As close as it gets to home (2/3)
Title: As close as it gets to home
Pairings: Gerard/Frank, Ryan/Brendon, Spencer/Jon, Brendon/Mikey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Warning: Pseudo-character death.
Notes: Telepath police consultant AU. Title taken from the BTE song ‘Our Finest Year.’
Thanks: To adellyna, who has claimed this story as her own and provided more support and encouragement than I have ever deserved; to maleyka and ficklish for reading and sharing their thoughts; and to impasto for the amazing beta.
part one
“Jon Walker,” Gerard says cheerfully. “How are my kids holding up?”
Jon takes a seat on the edge of the chair and folds his hands comfortably in his lap, as if contemplating whether there’s a simple answer to that question. “Ryan is exhausting,” he says finally. “I think Spencer’s finally starting to trust me. To be honest, Brendon could be hiding a mass murder spree and I’d never know, because I’m busy listening to the other ten thousand things he says.”
From where he’s curled up on the couch in the corner, Frank starts laughing.
Gerard nobly ignores him. “Ryan is generally not a problem,” he says. “He can handle a lot, and if there’s anything seriously wrong, you can bet Spencer will spot it before anyone else does.”
Jon smiles ruefully. “I’d gotten that, yeah. They’re close, aren’t they?”
“Like creepy twins,” Frank puts in from the corner.
“Don’t you have an office of your own somewhere?” Gerard asks fondly.
Jon grins. It’s a nice look on him; with all of the calls they’ve been getting lately, Gerard hadn’t yet seen Jon this relaxed. “At least Spencer is starting to talk; for a while there I felt like it was the two of them versus me. I’m not sure whether Ryan sees Spencer’s defection to the side of psychiatric evil as a betrayal or just an unfortunate event.”
“He’s probably fatalistic about it,” Gerard tells him sincerely. “And be grateful, the last two shrinks have been lucky to get more than two words out of either of them.”
“I’m not complaining,” Jon assures him. “I’m glad Spencer’s opened up, because therapy with Ryan still feels like a game of twenty questions that I have no hope of winning.”
“Welcome to my world,” Gerard says dryly. “I give him assignments still feeling that way.” He notices for the first time that Jon isn’t wearing any shoes. His toes curl comfortably into Gerard’s threadbare carpet.
“How’s Urie doing?” Frank pipes up, before Gerard gets the chance.
Jon takes a minute to consider and carefully phrase, which brings him up a notch in Gerard’s estimation. Jon might look young, but he’s good at what he does. “He’s under a lot of stress, but he’s handling it well,” Jon says tactfully. “I don’t think his current assignment will break him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Let’s hope so,” Frank mutters. Gerard throws him a look.
“It’s hard on him, having to conceal things from the others,” Jon continues. “You know how they are.”
Gerard does. He’s not sure whether the amount of tight-knit bonding his team has done is a blessing or a curse. “How do you think he’ll handle a slightly longer-term assignment in the field?” he asks, as casually as possible.
Jon pauses again to consider. “I don’t think you would push him into anything he couldn’t handle,” he says finally, and it’s a diplomatic answer, but the look in Jon’s eyes tells him it’s also an honest one. “If you have something for him, he’ll be ready.”
Gerard turns his pen over and over in his fingers, ignoring Frank’s eyes burning into him from across the room. “Thanks,” he says at last, when he’s come to a decision and hasn’t thought of any other answers he needs from Jon. “You’re doing great. I know we can be a handful sometimes.”
Frank snorts, but Jon just grins. “Hey, I came from Chicago. There’s nothing you can throw at me here that will be more overwhelming than that.”
Gerard laughs. “You’ve only been here for a month, and you have yet to see Ryan and Spencer in full allied fury,” he replies. “Somehow I think we can do better.”
Jon says, “Remind me someday to tell you about Pete Wentz.”
It’s past midnight, and Ryan should probably be in bed, but he’s not tired yet. He sends this thought to Spencer, curled up next to him on the couch watching a late-night movie, and gets a noncommittal hum in reply. Then he yawns, and Spencer gives him a look only exceeded in bitchery by the one Ryan immediately gives him in return.
All right, he’s tired. But he’s not ready to sleep yet. He turns his cell over in his hands, checking the display to make sure no new messages have appeared, even though the phone hasn’t left his hands for hours. Spencer glances over but doesn’t comment, passing him the bag of caramel corn.
Brendon hadn’t come into work that morning. Brendon hasn’t been coming in a lot of mornings lately, but Ryan’s questioning only leads to carefully neutral answers from Jon and bland, ‘he’s on an assignment’ dismissals from Gerard. He’s pretty sure Spencer’s tried with Jon as well, albeit with an equal lack of success. He’s still not sure what’s going on there.
Jon, he sends, with an image of Jon smiling and a little thread attached to see where Spencer’s thoughts go when he does it, but Spencer’s used to Ryan’s stealth tactics by now and bumps him away almost carelessly.
“I’m not a criminal,” Spencer says without looking away from the movie. “Stop interrogating me.”
“What’s going on with you and Jon?” Ryan asks, switching from mental to verbal to see if that brings any greater success. Spencer gives him a look.
“Nothing.” The look is ruined somewhat by the fact that the corners of Spencer’s lips twitch upwards right after he answers, a little secret smile that he turns back in the direction of the television.
Ryan is unimpressed. “I can’t believe you have a crush on your shrink,” he says. Although he knows Jon, too, so he sort of can. Spencer has excellent taste.
Spencer, ignoring his charitable thoughts, gives him another look which suggests Ryan has no room to be talking. Which is ridiculous, because Ryan doesn’t have a crush on his shrink or anyone else’s, so he has plenty of room.
He checks his phone display again and sighs when it’s still blank.
They watch eight or nine minutes of truly boring camera action, which is all that Ryan really gets out of the movie at this point because he hasn’t been paying any attention whatsoever to the plot, and then he gives in and flips open his phone.
Spencer glances over, their thoughts mingling enough that he doesn’t really have to ask, but he does anyway. “Brendon?”
Ryan nods shortly, listening yet again as Brendon’s phone switches automatically to voicemail. He flips the phone shut without leaving a message.
“Do you think,” Spencer asks after another few minutes of pretending to watch the movie, “that dating someone from work would cause problems?”
His tone is casual, but even if they hadn’t been mostly-linked Ryan would have caught the undercurrent of anxiety. He moves without thinking to quiet it, a stream of reassurance curling around the twitching nerves of Spencer’s thoughts.
“I think,” Ryan answers evenly, “that you deserve to be happy.”
Spencer shifts around to rest his head on Ryan’s shoulder and his legs over Ryan’s lap, thoughts muted now, quiet. Ryan’s glad he does, even though he never initiates physical contact himself, and he feels a ripple of amusement like laughter coming from Spencer at how obviously pleased Ryan is with the new arrangement.
His phone still isn’t ringing. After a while he sets it in his lap, unwilling to relinquish it entirely, and takes Spencer’s hand instead.
“You deserve to be happy too,” Spencer says after a while. Ryan just squeezes his hand.
Spencer is something of a Christmas fanatic. Ryan has known this for years, and knows better than to make a fuss when the jingle bells and fuzzy garlands start coming out of the closet and migrating to the office. He even helps Spencer carry the boxes.
“What’s going on?” Jon asks as they parade past, arms full of holiday decorations.
Brendon trots along behind them, carrying the box with the fake tree and wearing Rudolph antlers. “Christmas party!” he calls cheerfully, jumping up and down so the string of bells clipped to his belt loop jangle.
Jon comes all the way out of his office, watching in bemusement as they dump the boxes in the empty spot where Brendon’s desk used to be, back before he decided it was too far away. “Christmas isn’t for another three weeks,” he points out.
“Yes,” Spencer agrees. “But when the actual holiday arrives we’ll be busy saving depressed drunks and handling angry ex-husbands, so we’ve made it a tradition to celebrate early.”
“Oh,” Jon says, like he hadn’t thought about it that way before. Spencer hadn’t either, but last year Gerard had brought in candy canes for everyone two weeks early and warned, ‘it’s now or never,’ and there is no way Spencer is missing Christmas.
The next day Jon shows up with a thermos full of peppermint hot chocolate, wearing a Santa hat. Spencer might, possibly, have a slight crush.
Brendon is in and out more than ever, usually looking tired, but he throws himself into the holiday spirit with typical enthusiasm, helping Spencer set up the tree (with Ryan watching in horror from a safe distance) and stringing tinsel over everything in sight.
He’s gotten closer to Jon recently as well, and while Spencer thinks he should probably be jealous of Brendon sitting on Jon’s shoulders to hang hand-cut paper snowflakes from the ceiling, he’s actually just happy. Jon catches him looking, both hands wrapped around Brendon’s thighs to keep him balanced, and winks.
Spencer blames his blush on the heat.
Frank shows up during day two of the pre-Christmas party festivities, and throws himself into the melee with exuberance to match Spencer and Brendon’s. Frank is also something of a Christmas fanatic. At the very least, he’s something of a Gerard fanatic, and seeing Gerard drift out onto the balcony to watch the rest of them create holiday havoc seems to be enough of a reason for him.
“Are you really hanging mistletoe?” Gerard calls down. “There are only five of us in this entire department, and we have to share Jon Walker.”
“Be careful who you run into walking through this door, then,” Frank calls back, cheerfully unrepentant, and Brendon passes him some tinsel for added mistletoe glitter.
Ryan groans, and that’s all the warning Spencer has before the tiny stereo they’ve borrowed from Jon’s office starts playing Brendon’s favourite compilation of Christmas carols.
“What?” Brendon protests, and Ryan just throws his hands up, but he doesn’t escape fast enough to keep Brendon from throwing his arms around Ryan’s waist and crooning ‘Silver Bells’ into his ear.
“Gerard, we’re having a party down here,” Frank yells when the decorating is more or less finished. “Get your ass out of that office and bring us some goddamned punch!”
Gerard appears in the door to his office again, looking amused. “You could at least pretend to respect me in front of my department,” he comments, and Frank grins.
“Bring us some goddamned punch, please?”
There’s a clang-clash of bells as Brendon shimmies, and then he and Jon are performing the campiest duet version of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ that Spencer has ever witnessed by two completely sober men.
Brendon has a gleam in his eyes that Ryan should really know to watch for by now, and Spencer thinks that maybe he does, but he allows Brendon to corner him anyway, squawking protests while Brendon drags him out into the middle of the room for a dance.
Brendon actually tries to dip Ryan, and Ryan only weighs about eighty pounds but Brendon doesn’t weigh much more, so the two of them go down in a heap on top of the pile of rejected wreaths littering the office floor.
Spencer laughs so hard he nearly falls over, and when he staggers there’s a hand on his elbow, a warm body he collides with immediately when he tries to turn around.
“Careful,” Jon teases, eyes glittering with mirth, and Spencer’s just taken a breath to say something in reply when Jon says softly, “Look up.”
Spencer looks up. He has enough time to think, oh, mistletoe, but not enough time to formulate any sort of plan besides blushing furiously, and before he can look down again Jon’s lips brush whisper-soft across his cheek.
“Merry Christmas,” Jon says, and it is.
“Go hooooome, Gerard Way,” Frank’s voice filters in through the door to Gerard’s office, making him look up and blink a few times before smiling tiredly. “This is the Ghost of Christmas Not Spent at the Office, whoooooh.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually met that ghost,” Gerard says mildly, and Frank’s head pops around the edge of the door, Brendon’s reindeer antlers hanging askew on his head.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks, perching on Gerard’s desk and poking through his mug of candy canes to find one of the spicy cinnamon ones. Gerard pulls one from the box out of his drawer and hands it over, pretending not to feel any sort of flutter in his chest when Frank smiles.
“I’m about to head out. Walk me to my car?” Gerard bats his lashes and Frank laughs, hopping up and bowing like a true gentleman. Christmas has taken the edge off of their relationship, made it easier to keep in good spirits and move past the awkwardness. Sometimes, like now, it almost feels like they’re still together.
His cell beeps as he’s walking out the door, three times for an official call. Gerard reads the message and swears under his breath, hesitating.
“Who’s on call?” Frank asks, correctly interpreting Gerard’s reaction.
“Spencer. Then Ryan. But they’ve been working for thirty hours straight, all of them, they deserve some sleep.”
Frank looks like he wants to point out that Gerard has, as well, but it’s different and they both know it. Gerard is working as hard as the rest of them, yes, but he’s no longer getting the brunt of other people’s emotions out in the field. Spencer and Ryan had both been sleepwalking when they’d left for the last call, and Brendon had barely been upright.
“You’re going to take it,” Frank says, reading his mind again. Sometimes Gerard suspects he’s really a telepath, just one with a very narrow focus.
“They need a break. The rush goes straight into New Year’s, I need them fresh tomorrow.” Or as fresh as they could be on five hours of sleep. Gerard sincerely hopes they’re all making the most of it.
“Mikey’s still undercover with the syndicate, isn’t he?” Frank asks quietly, and Gerard nods. They’ve never spent Christmas apart, and he’s not looking forward to returning home to an empty apartment.
“I’m going to take this call,” Gerard says, shrugging on his coat. “And then, barring any unforeseen disasters, I’ll go home and get some sleep. Promise.” He pauses, smiling at Frank and reaching out without thinking to straighten the crooked antlers. “You should, too.”
Frank watches him with a look he isn’t sure how to interpret. He could cheat, of course, but he’s never done that with Frank, and he’s not about to start doing it now.
“How would you like some company?” Frank asks finally. “It’s almost dawn, we could even get some breakfast afterwards, if you wanted. Celebrate Christmas morning.”
Gerard blinks slowly, and then winds his scarf around his neck and smiles. “I’d like that,” he says honestly. “Breakfast would be nice.”
Frank buttons his coat and pulls out his car keys, jingling them like sleigh bells. “Then off we go.”
Ryan hates interrogations. Reading anyone’s mind uninvited feels like an invasion, but with suspects it always feels even worse, knowing it’s against their will and the only thing giving him the right is a signed warrant. He’s legally permitted, required actually, to perform the interrogation.
It still feels like rape.
He’s read the file and done the briefing, so he knows what he’s after. The suspected-mobster looks up when Ryan arrives and sits at the table, placing his hands calmly flat on the table.
He knows what’s coming, but they both have to wait through the legal speech anyway, the recitation of rights and procedures and explanation of exactly what Ryan is about to do.
“Do you consent?” Iero finishes at last, and the man’s lip twists in an ugly sneer as he says, “Do I have a choice?”
Ryan doesn’t wait any longer.
Zeroes can’t feel him, although some of them think they can, shuffling their thoughts and memories as if they can hide what they don’t want him to see. Mostly it’s just annoying, people think most about what they’re trying not to think about, and he sees a lot of unfiltered recreations of sexual acts and most of the guiltier kinks while he’s trying to sort through the rest of the rubbish to find what he’s actually looking for.
He finds it, a conversation about Toro that names two of his other henchmen specifically by name, and the location of the cop who went missing a month or so ago, his body stuffed into a car trunk and pushed into the junkyard, accompanied by a hefty bribe. And then he finds something he hadn’t been looking for.
Brendon.
Ryan pulls back, digging ruthlessly through the man’s mind until he’s sure he’s found every scrap of information possible, every flash of Brendon’s face and his voice and his stupid, brash laugh. Then he withdraws, writes everything he’s seen regarding Toro and Bryar down on the official statement provided, signs his name and walks out.
None of the officers can sense his current emotional state, and he keeps his face stonily blank, but a distant flicker of concern tells him that one person has picked up on it, and is on his way.
Spencer meets him outside before Ryan even realizes where his body is headed, and walks along in silence beside him until they reach the stone bench next to the civic statue. Spencer can read his mood a mile away, he knows something is wrong, but waits until he senses Ryan is calm enough to talk before he asks.
“What is it?”
Ryan curls his hands into fists and kneads them into his thighs. “I know where Brendon is.”
“What?” Spencer’s voice is surprised, and Ryan doesn’t blame him. They haven’t seen Brendon in over a week, and questioning Gerard has gotten them nowhere. He’s not at home, he’s not returning his calls, he doesn’t come in to work. He might as well have disappeared.
Except that Ryan now knows where he is.
“He’s working for the syndicate,” Ryan says, and his voice is low but he feels like spitting and throwing things, his whole body tense. “Undercover with the fucking mob.”
Spencer is silent for a long time. Then he asks quietly, “How do you know?”
“Interrogation,” Ryan replies shortly. He swallows. “I saw him. In the guy’s head.”
Spencer takes a deep breath in, and Ryan closes his eyes. Spencer’s voice is tight when he speaks. “Is he okay?”
Ryan doesn’t trust himself to answer that out loud yet, so he just nods.
“Fuck,” Spencer says, and pulls Ryan into a fierce hug, his breath hot against Ryan’s chilled neck. “Fuck.”
As far as Ryan is concerned, that about sums it up.
Spencer feels the brush of a mind against his and nearly turns, but the presence is familiar and there’s a warning that comes with it, keeping him stiffly at the counter of the coffee shop while an image appears in his head, the gateway to a familiar park and the grove of trees beyond.
He pays for his latte and spends a long time counting out change, and by the time he turns around Brendon is nowhere to be seen. He calls Ryan to say he’s running late, makes up a bullshit story with the underlying subtext of I’ll tell you later, I promise.
Ryan says he’d better be there within half an hour and hangs up.
Brendon’s hanging out on a park bench waiting for him, coat sleeves hanging over his knuckles, swinging his feet like a lanky twelve-year-old, and not a telepathic police consultant working undercover for the fucking Las Vegas syndicate.
Spencer sits beside him and opens with, “Where the fuck have you been?”
Brendon looks at him curiously. “I thought you already knew. Hey, is that for me?” He makes eyes, hands outstretched for Spencer’s coffee cup, and Spencer is too much of a pushover and too relieved to keep it from him.
“Take it.” He watches Brendon close his eyes and inhale, lashes blending in with the dark circles under his eyes. “Ryan’s worried sick.” Spencer is too, but he doesn’t say shit like that. Brendon’s goofy little smile says he knows anyway.
“They said I wasn’t allowed to talk about it, endangerment and the greater good, blah-de-blah-blah.” Brendon sips again, cradling the coffee cup close to his chest. “Mmm, this is good.”
“What, are they denying you coffee? Is it against syndicate policy or something?” Spencer is aware that he’s being a little more acid than Brendon really deserves, considering, but he’s been worried for weeks now and the relief at seeing Brendon alive and well is somehow coming out as pissed-off anger.
“No, I just miss this blend.” Brendon swings his feet again, and when he scoots closer, Spencer doesn’t move away. “I’ve been trying to stay away from places that people might recognize me.”
For the first time, Spencer realizes there’s another aura hanging over Brendon like a second skin, a mental scent that isn’t his own. He’s about to ask when Brendon’s mind brushes his again, tendrils extending like a flower craving sunlight, and when Spencer lets him in he knows immediately what it is.
Brendon twitches when he realizes what Spencer is seeing, almost pulling away until Spencer puts a hand on his knee to keep him there. “Who is it?” he asks, low-voiced and calm.
Brendon takes a huge gulp of coffee; Spencer can feel it scald the tip of his tongue. “A cop.” Brendon’s knee is jittering under his fingers, wired from nerves and not caffeine. “He’s the only one who knows about me. I didn’t mean to do it, I just. It just happened.”
Misery and loneliness roll off of Brendon in waves. Spencer wraps around him, feeling Brendon soak up the contact and slowly, gradually start to relax. There are a variety of thoughts and feelings regarding the cop whizzing around in Brendon’s head, and most of them flit by too fast for him to comprehend. There’s also a lot of Ryan, though, and Spencer already knows about those. He’s known for months.
Brendon follows his thoughts, the two of them meshed so completely that they’re basically completing each other’s mental sentences. “Don’t tell Ryan,” he begs softly. Spencer glances over, a question forming in his mind and leaking over to Brendon’s. “You can tell him about this, I mean. About seeing me. I’ve been afraid to come up to him like I did you, but you can tell. Just don’t tell him about…”
Spencer squeezes Brendon’s knee, and he falls silent, thoughts still darting and unfocused, but calmer now that Spencer’s holding onto him. “I just don’t think he’d approve,” Brendon says a moment later, and they both know it’s a lie, stained red and splashed with guilt in Brendon’s mind, but Spencer doesn’t call him on it.
“He misses you,” Spencer says quietly, all he has to offer. Brendon seems happy to take it, though, smiling and regaining some of the bubbling happiness Spencer is used to feeling when they link.
“I should get going.” Brendon drains the last of the coffee and waggles the cup in his hand, already distracted and jittery as he pulls away from Spencer, mentally and physically. “Thanks for this.”
“Bren.” He says it calmly, quietly, but Brendon goes completely still, eyes dark and trained on him. “Are you okay?”
He can only feel the surface layer of Brendon’s thoughts now, like ripples on a pond, but he believes it when Brendon nods and the aura around him brightens, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, shoulders straightening and a little of the usual edge returning to his stance, a familiar smile creeping out just for a split second. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s a message from Frank on his phone, so Gerard goes straight from the office to the safehouse in Ida, climbing the rickety stairs to the top floor and rapping out the ‘all-clear’ code on the door.
Mikey opens it a second later, looking worn and frayed but very much alive, and Gerard hugs him and doesn’t let go for a long, long time. Finally he forces himself to back off a little, and Mikey just shrugs at him, the Mikey-equivalent of a tired smile, and they go inside.
“Do you want something to drink?” Mikey asks, cracking open the refrigerator and retrieving a beer for himself. Gerard shakes his head, sitting on the hideously-upholstered armchair when Mikey sprawls across the sofa. There are threads coming loose everywhere, he picks at one after taking a swig of his drink.
“How’s it going out there?” Gerard asks. He hates to talk business, especially when they’re only seeing each other for short bursts of time like this, when Mikey can get away for a debriefing and Gerard has enough time to meet him. It’s enough just to see him, but he also needs the reassurance that Mikey is okay, and he wants to hear it out loud.
“You know. The usual.” Mikey looks tired, limbs akimbo and beer bottle dangling limply from his hand. “It’s not getting any worse, at least.”
Gerard reaches out enough to feel the throb of a migraine behind Mikey’s closed eyes, and leans over to press his fingers against Mikey’s temples, correcting the balance and dulling the ache. Mikey doesn’t open his eyes, but he smiles faintly, just a little. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Gerard brushes his hair back, catching the few strands straggling over Mikey’s forehead. “Anything else I can do?”
Mikey shakes his head, then opens his eyes and struggles upright. “Might as well get this over with. Go ahead, do your thing.”
Gerard hesitates, wanting to let Mikey relax for as long as possible without thinking about work. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Mikey shrugs again, leaning back against the sofa. “I don’t mind. Better you than anyone else.”
Gerard says, “Okay,” and slips in as lightly as possible. Mikey makes it easy for him, used to both this aspect of the job and Gerard’s mental touch; the memories he needs are right on the surface, floating and playing out one-by-one for Gerard to relay later. Mikey’s all the way to Toro, which puts him in both a very good position and a very dangerous one, one that Gerard doesn’t like to think about with Ryan’s signed statement regarding officer Robert Bryar still sitting on his desk.
He sees snatches of people he mentally marks for later, syndicate members they have no information on or not enough, and then he gets to a cold night in a warehouse waiting for a shipment and sees more than he ever wanted to know about.
“You slept with one of my kids?” Gerard asks, more incredulous than anything else. He skips over the memory as soon as he realizes what it is, but the brief touch is enough to tell him how it ended.
Mikey grunts, struggling upright again. “Fuck. You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“I didn’t,” Gerard reassures immediately. He tries not to infringe on Mikey’s privacy any more than he has to, and there are some things about his little brother that both of them would prefer he never know. “Just the beginning.” He hesitates, but he’s worried about Brendon too, the same way he is Mikey. “How is he?”
He doesn’t mean for it to be a joke, but Mikey just stares at him disbelievingly until Gerard realizes what he’s said and claps a hand over his mouth, and before he can stammer anything out the two of them are laughing, gut-deep spasms that have them clinging to each other until it hurts.
“He’s good,” Mikey says finally, taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Not your type, I think.”
“Fuck you.” Gerard gives him another hug, impulsive and tight, before collecting himself as well. “He’s holding up okay, though?”
Mikey shrugs, slumping over against the arm of the couch and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Gerard wonders whether the headache is coming back again. “I think it’s harder on him. He’s never done this before, and you guys are more used to…” He gestures vaguely to his forehead, with a movement like a whirlpool around his skull. “Being in each other’s heads all the time.”
Gerard nods, thinking of the mental hum he always feels in the morning when all three members of his department arrive and commune. He doesn’t think they know how rare that is, and he’s not about to tell them. Whatever works for the department and the three of them is more than enough for him.
“You take care of yourself,” Gerard says quietly. He doesn’t know how to express how worried he is about Mikey, and he’s not even sure that Mikey would appreciate it if he did, but the order is sincere. Gerard is not losing Mikey to Toro, not ever.
Mikey cracks an eye open and salutes Gerard with his beer. “Aye-aye, big brother.”
Mikey’s been undercover for long enough that he can’t drop off to sleep with Gerard there, and he’s obviously exhausted. Gerard waits around for long enough to chase the headache away one more time before kissing him on the forehead and leaving him in peace.
There’s a box of chocolates on Ryan’s desk. A box shaped like a big red heart, with a gauzy red bow on the top. He looks at it in bewilderment for the full five minutes it takes Spencer to arrive, and then looks up as if Spencer will somehow have an answer to this puzzle.
Spencer looks at the box, looks at Ryan, and says, “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan opens his mouth to say something catty, but Spencer has discovered another box on his own desk and is looking delighted. “Cool, I got some too!”
“From Jon?” Ryan asks sweetly. Spencer stops ripping the tinted plastic off of his box for long enough to give Ryan the finger. That accomplished, he pulls open the attached envelope and skims over the miniature card.
“No. From Brendon.”
Ryan jerks up instantly. “He’s here?”
“He was.” Spencer’s frowning, folding the card up again and examining the box in his hand. “Hey,” he says a few seconds later, grinning across at Ryan. “He bought you chocolates for Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan glowers, because he doesn’t blush. “He bought them for you too, asshole,” he points out, even though secretly he’s a little pleased.
Spencer directs a pointed look at the small square box in his hands, and then over at the heart-shaped and beribboned monstrosity sitting on Ryan’s desk. “Yeah,” he drawls. “This was totally for me.”
Jon comes in, wearing a shirt that must have started out white before being washed with something red, and holds out a bag of candy hearts. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says cheerfully, and then catches sight of the box in Spencer’s hand. He falters, but only for a second. “Oh, am I too late? It looks like someone got to you first.”
“Brendon,” Spencer says immediately, before Ryan can even open his mouth to answer. Spencer shoots a warning directly into Ryan’s mind, threatening grievous harm should Ryan say anything Spencer does not approve of in the presence of Jon and candy hearts.
Ryan smirks.
“Oh, that’s cool.” Jon is instantly upbeat again. He and Spencer are giving each other soft, goofy smiles, and if Ryan didn’t love Spencer so much he would be rolling his eyes right now.
He does, however, let Spencer know that directly, and the goofy smile vanishes suddenly in a hail of eyelash-fluttering and coughing. “I should…” Spencer says vaguely, waving a hand at his desk, and Jon bobs his head.
“Sure, of course. See you soon.” They both smile at each other again, and then Jon heads back to his office, munching on candy hearts, leaving Ryan looking significantly at Spencer.
“You can’t talk,” Spencer snaps, although he’s trying to stay quiet so it comes out more like a vehement whisper. “You have a giant fucking chocolate heart.”
“If you don’t ask him out by the end of the day,” Ryan threatens in his most sincere warning tone, “I will strangle you in your sleep.”
“Okay, okay.” Spencer sits back, absent-mindedly picking out a chocolate from his box, and then he suddenly grins. “Brendon got you chocolates for Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, but Spencer has used his magic powers for evil again and now he’s smiling, too. “Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, trying to hide it behind the chocolate box. “God.”
Spencer pokes his head through the door to Jon’s office and makes off with his bag of candy hearts. “I just need these for a moment,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving Jon blinking adorably in his wake.
Three minutes later he’s gone through the bag and worked up the courage to go back in, armed with candy. When Jon looks up he grins, dropping the bag back on the desk and willing his palms not to sweat. There’s nothing worse than sweaty palms.
“I just needed to make sure you had the right one,” Spencer says, and slides ‘be my valentine’ across the desk.
Jon looks at the heart, and then back up at Spencer, lips curling upwards. “Won’t Brendon be jealous?” he asks casually.
Spencer laughs, reckless and giddy. “Brendon was asking Ryan,” he assures Jon easily. “He just knows that I’d kill him for not getting me any chocolate.”
“Wise man,” Jon answers solemnly, and Spencer is still a little breathless, looking at him. He can’t stop smiling.
“So do you accept? Or do I need to dig out a ‘kiss me’ so you get the hint?” He comes around the edge of the desk, unable to stand being so far apart, and Jon stands up, looking at him with the same warm brown eyes that Spencer hasn’t been able to get out of his head for weeks now.
“Spencer,” Jon says softly, and Spencer leans in and kisses him.
Jon hasn’t shaved in a day or two, and his stubble prickles against Spencer’s skin, setting his nerves on fire where Jon’s chin scrapes his cheek. Being this close to him is like going underwater, hearing ocean waves and nothing else, everything that isn’t the two of them suddenly very far off.
Jon parts his lips and Spencer tilts his head, sliding his tongue against the entrance to Jon’s mouth and letting his breath out in a sigh when Jon responds, his arm sliding around Spencer’s waist. He tastes like candy hearts and chocolate, warm and sweet.
For a few seconds, it’s heaven. Then Jon pulls away, reluctance in every centimeter of contact between their bodies, and says quietly, “Spencer.”
The tone of his voice is all wrong, and the silly half-smile on Spencer’s lips falls away as he opens his eyes and sees the way Jon is looking at him. It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak, but Spencer forces something out. “What is it?”
“I can’t.” There’s anguish hidden in Jon’s voice, but it’s nowhere near the ache that has suddenly opened up in Spencer. He feels like his heart has dropped into his stomach and left a hole in his chest. Everything has gone to static, and he hears Jon’s words as if they’re coming through a bad phone line, tinny and distant.
“You’re my patient. It’s not just that we work together, I’m your psychiatrist. I have a responsibility to you. I can’t betray that trust with this, Spencer, I can’t. It would be wrong.”
“Wrong.” That’s the word his brain chooses to echo, summing up everything Jon has just said, translating it into what he really means, which is no.
No.
“Spencer.” Jon starts to take his hand, but Spencer jerks it away, and Jon doesn’t push. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have led you on, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to.” Spencer laughs, and it comes out like shattered glass, jagged and painful. “Thanks. Well done. Great job of making me think you didn’t want this.”
“Spencer.” Jon reaches for him again, but it hurts, and Spencer isn’t sticking around to let Jon see that.
“I’m going to go.” He evades Jon’s hand but runs into the sharp corner of the desk, sending a jab of pain shooting through his leg. Jon doesn’t call him back. Spencer barely manages to keep from slamming the door on his way out, and it’s mostly because he hurts too much right now for dramatic gestures.
Ryan’s waiting by the stairs, expression blank. Spencer goes straight to him and holds on tight.
part three
Pairings: Gerard/Frank, Ryan/Brendon, Spencer/Jon, Brendon/Mikey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Warning: Pseudo-character death.
Notes: Telepath police consultant AU. Title taken from the BTE song ‘Our Finest Year.’
Thanks: To adellyna, who has claimed this story as her own and provided more support and encouragement than I have ever deserved; to maleyka and ficklish for reading and sharing their thoughts; and to impasto for the amazing beta.
part one
“Jon Walker,” Gerard says cheerfully. “How are my kids holding up?”
Jon takes a seat on the edge of the chair and folds his hands comfortably in his lap, as if contemplating whether there’s a simple answer to that question. “Ryan is exhausting,” he says finally. “I think Spencer’s finally starting to trust me. To be honest, Brendon could be hiding a mass murder spree and I’d never know, because I’m busy listening to the other ten thousand things he says.”
From where he’s curled up on the couch in the corner, Frank starts laughing.
Gerard nobly ignores him. “Ryan is generally not a problem,” he says. “He can handle a lot, and if there’s anything seriously wrong, you can bet Spencer will spot it before anyone else does.”
Jon smiles ruefully. “I’d gotten that, yeah. They’re close, aren’t they?”
“Like creepy twins,” Frank puts in from the corner.
“Don’t you have an office of your own somewhere?” Gerard asks fondly.
Jon grins. It’s a nice look on him; with all of the calls they’ve been getting lately, Gerard hadn’t yet seen Jon this relaxed. “At least Spencer is starting to talk; for a while there I felt like it was the two of them versus me. I’m not sure whether Ryan sees Spencer’s defection to the side of psychiatric evil as a betrayal or just an unfortunate event.”
“He’s probably fatalistic about it,” Gerard tells him sincerely. “And be grateful, the last two shrinks have been lucky to get more than two words out of either of them.”
“I’m not complaining,” Jon assures him. “I’m glad Spencer’s opened up, because therapy with Ryan still feels like a game of twenty questions that I have no hope of winning.”
“Welcome to my world,” Gerard says dryly. “I give him assignments still feeling that way.” He notices for the first time that Jon isn’t wearing any shoes. His toes curl comfortably into Gerard’s threadbare carpet.
“How’s Urie doing?” Frank pipes up, before Gerard gets the chance.
Jon takes a minute to consider and carefully phrase, which brings him up a notch in Gerard’s estimation. Jon might look young, but he’s good at what he does. “He’s under a lot of stress, but he’s handling it well,” Jon says tactfully. “I don’t think his current assignment will break him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Let’s hope so,” Frank mutters. Gerard throws him a look.
“It’s hard on him, having to conceal things from the others,” Jon continues. “You know how they are.”
Gerard does. He’s not sure whether the amount of tight-knit bonding his team has done is a blessing or a curse. “How do you think he’ll handle a slightly longer-term assignment in the field?” he asks, as casually as possible.
Jon pauses again to consider. “I don’t think you would push him into anything he couldn’t handle,” he says finally, and it’s a diplomatic answer, but the look in Jon’s eyes tells him it’s also an honest one. “If you have something for him, he’ll be ready.”
Gerard turns his pen over and over in his fingers, ignoring Frank’s eyes burning into him from across the room. “Thanks,” he says at last, when he’s come to a decision and hasn’t thought of any other answers he needs from Jon. “You’re doing great. I know we can be a handful sometimes.”
Frank snorts, but Jon just grins. “Hey, I came from Chicago. There’s nothing you can throw at me here that will be more overwhelming than that.”
Gerard laughs. “You’ve only been here for a month, and you have yet to see Ryan and Spencer in full allied fury,” he replies. “Somehow I think we can do better.”
Jon says, “Remind me someday to tell you about Pete Wentz.”
It’s past midnight, and Ryan should probably be in bed, but he’s not tired yet. He sends this thought to Spencer, curled up next to him on the couch watching a late-night movie, and gets a noncommittal hum in reply. Then he yawns, and Spencer gives him a look only exceeded in bitchery by the one Ryan immediately gives him in return.
All right, he’s tired. But he’s not ready to sleep yet. He turns his cell over in his hands, checking the display to make sure no new messages have appeared, even though the phone hasn’t left his hands for hours. Spencer glances over but doesn’t comment, passing him the bag of caramel corn.
Brendon hadn’t come into work that morning. Brendon hasn’t been coming in a lot of mornings lately, but Ryan’s questioning only leads to carefully neutral answers from Jon and bland, ‘he’s on an assignment’ dismissals from Gerard. He’s pretty sure Spencer’s tried with Jon as well, albeit with an equal lack of success. He’s still not sure what’s going on there.
Jon, he sends, with an image of Jon smiling and a little thread attached to see where Spencer’s thoughts go when he does it, but Spencer’s used to Ryan’s stealth tactics by now and bumps him away almost carelessly.
“I’m not a criminal,” Spencer says without looking away from the movie. “Stop interrogating me.”
“What’s going on with you and Jon?” Ryan asks, switching from mental to verbal to see if that brings any greater success. Spencer gives him a look.
“Nothing.” The look is ruined somewhat by the fact that the corners of Spencer’s lips twitch upwards right after he answers, a little secret smile that he turns back in the direction of the television.
Ryan is unimpressed. “I can’t believe you have a crush on your shrink,” he says. Although he knows Jon, too, so he sort of can. Spencer has excellent taste.
Spencer, ignoring his charitable thoughts, gives him another look which suggests Ryan has no room to be talking. Which is ridiculous, because Ryan doesn’t have a crush on his shrink or anyone else’s, so he has plenty of room.
He checks his phone display again and sighs when it’s still blank.
They watch eight or nine minutes of truly boring camera action, which is all that Ryan really gets out of the movie at this point because he hasn’t been paying any attention whatsoever to the plot, and then he gives in and flips open his phone.
Spencer glances over, their thoughts mingling enough that he doesn’t really have to ask, but he does anyway. “Brendon?”
Ryan nods shortly, listening yet again as Brendon’s phone switches automatically to voicemail. He flips the phone shut without leaving a message.
“Do you think,” Spencer asks after another few minutes of pretending to watch the movie, “that dating someone from work would cause problems?”
His tone is casual, but even if they hadn’t been mostly-linked Ryan would have caught the undercurrent of anxiety. He moves without thinking to quiet it, a stream of reassurance curling around the twitching nerves of Spencer’s thoughts.
“I think,” Ryan answers evenly, “that you deserve to be happy.”
Spencer shifts around to rest his head on Ryan’s shoulder and his legs over Ryan’s lap, thoughts muted now, quiet. Ryan’s glad he does, even though he never initiates physical contact himself, and he feels a ripple of amusement like laughter coming from Spencer at how obviously pleased Ryan is with the new arrangement.
His phone still isn’t ringing. After a while he sets it in his lap, unwilling to relinquish it entirely, and takes Spencer’s hand instead.
“You deserve to be happy too,” Spencer says after a while. Ryan just squeezes his hand.
Spencer is something of a Christmas fanatic. Ryan has known this for years, and knows better than to make a fuss when the jingle bells and fuzzy garlands start coming out of the closet and migrating to the office. He even helps Spencer carry the boxes.
“What’s going on?” Jon asks as they parade past, arms full of holiday decorations.
Brendon trots along behind them, carrying the box with the fake tree and wearing Rudolph antlers. “Christmas party!” he calls cheerfully, jumping up and down so the string of bells clipped to his belt loop jangle.
Jon comes all the way out of his office, watching in bemusement as they dump the boxes in the empty spot where Brendon’s desk used to be, back before he decided it was too far away. “Christmas isn’t for another three weeks,” he points out.
“Yes,” Spencer agrees. “But when the actual holiday arrives we’ll be busy saving depressed drunks and handling angry ex-husbands, so we’ve made it a tradition to celebrate early.”
“Oh,” Jon says, like he hadn’t thought about it that way before. Spencer hadn’t either, but last year Gerard had brought in candy canes for everyone two weeks early and warned, ‘it’s now or never,’ and there is no way Spencer is missing Christmas.
The next day Jon shows up with a thermos full of peppermint hot chocolate, wearing a Santa hat. Spencer might, possibly, have a slight crush.
Brendon is in and out more than ever, usually looking tired, but he throws himself into the holiday spirit with typical enthusiasm, helping Spencer set up the tree (with Ryan watching in horror from a safe distance) and stringing tinsel over everything in sight.
He’s gotten closer to Jon recently as well, and while Spencer thinks he should probably be jealous of Brendon sitting on Jon’s shoulders to hang hand-cut paper snowflakes from the ceiling, he’s actually just happy. Jon catches him looking, both hands wrapped around Brendon’s thighs to keep him balanced, and winks.
Spencer blames his blush on the heat.
Frank shows up during day two of the pre-Christmas party festivities, and throws himself into the melee with exuberance to match Spencer and Brendon’s. Frank is also something of a Christmas fanatic. At the very least, he’s something of a Gerard fanatic, and seeing Gerard drift out onto the balcony to watch the rest of them create holiday havoc seems to be enough of a reason for him.
“Are you really hanging mistletoe?” Gerard calls down. “There are only five of us in this entire department, and we have to share Jon Walker.”
“Be careful who you run into walking through this door, then,” Frank calls back, cheerfully unrepentant, and Brendon passes him some tinsel for added mistletoe glitter.
Ryan groans, and that’s all the warning Spencer has before the tiny stereo they’ve borrowed from Jon’s office starts playing Brendon’s favourite compilation of Christmas carols.
“What?” Brendon protests, and Ryan just throws his hands up, but he doesn’t escape fast enough to keep Brendon from throwing his arms around Ryan’s waist and crooning ‘Silver Bells’ into his ear.
“Gerard, we’re having a party down here,” Frank yells when the decorating is more or less finished. “Get your ass out of that office and bring us some goddamned punch!”
Gerard appears in the door to his office again, looking amused. “You could at least pretend to respect me in front of my department,” he comments, and Frank grins.
“Bring us some goddamned punch, please?”
There’s a clang-clash of bells as Brendon shimmies, and then he and Jon are performing the campiest duet version of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ that Spencer has ever witnessed by two completely sober men.
Brendon has a gleam in his eyes that Ryan should really know to watch for by now, and Spencer thinks that maybe he does, but he allows Brendon to corner him anyway, squawking protests while Brendon drags him out into the middle of the room for a dance.
Brendon actually tries to dip Ryan, and Ryan only weighs about eighty pounds but Brendon doesn’t weigh much more, so the two of them go down in a heap on top of the pile of rejected wreaths littering the office floor.
Spencer laughs so hard he nearly falls over, and when he staggers there’s a hand on his elbow, a warm body he collides with immediately when he tries to turn around.
“Careful,” Jon teases, eyes glittering with mirth, and Spencer’s just taken a breath to say something in reply when Jon says softly, “Look up.”
Spencer looks up. He has enough time to think, oh, mistletoe, but not enough time to formulate any sort of plan besides blushing furiously, and before he can look down again Jon’s lips brush whisper-soft across his cheek.
“Merry Christmas,” Jon says, and it is.
“Go hooooome, Gerard Way,” Frank’s voice filters in through the door to Gerard’s office, making him look up and blink a few times before smiling tiredly. “This is the Ghost of Christmas Not Spent at the Office, whoooooh.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually met that ghost,” Gerard says mildly, and Frank’s head pops around the edge of the door, Brendon’s reindeer antlers hanging askew on his head.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks, perching on Gerard’s desk and poking through his mug of candy canes to find one of the spicy cinnamon ones. Gerard pulls one from the box out of his drawer and hands it over, pretending not to feel any sort of flutter in his chest when Frank smiles.
“I’m about to head out. Walk me to my car?” Gerard bats his lashes and Frank laughs, hopping up and bowing like a true gentleman. Christmas has taken the edge off of their relationship, made it easier to keep in good spirits and move past the awkwardness. Sometimes, like now, it almost feels like they’re still together.
His cell beeps as he’s walking out the door, three times for an official call. Gerard reads the message and swears under his breath, hesitating.
“Who’s on call?” Frank asks, correctly interpreting Gerard’s reaction.
“Spencer. Then Ryan. But they’ve been working for thirty hours straight, all of them, they deserve some sleep.”
Frank looks like he wants to point out that Gerard has, as well, but it’s different and they both know it. Gerard is working as hard as the rest of them, yes, but he’s no longer getting the brunt of other people’s emotions out in the field. Spencer and Ryan had both been sleepwalking when they’d left for the last call, and Brendon had barely been upright.
“You’re going to take it,” Frank says, reading his mind again. Sometimes Gerard suspects he’s really a telepath, just one with a very narrow focus.
“They need a break. The rush goes straight into New Year’s, I need them fresh tomorrow.” Or as fresh as they could be on five hours of sleep. Gerard sincerely hopes they’re all making the most of it.
“Mikey’s still undercover with the syndicate, isn’t he?” Frank asks quietly, and Gerard nods. They’ve never spent Christmas apart, and he’s not looking forward to returning home to an empty apartment.
“I’m going to take this call,” Gerard says, shrugging on his coat. “And then, barring any unforeseen disasters, I’ll go home and get some sleep. Promise.” He pauses, smiling at Frank and reaching out without thinking to straighten the crooked antlers. “You should, too.”
Frank watches him with a look he isn’t sure how to interpret. He could cheat, of course, but he’s never done that with Frank, and he’s not about to start doing it now.
“How would you like some company?” Frank asks finally. “It’s almost dawn, we could even get some breakfast afterwards, if you wanted. Celebrate Christmas morning.”
Gerard blinks slowly, and then winds his scarf around his neck and smiles. “I’d like that,” he says honestly. “Breakfast would be nice.”
Frank buttons his coat and pulls out his car keys, jingling them like sleigh bells. “Then off we go.”
Ryan hates interrogations. Reading anyone’s mind uninvited feels like an invasion, but with suspects it always feels even worse, knowing it’s against their will and the only thing giving him the right is a signed warrant. He’s legally permitted, required actually, to perform the interrogation.
It still feels like rape.
He’s read the file and done the briefing, so he knows what he’s after. The suspected-mobster looks up when Ryan arrives and sits at the table, placing his hands calmly flat on the table.
He knows what’s coming, but they both have to wait through the legal speech anyway, the recitation of rights and procedures and explanation of exactly what Ryan is about to do.
“Do you consent?” Iero finishes at last, and the man’s lip twists in an ugly sneer as he says, “Do I have a choice?”
Ryan doesn’t wait any longer.
Zeroes can’t feel him, although some of them think they can, shuffling their thoughts and memories as if they can hide what they don’t want him to see. Mostly it’s just annoying, people think most about what they’re trying not to think about, and he sees a lot of unfiltered recreations of sexual acts and most of the guiltier kinks while he’s trying to sort through the rest of the rubbish to find what he’s actually looking for.
He finds it, a conversation about Toro that names two of his other henchmen specifically by name, and the location of the cop who went missing a month or so ago, his body stuffed into a car trunk and pushed into the junkyard, accompanied by a hefty bribe. And then he finds something he hadn’t been looking for.
Brendon.
Ryan pulls back, digging ruthlessly through the man’s mind until he’s sure he’s found every scrap of information possible, every flash of Brendon’s face and his voice and his stupid, brash laugh. Then he withdraws, writes everything he’s seen regarding Toro and Bryar down on the official statement provided, signs his name and walks out.
None of the officers can sense his current emotional state, and he keeps his face stonily blank, but a distant flicker of concern tells him that one person has picked up on it, and is on his way.
Spencer meets him outside before Ryan even realizes where his body is headed, and walks along in silence beside him until they reach the stone bench next to the civic statue. Spencer can read his mood a mile away, he knows something is wrong, but waits until he senses Ryan is calm enough to talk before he asks.
“What is it?”
Ryan curls his hands into fists and kneads them into his thighs. “I know where Brendon is.”
“What?” Spencer’s voice is surprised, and Ryan doesn’t blame him. They haven’t seen Brendon in over a week, and questioning Gerard has gotten them nowhere. He’s not at home, he’s not returning his calls, he doesn’t come in to work. He might as well have disappeared.
Except that Ryan now knows where he is.
“He’s working for the syndicate,” Ryan says, and his voice is low but he feels like spitting and throwing things, his whole body tense. “Undercover with the fucking mob.”
Spencer is silent for a long time. Then he asks quietly, “How do you know?”
“Interrogation,” Ryan replies shortly. He swallows. “I saw him. In the guy’s head.”
Spencer takes a deep breath in, and Ryan closes his eyes. Spencer’s voice is tight when he speaks. “Is he okay?”
Ryan doesn’t trust himself to answer that out loud yet, so he just nods.
“Fuck,” Spencer says, and pulls Ryan into a fierce hug, his breath hot against Ryan’s chilled neck. “Fuck.”
As far as Ryan is concerned, that about sums it up.
Spencer feels the brush of a mind against his and nearly turns, but the presence is familiar and there’s a warning that comes with it, keeping him stiffly at the counter of the coffee shop while an image appears in his head, the gateway to a familiar park and the grove of trees beyond.
He pays for his latte and spends a long time counting out change, and by the time he turns around Brendon is nowhere to be seen. He calls Ryan to say he’s running late, makes up a bullshit story with the underlying subtext of I’ll tell you later, I promise.
Ryan says he’d better be there within half an hour and hangs up.
Brendon’s hanging out on a park bench waiting for him, coat sleeves hanging over his knuckles, swinging his feet like a lanky twelve-year-old, and not a telepathic police consultant working undercover for the fucking Las Vegas syndicate.
Spencer sits beside him and opens with, “Where the fuck have you been?”
Brendon looks at him curiously. “I thought you already knew. Hey, is that for me?” He makes eyes, hands outstretched for Spencer’s coffee cup, and Spencer is too much of a pushover and too relieved to keep it from him.
“Take it.” He watches Brendon close his eyes and inhale, lashes blending in with the dark circles under his eyes. “Ryan’s worried sick.” Spencer is too, but he doesn’t say shit like that. Brendon’s goofy little smile says he knows anyway.
“They said I wasn’t allowed to talk about it, endangerment and the greater good, blah-de-blah-blah.” Brendon sips again, cradling the coffee cup close to his chest. “Mmm, this is good.”
“What, are they denying you coffee? Is it against syndicate policy or something?” Spencer is aware that he’s being a little more acid than Brendon really deserves, considering, but he’s been worried for weeks now and the relief at seeing Brendon alive and well is somehow coming out as pissed-off anger.
“No, I just miss this blend.” Brendon swings his feet again, and when he scoots closer, Spencer doesn’t move away. “I’ve been trying to stay away from places that people might recognize me.”
For the first time, Spencer realizes there’s another aura hanging over Brendon like a second skin, a mental scent that isn’t his own. He’s about to ask when Brendon’s mind brushes his again, tendrils extending like a flower craving sunlight, and when Spencer lets him in he knows immediately what it is.
Brendon twitches when he realizes what Spencer is seeing, almost pulling away until Spencer puts a hand on his knee to keep him there. “Who is it?” he asks, low-voiced and calm.
Brendon takes a huge gulp of coffee; Spencer can feel it scald the tip of his tongue. “A cop.” Brendon’s knee is jittering under his fingers, wired from nerves and not caffeine. “He’s the only one who knows about me. I didn’t mean to do it, I just. It just happened.”
Misery and loneliness roll off of Brendon in waves. Spencer wraps around him, feeling Brendon soak up the contact and slowly, gradually start to relax. There are a variety of thoughts and feelings regarding the cop whizzing around in Brendon’s head, and most of them flit by too fast for him to comprehend. There’s also a lot of Ryan, though, and Spencer already knows about those. He’s known for months.
Brendon follows his thoughts, the two of them meshed so completely that they’re basically completing each other’s mental sentences. “Don’t tell Ryan,” he begs softly. Spencer glances over, a question forming in his mind and leaking over to Brendon’s. “You can tell him about this, I mean. About seeing me. I’ve been afraid to come up to him like I did you, but you can tell. Just don’t tell him about…”
Spencer squeezes Brendon’s knee, and he falls silent, thoughts still darting and unfocused, but calmer now that Spencer’s holding onto him. “I just don’t think he’d approve,” Brendon says a moment later, and they both know it’s a lie, stained red and splashed with guilt in Brendon’s mind, but Spencer doesn’t call him on it.
“He misses you,” Spencer says quietly, all he has to offer. Brendon seems happy to take it, though, smiling and regaining some of the bubbling happiness Spencer is used to feeling when they link.
“I should get going.” Brendon drains the last of the coffee and waggles the cup in his hand, already distracted and jittery as he pulls away from Spencer, mentally and physically. “Thanks for this.”
“Bren.” He says it calmly, quietly, but Brendon goes completely still, eyes dark and trained on him. “Are you okay?”
He can only feel the surface layer of Brendon’s thoughts now, like ripples on a pond, but he believes it when Brendon nods and the aura around him brightens, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, shoulders straightening and a little of the usual edge returning to his stance, a familiar smile creeping out just for a split second. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s a message from Frank on his phone, so Gerard goes straight from the office to the safehouse in Ida, climbing the rickety stairs to the top floor and rapping out the ‘all-clear’ code on the door.
Mikey opens it a second later, looking worn and frayed but very much alive, and Gerard hugs him and doesn’t let go for a long, long time. Finally he forces himself to back off a little, and Mikey just shrugs at him, the Mikey-equivalent of a tired smile, and they go inside.
“Do you want something to drink?” Mikey asks, cracking open the refrigerator and retrieving a beer for himself. Gerard shakes his head, sitting on the hideously-upholstered armchair when Mikey sprawls across the sofa. There are threads coming loose everywhere, he picks at one after taking a swig of his drink.
“How’s it going out there?” Gerard asks. He hates to talk business, especially when they’re only seeing each other for short bursts of time like this, when Mikey can get away for a debriefing and Gerard has enough time to meet him. It’s enough just to see him, but he also needs the reassurance that Mikey is okay, and he wants to hear it out loud.
“You know. The usual.” Mikey looks tired, limbs akimbo and beer bottle dangling limply from his hand. “It’s not getting any worse, at least.”
Gerard reaches out enough to feel the throb of a migraine behind Mikey’s closed eyes, and leans over to press his fingers against Mikey’s temples, correcting the balance and dulling the ache. Mikey doesn’t open his eyes, but he smiles faintly, just a little. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Gerard brushes his hair back, catching the few strands straggling over Mikey’s forehead. “Anything else I can do?”
Mikey shakes his head, then opens his eyes and struggles upright. “Might as well get this over with. Go ahead, do your thing.”
Gerard hesitates, wanting to let Mikey relax for as long as possible without thinking about work. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Mikey shrugs again, leaning back against the sofa. “I don’t mind. Better you than anyone else.”
Gerard says, “Okay,” and slips in as lightly as possible. Mikey makes it easy for him, used to both this aspect of the job and Gerard’s mental touch; the memories he needs are right on the surface, floating and playing out one-by-one for Gerard to relay later. Mikey’s all the way to Toro, which puts him in both a very good position and a very dangerous one, one that Gerard doesn’t like to think about with Ryan’s signed statement regarding officer Robert Bryar still sitting on his desk.
He sees snatches of people he mentally marks for later, syndicate members they have no information on or not enough, and then he gets to a cold night in a warehouse waiting for a shipment and sees more than he ever wanted to know about.
“You slept with one of my kids?” Gerard asks, more incredulous than anything else. He skips over the memory as soon as he realizes what it is, but the brief touch is enough to tell him how it ended.
Mikey grunts, struggling upright again. “Fuck. You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“I didn’t,” Gerard reassures immediately. He tries not to infringe on Mikey’s privacy any more than he has to, and there are some things about his little brother that both of them would prefer he never know. “Just the beginning.” He hesitates, but he’s worried about Brendon too, the same way he is Mikey. “How is he?”
He doesn’t mean for it to be a joke, but Mikey just stares at him disbelievingly until Gerard realizes what he’s said and claps a hand over his mouth, and before he can stammer anything out the two of them are laughing, gut-deep spasms that have them clinging to each other until it hurts.
“He’s good,” Mikey says finally, taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Not your type, I think.”
“Fuck you.” Gerard gives him another hug, impulsive and tight, before collecting himself as well. “He’s holding up okay, though?”
Mikey shrugs, slumping over against the arm of the couch and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Gerard wonders whether the headache is coming back again. “I think it’s harder on him. He’s never done this before, and you guys are more used to…” He gestures vaguely to his forehead, with a movement like a whirlpool around his skull. “Being in each other’s heads all the time.”
Gerard nods, thinking of the mental hum he always feels in the morning when all three members of his department arrive and commune. He doesn’t think they know how rare that is, and he’s not about to tell them. Whatever works for the department and the three of them is more than enough for him.
“You take care of yourself,” Gerard says quietly. He doesn’t know how to express how worried he is about Mikey, and he’s not even sure that Mikey would appreciate it if he did, but the order is sincere. Gerard is not losing Mikey to Toro, not ever.
Mikey cracks an eye open and salutes Gerard with his beer. “Aye-aye, big brother.”
Mikey’s been undercover for long enough that he can’t drop off to sleep with Gerard there, and he’s obviously exhausted. Gerard waits around for long enough to chase the headache away one more time before kissing him on the forehead and leaving him in peace.
There’s a box of chocolates on Ryan’s desk. A box shaped like a big red heart, with a gauzy red bow on the top. He looks at it in bewilderment for the full five minutes it takes Spencer to arrive, and then looks up as if Spencer will somehow have an answer to this puzzle.
Spencer looks at the box, looks at Ryan, and says, “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan opens his mouth to say something catty, but Spencer has discovered another box on his own desk and is looking delighted. “Cool, I got some too!”
“From Jon?” Ryan asks sweetly. Spencer stops ripping the tinted plastic off of his box for long enough to give Ryan the finger. That accomplished, he pulls open the attached envelope and skims over the miniature card.
“No. From Brendon.”
Ryan jerks up instantly. “He’s here?”
“He was.” Spencer’s frowning, folding the card up again and examining the box in his hand. “Hey,” he says a few seconds later, grinning across at Ryan. “He bought you chocolates for Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan glowers, because he doesn’t blush. “He bought them for you too, asshole,” he points out, even though secretly he’s a little pleased.
Spencer directs a pointed look at the small square box in his hands, and then over at the heart-shaped and beribboned monstrosity sitting on Ryan’s desk. “Yeah,” he drawls. “This was totally for me.”
Jon comes in, wearing a shirt that must have started out white before being washed with something red, and holds out a bag of candy hearts. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says cheerfully, and then catches sight of the box in Spencer’s hand. He falters, but only for a second. “Oh, am I too late? It looks like someone got to you first.”
“Brendon,” Spencer says immediately, before Ryan can even open his mouth to answer. Spencer shoots a warning directly into Ryan’s mind, threatening grievous harm should Ryan say anything Spencer does not approve of in the presence of Jon and candy hearts.
Ryan smirks.
“Oh, that’s cool.” Jon is instantly upbeat again. He and Spencer are giving each other soft, goofy smiles, and if Ryan didn’t love Spencer so much he would be rolling his eyes right now.
He does, however, let Spencer know that directly, and the goofy smile vanishes suddenly in a hail of eyelash-fluttering and coughing. “I should…” Spencer says vaguely, waving a hand at his desk, and Jon bobs his head.
“Sure, of course. See you soon.” They both smile at each other again, and then Jon heads back to his office, munching on candy hearts, leaving Ryan looking significantly at Spencer.
“You can’t talk,” Spencer snaps, although he’s trying to stay quiet so it comes out more like a vehement whisper. “You have a giant fucking chocolate heart.”
“If you don’t ask him out by the end of the day,” Ryan threatens in his most sincere warning tone, “I will strangle you in your sleep.”
“Okay, okay.” Spencer sits back, absent-mindedly picking out a chocolate from his box, and then he suddenly grins. “Brendon got you chocolates for Valentine’s Day.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, but Spencer has used his magic powers for evil again and now he’s smiling, too. “Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, trying to hide it behind the chocolate box. “God.”
Spencer pokes his head through the door to Jon’s office and makes off with his bag of candy hearts. “I just need these for a moment,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving Jon blinking adorably in his wake.
Three minutes later he’s gone through the bag and worked up the courage to go back in, armed with candy. When Jon looks up he grins, dropping the bag back on the desk and willing his palms not to sweat. There’s nothing worse than sweaty palms.
“I just needed to make sure you had the right one,” Spencer says, and slides ‘be my valentine’ across the desk.
Jon looks at the heart, and then back up at Spencer, lips curling upwards. “Won’t Brendon be jealous?” he asks casually.
Spencer laughs, reckless and giddy. “Brendon was asking Ryan,” he assures Jon easily. “He just knows that I’d kill him for not getting me any chocolate.”
“Wise man,” Jon answers solemnly, and Spencer is still a little breathless, looking at him. He can’t stop smiling.
“So do you accept? Or do I need to dig out a ‘kiss me’ so you get the hint?” He comes around the edge of the desk, unable to stand being so far apart, and Jon stands up, looking at him with the same warm brown eyes that Spencer hasn’t been able to get out of his head for weeks now.
“Spencer,” Jon says softly, and Spencer leans in and kisses him.
Jon hasn’t shaved in a day or two, and his stubble prickles against Spencer’s skin, setting his nerves on fire where Jon’s chin scrapes his cheek. Being this close to him is like going underwater, hearing ocean waves and nothing else, everything that isn’t the two of them suddenly very far off.
Jon parts his lips and Spencer tilts his head, sliding his tongue against the entrance to Jon’s mouth and letting his breath out in a sigh when Jon responds, his arm sliding around Spencer’s waist. He tastes like candy hearts and chocolate, warm and sweet.
For a few seconds, it’s heaven. Then Jon pulls away, reluctance in every centimeter of contact between their bodies, and says quietly, “Spencer.”
The tone of his voice is all wrong, and the silly half-smile on Spencer’s lips falls away as he opens his eyes and sees the way Jon is looking at him. It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak, but Spencer forces something out. “What is it?”
“I can’t.” There’s anguish hidden in Jon’s voice, but it’s nowhere near the ache that has suddenly opened up in Spencer. He feels like his heart has dropped into his stomach and left a hole in his chest. Everything has gone to static, and he hears Jon’s words as if they’re coming through a bad phone line, tinny and distant.
“You’re my patient. It’s not just that we work together, I’m your psychiatrist. I have a responsibility to you. I can’t betray that trust with this, Spencer, I can’t. It would be wrong.”
“Wrong.” That’s the word his brain chooses to echo, summing up everything Jon has just said, translating it into what he really means, which is no.
No.
“Spencer.” Jon starts to take his hand, but Spencer jerks it away, and Jon doesn’t push. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have led you on, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to.” Spencer laughs, and it comes out like shattered glass, jagged and painful. “Thanks. Well done. Great job of making me think you didn’t want this.”
“Spencer.” Jon reaches for him again, but it hurts, and Spencer isn’t sticking around to let Jon see that.
“I’m going to go.” He evades Jon’s hand but runs into the sharp corner of the desk, sending a jab of pain shooting through his leg. Jon doesn’t call him back. Spencer barely manages to keep from slamming the door on his way out, and it’s mostly because he hurts too much right now for dramatic gestures.
Ryan’s waiting by the stairs, expression blank. Spencer goes straight to him and holds on tight.
part three