BIGBANG! : Where There's Smoke: A Tale of Scales, Earth and Lust (And Pixie Dust) part 1
Band(s): Panic At The Disco, The Hush Sound, with appearances by MCR, FOB, and many other bandom related bands/people.
Pairing(s): Spencer/Greta/Jon, Brendon/Ryan, various background pairings
Word Count:
Rating/Warnings: R-ish. / This calls for a lot of suspension of disbelief, but it's AU, so that's to be expected I suppose, at least up to a point.
Author Notes: My entire f-list for telling me to keep trying when my first fic killed itself. My sophiekins ( imconfusedotcom ) for fueling some of the crackier moments in addition to reading through this for me from early on; and my katiebug and ohhemmgiaa , spleenjournal (who was reading as i was working and is an awesome cheerleader.)and fallingfortruth for their input and letting me ramble at them while the plot worked itself out in my head and the characters took over. Many more thanks go to stickyxoxo for keeping me on task, for helping me through the kinks and blocks, for looking it over for me when the technical difficulties reached a peak and for just generally being an awesome drill sargeant with no qualms about kicking my ass into gear.
You have no idea how much I appreciate all of you.
Summary: In 1969, the world turned on it's end when it rained Guinness in Times Square. As a result, the creatures of myth and legend have come out of the woodwork and live and work among the humans. Spencer Smith is one such creature. He works for a public relations firm that caters to Others. Sure, he works a nine-to-five job catering to other people, but that doesn't mean his life is normal by any stretch of the imagination, especially when he has to organize the largest event his company has ever been handed and becomes involved in romantic entanglements with his close friend Jon, and his long time client Greta. William's office gossip and Spencer's allergy to the pixie dust his assistant Brendon constantly sheds in the presence of his best friend probably don't help matters much.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanmix by xbedknobs
William is not a morning person.
It would probably be pretty clear by the way he stumbles in bleary eyed at seven am, except there is no one around to see it. Arcadian Rhythm Promotions, LLC. is not yet open for the day's business. That doesn't mean, however, that there isn't work to be done yet.
On his less-than-sane days, William recalls getting the job with fondness. He had been modeling at the time, and badly. For all his fire and picture-perfect pout, he does not take direction well, much preferring to do his own thing. So while he should have been making big money, he was struggling on the bottom rung with models less-pretty and less-talented than himself. And that’s how Patrick found him, in a roundabout way.
William isn’t quite sure what year it was. Even now, he's sometimes not sure what year he's living in. Seriously, details. He does know it was sometime in the seventies, because he was in a disco and there was an alarming prevalence of polyester, but other than that he's not overly sure. He'd charmed his way into the elitist club using his good looks and a pout, but it wasn't getting him his Jack Daniels. The muscle-bound bartender wasn't all that impressed, so he turned up the charm. Turned on The Voice.
An hour later he was swimming in a sea of amber liquor and a man approximately half his height with dark-framed glasses was tapping his shoulder. William eyed the little guy warily. He didn't look like he was old enough to even be in the club. He also had earplugs shoved into his ears (William couldn't blame him. the music was atrocious), which were reddening under William's Scrutiny.
"You're a Siren? Or is the bartender a, um, a friend of yours?"
William snorted and patted him on top of his ugly cap. "Not quite, wee one. I wouldn't be friends with that hulk of dumb if he paid me to. Half Siren. Mom's side. Why, you a cop? 'M not aware that it's illegal to seduce drinks from the house, and if it is, well. You're welcome to cuff me?"
The little man made a face. "No, I'm not a cop. I'm Patrick. I'm here with a friend. We're... doing some celebrating of sorts? We finally got our company started and it's something of a big deal for us."
"That's nice and all, but what does this have to do with me?" He threw back another shot while the kid eyed him speculatively for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.
"Well. We need a receptionist. but specifically one with your, er, unique ability. We're a public relations and promotions company catering to those that are Other. It's never been done before. Your Voice on our end of a phone line would probably save us a lot of grief. And ya know, if we did hire you, you'd have a pretty cushy job and occasionally be able to be in the public eye, should we need to control a situation in public."
William’s eyebrows shot up. Oh yeah. Negotiation and persuasion. Little guy's a leprechaun, or at least related to them, and if that's the case, he could have been five hundred if he was day; William has a sixth sense about these things. Leprechauns also smell like money, literally. It wafts off of Patrick, dry and smelling faintly of paper. (William may be part Siren, but what other blood he can claim, he doesn't know. The knowing Others' by scent is a trait shared pretty exclusively among the Fae, and predominantly by the branches that boast tinier stature than William has ever been able to claim.) They are also excellent businessmen, and even as tipsy as he totally wasn't, he knew getting in on something like this on the ground floor was a golden ticket.
He smiled beatifically at Patrick and threw an arm around his shoulder.
Lead me to your partner, little man, and let’s discuss benefits, shall we?"
So, William may despise the ass crack of dawn, but Patrick and his partner, thin, lanky Elf Mikey Way, hadn't let him down. The company was small, but incredibly detail oriented and all inclusive towards a clients needs. Though they did insist, however, that William only use his talents in relation to work matters while on the clock, and only as would benefit the company--legally. Which, ya know, lame,but he could totally deal. His public presence at press conferences and as the Voice of the company (Not the face, sadly. That was all Spencer. Lucky bastard.) was a major perk. He was recognized and generally loved.
He really couldn't ask for a better job. He's got the inside scoop on album releases, parties, and club happenings. It helps that all the juiciest gossip is a phone call or doorway away and he doesn't have to do more than answer phones most of the time. The dress code is pretty lax, and he enjoys the company of the other employees; not a bad gig, all around.
But getting into the office at Fuck-You a.m. to check the messages from overnight, that was just, not.
He settles at the imposing desk in the foyer and keys up the message database. Most Others don't keep daylight hours like much of the staff at Arcadian Rhythm, preferring twilight or late night to the harsh light of day. There are 30 messages of varying format that have come in through out the night, one of which is marked urgent. With a few clicks he's got it open and is skimming over the address. He does a slight double take before he forwards it to Patrick and Mikey, and Pete, by default (who William is pretty sure is just there to harass Patrick and doesn't actually do any of the assisting he was technically hired for).
Someone is going to be kicking themselves later this morning. William hopes it's before lunch, so he won't miss the fireworks. Maybe he can scrounge up some popcorn before the show starts.
***
William is sitting at the front desk, his feet propped up on the bleached birch desktop, staring Brendon down as he enters the twenty-third floor; a purposeful, if slightly maniacal, glint in his eyes. Before Brendon even hands William the coffee he brings for him every morning, William is leaning across the desk and beckoning him forward.
"So.” William leans into Brendon's face but doesn't lower his voice. “Andy's coming to New York. And wants to host a huge charity ball for orphans or some shit."
Brendon checks his watch. "It's seven-thirty, Bill. How do you know this? There's no one here for you to eaves-drop on." William is a slippery fountain of information, all lean lines and sharp smiles and charm. And that's without The Voice, with which he could surely charm the panties off The Morrigan's virgin acolytes. Although, to hear Gabe tell it, they don't wear any.
Not the point.
The point is William's Voice is a very dangerous weapon, something the firm uses with caution and guards like the gold in Fort Knox, but against misuse, not theft. It's also for William's own safety. More than once Bob has had to be there to keep away angry husbands and wives. (They once almost shut down because of a lawsuit involving William, his voice, a telephone and the pretty Undine wife of a Redcap. This is how Brendon found out that Redcap's caps are dyed everyday. With fresh blood. He hadn't known there were that many dirty insults in Scots-Gaelic, either.)
Speaking of which, "And where is Bob?"
William waves his hand in vague gesture of dismissal, sipping at the coffee Brendon picked up on his way to the office. ”You know he isn’t my guard, right?”
Brendon just shrugs sort of noncommittaly. Bob is totally William’s guard, regardless of his dellusions.
"I don't need a keeper, little Brendon. But since you ask, The Fairy Guard-Father is running late today. Probably on the off-chance that his mother will put in an appearance. And I'm not going to be late because he's avoiding her and her amazing snicker-doodles. This is not the important part of our conversation.” William studies him pointedly. “I know Andy is coming because I had to get the messages left over the night. I promise I haven't been using my powers for evil today. But it's early, yet. And I have a lunch date with Travie..." William's gaze goes thoughtful.
Brendon nods, only half paying attention because it's early and he isn't even halfway into his coffee, and he really doesn't want to hear about William and Travis' lunch dates. Really. He's one of the reasons why William refused to have the calls that come in outside of business hours forwarded to his cell and interrupt his down time. Or rather, as William puts it, Play Time.
"So Andy, huh?" William nods as Brendon climbs up onto the desk to sit by William's feet and sips his latte. Spencer won't be in until eight or so, and he doesn't have any work that can't be rushed through about five minutes before that; he has time to kill. "Andy who? The only Andy I can think of is..." He's stalling. His brain is still fuzzy from sleep, his blood still singing from dreams he barely remembers.
"Andy-from-The-Hunt-Andy, Brendon. There is no other Andy with which we need to concern ourselves."
"Sorry. OK. So Andy-From-The-Hunt wants to host a charity ball?" His brain is only half working, but he knows about Andy, they all do. Andy is High-Court and therefore High-Magic. He's the Court's ambassador to the rest of the world. Brendon's brain usually gets stuck on the fact that he's a member of The Wild Hunt, because Andy is a pacifist vegan, and that just doesn’t gel.
The Hunt is mostly a group of diplomats and ambassadors now-a-days, but there was a time when they were feared. Andy himself is still kind of frightening, if only because his mom is Tisophone, one of The Furies, and they are the things that nightmares are made of. It makes Andy a ruthless politician, though. And a fair one, something that is rare among the Fae and even rarer at Court.
"Yes. The message mentioned something about grand plans and fancy clothes and bringing in all of the Other Courts and every celebrity we have on roster. There was also something about tracking down The Morrigan and as many members of the Pantheons as we can." William gives a pained expression, long fingers flying to tangle in his hair and cover his eyes.
"Brendon, it's going to be a nightmare. All that ego in one room. And where are we even going to find somewhere to hold this shindig if we get representatives from all the Pantheons and every Court? I can't think of a venue short of the Gardens that will hold half the Others Andy wants in on this. I feel really sorry for whoever has to organize it all once it's brought to Patrick and Mikey, even though it will be huge for the company. There's no way that many pompous celebrities, aristocrats and deities can be confined to one building and it NOT end up in some sort of hugely horrific conflict that leads to magickal fall-out."
Brendon swings his feet with a small smirk and an eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses, the scuffed heel of his shoe bumping against the drawer handles. He's waking up, slowly, body scrambling to metabolize the sugary coffee. At least he's not vibrating in place yet.
"Dude. I dunno. I'd pay big money to see The Morrigan and Artemis in the same room with some of the Vamps. The sheer amount of preening, man. Though, um, we may have to watch the number of mortals, if we allow any. Because, really? That much glamor going down -and you know the Fae courts won't settle for cosmetics. They'll have their illusions on full blast-any humans in a fifty mile radius of the tri-state area would get Elf-struck. It will be a security nightmare for whoever gets stuck with it."
William gives a thoughtful nod, but there's mischief shining in his eyes. "Patrick would insist on only our best representation, though. Mikey most certainly will demand nothing less."
"Well, yeah. And they'd have to pull out every resource they have at their disposal to even have any sort of chance of pulling it off."
William's left eyebrow shoots up. "It would have to be our most connected rep to pull it all together. There are only so many people on the planet that could swing it."
Brendon is squinting into his coffee as he thinks. "Shads could maybe do it, but that would put Syn and Zacky in charge of the creative design by default..."
"And it would maybe look like a bondage ball for the Hell's Angels. No. Patrick and Mikey wouldn't risk that kind of embarrassment. Not that the Fae would mind a bondage ball, per-say, but. Benefit, Brendon. For orphans." And Brendon doesn't like the look on William's face. It's the one he gets when he's waiting for someone to catch up to his train of thought. William is sneaky-smart, but likes to watch other people fumble in the dark, figuring things out for themselves, probably giggling inwardly at their efforts.
As far as Brendon is concerned, this a huge character flaw.
"Lyn maybe? She could totally swing it, probably sweet talk Gerard into doing the theme and planning the decor. It would be a rockin' party, but if Andy wants something besides that, maybe classier, less reformed punk-rock-D&D-geek, then he'd have to pick someone more restrained. At the same time, this is a charity event for Others, so, it's got to be different, not just black tie..."
"And who do you think they'd pick for something requiring elegance and taste, and yet unique and memorable enough to make people want to empty their pockets for the homeless little changelings?" William's grin is decidedly evil.
"Oh, fuck." Brendon's eyes widen as realization dawns. Williams evil smirk grows brighter. "Spencer. Fuck. Dude, he's gonna be so pissed. He hates dealing with the courts and even more-so the Pantheons. William. Switch me jobs? He's going to make my life hell. If, ya know, there were an actual 'Hell'. Please?"
"What's in it for me?"
Brendon thinks about it for a minute before he grins and his eyes get big, the kind of glassy sheen to them that William generally associates with the less-then-sane. Some times he worries about Brendon. "The One Ring. Imagine the power, Bill. I've got the hookup with Frodo, man. You wouldn't be corrupted by it, because of your natural tendency towards evil. The work's already done. You'd use it for your own pleasure, probably literally .You could have all the pretty people in New York begging for your attentions. Also, It changes size to fit the wearer, so you could probably use it as a cock ring and-"
William can't help but laugh. "No way. Not for all the hearts in Manhattan, Bren. Not even if Frodo did exist outside of fiction. Firstly, I am in a devoted relationship. Secondly, you're his assistant; you get paid the big bucks to deal with his bitchiness. Besides. I think he's kind of fond of you. He hasn't tried to kill you yet, has he?" For all that William's words should be comforting, Brendon has the suspicion he's laughing at him on the inside. Brendon suspects this to be one of William's favorite past-times. Another huge character flaw in Brendon's books.
"He wouldn't try to kill me. He'd send Ryan to do his dirty work for him. Spencer kind of dislikes getting his hands dirty, both literally and figuratively. He's all about underlings, man."
"Really? I don't think Ryan could hurt a firefly. What would he use, his scathing wit?" William's eye-roll is almost audible.
"With his mind, Bill. With his mind. I think he may be a Jedi in addition to part Cherubim or whatever Angel he is. He could make my brain explode using The Force." Brendon doesn't miss a beat with his reply and wide eyes. He does, however, jump when his phone starts ringing the Imperial March in his pocket, scattering a thin cloud of fine gold dust.
William looks at him pointedly. "I think I'm going to have a talk with Smith about letting you spend your breaks watching old Star Wars DVDs with The Ways."
Brendon waves him off, jumping down from the high desktop and answering his cell on his way to his desk and Spencer's office.
***
Spencer Smith is normally a very restrained kind of guy. He gets things done and is generally gentlemanly, and polite; maybe a little straight-laced, but he's able to go with the flow when necessary.
It is not, however, necessary for him to go with the flow and be a gentleman when stuck on the Jersey turnpike. In dead-stop traffic. At seven-fifty AM. On a Monday. Especially when he's in this situation because Gabe wanted a breakfast meeting to go over (read: re-write) the press release for his new book.
("Gabe. You can't just change the term 'The Shift' to whatever you want it to be.
"Why the fuck not? I'm responsible for it. I should get to name it. And 'The Shift' isn't even accurate. Nothing shifted. We outed ourselves." Gabe is being a petulant ass; more of an eight-year old human than the millennia-old deity he is. He's hunched in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and a fluorescent hood pulled over his head.
Spencer's patience is pretty thin. It's ass-o'clock in the morning and he's driven into the depths of Jersey hell [Gerard would kill him if he heard him call it that, and then use his blood for ink in his next gallery show] to talk this over with Gabe in his own territory, which is apparently a dive of a diner in a bad neighborhood.
Spencer is pretty sure he's going to have to burn this suit.
"You were only partially responsible for “The Outing” -and don't even think about using that as the term. Travis and Katie were just as much at fault-"
"Leave the poor Virtue out of this. Not her fault Angelic beings can't hold their liquor and she's got a taste for good whiskey. And Travis is with me."
Spencer snorts, disbelief rolling his eyes as he shuffles his papers. "They're not as easily led as you would have me believe. You remember that my best friend is Angel enough to have been asked to join the Choir, right? And Travis wants to call it 'The Drunkening' as well?"
"No. He's betting on 'The Barley Revolution'.")
Spencer hates working for The Dionysus (Plural. Though Travis is a hell of a lot more reasonable a client than Gabe has ever thought about being), but he sees how they're important in this day and age. He wouldn't have his job if not for their shenanigans back in '69. He'd be going into hiding and moving every ten years or so to hide his slow aging and he wouldn't have a high profile job with a company that caters to The Others like himself, or his half-Angel best friend, Ryan, or any of the Fae (Though, if he's honest, he could do without a great deal of the Fae. Their vanity drives him insane. Which is probably hypocritical, as he's got Fae blood, of sorts, among other things).
He should really be thanking Gabe and Travis (and Katie, who he knows isn't as blameless as everyone passes her off to be.) but he can't bring himself to do it when he has to put up with the whining. It's little comfort that he gets paid to do so.
Spencer catches a whiff of melting rubber through his window and sighs in defeat. Even his subconscious is working against him today. He speed-dials Brendon's cell. There's no way he's at his desk yet and not still gossiping at the front desk with William. Normally he would hum along to the Hall & Oates that's repeating on his end as the phone rings, but he's seriously not in the mood.
Brendon answers promptly. (If seven rings is considered prompt, and really, for Brendon? It is.)
"Hey Brendon. I need you to bump down my appointments by like an hour. I'm in standstill traffic on The Pike and my twenty minute drive will probably take an hour." He can hear Brendon's footsteps as he's making his way to his desk outside of Spencer's office.
"OK, but I don't think Alex and Ryland can reschedule the lunch meeting, you might not be able to change that one. I'll check, just in case. Other than that, there's only your meeting at three with Greta about the album promotion as far as client meetings that can't be put off. You are supposed to call Jon about the shoot, and go over the preliminary designs for Gabe's stuff with Gerard, but you know Gerard, you can just drop in on creative later."
Spencer's teeth clench involuntarily at the mention of Gabe and the burning rubber smell gets worse. If he were looking, he'd see the flames licking the tire of the car in front of him putter out once he calms down.
"Thank you. And Bren? Remind me to have the upholstery in the Jag cleaned."
***
Not long after Brendon scurries off to take care of Spencer's requests, Bob comes in. William may deny that the man is there for the safety of the company and sometimes William himself, but there's really no other explanation for why he hunkers down in the plush leather chair at the second computer on the lobby desk, dropping a thick book on the table with an audible thunk.
Before William can greet him, Bob's phone rings shrilly in his pocket
It's his mother.
William tries very hard not to roll his eyes as Bob grumbles into the phone that, yes, he's made it into work and no, he doesn't need anything today, mother, thanks.
Once he's off the phone, Bob shoots William a hard look. After working with Bob as long as he has, William knows the purse of his lips and inward tilt of his brows means he doesn't want to hear it. William just shrugs and turns back to his computer.
Frank bounds in as Bob is propping his feet up on the desk and leaning back in the chair, Gerard shuffling out of the elevator behind him.
Gerard is layered up, sunglasses obscuring his face and hiding in his coffee, which, William thinks, is almost as big as Brendon. Frank immediately climbs on the back of Bob's chair, causing it to teeter dangerously, and hooks his legs over his shoulders and proceeds to give him shit about his mom while Gerard slumps against the big desk.
“Hey, Bryar. Your mom still sending you to work with baked goods in the hopes of bribing you to take over the Fairy-God-Mother business?”
His mother wanting him to take over the family business is kind of a sore issue with Bob. He refuses to be anyone's Fairy God Father. The dress code alone would kill him. Pink is really kind of unflattering to Bob's skin tone. It's too early for him to want to move enough to knock Frank off his shoulders for bringing it up though, so he just picks up his book and grumbles into the crease between pages.
“Yes, but I didn't bring anything today, so you'll have to wait and see if she shows up on her own to get your pastry fix.”
William is a little surprised at the complete lack of violence this morning, but turns his attention away from the odd pair next to him.
“Morning, Gerard.” William greets him cheerily and Gerard grumbles a reply from within his cup. William asks him about his brother and his new pieces and the showing from the weekend before. Gerard answers in mumbles and grunts, but after working for the firm for so long, and knowing the Ways -at least casually- for about 50 years, he's pretty fluent in Pre-Coffee Gerard, so the conversation flows as if Gerard were completely cognizant of his surroundings, which he most definitely isn't.
While the conversation is occurring, people come through on their way to various parts of the offices, namely Lyn, the living Vamp who occupies the office across from Spencer. Gerard's face turns a bit red when she smiles in his direction and William can't hide his own as he waves her through. Frank greets her good morning from somewhere near the vicinity of Bob's head, but his eyes are all for Gerard when he winks at him and cocks his head in Lyn's wake with a lascivious smile. Gerard reaches across the desk and smacks him on the back of the head (with speed William wasn't sure Gerard could muster until after his sixth cup of caffeinated bliss) even as his face turns pinker. He turns and shuffles off in the direction of Creative, grumbling under his breath in what William suspects is broken Gaelic. Frank follows with a laugh and a low exaggerated bow in William and Bob's direction.
Ryan shows up next, looking for all the world like a very grumpy hobo with an epensive budget and a penchant for silk, damask and threadbare Egyptian cotton. He arches an eyebrow at William’s coffee as he sidles up to the desk and leans heavily on it.
”I take it Brendon's in already?”
The question is answered when Brendon comes in talking a mile a minute on a headset, presumably to a client, and deposits his empty coffee cup in the waste basket behind the desk. He clicks off with a cheery confirmation of a meeting time and smiles wide and bright at Ryan
"Spencer is going to be late, something about “goddamn lushes” and “burning tires” and “goddamn little old ladies in Cadillacs” and traffic on the Pike."
Ryan shakes his head at Brendon's exuberance as The Alexes meander past on the same path as Gerard, but William can see the edges of a smile fighting for control of his face; if not in the corners of his mouth, then definitely in his eyes.
“I know. I'm pretty sure he called me after he got off the phone with you, Brendon.” Ryan sounds like he's smiling a little when he says that, William thinks, but there's no way to be sure if that's what he meant. Ryan's voice doesn't show much emotion beyond “deathly bored” most of the time. “I've already heard all the bitching. Maybe, to, I don't know, circumvent Armageddon, or at least some heavy singing of the carpets and your eyebrows, you should get some coffee made before he gets here. It's going to be a long day.”
Ryan really does give a shy smile then, and a wave, before following after the Alexes to the internal stairwell and up to Creative. Brendon is practically buoyant as he heads off to the break room and Mikey ambles in, headphones over his ears, completely ignoring his employees as he taps away at his cell phone.
William doesn't bother greeting him. Mikey may be one of The Big Bosses, but he lives in his own little world most of the time and can get kind of bitchy when pulled from it.
Pete slumps in not too long after, his clothes wrinkled to hell and shadows under his eyes. He slept over at Patrick's but he didn't get much sleep -”no, Billiam, it was not like that, wipe that smirk off your face.”- because his mother kept trying to call him and harass him about some official thing at Court that she wanted him to attend and in his sleep deprived state, he flung his cell phone against the wall,breaking it and effectively disabling the only alarm that can wake him on the rare occasions he does sleep.
“Patrick left early to have lunch with Ray and Joe and discuss metaphysical politics. He asked if I wanted to go, but politics are not my thing,” Pete tells him as he drapes himself over the desk and William's shoulder. Despite being third in line to inherit the Demi-Fae throne in this country (he seriously hopes none of his cousins ever kicks the bucket.), and despite how much he loves Joe and Ray normally (two very laid back guys. Which is a surprise, seeing as they serve as the voice of the Creator), he wasn't up for the Metatrons' intense morning debate. They're good guys, fun to hang out with, but he can't handle politics when he's wide a wake and he has to, he's not even going to try in the morning after no sleep; he'd fall asleep face first in his hash browns and probably burn his face. “And that would be fuckin' tragic. Long story short, I overslept."
After Pete tears himself out of William's personal space and heads up to the executive offices, it's just William and Bob again. Bob is absorbed in his book, but William is bored.
“So. What's your mom supposed to bring today? More muffins?”
Bob's eyes squint in a glare at William, who just smiles as charmingly as possible. Bob rubs the bridge of his nose. He can feel the headache already.
“No. Chocolate pie, I think.”
***
Brendon is in the break room, brewing the hazelnut espresso roast that Spencer swoons over, when Spencer steps off the elevator and into the main lobby. William smiles at Spencer wide and appraising because, well, Spencer is beautiful, and there's not a single employee in the building who doesn't appreciate that fact. They'd never act on it; William because he has a man, thank you very much, and the rest of the company because, honestly? Spencer can be a little... intimidating. Those are not William's words, because, yes, this morning Spencer is grumpy, but William is frightened of no man. Or beast. Or whatever genetics Spencer can claim. No one's sure exactly, but that's totally not the point.
Brendon walks through just as Spencer's face turns from gruff to pout and he leans heavily on William's desk, cheek pressed to the cool counter top. Brendon is balancing three mugs of dark coffee in his hands and Spencer is eyeing all of them in predatory manner. It's fuckin' creepy. Until he starts to pout again. And that's... strangely attractive. Or would be, if William didn't know about the sharp snark behind Spencer's full lips or the bitch-face his pretty features were capable of.
"William. Why does The Creator hate me? I mean, really? Did I kick puppies in a past life? Did I blaspheme sacred ground?" Spencer makes grabby hands at the coffee as Brendon carefully sets all three down on the desk. William is amazed none of the china is shattered, let alone chipped. Brendon is not known for his ability to move smoothly.
"I would totally blaspheme sacred ground," William says, ignoring the tense set of Brendon's shoulders while tapping his chin in serious contemplation. "Just not with Demon smut. Maybe sexings. Lots and lots of sexings. Blasphemy is sexy in the right hands."
Brendon silently nudges the coffee cup into Spencer's flexing fingers and his eyebrows scrunch up. He coughs once, twice, three times in the back of his throat. Spencer is unresponsive, eyes closed and fingers twitching around the warm china mug. William is pretty sure he's whispering sweet nothings to the dark roast.
Brendon looks at William helplessly over Spencer's head where it rests heavy on the desk, but Bill shakes his head. Brendon is on his own and he knows it. He coughs again, one hand fidgeting with the mic on his headset, the other placed tentatively on Spencer's back in a comforting manner, while little clouds of gold and red skim the air around him.
Uh oh. William edges his chair back from his desk a bit as he pats Spencer's arm quickly before withdrawing his own hand. This is apparently not good news and Spencer is already not in a good mood, though the coffee and cuddles help. William may live a little dangerously, but he doesn't have a death wish or particularly relish the thought of losing a limb.
"Hey Spence. Um. I got a call from Patrick a few minutes ago. Whenever you get a minute, He and Mikey need to talk to you."
Spencer just nods absently, completely absorbed in the Cup of Life in his hands, nose twitching. "Just. I'll savor my coffee for a few minutes, maybe grab a muffin from the break room-Bob's mom's muffins are still in there, right? From yesterday?-and then I'll head up there." He sneezes, short and sharp. Bill rolls his eyes. Spencer is totally allergic to Brendon's pixie dust.
"Um." Brendon fidgets with the ear piece of his headset. "You uh, may want to wait on the muffin. They said it was Extremely Important Business. Also, I think Frank ate the last of them last night after you left."
Spencer sneezes again and glares at Brendon over the rim of his cup. If he looks with just the corner of his vision, he can see the air around Brendon sparkling. "What do you know about this surprise meeting that you aren't telling me Brendon?"
"I. Uh. Nothing, Spencer. I swear. All I know is that Patrick called and said it was important and for you to go up there as soon as you could. Nobody tells me anything around here."
"That's because you can't keep your mouth shut to save your life." William is studying his coffee intently. He's not allergic to Brendon's pixie dust the way Spencer is, but he's not sure how well his body would react to ingesting it.
"And you're a very, very bad liar." Spencer sneezes again. It's apparently the last straw."Ok, Fuck this. I'm going now. Brendon, when I get back, I expect my revised schedule on my desk and you to have calmed down enough that you're not throwing off pixie dust all over the place. Seriously." Spencer storms in the direction of the staircase that will take him up to Patrick's and Mikey's office, leaving his briefcase on William’s desk and his coffee balanced precariously on the wooden ledge.
"Well." William says brightly. "That was fun."
Brendon glares at him before swishing back to the offices.
William really loves his job.
***
Patrick and Mikey are a study of contrasts. They are mutual heads of a small but successful company, but that's where their similarities stop. Where Patrick is the business acumen and the Midas touch- a tiny guy with rounded edges (and a short temper with a shorter fuse and a mean right hook, as Pete has found out on several occasions.) Mikey is the connections and networking master-tall and lean, with sharp corners and a surprising gentle demeanor. Both are smart to the point of being deadly.
(It's rumored that Mikey may have had something to do with the advent of nuclear warfare, but no one is saying where the rumor started or why. Patrick, well, they've seen him kick Gabe in the chest. Right in the sternum, actually.
It was the last time Gabe ever accused Patrick of having a Napoleon complex and the last time Patrick worked individually with a client.)
Spencer is pretty convinced that they're evil geniuses bent on either, A) world domination, or B) making Spencer's life hell. If, you know, Hell actually existed within the bounds of now-archaic Christianity.
(It's a bar in Vegas on Fremont, incidentally. The seedy end. Not such a bad place all around. The sound system is crap and the beer is a tad warm, but Dean, the bartender? Makes a mean martini.)
Right now, it's looking like option B.
Pete is sprawled on the floor by Patrick's desk, transcribing notes from paper to a laptop, his bare heels kicking in the air. Patrick smiles weakly at Spencer and motions for him to sit down. Mikey raises an eyebrow over his glasses, but otherwise doesn't look away from his own laptop.
"I think I'll stand, but thank you, Patrick. What's up?" Brendon's behavior has made Spencer wary. That's probably a good thing, because, despite his casually spastic nature, Brendon is good at knowing how people will react to things - it's one of the myriad reasons he's more than indispensable to Spencer - and if he was that stressed by telling Spencer that The Bosses wanted to speak to him, then there is something going on.
Patrick heaves a sigh and pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'll get right to the point. We have a high profile event to organize and you were specifically requested. The time frame is not ideal, not enough time for most people to pull together something of this magnitude, but our client has faith in you, and you know we never doubt your ability."
"So far, I don't see why it's such a big deal that you couldn't email me the specs or what have you. There's some cloak and dagger shit going on here, Patrick, and I'm not exactly having a good day. Can you get to the point?" Spencer doesn't mean to be short with his boss, but it's ten a.m., and it feels like midnight in his bones.
"Andy wants to host a charity ball for the Fae Changeling Adoption Association. Two-hundred-plus guests, upper ranks of Other-celebrity and dignitary circles. Themed black tie gala, with live music, exotic cuisine, and a great deal of alcohol. In two months time. He specifically asked for you, Spencer." Mikey's eyes never leave his computer screen as he talks. It would be scary, but after working for them for so long, Spencer’s used to it. Sort of.
Mikey may not talk a whole lot when it comes to the day to day running of the company itself, but he has a blunt demeanor under his distant charm that always throws Spencer off. Today, however, Spencer is Not In The Mood.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Sadly, no. Normally, we'd pass on something this large at such short notice, but. It's Andy and this is probably the most high-profile event we've ever been asked to throw together. Ever." Patrick's tone is placating, but Spencer knows better.
"I would really love nothing more that to do this, but I just. I can't. I'm in the middle of Greta's new album release and the promotion for that, as well as Ivy League's movie project. And don't get me started on Gabe's book. I really can't. I'm flattered that you think I'm capable, but I'm going to have to decline."
Pete looks up from his spot on the floor and smiles sharp and painfully at Spencer. "How is the lovely Miss Salpeter, Spence? I heard you've been working day and night trying to get things perfect and to work out the kinks." He leers at Spencer over the monitor of his laptop and Spencer just barely resists the urge to kick him in his teeth. Instead he pulls his best bitch-face and smiles right back.
"Why are you even here, Pete? Shouldn't you be off in one of the other departments sexually harassing the employees and generally disrupting the day's work?"
"He's here to take notes," Patrick tells him, though the sentence lilts up at the end, more like a question than a statement of Pete's work duties. Mikey snorts and looks from Patrick to Pete and back over the his lenses before going back to his screen, his eyes blinking rapidly as if the change of focus were painful.
"Except that his notes, when he bothers to even take them, are cryptic and illegible, with rambling misspelled junior high poetry in the margins that even a twelve year old Gerard would be ashamed of. Sometimes flowers."
Pete flips Mikey off and turns back to Spencer. "I am here because I am an important member of this company, thank you very much. Back to the matter at hand. Andy-from-The-Hunt, whose mother scares the bejeezus out of even Artemis, specifically requested you. I don't know how he got it into his head that you were The Man for the job, but he will take nothing less, and really, you should be more than flattered; you should be groveling, thanking your bosses for the opportunity to work on this."
Spencer's mouth drops open and he's preparing a retort when Patrick shakes his head at him. "Normally, I'd say ignore him. And you can ignore a good half of that, Spencer, but really? We need you to do this. Andy is an important client. As part owner in this company, I'm saying you don't have a choice in the matter."
He hands Spencer the portfolio for the account. He doesn't appear any happier about than Spencer does. Spencer takes it, mentally reminding himself to swing by Ryan's office in creative to bitch about how his life sucks.
Pete smirks at him like the cat that ate the canary.
Spencer barely restrains himself from punching him on his way out the door.
He doesn't do it, but it's a close thing.
***
The spicy-sweet smell of orchids and smoke fills the twenty-fourth floor and Brendon cringes.
He's not so sure anyone else smells it, but he knows it means one of two things: Spencer Smith has just returned from the gym and forgotten to shower or he's pissed. Since Spencer hasn't left the building all day, Brendon is leaning towards the latter. The smell isn't unpleasant, just strong. And Brendon knows that it means he should probably hide somewhere, because when Spencer is angry, this vein bulges out at his temple and his eyes get very squinty and it really sort of makes Brendon want to giggle uncontrollably.
Spencer does not usually appreciate his mirth.
Brendon doesn't have time to hide, however, because Spencer is out of the elevator and stomping through the office with Ryan at his heels. Ryan doesn't even work in this department. He's two floors up in Creative with Syn and Zacky and The Alexes and their fabric swatches, Photoshop and large-format printers.
Not that Brendon cares that Ryan is attached at the hip to his boss and following him through the wrong floor. But Ryan makes Brendon nervous in a way that has nothing to do with him being frightening and everything to do with the amount of Pretty that makes up his being. Or maybe it's because he kind of glows sometimes. His mother is an Angel, Cherubim or Erelim or some combination thereof, keepers of knowledge or something, and unless they are very careful, they kind of radiate with all that heavenly knowledge and light and it can be kind of blinding.
Ryan's not wholly Angelic though, or else he'd probably have joined one of the Choirs by now. He could, Brendon knows, but he identifies more with the Brownie half of his blood. Unlike most angels, he really doesn't radiate Light, but he does tend to shine if he's not careful or his emotions are running high. It's really very distracting for Brendon, especially when he has work to be done, because, hey, he's part Pixie; they like and are easily distracted by things that sparkle and shine. That's his excuse and he's sticking to it.
Spencer barricades himself in his office with Ryan and Brendon slumps to his desk, thankful that Spencer's black mood won't be taken out on him. Spencer is usually pretty good about not shifting all the blame for the eight million things that go wrong in a day on Brendon, but when he's this high strung, it happens.
Ryan pokes his head out of the office and Brendon sits up a bit straighter. Not for any particular reason, just. Well, Ryan.
"Brendon. Dude. DEF CON three. Get your ass in here. And bring coffee. And something to take notes with. Spencer is freaking out and while it's kind of hilarious, it's my job as his best friend, and your job as his assistant, to placate him. Hop-to." Ryan's teeth flash quickly beneath his ridiculous hat and the door shuts.
Brendon slumps back down in his chair and sighs.
"There goes that idea," he tells no one in particular.
***
Brendon, Spencer decides, is a gift from The Creator. The kid has a way with coffee that, if he's honest with himself, makes Spencer a little weak in the knees.
He's nursing his third cup since his meeting with Patrick and Mikey. It's done little to calm him, but at least he has a reason for his leg to be jittering now. Brendon and Ryan had sat calmly while Spencer paced around the room, attempting to calm him down and stroking his ego while he ranted about all the reasons the charity ball was a bad idea and why he shouldn't be the one to organize it (and then fleeing as soon as they could possibly manage it ). Most of which, he realizes somewhat belatedly, circle around dealing with all the courts and important people in Other society.
It's not that he has anything against them, per-say. He spent the first 15 years of his life in the Fae court and among the strongholds of Other elite when it was still hidden. He left and got used to the anonymity of the human world before The Shift and he really likes his privacy. There is no such thing among Others. It's why so few people know of his ancestry. He has very little that he's able to keep to himself, and his kind, as pure as he is, is so rare that it's almost too easy. He's gotten spoiled by it.
He's not looking forward to having to deal with the upper echelons of his kind; people who may recognize him as the awkward child he was before his parents death and while he lived with his grandmother the few years after. The more he thinks about it, the more it reeks of someone plotting against his comfort, and there's only one person who would go to such lengths to get him to socialize in such a way.
Spencer digs his cellphone out of his breast pocket, thanking every deity he's personally acquainted with that he had the common sense to have his doors warded against eavesdropping. William is a shameless gossip, and Ryan and Brendon are really not much better.
"Spencer, muirn! It has been forever since I've heard from you, dear." His grandmother picks up on the first ring, her voice lyrical and chiding and she doesn't sound at all surprised to hear from him. Go figure.
"Hello, Ree. Didn't I have lunch with you on Sunday?"
"Well, yes. But it feels like ages. What have you been doing since? Is Ryan taking care of you? Tell him I'll send The Washer after his silk scarves if he doesn't." Spencer rolls his eyes. Empty threat, that.
"Ryan is taking care of the things he needs to, Ree. And you are The Washer, so I doubt he'll take it as threat to any thing other than the possible ruin of his Hermes collection. What do you know about a charity ball for orphaned changelings, Ree?"
"Hm? What's that? Oh! I haven't heard a thing about a ball, muirn. It's a fabulous idea, though, those poor babes. They need all the help they can get; the orphanages are nigh to overflowing."
Spencer is not fooled in the least by her blithe attitude. "Right. Because I was just wheedled into organizing the aforementioned event for Andy. He apparently specifically requested that only the company’s best handle it and that he had heard I was the best. Would The Morrigan have maybe had something to do with any of that? Because it sounds just like her sort of meddling."
"Well I never! Spencer, I am shocked and appalled. Would I do something like that to you?" Spencer snorts and she drops her innocent pretenses so quickly, Spencer almost hears them hitting the floor. "Okay, okay. Look, the ball was Andy's idea. It's one of his pet charities. He maybe asked my advice on who should organize it and I may have mentioned Arcadian Rhythm. But Spencer, honey! You guys deserve the business."
"Ree..."
"Ugh. You're not any fun anymore, you know that? I might have told Andy you were their best representation, but I swear, I swear on the Chalice of Danu, that I didn't tell him who you were or our relation. And don't roll your eyes at me, young man. And don't deny it, either. I practically raised you; I think I know an eye roll when it’s happening."
Spencer lets his head hit the desk with a thump. "Ree. Do you know how much hell this is going to be for me? I mean. The fucking vanity I'm going to have to cater to?"
"Oh hush, Spence. You love your job and you deal with vainglorious people all day long. You enjoy knocking them down a few pegs. I just want you to have fun while you're doing it. It's a ball, Spencer. Pretty clothes, pretty people, music, dancing. And you enjoy the meticulous planning." Spencer knows that on the other end of the line, Morrigan is gesticulating wildly, probably sneering. Most definitely laughing at him on the inside.
"You know, sometimes I wonder why I was saddled with a meddlesome, crazy old bat of a goddess for a grandmother. What did I do in a past life for you to torture me, Ree? Did I kill a sprite or something?"
"I will have you know that I was told yesterday I don't look a day over two-hundred, mister, so nix your 'crazy old bat' talk. And you love my meddling ways. You just aren't aware." A sigh slips through the ear piece and Spencer rubs his temples, willing the migraine to stay away. "Look at it this way. This is a chance for you to reacquaint yourself with your life, your history. No grandson of The Morrigan was ever going to be able to hide forever. I know it hurts because that was your parent's life, muirn, but it's your life as well and you should just get used to it."
"I don't believe your 'muirn'. How can I be your 'darling' when you're killing me, Ree? Those people, they just let them fade. I don't really want anything to do with them." His resentment at The Morrigan for involving him is dwindling, replaced by sheer weariness. This is an argument they've had for the past hundred years. Longer, actually; since his parents died when he was 10. It's more than a little old, and he's more than a little tired of fighting.
"Spencer, there was nothing they could do. Your father was sick. It's why your father's kind started mingling with the other races to begin with. Your mother just didn't have it in her to live without him. That's nobody's fault, not theirs or anyone else's." Her tone is gentle, caressing in a way most people wouldn't associate with a goddess who chose those that would die in battle.
"They could have helped her see, Ree." It's a lame argument and he knows it. He pictures his grandmother, across the ocean, shaking her head and letting the matter drop for now.
The line is quiet for a few beats before she changes the subject entirely.
"So this ball. I'm on the guest list, right?"
Spencer smiles at her predictable question. "Yes, Ree. V.I.P. and everything. It would cause a scandal among The Courts if you weren't. Besides, we have to have someone there that can outshine the Fae with out their cheating Glamor."
The Morrigan's laugh is high and tinkling. "Flattery will get you everything my dear, but you know that. I have to run though. I'm going with Persephone to get a pedicure and our appointment is in twenty minutes."
"Alright. Your invitation will be in the mail soon, Ree. Love you."
"It had better be, muirn. I love you, too, Spencer. I only want you happy, Ok? OH! And while I'm on the subject..."
"Yes?"
"Find a date. I hear Jonny Walker is still single."
Before Spencer can come up with the appropriate retort the phone clicks off.
"Meddling old bat."
Continued here
Pairing(s): Spencer/Greta/Jon, Brendon/Ryan, various background pairings
Word Count:
Rating/Warnings: R-ish. / This calls for a lot of suspension of disbelief, but it's AU, so that's to be expected I suppose, at least up to a point.
Author Notes: My entire f-list for telling me to keep trying when my first fic killed itself. My sophiekins ( imconfusedotcom ) for fueling some of the crackier moments in addition to reading through this for me from early on; and my katiebug and ohhemmgiaa , spleenjournal (who was reading as i was working and is an awesome cheerleader.)and fallingfortruth for their input and letting me ramble at them while the plot worked itself out in my head and the characters took over. Many more thanks go to stickyxoxo for keeping me on task, for helping me through the kinks and blocks, for looking it over for me when the technical difficulties reached a peak and for just generally being an awesome drill sargeant with no qualms about kicking my ass into gear.
You have no idea how much I appreciate all of you.
Summary: In 1969, the world turned on it's end when it rained Guinness in Times Square. As a result, the creatures of myth and legend have come out of the woodwork and live and work among the humans. Spencer Smith is one such creature. He works for a public relations firm that caters to Others. Sure, he works a nine-to-five job catering to other people, but that doesn't mean his life is normal by any stretch of the imagination, especially when he has to organize the largest event his company has ever been handed and becomes involved in romantic entanglements with his close friend Jon, and his long time client Greta. William's office gossip and Spencer's allergy to the pixie dust his assistant Brendon constantly sheds in the presence of his best friend probably don't help matters much.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanmix by xbedknobs
William is not a morning person.
It would probably be pretty clear by the way he stumbles in bleary eyed at seven am, except there is no one around to see it. Arcadian Rhythm Promotions, LLC. is not yet open for the day's business. That doesn't mean, however, that there isn't work to be done yet.
On his less-than-sane days, William recalls getting the job with fondness. He had been modeling at the time, and badly. For all his fire and picture-perfect pout, he does not take direction well, much preferring to do his own thing. So while he should have been making big money, he was struggling on the bottom rung with models less-pretty and less-talented than himself. And that’s how Patrick found him, in a roundabout way.
William isn’t quite sure what year it was. Even now, he's sometimes not sure what year he's living in. Seriously, details. He does know it was sometime in the seventies, because he was in a disco and there was an alarming prevalence of polyester, but other than that he's not overly sure. He'd charmed his way into the elitist club using his good looks and a pout, but it wasn't getting him his Jack Daniels. The muscle-bound bartender wasn't all that impressed, so he turned up the charm. Turned on The Voice.
An hour later he was swimming in a sea of amber liquor and a man approximately half his height with dark-framed glasses was tapping his shoulder. William eyed the little guy warily. He didn't look like he was old enough to even be in the club. He also had earplugs shoved into his ears (William couldn't blame him. the music was atrocious), which were reddening under William's Scrutiny.
"You're a Siren? Or is the bartender a, um, a friend of yours?"
William snorted and patted him on top of his ugly cap. "Not quite, wee one. I wouldn't be friends with that hulk of dumb if he paid me to. Half Siren. Mom's side. Why, you a cop? 'M not aware that it's illegal to seduce drinks from the house, and if it is, well. You're welcome to cuff me?"
The little man made a face. "No, I'm not a cop. I'm Patrick. I'm here with a friend. We're... doing some celebrating of sorts? We finally got our company started and it's something of a big deal for us."
"That's nice and all, but what does this have to do with me?" He threw back another shot while the kid eyed him speculatively for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.
"Well. We need a receptionist. but specifically one with your, er, unique ability. We're a public relations and promotions company catering to those that are Other. It's never been done before. Your Voice on our end of a phone line would probably save us a lot of grief. And ya know, if we did hire you, you'd have a pretty cushy job and occasionally be able to be in the public eye, should we need to control a situation in public."
William’s eyebrows shot up. Oh yeah. Negotiation and persuasion. Little guy's a leprechaun, or at least related to them, and if that's the case, he could have been five hundred if he was day; William has a sixth sense about these things. Leprechauns also smell like money, literally. It wafts off of Patrick, dry and smelling faintly of paper. (William may be part Siren, but what other blood he can claim, he doesn't know. The knowing Others' by scent is a trait shared pretty exclusively among the Fae, and predominantly by the branches that boast tinier stature than William has ever been able to claim.) They are also excellent businessmen, and even as tipsy as he totally wasn't, he knew getting in on something like this on the ground floor was a golden ticket.
He smiled beatifically at Patrick and threw an arm around his shoulder.
Lead me to your partner, little man, and let’s discuss benefits, shall we?"
So, William may despise the ass crack of dawn, but Patrick and his partner, thin, lanky Elf Mikey Way, hadn't let him down. The company was small, but incredibly detail oriented and all inclusive towards a clients needs. Though they did insist, however, that William only use his talents in relation to work matters while on the clock, and only as would benefit the company--legally. Which, ya know, lame,but he could totally deal. His public presence at press conferences and as the Voice of the company (Not the face, sadly. That was all Spencer. Lucky bastard.) was a major perk. He was recognized and generally loved.
He really couldn't ask for a better job. He's got the inside scoop on album releases, parties, and club happenings. It helps that all the juiciest gossip is a phone call or doorway away and he doesn't have to do more than answer phones most of the time. The dress code is pretty lax, and he enjoys the company of the other employees; not a bad gig, all around.
But getting into the office at Fuck-You a.m. to check the messages from overnight, that was just, not.
He settles at the imposing desk in the foyer and keys up the message database. Most Others don't keep daylight hours like much of the staff at Arcadian Rhythm, preferring twilight or late night to the harsh light of day. There are 30 messages of varying format that have come in through out the night, one of which is marked urgent. With a few clicks he's got it open and is skimming over the address. He does a slight double take before he forwards it to Patrick and Mikey, and Pete, by default (who William is pretty sure is just there to harass Patrick and doesn't actually do any of the assisting he was technically hired for).
Someone is going to be kicking themselves later this morning. William hopes it's before lunch, so he won't miss the fireworks. Maybe he can scrounge up some popcorn before the show starts.
***
William is sitting at the front desk, his feet propped up on the bleached birch desktop, staring Brendon down as he enters the twenty-third floor; a purposeful, if slightly maniacal, glint in his eyes. Before Brendon even hands William the coffee he brings for him every morning, William is leaning across the desk and beckoning him forward.
"So.” William leans into Brendon's face but doesn't lower his voice. “Andy's coming to New York. And wants to host a huge charity ball for orphans or some shit."
Brendon checks his watch. "It's seven-thirty, Bill. How do you know this? There's no one here for you to eaves-drop on." William is a slippery fountain of information, all lean lines and sharp smiles and charm. And that's without The Voice, with which he could surely charm the panties off The Morrigan's virgin acolytes. Although, to hear Gabe tell it, they don't wear any.
Not the point.
The point is William's Voice is a very dangerous weapon, something the firm uses with caution and guards like the gold in Fort Knox, but against misuse, not theft. It's also for William's own safety. More than once Bob has had to be there to keep away angry husbands and wives. (They once almost shut down because of a lawsuit involving William, his voice, a telephone and the pretty Undine wife of a Redcap. This is how Brendon found out that Redcap's caps are dyed everyday. With fresh blood. He hadn't known there were that many dirty insults in Scots-Gaelic, either.)
Speaking of which, "And where is Bob?"
William waves his hand in vague gesture of dismissal, sipping at the coffee Brendon picked up on his way to the office. ”You know he isn’t my guard, right?”
Brendon just shrugs sort of noncommittaly. Bob is totally William’s guard, regardless of his dellusions.
"I don't need a keeper, little Brendon. But since you ask, The Fairy Guard-Father is running late today. Probably on the off-chance that his mother will put in an appearance. And I'm not going to be late because he's avoiding her and her amazing snicker-doodles. This is not the important part of our conversation.” William studies him pointedly. “I know Andy is coming because I had to get the messages left over the night. I promise I haven't been using my powers for evil today. But it's early, yet. And I have a lunch date with Travie..." William's gaze goes thoughtful.
Brendon nods, only half paying attention because it's early and he isn't even halfway into his coffee, and he really doesn't want to hear about William and Travis' lunch dates. Really. He's one of the reasons why William refused to have the calls that come in outside of business hours forwarded to his cell and interrupt his down time. Or rather, as William puts it, Play Time.
"So Andy, huh?" William nods as Brendon climbs up onto the desk to sit by William's feet and sips his latte. Spencer won't be in until eight or so, and he doesn't have any work that can't be rushed through about five minutes before that; he has time to kill. "Andy who? The only Andy I can think of is..." He's stalling. His brain is still fuzzy from sleep, his blood still singing from dreams he barely remembers.
"Andy-from-The-Hunt-Andy, Brendon. There is no other Andy with which we need to concern ourselves."
"Sorry. OK. So Andy-From-The-Hunt wants to host a charity ball?" His brain is only half working, but he knows about Andy, they all do. Andy is High-Court and therefore High-Magic. He's the Court's ambassador to the rest of the world. Brendon's brain usually gets stuck on the fact that he's a member of The Wild Hunt, because Andy is a pacifist vegan, and that just doesn’t gel.
The Hunt is mostly a group of diplomats and ambassadors now-a-days, but there was a time when they were feared. Andy himself is still kind of frightening, if only because his mom is Tisophone, one of The Furies, and they are the things that nightmares are made of. It makes Andy a ruthless politician, though. And a fair one, something that is rare among the Fae and even rarer at Court.
"Yes. The message mentioned something about grand plans and fancy clothes and bringing in all of the Other Courts and every celebrity we have on roster. There was also something about tracking down The Morrigan and as many members of the Pantheons as we can." William gives a pained expression, long fingers flying to tangle in his hair and cover his eyes.
"Brendon, it's going to be a nightmare. All that ego in one room. And where are we even going to find somewhere to hold this shindig if we get representatives from all the Pantheons and every Court? I can't think of a venue short of the Gardens that will hold half the Others Andy wants in on this. I feel really sorry for whoever has to organize it all once it's brought to Patrick and Mikey, even though it will be huge for the company. There's no way that many pompous celebrities, aristocrats and deities can be confined to one building and it NOT end up in some sort of hugely horrific conflict that leads to magickal fall-out."
Brendon swings his feet with a small smirk and an eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses, the scuffed heel of his shoe bumping against the drawer handles. He's waking up, slowly, body scrambling to metabolize the sugary coffee. At least he's not vibrating in place yet.
"Dude. I dunno. I'd pay big money to see The Morrigan and Artemis in the same room with some of the Vamps. The sheer amount of preening, man. Though, um, we may have to watch the number of mortals, if we allow any. Because, really? That much glamor going down -and you know the Fae courts won't settle for cosmetics. They'll have their illusions on full blast-any humans in a fifty mile radius of the tri-state area would get Elf-struck. It will be a security nightmare for whoever gets stuck with it."
William gives a thoughtful nod, but there's mischief shining in his eyes. "Patrick would insist on only our best representation, though. Mikey most certainly will demand nothing less."
"Well, yeah. And they'd have to pull out every resource they have at their disposal to even have any sort of chance of pulling it off."
William's left eyebrow shoots up. "It would have to be our most connected rep to pull it all together. There are only so many people on the planet that could swing it."
Brendon is squinting into his coffee as he thinks. "Shads could maybe do it, but that would put Syn and Zacky in charge of the creative design by default..."
"And it would maybe look like a bondage ball for the Hell's Angels. No. Patrick and Mikey wouldn't risk that kind of embarrassment. Not that the Fae would mind a bondage ball, per-say, but. Benefit, Brendon. For orphans." And Brendon doesn't like the look on William's face. It's the one he gets when he's waiting for someone to catch up to his train of thought. William is sneaky-smart, but likes to watch other people fumble in the dark, figuring things out for themselves, probably giggling inwardly at their efforts.
As far as Brendon is concerned, this a huge character flaw.
"Lyn maybe? She could totally swing it, probably sweet talk Gerard into doing the theme and planning the decor. It would be a rockin' party, but if Andy wants something besides that, maybe classier, less reformed punk-rock-D&D-geek, then he'd have to pick someone more restrained. At the same time, this is a charity event for Others, so, it's got to be different, not just black tie..."
"And who do you think they'd pick for something requiring elegance and taste, and yet unique and memorable enough to make people want to empty their pockets for the homeless little changelings?" William's grin is decidedly evil.
"Oh, fuck." Brendon's eyes widen as realization dawns. Williams evil smirk grows brighter. "Spencer. Fuck. Dude, he's gonna be so pissed. He hates dealing with the courts and even more-so the Pantheons. William. Switch me jobs? He's going to make my life hell. If, ya know, there were an actual 'Hell'. Please?"
"What's in it for me?"
Brendon thinks about it for a minute before he grins and his eyes get big, the kind of glassy sheen to them that William generally associates with the less-then-sane. Some times he worries about Brendon. "The One Ring. Imagine the power, Bill. I've got the hookup with Frodo, man. You wouldn't be corrupted by it, because of your natural tendency towards evil. The work's already done. You'd use it for your own pleasure, probably literally .You could have all the pretty people in New York begging for your attentions. Also, It changes size to fit the wearer, so you could probably use it as a cock ring and-"
William can't help but laugh. "No way. Not for all the hearts in Manhattan, Bren. Not even if Frodo did exist outside of fiction. Firstly, I am in a devoted relationship. Secondly, you're his assistant; you get paid the big bucks to deal with his bitchiness. Besides. I think he's kind of fond of you. He hasn't tried to kill you yet, has he?" For all that William's words should be comforting, Brendon has the suspicion he's laughing at him on the inside. Brendon suspects this to be one of William's favorite past-times. Another huge character flaw in Brendon's books.
"He wouldn't try to kill me. He'd send Ryan to do his dirty work for him. Spencer kind of dislikes getting his hands dirty, both literally and figuratively. He's all about underlings, man."
"Really? I don't think Ryan could hurt a firefly. What would he use, his scathing wit?" William's eye-roll is almost audible.
"With his mind, Bill. With his mind. I think he may be a Jedi in addition to part Cherubim or whatever Angel he is. He could make my brain explode using The Force." Brendon doesn't miss a beat with his reply and wide eyes. He does, however, jump when his phone starts ringing the Imperial March in his pocket, scattering a thin cloud of fine gold dust.
William looks at him pointedly. "I think I'm going to have a talk with Smith about letting you spend your breaks watching old Star Wars DVDs with The Ways."
Brendon waves him off, jumping down from the high desktop and answering his cell on his way to his desk and Spencer's office.
***
Spencer Smith is normally a very restrained kind of guy. He gets things done and is generally gentlemanly, and polite; maybe a little straight-laced, but he's able to go with the flow when necessary.
It is not, however, necessary for him to go with the flow and be a gentleman when stuck on the Jersey turnpike. In dead-stop traffic. At seven-fifty AM. On a Monday. Especially when he's in this situation because Gabe wanted a breakfast meeting to go over (read: re-write) the press release for his new book.
("Gabe. You can't just change the term 'The Shift' to whatever you want it to be.
"Why the fuck not? I'm responsible for it. I should get to name it. And 'The Shift' isn't even accurate. Nothing shifted. We outed ourselves." Gabe is being a petulant ass; more of an eight-year old human than the millennia-old deity he is. He's hunched in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and a fluorescent hood pulled over his head.
Spencer's patience is pretty thin. It's ass-o'clock in the morning and he's driven into the depths of Jersey hell [Gerard would kill him if he heard him call it that, and then use his blood for ink in his next gallery show] to talk this over with Gabe in his own territory, which is apparently a dive of a diner in a bad neighborhood.
Spencer is pretty sure he's going to have to burn this suit.
"You were only partially responsible for “The Outing” -and don't even think about using that as the term. Travis and Katie were just as much at fault-"
"Leave the poor Virtue out of this. Not her fault Angelic beings can't hold their liquor and she's got a taste for good whiskey. And Travis is with me."
Spencer snorts, disbelief rolling his eyes as he shuffles his papers. "They're not as easily led as you would have me believe. You remember that my best friend is Angel enough to have been asked to join the Choir, right? And Travis wants to call it 'The Drunkening' as well?"
"No. He's betting on 'The Barley Revolution'.")
Spencer hates working for The Dionysus (Plural. Though Travis is a hell of a lot more reasonable a client than Gabe has ever thought about being), but he sees how they're important in this day and age. He wouldn't have his job if not for their shenanigans back in '69. He'd be going into hiding and moving every ten years or so to hide his slow aging and he wouldn't have a high profile job with a company that caters to The Others like himself, or his half-Angel best friend, Ryan, or any of the Fae (Though, if he's honest, he could do without a great deal of the Fae. Their vanity drives him insane. Which is probably hypocritical, as he's got Fae blood, of sorts, among other things).
He should really be thanking Gabe and Travis (and Katie, who he knows isn't as blameless as everyone passes her off to be.) but he can't bring himself to do it when he has to put up with the whining. It's little comfort that he gets paid to do so.
Spencer catches a whiff of melting rubber through his window and sighs in defeat. Even his subconscious is working against him today. He speed-dials Brendon's cell. There's no way he's at his desk yet and not still gossiping at the front desk with William. Normally he would hum along to the Hall & Oates that's repeating on his end as the phone rings, but he's seriously not in the mood.
Brendon answers promptly. (If seven rings is considered prompt, and really, for Brendon? It is.)
"Hey Brendon. I need you to bump down my appointments by like an hour. I'm in standstill traffic on The Pike and my twenty minute drive will probably take an hour." He can hear Brendon's footsteps as he's making his way to his desk outside of Spencer's office.
"OK, but I don't think Alex and Ryland can reschedule the lunch meeting, you might not be able to change that one. I'll check, just in case. Other than that, there's only your meeting at three with Greta about the album promotion as far as client meetings that can't be put off. You are supposed to call Jon about the shoot, and go over the preliminary designs for Gabe's stuff with Gerard, but you know Gerard, you can just drop in on creative later."
Spencer's teeth clench involuntarily at the mention of Gabe and the burning rubber smell gets worse. If he were looking, he'd see the flames licking the tire of the car in front of him putter out once he calms down.
"Thank you. And Bren? Remind me to have the upholstery in the Jag cleaned."
***
Not long after Brendon scurries off to take care of Spencer's requests, Bob comes in. William may deny that the man is there for the safety of the company and sometimes William himself, but there's really no other explanation for why he hunkers down in the plush leather chair at the second computer on the lobby desk, dropping a thick book on the table with an audible thunk.
Before William can greet him, Bob's phone rings shrilly in his pocket
It's his mother.
William tries very hard not to roll his eyes as Bob grumbles into the phone that, yes, he's made it into work and no, he doesn't need anything today, mother, thanks.
Once he's off the phone, Bob shoots William a hard look. After working with Bob as long as he has, William knows the purse of his lips and inward tilt of his brows means he doesn't want to hear it. William just shrugs and turns back to his computer.
Frank bounds in as Bob is propping his feet up on the desk and leaning back in the chair, Gerard shuffling out of the elevator behind him.
Gerard is layered up, sunglasses obscuring his face and hiding in his coffee, which, William thinks, is almost as big as Brendon. Frank immediately climbs on the back of Bob's chair, causing it to teeter dangerously, and hooks his legs over his shoulders and proceeds to give him shit about his mom while Gerard slumps against the big desk.
“Hey, Bryar. Your mom still sending you to work with baked goods in the hopes of bribing you to take over the Fairy-God-Mother business?”
His mother wanting him to take over the family business is kind of a sore issue with Bob. He refuses to be anyone's Fairy God Father. The dress code alone would kill him. Pink is really kind of unflattering to Bob's skin tone. It's too early for him to want to move enough to knock Frank off his shoulders for bringing it up though, so he just picks up his book and grumbles into the crease between pages.
“Yes, but I didn't bring anything today, so you'll have to wait and see if she shows up on her own to get your pastry fix.”
William is a little surprised at the complete lack of violence this morning, but turns his attention away from the odd pair next to him.
“Morning, Gerard.” William greets him cheerily and Gerard grumbles a reply from within his cup. William asks him about his brother and his new pieces and the showing from the weekend before. Gerard answers in mumbles and grunts, but after working for the firm for so long, and knowing the Ways -at least casually- for about 50 years, he's pretty fluent in Pre-Coffee Gerard, so the conversation flows as if Gerard were completely cognizant of his surroundings, which he most definitely isn't.
While the conversation is occurring, people come through on their way to various parts of the offices, namely Lyn, the living Vamp who occupies the office across from Spencer. Gerard's face turns a bit red when she smiles in his direction and William can't hide his own as he waves her through. Frank greets her good morning from somewhere near the vicinity of Bob's head, but his eyes are all for Gerard when he winks at him and cocks his head in Lyn's wake with a lascivious smile. Gerard reaches across the desk and smacks him on the back of the head (with speed William wasn't sure Gerard could muster until after his sixth cup of caffeinated bliss) even as his face turns pinker. He turns and shuffles off in the direction of Creative, grumbling under his breath in what William suspects is broken Gaelic. Frank follows with a laugh and a low exaggerated bow in William and Bob's direction.
Ryan shows up next, looking for all the world like a very grumpy hobo with an epensive budget and a penchant for silk, damask and threadbare Egyptian cotton. He arches an eyebrow at William’s coffee as he sidles up to the desk and leans heavily on it.
”I take it Brendon's in already?”
The question is answered when Brendon comes in talking a mile a minute on a headset, presumably to a client, and deposits his empty coffee cup in the waste basket behind the desk. He clicks off with a cheery confirmation of a meeting time and smiles wide and bright at Ryan
"Spencer is going to be late, something about “goddamn lushes” and “burning tires” and “goddamn little old ladies in Cadillacs” and traffic on the Pike."
Ryan shakes his head at Brendon's exuberance as The Alexes meander past on the same path as Gerard, but William can see the edges of a smile fighting for control of his face; if not in the corners of his mouth, then definitely in his eyes.
“I know. I'm pretty sure he called me after he got off the phone with you, Brendon.” Ryan sounds like he's smiling a little when he says that, William thinks, but there's no way to be sure if that's what he meant. Ryan's voice doesn't show much emotion beyond “deathly bored” most of the time. “I've already heard all the bitching. Maybe, to, I don't know, circumvent Armageddon, or at least some heavy singing of the carpets and your eyebrows, you should get some coffee made before he gets here. It's going to be a long day.”
Ryan really does give a shy smile then, and a wave, before following after the Alexes to the internal stairwell and up to Creative. Brendon is practically buoyant as he heads off to the break room and Mikey ambles in, headphones over his ears, completely ignoring his employees as he taps away at his cell phone.
William doesn't bother greeting him. Mikey may be one of The Big Bosses, but he lives in his own little world most of the time and can get kind of bitchy when pulled from it.
Pete slumps in not too long after, his clothes wrinkled to hell and shadows under his eyes. He slept over at Patrick's but he didn't get much sleep -”no, Billiam, it was not like that, wipe that smirk off your face.”- because his mother kept trying to call him and harass him about some official thing at Court that she wanted him to attend and in his sleep deprived state, he flung his cell phone against the wall,breaking it and effectively disabling the only alarm that can wake him on the rare occasions he does sleep.
“Patrick left early to have lunch with Ray and Joe and discuss metaphysical politics. He asked if I wanted to go, but politics are not my thing,” Pete tells him as he drapes himself over the desk and William's shoulder. Despite being third in line to inherit the Demi-Fae throne in this country (he seriously hopes none of his cousins ever kicks the bucket.), and despite how much he loves Joe and Ray normally (two very laid back guys. Which is a surprise, seeing as they serve as the voice of the Creator), he wasn't up for the Metatrons' intense morning debate. They're good guys, fun to hang out with, but he can't handle politics when he's wide a wake and he has to, he's not even going to try in the morning after no sleep; he'd fall asleep face first in his hash browns and probably burn his face. “And that would be fuckin' tragic. Long story short, I overslept."
After Pete tears himself out of William's personal space and heads up to the executive offices, it's just William and Bob again. Bob is absorbed in his book, but William is bored.
“So. What's your mom supposed to bring today? More muffins?”
Bob's eyes squint in a glare at William, who just smiles as charmingly as possible. Bob rubs the bridge of his nose. He can feel the headache already.
“No. Chocolate pie, I think.”
***
Brendon is in the break room, brewing the hazelnut espresso roast that Spencer swoons over, when Spencer steps off the elevator and into the main lobby. William smiles at Spencer wide and appraising because, well, Spencer is beautiful, and there's not a single employee in the building who doesn't appreciate that fact. They'd never act on it; William because he has a man, thank you very much, and the rest of the company because, honestly? Spencer can be a little... intimidating. Those are not William's words, because, yes, this morning Spencer is grumpy, but William is frightened of no man. Or beast. Or whatever genetics Spencer can claim. No one's sure exactly, but that's totally not the point.
Brendon walks through just as Spencer's face turns from gruff to pout and he leans heavily on William's desk, cheek pressed to the cool counter top. Brendon is balancing three mugs of dark coffee in his hands and Spencer is eyeing all of them in predatory manner. It's fuckin' creepy. Until he starts to pout again. And that's... strangely attractive. Or would be, if William didn't know about the sharp snark behind Spencer's full lips or the bitch-face his pretty features were capable of.
"William. Why does The Creator hate me? I mean, really? Did I kick puppies in a past life? Did I blaspheme sacred ground?" Spencer makes grabby hands at the coffee as Brendon carefully sets all three down on the desk. William is amazed none of the china is shattered, let alone chipped. Brendon is not known for his ability to move smoothly.
"I would totally blaspheme sacred ground," William says, ignoring the tense set of Brendon's shoulders while tapping his chin in serious contemplation. "Just not with Demon smut. Maybe sexings. Lots and lots of sexings. Blasphemy is sexy in the right hands."
Brendon silently nudges the coffee cup into Spencer's flexing fingers and his eyebrows scrunch up. He coughs once, twice, three times in the back of his throat. Spencer is unresponsive, eyes closed and fingers twitching around the warm china mug. William is pretty sure he's whispering sweet nothings to the dark roast.
Brendon looks at William helplessly over Spencer's head where it rests heavy on the desk, but Bill shakes his head. Brendon is on his own and he knows it. He coughs again, one hand fidgeting with the mic on his headset, the other placed tentatively on Spencer's back in a comforting manner, while little clouds of gold and red skim the air around him.
Uh oh. William edges his chair back from his desk a bit as he pats Spencer's arm quickly before withdrawing his own hand. This is apparently not good news and Spencer is already not in a good mood, though the coffee and cuddles help. William may live a little dangerously, but he doesn't have a death wish or particularly relish the thought of losing a limb.
"Hey Spence. Um. I got a call from Patrick a few minutes ago. Whenever you get a minute, He and Mikey need to talk to you."
Spencer just nods absently, completely absorbed in the Cup of Life in his hands, nose twitching. "Just. I'll savor my coffee for a few minutes, maybe grab a muffin from the break room-Bob's mom's muffins are still in there, right? From yesterday?-and then I'll head up there." He sneezes, short and sharp. Bill rolls his eyes. Spencer is totally allergic to Brendon's pixie dust.
"Um." Brendon fidgets with the ear piece of his headset. "You uh, may want to wait on the muffin. They said it was Extremely Important Business. Also, I think Frank ate the last of them last night after you left."
Spencer sneezes again and glares at Brendon over the rim of his cup. If he looks with just the corner of his vision, he can see the air around Brendon sparkling. "What do you know about this surprise meeting that you aren't telling me Brendon?"
"I. Uh. Nothing, Spencer. I swear. All I know is that Patrick called and said it was important and for you to go up there as soon as you could. Nobody tells me anything around here."
"That's because you can't keep your mouth shut to save your life." William is studying his coffee intently. He's not allergic to Brendon's pixie dust the way Spencer is, but he's not sure how well his body would react to ingesting it.
"And you're a very, very bad liar." Spencer sneezes again. It's apparently the last straw."Ok, Fuck this. I'm going now. Brendon, when I get back, I expect my revised schedule on my desk and you to have calmed down enough that you're not throwing off pixie dust all over the place. Seriously." Spencer storms in the direction of the staircase that will take him up to Patrick's and Mikey's office, leaving his briefcase on William’s desk and his coffee balanced precariously on the wooden ledge.
"Well." William says brightly. "That was fun."
Brendon glares at him before swishing back to the offices.
William really loves his job.
***
Patrick and Mikey are a study of contrasts. They are mutual heads of a small but successful company, but that's where their similarities stop. Where Patrick is the business acumen and the Midas touch- a tiny guy with rounded edges (and a short temper with a shorter fuse and a mean right hook, as Pete has found out on several occasions.) Mikey is the connections and networking master-tall and lean, with sharp corners and a surprising gentle demeanor. Both are smart to the point of being deadly.
(It's rumored that Mikey may have had something to do with the advent of nuclear warfare, but no one is saying where the rumor started or why. Patrick, well, they've seen him kick Gabe in the chest. Right in the sternum, actually.
It was the last time Gabe ever accused Patrick of having a Napoleon complex and the last time Patrick worked individually with a client.)
Spencer is pretty convinced that they're evil geniuses bent on either, A) world domination, or B) making Spencer's life hell. If, you know, Hell actually existed within the bounds of now-archaic Christianity.
(It's a bar in Vegas on Fremont, incidentally. The seedy end. Not such a bad place all around. The sound system is crap and the beer is a tad warm, but Dean, the bartender? Makes a mean martini.)
Right now, it's looking like option B.
Pete is sprawled on the floor by Patrick's desk, transcribing notes from paper to a laptop, his bare heels kicking in the air. Patrick smiles weakly at Spencer and motions for him to sit down. Mikey raises an eyebrow over his glasses, but otherwise doesn't look away from his own laptop.
"I think I'll stand, but thank you, Patrick. What's up?" Brendon's behavior has made Spencer wary. That's probably a good thing, because, despite his casually spastic nature, Brendon is good at knowing how people will react to things - it's one of the myriad reasons he's more than indispensable to Spencer - and if he was that stressed by telling Spencer that The Bosses wanted to speak to him, then there is something going on.
Patrick heaves a sigh and pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'll get right to the point. We have a high profile event to organize and you were specifically requested. The time frame is not ideal, not enough time for most people to pull together something of this magnitude, but our client has faith in you, and you know we never doubt your ability."
"So far, I don't see why it's such a big deal that you couldn't email me the specs or what have you. There's some cloak and dagger shit going on here, Patrick, and I'm not exactly having a good day. Can you get to the point?" Spencer doesn't mean to be short with his boss, but it's ten a.m., and it feels like midnight in his bones.
"Andy wants to host a charity ball for the Fae Changeling Adoption Association. Two-hundred-plus guests, upper ranks of Other-celebrity and dignitary circles. Themed black tie gala, with live music, exotic cuisine, and a great deal of alcohol. In two months time. He specifically asked for you, Spencer." Mikey's eyes never leave his computer screen as he talks. It would be scary, but after working for them for so long, Spencer’s used to it. Sort of.
Mikey may not talk a whole lot when it comes to the day to day running of the company itself, but he has a blunt demeanor under his distant charm that always throws Spencer off. Today, however, Spencer is Not In The Mood.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Sadly, no. Normally, we'd pass on something this large at such short notice, but. It's Andy and this is probably the most high-profile event we've ever been asked to throw together. Ever." Patrick's tone is placating, but Spencer knows better.
"I would really love nothing more that to do this, but I just. I can't. I'm in the middle of Greta's new album release and the promotion for that, as well as Ivy League's movie project. And don't get me started on Gabe's book. I really can't. I'm flattered that you think I'm capable, but I'm going to have to decline."
Pete looks up from his spot on the floor and smiles sharp and painfully at Spencer. "How is the lovely Miss Salpeter, Spence? I heard you've been working day and night trying to get things perfect and to work out the kinks." He leers at Spencer over the monitor of his laptop and Spencer just barely resists the urge to kick him in his teeth. Instead he pulls his best bitch-face and smiles right back.
"Why are you even here, Pete? Shouldn't you be off in one of the other departments sexually harassing the employees and generally disrupting the day's work?"
"He's here to take notes," Patrick tells him, though the sentence lilts up at the end, more like a question than a statement of Pete's work duties. Mikey snorts and looks from Patrick to Pete and back over the his lenses before going back to his screen, his eyes blinking rapidly as if the change of focus were painful.
"Except that his notes, when he bothers to even take them, are cryptic and illegible, with rambling misspelled junior high poetry in the margins that even a twelve year old Gerard would be ashamed of. Sometimes flowers."
Pete flips Mikey off and turns back to Spencer. "I am here because I am an important member of this company, thank you very much. Back to the matter at hand. Andy-from-The-Hunt, whose mother scares the bejeezus out of even Artemis, specifically requested you. I don't know how he got it into his head that you were The Man for the job, but he will take nothing less, and really, you should be more than flattered; you should be groveling, thanking your bosses for the opportunity to work on this."
Spencer's mouth drops open and he's preparing a retort when Patrick shakes his head at him. "Normally, I'd say ignore him. And you can ignore a good half of that, Spencer, but really? We need you to do this. Andy is an important client. As part owner in this company, I'm saying you don't have a choice in the matter."
He hands Spencer the portfolio for the account. He doesn't appear any happier about than Spencer does. Spencer takes it, mentally reminding himself to swing by Ryan's office in creative to bitch about how his life sucks.
Pete smirks at him like the cat that ate the canary.
Spencer barely restrains himself from punching him on his way out the door.
He doesn't do it, but it's a close thing.
***
The spicy-sweet smell of orchids and smoke fills the twenty-fourth floor and Brendon cringes.
He's not so sure anyone else smells it, but he knows it means one of two things: Spencer Smith has just returned from the gym and forgotten to shower or he's pissed. Since Spencer hasn't left the building all day, Brendon is leaning towards the latter. The smell isn't unpleasant, just strong. And Brendon knows that it means he should probably hide somewhere, because when Spencer is angry, this vein bulges out at his temple and his eyes get very squinty and it really sort of makes Brendon want to giggle uncontrollably.
Spencer does not usually appreciate his mirth.
Brendon doesn't have time to hide, however, because Spencer is out of the elevator and stomping through the office with Ryan at his heels. Ryan doesn't even work in this department. He's two floors up in Creative with Syn and Zacky and The Alexes and their fabric swatches, Photoshop and large-format printers.
Not that Brendon cares that Ryan is attached at the hip to his boss and following him through the wrong floor. But Ryan makes Brendon nervous in a way that has nothing to do with him being frightening and everything to do with the amount of Pretty that makes up his being. Or maybe it's because he kind of glows sometimes. His mother is an Angel, Cherubim or Erelim or some combination thereof, keepers of knowledge or something, and unless they are very careful, they kind of radiate with all that heavenly knowledge and light and it can be kind of blinding.
Ryan's not wholly Angelic though, or else he'd probably have joined one of the Choirs by now. He could, Brendon knows, but he identifies more with the Brownie half of his blood. Unlike most angels, he really doesn't radiate Light, but he does tend to shine if he's not careful or his emotions are running high. It's really very distracting for Brendon, especially when he has work to be done, because, hey, he's part Pixie; they like and are easily distracted by things that sparkle and shine. That's his excuse and he's sticking to it.
Spencer barricades himself in his office with Ryan and Brendon slumps to his desk, thankful that Spencer's black mood won't be taken out on him. Spencer is usually pretty good about not shifting all the blame for the eight million things that go wrong in a day on Brendon, but when he's this high strung, it happens.
Ryan pokes his head out of the office and Brendon sits up a bit straighter. Not for any particular reason, just. Well, Ryan.
"Brendon. Dude. DEF CON three. Get your ass in here. And bring coffee. And something to take notes with. Spencer is freaking out and while it's kind of hilarious, it's my job as his best friend, and your job as his assistant, to placate him. Hop-to." Ryan's teeth flash quickly beneath his ridiculous hat and the door shuts.
Brendon slumps back down in his chair and sighs.
"There goes that idea," he tells no one in particular.
***
Brendon, Spencer decides, is a gift from The Creator. The kid has a way with coffee that, if he's honest with himself, makes Spencer a little weak in the knees.
He's nursing his third cup since his meeting with Patrick and Mikey. It's done little to calm him, but at least he has a reason for his leg to be jittering now. Brendon and Ryan had sat calmly while Spencer paced around the room, attempting to calm him down and stroking his ego while he ranted about all the reasons the charity ball was a bad idea and why he shouldn't be the one to organize it (and then fleeing as soon as they could possibly manage it ). Most of which, he realizes somewhat belatedly, circle around dealing with all the courts and important people in Other society.
It's not that he has anything against them, per-say. He spent the first 15 years of his life in the Fae court and among the strongholds of Other elite when it was still hidden. He left and got used to the anonymity of the human world before The Shift and he really likes his privacy. There is no such thing among Others. It's why so few people know of his ancestry. He has very little that he's able to keep to himself, and his kind, as pure as he is, is so rare that it's almost too easy. He's gotten spoiled by it.
He's not looking forward to having to deal with the upper echelons of his kind; people who may recognize him as the awkward child he was before his parents death and while he lived with his grandmother the few years after. The more he thinks about it, the more it reeks of someone plotting against his comfort, and there's only one person who would go to such lengths to get him to socialize in such a way.
Spencer digs his cellphone out of his breast pocket, thanking every deity he's personally acquainted with that he had the common sense to have his doors warded against eavesdropping. William is a shameless gossip, and Ryan and Brendon are really not much better.
"Spencer, muirn! It has been forever since I've heard from you, dear." His grandmother picks up on the first ring, her voice lyrical and chiding and she doesn't sound at all surprised to hear from him. Go figure.
"Hello, Ree. Didn't I have lunch with you on Sunday?"
"Well, yes. But it feels like ages. What have you been doing since? Is Ryan taking care of you? Tell him I'll send The Washer after his silk scarves if he doesn't." Spencer rolls his eyes. Empty threat, that.
"Ryan is taking care of the things he needs to, Ree. And you are The Washer, so I doubt he'll take it as threat to any thing other than the possible ruin of his Hermes collection. What do you know about a charity ball for orphaned changelings, Ree?"
"Hm? What's that? Oh! I haven't heard a thing about a ball, muirn. It's a fabulous idea, though, those poor babes. They need all the help they can get; the orphanages are nigh to overflowing."
Spencer is not fooled in the least by her blithe attitude. "Right. Because I was just wheedled into organizing the aforementioned event for Andy. He apparently specifically requested that only the company’s best handle it and that he had heard I was the best. Would The Morrigan have maybe had something to do with any of that? Because it sounds just like her sort of meddling."
"Well I never! Spencer, I am shocked and appalled. Would I do something like that to you?" Spencer snorts and she drops her innocent pretenses so quickly, Spencer almost hears them hitting the floor. "Okay, okay. Look, the ball was Andy's idea. It's one of his pet charities. He maybe asked my advice on who should organize it and I may have mentioned Arcadian Rhythm. But Spencer, honey! You guys deserve the business."
"Ree..."
"Ugh. You're not any fun anymore, you know that? I might have told Andy you were their best representation, but I swear, I swear on the Chalice of Danu, that I didn't tell him who you were or our relation. And don't roll your eyes at me, young man. And don't deny it, either. I practically raised you; I think I know an eye roll when it’s happening."
Spencer lets his head hit the desk with a thump. "Ree. Do you know how much hell this is going to be for me? I mean. The fucking vanity I'm going to have to cater to?"
"Oh hush, Spence. You love your job and you deal with vainglorious people all day long. You enjoy knocking them down a few pegs. I just want you to have fun while you're doing it. It's a ball, Spencer. Pretty clothes, pretty people, music, dancing. And you enjoy the meticulous planning." Spencer knows that on the other end of the line, Morrigan is gesticulating wildly, probably sneering. Most definitely laughing at him on the inside.
"You know, sometimes I wonder why I was saddled with a meddlesome, crazy old bat of a goddess for a grandmother. What did I do in a past life for you to torture me, Ree? Did I kill a sprite or something?"
"I will have you know that I was told yesterday I don't look a day over two-hundred, mister, so nix your 'crazy old bat' talk. And you love my meddling ways. You just aren't aware." A sigh slips through the ear piece and Spencer rubs his temples, willing the migraine to stay away. "Look at it this way. This is a chance for you to reacquaint yourself with your life, your history. No grandson of The Morrigan was ever going to be able to hide forever. I know it hurts because that was your parent's life, muirn, but it's your life as well and you should just get used to it."
"I don't believe your 'muirn'. How can I be your 'darling' when you're killing me, Ree? Those people, they just let them fade. I don't really want anything to do with them." His resentment at The Morrigan for involving him is dwindling, replaced by sheer weariness. This is an argument they've had for the past hundred years. Longer, actually; since his parents died when he was 10. It's more than a little old, and he's more than a little tired of fighting.
"Spencer, there was nothing they could do. Your father was sick. It's why your father's kind started mingling with the other races to begin with. Your mother just didn't have it in her to live without him. That's nobody's fault, not theirs or anyone else's." Her tone is gentle, caressing in a way most people wouldn't associate with a goddess who chose those that would die in battle.
"They could have helped her see, Ree." It's a lame argument and he knows it. He pictures his grandmother, across the ocean, shaking her head and letting the matter drop for now.
The line is quiet for a few beats before she changes the subject entirely.
"So this ball. I'm on the guest list, right?"
Spencer smiles at her predictable question. "Yes, Ree. V.I.P. and everything. It would cause a scandal among The Courts if you weren't. Besides, we have to have someone there that can outshine the Fae with out their cheating Glamor."
The Morrigan's laugh is high and tinkling. "Flattery will get you everything my dear, but you know that. I have to run though. I'm going with Persephone to get a pedicure and our appointment is in twenty minutes."
"Alright. Your invitation will be in the mail soon, Ree. Love you."
"It had better be, muirn. I love you, too, Spencer. I only want you happy, Ok? OH! And while I'm on the subject..."
"Yes?"
"Find a date. I hear Jonny Walker is still single."
Before Spencer can come up with the appropriate retort the phone clicks off.
"Meddling old bat."
Continued here