don’t rub Wentz and Saporta out of existence, neither organization is going to stop until Brendon is dead, until the evidence is buried, no matter the outcome of today. Which is where Spencer’s flashdrive comes in.

“I’m getting the feeling,” Spencer says, “that you two don’t want to be linked to each other. And I happen to have in my possession some very damning photos.”

“You also have an eye witness,” Saporta says. “I’m kind of keen on getting rid of him.” He doesn’t say he’s keen on getting rid of all of them, but it’s implied in his tone.

“Motherfucker,” Wentz whines, curled up on the floor. He’s glaring daggers at Brendon, but Ryan’s standing over him menacingly.

“Yeah, I figured,” Spencer says. He’d figured, which is why he’d had Jon take a short detour to the First National Bank. He’d take care of the details later, but Saporta doesn’t have to know that. “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you the photos. The only other copies are in a safe deposit box with instructions for it to be sent directly to the Feds should anything happen to Brendon. Then we’re going to leave each other alone.”

Saporta cocks his head, despite the presence of Spencer’s gun. “I don’t know if I like that plan.”

“Or I could just shoot you.” Spencer shrugs. He doesn’t really want to, but he will.

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend,” Saporta says.

“I’d shake on it, but I’d rather not give you a chance to kill me.”

Saporta nods. “Understood.”

Spencer keeps the sidearm steady, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder as he digs in his pocket for the flashdrive. He tosses it out into the middle of the floor. “We good?” he asks.

“We’re good,” Saporta says. “Unless I hear one word about these photos even existing. Then I can’t guarantee you won’t be dead.”

Spencer catches Ryan’s eye and jerks his head to the side. Ryan nods, then walks over to Brendon and Mongo, catching Brendon’s elbow.

“Come on, Bren. Out the door,” Ryan says.

Brendon’s eyes are still huge, but he looks a little more collected, and even manages a small smile for Spencer as he passes by. Spencer doesn’t smile back, and Brendon’s smile wavers and disappears, but Spencer can’t do anything about that at the moment. He’s having some problems processing the fact that Brendon just shot Wentz in the foot. He’s having some problems processing the fact that Brendon had been in the position where he had to shoot Wentz in the foot. He might kill Ryan later. What the fuck had he been thinking, letting Brendon have a gun?

Stump backs into the room just as Ryan gets Brendon out of it, gun trained on Jon.

Jon quirks a grin at Spencer from the doorway, his own sidearm still level. “We done?”

“Just about. Anyone seen the Alexes?” he asks, and then the ceiling above them crashes in and takes down Stump, gun skittering across the floor to butt up against Jon’s sneaker.

“Holy fucking shit,” DeLeon says, shaking plaster out of his hair. “Remind me to never do that again.”

Spencer looks up at the hole in the ceiling where a vent used to be and sees Johnson and Marshall peering down at them.

“Did we miss all the fun?” Marshall asks, grinning.

DeLeon says, “Seriously, oh my god, I think I broke my arm,” rolling off Stump to sprawl on the ground.

Johnson slips out of the hole and drops gracefully to his feet next to him. He reaches out a hand to pull DeLeon up.

Stump groans. “Jesus Christ,” he says, struggling into a sitting position. His hat’s knocked off, and he looks kind of strange without it. Less dangerous, but more angry. “I hate you, Pete.”

“I’m the one that got shot in the foot,” Wentz says, hobbling over to him.

Marshall says, “Hey. Hey, guys, wanna help me down?”

“Jump,” Saporta says, cool and amused and just this side of creepy, “I’ll catch you.”

“We can get Bryar to catch you,” Jon says.

Marshall blanches. Marshall’s got a well-known fear of Bryar that’s mainly baseless. Unless you count the time Bryar cold-cocked him. Spencer’s pretty sure that had been an accident, though. Seventy percent sure. Marshall’s like a floppy-eared puppy most of the time, and Bryar honestly can’t be that hard-hearted.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna.” Marshall manages to climb out and drop down without hurting himself too badly. He rubs his elbow absently and mouths a soundless ow, but doesn’t complain.

Spencer thinks this whole situation is getting a little ridiculous, and he just wants to get the hell out of there already. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and says to the Alexes, “Move.” Once everyone but Wentz, Stump and Saporta are out of the room, he closes and flips the lock. It won’t hold for very long, but it’ll buy them some time. Just because they made a deal doesn’t mean Saporta won’t test the limits of it. He’d rather not get shot again.

The Alexes disappear once they reach the outside, Johnson giving them a silent salute before he melts into the now dark night.

Bryar and Iero are leaning up against their ride, smoking. They nod at them, then climb into the van and take off.

Ryan stands with his hands on his hips, nose wrinkling as he stares at Jon’s truck in disgust. “What the fuck, Walker,” he says.

Jon claps him on the shoulder. “I knew that extended cab would come in handy one day.”

“What the fuck.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. He kind of wants to lock them in a closet for a couple hours, but he’s too afraid of Ryan’s retaliation. Ryan’s skinny but devious, and he tends to hold a grudge.

Brendon’s quiet and still holding tight to Mongo, posture stiff. Spencer walks over to him and curls a hand over his upper arm. “It’s over,” he says, for lack of anything else. He’s always been kind of bad at the comforting thing.

Brendon blinks at him, deflates a little. “Yeah,” he says softly. And then he sort of lunges at Spencer, arms wrapped around his neck, body pressed firmly against him, face buried into Spencer’s throat.

Spencer brings his good arm up to hug him back, fingers clutching the material of Brendon’s shirt. He catches Ryan’s watchful gaze over Brendon’s shoulder, and something lurches sideways in his chest. He’s not sure he likes it very much. He’s not sure he likes it at all.

*

Brendon lasted three whole days at his parents. He hasn’t lived with them since he was seventeen, so he’s kind of proud of that accomplishment. And then he moved into Jon’s guestroom until he could find his own apartment.

He’d put his house in Oregon up for sale and shipped all his stuff to Vegas, with the exception of Sweet Beulah, who he ended up giving to Chris. The reasons he left in the first place – his family, his art – seem like good enough reasons to come home. He has three new nephews and one niece. His dad’s even talking to him again, even if the conversations are stilted and largely superficial. And suddenly the cactus blossom seems infinitely more interesting a subject than the conch shell – maybe it always has been, he just had to gain a little perspective.

It took Brendon a little under a month to find the perfect loft, with just the right amount of light and space for his paintings - and a landlord that was okay with having a cranky old shepherd in residence - and he doesn’t care that he hasn’t seen Spencer since the day he’d rescued him from Wentz. He absolutely does not care at all.

“Okay, shower, we’re going out,” Jon says, letting himself into Brendon’s brand new place without even a knock. Brendon totally regrets giving him a key.

“Out where?” Brendon asks. He’s sprawled on the couch in his bathrobe.

“Dinner. Food. Have you even left this couch since I saw you on Sunday?” Jon disappears behind the giant folding screen that serves to section off his bedroom.

“Um. I buzzed in a package for Mrs. Hamish this morning,” Brendon says, scratching the back of his head. He is a little rank.

Jon pokes his head out around the screen. “Have you painted anything?”

“That would be a big fat no, Jon,” Brendon says. He is well aware he’s being pathetic, but he can’t really help it. He’s sad.

Brendon pushes himself up off the couch and shuffles over towards the makeshift bedroom. “I don’t really feel like going out.”

“Too bad.” Jon holds up his baby blue She-Ra t-shirt. He arches an eyebrow at Brendon. “Are you serious?”

“Jon,” Brendon whines, falling back onto his bed.

“Oh no. On your feet, buddy.” Jon drops the shirt and grabs for his arm. “Seriously, you need a shower. I can see your aura. You’re like Pig Pen, only with better hair.”

Brendon runs a hand through his messy strands. It may be greasy with dirt, but he does have awesome hair, he knows this.

Reluctantly, he allows Jon to push him into the bathroom and he gives in, twisting on the water and stepping out of his robe and boxers. The hot water actually makes him feel a little better and he stays in longer than he’d planned. By the time he gets out, Jon has black pants and a dark blue dress shirt laid out on the bed.

“So we’re getting dressed up?” he asks, eyeing Jon’s own outfit. He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed it when Jon first arrived. It’s kind of hilarious.

“Hey, I rock this sweater-vest,” Jon says, smoothing his palms down his argyle-covered chest and stomach. “Check out my loafers.”

Brendon bites his lip to tamp down his smile and shakes his head. The loafers even have tassels on them. “They’re pretty awesome.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Jon grins at him. Jon is sort of irresistible, Brendon’s found, even with his bangs slicked down sideways over his forehead. “Now get dressed. We’ve got reservations.”

Brendon doesn’t want to get dressed, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Jon, who’s seemed to have gone through a lot of trouble just to get him out of the apartment.

It isn’t until they swing by and pick up Ryan that Brendon realizes the sweater-vest, khakis and loafers are completely for Ryan’s benefit. Ryan stares, visibly stunned, for a full minute before pulling a face and saying, “Nice pants.”

Brendon sees Jon’s expression fall for a split-second – a flash of hurt quickly covered up by a huge mocking grin.

“All for you, Ross,” Jon says brightly.

Ryan snorts derisively.

Brendon wants to kick Ryan hard in the shin, but Ryan’s scary, so he doesn’t. He just climbs into the backseat of the truck cab and lets Ryan take shotgun.

They end up at a little corner bistro, a trendy place called The Mushroom, and Jon takes up two parking spots on the street with a little smirk of satisfaction when Ryan swings out of the truck in a huff. Brendon would bet a shiny nickel that they’ll be having angry sex in the restaurant bathroom by dessert, except he doesn’t have anyone to bet with, and he also feels like this sort of pigtail pulling has been going on for years, with unsatisfying results. Boys can be so stupid sometimes.

Ryan relinquishes his tweed jacket to the coat-check girl, but keeps the three scarves he’s got tied loosely around his neck, and then he flounces off towards the back of the room without waiting for the hostess. Brendon gets the feeling that he comes here a lot.

Jon slides his hands into his pockets and smiles at Brendon. “After you,” he says, and then they both follow Ryan into the maze of tables.

It’s dim and swank and Brendon feels distinctly out of place. He’s glad he remembered to stick in his contacts, at least.

Ryan is sitting with his legs crossed at a half-round table that could easily fit five people, but no one makes any comments to them about it. He has his menu open and is studiously ignoring Jon, and Jon plops down next him and snags the menu right out of his hands.

Ryan actually squawks.

Brendon’s kind of glad Jon dragged him out, if only because Ryan and Jon are turning out to be awesome entertainment.

And then he spots Spencer.

Spencer looks amazing, of course, in his black shirt and dark pants and beard. Brendon’s a little thrilled that he’s kept it, that he’s let it fill out more, and then he remembers that he hasn’t seen or heard from Spencer in a month, and his face heats up and his heart starts pounding and he really wants to be anywhere but there. He can’t believe Jon set him up like this. He wonders if this is just as much a surprise to Spencer as it is to him.

“I’m, uh.” Brendon flails a hand at Jon and then jumps to his feet. “Bathroom.” He’s thinking maybe he can hide in the bathroom and then slip out the back and call a cab.

Spencer must be some kind of fucking stealth ninja, though, because he manages to cut Brendon off at the mouth of the hallway leading back to the bathrooms, like he anticipated Brendon’s completely wuss move.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Spencer asks, palming the wall to Brendon’s right. He either has to stop or make a scene, and Brendon usually likes attention, yeah, but he kind of wants to be invisible right then. He doesn’t like the hurt, the flash of panic that flares up at being so close to Spencer again. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. At least, not any more than he already has.

“Um,” Brendon fidgets back and forth on his feet, “bathroom?”

Spencer quirks an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says, then fists the front of Brendon’s shirt and tugs him down the short hallway and into the men’s room. He shoves Brendon up against the closed door and grins down at him, sharp.

Brendon swallows hard, pitches around for something, anything to say. “So, uh, what are you doing here?”

Spencer leans in, relaxes his hand to spread over Brendon’s belly. “I work here.”

“You, uh.” Brendon’s having some problems thinking clearly here. Spencer smells like Old Spice and—powdered sugar? Brendon blinks. “You work here? I thought you, um, did what—” Seriously, it would be awesome if Spencer would back up a little, and maybe stop nosing his jaw.

“I’m a pastry chef,” Spencer says.

“What? But you—”

“I used to kill people. I didn’t like it very much.”

“Good to know.” That’s kind of a plus in Brendon’s book. Not that it matters what Brendon thinks, because Brendon is totally a rock here.

“Bren,” Spencer says, and the husky rasp of it sinks all the way down to Brendon’s bones, making him shiver.

Brendon brings up his hands and flattens them against Spencer’s chest. “I think you need to move.” He tries to strong arm Spencer backward, but Spencer isn’t budging. He even looks amused at Brendon’s efforts.

Anger shoots through Brendon and he snaps, “What the fuck, Spencer, you—where have you been? You can’t just do this, this—” He flaps his hand back and forth in what little room Spencer’s given him to maneuver. Spencer can’t just appear out of nowhere after not talking to him for a month, and expect Brendon to just—

“I kind of am doing this. You’re gonna have to deal with it,” Spencer says, and something in his eyes stops Brendon from trying to fight him off when he kisses him, when he opens his mouth over Brendon’s and buries a hand in Brendon’s hair, other wrapped around his nape, urging his head into a tilt. He even kisses him back.

Spencer’s lips are chapped and Spencer’s tongue is kind of awesome, sweeping across Brendon’s mouth. Spencer kisses him loose and pliant and, “I like you a lot, Spence,” slips out breathily when Spencer pulls back.

Spencer stares at him calmly and says, “You scare the hell out me.”

Brendon flinches, tenses up. “Okay.”

Spencer doesn’t let him move away, though, just keeps his grip on his hair, and Brendon stills when Spence tightens his hand over the back of his neck. “God, Brendon,” his fingers clench even tighter and Brendon thinks maybe he’ll bruise, and maybe that’s okay, “fuck, I like you, too.” He hovers open-mouthed, breathing hot and damp over the curve of Brendon’s cheek. “I want to like you a lot more, but not in this bathroom. I’d really hate to get fired.”

“You’d have to go back to killing people,” Brendon says, even though he hadn’t actually meant to say that, because wow is that stupid. That sort of thing happens to Brendon a lot, unfortunately.

Spencer looks at him funny, but then a smile blooms across his face, the biggest one Brendon’s ever seen him give. It’s some kind of wonderful, that’s for sure. Brendon almost, kind of, forgets to breathe for a second. He was maybe lying about liking Spencer before. It might be totally worse than that.

He very carefully folds his lower lip over his teeth and doesn’t say anything at all.

Spencer’s eyes are bright, bright blue and laughing at him and he says, “Okay. Okay, so I’m going to take you home now,” and Brendon just nods. He’s down with that plan. He is so down. He’s apparently ridiculously easy where Spencer is concerned.

Brendon follows Spencer out of the bathroom and back to their table to let Jon and Ryan know they won’t be joining them for a delicious meal, but Jon and Ryan seem to be conspicuously absent.

“Huh,” Brendon says. There’s a single glass of untouched wine and half a pint of beer sweating rings on the polished wood. “I wonder—”

“I don’t care,” Spencer says, linking their fingers together and leading him towards the door.

Brendon’s laughing a little when they spill out in front of the restaurant. He’s embarrassingly giddy, but he thinks he has reason to be. He grabs hold of the back of Spencer’s shirt and leans into his shoulder and grins.

“Wait, wait, is that.” Brendon cocks his head. He’s pretty sure those are Jon’s tasseled loafers hanging out the open window of his truck’s backseat. And that’s definitely Ryan’s mop of curls and Ryan’s freakishly long-fingered hand, spread flat along the back window.

Spencer curls an arm around Brendon’s waist and hauls him back against his chest, turning towards the side-street. “I’m parked over here,” he says, and Brendon totally has a manhandling kink. Luckily, Spencer seems disinclined to ever let him go.