caras_fic

Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"

2009-06-18T02:21:43Z

I'm still kind of in shock that I actually finished this fic. I have never written something of this enormity. And believe me, I didn't choose that word lightly. There are a lot of people who helped in one way or another on this fic.

1. kueble . It was ultimately Kate's idea that started me on my way. She wore a Cab shirt over to her dad's one day, and he went all dorky on her. "So what's up with the Civilian Aeronautical Board shirt?" I lost it. Wouldn't it be great if Brendon and Ryan and Spencer and Jon were pilots? Dude, I'd read that shit! LOL. It's no secret (to anyone who knows me) that I have a little (huge) military kink. Met my husband? Heh.

2. tuesdaysgone . Girl is fantastic at brainstorming. We think alike (poor thing.) Lauren is my snarky cheerleader. I also think it was her idea to try to keep to a schedule. Apparently that works for me.

3. cloudlessclimes . I don't even know. "Beta" seems insignificant in this case.

So I started this:

Las Vegas, 1945

The second Great War started two days after Ryan's eighteenth birthday. It ended on Spencer's twenty-third. Six years. Six long years it swept them along; took them to the ends of the earth. Showed them wonders and horrors alike. And brought them, strangely enough, their livelihood.

The Civilian Aeronautical Board was entrusted with safety rulemaking, accident investigation, and economic regulation of the airlines. The Western Division, based in Vegas, was not quite so good at this as they should have been. The desert flyboys, well... they flew their planes in a crazy air show and amused the children. Harmless, right?

After World War II began in Europe, the CAA launched the Civilian Pilot Training Program to provide the nation with more aviators. And so there we are: more aviators. The problem, inasmuch as it is a problem, is that in the rapidly growing West, there was little legitimate civilian avionic activity to be had. Airshows were perfectly acceptable forms of entertainment and respectable employment for multitudes of young men during down time. And when the airlines had need, there they were.

Las Vegas was a boom town. Buildings were going up left and right since the construction of the Hoover Dam had been completed in '36. It had been intended as a source of water for the arid West, but it had the unintended consequences of resident migration, and, oddly enough, tourism.

There was also the air base. Technically, the air base was there to house the Army Air Force Training Command, 82d Flying Training Wing, but there was plenty of room for other uses. Uses like the CAB. And the air show. After the War, the boys in Vegas had plenty to do.

And we're not even talking about the Strip.

Can you imagine? JFC. "But wait!" you're saying. "I didn't read that in the fic!" No, you didn't. Sequel.

***

It didn't help that there was that desert dune buggy photoshoot (?) floating around.

***

And then the Coke Open Happiness stuff. Oh, Patrick.

***

Some other things.

1. Historical accuracy. Oh hell yes. I did my damndest to ensure that everything I mentioned about duty stations, troop movements, and aircraft were all historically accurate. I had something like 8k words of notes. It was sad. I think I messed it up once or twice, like when Jon woke up in the hospital in Hawaii. It's true that the USS Yorktown only took three days to repair before heading back out to sea. Of course, it also took three weeks to get back to Hawaii. Oops. Like you care, right?

Eighth Air Force at High Wycombe, England. Real.

B-17. This is the plane Brendon and Ryan (and Mikey and Ray) flew. The Keltie Colleen and the Bunny Marie.

B-29. Ryan's demo plane, later, at the airshow.

USS Yorktown. Real. Both of them. No shit! Can you say "uncreative", USN?

USS Yorktown. Spencer and Jon's first ship.

SBD5. The Dauntless. Spencer and Jon's first planes.

SBD gunner. Brent. Tom.

USS Yorktown CV. The second ship.

SB2C. The second planes.

2. Jon's reading material. T.H. White. The Sword in the Stone. 1938. Lauren's idea. I liked it.

3. Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers--Titus Maccius Plautus. Also Lauren's idea. She's a good one for research, that.

4. Bonus materials. These girls... What can I say? They did an excellent job, and I could not have been more pleased with them. Thank you so, so very much for choosing me.

Fanart: by maybe_a_sunday Fantastic! Didn't she do a wonderful job? It's perfect! And look at the little smirk on Ross' face. It kills me.

Fanmix: by onigaminanashi I like it. I've never done anything like this before, so I've not only never had art, I've never had a mix done. It's pretty cool!

5. Need visual aid? I do.

	Keltie Colleen	Bunny Marie
pilot	Ryan	Mikey Way
co-pilot	Brendon	Ray
navigator	Alex Suarez	Nick Wheeler
bombardier/nose gunner	Pete	Alex Greenwald
flight engineer	Patrick	Bob Bryar
radio operator	Chislett	Sam Ferrars
waist gunner	Andy	Darren
waist gunner	Joe	Mike
ball turret gunner	William	Tyson
tail gunner	Carden	Mike Kennerty
top turret gunner	Butcher	Chris Gaylor
maintenance	Ryland	Gerard
maintenance	Nate	Frank

Yeah, those are my crews. I know. I killed off an assload of people. I'm sorry! I know I killed off the entirety of AAR and Phantom Planet and 3/5 of MCR without batting an eye. I know. You should've gotten to know them better. (I really just needed Frank and Gerard...)

6. It's canon. MikeyWay must die. (In fic. ILU, MikeyWay!) The Ghost of You

Bandombigbang: Art for My Wings Have No Feathers

2009-06-15T06:24:17Z

Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers--Titus Maccius Plautus.

by maybe_a_sunday

Bandombigbang: My Wings Have No Feathers, Part 3/3

2009-06-15T06:11:57Z

My Wings Have No Feathers

Band(s): PATD, FOB, MCR, AAR, THS, DC, TAI, CS, PP
Pairing(s): Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, (pre-foursome)
Word Count: 22,592
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, sex, language, secondary character deaths, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)

Summary: It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.

There's angst! There's sex! There's death and destruction! Hell, it's War.

And then they go home. (There's angst. There's sex. There's ~~death and destruction~~ more angst.) They learn how to be people again, and in the process, find each other.

Come on, who can resist a man in uniform?

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

Fanart: by maybe_a_sunday
Fanmix: by onigaminanashi
Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"

Part One
Part Two

The Keltie Colleen hit the runway at 70 mph, only just a shade slower than a regular landing. Brendon couldn't really bring her down much slower than that and expect to maintain flight control. They seemed to skid forever; sliding along almost all the way to the tree line at the edge of the base before coming to a stop. They could hear the emergency crews racing toward them.

Ryan and Brendon looked at each other in the cockpit. They were both shaky, hearts racing. Ryan was pale as a ghost, and Brendon was fairly dripping with sweat. They just sat there, looking at each other; silently checking for something wrong. Until Ryan's lips twitched and Brendon broke out a blinding, toothsome smile.

"You two ok?" Patrick's head popped in, swiveling from side to side anxiously. Brendon and Ryan both swiveled in their seats.

"Sure," Brendon said. Ryan nodded in agreement. Patrick thumped the panel next to his head, satisfied, and turned on his heel. They had to get out.

"You did it," Ryan said.

"Guess so." Brendon ducked his head, scratching absently at the back of his neck. There may or may not have been a faint blush to his cheeks. But then it may have just been a flush. He focused on unbuckling his restraints. "Come on. We have to report."

***

The Keltie Colleen was pretty much trashed. It was a good thing it had been their last sortie, because she wasn't flying again. Brendon and Ryan had to stand in front of their commanding officer and report. Explain what had happened, and why. Their decisions. They had destroyed a critical piece of U.S. military property. They had some explaining to do.

Really, it wasn't as bad as all that. Standard operating procedure. Still. Nerve wracking. At least noone had been hurt. Brendon was relieved.

They were free to return to their quarters about two hours after they landed. Well, about two hours after they had touched ground. Brendon was still wound tight as a drum, and Ryan... Ryan was just-- Ryan seemed completely unfazed. It was surreal. Brendon couldn't figure it out. He said as much when they got back to their barracks.

"I can't figure it out."

"What?" Ryan turned wide eyes on him.

"You," Brendon gestured broadly. "You're so-- I don't know. Nonplussed."

"Nonplussed?" Ryan chuckled.

"Well, yeah! Ryan, hell, we almost lost it back there!" Brendon's voice rose alarmingly and he cut himself off before he started to shout. Ryan just looked at him curiously while he paced around the room. "We almost didn't make it back today, and you're acting like it never happened."

"How am I supposed to be acting, Brendon?" Ryan asked softly.

"How are you supposed-- Ryan, we could have died today!" Brendon clamped his jaw shut. He knew he was shouting, and that everyone on the corridor could probably hear. Ryan simply continued gazing calmly at him.

"I know. I know, Brendon," Ryan said after a moment. He reached out, snagging Brendon's arm as he passed, stilling him. Brendon's head snapped up and he met Ryan's eyes, crackling with energy. Ryan was usually so careful to not touch Brendon. And it had been something Brendon was used to, even when they had been home, before the war. Ryan did not bestow physical affection. Brendon knew it was because the people he loved, the people who were supposed to love him, had used their touches to be hurtful. It broke Brendon's heart. But when Ryan's hand connected with Brendon's skin, he couldn't stop it. He turned and pulled Ryan to him in a crushing hug. Ryan barely moved, merely adjusted his stance so he didn't fall, but when Brendon tucked his nose into his collar, pressed his forehead against Ryan's neck, he could feel the pounding of his heart. He could feel when Ryan breathed out his name.

Brendon shuddered.

A full-on, whole body shudder. And he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He was fucked; that's all there is to it. He knew that his body tended to react to Ryan in ways he couldn't control, but he had always figured he'd be safe from discovery, what with Ryan's strict hands-off policy.

Ryan drew in a careful breath. Even so, Brendon felt it, and it did nothing to calm him. Brendon was practically vibrating with the tension left over from their flight. Their crash. Somehow he had managed to bring them all back safely, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he could have lost Ryan today. Lost him--before he even had a chance.

Brendon's body seemed to be moving on its own accord. His hands released Ryan's shoulders only to travel to his face. Brendon touched gently; Ryan's cheek, his temple, his mouth. His mouth. Ryan's mouth, which had occupied Brendon's thoughts for months, if not years, if he was being honest with himself. Brendon's fingers slid across Ryan's generous mouth, exploring. The strangest thing, though, was that Ryan was letting him.

Brendon's eyes flew up to meet Ryan's. Ryan's eyes were wide, but he met Brendon's gaze easily enough. They stood and looked at one another for a long moment, Brendon's hands on Ryan's face. Brendon was sure he wasn't breathing, but he didn't really care. And that was it. Brendon was done.

"Fuck it," Brendon mumbled, and before he could even register the look of mild shock on Ryan's face, he crashed their lips together. Brendon moved his mouth against Ryan's feverishly, but he noticed, even in the back of his mind where it still seemed to be registering information, that he hadn't had to wait for Ryan, to coax him into a response. Ryan kissed back, and it made Brendon's knees buckle.

They broke apart hastily, and Brendon stepped back, reaching for the door. Ryan watched as he twisted the lock home. Brendon moved swiftly as he advanced on Ryan once more. He tugged at Ryan's collar, almost a warning before he drew down the long zipper on his flight suit. Ryan shrugged it off, and it fell to the floor at his feet, leaving him clad only in faded boxers. Brendon pressed, and Ryan stepped back, the rest of the way out of his flight suit and closer to his narrow bed.

Ryan's eyes were bright as he sank down onto his blanket. He reached for Brendon and dragged him down with him. Ryan made quick work of Brendon's flight suit as well, and it hung off his hips, abandoned, as Brendon knelt next to him. Brendon didn't bother to kick his flight suit the rest of the way off; he ignored it, instead focusing on stretching out atop Ryan.

So many people treated Ryan like he was fragile. Brendon didn't. Brendon never did. Brendon knew what Ryan was capable of. He knew what Ryan could handle. It was more than most people gave him credit for. So Brendon knew that Ryan wasn't going to break when he pressed himself against him. If anything, Brendon was afraid that it was going to be him that crumbled.

Ryan's hands were warm. It surprised Brendon, when Ryan reached for him, because he was usually so cold. Usually, as if Brendon had such a bank of experience to draw upon. The half dozen times Brendon could remember Ryan's hands on him--and he did--they had been chilly. Either way, Ryan's hands tended to be the focal point of a lot of Brendon's daydreams. His fantasies, really. Brendon's breath stopped when Ryan pulled him down for a kiss. A million points of contact seemed to short out his brain. He couldn't think anything other than a never-ending loop of Ryan Ryan Ryan.

Even that stopped when Ryan's hips rolled underneath him.

Both of them froze. Just for a moment, Brendon and Ryan looked at one another. Ryan's eyes were wide and searching, and while Brendon saw a touch of fear there, he watched as it faded and turned into something else. Whatever it was, that something else was good enough. Brendon dove down and captured Ryan again. He sucked Ryan's lower lip into his mouth, earning him a vicious ass grab as Ryan dug his fingers into his flesh. It drove them together again, making Brendon gasp and writhe. He could feel Ryan, hard and straining against him, and even though Brendon knew that Ryan was no blushing virgin, it was something of a shock to realize that it was because of him.

Brendon saw how the handful of nurses looked at Ryan. Brendon saw how Ryan looked back. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Ryan had had nearly every single one of them over the years of their deployment. What was beyond Brendon was the why. It was clear how Ryan reacted to Brendon's touch.

Brendon needed to get out of his head.

Ryan's back arched and his fingers skittered across Brendon's skin when he licked up the long column of Ryan's throat. Brendon mouthed his jaw wetly, moving back to nip at his ear. Ryan shivered, and Brendon flirted briefly with spilling every wicked thought he'd ever had about Ryan into his ear. But he kept his mouth on Ryan's skin and his words to himself.

***

They were both sweaty and sticky when Brendon came back to himself enough for it to sink in what they had done. Both of them were still panting, yet while Brendon's breaths slowly became deeper and more regular--calm, calm, he told himself; Ryan never seemed to come down. Brendon had slumped to the side after he came, and he still had an arm slung lazily, affectionately, across Ryan's middle. Ryan sat up with a start, reaching for pants.

"Where's the fire?" Brendon drawled. Ryan just continued messing with his pants.

"I have to go," he said after a minute of rustling and tugging. Brendon pressed himself up against the wall.

"Ryan--" Ryan turned, avoiding Brendon's eyes, and shook his head just the slightest bit. Then he carefully unlocked the door and walked out, closing the door softly behind himself and leaving without another word.

***

October 1945

Most of August on the Yorktown had been spent steaming around Japan, waiting, while peace negotiations were underway. It was boring. They weren't supposed to get into any trouble, just make sure nobody else did either. It got very boring. It didn't get much better when they began providing air cover for the forces occupying Japan. At least they were busy and bored, not just sitting around tormenting each other.

The war had officially ended in September. After the formal surrender, Jon and Spencer were part of the crew doing air-drops of supplies to Allied prisoners of war who were still living in their prison camps. It was simple. It was straight-forward. And it wasn't dangerous--not any more dangerous than flying their stupid helldivers ever was. It was fantastic. They loved it. They just got to fly. And throw shit out their canopies.

Spencer had told Ryan in a letter that he was getting discharged in October (end of war or no), and that he would be getting off the ship when she moored at Alameda. He was excited--hell, they were all excited. He was finally getting to go home. Getting the hell off the ship. He completely intended never to even see water again, if he could help it. The desert was definitely the way to do it. Spencer was going home and it was perfect. Jon was going with him.

It took them a few days to ensure their paperwork was in order. The military referred to it as "outprocessing", and they weren't kidding. It was a process, all right. Unfortunately, it was nothing out of the ordinary. It always took a few days to make sure they had all the signatures they needed, and that everything ended up on the right desk. It was infuriatingly slow, but that's the way it worked. Spencer hoped to be home for Halloween. It looked like they would make it, even if the bus took about 500 times longer than any other form of transportation known to man. Both of them were struck with an intense longing for their planes when told exactly how long it was going to take to get to Vegas. And they hated those damn planes.

While Spencer and Jon spent the days running around getting their discharge papers signed by seemingly everyone who was higher ranking than they were, they also used their time to say their goodbyes. There was only a handful of guys who were at the end of their tour, like Spencer and Jon were. Everyone else still had time to serve, even though the war was over.

Faller was one of those. He suddenly became surly and unsociable, avoiding Spencer and Jon like the plague, where usually he was dogging their steps. It was a little weird. But then, so was Faller. Spencer just kind of shrugged him off. If that's the way he wanted to be, well then.

It hurt to say goodbye to Carrabba. Jon had come to practically love his gunner. Even Spencer had gained a sort of grudging appreciation for him. He and Jon had made an excellent team. They had asked him. Asked what his plans were for after the war, and told him that if he wanted, Carrabba was more than welcome to join them in Vegas.

But Carrabba had refused.

He had a wife, and a family back in Florida. She would want him home. In their excitement, they had forgotten. Not everyone was just starting, young, like they were. Some of them, Carrabba included, had been settled. They had to get back.

When Carrabba walked away from them on the dock, it was like the end, for real. He didn't even turn around to look back. Carrabba simply passed into the fog, and they never saw him again.

***

It took Jon and Spencer two days to get to Vegas from San Francisco. It was excruciatingly slow. Spencer was twitchy and was practically ready to knock out the driver and do it himself. Jon just sat back and watched him. Flying kind of ruined you for speed.

They spent the night in Bakersfield, half way there. They were travelling, and happened to stay at a place frequented by travellers. As one does. Like in Bremerton, noone thought twice about Spencer and Jon being together. It was nice. All they wanted to do was sleep, anyway.

All Jon wanted to do was sleep. Spencer wouldn't shut up.

"I can't wait for you to meet them!" Spencer practically gushed. Jon just laughed at him. Spencer was bouncing. Bouncing.

"Who? Your friends or your mother?"

"What is it with you and my mother?"

"I'm sure she's a lovely woman," Jon replied with a grin.

"Hell yeah, she is! And you are never going to meet her. She'll see right through you," Spencer said fondly. "Either that or try to set you up with one of my sisters." Jon blanched, which sent Spencer into peals of giggles. "Don't worry," he gasped. "She does that with everyone."

"I hope she won't be offended that I don't want to court one of your sisters," Jon said cautiously. Spencer smiled as he tugged Jon into bed.

"No, no. They have plenty of men panting after them, apparently. They're gorgeous."

"Maybe I do want to court one of your sisters..."

***

It was early in the evening of October 25 when Spencer returned to Las Vegas. He had been away for more than six years, and a lot had changed. Las Vegas was a boom town. Hotels and casinos sprung up like mushrooms in the city center. People came from all over for the excitement. Lights! Gambling! Whores! The Hoover Dam! For some reason, a great many of them stayed.

That included the Army Air Force. Nellis Air Force Base had been completed in 1941, and Vegas was now home to the Army Air Force Training Command, 82d Flying Training Wing. But not for long, oddly enough. The unit had only been there for two years, but it was already scheduled to move on by that next summer. In the meantime, however, there were B-17s and B-29s aplenty soaking up the sun. And the Civilian Aeronautical Board watching over them, and everyone else too. It was a strange relationship.

Spencer was torn. If he was being completely serious with himself, the first place he should go would be to his parents' house. But he had only been half joking when he told Jon that he didn't want his mother to meet him. Spencer was sure--sure--that his mother would know about them somehow. He just wasn't ready. Didn't know if he would ever be. It just wasn't done. But he was. And he had no intentions of stopping.

The other place they could go was to Ryan's.

Ryan would understand. Ryan would love Jon! And most importantly, Ryan could keep Jon while Spencer went to his mother's. It sounded like a plan.

To Ryan's they went.

Ryan still lived in his father's house. Still. That made it sound as if he was 35, unemployed, and living in the basement. He wasn't, of course. Ryan had only been back from England since April, and was still working up the initiative to sell the house. Considering that it wasn't a place of happy memories, Spencer was surprised that it had taken this long. Ryan most certainly hadn't shed any tears over his father's death.

Spencer and Jon walked up to Ryan's front door and just kind of stood there. Jon had no intention of knocking. Ryan wasn't his friend, and it wasn't his place. Spencer seemed to be steeling himself, and just raised his arm to bang on the door when it flew open and a body flew out with a yelp and wrapped itself around Spencer.

And this was how Jon met Ryan.

They were laughing and hugging, and laughing some more when Ryan finally turned his head and noticed Jon on the stoop. He carefully peeled himself away from Spencer and stood ramrod straight. If Jon hadn't before, he would have known it was Ryan just from that. Something in the way Spencer had described him; he was cautious, and appraising, and utterly devoted to Spencer. Jon could appreciate that. Ryan glared for a moment, before his look softened into a grin and he extended a hand.

"You must be Jon," he said in a low voice.

"I am," Jon replied with a nod, reaching out to shake Ryan's hand vigorously. Ryan's grip was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny guy, and Jon found himself blushing inexplicably. Ryan looked to Spencer, who shrugged and threw an arm around each of their shoulders, herding them inside.

"Where's Brendon?" asked Spencer, looking around. "I figured he'd be here."

"Why?"

"Uh, because he's my friend too, and I'd like to see him," Spencer responded.

"I had six years of Brendon; every day. Now I want you," Ryan said. Jon looked at him closely.

"You are still friends with, him, aren't you?" Jon asked with some concern. Ryan visibly backpedalled.

"Of course! I just--" Ryan paused, sighing. "Brendon is at his place, I guess? I told him when you'd be coming home."

"Well, do you have a telephone? Let's ring him, and--" Spencer was interrupted by the sound of someone pounding on the door.

"Smith!" could be heard clearly through the thick wood. All three of them grinned. Ryan shoved Spencer toward the door, shaking his head. Spencer went, opening the door to a whirlwind. A tiny little guy launched himself at Spencer, much as Ryan had done, only in this case, his feet actually left the ground. Brendon--for who else could it be--wrapped arms and legs around Spencer, squeezing him until he grunted, and all the while warbling joyfully "Spencer Smith! Spencer Smith! Spencer Smith!" Spencer laughed and whirled him around.

Jon smiled, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Ryan did the same. Good.

"Brendon, Brendon," Spencer gasped. "You weigh a ton." Brendon chuckled throatily and put his feet down. He did not release Spencer from his grasp, though. He clung. Jon felt the barest edge of jealousy creeping up. Brendon was gorgeous, and he hung on Spencer like he was his life-line. Jon took a deep breath, waiting for the feeling to go away. He barely caught snippets of Spencer and Brendon's interaction. He did, however, catch Ryan watching him.

Ryan didn't even twitch.

"Brendon, you have to meet Jon!" Spencer cried suddenly. Jon and Ryan both jumped. Jon looked back to Spencer to see Brendon slowly detaching himself. He turned to Jon, his gaze coasting over Ryan in between.

"Jon," he said in a voice that sent chills down Jon's spine. Brendon took three steps toward him, and rather than offering a handshake as Ryan had done, Brendon enveloped Jon in an embrace, warm and welcoming. He pulled back a little and smiled. "Welcome to Las Vegas, Jon. Welcome home."

Jon was charmed.

***

Once the pleasantries were over, Spencer explained hastily his need to go to his mother's. Brendon bobbed his head, eager to be of assistance. Ryan was a little less clear.

"Why is this an issue?" Ryan wondered. Jon cringed inwardly.

"We can stay with you for a while, right?" Spencer asked in return. Ryan's forehead crinkled.

"Well, yes. I have plenty of room. But I don't understand..." Ryan looked around at each of them in turn, Brendon included.

"Can you just do this for me now?"

"Of course. Your mother will be wanting you," Ryan added softly. Spencer hugged him quickly before practically running out the door. Jon sat, uninvited, and had a moment of guilt over his rudeness before Brendon came to sit beside him.

"The Smiths live down the block," Brendon said, offering some sort of explanation for Spencer's behavior. Jon nodded. "This is Ryan's dad's place, you know. I live closer to downtown." Jon nodded again when Brendon paused. "What are you guys planning to do?"

"I don't know for sure," Jon replied. Brendon's grin brightened his whole face.

"You should come work with us! We're swamped! And you're perfect! You and Spence. For the job."

"Nice, Brendon," Ryan mumbled from his perch on the far end of the sofa. Brendon threw him a glare.

"You are. Never mind him. We're flight instructors with the Civilian Aeronautical Board, and we totally have more students than the two of us can handle. You should do it! And you could get an apartment closer to the airfield, and it would be awesome!" Jon laughed at Brendon's enthusiasm. "That's not all. We fly in an airshow too."

"Really?" Jon's interest was piqued.

"Yeah! We do warbird demos. I fly the B-17. Like, you know, we did." Brendon assumed correctly that Spencer had told him all about them. "Ryan flies the B-29. Thing is a beast." Ryan snorted, and Jon and Brendon both laughed at him. "There are never enough pilots. I'm sure there's something you and Spence could do there too, if you wanted."

"Sounds cool."

"Totally," Brendon agreed.

Spencer was gone all evening. It made Jon a little antsy at first, left alone with his friends. Jon knew all about them. Spencer talked incessantly about how Ryan did this, and Brendon did that. And he read all their letters. Jon just didn't know what had gone into letters Spencer wrote himself. It didn't stop Brendon and Ryan from telling him stories about the three of them growing up together. And it didn't stop Jon from telling them all about Spencer as a pilot, and all the things they had done, the places they'd been. Brendon and Ryan were practically green with envy, having been stationed in just the one place; only seeing Europe from 25,000 feet. Jon watched them exchanging looks, and wondered.

Ryan guided Jon to a guest room late in the night. Spencer was still out, and it caused a sharp stab of anxiety. But it was very late, and even Brendon was nodding, so Ryan offered him the sofa and a blanket, and took Jon upstairs. Ryan led Jon down a hall, pointing out rooms as they passed: guest room, Ryan's room, and Ryan's father, George's room, at the end. That's where Jon was to stay. Jon figured he should be flattered, being offered the biggest room, but he had to suppress a shudder. He knew all about George too.

Ryan offered a pat on the shoulder before turning away to find his own room. Jon thanked him for his hospitality, and Ryan shrugged.

"Spencer really likes you," he said. "It's the least I could do."

***

Jon felt as if he had just fallen asleep when he was awakened by Spencer crawling into bed with him.

"Hi," Spencer whispered, nuzzling his jaw.

"What are you doing?" Jon hissed.

"Coming to bed," Spencer replied, easy as anything.

"What about Ryan and Brendon?"

"What about them?" Spencer yawned.

"Do they know?"

"Hmm? Oh. I don't know. No, I don't think so," Spencer said, tired, and pressing his fingers against Jon's collarbone.

"Don't you think they're going to figure it out when they find you in bed with me?" Jon whispered frantically. Spencer snorted against Jon's shoulder, softly, just a whoosh of air.

"Why would they do that?"

"When you're not in your own bed in the morning!" Jon clenched his teeth.

"Hmm? Oh." Spencer just snuggled down deeper into the bed. Jon poked him.

"Spencer!"

"Oh for Christ's sake, Jon; they're my best friends. It'll be fine. They love me; they'll love you. Go to sleep."

Jon really wasn't so sure about any of that.

***

Brendon woke with the sun. He tended to be a light sleeper, when he slept at all. He contrasted that with Ryan. Ryan was a poor sleeper as well, but when he did sleep, he slept like the dead. Brendon thought wistfully of all the nights he and Ryan spent awake, together, discussing whatever came to mind. As often as not it was Spencer. They reminisced about growing up in Vegas. They read each other letters. Spencer had always written to the both of them in the same letter, addressing it to one or the other, alternately. They made plans, for after the War. Brendon had always found it comforting, like the three of them were back home.

Brendon had been doing his level best to be a friend to Ryan again. He knew it could have turned out much worse. It had broken Brendon's heart when Ryan left, after. After. Really, Brendon should have seen it coming. Ryan would never--not really. Brendon should have known. As much as he loved Ryan, it would have been for the best if he had just left it alone.

Ryan didn't speak to him for nearly two weeks. It was the longest two weeks of Brendon's life. At first they had been preparing to leave England, to return to the States. They had been busy, so Brendon could understand the silence, even if he knew that Ryan was really just avoiding him the only way he could. But when they got home... That had been absolute torture. Ryan disappeared into his father's house, and Brendon. Brendon had nowhere to go.

Brendon had gone to a hotel, and in short order had found himself a small apartment. It was near the new Air Base, and the sounds of the planes felt like home. He found work there too. It wasn't long before Brendon had a new routine. He wasn't happy about it, but there it was.

Ryan just showed up on his doorstep one evening. Brendon opened his door and found him standing there looking sheepish.

"I followed you home," Ryan had said. Brendon was incredulous.

"Why would you do that?" he asked sharply. Ryan ducked his head.

"I needed to talk to you," Ryan replied. Brendon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door jamb.

"Well then, go ahead."

"I--I can't--I--" Ryan sputtered, flailing his hands a little and looking around wildly as if he suspected that he himself had been followed.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Brendon."

"Are you coming in, or not?" Brendon angled his body enough so Ryan could pass through if he wanted. He did. Brendon closed the door behind him and let Ryan settle himself, taking his time.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said bluntly. "I was--I couldn't--" He paused, raking a hand through his hair. Still short. "I shouldn't have treated you the way I did. I shouldn't have--" Ryan paused again, looking away and sighing deeply. "We made it all the way through the War, Brendon; you can't leave me now."

"I'm sorry; I can't leave you? Are you kidding me?"

"I'm all alone here, Brendon. I need you to be my friend. Please," Ryan begged. He had looked really sincere.

"I don't know," Brendon said. He turned away, hugging his arms closely to his chest. Ryan stepped up to him.

"Brendon, please. Can't we just be friends again? Like before? Who else do we have? Spencer is still in the Pacific--"

"Is that what this is? Since you can't have Spencer, you'll take me?" Brendon snapped.

"No! That's not it at all! I lo--" Brendon cut him off.

"Don't, Ryan." Brendon regained the space he had lost. He was quiet for a long while. "Give me some time, ok?"

Ryan nodded jerkily and made his way for the door. The only sound as he left was the soft click of the latch.

It turned out that following Brendon around wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. Ryan worked at the Air Base too, for the CAB. They didn't see each other often, due to their schedules, but it happened. And then they both ended up at the other end of the field checking out the air show too. Brendon couldn't seem to get away from Ryan if he tried.

So he tried to become Ryan's friend again, and it seemed to be working. He pushed away any thoughts of Ryan that were anything other than strictly platonic. It was hard. Ryan was at turns delicately lovely and warmly masculine, and Brendon ached to touch him. Brendon spent a lot of unexplained time biting hard on the tips of his fingers. But it had been six months. If this was the way Brendon got to have Ryan, then that was the way it was going to be.

Brendon startled when Ryan's face appeared over the top of the sofa. Ryan just grinned, until Brendon smacked him with a throw pillow.

"You have to work today?" Ryan asked. Brendon shook his head.

"Not until later," he replied.

"Me too. Eat?"

"Sure. Want to wake up Spence and Jon?" Ryan thumped the back of the sofa and stood up straight, stretching.

"I'll go get Spencer. You want to wake Jon? You two seemed to get on pretty well last night," Ryan suggested.

"You're just hogging Spencer," Brendon whined, rolling to his feet. Ryan flashed him another grin before he turned to head up the stairs. Brendon followed close behind.

Ryan suddenly flattened himself against the wall.

"Was that a lizard?" he squawked.

"In the house? You don't have anything they want to eat in here. I'm beginning to wonder if you have anything I want to eat in here, if you've got lizards..." Brendon teased as he pushed by. He looked back at Ryan with a smirk before he rapped lightly on Jon's door. "Jon!" Brendon whispered loudly. He tried the door, and it was unlocked, so he cautiously poked his head in.

And immediately whipped it back out again and popped the door closed.

Ryan was just clearing the top steps. He looked at Brendon and cocked his head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Brendon headed down the hall purposefully. "Let's just eat. It's still early. Come on, I'll even cook for you." Ryan frowned and reached for the guest room door. Brendon rested a hand on his arm to still him. "Come on," he said again. Ryan ignored him and opened the door anyway. The room was empty and had not been slept in. Ryan's eyes flew to Brendon's, flashing darkly. "Let's just go downstairs, Ryan."

"Brendon, is Spencer--"

"Here," came his voice, still gravelly from sleep. Spencer stood in the open doorway at the end of the hall. The door to Jon's room. Ryan took one look at him and slammed the guest room door before thumping down the stairs. Spencer sighed, loud enough for Brendon to hear at the other end of the hallway. "Oh fuck."

"Yeah," Brendon agreed.

***

Ryan was banging around in the kitchen when Brendon came downstairs. Brendon didn't know if he should try to say anything, or just hang back and make sure Ryan didn't burn his house down.

"Did you know about this?" Ryan said, suddenly still, yet brandishing a frying pan. Brendon blanched.

"No," he said simply.

"Really? Because it would explain an awful lot if you did."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You, Brendon. You always looked to Spencer as a model of how to be. As went Spencer, so did Brendon," said Ryan.

"That's not fair, Ryan."

"It's not right, Brendon!" Ryan yelled and slammed his frying pan on the counter, making Brendon jump. "You can't just--"

"You can do anything you want," Brendon replied icily. "Love is love; you can't control it."

"Sure you can!"

"Is that what you've been telling yourself, Ryan? Because I was there too; I saw--"

"No," Ryan put up a hand between them.

"Who is this about, Ryan, really? Is it about Spencer and Jon? Or is it about you and me?" Ryan just glared. Brendon just returned his glare for a moment, until something clicked. "Oh my God. You're jealous."

"I am not."

"But you are," Brendon was shocked. "It all makes sense now. You never wanted--" Brendon had to stop or he was going to dig himself into a hole he wouldn't be able to climb out of. A small sound caught his attention, and it was Spencer in the doorway.

"I should go," Spencer said, heaving his bag to his shoulder. Brendon could just see Jon at the base of the stairs, unobtrusive.

"You can come with me; I was just leaving too," Brendon offered. Ryan just stood there, mouth agape, in the middle of his kitchen.

***

"What exactly happened back there?" Spencer asked, once they were settled in at Brendon's.

"What did you hear?"

"Not enough." Spencer stopped and looked intently at Brendon, then Jon, then down at his own hands in his lap. "What's Ryan's problem?"

Brendon sighed. The three of them sat on the sofa in his little apartment. Spencer in the middle, a discreet distance from Jon on one side, half smothered by Brendon on the other.

"Did Ryan tell you what happened in England?" Brendon asked cautiously, intentionally vague.

"I don't think there's anything he could have told me that would have had him all..."

"We had sex," Brendon stated flatly.

"You did what?" Spencer yelped. Jon sat up and looked at Brendon around Spencer, his jaw hanging open.

"Yeah," Brendon sighed sadly.

"So," Spencer really didn't know what to say. "This was a bad thing, I take it?"

"Yes. No. Yes? Definitely yes. He's pretending it never happened."

"I can imagine," Spencer replied. Brendon glanced up and saw Spencer's look turn steely. Wheels started turning in his head.

"I was right, wasn't I," Brendon said slowly, carefully. Spencer squinted back at him. "About Ryan. About you."

"No!" Spencer stood abruptly. "Ryan is my best friend, Brendon!"

"And he loves you." It was Jon. Both of them had practically forgotten that he was there. He looked up at Spencer from his place on the couch. "I could tell, last night." Then his eyes swung to Brendon, and it made him squirm. "And Brendon loves you." Brendon opened his mouth to add, to protest, but Jon continued. "And I love you. You just have to decide what you want. Where you stand."

Brendon found himself charmed by Jon. He so obviously loved Spencer; even if he hadn't said it, Brendon would have known. But then, Spencer was easy to love. Jon had been right: Ryan and Brendon both loved him dearly. That was exactly it, though. Where did they stand?

"Jon," Spencer breathed, exasperated; he reached for his hand, holding it tightly. "Ryan is my friend. Brendon is my friend." Brendon felt himself deflating somehow. "I thought--" and he broke off, laughing nervously. "I thought they would love you."

"You're not handing me off to Brendon and Ryan," Jon said with some force. Spencer shook his head.

"No, of course not," Spencer smiled down at Jon and Brendon's gut clenched. "But Ryan, Ryan always loves who I love," and he turned that smile on Brendon, who had both a horrible sinking feeling and a furious blush. He felt like his body was tearing him apart. "And you reminded me of Brendon."

It was Spencer's turn to blush. He let Jon tug him back down onto the sofa, where he cuddled down, dragging Brendon closer. They fell into silence for a long while.

"I missed you, Spence," Brendon said softly. Spencer tucked some hair behind Brendon's ear; it was just long enough now.

"I missed you, too."

"Ryan can be tough to take all by himself," Brendon sighed. Spencer huffed out silent laughter before smoothing down Brendon's hair yet again.

"Now you don't have to."

"What are you saying, Spence?" Brendon rolled and propped himself up with a hand against Spencer's chest.

"We're in this together, you and I." Spencer smiled, but Brendon could see Jon's knuckles whitening where his hand rested on Spencer's arm. "And now Jon." Spencer pried Jon's fingers off him and interlaced them with his own, reassuringly. "The three of us, with Ryan, if he wants."

Brendon's face fell.

"But he doesn't, Spence," he said, voice cracking. "He won't."

"Do you know why Ryan chased down every nurse in England?" Spencer asked.

"How do you--what does that--what the hell?" Brendon sputtered.

"He told me," Spencer said simply. "I got a lot more letters from Ryan over the years than I did from you. Did you know that? He wrote to me at least once a week. Often more. He told me a lot of things, sometimes things he didn't mean to tell." Brendon backed himself into the opposite corner of the sofa and refused to look at them. "Ryan has a problem reconciling faith and reality."

"Tell me about it," Brendon mumbled. Jon snorted over Spencer's shoulder and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Ryan figured that if he fell for a nurse it would make what he was feeling for you go away." Brendon's head shot up, his eyes wide. "So he tried to find what he thought he was supposed to. But you were just always there, and it didn't work. It really didn't work."

"It wasn't about me," Brendon said after a moment, so low Spencer could hardly hear.

"Brendon..."

"No, Spence," Brendon glanced up and caught Jon's eye guiltily. "It wasn't me he wanted. It was you."

"You didn't read his letters," Spencer argued.

"He practically told me as much, Spencer! When we got home! He said that I couldn't leave him alone, because you were still in the Pacific! It was you! It was you!" Brendon was getting loud, and a little frantic. His hands shook. Spencer reached out and grasped both of Brendon's hands, squeezing them gently. Brendon slumped forward and rested his head on Spencer's shoulder. Jon petted his hair reassuringly and was surprised when Brendon leaned into his touch. "I don't know what to do anymore," he said mournfully.

"Well, on the bright side, you don't seem to have a problem with me and Spence," Jon said from his position behind Spencer. Brendon and Spencer both laughed, and if it sounded a little forced, nobody mentioned it. Brendon straightened again, but didn't pull away completely, leaving his hands twisted with Spencer's. He looked at Spencer and Jon in turn.

"No, I don't. Love is love. I meant it, and Ryan doesn't get it." Brendon sighed deeply. "I don't know. Maybe Ryan was right."

"It's not right if you're trying to deny who you are."

"Ryan's been doing that every day since he was twelve years old. Just let it go, Spence," Brendon added wearily.

***

Brendon only had a very small apartment. It wasn’t large enough for company with extended stays, but he did the best he could to make Jon and Spencer comfortable. Ultimately, though, he was just glad to have Spencer back, and the fact that he brought Jon, wonderful Jon, back with him, well that was just great too.

Brendon set up a nest of blankets and pillows for his guests in his sitting room. He had decided rather early to forego work for the day. Not the best decision, no, but it wasn’t every day that one of his best friends came home. Besides, that way the next time he went in he could take Spencer and Jon with him and see about getting them jobs as well. Today would be too early; they needed to settle in.

Brendon turned the radio on and proceeded to bounce around the apartment, happily making up words to sing along to Duke Ellington. Spencer just laughed at him, watching as he moved. Jon sang along at chorus repeats.

***

A pleasant lull had settled by the time the three of them managed to cobble together a respectable dinner from what they could find in Brendon’s cupboards. Evening was fading into night, and Brendon’s apartment cooled from a breeze off the mountains. The building was quiet, so it almost seemed as if it was just the three of them for miles around. Jon found himself suddenly shy and hung closer to Spencer.

They settled into their makeshift bed on the floor to relax and just listen to music. Spencer seemed to melt into the blankets, and it made Jon want to curl up around him. He made a move to, but hesitated, looking to Brendon, unsure. Spencer caught his arm and tugged him down anyway, sighing contentedly when Jon snuggled into his side. Jon could just feel Brendon’s presence on Spencer’s other side, and he tensed when Brendon squirmed.

“Anybody want a drink?” Brendon asked faux-brightly.

“Stay,” Spencer said, the note of command clear in his voice. He reached for Brendon as well, dragging him in, with little room for argument. Brendon slipped his arm around Spencer’s waist and made himself comfortable. Jon waited until the rapid beating of Spencer’s heart slowed, and Brendon’s breathing evened. Then he cautiously moved to cover Brendon’s hand with his own. Brendon startled, but between Spencer shrugging him tighter into his side, and Jon’s gentle squeeze, he gave in to their easy affection.

The knock on the door moments later broke the spell.

Brendon struggled to get to his feet, but the door swung open before he could reach it. Ryan stood stock still for a split second. A look flashed across his face that Jon couldn’t decipher, but it was followed by one that was clear for anyone to see. Ryan was pissed. Jon glanced at Spencer and Brendon, and both of them looked vaguely guilty. Jon stood, freeing Spencer to do the same. Brendon sat gaping up at them from the floor until Jon extended a hand and pulled him to his feet.

Ryan looked down pointedly at their joined hands and Spencer shot Ryan a defiant glare. Brendon tugged half-heartedly, but Jon refused to release him. When he reached for Spencer, Ryan scoffed and turned on his heel.

The sound of the door slamming behind him echoed loud in their ears.

Spencer took one step toward the door before he thought better of it, and Brendon sagged, as if he would fall if Jon didn’t support him. Jon stood firm, squeezing both their hands until Spencer, then Brendon squeezed back.

“It’ll all turn out ok; you’ll see,” Jon said.

“But—“ Brendon began.

“No. Did you see the look on his face? He just has to get over himself before he can realize what it is he needs. He wanted to be here.” Brendon’s lip trembled and Jon squeezed his hand again. “What he wants is here. You’re here. And we’re here.”

“We’ll be here as long as you need us, Brendon,” Spencer added. “We’re not going anywhere. Not now.”

Bandombigbang: My Wings Have No Feathers, Part 2/3

2009-06-15T06:07:02Z

Bandombigbang: My Wings Have No Feathers 1/3

2009-06-15T05:47:59Z

My Wings Have No Feathers

Band(s): PATD, FOB, MCR, AAR, THS, DC, TAI, CS, PP
Pairing(s): Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, (pre-foursome)
Word Count: 22,592
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, sex, language, secondary character deaths, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)

Summary: It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.

There's angst! There's sex! There's death and destruction! Hell, it's War.

And then they go home. (There's angst. There's sex. There's ~~death and destruction~~ more angst.) They learn how to be people again, and in the process, find each other.

Come on, who can resist a man in uniform?

Author's Notes: Many thanks and love to kueble, tuesdaysgone, and cloudlessclimes. Beta, cheerleading, all that. I couldn't have done it without you.

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

Fanart: by maybe_a_sunday
Fanmix: by onigaminanashi
Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"

Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer enlisted together on September 3, 1939. War had begun in Europe, and while the US had been maintaining a strict hands-off policy, Ryan had a feeling about it. And apparently when Ryan had a feeling about something, Brendon and Spencer went with it. They waited until Spencer's birthday. Ryan may have been eighteen, but the others were a year younger. Their lies, combined with a need for recruits and a rather slapdash system, got them in. More lies got them into pilot training.

Nothing could keep the three of them together through all the channels of the United States Army Air Force.

Ryan and Brendon went one way; Spencer went another.

***

The B-17 is a is a four-engine heavy bomber. Ryan and Brendon found themselves manning the controls of their very own flying fortress. The B-17 was touted as a strategic weapon; it was capable of unleashing great destruction, able to defend itself, and could return home despite extensive battle damage. The United States Eighth Air Force was based in England, and the B-17s were primarily employed in the daylight precision strategic bombing campaign against German targets. Bomber Command was actually based at a former girls' school. Really. A girls' school. Brendon thought it was hilarious. Ryan merely wondered what had become of all the girls.

By the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor in '41, Ryan and Brendon had flown dozens of successful sorties with their crew. Their crew. Technically Ryan was the pilot, and Brendon was his co-pilot. But they were of equal rank, and friends, so it mattered little who actually sat to the left and who sat to the right. One could say it depended on the weather. It was as good a reason as any.

A B-17 requires a sizeable crew. Ryan's navigator was called Suarez. His bombardier/nose gunner was Pete Wentz, a tiny little guy who could drop an 8,000-pound bomb with the precision of a dime on a chess board. The flight engineer was Patrick Stump, another tiny little guy. Serious. But he could fix anything. The radio operator was Major Chislett. He actually was the highest ranking of them all, and not even USAAF. The English had this weird agreement going on that put a foreign officer on each aircraft. Chislett was theirs. He was Australian, with shaggy blonde curls, a crooked smile, and an accent that none of them could parse out. Luckily that was the job of ground crew, and those guys didn't seem to have a problem with it. He was a nice enough guy, at any rate. There were five gunners; well, six if you counted Wentz's dual role. Each one controlled an M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun. The waist gunners were Hurley and Trohman. The tail gunner was called Carden. William Beckett was in the ball turret, and Andy Mrotek was in the top turret. There was a good reason they called Mrotek "The Butcher". They were all pretty crazy, as a rule, and half deaf. The ground maintenance crew dedicated to their aircraft consisted of Blackinton and Novarro. Nobody did ever figure out if Blackinton was English or not. Truth was relative.

There were eighteen aircraft in Ryan and Brendon's unit stationed at High Wycombe in 1942. Of those, the one hangared immediately to their port side was their favorite. The Bunny Marie and her crew of miscreants became their favorite three days after Ryan and Brendon and their pristine gray beauty touched ground. Ryan returned to the flightline to find Gerard and Frank, the Bunny Marie's maintenance crew, arguing under his nose gun and splattered with paint. Blackinton and Novarro were nowhere to be seen. And there was a beautiful girl with epically long legs looking down at him from the previously unblemished fuselage.

"Brendon!" Ryan called tremulously. His co-pilot almost immediately trotted into view.

"What?" he asked, with a tilt of the head. It was obvious when he caught sight of their new nose art. His eyes widened and he let out a long, low whistle, then turned to the two artists, still bickering. "Whoa. She's hot, but Ryan is gonna kill you." That got their attention.

"You touched my bird," Ryan drawled. Brendon stood by his side and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to pass for stern and disapproving. Kind of.

"You were lacking," said Gerard. Frank thrust his hands into the pockets of his flightsuit and bounced on his toes enthusiastically, nodding and grinning.

"Well, who is she, then?" Ryan gestured with his chin.

"Just some dancer betty I met in New York City," Gerard replied with a shrug.

"Her name was Betty?" Ryan continued. Brendon chirped, "Like Betty Grable!" and all three of the other men grimaced.

"No," Gerard said decisively. And thus the Keltie Colleen was christened. They were well pleased with her.

***

Spencer found himself in the cockpit seat of a Dauntless. An SBD Dauntless A-24B, a two-man Navy dive-bomber with a wing span just shy of 42 feet. She could pull a max speed of 255 mph with a ceiling of 25,500 feet. She also came equipped with two .50 caliber machine guns of his very own, and another .30 caliber for his gunner, a guy called Brent who also happened to hail from Vegas. Spencer was smitten.

With the plane.

He honestly could take or leave the gunner. He knew him, vaguely, from before. For some reason the military thought that a shared history meant that they would work well together. Spencer wasn't so sure about that, but he'd give it a shot.

Spencer found it strange how, of the three of them--him, Ryan, and Brendon-- it had been him who got a fighter. He had pegged Brendon for sure. Ryan definitely had the laconic demeanor suited to long, smooth, high-altitude bombing runs. Brendon was--well, maybe Spencer was a better fit for a fighter after all. Even if it did give them bragging rights in the eternal pissing contest. Spencer's bird may be small, but she was fast.

***

Spencer was a child of the desert. He knew this for a fact. He liked it, even. With that in mind, adjusting to life on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific Ocean took some doing. It was Spencer's wingman who actually helped the most. His name was Jon.

Jon Walker was from Chicago. He had actually been a college student before he decided he would be better put to use in service. (I was a terrible student anyway, he would insist.) Jon told Spencer how the middle of the ocean was in fact quite similar to the desert. Both were rather uniform in structure, and both were relatively devoid of life. The analogy actually made Spencer feel better. But then, so did Jon himself.

Spencer and Jon became fast friends. Jon's gunner Tom would laugh and say Jon could charm Hitler, Mussolini, and Emperor Hirohito if they gave him the chance. Tom would know. They'd grown up together, so he'd experienced it firsthand. Tom had no room to talk, though. He was so affable it seemed he had befriended their entire squadron and half the ship's crew before they were even out of port. Brent even liked him. Everyone liked Tom.

But Jon jokingly gave Spencer a word of advice.

"Be careful what you drink from, and wash your hands a lot. Tom is a great guy, and I love him like I do my own brothers, but he's kind of a cat."

Spencer offered a blank stare in return.

"He's a skirt magnet? The janey's love him?" Jon added.

Spencer nodded in understanding. More or less.

"He's pretty much always nursing a case of the clap."

Spencer was horrified. Jon thought it was hilarious.

***

Brendon found barracks living perfectly acceptable. He was the youngest of a large family, so the fact that he had a roommate bothered him not at all. The fact that his roommate was Ryan happened to be something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Brendon was glad to have a familiar face. A part of home. And he knew that it soothed Spencer's nerves to know that someone was there to watch out for Ryan. Not that Ryan ever got into any trouble. Ryan was practically a monk. He made Brendon look fairly devilish.

On the other hand... Well. Ryan made Brendon vaguely uncomfortable. It wasn't anything Brendon wanted to dwell over.

It wasn't anything dogmatic. Sure, Brendon was Mormon, and most people didn't really understand the finer points. He didn't make it an issue. He wasn't exactly what anyone would call a shining example of Mormon faith. But Ryan was Catholic. Like, really Catholic and he seemed to be having some trouble reconciling the drive to fulfill his patriotic duty and the actuality of that fulfilment. Ryan would never have made it in the infantry, having to see the faces of the men he killed. Ryan's guilt over the casualties of war that he considered himself responsible for, due to his piloting a bomber, was immense. He seemed to be perpetually counting the beads on his rosary.

Or on his knees, head bent and hands clasped in prayer, asking for forgiveness.

This was how Brendon found him one evening after he had been down the way discussing that week's movie with the rest of their crew. Brendon rounded the corner to find the door to their room ajar. Something made him pause with a hand on the door handle. He could just see Ryan, a dim shape in the candlelight, kneeling on the floor at the side of his bed. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently, and his hands... Ryan's long, elegant hands lay neatly in his lap.

Ryan was beautiful.

It was like a kick to the gut. Brendon couldn't breathe as he took in the long, clean line of his neck; how it swept smoothly up to the gentle curve of his skull. He was struck by the sudden need to feel the prickle of regulation-short hair against his palm, to chase the dusting of lashes across sharp cheekbones with his thumbs.

It was horribly blasphemous.

Brendon retreated as silently as he had advanced, casting about frantically for something--anything--to supplant the images of Ryan in his head.

***

Ryan and Brendon sprawled on the grass between the Keltie Colleen and the Bunny Marie. The maintenance crews tended to hang around there, buzzing about for potential and/or imagined problems. And gossip. It was friendly there. It also tended to be the warmest place in the encampment. England was as dull and gray as Vegas was hot and sunny. Ryan and Brendon were perpetually chilly. The warbirds soaked up the meager sunshine, and there, so did Ryan and Brendon.

"It's unfortunate," Brendon said softly, gazing up at the art on their neighboring aircraft.

"What's that?" Ryan asked, perplexed.

"Well, look at her," he gestured lamely. "She's a pretty girl."

"Yeah? What's so unfortunate about that?" Frank popped up from behind landing gear, hands on his hips. Gerard poked his head out from the other side, silent, but scowling. Brendon sputtered.

"Well, she's--she's..." he floundered. Ryan snickered, and Brendon shot him a glance. "Poor girl is called Bunny Marie!"

Frank and Gerard erupted in laughter.

"What's so funny?" demanded Brendon. Frank and Gerard continued to laugh uproariously, leaning on each other and gasping for breath.

"Bunny Marie!" wailed Gerard while Frank cackled. "She's--no," and he heaved a sigh before continuing, scrubbing a hand across his forehead, as if he was pushing aside ghostly hair.

"Is she a real girl?" asked Ryan. Many of the painted beauties were pin-ups, or simply products of the imagination, but some, like their own Keltie Colleen--even though Ryan and Brendon had never met her--were real girls.

"Oh yes, she's real," replied Frank solemnly.

"She's my brother's wife. Alicia," said Gerard. Brendon raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Isn't that kind of, well..." Brendon didn't really want to say creepy.

"My brother is our pilot. Mikey?" said Gerard slowly, as if Brendon was a bit dim. Perhaps he was. Ryan just nodded sagely, as if he knew all along. Brendon knew for a fact that he didn't.

"And he just let you paint his wife like that?" Ryan asked.

"His plane, really," replied Gerard shortly. It was Ryan's turn to scowl.

"So if Kelts here is my plane," he paused, looking at Brendon, who nodded in agreement. "Then why didn't I get to pick the girl?" Brendon snorted. He had seen the kind of girls Ryan found attractive back home.

"You took too long," said Frank.

"But I didn't know!" squawked Ryan. Brendon grinned. He liked Bunny Marie. Or Alicia. Whoever. Keltie was definitely more of a pretty version of Ryan's kind of girl. She suited him.

"Don't you like her?" asked Gerard mournfully.

"Oh yes!" Ryan and Brendon chorused enthusiastically. Gerard smiled.

"But why do you call her Bunny Marie?" asked Brendon. Gerard shrugged.

"Mikey didn't want to... He liked the idea of being able to see Alicia every day, but he didn't like the idea of everybody else being able to see her too," he said. Frank leered illustratively. "So we call her Bunny Marie instead, and it's like you're not getting the real Alicia."

"Mikeylogic," Frank said, as if that explained everything.

"Bunny Marie?" prompted Ryan.

"Their cat."

***

May 1942. Battle of the Coral Sea

It had been crazy. Their carrier group encountered a Japanese carrier group and all hell broke loose. They flew in the wrong direction. Then they flew at the wrong altitudes to intercept. It was awful, and it lasted for four days. In the end, Spencer and Brent had somehow taken down possibly eight zeroes, more likely five. Jon and Tom had done the same. But they just kept coming.

The Lexington took a torpedo across the bow that last day. Jon actually saw it happen, climbing down from his plane with Tom on his heels. They watched as a plume of water shot up the side of the other ship. She listed, then went down with an explosion that carried to them the faint scent of aviation fuel.

Jon--and then Tom--looked away. There was nothing they could do. Tom turned back to their plane, mumbling something about his goggles. Jon turned and bumped into Spencer, who was struggling with the buckle on his helmet. Jon grasped his arm to turn him out of the glare of the sun, so he could get a better look at the buckle and give Spencer a hand. Over Spencer's shoulder he could see Brent's legs dangling from the cockpit of their plane as he dug underneath his seat for some unseen object.

Jon and Spencer were both knocked unconscious when the bomb struck the Yorktown.

Jon woke in a hospital in Pearl Harbor a week later. He was weak from inaction, stiff, and sore. His head hurt. When he reached up, Jon could feel a rough line of stitches in his scalp. A nurse came in as he sat there, dazed, with a hand in his hair. She smiled sadly, then told him what she knew.

Spencer lay in the bed next to his. He was still unconscious--asleep; Jon preferred to think he was just asleep. Like Jon, he had stitches in his head and a good deal of nasty green and yellow bruising on his face, his neck, even his hands. Whatever Jon could see. He had been lucky, though, the nurse had said. The two of them had been hit by a large piece of flying debris--likely a chunk of Spencer's plane, or the flight deck itself--and thrown to the side of the flight deck. It had been Spencer's twisted buckle, the fact that he still had his helmet on, that had saved his life. They had been hit pretty hard. But Jon was going to be fine. Spencer was going to be fine. He just needed a little more down time. They both did.

A total of 66 crewmen had been killed when the bomb crashed through the flight deck of the Yorktown.

Brent.

Tom.

A dozen other pilots and gunners. Their friends. It had hit just as their flight group was coming back in. Planes and men scattered all over the deck, and below.

As for the Yorktown, she was in for an estimated 90 days of repair before she would be seaworthy again. Jon would probably be ready to go by then. Healthy and out of the hospital.

For the time being, however, he just had to wait, and recover.

So he did. He slept a lot. He ate a lot. The nurses kept coming in to check on him, bringing little treats. Sometimes Jon felt like their pet. They were nice girls, but they really didn't seem to get the message that he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to be rude, though, so maybe he wasn't getting his message across very clearly. Jon just wanted to be left alone.

It was rare to be completely alone when one found himself stationed on an aircraft carrier. Jon kind of wanted to take advantage of that. He just wanted to enjoy the silence. He didn't want to see the sympathetic faces of the nurses, or of anyone else from the Yorktown, whether he knew them or not. He didn't want to have to think of Tom.

Sending the letter home to Tom's mother had been bad enough.

So Jon hid in his room. And pretended to sleep until he couldn't stand it anymore. Spencer lay in a bed not more than four feet away from him, so Jon started to watch him. It was not very entertaining, as far as those things go, considering Spencer was still as deeply unconscious as he had been when Jon woke in the hospital. But he did it anyway. Jon liked Spencer plenty.

Spencer and Jon were friends. And as friends, Jon saw it as his duty to ensure that Spencer had quality care. Every time a nurse came in to see Jon, he insisted that she go check on Spencer as well. He held imaginary conversations with him--silent, mind you, because there was really only so far he was willing to go, and getting locked up as a crazy was not it.

Finally, Jon started to read. The nurses had a stash of books and let him pick one out. He wasn't much of a reader, but he really didn't have many other options. He chose a book of no consequence. It looked interesting, and he hadn't read it before. Jon wasn't sure it was the same for Spencer, but he took the book anyway. He was sure Spencer wouldn't mind.

Jon read to Spencer at least three times a day. After every meal, Jon felt strong enough to ease out of his bed and lurch the few feet over to Spencer's. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him, and there he would read, softly, so Spencer could hear, but not the nurses, or anyone in the hall.

For three days Jon read to Spencer. Every day after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, often late into the night so that he was stiff from sitting still, perched on the edge as he was. That third day--night, rather--Jon just started to talk, explaining, as if Spencer needed some form of explanation for his behavior. He didn't know why.

"This book came out before I enlisted. In '38. Before you did, too, I guess, but I hadn't read it. I didn't really set much store by reading for pleasure. Had other things to do. But this one... I just--I don't know. It seemed right to read it now. Read it for you. Like, it would be reading by absorption, like Arthur. Learning by absorption, you know?" Jon chuckled softly to himself, scrubbing his hand through his hair and sighing. It was late.

"By being."

Jon's head shot up at the sound. His broken ribs stabbing pain in his side, his heart hammering wildly. Spencer blinked muzzily at him. His voice had sounded so faint and rusty. But it had--Jon had thought he had finally lost his mind. But no, it was Spencer. Awake.

"What?"

"Wart. He's learning by... being," Spencer said slowly, his voice rough, crackly. Jon's eyes flicked to his throat, and it was as bruised and scratched as he sounded. "He's learning... sympathy. Empathy. By being. Being something else."

"Yeah," said Jon. "I guess so." He closed the book and looked down at it for a moment before meeting the eyes of his friend. "I missed you."

Spencer closed his eyes with a sigh.

"I didn't go anywhere, I--" and he hissed in pain. Jon leaped to his feet for fear that he had hurt Spencer somehow, but ended up hunched over and clutching his own middle. Spencer managed a weak snicker. "What a pair we are. Broken."

"Speak for yourself," Jon said, sliding carefully back into his own bed. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I'm fine."

"Obviously." Jon snorted. Then groaned. "Uh-huh. Thought so."

They lay in the near darkness for a long time. It seemed like a long time, anyway. Neither of them thought to call for a nurse.

"How long," began Spencer tentatively. "How long was I out?"

"Almost two weeks," Jon told him. He took a deep breath, annoyed with himself when it came out shuddery. "Two weeks," he repeated, softly.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"You?"

"A week, maybe?" Jon shrugged. He didn't know if Spencer could see it in the dim light. Didn't know if it mattered.

"What else?" Spencer demanded suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Jon shot back, worried. He didn't want to--

"Are you ok?" Jon almost laughed. Didn't, luckily. Would've hurt like hell.

"Told you. I'm fine. Bump on the head. Concussion? Some stitches. A couple broken ribs..." he trailed off, half afraid of the questions he knew were coming.

"I think I..." Jon could hear a slight rustling from Spencer's bed. He was taking inventory. "I think I'm ok. Generally. Hurts."

"Well then shut up and go to sleep," Jon teased. He didn't have to see it to know Spencer was scowling at him.

They fell silent again. Spencer took some time determining the extent of his injuries. They were obvious, and likely to present themselves as he tried to move around, testing himself. Jon just wanted the excuse of sleep, to avoid the inevitable conversation. It hurt afresh, with Spencer unknowing.

"Did I get crushed with something? I feel like everything is broken," Spencer whined. It actually made Jon smile to himself. He'd be fine, if he was whining about it already. "I think I have a broken collarbone. That's so gross."

"Why is that so gross? And not, say, the stitches in your head, or your broken fingers?" Jon wondered, sort of cruelly.

"Because! It's all... graty and slidy, all under my skin," Spencer shuddered. Jon thought he was done, but then he continued. "I've had stitches before. And my fingers? Not a big deal," he added matter-of-factly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Spencer added smugly. "I'm not left-handed."

***

The Yorktown was ready to go back to sea on May 30. It was barely a week and a half since Spencer had regained consciousness, and a full two months ahead of schedule. There was no way he was ready to return to duty. Luckily, neither was Jon. They were stuck in the hospital together.

They were, however, stuck in the hospital together.

Spencer had not yet asked Jon about Brent and Tom. And Jon had not volunteered the information. Nor was he going to do so. He wondered periodically if Spencer was avoiding the subject--well, he knew Spencer was avoiding the subject. But for which reason? Did he not want to be reminded of his (of their) loss? Brent had been his friend, as well as his gunner. They had enlisted together, Jon thought, along with a couple other old friends from home. It happened that Brent and Spencer stuck together, as had their friends Ryan and Brendon, so far as Jon had heard. They worked well together, and the military had thought that expedient, somehow. But now Brent was gone, and Spencer was not asking about him. Jon was most definitely not going to bring it up.

"I thought--" Spencer began hesitantly. The moonlight shone through their window, casting shadows. It was late, and Spencer was talking. This was how it seemed to go. Their longest and deepest conversations started in the darkness. "For the longest time I thought they were just in another room. Down the hall or something." Spencer paused and Jon's breath caught in his throat.

Ten days. Ten days Jon had been able to avoid the topic, and now--now he couldn't avoid it. Spencer would know.

"I thought they were hurt bad or something," Spencer continued, voice cracking. "Hurt bad so they couldn't leave their rooms. Or--or you were pissed at some douchebaggery Brent had pulled... Not--"

"They were hurt bad, Spence," Jon said softly. He could hear Spencer's shuddery breaths across the narrow space between their beds. "They were hurt bad. Your plane... Your plane fell through the flight deck when Yorktown took that hit. And mine, I guess mine rolled."

"What happened to them? What happened to Brent and Tom?" Spencer whispered. Jon wondered how he should tell it. Who he should know about first. "You know. Tell me!" Spencer prodded, and yet Jon still wavered. He didn't want to. "Tell me!"

"They found Tom pinned under the wreckage." Jon heard Spencer suck in his breath. "He was dead."

"Oh, Jon..."

"And Brent--Brent didn't make it back to Hawaii. He made it out of the foredeck, but that's about it. He was hurt too bad. Didn't last the day," Jon finished bluntly. He studied his hands in the dim light. He didn't want to look to Spencer, see how he took the news, help him through it. It wasn't fair, but who had been there when Jon woke up? Just some nurse. Not anyone who made a difference, not anyone who mattered to him.

***

It was very quiet in their room for several days. Spencer just lay there in his bed, unmoving. He seemed to sleep a lot, as Jon had when he first regained consciousness. But there were long, uncomfortable stretches of time where Jon knew Spencer was awake, but he just stared silently out the window, or at the wall, or his hands. He never looked to Jon.

Jon wasn't behaving any better, he admitted to himself. He stayed in his own bed, on his side of the room, half-heartedly pretending to read his book.

"Are you even listening to me?" Spencer said, voice clipped. Jon started, shaken.

"What?"

"I asked you if you're ok," Spencer repeated--apparently--exasperation coloring his tone.

"I told you before--"

"I know what you said. I heard you," Spencer cut him off. "Physically, you're fine. I got that. I mean--" Jon held up his hand.

"You're not my mother, Smith. I don't need you inquiring after my wellbeing," Jon said, perhaps more sharply than he had initially intended. Spencer blanched.

"Fuck off, then," Spencer said curtly, turning his face to the windows again. Jon felt chastised. Rightly so.

"I'm sorry," Jon said softly. "It's just... Tom was my friend, you know?" Jon looked down at the book in his hands. When he looked up again, Spencer was eyeing him cautiously. "Like, a real friend. From before the War."

"I know," Spencer replied. "But that doesn't mean I'm not--" Spencer sighed, dragging his uninjured hand over short-cropped hair; carefully avoiding the recent scar, stitches freshly removed. "Just because we haven't been friends since we were kids doesn't mean I don't care about you. I'm your friend too."

Jon raised an eyebrow and kind of half smirked.

"Don't get all emotional on me, Sally."

"Oh, fuck you, asshole." Jon grinned, and Spencer huffed and rolled his eyes. Jon was fine. Or he was going to be fine.

Spencer fidgeted, scratching aimlessly at the scar on his head and trying to shift so he lay a little differently on the bed. He sighed balefully.

"Could you..?" he began with obvious trepidation.

"What? I'm not sticking anything down your cast to scratch, so you can just cross that right off your list," Jon teased. Spencer scowled, wrinkling his nose.

"I'm bored, man. Entertain me." Jon raised an eyebrow again. "Come on! It's not like I can hop up and look for something to do! I have a broken leg, you may recall."

"What, you want me to put on a grass skirt and do the hula?" Jon said with a grin. A slow smile spread across Spencer's face. It made something twist low in Jon's belly. "Because I don't think I'm up for that. Ribs," he reminded Spencer quickly, and he gestured to himself.

"No," Spencer shook his head. He paused, glancing away and biting on his lower lip. Jon wondered, suddenly, what in the world could Spencer want him to do? Jon just sat there staring while Spencer apparently contemplated something... compromising? No, Jon almost snorted in incredulity at that thought. Spencer would never--but then he looked back up at Jon and licked his lips. Jon's breath froze in his lungs and he tried vainly not to gape. "Would you read to me?"

Jon almost laughed in relief. Although why he was relieved, and why he had been worked up... He really didn't want to explore that particular train of thought.

"You want me to read to you?" a little chuckle did work its way out. "What, you got a broken arm too?"

"As a matter of fact! Well, sort of, yeah!" Spencer argued. He shook his head again, fondly, a smile playing at his lips. "This coming from the guy who put me here!"

"Hey!" Jon protested. "I didn't drop a bomb on us!"

"Yeah, but I didn't crush my own self, fatass. I look like pretty much what you'd expect to see when somebody gets slammed between a hard surface and 180 pounds of Chicagoan fuckhead."

"This is your plan to get me to do you a favor? Laying blame? Name calling?" Jon countered. "I'll give you a hard place," he grumbled.

Spencer laughed brightly and put on his best puppy face. Jon sighed and stood gingerly, snagging the book from the bedside table. He nudged Spencer's foot until he bent his leg and tucked it up under the other, casted one. He eased himself slowly down again. It always seemed harder to sit back down than it did to get up in the first place. That made Jon wonder if he was getting better.

"Where were we?" Jon asked. Spencer shrugged.

"Hell if I know."

"I thought you were listening!" Jon chided, half serious.

""I was!" Spencer replied defensively. "Sort of. I think..." Spencer stared off at nothing. "I could almost hear you. I knew you were reading something, but I couldn't fix on it. And then when I woke up you were getting all philosophical on me or some shit." Spencer grinned.

Jon could feel the bottom of his stomach slowly dropping out. Spencer smiled up at him, and Jon could feel it in his bones. He was fucked. Spencer's smile had been the last thing he had seen before the bomb struck the Yorktown, before they ended up here. Jon associated that smile with sunshine. And now, it was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw at night.

Jon was in love.

"I like it when you read to me," Spencer said softly, biting his lip and glancing away. Jon would have sworn his cheeks were just a touch pinker than they had been a moment ago. "I like the way you sound..."

"Spencer..." Jon was cautious, yet optimistic. If he was wrong about this, Spencer would kick his ass, broken leg and all. If not, they could get in so much trouble. And yet... Spencer met Jon's eyes, and the longing there took his breath away. He felt chilly fingers slide and tangle with his, on the bedsheets between Jon's knee, Spencer's hip. Where noone could see who wasn't right on top of them. Spencer squeezed, and smiled again.

"Just read, Jon."

***

Jon and Spencer spent the rest of the summer at Pearl. Aside from the fact that both of them were recovering from various injuries, it wasn't much of a hardship. Pearl was nice.

But they felt sort of... homeless. The Yorktown had gone back to sea without them. Neither Jon nor Spencer knew if they were expected to rendezvous with her at some point, or if they were going to be reassigned. Noone was telling them anything. Actually, they were told that their duty was to recover fully, then they could worry about their assignations. Neither of them had sustained injuries serious enough to be sent home. Of course not. As pilots they were both valuable commodities.

But in June they heard of another battle. Midway. There, the Yorktown took damage again; torpedoes this time. And this time she didn't make it. By the time Jon and Spencer heard the news, the Yorktown lay in 3000 fathoms of water, and her crew were scattered amongst destroyers and minesweepers. Or they were dead.

The cast on Spencer's leg came off in July. Jon was relieved because it meant that Spencer would stop bitching about it. He forgot that it meant that Spencer would want to get up and around again. It meant that Jon and Spencer spent a lot of time slowly walking the halls of the hospital together, Spencer on crutches. Then when he abandoned the crutches, Spencer demanded that Jon accompany him while he wandered the grounds. Jon couldn't really see any need for his presence, but he did it anyway. The activity was good for him. His ribs were still healing, after all.

For the most part, Spencer's forays into the outdoors consisted of making loops around the hospital building. It wasn't particularly exciting, but compared to their weeks trapped inside, it was heavenly. But Spencer pushed himself; Jon could see it when the sweat beading on his forehead seemed to be caused by something other than the Hawaiian climate. Jon kept them to a reasonable pace. The last thing he wanted was to hear bones snapping because Spencer thought he had something to prove.

They stopped frequently on their little outings. Ostensibly it was for one or the other of them to point out some unusual wildlife--Jon was particularly fond of birds and always pointed them out, especially the gray and red ones that looked like cardinals--or activity; kids surfing, or nurses smoking and gossiping. But really it was Jon's ploy to keep Spencer from overtaxing himself. They liked to stop at a cluster of palm trees near the south side of the hospital. It was shady there, and relatively cool with the sea breeze. They would sit there, looking out across the grass to the ocean, and talk. Or not. It was quiet, and noone ever bothered them there. That was the real draw.

"What do you think is going to happen to us?" Spencer asked idly. He sat sprawled on the ground, in the manner which he argued he found most comfortable now that his leg had been broken, spread out and taking up as much space as he possibly could. Jon smirked at him and pushed over a little pile of sand until it toppled onto the back of Spencer's hand.

"I don't honestly know," Jon replied slowly. He looked up into the trees. He found that if he avoided looking at Spencer as much as possible, he could ignore the twisty, swirly feeling deep in his belly. He had become quite adept at ignoring that feeling. "We'll probably get put out on another ship soon enough. I hear the Enterprise is doing fine. Maybe the Hornet?"

"No," Spencer twitched his nose irritably. "I meant... Nevermind." His fingers dug deeply into the sand, disturbing Jon's little piles. Jon wasn't sure if he wanted to continue the thread of this conversation. Didn't know if he wanted to find out what was on Spencer's mind. But then he wasn't the kind of guy to sit back and just watch, wait for something to happen. He had signed up for this war, for goodness sake. Signed up, when surely he would have been drafted if he had just waited a while longer.

Jon wasn't one to wait.

"What do you mean?" he asked, cautiously; still carefully looking away from Spencer. Spencer took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

"I mean... I don't know, I think I've been in this hospital for too long. I don't know what I'm thinking anymore."

"I still don't--" There was a sick, twittery feeling in Jon's stomach. It was almost like how he felt when he first started flying; how he still felt every time he took off. He couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

"Sometimes I think that you--that we--" Spencer bit his lip, and Jon noticed that he was actively looking anywhere but at him, too. "God, Jon! This isn't how things were supposed to turn out! I was supposed to fly with my friends! Then the Navy stole me, and I ended up flying with you, and I know you don't--and I can't stop," but he did stop, and curled up in on himself. Long legs pulling in, elbows on knees, hands in his hair. Jon could just hear Spencer mutter to himself, "You're going to kick my ass."

Jon's mind skittered in several directions at once.

"I don't what?" He ignored the ass kicking bit.

Spencer looked up at him, eyes blazing.

"You don't want what I want." Jon just sat there. His mouth was hanging open slightly, but damn if he couldn't move a muscle to do anything about it. "I keep telling myself to stop it. That you don't--" Spencer tore his eyes away. "You want to go home, find a girl... But I don't--I don't want to be somebody's lame excuse for a blanket wife; that's not it at all." Spencer looked up at him again, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. "I want you," he said plainly, finally. Jon managed to close his mouth.

"Really?"

"And now you're going to kick my ass," Spencer said again dejectedly.

"Will you stop saying that? You're putting words in my mouth," Jon said evenly. He was kind of proud of his self-control. "Did I ever say I wanted to go home? Find a girl? Well? Did I?"

"No," Spencer replied, voice low.

"Have I ever gone looking for a blanket wife? All this time?"

"No," Spencer said again.

"No. Nor will I. You don't know what I want, Spencer." Spencer's eyes snapped up to meet his again at the sound of his name. Jon's voice softened. "How do you know I don't want... what--what you want?"

Spencer stared at him for what seemed like hours and was probably about 15 seconds.

"I--" Spencer began but immediately closed his mouth to reconsider his words. "We can't."

"Why not? Nobody has to know," Jon said. He looked out at the ocean as he spoke. If he looked at Spencer he was sure his resolve would crumble. "Nobody but us."

It was as simple as that. It took nearly ten weeks to get there, but finally Jon and Spencer seemed to be on the same page.

***

It was mid August when Jon and Spencer got cleared to return to duty. The problem was, at this point, the fact that their previous duty station was at the bottom of the ocean. There seemed to be another problem, though, too. The Navy wanted to replace their dauntlesses with new aircraft. And that meant that they needed to go learn how to fly said new aircraft.

They got their shipping orders almost immediately. They didn't matter, of course. For a couple of reasons. The first was the change of aircraft bit. That was going to take some time, which mostly depended on how similar their new birds would be to the old ones. The second reason was that their new flattop hadn't even been commissioned yet. She was still sitting at the naval yard in Norfolk. Jon and Spencer weren't due to join her until April.

Only God and the Secretary of the Navy knew what the hell was going on there.

Turns out that their training took them to Arizona. Spencer was thrilled. He was desert born and bred--which amused Jon to no end. The Navy, Spence. Shipboard. They couldn't have put you somewhere more different from what you knew if they tried. It was still out in the middle of nowhere, but it wasn't going to keep him from seeing his family again. Spencer's mother and sisters were going to visit him. Jon was secretly terrified.

Once they were actually in Arizona, however, Jon and Spencer were far too busy to worry about anything other than learning their new aircraft. Which sucked. They hated it. It seemed to be a pretty universal opinion, too. Their nice, compact, dependable little dauntlesses were being scrapped for new Curtiss SB2C Helldivers. Or, as the pilots liked to say, the Son-of-a-Bitch 2nd Class.

The only thing they liked about the helldivers was that they had folding wings. That was pretty slick. It did not make up for the fact that a helldiver was a bitch on a stick. To say that it had difficult handling characteristics was just the beginning. The damn things were plagued with malfunctions of every fashion. Something new seemed to be broken every day.

To top it all off, they had to contend with new gunners. New gunners who were both named Chris. It was kind of confusing.

At first it was hard to climb into a plane and not follow-up with Brent, or Tom. Their deaths were still fresh, and would be inextricably linked in their minds to their old aircraft. Not to mention the Yorktown. Perhaps it was for the best that they were not returning to duty with either.

Spencer's new gunner was a goofy, wiry little guy named Faller. He was kind of a dipshit. Spencer seemed to be batting a thousand as far as his gunners went; really he could give a rat's ass. Sure, he was a nice enough guy and all. And he was from Chicago, which meant that Jon automatically liked him. It was just... The guy was kind of out there. Spacey. And it didn't help that most of the issues the two of them had with their plane stemmed from something Faller did. Spencer was perpetually annoyed.

Jon's new gunner was fantastic. It came as no surprise; the guy was essentially a version of Jon in the future. How Jon would be (could be) in ten years. Carrabba was a second grade teacher from Florida who had been drafted into service. He was laid back, pleasant, subtly funny, and rarely in proper uniform. Jon liked him immediately. Then, it was unusual for Jon to actively dislike someone. Carrabba was fun and irreverent. Spencer alternately found him very enjoyable or loathed him. It was disturbing.

Spencer was jealous.

If pressed, Spencer would have said that he hadn't a jealous bone in his body. His friends and lovers could do whatever they wished and it would bother him not at all. But with Jon... Things were so strange. Different. With Jon, they hadn't so much as kissed, but Spencer felt a variety of violent emotions. Among them protectiveness. Territoriality. Jon was his.

There was something else about Carrabba that Spencer just couldn't put his finger on. It took him weeks to figure it out. Weeks of poking and worrying at it like a sore tooth. Carrabba not only reminded him of Jon (strangely enough), but also of Brendon. It caused a sudden, massive wave of homesickness to wash over him. Spencer missed Brendon and Ryan dearly. He was so close to home in the Arizona desert, yet Brendon and Ryan were still on duty in Europe. Brendon would like Jon, Spencer was sure. Ryan would too. But then, Ryan always loved who Spencer loved.

***

They trained on Helldivers for seven months before the new USS Yorktown left the Norfolk naval yard. Jon and Spencer weren't on board, but the new Yorktown set sail for the Pacific, just as her predecessor had done. Nobody had a good feeling about it. Everybody just kept on training, figuring they'd worry about it when the time came.

It was over a year, nearly thirteen months of struggling to learn new controls and fighting with temperamental armament before anyone was actually deployed. Those Helldivers seriously sucked.

Spencer and Jon and Faller and Carrabba met the Yorktown in San Francisco. They flew their shiny new helldivers from Arizona, up the California coast. It would have been beautiful if any of them had taken the time to look. But they had to meet their ship. The Yorktown took on supplies, and the new aircraft, and headed out to sea again on September 15, 1943.

It was strange to be shipboard again. Everything seemed closed in and crowded.

For Jon and Spencer, the rest of the year was spent milling about in the general vicinity of Hawaii; bouncing back and forth between the base at Pearl Harbor and various islands. Marcus Island. Wake Island. The Gilbert Islands. Early '44 found them conducting raids from New Guinea all the way north to the Marianas, poking holes in the Japanese defense. They went back to Hawaii in May to conduct training operations.

By June they were back out in the Pacific.

They bombed Guam. They bombed the Bonin Islands. They bombed the Marianas again. It became the Battle of the Philippine Sea. They really didn't want to have to think about it ever again. So many ships, so many planes. Five US battle groups, with twelve carriers and more than a hundred support craft. They downed three Japanese carriers. Six-hundred planes. So, so many planes. Any one of them could have been Jon's. Or Spencer's. As it was, their losses were minimal compared to the Japanese. They only lost 123 aircraft. They felt every single one.

It was quiet in the days after the battle. The calm after the storm, if you will. They were headed--albeit slowly--back to the States. The pilots tended to be silent and restive, as a group. Spencer was cranky, and his mood bled over into Jon, who turned snappish and withdrawn. Their gunners avoided them. That was fine. They just wanted to be alone anyway. Jon and Spencer had been spoiled by their long recuperation at Pearl and their subsequent training. In the hospital, once they had their legs again, of course, they could go essentially whereever they wanted. Could find little places to hide, tuck up together and just be. It was the same in Arizona. They had been busy, sure, but once they were done for the day they could go off, do what they wanted. Practically disappear.

It was August 17 when the Yorktown finally arrived at the Puget Sound Navy Yard. Everyone was so keyed up from having spent long months at sea that it seemed like sailors and pilots alike spilled off the ship like, well, like rats off a sinking ship. Seattle didn't know what it had coming to it.

Faller and Carrabba tried enthusiastically to get Jon and Spencer to take the ferry to Seattle with them, see what was up. They were unsuccessful. Faller and Carrabba wanted to go out to clubs; drink, look for girls. A lot of the guys were doing that. Jon and Spencer just wanted to be out, off the ship. They were going to stay in Bremerton, maybe go to the movies.

Faller almost argued.

"You're boring!" he whined, squinting at the two of them pointedly. Carrabba, at his side, shrugged and flashed a wicked grin at them before he hauled Faller off the ship, squawking. Spencer laughed, but Jon felt how he had tensed under Carrabba's knowing gaze.

It felt like a knowing gaze anyway.

Jon quickly took stock. They hadn't done anything, as far as he could tell, that would make Carrabba--or anyone, for that matter--think something was going on. Ever. They weren't standing too close, weren't touching at all. They weren't exchanging too-long glances, or smiling, or, or anything. Jon couldn't figure out how--if--Carrabba knew anything. Really, there wasn't anything to know. They lived on a ship, for goodness sake.

But they had two months docked in Puget Sound. Two months of a lot of leave time. They couldn't go on honest-to-goodness leave; they had to stay near the ship. But they could go to Seattle. They could hang out in Bremerton. They could even stay out for a couple days continuously if they had permission.

And oh, they had permission. Jon and Spencer were getting the hell out of there.

After a good bit of walking, they managed to find a little hotel on the other side of the Bremerton peninsula. The clerk didn't even bat an eye. Apparently it was common for sailors on leave to come across, looking for a place where at the very least they couldn't see their ship any more. They made some polite conversation, made some inquiries, and then were off to find their room.

It wasn't anything special; it was just a room. Still, Jon found his palms were sweating, and Spencer stood with unusually correct posture. It made him seem very tall. They dropped their things inside the door and stood looking at each other guiltily for several long minutes. Finally, Jon broke the silence.

"Do you want to go see a movie?" he asked. His face was all scrunched, and one shoulder was hunched up, like he expected Spencer to hit him. Spencer just laughed.

"Sure," he said. "Sure. Let's go. We passed the theater on the way over here, didn't we?" They had, so it was only a short trek to find it again. A movie was normal. A movie was safe. A movie was something they could talk about when they got back on the ship when they would be invariably asked, "So, whatcha do on leave?" Maybe they would go see a couple of movies.

Jon and Spencer walked to the Admiral Theater. It was only a couple years old, and still seemed pretty new and shiny. Even though Bremerton wasn't the largest city around, it got decent movies. They figured it was because of the military presence. Keep them happy. It was nice. They ended up seeing "Hail the Conquering Hero," which was supposed to be a comedy. Supposed to be. Spencer found it to be stupid. He didn't think it was funny at all to fake a military career. Fake service. Fake injuries. It was disrespectful.

Jon thought it was stupid. But funny stupid. He mostly just watched Spencer anyway.

They stopped off for some beers on the way back to the hotel. They knew to be careful, and quiet, and polite, even though they were back in the States. Not everyone was the biggest fan of military servicemen. They got in, they had a silent but smiling drink, they got out. Then they walked back to the hotel.

It was quiet when they returned. The sound of their feet on the carpet seemed unnaturally loud. Every door hinge creaked. Every stair step squeaked. Jon and Spencer remained speechless. When they paused to unlock the door to their room, Jon glanced up at Spencer quickly. His eyes. The look in his eyes was the same as it had been back all those months ago in Hawaii, and it made Jon fumble the key. Spencer just smirked. That made it worse, really, and Jon told him so.

Spencer's grin became wolfish. It made Jon's skin prickle and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. He really just needed to get the damn door open.

Jon got the door open.

They looked at each other for a long moment once they got inside the room. It seemed very quiet. The only sound Jon could hear was his harsh breath, and Spencer's. They were both hesitant. Fear and lust are both strong motivators. Jon had been tamping down the lust, letting fear win, for a very long time now. But then Spencer took a step, just one step towards Jon, and it seemed to set everything in motion. Jon closed the distance between them and grabbed fistfulls of Spencer's shirt with both hands before crashing their mouths together.

It was nothing like Jon would have expected a first kiss to be. And everything. It was Spencer. Finally.

Spencer gasped, his mouth opening, a chance not lost upon Jon. He swept his tongue in, twirling and tasting, and Spencer met him act for act, until he pulled away, panting, eyes glassy.

"Jesus, Jon," he murmured. Jon chuckled breathily, nosing Spencer's throat. He spread his fingers, at once releasing the fabric and pressing them into the flesh above Spencer's ribs. Jon smiled into the soft skin at the join of neck and shoulder, the dip of collarbone once broken. "You're laughing at me," Spencer said softly, chiding.

"No," said Jon, gently shaking his head, his breath on Spencer's skin. He smiled harder. "Not at all."

"You are," Spencer insisted. Jon raised his head to meet Spencer's eyes with his lower lip captured firmly between his teeth. The picture of innocence, ruined almost immediately by a shit-eating grin. Spencer huffed. "I've never--"

Jon kissed his lips again, sweetly.

"Neither have I," he said.

"No. No," Spencer continued. He looked away, up at the corner of the room at nothing at all. "I joined the Navy when I was seventeen, Jon. Just. The day after my birthday. The summer before I joined? I played ball with Ryan and Brendon. We were children. Not--I didn't--girls weren't--and boys... Jon, I was a child." His fingers clenched on Jon's biceps. Jon pressed his nose under Spencer's jaw in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and shushed him gently.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"That's just it," Spencer replied. "I want to do everything."

A wild, gleeful surge spread up through Jon all the way down from his toes. It was as if he couldn't contain the sly smirk sliding across his lips.

"We do only have two weeks of leave, you know."

Part Two

Epilogue to Forgive Me Pretty Baby (Spencer/girl!Ryan, Jon/girl!Brendon) NC-17

2009-05-07T02:30:10Z

TITLE: Epilogue to Forgive Me Pretty Baby (But I Always Take the Long Way Home)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17.
PAIRING, IF ANY: Spencer/girl!Ryan, Jon/girl!Brendon
POV: third person limited
SUMMARY: Horrifically schmoopy epilogue to girlverse. Marriage and babies. Yeah, I went there.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: This is fic of the always-been-a-girl variety. Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble.

Epilogue: 2012

The four of them stood on the stage, alternately grinning maniacally and blinking dazedly at each other. They had won. Actually won. They knew the album had been their best so far. Better than Progression and Pretty. Better than Fever. They loved it; had fun with it. Apparently it showed.

They were at the Grammys. The motherfucking Grammys. And they had won.

Bren beamed out at the audience, her head held high and proud. She clutched Ryan’s hand tightly. It kept them grounded. Spencer clutched the statuette. That was usually his job: do not let Bren have the award. Someone invariably got hurt when Bren got to hold the award.

Jon spoke for them. He bent to speak into the microphone while the rest of them crowded behind him. Spencer just tried not to poke him with the award.

“We would like to thank… everyone. Everyone involved in this record. Everyone not,” Jon grinned. “Thank you. It’s an honor.” Jon turned and looked at Spencer. Spencer shrugged and stepped forward. It was usually his job to talk too, just to make sure everything that needed to be said was said.

“Wow. That’s pretty much all we need to say.” Spencer shrugged again.

The audience laughed. Bren rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder, giggling. Spencer glanced over his shoulder and met Ryan’s eyes, and she smiled, shaking her head. He turned back to the crowd, making a yep, we’re done here kind of salute. Spencer rejoined the rest of his band behind him, moving to leave the stage. But Jon stepped up again.

“Oh wait, I have something else to say.” He took a deep breath, and Spencer inexplicably felt a chill run down his spine. “I’ve been planning this since we released Progression. Because Bren would say it’s about chords and life all at once. And she’s right; that’s true.” Spencer stood there with Ryan and Bren, just listening to Jon ramble. Thinking, yeah, or you know, a bunch of songs about Jon Walker’s fabulous dick. And hearing Bren’s manic laughter in his head. But Jon continued. “This would have made more sense then… But I can’t wait any longer.” Jon turned to face them and dropped to his knees.

Bren and Ryan both gasped audibly, and Ryan took a hasty step closer to Spencer, dropping Bren’s hand.

Jon held a ring in his outstretched hand.

The auditorium was silent.

“Will you marry me, Bren?”

Tears sparked in her eyes, and a hand flew to her mouth, but Bren nodded enthusiastically. The crowd erupted behind him, and Jon somehow managed to stand and slide the ring on Bren’s finger before she flung herself into his arms.

Ryan pressed closer to Spencer’s side. He wrapped an arm around her waist and bent to drop a kiss on her hair. He pressed his cheek to her head, and they stood there for a moment watching Jon and Bren shine.

***

It was late when Spencer and Ryan tumbled into their hotel room. They had been obliged to stay at the after-parties. Everyone from the label had been there, and Pete wouldn’t hear of any of them leaving. It took his own anxious wife to convince him to start letting people go, including themselves. There were babies at home.

It still kind of freaked Spencer out that Pete Wentz was someone’s father.

So Spence and Ryan had been able to escape, thanks to Ashlee.

And now, now they were at their hotel. He could see Ryan look around the room appraisingly, her eyebrows arching sharply. They really had gone all out for him: flowers, candles, champagne on ice. His heart sank.

“What’s the matter?” Ryan cocked her head.

“Nothing,” he said, making his way over to the champagne bucket, focused on peeling off the foil and working the cork. Stupid Jon Walker. Now he couldn’t… There was a whisper of fabric behind him and Ryan slipped her arms around his waist. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder as she slid her hands up to his chest, then down again.

Spencer continued to struggle with the cork. Weren’t they supposed to start these things for you? Just so this sort of thing wouldn’t happen? His fingers slipped on the damp bottle, and he nearly dropped it, slicing open his thumb on the twisted wires. They both hissed as the blood welled up. Ryan disappeared into the bathroom, returning quickly, bearing a damp washcloth and a slightly amused look. She shook her head as she grasped his bloody hand.

“Some days I wonder about you,” she said.

Me too.

Ryan silently cleaned and bandaged his wound, pressing a kiss to the uninjured tip of his thumb when she was done. She then made her way over to sit at the suite’s sofa, pulling a rose out of an arrangement as she passed. Spencer watched her as she sniffed it casually, then began to dismember it equally so. She smiled at him then, and jerked her chin at the still-unopened bottle. He managed to finish opening it without further bloodletting.

They sat together drinking champagne and talking. Ryan kicked off her perilously high heels and curled into his side with a sigh.

“Can you believe it?” she asked wistfully.

“That you got all dressed up and put on girl shoes?” Spencer replied with a smirk. “No.” Ryan poked him in the ribs, making him giggle and snort into his champagne flute, which she promptly took away. Ryan climbed into his lap, straddling his hips. The skirt of her dress hiked up around her thighs. Spencer relaxed back into the sofa with a sigh, his palms sliding up Ryan’s long legs until he reached the tops of her “real silk, Ryan, look!” stockings. “I like these,” he said absently. Ryan grinned.

“We’ll have to be careful, then,” she said before tugging at his belt, grinning harder. Spencer slid further down into the sofa, letting Ryan manhandle him sort of half out of his pants. He held still as she positioned herself above him, simply pushing her panties aside before sinking down onto him.

Spencer fought to keep his eyes open, on Ryan. He wanted to sink into the sofa, let the sensation of her surround him. But he didn’t. He watched her, and she watched him. It was such a little thing, yet surprisingly intimate. Spencer clutched at Ryan’s thighs and thrust up, harder and harder, until Ryan threw her head back and dug her fingers into the join of his neck and shoulder, a high whine in the back of her throat. She writhed, crying out loud when Spencer held her still and came hard. He knew she could feel the pulsing inside her; she had told him about it before in great, filthy, dirty detail.

Ryan did have a way with words.

She sauntered off to the bathroom after tucking him neatly back into his pants. Spencer took a moment to enjoy the post-coital buzz before resuming his never-to-be-voiced bitch-out to Walker. His plans were ruined, and he couldn’t even make Jon pay. Ryan would kill him if he spoiled Jon and Bren’s happiness in any way, shape, or form. Something like this would never have happened to her. Ryan always knew exactly what was going on with her band.

Spencer froze in horror. Fuck.

Ryan stood in front of him with a bemused expression on her face.

“So,” she began. Spencer arched an eyebrow at her, working frantically to feign coolness. Ryan merely continued looking at him. “Are you going to do it, or are you going to make me suffer?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Spence,” Ryan sighed. She turned away, dragging a hand through her hair. Spencer stood hastily and crossed the room to where she stood. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close.

“I thought I just did it,” he said; trying for light. His lips brushed her neck. Ryan snorted softly and batted at his hands. He knew she was smiling again, even if he couldn’t see it. “I didn’t know if you’d be upset about Jon and Bren.” Ryan jerked. “No, no, I know. I love them too. It’s great; I’m really very happy for them; blah blah blah.” Ryan stifled a laugh and Spencer smiled into her hair. Then he pulled the velvet bag out of his pocket, squeezing tightly so he could feel the contents inside.

Yes, it was a bag. Not a box.

It was far easier to tote around a tiny, squashy bag in his pocket. And it had been. For weeks. It was time to let it go.

Spencer closed his eyes and reached around Ryan again.

“I didn’t know if you’d want a day of your own,” he said, pressing the velvet into her hands. Ryan stopped breathing. Spencer actually started to worry before she turned in his arms. She was pale, white as a ghost, but there was a hint of a smile behind the way she gripped her lower lip between her teeth. Spencer relaxed then. He released her and grasped her hands, swiping his thumbs over her skin. He drew a shaky breath and glanced at Ryan’s face before letting his knees bend.

A look of horror flashed across Ryan’s face.

“No! No!” she cried, tugging at Spencer’s hands.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as he straightened again, quickly.

“You can’t—Spence, you—“ Ryan paused, obviously trying to collect her thoughts. “It’s too much like—like begging, Spence. I want you on your feet. Please.”

“You do like to keep me on my toes,” Spencer said softly. Ryan closed her eyes and sighed. “And you have reduced me to begging.” Ryan shook her head. Spencer couldn’t believe the crap that was coming out of his mouth, either. He raised one of her hands and kissed the palm before cradling it against his cheek. “I love you, Ry,” he said, essentially into her wrist. “I always have. I always will. If you let me.” Spencer took the velvet bag from Ryan’s grasp and opened it, fishing out the ring. “Please, Ryan. Will you?”

Ryan’s gaze didn’t waver from the space between them on the floor, but Spencer could see her cheeks turn pink and the corners of her lips tilt up. When she finally met his eyes, Ryan’s own were bright with unshed tears, and Spencer actually had a moment of shock. Even after nearly twenty years, Spencer could count on one hand the times he had seen Ryan cry. But then she smiled.

“Yes.” And Spencer relaxed. Ryan grinned at his outburst of breath and snatched the ring out of his hands. He laughed at her, but watched as she slipped it on her finger and pretended not to examine it.

“Go ahead,” he said. Ryan’s head jerked up and she looked at him guiltily. “Check it out; I know you want to.” Ryan blushed.

“No,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I want to check you out.” Spencer snorted. “Besides, it’s not like Bren and I won’t spend every waking moment for the rest of this tour comparing notes.”

“True,” he said with a smirk.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Ryan said, fighting to hold a pretty pout. “I could put your eye out with this thing.” And she brandished her ring at him like the least threatening brass knuckles ever.

***

Much Later

Ryan and Bren stood at the edge of the sofa, looking at the baby. He was bundled tightly in his blankets and tucked snugly in the notch of a crescent-shaped pillow.

“Is that… swaddling?” Ryan asked in a low voice.

“Yeah.” Bren gazed adoringly on the tiny bundle, casting a quick glance over at Jon, who was passed out in a chair a few feet away.

“And is that pillow thing a, uh, boppy?”

“Yeah,” Bren replied with a laugh. Ryan was ridiculous. It was as if she had never seen a baby before, goodness sakes.

“What’s he doing?” The baby periodically made soft noises, but he was clearly asleep.

“I think he’s dreaming.” Bren smiled at him indulgently. She was besotted. It was awful.

“Really?” Ryan asked skeptically.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, higher brain functions and all that.”

“I don’t think dreaming is a higher brain function, Ryan,” Bren said. “Dogs dream.” Ryan shrugged. “Where’s Spence?” Way to change the subject.

“I don’t know; hiding somewhere with Pete and Mikey, I guess.” Bren raised a questioning eyebrow. “I know, I know. But Spence is the responsible one. And Pete and Mikey are pretty harmless these days.” Ryan looked at the baby again. “He looks like an eighteen-year-old frat boy who’s had five or ten too many. If that was a beanbag chair instead. He could crush beer cans on his forehead.”

Bren squawked, scandalized.

“Ryan! You’re evil!” Bren wailed. “Little Stanley Way is gorgeous! And—and, he would never! Mikey wouldn’t—Gerard would—“ And Bren quite suddenly and inexplicably dissolved into tears. Ryan immediately implemented her Crying!Bren tactics and stood as still as possible. Ryan treated her like a velociraptor: if she didn’t move, Bren couldn’t see her. It kind of usually worked.

But Jon woke with a start.

“What’s wrong, love?” he said, getting to his feet. “Are you okay?” Bren tripped to his side and buried her head in his chest, heaving a shuddering sigh.

“Yeah,” she wavered, offering a watery smile. “I’m fine. Just a little… you know.” Jon grinned and patted her hip.

“Good,” he said. Then he turned to Ryan with a smirk. “Quit torturing Bren. And pick up that poor, ugly baby. He needs some love.” They all laughed, especially when Ryan glanced down to see that the baby was still fast asleep and completely oblivious to everything going on around him.

“I’d watch what you say about that baby, Walker,” said Spencer from across the room. Ryan met his eyes and he smiled before moving to join them. “Alicia is around here somewhere. She’s killed men for lesser offenses.” Jon snorted. “And the MCR guys have this freaky pseudo-familial bond thing going on that I really wouldn’t want to get in the middle of.”

“I knew it: Iero’s mafia,” Jon deadpanned. Bren giggled into his shirt.

“Can’t be worse than us,” Ryan mused.

“Oh, Auntie Ry,” Bren sniffled again. “I’m touched.” Ryan squinted at her.

“You’re so weird.”

They all jumped when the baby shrieked. And the only one of them who didn’t actually take a step back was Bren, who danced forward to scoop him up. She shot a glare at Jon while she cuddled the baby and cooed and waltzed him around the room.

“Your mommy told me to leave you be,” she sang. “But you’re just too sweet. Yes you are!”

“Like I said…” Ryan mumbled. Jon elbowed her in the side. The baby continued to scream, and Bren was beginning to fray around the edges.

“Here,” Spencer reached for the tiny bundle. “Babies love me.” Ryan and Bren both eyed him dubiously. “No, really.” He made gimme hands at Bren. “I don’t know. My sisters…” Bren shrugged and handed him the baby.

The baby hiccupped once or twice and fell back asleep. Spencer grinned smugly until another child came flying into the room and attached herself to his leg.

“Uncle Spencer!” five-year-old Elena Way screeched, in that way only five-year-olds can. She was followed by Lindsay and Alicia, who pried Elena off Spencer and took away baby Stanley, respectively.

“Thanks, man, the kids love you,” Lindsay said, peering out from around a head of tousled black curls. Spencer just shrugged and ducked his head. Lindsay terrified him. Alicia snickered. “Gerard just called to say they were running late. Something about bingo…” She made a vague hand gesture. “But that you guys should take off if you wanted and he would catch up with you later.”

They had been dismissed. Maybe it was kind of like the Mafia. Gerard had made them an offer they couldn’t refuse…

Bren was strangely silent as they made their way back to their condo. She wasn’t just saving her voice for recording. She was quiet, and it was weird. It made Ryan uncomfortable.

Ryan actually opened her mouth to ask different variations of the same question several times, but never got anything to come out. Bren patted her hand and stared out the window. Something was wrong. Ryan wasn’t about to sit idly by and let Bren struggle on her own. She opened her mouth again, determined, but Bren cut her off.

“I’ll talk to you later.” And that was that.

Ryan took the opportunity, once they got back, to spend some quality time worshipping the sun. It might be Jersey, but it was still summer. She stripped down and changed into a teeny bikini before Spence even had a chance to come out of the bathroom.

Ryan was half asleep and probably burnt when she heard a sliding glass door open.

“I’m ready to talk. I want to talk.” Ryan opened her eyes and gazed at Bren’s figure in the doorway.

“Okay,” she said, and got up. Inside, Spencer was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Jon.

“I made Jon take Spencer out. I didn’t want…” Ryan laid a hand on Bren’s arm.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? You’re freaking me out.”

Bren laughed. Ryan frowned.

“I’m pregnant.” Ryan sat down hard on the sofa, lucky that it was behind her, or she would have sat down hard on the floor.

“I thought you were fighting with Jon! Or dying! Or thinking about leaving the band! Not that you were—you’ve been married for about five minutes! What the hell?”

Bren laughed again at Ryan’s discomfiture.

“I’m touched by your concern, Ryan.” Bren sat next to her and wrapped a skinny arm around her neck. She was surprised when Ryan actually hugged her back. “And we’ve been married for longer than five minutes…” Ryan grumbled. “Hey! You’re lucky I don’t have six kids and a husband who doesn’t let me go outside.”

“True. Jon’s good like that,” Ryan said dryly.

“We Uries are just a fertile lot,” Bren chirped.

“Ick.” Bren poked Ryan in the side. It didn’t make her loose her grip around Bren’s waist.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Ryan didn’t understand how Bren could just sit there breathing calmly while she herself cast her mind about in all directions. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Bren’s eyes slowly widened until she was practically gaping at Ryan in horror.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re—“ Ryan jumped.

“What? No, no! Oh, hell no,” Ryan babbled.

“But you want to be,” Bren said with certainty. “You want a baby too.” Ryan sat very still for a few moments, taking stock.

“I do,” she admitted finally.

“Holy shit!”

“I know. Shut up,” Ryan grumbled. Bren grinned. Ryan examined her closely. “Aren’t you scared?”

“No,” Bren didn’t even pause to think. “Well, maybe a little, but that’s normal. There’s some strange shit going on, but for the most part I feel the same. And it’ll all turn out ok in the end.”

“That’s kind of what I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?” Bren squinted at her, and Ryan sighed.

“It’s just scary.”

“What, like the end part? Because that’s what they have drugs for, Ryan. I hear they give you the good shit.” Bren smiled broadly and Ryan snorted. When Ryan didn’t respond further, Bren continued. “Or are you worried about the band?”

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Ryan finally admitted. “I’m petrified. What’s going to happen to us, Bren?” She was getting a little frantic, so Bren pulled Ryan into an embrace and didn’t let go.

“It’ll be ok; you’ll see. Babies didn’t change Fall Out Boy; they didn’t change MCR. Everyone is just the same. If anything, they’re better. Look at Cobra. Since they had Eugenie, they’re stronger than ever. Those boys are devoted to her,” Bren said with some measure of pride.

“Gabe even got some of his creepy back,” Ryan mumbled into Bren’s shoulder. Bren giggled and squeezed Ryan tighter.

“See? We’ll be ok.” She patted Ryan’s back. “Jon and I still love you. Our baby won’t change that. Neither will yours. You’ll still love us just the same. Plus, you’ll get to have a tiny little person who’s part you and part Spence…” Bren sighed wistfully and cradled Ryan gently. “Can you imagine? Little round cheeks, big blue eyes.”

“Do you want to have Spencer’s babies, Bren? Geez.” Ryan smiled against Bren’s skin.

“Hell, who doesn’t?” she laughed. “Maybe next time.” Bren waggled her eyebrows and both of them cracked up.

“I hope I would get some say in that,” said Spencer from across the room. Ryan jumped, but Bren retained her hold, patting her shoulder reassuringly. Ryan still hated to show her vulnerability, even to them.

Jon and Spencer stood in the doorway, holding grocery bags. Ryan and Bren had quite obviously not heard them come in. Hadn’t heard the car in the drive.

“Me too,” Jon agreed. “I don’t share well.” Bren snickered and Ryan shuddered.

“Oh, thank god,” Ryan gasped. “No offence, B.”

“None taken,” Bren said tenderly. “You don’t share well either.”

“Ew. I see you naked enough.” Ryan shuddered again.

“What? Where were you going with that idea? No, no, no. We’re not Cobra Starship, Ry, you kinky bitch.” Ryan recoiled in horror while the other three laughed.

“Come on, we have food here,” Jon said, gesturing with his bags. Ryan and Bren stood and followed them into the kitchen. Spencer dumped his bags on the counter and snagged Ryan as she approached, pulling her back into the other room and away from Jon and Bren.

“Hey,” he said, dropping a brief kiss to her lips. “What’s up? You ok?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said sheepishly, pressing her forehead to Spencer’s shoulder and sinking into his presence. “It’s nothing.”

“Do we need to have a talk?” Spencer asked softly.

“Not now.”

“We can have as many babies as you want, you know. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Heard that, huh?” Ryan sighed. Spencer nodded.

“Whatever you want, Ry. I mean it. Anything.” Ryan cuddled him closer.

“Just go fuck already!” Bren yelled from the kitchen. They could hear Jon giggling in the background.

“Yeah, um, no,” Spencer said. Ryan smirked.

“Maybe later,” she said.

“Later,” he promised. “Let’s go eat.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Food now, fuck later.” Spencer’s eyes flashed and he gripped her tighter.

“Ryan,” Spencer growled. She shivered against him.

“Later, love. Later.”

“Promise.”

Bright as Yellow (Farmers' Market AU) Brendon/Ryan, NC-17

2009-05-06T02:29:26Z

TITLE: Bright as Yellow (Farmers' Market AU)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett) and Lauren (tuesdaysgone)
RATING: NC-17.
PAIRING, IF ANY: Brendon/Ryan, mention of Ryan/her, Jon/Spencer off to the side
POV: third person limited (focus on Ryan)

SUMMARY: Ryan loses his job and his girlfriend dumps him on the same day. What does he do? Go to Brendon, of course. (7259 words)

Immediately following the events of “Dreaming in Color”.

Contemporary with “Patrick’s Garden Center” and associated fic.

“Patrick Has a Truck”

“Bittersweet Bakery”

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.

NOTES: Beta by tuesdaysgone on the parts that I did, and vice versa. Plus, this whole deal was conceived by kueble, when she drove over to my house and saw the actual Patrick's Garden Center down the road and essentially freaked out over it. Hee. This is not the same Patrick, nor Patrick's Garden Center. Please see the disclaimer.

“Bright as Yellow”

Brendon opened the door to his tiny apartment, took one look at Ryan, and said, "Hi!" immediately followed by, "Ohmygod, what's wrong?" Ryan frowned. He wasn't that transparent, was he? He followed Brendon into the apartment and sat on the ancient overstuffed couch. Brendon didn't sit. Brendon paced. Ryan stared at his hands, picking absentmindedly at paint splashes on his jeans.

"She left me," he finally blurted out. Brendon's footsteps stilled, but Ryan didn't look up. "She dumped me," Ryan repeated. "And she's moving, and I can't afford that place by myself, not without a job. And I don't know what to do." His voice shook, and he felt a surge of self-hatred, but the words just kept pouring out. About her, about the apartment, about school, about his unfinished painting, about everything. Finally, he ran out of words.

Ryan became aware, then, of a hand pressing against his chest. "Breathe," Brendon said. Ryan obliged, drawing a shuddering breath, then another. The hand shifted to rest gently on Ryan's knee. He opened his eyes. Brendon had knelt in front of the couch and was looking up at him steadily. "You will figure it out," Brendon told him. "And you have help. You have Spencer. You have me."

Unable to break eye contact, Ryan stared down at Brendon for a moment, excruciatingly aware of the warmth of Brendon's hand seeping through the knee of his jeans. He lifted his own hand slowly to Brendon's head, long fingers threading through the dark hair. It was softer than Ryan could have imagined, silky. He licked suddenly dry lips.

Brendon's eyes flashed hot, and Ryan's slipped closed. Then he felt, for the second time that day, his wrists enclosed in a painfully strong grip. He drew in a hissing breath at the pressure.

"No," said Brendon, pinning his wrists to the couch.

"No?" Ryan whispered, eyes fluttering open. Brendon's had gone cold, flat.

"I will not be your rebound, Ryan. I won't." His voice was low, urgent.

Ryan opened his mouth to reply, and was stopped by Brendon's fingers across his lips. Brendon dragged his fingers slowly, deliberately down across Ryan's lower lip till Ryan stilled. "You don't know what you want right now, Ryan," Brendon whispered. "You think you do, but you don't. Take your time, but decide, Ryan. And then convince me."

Ryan stood jerkily, pulled free of Brendon's grasp. Brendon followed him up, stopping him with a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Where are you going, Ryan?"

"I'm...I guess you want me to..." He motioned weakly towards the door.

"No, stay," Brendon. "My couch is your couch, and all that," he added, and his tone was suddenly back to normal Brendon, not the intense Brendon of only minutes before.

"Okay," said Ryan. Okay.

***

His second night on Brendon's couch, Ryan woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The nightmares were starting again. He rubbed his forehead, staring at the living room ceiling for a few minutes. Then he got up, creeping silently across the apartment to Brendon's bedroom door. He eased it open and peeked inside. Brendon didn't stir. Ryan tiptoed across the floor and slipped under the covers. Brendon turned over but didn't wake, and Ryan fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Ryan woke the next morning to Brendon's alarm, and an arm slung loosely over his side. Even as he became aware of its presence, Brendon jerked awake and rolled over, silencing the alarm. Ryan didn't open his eyes, just turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, but before he drifted back into sleep he heard Brendon mutter, "That's not the way it works."

***

The next night, he slipped through Brendon's door as soon as he heard the water in the bathroom shut off. Brendon paused in the act of slipping under the covers, fixing Ryan with a deliberate stare.

"I've been having nightmares," Ryan said simply. "It helps if I'm not alone."

"Oh," was all Brendon said, but his eyes softened and he raised the covers in invitation. However, Ryan could feel the tension in Brendon's turned back when he climbed in beside him. He fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, Ryan awoke to the feel of a slim calf between his own, and Brendon pressed against his back, morning wood hard against his spine. Ryan couldn't control his own shudder of awareness, and he must have woken Brendon, because he went absolutely still for a moment, then virtually leapt from the bed and into the bathroom. Ryan turned his face into the pillow. The sheets smelled of Brendon. He heard the shower start in the bathroom, and his mind wandered. Water pelting against Brendon's hot skin, sluicing over his shoulders. Brendon's hand slicking over his wet stomach, closing around his erection.

Ryan's own hand slipped under his pajama bottoms, closed over his own straining cock. His head tossed against the pillows as he jerked himself roughly once, twice, three times. He came with embarrassing rapidity into his own hand. It was only then, with his own come cooling on his skin, that he realized what he'd done. He curled around himself, burrowed under the covers, and feigned sleep when Brendon reemerged from the bathroom to dress.

Two hours later, Spencer appeared in Brendon's bedroom doorway.

"Ryan?" Upon finding Ryan still curled in Brendon's bed, Spencer raised an eyebrow at him but didn't make a comment. Ryan knew he was only biding his time, though. What Spencer did say was, "Geez, Ryan, haven't you even showered since you left your place?"

Ryan flipped him off.

Spencer ignored this and yanked the covers down. "Up. Shower. Now. Then we're going back to your place."

"I don't want to..." Ryan started.

"You don't have to stay. I'll drive you there. You can come stay with me...my mom would love it."

"I think," Ryan paused. "Okay, we can go pick up some of my stuff, but I just want to come back here." He didn't know if he could handle Spencer's mother and sisters hovering right now.

Spencer shot him a look, like, I'm sure you do, but refrained from commenting, just shoved Ryan into the bathroom and shut the door.

***

Ryan’s place was dark and quiet when he pushed open the door. She wasn’t home. She hadn’t moved out yet, but she was gone. For now. Ryan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Spencer clapped him on the shoulder and sort of gently shoved him over the threshold.

“Let’s not take all day about this, hmm?” Ryan shot him a look and Spencer held up his hands.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Ryan said, pointing a finger at Spence. “For a best friend? It took you three days to come get me. Three days.” Ryan turned his back before Spencer could respond.

“I knew you were in good hands,” Spence said after a moment, then added, softly, “Brendon called.” Ryan’s head popped out from his bedroom.

“Rea—“ his voice cracked with a squeak. Ryan cleared his throat and tried again, “He did?”

Spencer considered him silently for a minute, cocking his hips and tipping up his chin.

“He did. Brendon told me all about it. Then I came over here to see for myself.” Ryan tripped over his duffle.

“You did what?”

“You heard me.”

“I—was she here? What did she say?” Ryan’s legs seemed to give out, and he sat down on his duffle, wincing when something shifted and cracked. Spencer sat on the floor in front of him and crossed his legs. He smoothed the fabric of his jeans then picked absently at a thread. “What did she say, Spence?” Spencer continued his ministrations without looking up. Ryan leaned in. “What did you say?”

“I told her she was doing you a favor. I told her the best thing she could have done was to get out of your life so you could figure out what you wanted for yourself.”

“But—but Spence, I loved her,” Ryan said mournfully, twisting his fingers together.

“Yes, you did.” Spencer clasped Ryan’s joined hands. “But do you now?” Ryan’s head shot up, and the look in his eyes was more fear and anxiety than anger or sadness. Spencer continued. “I know you weren’t happy here…” Ryan drooped. “I’m your best friend, how could I not? You didn’t have to tell me for me to see it. I could see a lot of things you weren’t telling me.”

Ryan pulled his hands away and slowly lifted his head to look Spencer in the eye.

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve seen. How you look at Brendon.”

Ryan whirled away and fell off the back side of his duffle. He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself into the bedroom. Spencer sighed and stood. At least Ryan hadn’t slammed the door in his face.

Ryan lay curled in a little ball on the bed when Spencer got to him. He could feel Spence’s eyes on him, and he tucked his nose further into his chest. Spence sat on the bed behind him and started to rub his back soothingly. Ryan tensed then started to uncurl by degrees. Soon he lay tucked up against Spencer, with his head on his chest and trying not to sniffle.

“Would it be so bad?” Spencer asked, breaking the silence. Ryan didn’t even twitch. “I mean, I turned out ok, right?” Ryan snorted softly. Spencer poked him in the side. “Don’t wipe your nose on my shirt. And you’ve always been awfully touchy-feely anyway, for a straight guy. Look at you now; Jon should be jealous.”

Ryan pushed away and rolled over, throwing an arm over his eyes. Spencer just laughed.

“Jon knows better,” Ryan noted dryly. Spencer rolled onto his side and looked at Ryan fixedly.

“Jon knows better,” he echoed. “Jon knows. What about Brendon?" Ryan groaned. Spencer propped himself up on an elbow. “Ry, does Brendon—“

“Brendon doesn’t want me,” Ryan moaned into his sleeve. Spencer flopped onto his back. “He—he said…”

“What did he say? Exactly?”

“He said he wouldn’t be my rebound. That I didn’t know what I wanted.” Spencer sat up.

“What did you do?”

“I just—I just. Touched him,” Ryan reached out into nothingness, as if a ghostly Brendon was before him. Spencer thumped his head.

“And that’s all he said?”

“He said that I had to decide. And that I had to convince him.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Spencer shoved at Ryan, hard, and he flailed to keep from falling off the bed. Ryan clutched the bedcovers and gaped at Spencer. “He just—gah! You are a moron!” Ryan just shook his head. “How did you ever get girls to sleep with you, being this stupid? Ok, ok, I’ll give you the first part: he doesn’t want to be a rebound. Fine. But the rest? He just wants to wait until you’re sure! Idiot.” Spencer shoved him again for good measure.

“Wait—what?” Spencer sighed. This was going to take a while.

“Brendon wants you, asshat. Just not now when you’re all fucked in the head. Not now. Later, when you’re ready.”

“What?” Ryan looked pale and jittery.

“Are you deaf now, too?” Ryan scowled at Spencer. “Take it easy, and convince him. He told you what you have to do.”

“But I don’t know what to do!” Ryan practically wailed, making Spencer flinch. “Nothing I’ve tried is working!”

“Obviously,” Spencer commented. Then he added under his breath, "You so need to get laid." When Ryan sputtered, Spencer added, "Look at me, am I tense?"

"You're an asshole," Ryan muttered.

"You love me anyway. Now, are you coming home with me or not?"

Ryan shook his head. "Brendon's. I just...it's not like I'll even see you, Mr. I'm-Sooo-Relaxed. How many hours have you spent in your own house the past few days?"

Spencer had the nerve to smirk. "You're such a bitch," he told Ryan.

"You love me anyway."

***

Spencer took him back to Brendon's. Brendon was home when they got there, and he and Spencer shared a long look as Ryan unloaded his bags. A very long look. It was apparent even to Ryan that the Look had contained an entire conversation, one Ryan wasn't privy to. However, all they said was, "He stays much longer, he's going to have to chip in for rent." Brendon.

"That's only fair." Spencer, evenly.

"Is anyone talking to me?" Ryan demanded, rather petulantly.

Brendon turned to him immediately. "Want to watch a movie?" His tone was utterly casual.

"Sure," Ryan hurried to answer. "Spence, you want to stay?"

"If I can call Jon first," Spencer answered.

It ended up being all four of them. Jon came over, and after bickering for a few minutes, Spencer and Brendon managed to mutually agree on Brendon's The Usual Suspects DVD. Though if Jon or Spencer paid any attention to the movie after curling up together at one end of Brendon's couch, Ryan would have eaten the DVD case. Brendon was squeezed into the leftover couch space, and Ryan leaned against the arm of the couch from his seat on the floor.

Ryan fidgeted incessantly through the first half hour of the movie. After his shoulder knocked against Brendon's knee for the fifth or sixth time, Brendon reached out, fingers curling around the back of Ryan's neck, beneath the collar of Ryan's t-shirt. Ryan relaxed under the steady press of Brendon's fingers, and sat still for the rest of the movie.

***

They made it through a whole week of co-habitating, with Ryan scrupulously sticking to the couch at night. A week of skirting around one another carefully, moving in slow motion (or so it felt to Ryan) through every moment of deliberate or accidental contact.

Then it started to rain. To pour, really. It was over the July 4th holiday, unfortunately, when Brendon was off work anyway, and so Brendon's mid-week vacation turned into Ryan and Brendon, stuck inside a small apartment.

The fireworks got rained out, too. Ryan thought bitterly that it was a really fucking great metaphor for his life, actually. So great that Ryan had started painting it, all cadmium flashes and prussian blue thunderheads, like a Van Gogh nightmare. Except that Brendon was making it really fucking hard to concentrate.

Ryan slapped a paintbrush down on the table with a vehemence it didn't deserve and stalked over to where Brendon was leaning against the arm of the couch. "Give me that remote," Ryan demanded, hand outstretched.

Brendon just leaned back, studying him. "Why?"

"Because if you play the Rocky Horror video one more time today, I will kill you with my bare hands," Ryan replied acidly. He gave up, grabbed for the remote. Brendon resisted.

It degenerated immediately into all-out wrestling. Brendon weighed more, but Ryan had the benefit of growing up with Spencer. Spencer fought dirty, and Ryan had picked up a few tricks. Soon he was sitting on Brendon, holding the contested remote. He tossed it onto the couch, well out of Brendon's reach, and laughed victoriously.

This was when Ryan became aware that he was straddling Brendon. Brendon, who had gone very still. Brendon, who when Ryan whispered his name just looked back at him, dark eyes bottomless, expressionless.

Unable to stop himself, Ryan breathed out slowly, rolling his hips experimentally. Oh. Oh. He did it again. Brendon's tongue darted out to touch his bottom lip, but that was all the warning Ryan got before Ryan felt Brendon's legs twisting around his, flipping him onto his back. Brendon's hips and mouth came down hard onto Ryan's at the same exact moment, and Ryan let out a startled groan.

Brendon tasted like cherries, like every sin Ryan had ever considered. Ryan's hands scrabbled for the hem of Brendon's shirt, searching for skin, and Brendon pulled it roughly over his head, tossing it aside before licking a stripe up Ryan's long neck. Ryan ran feather-light hands over the planes of Brendon's back, his wiry muscles, and Brendon murmured, "Ryan. Ryan." in a tone of disbelief, hands pushing Ryan's own t-shirt up and off, lips skating over Ryan's collarbones.

Ryan rocked his hips up against him, fingers fumbling for the button of Brendon's jeans. He gasped, "Bren!" against those sinful lips, and the next thing he knew, Brendon stilled, rolling off him and standing, quick as lightning. "What is it?" Ryan choked out.

Brendon just looked at him. Ryan was aware then that he was sprawled on the floor, half naked, in Brendon's living room. Brendon didn't look much better; hair mussed, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned. He looked crazed.

"I can't do this," Brendon breathed.

"What?" Ryan questioned, hating the inanity of his own voice. He swallowed, tried again. "Why not?" He rolled to his feet, stood facing Brendon, fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you ready to come to my bedroom, Ryan?" Brendon's voice was raw. "Have you ever been fucked before, Ryan?"

Ryan couldn't help it; he flinched.

"That's what I thought." Brendon caught Ryan by the belt loops, yanked him closer. "God, Ryan, you have no idea the kinds of things I want to do to you."

Ryan looked up, looked him directly in the eyes at last. Something hot and black was boiling behind his lips, and when he opened his mouth it was like someone else talking. He said, "And you have no idea if I'll let you. So who's more afraid?"

They stared at each other for a moment, then Brendon whirled and stalked into the bedroom. If he'd have slammed the door, Ryan would have felt vindicated. Instead, it shut with a soft click, and Ryan was left with the feeling that he had said the most horrible thing he could have to someone who deserved it least.

***

Ryan haunted Brendon’s apartment. He was silent and barely visible, his presence only confirmed by things he left behind: a tube of paint here, a little brush there. Ryan was miserable, but he was painting like a fiend.

Maybe he would rethink getting rid of his therapist.

Ryan swept the finishing touches on his latest. It was the park across the street from Brendon’s apartment. One tree. One bench. The sky. Mostly the sky. Ryan had taken to snapping pictures of the sky as he saw it from Brendon’s front steps. He had several versions that he liked, and this one, this first one, was a fiery sky. The tree and the bench were practically charred afterthoughts. It was all about the sky, heat, intensity.

The next one was going to be blue.

Ryan smiled to himself as he cleaned up his supplies. He had been conscientious of Brendon’s space and been very careful to wipe up any spills or smudges. Ryan had a tendency to sort of erupt around his paintings. Things could get away from him.

Like the cap to his tube of scarlet. Ryan liked red. He used it a lot. Paint was expensive when one wasn’t working, so he wasn’t going to waste it. But the cap had disappeared.

Ryan spied it under a kitchen chair.

And promptly kicked it. Right under Brendon’s bedroom door.

Shit.

Ryan put down the tube of scarlet so he didn’t inadvertently squeeze it all over himself. He crept across the room and stood in front of the door, biting his lip and wiping the pads of his fingers on his jeans and stressing like Brendon was behind the door ready to bite his head off. He wasn’t, of course. He wasn’t even home. Ryan just had to open the door, get his cap, and be done with it.

But he had been so good about respecting Brendon’s space. Trying to—something. Make up for his harsh words. He had been cruel, and Brendon had done nothing to merit it. Not really, anyway.

Ryan took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was still just Brendon’s room. No dragons. Ryan took a step inside and looked around. The damnable cap was nowhere to be seen. How hard had he kicked the stupid thing? Ryan stooped. Then he knelt to peer under the bed.

Aha!

Under the bed.

Ryan tucked up the drooping bedclothes to reach for his cap. He snagged it, sitting back on his haunches and picking off dust bunnies. His hand brushed the edge of the mattress and it was silky, unexpected. Ryan found himself staring at a silk scarf looped through one of the little handles on the side of the mattress. It was yellow.

That was all Ryan could think.

Yellow.

Ryan let the delicate material flow over his fingers. He twisted it in his fist, wrapping it around his wrist and tugging experimentally. He let go and the fabric slipped and slid across his skin until it lay flat against the mattress again.

Ryan gripped his cap and looked up to see Brendon standing in the doorway.

“Jesus fuck!” Ryan gasped. He shot to his feet, clutching his cap.

“Find what you needed?” Brendon asked softly. Ryan nodded tersely, waved the cap halfheartedly. Brendon’s eyes never wavered. Never acknowledged Ryan’s reason for invading his space yet again. Brendon’s eyes bored into him. Ryan stood his ground.

Brendon didn’t.

Brendon took a step back.

Ryan would never know how his face changed. The minute display of disappointment that flickered over his features. It was enough. Enough to stop Brendon in his tracks. Enough to get him moving forward instead. Brendon only stopped when he was completely inside Ryan's personal space. It had been long enough since Brendon had been so close that Ryan actually felt his skin tingle. But Brendon wasn't touching him, just looking.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Brendon repeated softly.

"I think I did," Ryan breathed. He reached out, trailing his fingers along Brendon's jaw, leaning in to kiss him softly, surely. He didn't stop until he felt Brendon's lips move against his, till Brendon sighed into his mouth. Then he drew back, backing towards the bed and pulling Brendon with him.

Ryan kept his eyes locked with Brendon's as he sank to his knees by the side of the bed. He saw the tremor run through Brendon as he registered the position, and noted Brendon's reaction for later. Reaching out blindly, he grasped the object he was looking for - the trailing end of the yellow scarf. Then he stood, deliberately sliding up Brendon's body, so that he felt as well as heard Brendon's ragged gasp.

"I decided," Ryan whispered against Brendon's lips.

Brendon's fingers wrapped ever-so-delicately around the hand holding the yellow silk. "And this is how you want to convince me?" Brendon returned softly.

"Yes. Please," was the answer.

Those two quiet words seemed to unlock something in Brendon. He caught Ryan’s mouth in a deep, drugging kiss, until Ryan felt his head spin and dimly, felt Brendon’s hands on the fastenings of his clothing. Brendon didn’t stop until Ryan was naked before him—and then he just stopped and looked.

Ryan felt a dull flush spreading over his skin, and he shivered as Brendon reached out to trace the line of Ryan’s collarbone. “You’re beautiful,” Brendon told him.

“No,” Ryan protested. “I’m not. You are.” He reached for Brendon, fisting his hands in Brendon’s t-shirt and tugging. Brendon laughed, but pulled the offending garment over his head and tossed it aside.

“So impatient,” he murmured in Ryan’s ear. “You’re never going to make it at this rate.” He captured Ryan’s earlobe in his teeth, tugging gently before fastening his mouth over the delicate skin beneath his ear.

“I would if you’d just touch me,” Ryan growled back, head falling back to allow Brendon more access to his neck.

Brendon hummed in response.

“Mmm, I will.” One knee pushed between Ryan’s to brace against the mattress, and his body weight pressed against Ryan until Ryan collapsed on it. Brendon followed, straddling Ryan’s legs and slipping the silk from Ryan’s fingers.

Brendon leaned over to kiss Ryan’s fingertips as he fastened the material securely around his wrist. He leaned across Ryan to secure Ryan’s other wrist with a trailing scarf from the other side of the bed. Ryan arched into the pressure of Brendon’s body with a tiny moan. The restraints held fast, but Brendon met his mouth eagerly.

“Shhh,” he murmured against Ryan’s jaw. “Let me take care of you.” His hands skated feather-light across Ryan’s skin and Ryan wondered fuzzily if it was actually possible to die of overstimulation. He hissed in a breath as Brendon’s nails raked delicately along the skin of his inner thigh. The fingers of one hand traced the sharp jut of Ryan’s hipbone as the other hand closed around the base of Ryan’s cock.

Ryan caught a flash of Brendon’s dark eyes before Brendon’s head lowered and he licked a tentative stripe up the underside of Ryan’s cock. As his lips encircled the head, Ryan moaned.

“Fuck, Brendon.”

Brendon lifted his head long enough to murmur, “That’s for later.” Ryan’s hips bucked involuntarily and Brendon pressed harder against Ryan’s hip.

“Stay still for me, Ry,” he said. His voice carried a note of command that sent tremors through Ryan. He obeyed the best he could, restricting himself to gasps and moans he couldn’t quite suppress as Brendon’s mouth did wicked things, Brendon’s hands roaming over his stomach and thighs.

Ryan’s eyes had slipped closed at the excess of sensation, but they shot open again as Brendon’s mouth and hands lifted simultaneously. Brendon was merely fumbling in his nightstand. He returned a moment later, naked now himself, settling between Ryan’s thighs and popping the cap on a bottle of lube. Ryan licked suddenly dry lips, whispered, “Bren?” and tugged on the scarves binding him.

Brendon stretched to kiss him reassuringly.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered back. “If you tell me to stop, I will.” Ryan just watched with dark eyes as Brendon urged his thighs apart, and he choked back a sound of surprise at the first press of Brendon’s finger. Head thrown back, neck arched, Ryan writhed under Brendon’s hands as Brendon tested him with one finger, then the press of a second. When Brendon crooked his fingers, brushing some sensitive spot inside, Ryan keened and bucked his hips. “Please,” he breathed. He needed – something. “More…”

Brendon let out a breath, ran his free hand along Ryan’s calf, lifting it to his shoulder. “Just…try to relax,” he breathed into his skin, and it sounded almost like he spoke as much to himself as to Ryan.

Brendon moved slow and liquid, his hands slipping warm across Ryan’s skin as he positioned himself. A condom lay on the sheets near Ryan’s hip, neglected. Ryan twisted and writhed, pushing up against Brendon’s body as best he could, searching for contact. He was nowhere near immobile, but he was bound securely, and at such an angle, that his upper body was completely useless.

So Ryan arched, begging with his body the way he couldn’t bring himself to beg Brendon with his words, not any more than he already had. Not yet.

And Brendon petted him. Stroked him. Teased him with clever fingers. Tantalizing and frustrating him all at once. Brendon touched him, finally, finally, yet he wouldn’t—he wasn’t…

“Brendon,” slipped out past Ryan’s lips practically of its own accord.

“Okay, okay, shhh,” Brendon murmured soothingly. Then he reached for the condom. Ryan’s heart beat wildly in his chest and he sucked in a noisy breath, letting it out with a shudder. Brendon smiled and slithered up Ryan’s body with the condom held delicately between two fingers, almost tauntingly. Ryan’s eyes flicked from it to Brendon’s face. “Don’t worry,” he said, his breath ghosting over Ryan’s face. “Remember, you tell me to stop, I stop.”

Ryan’s eyes fluttered shut and he nodded, just slightly.

Brendon pushed himself up using both hands and kneeled between Ryan’s legs. The sound of the condom wrapper tearing seemed to echo through the room. Ryan’s eyes flew open, and he watched as Brendon carefully rolled the condom on and slicked himself up. His breath quickened, and Brendon looked up.

“Ready?”

Ryan just licked his lips.

Brendon took a deep breath and took one last moment to drizzle more lube on his fingers. Ryan’s brows furrowed momentarily, but Brendon slipped his fingers inside again quickly. Ryan jerked and Brendon chuckled softly.

“Just making sure,” he said, his fingers slipping out again just as quickly. “No such thing as too much lube.” Brendon waggled his eyebrows and Ryan snorted. Then he just tried to relax as Brendon lined himself up.

Brendon pushed, slowly but steadily. So slowly. Ryan’s body gave way, opened up for him, until Brendon was sheathed to the hilt. He stopped. Ryan lay spread out beneath him on the bed, gasping breathlessly and blinking back tears. Brendon caught his breath.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. Brendon’s hands glided up Ryan’s body, slipping in a light sheen of sweat. Ryan quivered, and Brendon reveled in the play of muscles under his fingertips, the texture of skin. He focused on the way Ryan’s ribs moved with his breath; the way his hands followed the movement. Involuntary. The way everything with Brendon felt when he was with Ryan. Like he had no control.

Brendon had to be in control.

So he started to move.

Brendon started to move. He pulled out slowly, just a fraction. Ryan whined, low in his throat. Brendon thrust back in, still slow, gentle. Ryan trusted him not to hurt him. Trusted him to make it worth his while. Make it worth the wait. Make it good.

Brendon could. Oh, yes. Brendon could.

Brendon grasped Ryan’s hips and tilted them just slightly on his next thrust. Ryan’s breath hitched. Harder. Faster. Brendon followed his cues until Ryan writhed and bucked, thrashed and strained against his bonds. Words dripped from Brendon’s mouth, low and dirty.

“Fuck, Ry, so hot. You should see yourself—“ Brendon shifted, one hand pressed against the mattress, and the other wrapped around Ryan’s cock. Ryan moaned, the sound vibrating through them both. Brendon lowered himself until he lay nearly flush against Ryan’s body and spoke directly in his ear. “You should see it, Ry. You, all stretched out, underneath me. Taking my cock, begging for it.” Brendon punctuated his words with thrusts of his hips and strokes on Ryan’s cock. Ryan shuddered and Brendon hitched himself up on one elbow. “Come on, Ry, I want to see you. Want to see you let go. Want to see you come.” Brendon dipped his head and licked the curve of Ryan’s jaw, tasting sweat. Ryan threw his head back and keened, stiffening and coming in hot spurts over Brendon’s hand, his body clenching down on Brendon’s cock.

Brendon gasped at the ferocity of Ryan’s orgasm. He thrust in again viciously just to keep moving, making sure he still could. Ryan’s eyes rolled back into his head, but Brendon dug his thumbs into his hips.

“Oh, no,” Brendon chided breathlessly. “No you don’t. Open your eyes. Open them. I want to see you.” Ryan opened his eyes. He opened his eyes to the ceiling, took a shallow, gasping breath, and grasped his lush lower lip between his teeth. Then he met Brendon’s gaze, hot and dark. It hit Brendon in the gut, and he came, hips stuttering, his voice dying in his throat. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto Ryan’s belly, mixing in with the come and sweat already there.

Brendon pulled out gingerly. Ryan winced anyway. Brendon kissed his eyelids and brushed sweaty hair out of his face before turning away and quickly disposing of the condom.

Ryan lay on the bed completely still. Brendon would have thought he was asleep if not for his breathing. Too quick, too shallow. Brendon reached across and untied one set of knots. Ryan raised his head and watched as Brendon freed first one wrist, then crossed and released the other. He sat, taking Ryan’s hands and rubbing them gently. They were cold, but Brendon knew that it was just as likely that it was just how Ryan was and not from being tied too tightly. But Brendon rubbed all the same.

***

It was still dark when Ryan woke. He was in Brendon’s bed. Brendon slept soundly next to him, an arm slung carelessly around his waist. Ryan’s entire body felt sore, used, yet he smiled into the darkness nonetheless.

***

Brendon sat on the edge of the bed smirking at him when Ryan woke again. He handed Ryan half of a bagel and stood, dressed already.

“I have to go to work,” Brendon said. “See you later?”

Ryan sat, sheets slipping to his waist, and nodded.

“Thanks.”

Brendon’s smirk morphed into a leer.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice whiskey and cigarettes. He grinned as he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

“For the bagel!” Ryan shouted petulantly after him. He could hear Brendon’s laughter even as he closed the door behind himself. Asshole.

Ryan chewed thoughtfully and weighed his options.

***

Stacks of paintings covered Brendon’s table. Several more sat propped against the legs, too large and cumbersome. Ryan took inventory.

He was going to sell them. Not all of them, of course. Some he would keep for his final showing at school, but the others, he had no need of them. So he perched on a chair, notebook balanced precariously on his lap, and absently titled his work. It really was the easiest way to keep things organized. Numbers were so impersonal.

Ryan scrawled words on the backs of frames in a black sharpie. He was bent over a short stack when Brendon returned. Ryan glanced over his shoulder to acknowledge Brendon’s presence, but otherwise continued his work.

“You should take a picture of each of them, too,” Brendon said suddenly. He leaned against the door jamb, watching. Ryan just nodded. A few more minutes of silence and Brendon made his way to the table to look more closely. He jabbed a finger at Ryan’s latest, the painting of the park, the bench and the sky; the one that had gotten Ryan into Brendon’s bedroom. Brendon jabbed at it. “Not that one.” Ryan looked up at him questioningly. “That one’s mine.”

Ryan’s mouth twisted into a smirk even as his cheeks flamed.

“Souvenir?”

“Sort of,” Brendon countered saucily.

“Don’t you just want a pair of my panties or something?” Brendon’s eyebrows arched wickedly and he planted both hands carefully in an empty spot on the table and leaned in close.

“You wear panties, Ryan Ross?” he whispered, close enough that Ryan could feel his breath on his skin. Ryan licked his lips. “Kinky.”

“Maybe. For you, I might.” Brendon’s eyes flashed darkly and Ryan barely had time to draw a proper breath before his mouth was captured in a bruising kiss.

The doorbell chimed perkily.

They broke apart, panting. Ryan sat down with a thump, fingers to his lips. Brendon grinned at him before turning away to bound across the tiny apartment to the door.

“Jon!”

“Brendon! What’s up, little man?” Ryan could hear the slaps on backs of a hug of greeting.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Hey, there’s nothing little—“ Ryan could see Jon’s gesture toward himself as he stood to join them.

“Is Spencer inflating your ego again?” Jon opened his mouth to reply, but Ryan cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear about Spencer inflating anything, thanks,” Ryan said with a laugh and an affectionate bump of knuckles. Jon smiled and moved toward the couch.

“I came over to talk to you, anyway, Ryan,” said Jon as he flopped down unceremoniously. Brendon wandered off into the kitchen, so Ryan shrugged and sat down on the couch next to Jon.

“How may I be of service?” They both could hear Brendon snort and giggle to himself. Ryan narrowed his eyes and frowned in his general direction.

“Strange that you would say that,” Jon responded. “I actually wanted to know if you would be interested in painting a mural in my shop. I can pay you.”

Ryan’s jaw dropped.

“Wow, Jon, seriously?” Ryan was breathless. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Brendon leaning oh-so-casually against the door jamb again.

“Well, yeah,” Jon laughed. “You know I spent some time in France, right?” Ryan nodded. “Well, I’d like something of the Riviera. The Cote d’Azur, you know?” He trailed off. Ryan’s eyes had glazed over, and his hands had started moving of their own accord, little flapping motions. “Dude. Don’t get all arty on me. Brendon said—“

“Brendon said what?” Ryan asked suspiciously. Jon glanced at Brendon, who shrugged, barely.

“He just said you might be interested. Since you’re not working and all… And I like your style,” he added quickly. Brendon snorted again and retreated into the kitchen, tossing a soft “smooth, Jon,” over his shoulder. Jon twisted around to shout after him. “Hey! This was your idea!”

Ryan sat beside him quietly. Processing.

“All his shit’s in here, Jon, if you want to look,” Brendon yelled. Jon turned to Ryan for permission. He just stood up and gestured that way. Jon followed.

***

Ryan stayed up the entire night sketching after Jon left. He had a fairly good idea of what Jon wanted, and what he wanted to do. He had to get it out.

Brendon left him alone to work. For that, he was grateful.

In the morning, Brendon stumbled blearily from the bedroom. Ryan looked up from his drawings as he passed, heading directly for the pot of coffee Ryan had been nursing. The sound that emerged, rumbling up from Brendon’s chest, was vaguely orgasmic. Something clenched in Ryan’s gut, and he watched as Brendon poured himself a cup and sipped. His eyes slipped closed blissfully and he sighed.

Ryan forced his eyes back to his drawings.

Brendon made some more sex noises over his coffee.

Ryan sketched quietly. He could feel Brendon’s eyes on him, but he really did have a lot of work to do… And found himself looking up and meeting Brendon’s steady gaze anyway. Brendon grinned from behind his mug and something inside Ryan twisted again. He was so screwed.

Brendon pushed away from the counter and refilled his cup, emptying the pot.

“I’ll make a new pot before I leave for work,” he said, grasping his cup again and taking a large swallow before heading toward his bedroom to get ready. He paused by Ryan’s side, bending slightly to look more closely at the sheet in front of him. “Looks good. Jon is going to freak out.” Then he bent further and pressed a kiss to Ryan’s hair. “You should get some sleep,” he said softly. “You’re not going to be any good to anyone if you keep this up. Go lie down in my bed. Jon’s wall will still be there when you wake up.”

Ryan looked up at Brendon, just as his fingers slipped through Ryan’s hair. Ryan tipped his head to look at Brendon, Brendon’s hand cupping his skull.

“Even now,” Brendon murmured, swiping a thumb across the dark circles under Ryan’s eyes. “Beautiful.”

Ryan blushed and Brendon closed the distance between them to kiss him, hard and hot. Brendon brought his other hand up to join the one tangled in Ryan’s hair, holding him firmly while he thrust his tongue between his lips. Ryan gasped wetly, his hands finding Brendon’s waist and tugging, tugging Brendon into his lap.

“I have to go,” Brendon breathed into Ryan’s mouth, grinding down a little with his hips. Ryan’s head fell back, exposing his long neck. He groaned as Brendon nipped his jaw before standing again.

“You started it,” Ryan said, watching Brendon disappear into the bedroom through slitted eyes. Brendon turned, giving Ryan an appraising look.

“And I’ll finish it. Later.”

Ryan shuddered.

***

Ryan woke feeling like he had slept for days, but a glance at the clock told him it was barely noon. He stretched and burrowed into the pillows for another minute. They smelled of Brendon, and he smiled, luxuriating in the feeling of being surrounded by Brendon. It made him shiver and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up.

Brendon.

Ryan felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He could breathe properly; he was relaxed. It was Brendon. He knew it was. Ryan had surrendered, and now he was free.

Ryan knew that Brendon worked until later that afternoon. He took the time to work on his sketches. It wasn’t long, just a couple more hours to finish up what he had started. It was only a rough copy anyway. Jon would have to see and approve it all before he started, and there was no point in adding all the detail he would do for the real thing.

He only meant to rest his head for a minute.

***

Ryan woke when the door to the apartment slammed. His neck was stiff, and he groaned when he turned his head to see Brendon walking across the room, depositing his stuff as he went. Brendon noticed him watching and grinned.

“I’ve been thinking of you all day,” he said, stepping up and catching Ryan’s face in his hands and planting a sloppy kiss on his lips. When he pulled back, Ryan ducked his head, blushing. Brendon smirked and sauntered over to the refrigerator where he grabbed a water and took a long pull. “Did you finish?” he asked as he turned around.

“Pretty much. I could probably run it over to Jon and see what he thinks.”

“We could, you know, like, call Spencer and make a night of it. Watch a movie or something? Think they would--?” Brendon wondered. Ryan shrugged and gnawed on his thumbnail. Brendon pressed his cold bottle against Ryan’s neck and he shivered. “Or not.” Brendon leaned in close and breathed in Ryan’s ear. “We could just stay here. I could take your mind off Jon’s project, if you wanted. I could –“

“Brendon,” Ryan cut him off. “I have to get this finished. Really I do. Let me call Jon, then we can see what he wants to do, ok?” Ryan scrambled to his feet and Brendon backed off, hands in the air.

“Alright, alright. Do what you need to do.” Brendon raked a hand through his hair, just a little frustrated. “My boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen. Dedicated,” he mumbled to himself. Brendon froze when he saw Ryan standing with the phone in his hands, unmoving. “Oh shit. Ryan, I—“

“No, it’s ok,” Ryan said softly. He looked at the floor, twisting the phone in his hands. “I like it.” His eyes flicked up to meet Brendon’s briefly before he focused pointedly on dialing the phone. Brendon grinned and slapped Ryan’s ass sharply as he passed into his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt to change.

“Awesome.”

Ryan agreed.

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 8/8]

2008-07-17T03:12:55Z

TITLE: Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17. There’s sex, folks. Sex.
PAIRING, IF ANY: main, Spencer/Ryan; also, Jon/Bren
POV: third person limited
SUMMARY: Ryan is a girl with some issues, but she knows what she wants. Pretty much. Spencer really doesn’t know what to do with that.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Genderswap of the always-been-a-girl variety. Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble.

“Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)”
- Tom Waits, Long Way Home

PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
PART 5
PART 6
PART 7

Spencer was a touch anxious after the show. It had nothing to do with the show. It was unusual these days for something serious to go wrong with something in the show. They had good techs, and everybody knew what they were doing. It wasn’t a problem.

No, he was anxious about the night on the bus.

Jon had slyly mentioned that he would keep Bren occupied in the front lounge if Spencer wanted the back. The back lounge. Spencer barely repressed a shudder. The back lounge was where people went when they wanted to get laid. Brent had taken a girl or two back there. Bren and Jon practically set up camp back there. People who were not even in their band went to the back lounge to get laid. Spence tried to avoid it unless all four of them were back there playing video games or something. It had an atmosphere to it. It freaked him out.

Spencer hesitated at the lounge entrance. It was just a room. He looked around, really taking stock, and wondered what he could do until Ryan got there. He stood in the middle of the room, shifting from foot to foot until he finally just gave up and lit three candles that Bren had left on the ledge behind one of the sofas.

“Nice touch.”

Spencer whirled around to find Ryan standing in the doorway. He dropped the lighter he had been holding, and she smiled, dropping her gaze.

“Come here,” he said, and it sounded confident. At least he sounded confident. His hands were sweaty, and his scalp itched, and if he really thought about it he probably could go vomit without much of a problem. But Ryan stepped into his arms with no prelude, pressing her cheek against his chest, her eyes slipping closed as she took a deep breath and let it out as a soft sigh.

Spencer tipped Ryan’s chin up and kissed her as she opened her eyes. They sparkled, actually sparkled, and it drew a low groan from Spencer because it was for him. It wasn’t like Ryan never showed emotion, wasn’t ever happy, but that look. She was happy, and it made her even more beautiful, and it was because of him, and he was happy if they never left the back lounge.

***

Spencer threw an arm over his eyes when Ryan slid off the sofa to kneel on the floor. She wasted no time arranging herself, and he could hear her trying to steady her breath even as her hands tugged gently at his clothes. He just couldn’t watch. He would lose it. He couldn’t watch as Ryan took him into her mouth.

As it was, it was over far too quickly anyway.

“Ryan!” Spencer gasped. “Ryan, I’m—I can’t—Ryan, please, I—“ And his hips bucked, hard. Ryan sat back slightly, both hands still occupied; one pressed firmly, yet ineffectively, against Spencer’s hip, the other still working his cock. He could feel her breath on his damp skin, she was that close to him, still. And he was close too. It was the sound and the feeling of her taking a deep breath, ready to continue, to take him in again, that sent him over the edge.

His back arched almost painfully as he came hard over Ryan’s fingers with a muffled cry.

It was less than muffled when he cried out again a second later, upset candles spilling hot wax onto his arm and the sofa. Ryan leapt to her feet, casting about desperately for something, and latching onto a throw pillow to bash at the candles.

Luckily, the sofa was only a bit singed. The sofa, and Spencer’s pride. But he let Ryan take his arm and silently pick off the wax.

***

“Well, that was less than successful,” Spencer said later, as he and Jon sat in the front watching a movie.

Jon snorted.

“Did you get off?” he asked baldly, not even glancing away from the screen. Spencer merely blinked at him. “Did she?” Spence looked away, fighting a blush. “You’re such a girl,” Jon mumbled. Then, louder, “I’d say you’re fine. Orgasms are a good thing, even if you set the bus on fire. Which—don’t, please.”

“We didn’t set the bus on fire,” Spencer grumbled.

“Tell that to the couch.”

***

Ryan lay gasping on the hotel bed, Spencer’s head pillowed on her thigh. She could feel the curve of his lips as he smiled against her skin, pleased with himself. She was pretty pleased with him too, truth be told. Her skin was buzzing.

“Spence,” she began. His eyes flicked up to hers and he hummed. She smiled and petted his head, her fingers carding through his hair. He leaned into it, eyes dropping shut contentedly. “There are condoms in my bag.” His eyes popped open. He didn’t move other than that, but Ryan could feel him tense up. “Bren put them there, I think. She left a note.”

“Yeah?”

“It said—do you want to know what it said?” she asked. Spencer merely hummed again noncommittally. “It said, ‘Hope you like cherry flavored!’”

Spencer laughed, his body shaking, until Ryan joined him, throwing her head back with abandon. Her throaty laugh bounced off the walls. Spencer crawled up her body and nuzzled under her chin, settling along beside her.

“I really hope they aren’t,” he said.

“They’re not,” Ryan assured him. “It’s just Bren. Being… Bren.”

“Ick.”

“Yeah.” Ryan snickered softly. Bren was a twisted little shit.

They simply lay there for a long while.

“So,” Ryan continued. Spencer rubbed his chin along her shoulder; he was scratchy with stubble. He had shaved again, and looked so much younger. Ryan almost mourned his beard. With it, she could imagine he was older, and not her Spencer, the child Spencer she had known. He was just so pretty clean-shaven. Nothing to distract from his big blue eyes and wide mouth. “Do you want to?” she finally said.

“Hmm?”

“Spence,” Ryan cautioned. Spencer cleared his throat.

“Yes?” She could hear his hesitation, how he made it a question as well as an answer. Clearly. He cleared his throat again and spoke into her shoulder. “Yes. I do. A lot. But…”

“But?” Ryan interrupted incredulously. Spencer rolled away from her, his head thumping back onto the pillow.

“There’s kind of a lot of pressure here, Ry!” The whine was clear in his voice, and Ryan could see him grimace as she turned to face him. Her head tilted thoughtfully as she considered him, her pretty boy, and she stroked his face lightly, gently, with the tips of her fingers.

“What’s the matter, Spence? I don’t understand.” She paused, and his eyes flicked toward her and away, quickly. His chin tilted just barely. She thought that maybe… “I love you, Spencer; you know that, right?” He propped himself up on an elbow.

“Of course,” he replied softly. He bent until their foreheads touched and his eyes slipped shut. He spoke so low she could barely hear him when he went on. “I know. I love you, too.” Spencer sighed. “It’s just… I—I know. I know how it is for you. I know, because…”

Ryan drew in a sharp breath.

“Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?” she asked, confused. He didn’t respond. “But how? What about Katie Gilman in tenth grade? What about Carrie Fuller? Jessie Waterman? Angela… whatshername?” Spencer just shook his head. Ryan gasped and whispered harshly. “What about Hailey? You were with her forever.”

Spencer’s head merely continued to shake.

“Seems like you remember my girlfriends practically better than I do,” he said finally.

“Well, you’re my best friend; of course I know who’s coming around!” Ryan could hear herself getting defensive and stopped. “Guess now I know why they stopped, too.” Spencer huffed out a short laugh.

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t put out.” His delivery was so serious Ryan couldn’t help the giggles that slipped out.

“Why not?”

“You.” Ryan clamped her mouth shut. “It’s always been you.” He brought his hands up to cup her face and rested their heads together again. “It’s just been so long. It’s a really hard habit to break…”

Ryan smiled.

“You can now,” she said.

And she kissed him, softly, gently, like she knew he liked to start out, as if in greeting. But it never lasted, deteriorating quickly into a frenzy of wet mouths and tangling tongues, panting breaths. Hands scrabbling for purchase, or stroking deliberately and torturously.

Ryan was a quivering mess when she finally gritted out a “Spence, please” and he stopped touching her long enough to pull the box of condoms out of her bag. They must have indeed been placed there by Bren, for there were brightly colored smiley face stickers holding back remnants of a piece of paper; the note. He opened it with shaking hands, Ryan watching him coolly.

It is no pretty procedure, putting on a condom, especially for the first time. Spencer knelt between Ryan’s thighs, and she watched him. Her hands itched to help, to touch him, but she really didn’t want to freak him out any more than he already was. She probably wouldn’t be of much help anyway, all things considered. But then Spencer ran a hand down his length, smearing the tiny bit of pre-applied lubrication with a shocked grimace. Ryan smirked and scrambled to retrieve the equally tiny bottle of lube that Bren had provided. It had had a bow. A red bow. Ryan had been mortified.

Apparently, so was Spence.

“What--?” he squawked. His grip tightened and his face paled. Ryan sat up a little and kissed Spencer reassuringly as she dripped the gel across her fingers.

“Apparently it goes better, if…” she said against his lips, and she stroked him, spreading the lube quickly, before she lost her nerve. Before he lost his. “You kind of rubbed off most of what they give you,” she added, twisting her wrist until Spencer gasped.

He pushed her hands away gently and urged her back with kisses. Ryan lay on the bed and Spencer followed her down, their bodies pressing together. His cock bumped wetly against her thigh, and he jumped, blushing faintly before dipping his head again to kiss her, slipping his fingers between her legs to tease her clit and test her one last time. His fingers slid easily.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed against her ear. Ryan could feel herself blushing, her whole body hot.

“For you. Spence! Come on,” she grasped his wrist and tugged, leading their hands back to guide him into her together, finally. Ryan jerked a little as the head of Spencer’s cock pressed and slid. Ryan’s hands fluttered for a moment before coming to rest on his straining upper arms. He eased in slowly, his breathing harsh, and they both gasped sharply when he ended up sheathed completely inside her.

Wow.

They just looked at one another, matching shocked expressions on their faces. Until Spencer’s grin overtook him. Ryan couldn’t help but smile back at him, her beautiful boy. He bent to kiss her. And then he started to move.

Wow.

***

Ryan woke in the middle of the night. Spencer was draped across three-quarters of the bed, snoring softly. He looked content, and the thought made her smile.

Ryan thought the room itself smelled of sex. It was probably just Spencer. And herself. She could smell him all over her, and it made her squirm deliciously. The squirming, in turn, drew her attention to sore muscles and the faint ache between her legs. Ryan reached down, touching gently. She was fine. She would be fine in the morning. Nothing was hurting, and there hadn’t been any blood. Bodice ripper romance novels be damned. Well, not that Ryan had expected… between what she knew already and what advice she had gotten from Bren (solicited or no,) Ryan had figured she wasn’t in for anything particularly disturbing. Besides, Spencer had been gentle.

She was still astounded that he hadn’t… That he had waited for her.

“I’m glad it was you,” Ryan whispered into the darkness.

“Me too.” Ryan startled. Spencer’s eyes glittered at her, where they hadn’t just a moment before. He blinked sleepily and grinned, a slow, wide smile that made Ryan’s breath catch in her throat and her aches seem more acute. He reached across the gap between them and brushed the hair away from her face before slipping a rough hand around her waist and pulling her close. Ryan went easily into his arms, snuggling down against his soft skin with a sigh. It was so much the same as it had always been between them. Just now with the added naked. And she felt like she could really let him in. With Spencer she didn’t have to be afraid. She should have known. With Spencer she had never been afraid.

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 7/8]

2008-07-17T03:09:16Z

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 6/8]

2008-07-17T03:04:24Z

TITLE: Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17. There’s sex, folks. Sex.
PAIRING, IF ANY: main, Spencer/Ryan; also, Jon/Bren
POV: third person limited
SUMMARY: Ryan is a girl with some issues, but she knows what she wants. Pretty much. Spencer really doesn’t know what to do with that.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Genderswap of the always-been-a-girl variety. Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble.

“Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)”
- Tom Waits, Long Way Home

PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
PART 5

Spencer woke to mid-afternoon sun filtering weakly through the drapes. Jon and Bren were gone, but he had hardly expected them to wait around for him to pull himself together. They had done their duty as his friends, and that was all he could ask.

Spencer stretched, muscles popping in protest. He needed to get up. Coffee. Coffee was always a good thing. He took a few moments to put on a shirt and a hoodie, and found shoes and socks. He debated the merits of a jacket, finally deciding to go without and brave the weather, as it were.

Spence thrust his wallet and his phone in his pockets and headed out the door.

Ryan sat slouched against the wall on the floor of the hall. She looked up at him through a fringe of hair, hesitantly, as if that slight barrier gave her some sort of protection. As if she needed it with him anyway.

“Coffee?” he asked simply.

“Sure,” she said.

Spence extended a hand to pull Ryan from the floor. She took it and stood. They walked to the Starbucks on the corner with their fingers still entwined; Ryan’s thumb tucked up against Spencer’s wrist under his sleeve.

“Jon’s is better,” Ryan said inanely, back in the elevator.

“He worked at a Starbucks…” Spencer eyed her cautiously.

“He knows all their secrets,” she continued. “Theirs and all ours, apparently.”

Well, damn.

“We don’t really have any secrets, Ryan.” Spencer opened his door and Ryan followed him in.

“Don’t we?” she set down her cup and watched him move about the room, shrugging out of his hoodie, stepping out of his shoes. She stood up straight and jutted out her chin, trying for confident. He had seen it a thousand times before. She chewed her lip, betraying her unease. He had seen that too.

“You’re being weird.” He climbed onto his bed and sat, tucking a foot underneath him, yet otherwise sprawling, taking up all the space he could.

Ryan slumped into a chair, almost upsetting her coffee. She grasped it in both hands, huddling down and practically sticking her nose in the cup. She wouldn’t look at Spencer.

“I’ve had a really… enlightening couple of days.” Spence made a noncommittal noise and rolled onto his belly to stare out the window. He peered into his cup instead. Tell me about it. “Spence,” she started, and stopped. “Spence, I’ve missed you.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere. Neither have you, not really.” Lyrics inexplicably popped into his head, and Spencer snorted into his coffee cup. You can’t be missed if you never go away.

“Cobra Starship?” Ryan asked with a grin. Spencer nodded.

“We really need to start listening to bands off our label and not related to us in any way,” he said dryly.

“What fun would that be?” Ryan set down her cup and stood, crossing the small space. She sat on the edge of the bed, carefully not touching Spencer at all. “How could I always know what you’re thinking? Finish your sentences…”

“You don’t do either of those things.” He looked over his shoulder at her for a moment, almost accusingly, before turning away to gaze at nothing in particular.

“Not out loud,” Ryan said, eyes downcast. One hand bunching the coverlet under her knee, and the other, the other reaching out to trace an invisible line down Spencer’s back. He shivered. His shoulders tensed, and he clutched his paper coffee cup hard enough to make him wonder if it was still hot enough to burn him, should he spill it. “Spence,” Ryan breathed, cracked and broken. He put his cup on the floor.

Spencer turned and half rolled over to look back at Ryan. She looked—afraid. Spencer sat up and reached for his friend. That she would ever make a face like that. That she would ever feel like that… He couldn’t bear it. He gripped her forearm, and her wrist, what he could reach.

“What’s wrong, Ry?” He searched her face intently.

“I thought I lost you, Spence,” she said, and broke free of his grip, throwing her arms around his neck. Spencer just kind of sat there, frozen. Ryan usually wasn’t one for overt displays. It was freaky.

But she tucked her head into his neck and heaved a shuddering sigh. And it broke something in him. Voluntary motion returned to his limbs and he found himself absently patting Ryan’s back. She shifted, and he settled her into his lap, still clinging.

“It’s alright, Ry, come on.” Spencer squeezed her gently and rocked them a little. “I’m not going anywhere. Why would I? Come on. Come on, hey.” Ryan sighed again wearily and nuzzled under his jaw.

“Oh, Spence.” Her breath was hot on his skin and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was sitting in his lap, even if she was miserable, lonely, and depressed. He was pathetic. Even more so if his internal monologue started going all Disney movie on him. “Spence.”

“Hmm?” He distinctly felt the press of lips against the curve of his jaw. And then again, a fraction back, closer to the soft spot behind his ear. And again.

Spencer forced himself to continue breathing.

He was less than successful when Ryan’s teeth closed on his ear. He couldn’t even categorize the sort of sound he made. It was somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, but he couldn’t bring himself to care because Ryan’s hands were tangled in his hair, and her mouth was on his skin, and his brain really wasn’t working very well. He knew he shouldn’t let her… but he really didn’t care.

Ryan was murmuring, “Spence, Spence,” into his skin as she kissed and nipped and pressed her nose under his ear. He could hardly handle it. Finally he just tipped them over and rolled until she lay on the bed and he was propped up over her. She looked up at him with wide, clear eyes.

“Ryan, why are you doing this to me? Do you have any idea…” he trailed off, letting his head droop so he didn’t have to see the look on Ryan’s face. She reached up, pressing a cool palm to his cheek and forcing him to look at her again.

“I’m an idiot, Spence. I know. I know, and all I needed was just a push in the right direction. I needed to open my eyes, and see, see what was right there. And that was you. It’s always been you, Spence.” She blushed and glanced away, her hand slipping down to his shoulder. “God, that’s the girliest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth.”

Spencer laughed and dropped down to kiss her.

The press of lips was gentle, and yet almost immediately Ryan opened to him. Spencer’s gut clenched and he moaned into her mouth. Her tongue swept hotly against his, and he jerked.

“Jesus, Ryan,” he panted. He could feel the shape of her smirk against his skin.

“Stop. Talking.”

“Yeah, ok.” It was Ryan’s turn to laugh.

She stopped laughing when Spencer bit at her collarbone, then trailed up her neck with a path of tiny kisses. She gasped when he pressed his body down harder, just a fraction, before kissing her again on the mouth, firmly. Ryan’s hands twisted in his shirt and brought him even closer. He bit her lip and groaned, and Ryan’s hips bucked all on their own. Her eyes flew open—when had they closed? And she threw her head back. Spencer kissed her neck, and licked, and made her shiver. He ground his hips down, tentatively, and she shuddered.

“Oh God, Spence!” Her nails scraped his side as she tugged viciously on the wads of fabric clutched in her hands.

“We can’t—not too fast, Ry,” he said, and she furrowed her brows. “Not too fast,” he repeated, breath in her ear. “It’s taken so long, we can—it has to be perfect. We can do other things… first.” He thrust shallowly against her hip. “Wait, wait,” he said, low. “Let’s not rush it; do it right.”

“Do it right,” Ryan said dubiously.

“Yes.” The sound was low and deep and vibrated through her bones. “Yes.”

Yes.

Ryan had Spence, and she could do—would do—whatever he wanted. She knew that the same was true for him. And he was right. They should take their time.

Ryan’s hands had a mind of their own.

She tugged and twisted until Spencer raised himself to his knees and let her drag his t-shirt over his head. Her hands slipped over the smooth planes of his skin, bringing goosebumps even though the room was warm. Ryan had probably touched him a million times over the years, but never like this. Skin on miles and miles of skin. He wasted no time in pulling away layers of fleece and cotton, exposing her skin, so he could touch.

So he could make her shiver.

Spencer paused when he got to lingerie. He had asked Ryan to take it slow, and she had agreed. Was half naked too fast? But she answered the question for him, batting his hands away and deftly flicking open the clasp on her bra.

“There,” she said as she flung it across the room.

Spencer just kind of sat there. He was overloaded. Here he was, with his best friend, who just happened to be half naked, and lying there, and waiting for him to touch her. He really didn’t know what to do with himself. Ryan tossed her head, getting hair out of her face, and smiled at him. Then she gripped his arms and tugged until he got the picture and sunk down again, pressing their bodies together. Skin.

Ryan’s slim fingers skimmed up, to his shoulders, his neck, to plunge and tangle in his hair. She wrenched his head down to meet her, fiercely. Well, it might take her a while to figure something out, but once she did, Ryan went for it with all she had. Spencer really wasn’t complaining. He was just having something of a hard time reconciling the fact that he was now able, nay, encouraged, to touch Ryan. They had been friends for a very long time. And he was nothing if not a good friend.

Spencer shifted his weight to one arm and gently stroked Ryan’s side, fingers dangerously close to heretofore forbidden territory. Ryan would have brained him for trying to cop a feel; she actually had punched him in the face once, really hard, and that grope had been completely accidental. May even have been Bren’s fault. But Ryan actually leaned into his touch. He felt confident that she wasn’t suddenly going to have a change of heart and end up cracking his skull with a lamp.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Ryan said, mouth pressed wetly against his cheekbone. It made Spence pull back a bit, shake his head. Ryan just grinned wickedly at him. “You’re thinking too hard,” she said again. “I think I need to make you stop that.”

Ryan’s hands took a quick tour of his body. They reversed, and slid back down his arms, then up his chest, where she tweaked a nipple, making him hiss and jerk. She just laughed and kissed him again. It was distracting. Spence didn’t know whether to focus on her mouth, or her hands, or the way her legs were shifting around, or the feel of her skin under his hand and the way her ribs expanded when she breathed. He almost didn’t notice when Ryan’s hands stopped at the waistband of his pants.

Almost.

“Oh, no no,” he breathed out, quickly, shifting his hips back. Ryan frowned prettily.

“Why not?” And she popped the button while he was trying to figure out a good reason. She gingerly tucked her fingers under the fabric, tracing the lines of Spencer’s hip bones. He groaned, and she got bolder, sliding soft calloused hands down and down and down. Then she stopped, eyebrows raised so high he couldn’t even see them through her hair. Spencer blushed. “You dirty boy, Spencer Smith!”

Spencer blushed even harder.

“I was in a hurry.”

“Uh huh,” Ryan said doubtfully.

“Bren and Jon…”

“Hmmm. I don’t care. You can go commando whenever you want.” Ryan grinned. And continued to feel Spencer up.

PART 7

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 5/8]

2008-07-17T03:01:02Z

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 4/8]

2008-07-17T02:58:09Z

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 3/8]

2008-07-17T02:55:39Z

TITLE: Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17. There’s sex, folks. Sex.
PAIRING, IF ANY: main, Spencer/Ryan; also, Jon/Bren
POV: third person limited
SUMMARY: Ryan is a girl with some issues, but she knows what she wants. Pretty much. Spencer really doesn’t know what to do with that.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Genderswap of the always-been-a-girl variety. Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble.

“Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)”
- Tom Waits, Long Way Home

PART 1
PART 2

Pete made it a point to see anyone on the label when they were in the same city, especially Chicago. Ryan knew this. She also knew that Chicago had a calming effect on Pete. That was something she could work with. Crazy, manic, touring Pete was a bit much.

When Ryan saw Pete and Andy out of the corner of her eye, hanging out on the sidestage, she smiled to herself. In the few seconds of passing guitars while Bren babbled between songs, Ryan even saw fit to enact Phase I of the plan: show some skin. Ryan took off her buttondown shirt. It was hot, she said to Zack when he looked at her questioningly. It’s not like she took her top off, for goodness sake. Ryan was still wearing a tank top, or a camisole, whatever it was; it rode up and left a wide strip of bare skin. It made her crazy, but Bren had insisted.

It seemed to be doing the trick. Ryan glanced past Jon and saw both Pete and Andy looking at her. Ryan grinned. Andy shot her a thumbs up. Ryan winked. Andy laughed. Pete looked vaguely predatory.

Ryan was pleased. It was almost too easy.

Ryan turned to adjust her guitar strap without the glare of stagelights in her eyes. There, on her side of the stage, were Patrick and Joe. They were talking, not paying her much mind. Now, Ryan may have been the world’s biggest fangirl over Pete Wentz back in the day—or, ok, maybe she still was—but Ryan fairly adored Patrick. He was sweet, and sort of charming in a socially awkward kind of way with which Ryan was achingly familiar. Plus, he could do anything. Patrick was The Man. And Ryan found herself blushing when he paused in his conversation and caught her looking. Then he smiled, and Ryan had a fleeting moment of doubt about her choice.

But then there was a muffled clatter from center stage and she was distracted.

Ryan could just see the flash of a pair of broken sticks, bright against the dark stage, slowly rolling back away from Spencer’s kit.

Ryan ignored him and turned back to her microphone. She didn’t see the looks exchanged by the members of the other band.

They had an excellent show, and Pete told them so when they came off stage. His bandmates agreed. They were all staying late at the venue for a post-show party. Ryan could see how torn Jon and Bren were. They so obviously wanted to stay and join the party, but they also badly wanted to get out of there. In the end they compromised, and only stayed a little while.

Spencer was nowhere in sight, which was probably for the best. He was probably talking to Patrick--which, also for the best, all things considered. Pete had been fairly glued to Ryan's side the entire evening and it made a warm feeling spread through her body. And she got all fluttery whenever Pete touched her or smiled at her, which, seriously, was a lot. She was such a girl over Pete Wentz it was sickening. That could have been the other feeling in the pit of her belly, if she thought about it. Or nerves. Ryan really didn't want to think about it.

Ryan turned and looked closely at Pete. He was watching her, eyes dark. She stood and dragged Pete with her.

Ryan and Bren's dressing room was blessedly empty. And luckily for Ryan, Pete was a quick study. Pete wasted no time laying Ryan out on the narrow sofa and pressing himself against her. Ryan gasped and arched into him. She thrilled at the contact. She never let anyone... It had been so long since anyone had touched her. Ryan was ready. And Pete was making up for a lot of lost time.

They didn't even bother to take their clothes off. There would be time enough for that later. Pete's hands swept over Ryan's body while he ground his hips down against her. He was a mass of overwhelming sensations. Ryan could feel the muscles moving under his skin. His lips were surprisingly soft on her collarbone, her throat, her jaw, then her ear. His cock was hard as he thrust against her, pleasure sparking even through layers of clothes. He surprised her when he spoke, low and rough.

"I want to see you come, right here; just like this," accentuated with a particularly vicious thrust.

Ryan's eyes rolled back in her head, and Pete shuddered, digging his fingers into her hips.

The door opened just as Ryan cried out. Her voice mingled with Patrick's laughing, "Hey, Pete!"

Patrick immediately reversed and slammed the door closed.

Pete chuckled into the couch pillow.

"That happens far more often than it should," he said with a smirk.

"I really didn't need to know that," Ryan replied dryly. Pete propped himself up on one elbow.

"So, uh, do you want to go back to my place? I can guarantee that we won't be interrupted again."

"I don't think so," Ryan said, looking away. "This was a bad idea."

Ryan squirmed out from under Pete, leaving him sitting on the couch, plucking at his sticky jeans.

***

Ryan found herself back in her hotel room. She sat on the bed for a while, alone in the silence. She considered the television for a minute, but nixed it. Then Ryan got out her iPod and just looked at it, turning it over and over in her hands. She threw it down finally, irritated. Pete was a sure thing; she knew it, they both knew it. She had let him touch her; he had gotten her off. She had wanted him, badly, and she could have had him, let him take her home and fuck her seven ways to Sunday, pull out every trick he knew. And Pete knew a few, Ryan was sure of that. His reputation was deserved. But Ryan had refused him.

She couldn't figure it out.

It had all been going according to plan. Ryan wanted sex. She was ready for it. She chose Pete. She wanted him, had wanted him for years. He was Pete Wentz, for goodness sake! Half the modern world was in love with Pete Wentz. She got him alone. She made him come in his pants. He wanted to have actual sex with her. She had the means to achieve her goal! And she had said no.

She could not figure it out.

Ryan jumped at the knock on her door. She frowned. It was late, and when had she become so high strung, anyway? There was another knock, so Ryan got up to check it.

Patrick stood smiling out from underneath his hat when Ryan opened the door.

She let him in without a word.

Patrick and Ryan stood in the middle of the room just looking at each other until Patrick blushed and looked at the floor. Ryan was charmed. Confused, but charmed all the same. Here he was, Patrick Stump, blushing like a schoolboy right in her hotel room.

"What can I do for you, Patrick?" Ryan asked, her lips twitching.

"I just wanted to make sure you were ok," he said. "You took off out of there like a bat out of hell."

"I'm fine," Ryan replied, a blush creeping across her cheeks. "I didn't think anyone had noticed," she added softly.

"I--" Patrick cut himself off, considering. "Pete can come on kind of... strong, sometimes. But he wouldn't--if you weren't--I know he wouldn't--"

"It's ok, Patrick." Ryan stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on Patrick's arm. "Pete didn't."

Patrick visibly relaxed.

"Oh thank goodness," Patrick breathed out in a rush. Ryan laughed. "What?"

"You guys are so funny." Patrick squinted at her suspiciously. "Half of you are busy trying to protect my virtue," Patrick raised an eyebrow. "And the other half are busy trying to get into my pants."

Patrick kind of laughed and coughed. He crossed his arms over his chest and scuffed one shoe on the carpet. Ryan watched him.

"I'd say those two behaviors may not be mutually exclusive," he said finally.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ryan, you're like--I don't even know." Patrick scrubbed at his jaw. "I had to come make sure you were ok."

"You said that," Ryan interrupted.

"I had to come see if there was anything I could do," Patrick rounded on her, stepping in. "I had to see if I could--"

"Could what, Patrick?"

Patrick kissed her.

Apparently, when it rains, it pours in Ryan’s world. The plan had changed all on its own. She could roll with it. Patrick was definitely an acceptable alternative.

Patrick pushed Ryan gently until she backed up to the bed and sat. She looked up at him, seeing something she had never seen in Patrick’s eyes before. He looked at her like she was the only one in the world, like she was beautiful, like she was something precious. It was strangely familiar, and yet so unlike the Patrick she knew it drew a soft, startled sound from her throat. Patrick captured it in his mouth.

Patrick pulled away finally, and Ryan said his name, long and low and soft, barely a breath. He touched her cheek gently, two fingers slipping over her skin. Ryan’s eyes fell shut, and Patrick nudged her chin up with his thumb. He did it again, harder, and Ryan opened them again.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

“What? Why?” Ryan leaped to her feet, Patrick’s hand tangled in her hair. He smiled.

“I’m going to go home.”

“But you could st—“ Patrick silenced her with a finger on her lips. He shook his head briefly but then kissed her again.

“It’s late.” Patrick rested his forehead against Ryan’s and his breath ghosted across her damp mouth. Ryan shivered and Patrick laughed. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“We have an interview in the morning,” Ryan replied. A slow smile spread across Patrick’s face.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll come get you after.”

PART 4

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 2/8]

2008-07-17T02:51:30Z

TITLE: Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17. There’s sex, folks. Sex.
PAIRING, IF ANY: main, Spencer/Ryan; also, Jon/Bren
POV: third person limited (focus on Ryan)
SUMMARY: Ryan is a girl with some issues, but she knows what she wants. Pretty much. Spencer really doesn’t know what to do with that.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Genderswap of the always-been-a-girl variety. Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble.

“Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home)”
- Tom Waits, Long Way Home

PART 1

Ryan was squinting at Spencer when he woke up again. Light was filtering dimly through the curtain, and Ryan looked like she was trying to figure out the answer to some puzzle she had been muddling about in her head. Like it was written on the back of Spencer’s eyelids, on his skin somewhere. He rubbed blearily at his face, trying to wake up enough to acknowledge Ryan’s presence aloud, and wishing he had a girlfriend so he had an excuse to refuse her his bed.

Spencer had almost opened his mouth to say that to Ryan, really say it to her, when she spoke instead.

“I think it should be you.”

“Huh?” Eloquent. Ryan was the one with the gift of words. She didn’t seem to be using it any more than Spence was, though. She still squinted at him. Appraising him. Considering.

“I think it should be you,” she said again. As if the meaning was clearer the second time.

“I gathered that. But what? You’re being obtuse.” Ryan scowled at that. She didn’t like being misunderstood. It’s why people’s interpretations of her lyrics made her crazy. Was she not being perfectly clear?

Ryan took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she looked Spencer fully in the eye, then dropped her gaze quickly so her lashes fluttered darkly against the pale skin of her cheeks. What the hell? Was she being coy? Ryan slowly raised her eyes to Spencer’s again.

“I think you should sleep with me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Now who’s being obtuse?” Ryan rolled her eyes, but smiled indulgently. She slipped her arm around Spencer’s waist again, like she had in her sleep. But this time he could feel her slender fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt. The callouses on her fingers pressing into his skin.

Spencer didn’t move; he didn’t even twitch. Ryan leaned in close, he could feel her breath as she paused, hesitated. Then she kissed him.

Spencer had had a stroke. That was the only reason he could think of. He was paralyzed and couldn’t voluntarily move a single muscle. That was why he didn’t kiss Ryan back.

But then he flailed.

For real.

A jolt of arms and legs that threw off Ryan’s touch and quite nearly tossed Ryan out of the bunk. She clung to the edge and gaped at him.

“What the fuck, Ry?”

“Spence, I—“ He shook off the hand she placed on his arm.

“No.” Ryan simply looked at him. Spencer shook his head, trying to get the blood flowing, trying to get his mouth working. “No,” he said again.

“But I thought—“

“What did you think?”

“I thought that my best friend could help me out with a problem,” Ryan said hurriedly.

“’A problem?’” Spencer hissed. “It’s not a problem, Ryan. You think just doing it is going to make everything alright?” Spencer paused for breath, his heart skittering in his chest like a caged animal. “You don’t even love me,” he added softly.

“What does love have to do with anything?” Ryan hissed in return. Spence turned his face into the pillow.

“Everything,” he said. “Everything.”

Ryan growled and flung open the curtain.

“If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”

Spencer merely closed his eyes and pressed his nose further into the pillow.

***
Spencer didn't emerge from his bunk until the bus stopped, and even then, Ryan was avoiding him. But of all the places they could be, they were in Chicago. Of course. Jon was giddy with it, and Bren--well, apart from being her usual manic self, she was feeding off his energy. They were well nigh insufferable. The giggling, the squealing. Jon was making lists. Spencer just wanted to get away. He could not get into the hotel fast enough. He needed to be alone for real.

They had three rooms at hotels. They had been getting three rooms since Jon joined them; no longer "boys' room" and "girls' room". Bren had pursued Jon for months before she and Ryan and Spence had asked him to join them, their band, replace Brent. Jon was just a natural fit. He and Bren just clicked--once he figured out her strange sugar-fueled flirting was what it was. It wasn't long before they had their own room. And Ryan and Spencer were both left alone.

Spencer was glad to be alone in Chicago.

***

Ryan cornered Bren in the bus before the show. She had sulked for a while, been angry for a while, but then made up her mind: she needed a plan.

"Bren, I need to talk to you. Please." Bren paused in her packing and sorting. Mostly sorting. There was very little going into her bag.

"What's up, Ry?" Bren chirped. She shoved her things to one side and flopped down on her bunk, motioning for Ryan to do the same. She did. Bren grinned and leaned toward Ryan conspiratorially. "Did you know," she said, "that after the show, Jon wants to take me home? To meet his mother! Can you imagine?"

"Um. Wow," Ryan replied, somewhat put aback. Bren beamed at her. "I had no idea. Wow. You guys are, like--"

"Yeah," Bren sighed. Ryan was dubious. It was all very romance novel all of a sudden. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Sex."

"Really?" Bren practically purred. Ryan shifted away marginally. "Well, that's a first. Oh--hee," and she giggled at her own joke. Ryan groaned and rolled her eyes. Perhaps Bren was not her best choice in advisors. Then Bren drew in a startled breath. "Oh my God! Did you--who was it? Oh my God, you did it with Spencer?"

Ryan glared.

"Um, no."

Bren squealed.

"Then who? Tell me!"

"Nobody. Yet." Bren stuck a finger in her mouth and frowned impatiently. "That's what I need to talk to you about..."

"Uh, yeah,” Bren replied, as if Ryan was stupid and just needed a push in the right direction. “What's the problem? I thought Spence would be--"

"What the fuck, Bren? Spence?"

Bren made a horrified sound. “I just assumed…” Bren narrowed her eyes. "You tried something! What happened? What did you do?"

Ryan slumped, as if she could hide from Bren and her questions. As if she could hide from herself.

"He said no."

"He didn't!" Bren was scandalized. Ryan didn't bother to respond. "Oh, Ry..." Bren tried to hug her, but Ryan shied away. Bren's smile wilted.

"I don't want your sympathy, Bren. I want your help."

"Oh, I can help," Bren smirked. "With my help, you'll have Spence eating out of your hand."

"It's not for Spence," Ryan said flatly. Bren looked skeptical. "I want Pete."

Bren's shocked face was actually quite comical and Ryan couldn't help but to smile.

"Pete," Bren said finally.

"Do you think that's going to be a problem?" Ryan's note of sarcasm was not lost on Bren, and she scowled.

"Not at all, if that's what you really want." Bren paused, waiting for a sign from Ryan. She just thrust out her chin stubbornly and pressed her lips together, so Bren continued. "The key to Pete is confidence. And a little T and A." Ryan rolled her eyes.

"Look, Bren, maybe this isn't a good idea..."

"Come on, Ry. You're talking to the woman who captured the elusive Jon Walker." Bren smiled knowingly and Ryan cringed. Bren laughed at her. "Compared to my Jonny, scoring Pete will be nothing! Oh, Ryan..." Bren squeezed Ryan suddenly, and hard. "I didn't mean--I'm sorry! Just because Pete is easy doesn't mean he isn't worth it. It's like, 50 million Elvis fans can't be wrong, right?"

"God, you're an idiot."

"Hey! You came to me!" Bren poked Ryan in the shoulder. "When did you want to get started?"

"Now," said Ryan firmly.

"Now?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Ok, tip #1: quit being such a bitch." Ryan huffed. "Seriously. There's a big difference between confident and bitchy. Get up." Bren pushed at Ryan until she climbed out of the bunk. "Turn around." Ryan arched a brow. "I need to see what we've got to work with here."

"Bren, you see me every day," Ryan protested.

"Yes, but I've never taken the time to check you out. Now spin." Ryan did. Bren made a sound of disgust. "No ass to speak of." Ryan peered over her shoulder until Bren motioned for her to continue. She was shaking her head when Ryan faced her again.

"What?"

"You're not giving me much to work with, you know. You've seen Ashlee Simpson, right?"

"What does she have to do with anything?" Ryan asked sullenly, hands on her hips.

"She's a known quantity, Ryan. Pete went for that, now you want him to go for you. We're not exactly talking apples and apples, you know."

"Why did I come to you, again?"

"I'm the only girl you know. And the thought of going in blind scares the hell out of you or you would have done it ages ago when Pete was actually hitting on you."

"He still does."

"Not like he means it; he's just being polite. I get the same deal, and he knows about me and Jon."

"Huh."

"You need to get his attention again," Bren said.

"How am I going to do that?"

"Well..."

Bren abandoned her packing in favor of searching for suitably slutty attire. They were forced to examine all of Ryan's pants for fit, with Bren thoroughly disgusted.

“I hate all your clothes,” Bren complained.

“This is news?”

“I’d lend you a pair of my pants, but they wouldn’t fit you. You’re built like a boy! Have you even hit puberty yet? Gah.” Bren trailed off, grumbling to herself. Then she snapped her fingers. “That’s it! We can totally make this work for you! It is Pete, after all.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Ryan, how do you not know this? Pete’s sexual proclivities are known worldwide, let alone around the label. Which we’re on. Dude, I’m not even interested in Pete—aside from, you know, appreciating the aesthetic, but come on, this is common knowledge. Pete likes them young? Boys? Girls? Whatever? Ringing a bell? Ryan, you’re like hitting the jackpot, what with that weird Ziggy Stardust androgynous thing you’ve got going on. You couldn’t have chosen any better.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Thank me after we’ve gotten you laid.”

PART 3

Forgive me pretty baby (but I always take the long way home) [PART 1/8]

2008-07-17T02:47:48Z

Saturday, Farmers' Market AU. Pete/Patrick, R. (BANDOM)

2008-04-12T19:40:54Z

TITLE: Saturday (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)
AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: R, for some language, sexual situation.
PAIRING, IF ANY: Pete/Patrick
POV: third person limited (focus on Patrick)
SUMMARY: After the market. (2079 words) Immediately following “Patrick’s Garden Center” and associated fic.
“Patrick Has a Truck”
“Bittersweet Bakery”, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3.
”Dreaming in Color”
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Beta by tuesdaysgone and kueble. Plus, this whole deal was conceived by kueble, when she drove over to my house and saw the actual Patrick's Garden Center down the road and essentially freaked out over it. Hee. This is not the same Patrick, nor Patrick's Garden Center. Please see the disclaimer.

It became Patrick's custom, if you will, to take Saturday afternoons off. He knew it probably wasn't the most sound business decision he could have possibly made, but the garden center was his, and he did have another manager who was more than willing to pick up the slack. The place practically ran itself anyway. Besides, he had devoted himself to that place since he was fifteen and his grandpa had started making noises about retirement. The biggest hassle was the weekly farmer's market, and that was Patrick's baby.

And, that was Saturday morning.

Patrick loved Saturdays. He enjoyed the farmer's market, sure, but it was his standing date with Pete that he really looked forward to. It was a casual thing with Pete. They would meet every Saturday after Patrick had packed up his stand. They would take Pete's puppy for a walk around the block, then usually go off and actually do something. Patrick had seen more of the city since he started dating Pete than he had the entire rest of his life. Although, dating? Pete would say no. They were just... Them. Pete was finishing law school and ready to move on, unwilling to make attachments in a place where his roots were so shallow. Patrick was already too attached to care.

They went to the movies, and got coffee. They went to the science center (cool), and the art museum (modern; weird). They wandered the university, while Pete pointed out architecture and told random anecdotes about classrooms, other students, and professors. They went to the public library, and the dog park. They even went to the zoo.

Then Patrick would climb the stairs to Pete's apartment.

They explored each other like they explored the city. It was leisurely. Nothing like their first frantic encounter, all teeth and nails. Even so, Patrick quickly discovered that Pete enjoyed a certain level of roughness. He was something of a biter, and responded enthusiastically when treated in kind.

Patrick had plans for this Saturday.

Pete and Hemmy strolled through the market mid-morning. That was Pete's custom. He usually bought something or other from one of the other vendors--this time, a jar of lavender honey from Joe--but really was there to see if Patrick was still stopping by, after. As if Patrick had any other intention. Pete seemed to need the reassurance. It was a casual affair, after all. Patrick might bolt.

Pete grinned at Patrick from the sunny strip of asphalt in front of his stand. One hand gripped his little amber jar. The other was twisted in the leather of the puppy’s leash. Said puppy had plopped his furry butt on the ground and sat there panting in Pete’s shadow.

Patrick took two steps and scooped Hemmy into his arms. He held him cradled in one arm and tickled his naked pink belly until the puppy wriggled and kicked his short little legs. Patrick laughed and let Hemmy lick him.

“It’s too hot out here for this little guy today,” Patrick said. “He’ll burn his feet on the pavement.”

“I know,” Pete agreed with a nod. “I just wanted to…” He trailed off and glanced away before fixing Patrick with a look of anticipation. Patrick blushed.

“I know.” Patrick blushed harder and scuffed the toes of his boots on the ground, willing himself to breathe. “I’m going to be a little later than usual today.” Patrick saw concern flash over Pete’s features. “I want to swap out trucks.” There was a slow smile forming on Pete’s lips. “It’ll give you time to take the little demon for his walk.”

Pete barked out a laugh. Hemmy barked along with him.

***

Patrick’s truck was a hundred degrees inside. The air hit him like a blast furnace when he opened the door, and it was all he could do to turn over the engine as quickly as he could and roll all the windows down and crank the AC. He was thankful for the cloth seats on a day like today.

Patrick had tossed his goods haphazardly into the garden center truck and raced back. He hated wasting time, yet he really wanted his own truck today. Patrick loved his truck, or his “rig” as the farmers and guys around the shop insisted on calling their vehicles. It always made Patrick smirk and giggle to himself. Rig wasn’t really a term he felt he could use without looking like an idiot.

Patrick loved his truck. It was the only luxury he had allowed himself, given that he carried the responsibility of an entire business on his shoulders. His mother still gave him grief over it. Apparently he was supposed to be driving around some tiny little low-emission whosiwhatsit. More environmentally friendly. But Patrick had a nice truck. It had a quad cab (four real doors) and power everything. A great sound system. Four wheel drive, of course, and the 345 horsepower 5.7 liter Hemi V-8 engine. Patrick resolutely did not geek out over his truck. Or at least he tried really hard not to.

***

Pete was waiting for him when he got there. In fact, if Patrick hadn’t been paying attention he likely would have run him over. Pete was leaning against the wall at the head of his parking spot. Patrick smiled. Real casual, Pete.

Patrick rolled down his window and stuck his head out. Pete whistled low, then grinned.

“Just get in,” Patrick said with a laugh. Pete clambered up into the truck, and didn’t stop to sit in his seat. Rather, he crawled across to Patrick and crushed their mouths together. Patrick momentarily flailed and double-checked that the truck was in park before he threaded his fingers in Pete’s hair and pulled him closer.

“Nice rig, Trick,” Pete breathed, right against Patrick’s lips. Patrick groaned.

“Oh, shut up.” Patrick could feel Pete’s lips turn up at the corners.

“Compensating for something?” Pete laughed, and Patrick shoved him away halfheartedly.

“Fuck you.” Pete’s eyebrows waggled and Patrick shook his head, exasperated. “Go sit.” Pete sat, right next to Patrick. “Over there.” Pete rolled his eyes and slid over.

Patrick did have a sizeable truck.

***

Patrick drove for nearly an hour. Pete sat beside him and chattered about this and that. They argued about music over every CD change. Patrick was sure they hadn’t had that much conversation over the entire course of their relationship.

Patrick laughed.

Pete froze.

“Oh shit. Look, Pete, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Patrick just let his words trail off, and bit his lip. Pete looked out the window.

They arrived at their destination only a few minutes after Patrick’s supposition. Patrick supposed that he and Pete had a relationship. A “casual thing” is still a relationship. Apparently Pete was not comfortable with that distinction. He tumbled out of the truck, barely waiting for it to come to a complete stop, and walked off with his hands jammed in his pockets. Patrick hurried after him.

“Pete,” Patrick called, exasperated. “Come on, Pete.” Pete paused briefly, then hunched into his hoodie and continued on. Patrick sighed.

Pete led them into the woods, inadvertently following the path Patrick had intended for them. It was beautiful out there, and Pete was missing it. Patrick clipped a toe on a protruding tree root, stumbling and cursing under his breath. He stopped in the middle of the path and leaned with both hands against his knees, head hanging down between his shoulders. Pete stopped and turned when he heard the crunching behind him cease.

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Patrick muttered, head still hanging dejectedly. He straightened, wiping his palms on his jeans. Pete looked tense, ready to fight. Patrick wasn’t in the mood. He was more in the mood to punch Pete in the head than to argue.

“I had plans, Patrick,” Pete said suddenly, gesturing wildly. “Plans! I’m almost done with school. I’m scheduled to sit for the bar exam. I’ve been cozying up with fucking Congressmen! I was going to go to Washington, Patrick!” Pete paused for breath. “And now…”

“And now?” Patrick echoed him.

“I don’t know!” Pete practically wailed. Patrick took a small step back. “I don’t want to go anymore, and I don’t know what to do about that! I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave…” He trailed off, his gaze slipping down to the leaf litter at his feet. They both just stood there; Pete staring at the ground, Patrick soon doing the same. Pete then continued, softly. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Patrick’s breath caught in his chest.

“I don’t expect you to—“ Pete cut him off.

“I know,” he said. “I know. And that’s the thing. You haven’t—“ Pete stopped and viciously thrust a hand through his hair. “I sound like a girl.”

“I like girls,” Patrick supplied unhelpfully. Pete glared at him. “Girls are nice. Many of my friends are girls.”

Pete turned again and continued down the path. Patrick did the only thing he could do: he followed him.

They walked until the trees thinned and they found themselves in a sunny meadow. Pete stopped, blinking in the sun. Patrick adjusted the brim of his hat. Pete flopped down and stretched out in the short grass, leaning on his elbows and tilting his face up, eyes closed. Patrick just took him in for a moment. Until Pete’s eyes slid open and he nodded for Patrick to join him.

Patrick sat in the grass and looked around him. He couldn’t help but identify the plants he could see. It was mostly short buffalo grass, because, come on, it was mostly short buffalo grass pretty much everywhere. But there were some little random bursts of color and texture that Patrick found himself focusing on. Then Pete started to talk, low, almost to himself, and Patrick just happened to be there.

“I’ve been here so long. All by myself, and that’s been fine. My family’s off, you know, doing their thing, and they let me go, back when I wanted to come here. No problem. I go back now and then, and my mom visits a lot, but. Here. I never intended to stay. It was always just going to be a stepping stone, a way to get what I really wanted. And I never quite… fit in.” Patrick raised his eyebrows at that and Pete smiled a little. “Not that I really ever tried. Or wanted to. It didn’t really matter. I was here to work. I was focused. I was doing well. And then…” Pete looked down to where he was methodically tearing out clumps of grass by the roots. “I got lonely. You were just supposed to be a fuck.” Patrick made a tiny sound and Pete whipped his head around. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—I couldn’t give you up. It got so—so… big. So fast. And I didn’t know. I don’t know—“

“Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Patrick closed the distance between them and kissed Pete hard. It knocked Pete off balance, one of his hands skidding in loose soil. He used the momentum to swing around and cup Patrick’s jaw and press dirty fingers against the bone and soft flesh.

Patrick could smell the scent of earth and green plants on Pete’s hands. He loved it, and he wanted all of Pete to smell like that. He pushed, and Pete fell back onto the ground, taking Patrick with him. They tussled a little, rolled until Patrick could grind Pete down into the plants underneath their bodies.

The heady scent of mint surrounded them, and Patrick smiled.

Pete wasted no time stripping off Patrick’s shirt and rubbing dirty fingerprints all over his skin. Patrick pushed until Pete’s shirt was bunched up underneath his arms and dipped his head to lick at his nipple. Pete arched and flailed, grinding further into the ground and causing more scent to rise around them. Patrick reached to the side and pulled away a handful of plants. Glancing at them quickly, just to make sure he hadn’t found something noxious like poison ivy, Patrick tangled his handful into Pete’s tousled hair and tugged.

“Smell that?” Patrick rasped into Pete’s ear. “I want—“

“You have the strangest kinks, Stump.”

“Shut up, Pete.” Patrick bit hard at the join of Pete’s neck and shoulder. “Wait til I can find a way to fuck you in the greenhouse without getting caught…”

Bandslash: Bittersweet Bakery 3/3

2007-12-31T02:41:25Z

Title: Bittersweet Bakery Ch. 3/3
Author/Artist: Lars (tuesdaysgone in manila_folder)
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Rating: NC-17. Adult. With the sex and the swearing and what have you.
Warnings: Sex, some bad words, and SCHMOOP
Summary/Notes/Beta: This is part of the Farmer's Market AU, a multi-band FBR AU created by ohnoscarlett, who also beta-ed this. You can find the first chapter of this fic here and here. All of the Farmer's Market AU fics are also available at caras_fic. PLEASE NOTE: THIS FIC IS NOT MINE. I AM MERELY LINKING TO YOU BECAUSE I'M GOOD LIKE THAT, AND THIS IS MY 'VERSE, SO I'LL DO AS I PLEASE.
Disclaimer: So, so not real.

Chapter 3

Bandslash: Lake Effect (Panic! gsf)

2007-12-04T05:47:54Z

TITLE: Lake Effect
AUTHOR: ohnoscarlett
RATING: oh, let's say PG-13
PAIRING, IF ANY: gsf, baby. G.S.F. Hah!
SUMMARY: Getting snowed in sucks.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Written hastily for adellyna's Bandom's been snowed in, while I'm trying to write something else!

They all four cuddled together on the bed. They were stuck. The airport was closed, and it was snowing so hard that they couldn’t even see it across the street anymore. But it wasn’t cold in the hotel. They weren’t even under the covers.

It comforted them to touch each other.

Ryan was shivering. Brendon was twitchy. Spencer was tense. Jon, well, Jon was always pretty relaxed, relatively, but even he was on edge. The others did that to him. Their moods bled into each other. So he pressed himself into the warmth of Brendon’s back, reaching across him to pet Ryan soothingly. Spencer’s cool hand ghosted across his momentarily, searching for Ryan’s, and finding it already clasped tightly in Brendon’s.

Ryan was always cold. Winter was a hardship for him, and the Northeast in December was like his own personal level of hell. The others bore it for him, blocking what they could, and sharing what heat they had of their own. His cold nose and icy fingers were like frigid kisses all their own, counterpoints to the warmth that could always be found in his eyes, his mouth.

Jon shivered. Brendon wriggled against him. Ryan tucked his head under Brendon’s chin. Spencer hooked his chin over Ryan’s shoulder.

“Guess maybe next time we schedule this leg for the summer?” Spencer said, his blue eyes sparkling mischieviously. Ryan snorted, making Brendon jump and crash heads with Jon, who groaned, rubbing his temple. Brendon rolled over to kiss the hurt away.

“We could go to Niagara Falls next time, if it was summer,” Jon suggested. Brendon gasped, and Ryan laughed, muffling it into his shoulder. Spencer just grinned. They were mystified by the sheer mass of water, those three. Born of the desert. It made Jon ache suddenly for Chicago and the Lake Michigan shore. This could so easily have happened there instead.

Bandslash: Dreaming in Color (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)

2007-08-19T18:53:13Z

TITLE: Dreaming in Color (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)
AUTHOR: ohnoscarlett and tuesdaysgone
RATING: PG-13, for some language.
PAIRING, IF ANY: mention of Jon/Spencer, Ryan/her
SUMMARY: Ryan was an artist. (3478 words) Contemporary with “Patrick’s Garden Center” and associated fic.
“Patrick Has a Truck”
“Bittersweet Bakery”, Chapter 1, Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.
NOTES: Beta by tuesdaysgone on the parts that I wrote, and vice versa. Boy, did we have fun with this one. Plus, this whole deal was conceived by kueble, when she drove over to my house and saw the actual Patrick's Garden Center down the road and essentially freaked out over it. Hee. This is not the same Patrick, nor Patrick's Garden Center. Please see the disclaimer.

Ryan was an artist. A serious artist. He was one semester away from a BFA—yes, he knew that meant he would graduate in December, not in May. So it took him a little longer. So what. He was an artist. With a portfolio and everything.

What the hell was he doing painting faces at a farmer’s market every Saturday? He could be—he could be…

He could be obsessing over his latest piece.

Actually, he was obsessing over his latest piece. He needed to finish it, and really, screwing around at the farmer’s market was the last place he needed to be. But it was good for him, actually.

According to his therapist, anyway.

Ryan really needed to reconsider the therapist thing. All the great ones were tortured souls. He couldn’t have a stupid therapist taking all of his emo away. Van Gogh didn’t have a therapist! Gauguin didn’t have a therapist!

Well, maybe he would keep the therapist.

So. Ryan painted faces at the farmer’s market every Saturday. He interacted with people. It got him out of his shell. Sort of.

Ryan didn’t really start painting faces because his therapist told him to. He did it because it gave him the opportunity to hang out with Spencer. He continued doing it because it gave him the opportunity to hang out with Brendon. And Jon. And yeah, everybody else who worked there.

Ryan and Spencer grew up together. They lived in the same neighborhood. Ryan spent more time at Spencer’s house than he had at his own. He liked how Spencer’s house was warm. Spence’s mom and his sisters loved him, and Ryan liked to be cuddled and petted. And Grandma Smith didn’t scare him. Not any more than his father had, so that was a plus. She was all bark anyway.

Spence had been working his grandmother’s flower stand at the farmer’s market for forever. It made Ryan crazy when he was out of school for the summer—not “home”, because where was that? He didn’t have the structure of classes to keep him occupied, just work. Weekends stretched on and on without Spence to keep him company.

So he set up his stand at the market. Right next to Spence. And it made him happy. Well, as happy as his tortured artist emo soul would let him be. Or, as happy as he would let his tortured artist emo soul let him. Whatever.

***

Ryan went through cases of wet wipes and hand sanitizer. Why were little kids all so nasty? He would patiently wipe smudges of candy and ice cream from little cheeks before attending to his art. And the hands if he could get away with it. They were always clutching at him and getting just the most noxious things all over him. Really, it was gross.

Ryan steadfastly refused to deal with the snotty ones.

He had been sneezed on exactly once.

Once was enough.

His days at the market were usually pretty steady. His work was impressive enough that simply sending the little heathens back out into the crowd would garner him more business. Ryan worked in color.

Ryan worked in color. He used it as an emotional force. Jon laughed at him and said that he could tell Ryan’s mood by the colors and the creatures he saw emblazoned on tiny faces. Butterflies and feathers? Good day. Bats and snakes? Not so much.

Ryan gave his therapist a little credit there. She may have a point.

Ryan had one regular. Every Saturday, Katie would come by and wait patiently for a lull in the press of grade schoolers. She’s never said, but Ryan thinks she’s a stripper. She always has him paint her a fabulous necklace, sometimes reaching up one side of her neck or the other, but always dripping down into her discreetly bared cleavage. Some days Ryan will throw in something extra around her eyes. Katie often brings stick-on rhinestones, and Ryan always finds places for them, if a little embarrassedly. He can keep his professional distance more easily when separated by the length of a paintbrush. It becomes a little more difficult when he has to press his fingers to flesh.

The worst thing about the face-painting gig, however, was Brendon. Brendon was sort of the best thing about it, too, though, and Ryan wasn’t sure how he could be both. If anyone could, it would be Brendon. Brendon was just…too loud, too happy, too frenetic…too everything.

After Ryan met Jon, when Jon opened up the chocolate stand, Ryan wondered all the time how Jon put up with Brendon in the stall. Jon was every bit as much of an artist as Ryan, and to have Brendon four feet away all day, spilling melted chocolate all over everything…well, Ryan didn’t understand. But Jon Walker seemed to have a core of quiet calm. Ryan’s core wasn’t particularly quiet, or calm.

He made it harder on himself, too. No, that wasn’t true. Brendon made it harder, by wheedling Ryan to paint his face. You just didn’t ignore a wheedling Brendon Urie. He wouldn’t allow it. The only two options were giving in, or bitching and moaning and threatening, and then giving in. Ryan usually went for Option B just out of principle. He still ended up in the same place, though. Sitting a foot away from Brendon, who vibrated with nervous energy like a power line. Whose breath smelled like coffee and chocolate, and whose great dark eyes stared into Ryan’s eyes the entire time, with this intense expression of concentration, like he could see the inner workings of Ryan’s mind through his golden-brown eyes.

Shit like that was why Ryan preferred painting landscapes. Landscapes didn’t stare back.

***

The thing about the farmer’s market was that faces became familiar. And Ryan got better at recognizing them. He should have been pretty good at that anyway, as an artist, but he never focused on people as objets d’art. Ryan was a landscape artist. His heart was in the big picture. Rolling hills. Tumbling dunes. Sunbaked cities. People were… background music.

That’s what made him crazy about school. He had to be well rounded. Sculpture. Drafting. Watercolor. Ryan loathed watercolor. Really. Watercolor sucked. And he had to work with different subjects. Still life. Gah. Not so bad, ultimately, but Ryan couldn’t generally get excited about painting a fucking cup or some shit. Portraits…

Portraits were entertaining in the sense that Ryan always got a little twisted kick of pleasure out of the discomfiture of the models. He loved it when the professors practically had to nail them to the floor to keep them from bolting. It was kind of boring when they were enthusiastic about it. Those ones were usually wiggly too.

Ryan was kind of sadistic about his portrait models.

Ryan didn’t know where they got the models for school. He had never seen one before they came in for a class, and he had never seen one after. It’s like they shipped them in or something. But then, maybe it was part of his maturation process, but Ryan was more observant of people now. Ryan noticed the lady who bought a skein of wool from Greta and Vicky nearly every week. He recognized the college girl whose shorts got shorter as the summer progressed... She was kind of hard to miss, actually. Blonde, with the legs. And she always stopped at Joe’s to torment him and not buy anything.

He recognized the dark little guy who was stalking Patrick. Not because he was stalking Patrick. Or not stalking, because Patrick seemed to be into it. That guy was a portrait model. Ryan snorted softly. He’d have to go introduce himself and see if it freaked the guy out. Heh. That one was sort of an exhibitionist. While it seemed to go against Ryan’s general laws of portrait model value, since this guy was into taking his clothes off for a bunch of random strangers, he still had a degree of unease that made Ryan press his lips together in a thin, cruel line whenever he came in. He was fairly desperate for attention, and it made for excellent face studies.

***

Ryan noticed when he had painted the third dark little creature in a row. Shit. He was not having a good day. Ryan finished a tiny black wing with a flourish and sent its bearer on his merry way with a half-hearted pat. He attempted to smile at this one’s mother, but it came out as more of a grimace.

Ryan was actually having a really good, steady day. He was going to make a little money. But it wasn’t enough. His stupid nine-to-five, I-only-do-this-to-make-the-rent job had let him go. Not “fired”, oh no; they “let him go”.

Ryan had had plans. Getting fired was really not amenable to the inception of those plans.

It wasn’t Ryan’s fault that his boss had been fucking the Big Boss’ secretary. Who had also been fucking the Big Boss, but… You know, semantics. It was like politics. A regime change. The one guy is out, so all his staff goes with him. Ryan didn’t know what to do with himself. He needed a job. A real job, not just screwing around at the farmer’s market once a week. While it was fun, it wouldn’t meet his needs. Ryan had to pay for school. He had rent. He wanted to move. Well, he couldn’t do that now…

Ryan had been the personal assistant for this big up-and-comer ad exec for four years. He was not his secretary, or administrative assistant, or whatever. No. He was this guy’s personal assistant. (Read: slave.) When his secretary had steadfastly refused to do his errands and menial tasks, Ryan had been hired. It wasn’t bad as far as college jobs went. Ryan ran for coffee. He picked up dry cleaning. He made some copies. Although why the damn secretary wouldn’t do that was beyond him... He went to the mailroom.

And the mailroom is where he met Brendon.

Brendon. Ryan’s fingers itched. He wanted to paint. He wanted to get the hell out of there and just cover some canvas. He really just wanted to get the hell out of there.

When Ryan painted he didn’t think.

Ryan really needed to not think for a while. He needed to not think about his job. He needed to not think about his apartment. He needed to not think about Brendon.

Ryan suddenly wanted to paint something yellow. Something luminous. Something light and free. Something…

“Hey, man.”

“Brendon.” Ryan’s insides twirled and clenched at the same time. It really was quite a dance. Brendon thrilled him and irritated him and confused him. Ryan took a deep breath and gestured for him to sit. He picked up his brush again and dipped it in a sunny yellow before thinking better of it and dipping it again in a bright cerulean blue. He had just gone to make the first swipe across Brendon’s smooth cheek when Brendon grasped his wrist and stilled his hand. The color smeared along the bone, marking Brendon as if he was being painted for war.

Maybe he was, with that look in his eye.

“I heard about your job. At the office,” Brendon dragged Ryan’s hand away, gripping his wrist and digging in so hard that Ryan was sure he would leave bruises. Bruises were something. Something he was used to, if not with Brendon. Ryan just shrugged. He tried to pull away, but Brendon wouldn’t release him. “What are you going to do?” he asked, low. He stared at the place where his fingers pressed into Ryan’s skin, suddenly relaxing the pressure and gently stroking with his thumb where he had surely left a mark. Ryan jerked free and jabbed his brush into a jar.

“I don’t know,” Ryan replied tersely. “I’ll think of something. Right now I just want to go home.” Brendon’s eyes flashed darkly at him. He knew that Ryan would be stuck where he was and what it was doing to him. Trapped. Unable to leave. Unable to fend for himself. Unable to start over. Again.

“You don’t have to go home, you know,” Brendon offered. He hopped up from his seat and hovered over Ryan for a second.

“Yes,” Ryan sighed. “I do.” He paused, considering. “She’s coming home tonight.”

Brendon disappeared without another word.

***

See, Ryan lived with his girlfriend. She was a couple years older, a dancer, and beautiful. Ryan adored her, and was still kind of in awe that they were together. They had started dating when he was a sophomore, and he had lived with her for about a year.

It was her apartment. She was never there, but it was her place. Ryan just kind of existed in her space.

That was the problem.

Ryan wasn’t getting his needs met. Maybe he had been spending too much time with his therapist, but it was true. She seemed perfect. She was beautiful. She was successful at her own art. She had legs that went on for-fucking-ever. God, she had beautiful legs… They had lots and lots of amazing sex. When she was home. She was never home. She was always out auditioning or working or practicing or whatever it is girls do with their time. When she was home she wanted to fuck.

Ideal, right?

Ryan was bored. Ryan felt used. Ryan felt like a pet, or maybe a glorified sex toy. Ryan was lonely.

Ryan was confused. Ryan wasn’t blaming himself. And he wasn’t blaming her. He placed the blame solely on Brendon.

***

Brendon’s job at the ad agency was just one of many that he held down. Ryan knew that he delivered things for Jon, as well as helping him out at the market every Saturday. He worked in the mailroom in the mornings and for the Italian restaurant in the afternoons. He also did random things here and there when he could, but Ryan could never keep track of it all and quickly stopped trying. Brendon bounced from job to job like he bounced about any space he occupied.

This was why Ryan was amazed he’d never actually seen Brendon before he showed up in the mailroom one morning. He wasn’t about to forget it, though. The office manager really should have known better than to give Brendon a mail cart. Ryan really should have been watching where he was walking, too, but at that moment he was blissfully unaware a menace to society had been unleashed in the building.

Brendon hadn’t actually run Ryan down, to be honest. He’d managed to stop the cart in time. But Ryan, his balance impeded by the stack of rolled drawings he carried, had gone down anyway. The next thing he knew, unfamiliar hands were picking him up off the ground, and horrified dark eyes were peering into his. From about a foot away. Brendon was never very generous with personal space.

“Wow, that’s probably the quickest I’ve ever had a guy roll over for me.”

“Excuse me?” Ryan had hissed, batting at Brendon’s questioning hands. To little avail, really. Brendon had seemed determined to feel him up in some semblance of an examination right there on the floor. “Do I know you? Do you even work here?”

“It’s only my second day,” Brendon had replied, big innocent eyes blinking earnestly. “And I’d remember if I had run into you before.”

“Obviously you haven’t finished your training.” Ryan had finally been able to push Brendon away from him and stand up. “The sexual harassment information is usually saved for the end, once they know you’re worth keeping,” he had sneered, and brushed carpet lint and dust from his pants.

“Oh well, I only need to stick it out for three weeks for this to be a job record for me.”

“Good luck with that,” Ryan had noted dryly.

“You’ll miss me if I’m gone. Besides, how will you keep your reflexes honed without me around?” Brendon had grinned and patted the mail cart.

Ryan had smiled in spite of himself. Brendon took a moment to seriously inquire after his well-being, and then Ryan escaped to the archives with his drawings. He had spent the rest of the day busy with the menial tasks set to him, but found himself feeling the ghosts of hands on his chest at odd moments. No, he had told himself. Just ignore it. He probably won’t last the week, anyway, and then it’ll all just go away.

***

That was two years ago, and the problem was, Brendon hadn’t gone away. In fact, Brendon Urie had proved to be a very difficult person to get rid of. If you would have told Ryan that he’d be spending nearly every day with the guy two years later, he probably would have laughed. After their initial – literal – contact, Brendon seemed to have learned his lesson and had kept his hands off. Mostly. Except when he didn’t. Ryan was sure Brendon didn’t mean anything by it, not now. No, this was Ryan’s problem.

Ryan’s therapist really was no help.

“You sound like you had a good week this week, Ryan. What did you do?”

“Not much. She’s away again, so I went to the movies with Spencer and Brendon. Brendon came over one night with chocolate cake from Jon’s bakery. I don’t know.”

“But you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You don’t sound very convinced. Why is that?”

“It’s just…Brendon’s been coming around a lot lately, and….”

“And what? He seems like a good friend, Ryan. Do you feel like he’s a good friend for you?”

“Well. Yes, but. There’s just something about him being around so much, I feel…”

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know.” They were both silent for a moment. Then Ryan said, haltingly, “Being around him makes me feel like…it’s like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore, okay? I can’t explain it. But I like it when he’s around, so. I just don’t know.”

Ryan twisted his hands together in his lap, staring fixedly at the frayed cuff of his jeans. He heard the sound of a pen scratching on paper from the desk. He hated that sound. It always seemed to say, I know something you haven’t figured out yet.

The trouble was, he thought he was finally starting to understand.

***

She was home when he got there. Unusual. She usually got home later. Evenings, mostly. Probably not a good sign…

She was all happy, too.

Ryan was perplexed.

She got a job with a dance troupe back East. Not one of the principal dancers, but a good part, and steady.

She wanted to celebrate. Ryan really wasn’t in the mood. Because, essentially, that was the way it boiled down with her. She was all happy and horny and Ryan just didn’t want to deal with it.

Because it meant she was leaving, and she didn’t really get that. Leaving. Just her. Ryan still had to finish school. (He will. He’s going to finish. He’s not quitting now when he’s so close.)

She didn’t understand what his problem was.

“Why are you acting this way? Why do you always make everything all about you?”

“That’s the thing. I never make it about me. This time I am,” he spit back.

“Well, obviously you don’t want me. You can have this apartment. I’ll be out in two weeks. It’s all yours.” Ryan closed his eyes tiredly. A door slammed, and Ryan wasn’t sure if it was the bedroom or the front entrance.

Within five minutes Ryan lost his girlfriend and gained his own apartment. An apartment he couldn’t afford. He had no idea what to do with either of those developments.

Ryan called Spencer. Who else could he call, if not his best friend? It took a few rings, but Spence picked up, sounding distracted.

“Spence, I need you!”

“Ry, I’m kind of busy right now, man,” Spencer replied breathlessly. Ryan could hear someone in the background. Jon. Ryan fumbled wordlessly for an instant. Spencer was with his boyfriend. “Oh, oh, I’ll—uh, okay. I’ll talk to you later.” And hung up on him.

Ryan looked around the apartment. She was gone. But it wasn’t enough. He had to get out of there too. But where could he go? Spence was obviously otherwise occupied. Ryan didn’t really have anyone else to go to. He realized that wasn’t really true, though.

Ryan had Brendon. “You don’t have to go home, you know,” Brendon had offered earlier.

And that made him pause at the door with his keys in his hand. Brendon. Why should going to Brendon at a time like this be any different than going to Spencer? But it was.

Ryan went anyway.

Bandslash: Patrick Has a Truck (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)

2007-08-10T02:32:30Z

TITLE: Patrick Has a Truck (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)

AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: NC-17.
PAIRING, IF ANY: Pete/Patrick

SUMMARY: Immediately following the events of “Patrick’s Garden Center.” He had just propositioned some random guy right there at the farmer’s market! (2989 words)
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.

NOTES: Beta by tuesdaysgoneand kueble. Plus, this whole deal was conceived by kueble, when she drove over to my house and saw the actual Patrick's Garden Center down the road and essentially freaked out over it. Hee. This is not the same Patrick, nor Patrick's Garden Center. Please see the disclaimer.

"PATRICK HAS A TRUCK"

Patrick glanced at Pete quickly as they descended the half a dozen or so steps from the ice cream parlor. His eyes were shining and it looked like he was going to burst into laughter at any minute. It made something twist in Patrick’s gut. What the hell was he doing? He had just propositioned—or, wait, had he just been propositioned? Some random guy right there at the farmer’s market!

Pete chose that moment to laugh.

Patrick’s head snapped up.

“Man, you are thinking way too hard,” Pete said breathlessly. Patrick blushed and Pete bumped him with his shoulder. When he spoke again, his lips were practically on Patrick’s ear. “Just roll with it.”

Patrick straightened and slowed his pace. Pete crowded him and chuckled in his ear. He backed off when Patrick stopped and thrust his hands in his pockets.

“This is me.”

“Huh?”

“My truck.”

“Oh,” Pete replied, sounding surprised. “It was right here, then, wasn’t it.”

“Pretty much,” said Patrick, gesturing with the keys he had pulled out of his pants pocket. Pete grinned and practically skipped around to the passenger side. Patrick shook his head and smiled to himself as he climbed in. Guy was hot, but… quirky? Let’s go with quirky. Pete slammed the door and made a goofy face. Patrick laughed in spite of himself. Patrick really was too serious for his own good.

“My place,” Pete leaned across the seat toward Patrick, “is just around the corner; a couple blocks from here.”

Patrick dropped his keys.

Pete stretched down to snag them with nimble fingers before Patrick even twitched in their direction. He sat up slowly, eyes on Patrick, mischief lurking in his features. Patrick expected him to say something, but Pete just regarded him contemplatively for a moment. Then he grinned again and slapped Patrick’s keys in his hand.

Patrick started the truck and drove the short distance under Pete’s guidance. No further delay. As luck would have it, Pete had a parking spot in the garage under his building. Pete, however, never used it, as he had no car. Made it convenient for his mom to come over, he said.

“Yeah, your mom and anybody else,” said Patrick with a laugh.

“What are you implying?” Patrick snapped his mouth shut. Perhaps not the best course of action to question the honor of someone with whom you hoped to be doing, well, something in the near future. But Pete just smirked at him. “Turn in there.”

Patrick had barely cut the engine before Pete was on him. He was out of his seatbelt and tugging on Patrick’s. Patrick untangled himself from the strap and turned to catch Pete’s lips with his own. It was maddeningly brief. Pete reached across him and pulled on the door handle, his mouth dragging down to Patrick’s jaw, nipping. Pete slid onto Patrick’s lap—again, only briefly—long enough to suck his earlobe into his mouth and whisper, “Come on,” before kicking open the door and dragging Patrick out behind him.

Pete led him up three flights of stairs. Patrick was mildly irritated at finding himself out of breath outside what must be Pete’s door. It could have been worse. Pete could have lived on the fourth or fifth floor. And Patrick could have made the climb without benefit of Pete’s rather fine ass mere inches from his nose most of the way. Could have been worse.

Pete’s door clicked open and Patrick found himself dragged bodily into a tiny, dark apartment. He barely had his footing before Pete threw him against the wall. Patrick grunted. Pete had him by his lapels and dipped his head to lick a wide stripe up his neck before sucking on his ear again. Patrick drew a shuddering breath.

“You’re very…” Pete bit him. “Direct.” Patrick could feel Pete’s lips curving into a smile even as his tongue flicked his ear.

“I find it to be the best way to get what I want.” Pete shoved a knee between Patrick’s thighs and ground him into the wall. Patrick sagged into the pressure. His fingers scrabbled at an inexplicable number of layers of fabric at Pete’s hips. When he found skin, he dug in, forcing Pete to hiss and jerk against him.

And then the clothes started to hit the floor.

The way Patrick saw it, Pete’s tiny, dark apartment was some sort of memory-erasing time-suck. One minute he was being pressed up against the wall by an equally tiny and dark Pete. The next he was on the floor with his pants around his knees, Pete’s head bobbing in his lap, and really no idea how he got there. Not that he was complaining, mind you. Pete had an amazing mouth.

It was just light enough to make out a dim outline of Pete when Patrick looked in his direction. Pete looked up at him at the same time, and Patrick could see his eyes gleaming in the near darkness. He could also see his arm slithering down between their bodies and start what could only be jerking himself off. Patrick choked, and Pete sucked harder. Patrick came suddenly, with a gasp, and thumped his head on the floor.

Patrick felt, more than heard, Pete chuckle around him.

Patrick’s eyes slipped closed as Pete pulled off him. One last swipe of his tongue made Patrick flail a bit and open his eyes. Pete was laughing silently and licking his lips. His eyes seemed to bore into him, and Patrick shuddered, his eyes sliding closed again.

Pete lunged up from his crouched position between Patrick’s legs. He climbed up Patrick’s body and settled on his chest. His impossibly tight pants were undone, but hardly pushed down at all. Patrick came out of his post-orgasmic haze enough to grasp his hips, stroking his thumbs along the prominent bones. He gazed up Pete’s body, surprised at the sheer mass of tattoos. He never would have guessed all that was there from the mere glimpse he had gotten peeking out from under the cuff of his hoodie.

Patrick just opened his mouth to ask Pete what he wanted, but Pete shook his head and cut him off.

“I want you to watch.”

Patrick’s mouth remained open.

Pete slid his hands down Patrick’s arms and over his hands where they rested at his hips. He used Patrick’s hands to help ease his jeans down, just the tiniest fraction. It seemed to be enough, though, because Pete released him and passed one hand over his abs and the black tattoo that was there. He reached into his pants and nudged his hard cock into view.

Patrick just tried not to squirm.

Pete stroked himself slowly. All the way from base to tip. Nothing fancy. The occasional twist. Patrick didn’t know where to look. There was the obvious choice, of course, but… The light had shifted, and now there was a spare sliver of light coming underneath the blinds that hit Pete dead on. It wasn’t much. It was still pretty dark. But Patrick could see him clearly now, and he fairly glistened. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and as his breathing picked up, his chest heaved. Patrick could see his muscles moving under his skin. But then again, there were his eyes. Pete’s great dark eyes that had first caught Patrick’s attention that morning.

Patrick startled.

That was just this morning.

“Oh, fuck.” It came out as almost a growl. Pete looked down at him with hooded eyes and bit his lip. Hard, because Patrick could see it turning white around the edges. His pace picked up, and his breath hitched. Patrick didn’t breathe.

But he did dig his thumbnails into the thin skin at Pete’s hips.

Pete cried out and thrust back against him and into his hand. Once, twice. The third time stuttered and Pete came over his clenched fist and onto Patrick’s chest.

Pete sat there on Patrick’s chest for a minute, then he rearranged his pants. He shifted and wiggled a bit until he was resting with his elbows on Patrick’s either side. He had wiped his own hand off on his discarded t-shirt, but he hadn’t cleaned up Patrick, nor had he given him a chance to do it himself. In fact, Pete had dipped his finger in the come on Patrick’s chest and was tracing lazily with it, smearing it all over Patrick’s skin.

“So,” Pete’s head was ducked, “this is my apartment.” A dog barked. Pete raised his head and smiled. “That’s Hemmy. He probably wants out.”

“Uh…” Patrick stammered. So do I? Sort of? Pete looked at him quizzically, head cocked.

“Are you ok?” Pete asked. He sat up carefully and grabbed his t-shirt again to quickly dab at Patrick. Patrick took a deep breath.

“I think—“ Patrick started hesitantly.

“Oh, no, no,” Pete shook his head. “You’ve made it this far; you are not going to freak out on me now.”

“But we just—“

“Fucked?” Patrick kind of nodded, avoiding Pete’s steady gaze. Pete just shrugged and threw up his hands. “People do it all the time. Is there a problem?” Pete’s hands were now fisted on his hips, indignant. Funny, given that he was still perched on Patrick’s chest, effectively pinning him to the floor.

“I don’t usually… We just met this morning,” Patrick said quietly, half to the floor. Pete jostled him as he shifted again. He bent over and captured Patrick’s jaw in his hand, turning his face toward him.

“Look at me,” Pete said gently. Righteous indignation gone, apparently. Patrick peeked up through his lashes and found Pete smiling softly at him. “Are you afraid that I’m going to think you’re some sort of slut?” Patrick glanced away and Pete bumped his jaw until he looked back. “Because I told you. I tend to use direct means, because it’s the best way to get what I want.” Pete stroked his thumb along the corner of Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick leaned into it. Pete leaned down until he lay atop Patrick again, both still bare, skin to skin. He stretched his neck and spoke directly in Patrick’s ear. “I want you, Patrick.” Patrick shuddered at the emphasis. “Why should I have to wait if I know what I want?”

Oh, fuck it.

Patrick grabbed Pete’s head and kissed him hard. He heaved up and rolled them over, Pete thumping mercifully into something soft laying on the floor.

“That’s exactly what I was talking about,” Pete said when he drew back, smirking.

“It really is the curse of the 21^st century. Everyone is addicted to instantaneous gratification,” Patrick deadpanned. Pete laughed. “And besides, I had to get you off me. I think you were crushing my pelvis.” Pete laughed harder.

“I think—“ Pete gasped, between giggle fits. “I think that there is nothing wrong with instantaneous gratification. As long as you know what you want and know what you’re going to get. Or can deal with the consequences.”

“Wow, that’s…” Patrick scratched his head. “Dude, you almost sound like my lawyer.”

“That’s because I am a lawyer. Almost.” Patrick’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. He sat up and pulled Pete with him.

“Huh. Never would have called that one.” Pete cuffed him lightly on the arm.

“Shut up. Don’t make me bust out the big words on you.” Pete was halfway into his t-shirt before he reconsidered it and tossed it aside. “I still have a year left of law school.”

“Huh. Well, ok. I can kind of see it,” Patrick replied thoughtfully. “You’re very persuasive.” Pete raised an eyebrow at him and stood up.

“Come on,” he said, extending a hand to Patrick on the floor. Patrick took it and hopped to his feet.

“See? I do what you say.” Pete cuffed him again. “I don’t know why… You’re kind of mean.”

“Yeah, but I give great head.” Patrick blushed and studiously searched for his t-shirt. Pete found it first and handed it over, but didn’t let go when Patrick grabbed on; instead, using it to pull Patrick toward him. “I only deal in truths here.”

Patrick just kind of blinked at him.

Pete snatched a kiss before thrusting Patrick’s shirt into his hands and turning away. But not before Patrick caught a glimpse of a sly smile. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Guy was kind of a nut. Wait, wait—we’re sticking with quirky.

“Let’s go, man! My dog needs to go out.”

“What? Like, on a walk?” With his head stuck inside his t-shirt, information must not pass readily to Patrick’s brain.

“Uh, yeah. You’re familiar with the concept, I assume?” Patrick’s head popped out of his shirt and he could see Pete standing by a door with his hand on the knob, waiting. “Go for a stroll? Take a turn? Once around the block?” Pete’s grin spread with every word, until he was fairly leering at him. “You’ve been around the block, haven’t you Patrick?”

Patrick couldn’t help it. He burst into the least masculine fit of giggles ever to be seen in the history of modern man.

“Oh my god!” he breathed. When he could. “How did I ever let you pick me up when you come up with lines like that?” Pete just shrugged and made some gesture at himself. Well, there was that. Then he opened the door.

Patrick was bowled over by a tiny bundle of wrinkles and tongue.

“Meet Hemmy,” said Pete with a flourish. Patrick sat on the floor again, examining the puppy. He was adorable.

“’Hemi’? Like, ‘hey, does that have a hemi in it?’” Patrick asked between enthusiastic puppy kisses to his chin. Pete just squinted at him, clueless. “Hemi? The engine? Apparently not.” Pete shook his head.

“Hemingway.” Ah. And he reads, too. Patrick was screwed. “Shall we?” Pete swung a leash that he must have plucked from thin air. The puppy jumped up and bounded over to him, skidding to a stop at Pete’s feet. Patrick stood and spied his hat by the front door. By the time he was properly covered, Pete had the puppy ready to go.

They really did just walk around the block. Hemmy was just a little guy, and he had stumpy legs. Which made Patrick laugh when Pete said it, and led to them actually learning each other’s full names. Which, in turn, made Patrick feel a little better about the whole thing.

They talked. As much as a walk around the block will permit, anyway. Patrick learned where Pete was going to school, his major, his general plans for the future. He told Pete about his business, and the market.

“Not very exciting, I’m afraid,” Patrick said.

“Exciting enough.” Hemmy interjected with a bark. “See, Hemmy approves.” They both laughed. The puppy seemed unconcerned.

“Well, it’s not like you. Environmental Law? Who gets into that around here anyway? Kind of asking for trouble, what with the Big Agriculture and all.” Yes, Patrick said it with capital letters. Everybody did. Big Agriculture was scary if you were a small farmer. And there were a lot of small farmers around the area.

Pete shrugged. “I like trouble,” he said with a grin. “Besides, I don’t want to stay here.” Patrick actually felt himself droop. “I want to go to Washington and lobby.”

That revelation killed the conversation for a bit. Patrick didn’t really know what to say to that.

“So. Patrick,” said Pete, after a little while. They were almost back to the front of Pete’s building. Pete stood, kicking at a raised edge of the cement with his toes, and watched Hemmy snuffle at the grass of a meter-square green spot around a spindly tree. Patrick watched him. He really was lovely. It was kind of sad that he knew he would never get to have a relationship with him, if he was leaving. But that was Patrick. One fuck and it was love. Or, you know, it could be. He really had to work on that. Pete looked up and caught him watching. He really had to work on that, too. He was not so much surreptitious as completely obvious.

But Pete smiled at him, so it was ok.

“I should get going,” Patrick said softly. “I should’ve been back at the shop, uh… hours ago. They probably think I’m dead.”

“I didn’t even think—I’m sorry,” Pete said, contrite. “You’re right; you should go.” He tugged on Hemmy’s leash and stared at his shoes.

“Well, if I can’t get away once in a while, what good is it to be the boss anyway, right?” Pete laughed. Patrick loved the sound of it, and he was really getting used to hearing it, and he was so, so in trouble.

“So, uh… What do you say next time we go for a drive? Maybe out to the parklands, take the baby out for his first hike? He could use the exercise. Looks like he’s getting kind of round.”

“I think he’s supposed to be round,” Patrick countered. Then shyly, barely loud enough to be heard out of his own hat, “next time?”

“Yeah,” said Pete confidently, “next time.” He smiled brightly at Patrick, who promptly forgot all about Washington. Pete leaned in close. “I’m really just using you for your truck, you know. So I can get out of the city.” Patrick held his breath, but he could feel Pete’s on his neck as he spoke in his ear. “Or so I can get you out of the city. And fuck you in the back of your truck.”

Patrick took a second.

“You really don’t want to do that.”

“Don’t I?” said Pete.

“No,” Patrick replied.

“Why not?”

“The back of my truck is gross. There are much better places where we could—“

"Well, we'll just have to find them then, won't we?"

</div>

Bandslash: Bittersweet Bakery, Ch. 2 (Farmer's Market)

2007-08-07T21:09:31Z

Title: Bittersweet Bakery Ch. 2/3
Author/Artist: Lars (manila_folder)
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13ish; working up to a good ol' R
Warnings: None
Summary/Notes/Beta: This is part of the Farmer's Market AU, a multi-band FBR AU created by ohnoscarlett, who also beta-ed this. You can find the first chapter of this fic here. All of the Farmer's Market AU fics are also available at caras_fic. PLEASE NOTE: THIS FIC IS NOT MINE. I AM MERELY LINKING TO YOU BECAUSE I'M GOOD LIKE THAT, AND THIS IS MY 'VERSE, SO I'LL DO AS I PLEASE.
Disclaimer: So, so not real.

Chapter 2...

Bandslash: Bittersweet Bakery, Ch. 1 (Farmer's Market)

2007-08-01T02:09:22Z

Title: Bittersweet Bakery Ch. 1
Author/Artist: Lars (manila_folder)
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13 for this installment
Warnings: None
Summary/Notes/Beta: This is part of the Farmer's Market AU, a multi-band FBR AU created by ohnoscarlett, who also beta-ed this. You can find the first part, written by ohnoscarlettright here in this journal. It's not necessary to read it first, but you'll probably enjoy this one more if you do. PLEASE NOTE: THIS FIC IS NOT MINE. I AM MERELY LINKING TO YOU BECAUSE I'M GOOD LIKE THAT, AND THIS IS MY 'VERSE, SO I'LL DO AS I PLEASE.
Disclaimer: So, so not real.

( It was all Spencer's fault - Spencer, and the melted chocolate... )

Bandslash: Patrick's Garden Center

2007-07-28T04:12:34Z

TITLE: Patrick’s Garden Center (Farmer’s Market ‘Verse)

AUTHOR: Cara ( ohnoscarlett)
RATING: Gen, PG-13, some language
PAIRING, IF ANY: Really none, this time, but it's working it's way up to Pete/Patrick, and others. Heh. But there is a “metric ton of characters”, so keep your fingers crossed.

SUMMARY: The farmer’s market is held every Saturday from May to October. (2339 words)
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Obviously.

NOTES: Beta by dakotas_taleand kueble. Plus, this whole deal was conceived by kueble, when she drove over to my house and saw the actual Patrick's Garden Center down the road and essentially freaked out over it. Hee. This is not the same Patrick, nor Patrick's Garden Center. Please see the disclaimer. There are so many notes for this fic, I may just post them in my journal all on their own.

“PATRICK’S GARDEN CENTER”

The farmer’s market is held every Saturday from May to October. It’s in the Haymarket, the old historical district downtown. Brick-paved roads and everything. People flock to it, even though there are honest-to-goodness farms not five miles away and a farmer’s market seems kind of redundant. They think it’s quaint or something.

Patrick has had a stand at the farmer’s market for a couple years now. Every Saturday he drags down a truckload of crap from his shop and sets up at the ass crack of dawn to essentially people watch until one o-clock, when he gets to pack it all up and take it back. It’s not that his stand does poorly. In fact, he usually does quite well, and even sees return customers at the garden center during the week. It’s just—the damn thing starts really early.

Patrick usually has a spot between Joe the honey guy and Andy the organic fruit guy. It’s a good spot, near the corner, next to where the farm veggies start, and across from the ice cream place where the face painters always set up. It gets some serious action early in the morning from the hard-core market shoppers after the freshest produce available in three counties, and later on when the moms and kids are out tooling around looking for something to do.

So Patrick’s arranging the miniature gazing balls so they catch more sun when this guy comes into his stand. He has obviously just stopped at Joe’s because he’s sucking on one of those little honey straw things that Patrick hates. Joe asked him one time why he never takes him up on it when he offers them up, and Patrick told him that they tasted more like plastic than honey. Joe just snorted and replied, “Well, maybe you’re sucking on it wrong.” Patrick was just kind of perplexed, and wandered back to his stand to shuffle the stepping stones or something.

So this guy is sucking on that honey straw like it’s the best thing since… Well, plastic honey, according to Patrick. Patrick finds himself smirking about it when the guy looks up with great dark eyes and catches him looking. Patrick glances down and suppresses an inexplicably furious blush creeping across his cheeks. When he looks up again, the guy is licking his fingers on one hand and wiping the others on his jeans. He’s… lovely. Almost girlish, and tiny, which is welcome in the Land of Giant Men, where Patrick is usually alone in his diminutive stature.

“Good morning!” chirps Patrick automatically. The guy sucks the tip of his index finger enthusiastically then grins toothily at him. Patrick is supposed to be pointing out various items in his stand, but he just stands there clutching a shiny little ball and gaping like an idiot.

“Morning,” the guy replies finally, still grinning. He gestures with a fistful of honey straws. “These things are awesome. Want one?” Patrick shakes his head, watching the way the guy’s mouth shines. And then the guy licks his lips. Patrick has to shake his head to remember his manners. Any sort of manners.

“No, thank you. I…” Patrick really can’t think of a good excuse. The guy grins at him again and cocks an eyebrow.

“’Think they taste like plastic?’” he finishes. Patrick laughs.

“Actually…” Patrick shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying not to blush again and rocking back on his heels. The guy barks out a laugh and selects another straw, sticking the rest in a paper bag poking out of his hoodie pocket. Patrick can see the edge of a tattoo hidden under his sleeve.

“Too bad, man.” The guy bites viciously at the plastic. “Like I said: these things are awesome.”

“Thanks, though,” Patrick says. The guy salutes him with his honey straw and disappears down the row.

The guy is barely out of sight in the crowd before Patrick scurries over to Joe’s honey stand. He ducks behind the table and corners Joe, who is explaining the concept of honey varieties to a pretty girl with a college sweatshirt and short shorts. Patrick fidgets. Joe finally steps back and drops down into his raggedy folding chair, sighing.

“I love this place,” Joe drawls lazily, closing his eyes. Patrick scowls at him. He turns and points down the row of stalls.

“Did you see that guy?” Patrick hisses. Joe giggles—giggles—at him and Patrick can practically see him considering going, what guy? Jerk. As it is, Joe makes him stand there and twitch a bit before he responds.

“Yeah.” Patrick wants to shake him. “I totally sent him your way. Told him you were playing with your balls again.”

Patrick squawks.

Joe giggles some more.

“I hate you,” Patrick grumbles, and turns on his heel to return to his own stand. Joe merely continues giggling.

The rest of the day is average. Steady customer flow, a few transactions. Nothing major. Patrick goes over to Andy’s to pick up a pint of strawberries. Joe goes over to Andy’s to pick up a pint of strawberries. Andy comments that he bets they’re good dipped in honey. Joe’s whole face lights up and he scurries back to his stand to crack open a jar. Patrick can see the slight droop in Andy’s shoulders and feels a twinge of sympathy. Joe spends his Saturdays watching girls. Andy spends his Saturdays watching Joe. Patrick shrugs and goes back to his stand.

The last hour of the market, Patrick spends watching the stalls across the street. He is immediately across from the face painting, which tends to get a bit sticky this time of day. Patrick can see the pinched look on Ryan’s face as he manages a squirmy and sticky-faced youngster. It makes him smile. Ryan is so obviously not cut out for the public relations part of his job. He looks like he would quite like to strap his young charge to a board to get him to hold still.

Ryan always sets up next to Spencer. Well, Spencer’s grandmother’s place, actually. Patrick shudders. She’s scary. Patrick can see where Spence gets his charming personality. That old dragon can sure get her bitch on. And so can Spence. It makes Patrick smile, because Spence is just so pretty, with smooth, round cheeks, lush lips, and piercing blue eyes. But he can set a scowl for hours on end.

Luckily for everyone at the market, old Mrs. Smith has gotten on in years and now regularly sends Spencer to man her stand and bitch out the neighbors. They sell flowers. Dahlias, mostly. Patrick has seen the farm, and it is a veritable explosion of colors that just goes on and on. They have a little roadside stand right there at the farm where Mrs. Smith sets out arrangements done up in mason jars. Five bucks, honor system. Patrick has never ceased to be amazed that shit like that still works. But then they have their stand at the market every Saturday too, so who knows. Patrick just likes the look of Spencer among the blooms.

The boys next to Spencer are… quite a pair. Patrick swears that Jon and Brendon spill or eat more chocolate than they must sell. Jon is an actual trained—what the hell do you call that, anyway? Pastry chef? Chocolatier? Whatever, the guy spent a couple years in France, came home, and set up shop downtown. For market day he brings out truffles and chocolate dipped fruit. And his buddy, Brendon. He doesn’t work at the store with Jon, he just likes to come down and “help” at his stand. Patrick doesn’t know what that guy does the rest of the week, but seriously, sugar is the last thing he needs in his system. By the end of the day, Jon and Brendon are usually covered in chocolate, and there is often a spattering of it on the pavement in front of them. You really want to stay as far away as possible if Brendon has gotten into the chocolate covered espresso beans. Those things are really good, though, so Patrick doesn’t really blame him.

The extent of Patrick’s view generally ends at the woolery. Apparently Vicky and Greta keep llamas. Patrick does not truck with farm animals. Cows freak him right the fuck out, and llamas spit. They may be a good investment, but he’ll just keep his garden center, thanks.

He doesn’t know how those girls do it. It’s just too hot in the summer to be messing around with wool. Joe’s opinion is that they manage due to the breeze blowing up their skirts. He keeps a sharp eye out for that. Vicky and Greta are a treat for the leg men. Most days you can see one of them sitting at a spinning wheel with her skirt hiked up around her thighs and just get mesmerized by the rhythm of her feet on the treadles and the graceful stretch of muscles in her calves. It really is something else.

One o’clock rolls around and Patrick looks around his stand. It’s a bit emptier than when he got there this morning, so that’s a good sign. He still has to pack it all back up, though.

Patrick shoves the last box into his truck and heads back over to get ice cream. It’s become tradition amongst the market vendors to get ice cream at the end of the day. It’s not really a tradition Patrick is willing to argue about. Ice cream is always a good thing. And as the shop is actually a real shop there in the Haymarket, its air conditioned, which is also always a good thing after a day spent outside.

The boys from across the way are all in the shop by the time Patrick gets there. They are all a bit younger than he is, and hang out together, and are all so adorable he can hardly stand it. Jon reaches out to shake his hand companionably, and out of the corner of his eye Patrick can see Spencer stiffen and squint in his general direction. They both laugh when Patrick pulls his hand back, chocolatey. And then Brendon crashes into him, dragging along poor, mistreated Ryan. Patrick notes that not only is Brendon absolutely coated in chocolate, but he is also sporting a swipe of accidental color across his cheekbone. Patrick raises his eyebrow questioningly, and Brendon actually blushes. Well, then.

Ryan breaks away to speak to Spencer, who is studying the menu marquee as if it hasn’t been the same since 1900. Jon and Brendon approach the counter, and when Patrick turns to follow them he bumps into someone else who just came in. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, Patrick looks up into the eyes of Honey Stick Guy.

“Hi!”

“Um, hi. Wow, you’re still here? It’s been, like—I mean, I didn’t… Excuse me.” Patrick stammers, and he can see Joe and Andy coming in the shop just over the guy’s shoulder. “You stopped by my stand this morning. Do you set up here too?”

“Oh, no. I went home shortly after I met you,” he smiles a little, and oh crap, but doesn’t that just make Patrick’s blood run hot. “But then my mom called, and blah, blah, blah, she wanted corn. So now I’m back. And the corn guys are gone already.”

“Um, yeah. They leave when they sell out, so you usually have to get here a little early for that.” Patrick scratches at his head, which is a neat trick, through a hat.

“Huh. Well, now I’m consoling myself with ice cream.”

“Good call.” Patrick gives himself a point for managing to start a statement minus a fumble, and grins. Another point.

“I just realized,” the guy says, eyes downcast for a second, lashes sweeping. “That I’ve been very rude. We haven’t actually met. My name’s Pete.”

Patrick looks down at his hands and hurriedly wipes chocolate off on his pants. Pete watches him silently with a bit of a smirk on his face. Patrick has no choice but to present a slightly sticky palm.

“Patrick.” He can feel their skin literally peeling back apart and is vaguely mortified. Note to self: kill Jon. And possibly Brendon.

“Patrick. Now we’re friends,” says Pete in a conspiratorial tone. Patrick blushes.

Everyone packed in the ice cream parlor like they are, Patrick is amazed that they all actually get served and that nobody ends up with a scoop of something in their lap. Other than Brendon, but that’s pretty much par for the course. Patrick can’t hang back and scan the crowd like he usually does, what with Pete trying to talk to him in a low tone of voice and casting those eyes at him while simultaneously interjecting comments into other conversations just like he was meant to be there. Patrick really just doesn’t know what to do with himself. His cone keeps dripping all over because he feels dirty licking on it while Pete is looking at him. Of course, Pete just keeps smirking at him and chooses a particularly quiet moment to just shove his entire cone in his mouth.

Patrick thinks he does an admirable job of not choking on anything. Himself, Patrick. Because damn. Pete licks the traces of ice cream from his lips and cocks an eyebrow at Patrick. He seems suddenly less innocent than honey and ice cream; more like dark alleys and sweat-soaked skin.

Patrick’s cone drips on the floor.

Pete leans into his space.

“Do you have any plans for this afternoon?”

“I have to take the truck back to the shop, but after that…” Patrick is startled into complete disclosure, and before he can come up with anything, Pete sways closer and bumps his shoulder.

“Good.” And he does that coy eyelash thing again. “I think you and I should…”

“Get out of here?” suggests Patrick.

“Exactly.”

Patrick points out the window.

“My truck’s over there.”

Lying, JA/SM (JP), PG-13

2007-05-29T17:20:26Z

TITLE: Lying

UNIVERSE: Supernatural RPS

AUTHOR: Cara (ohnoscarlett)
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING, IF ANY: JA/SM (JP)

SUMMARY: Morning after
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction.

NOTES: At the end. Beta by pheebs1 and dakotas_tale

“Lying”

He woke as she moved quietly about the room, collecting her things. He watched her, silently, until she turned and saw him awake. She didn’t react. No smile, no frown. She simply looked him over; a long moment. Then she turned her back and sat at the foot of the bed to put on her shoes.

How did we end up like this?

“Stop thinking so hard,” she said suddenly. Not harsh, but sharp, and he startled, sitting up in the bed and letting the sheet fall to his hips. She looked over her shoulder at him, appraising. Her mouth quirked and it drew his eyes. “It was only a kiss.”

It was only a kiss… Right. He lay down again, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield them from her. The sheet tightened at his hip, and she was suddenly astride him, pinning him down. She leaned close and practically growled.

“It was only a kiss. If he asks—and he won’t—it was only a kiss. Nothing more. Got it?” God, she was cruel. But he met her eyes and nodded curtly. She smiled then, cold, and stood.

“Won’t he wonder where you were last night?” She paused for a moment at the door. She tilted her head as she considered his words.

“Don’t you wonder where Jared was last night?” He sat again and scowled. Sandra looked at him blankly, then turned again to leave. She hesitated and looked back and almost said something before he cut her off.

“He tastes like you, only sweeter.”

***

A/N: Oh boy. This thing kind of popped up out of nowhere. Nothing like a good excuse to picture Jensen in bed, right? So. I’ve essentially been mainlining Fall Out Boy to prepare for the concert (which was last night, OMG so good!) It’s what I do… And with all the FOB, it’s easy to slip over to Panic! At the Disco. And I always have to cut everything I listen to with a good bit of my Supernatural playlist. Love the iPod.

Anyway, I have a point. The last line is obviously stolen from Pete and FOB’s “Thnks fr th Mmrs”. I’ve been obsessing over that song for ages, and it kind of slipped into my subconscious. It makes me think of Pete kissing boys. Which leads me to thinking of more boy kissing, and that leads to JA/JP. Natural progression, right? Heh. So, Jensen may have hooked up with Sandy, but something had already happened between Jensen and Jared, so there, you bitch. Ha!

Furthermore, The Killers “Mr. Brightside” is good and angsty and on my Supernatural playlist for some reason… and I quite obviously stole a couple of lines from them too. Thanks, boys. *g*

So, wait, but P!ATD got in there somehow… Yes, yes, they’re like a virus. FOB and P!ATD go hand in hand in my little head, so I had to get them in there somehow. The title. “Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.” And there we have it.

Bite Me, Sinatra

2006-07-31T11:13:24Z

Title: Bite Me, Sinatra
Author: Cara
Rating: PG-13, for a little cursing
Pairing, if any: none
State: New York (This was written for the spn_50states challenge.)

Summary: Sam and Dean do a little research and a little good-natured brotherly bickering.

“We’re awfully close to New Paltz, you know.” Dean shifted and rustled his copy of the Niagara Gazette.

“No, we aren’t.” Sam didn’t bother looking up from the Buffalo News.

“We’re in New York, at least.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s still a good 350 miles from here.”

“350 miles isn’t that far, for us.”

“Yes it is, when we have work to do. Now read the paper and shut up.” Sam’s paper snapped sharply. He hid behind the open pages.

“This paper sucks. There’s no news in it!” Dean complained after a short while. “How are we supposed to figure out—“ Dean leaned forward and pressed his palms to the table top. “Are you humming?” Sam ignored him for a minute.

“There we go…” Sam said, half to himself. “These deaths have been clustered.” He pulled out the map and pointed. “Here, here, and here. See?”

“I see,” Dean growled. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Sometimes I wonder.” Dean kicked him under the table. “They’re all on the Niagara River. Both sides.”

“Hmm,” Dean considered. “Something in the river? In the water?”

“Probably, Captain Obvious.”

“Hey!”

“The deaths were all poisonings, right?” Sam smirked. He was on to something. Dean nodded. “They haven’t found a source. It’s probably not a person. These people have nothing in common… other than location, and that usually isn’t enough motive.” Sam fired up the laptop.

“So it’s something in the water? From what? What kind of poison was it?” asked Dean, getting interested.

“It was a fast-acting neurotoxin,” replied Sam.

“Where the hell would that come from?”

“Some dinoflagellates, plankton… when in high enough concentrations, in a bloom, can cause fish kills. You know, red tides? Some blue-green algae do it too. Or naturally occurring processes convert a portion of mercury in aquatic ecosystems into methylmercury, which is a neurotoxin.” Sam paused. “Sea snakes have neurotoxins in their venom. But those are from Australia, and marine. This is fresh water… Botulism?”

“Botulism? Like from pork?” Dean was incredulous.

“Yeah. But it’s from bacteria. And builds up in the food chain. There was a big thing about it poisoning birds around here a while ago.”

“So why is this our kind of problem? All those are natural occurrences,” grumbled Dean. “I hate New York. It’s fucking humid.”

“I’m sure they’ll change the slogan just because you said so, Dean,” Sam said. Dean just squinted at him, confused. So Sam sang, “IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII love New Yooooooooooooork…” and chuckled.

“Bite me, Sinatra.”

“Sinatra did ‘New York, New York’,” Sam corrected absently, looking at the map.

“Whatever. You’re a prick.”

“Let’s just stay on topic here,” sighed Sam.

“Why? This isn’t our kind of problem. I say we shag ass out of here and hit the casino.”

“No, Dean! This is our kind of problem! Look at these hot spots. Grand Island, Tona-tonawanda. Tonawanda? Wheatfield. Right along the river. All with big water tanks. Public water. Wheatfield is right on Cayuga Creek too… Wait a minute.” Sam reached for the journal, but Dean snatched it back.

“I’ve heard that before… Cayuga?” and Dean was flipping through the pages. “Thought so. Right there.” He slid the journal across the table to Sam. John had written about some local legends. They should have known. Niagara Falls.

The Maid of the Mist

Tribes along Niagara River, Cayuga Creek. Annual deaths. Theory: Gods under the falls. Sacrifice maidens/suicide. Actuality: Hungry snake. Poison water. Eat bodies. Kill snake. (Falling snake makes Horseshoe Falls.)

“Well,” said Dean, “that’s informative.” Sam snorted. Sometimes John’s notes were little more than cryptic fragments. At least they could read his handwriting this time… “So it is a snake.”

“Maybe,” replied Sam. “The only venomous reptiles in the state are the timber rattlesnake, the massasauga, the copperhead, and the red-spotted newt—“

“Isn’t a newt an amphibian?”

“Yes, but my point is, none of those things is common, and even if they were, none of them is really found in this area…”

“But they could be,” countered Dean.

“And, it’s the wrong kind of toxin,” said Sam.

“Not neurotoxins?”

“No.”

“Crap. So this is our kind of problem.”

“Looks like it.”

“Man, I hate snakes.”

“At least it isn’t bugs.”

“Shut up. Let’s just go find this thing.”

“We don’t know how to kill it yet,” Sam said. “Let me look for a better description of this legend online…” Sam frowned.

“Didn’t help, did it?” asked Dean. Sam shook his head. “Well, if a bunch of guys with bows and arrows..” Dean looked questioningly at Sam, who shrugged, “can kill this thing, so can we.” He stood up with a grin and surreptitiously adjusted the gun in the waistband of his pants.

***LATER***

“Man, I hate being wet.”

“The motel isn’t far, Dean. And you barely stepped in.”

“I more than ‘stepped in’! I was knocked into the Niagara River! You know, the one with the big waterfall?” Dean whined. He was dripping.

“We weren’t even close to the Falls. We were still miles upstream from the rapids!” Sam said, suppressing a grin.

“People drown in that river every year,” Dean muttered. Sam smirked and kept walking toward the car.

“Maybe it was the snake,” he offered. Dean chased him back to the Impala.

AUTHOR’S NOTES:

Beta was provided by the lovely and talented adelheide, tuesdaysgone, and pheebs1. Thanks, girls!

If you’re interested in the Maid of the Mist legend, I would recommend looking at either of these websites.

http://www.infoniagara.com/attractions/legend.html

http://www.iaw.on.ca/~falls/maidmist.html

Niagara Falls is lovely this time of year. *g* Also, wet Dean? Yeah, I thought so.