bandombigbang Wave 2 Brendon/Spencer Don't Drink the Water Part 1
Title: Don't Drink the Water
Author: cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: ~12 000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Warnings: Drunk sex
Summary: A sort of PhD AU. Definitely a tale of hip waders, hook ups, stupid fish puns, and not so coincidental meetings. Wherein Spencer is a fisheries scientist near Hammond Oregon and is perfectly content to spend his days trying to track white sturgeon, bearing the mocking of his arts major best friend, and failing badly at romance. Until one day at the beach he meets Brendon, and starts to think there's more to life than underfunded research and making first year bio students cry.
Disclaimer:I own no one. I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes:Many thanks to the bandombigbang mods for organizing this whole thing. Thanks also to my beta and hand holder, ohnoscarlett, and any and all who had to hear me prattle on about this for years.
I am not a biologist, but ohnoscarlett is so I have been assured that all the details are good to go.
I've also never been to Hammond Oregon or the Columbia river, but thanks to the power of Google I've stared at 100s of maps and aerial views and river studies.
All errors in time/place/geography/procedure are mine.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush
Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105
Casting a final glance at the murky water of the Columbia river, Spencer sighs and grinds the remains of his cigarette beneath his boot, the straps of his hip waders thwacking against his thighs as he strides across the parking lot. His mouth settles into a line and he shoves up the thick sleeves of his sweater and, barely giving the big black jeep sitting outside the Point Adams Research Center any of his attention at all, he heaves open the lab door. “Hey Bob,” he doesn't even try to feign enthusiasm.
“Hey! So, the dean asked me to come talk to you, again.” Bob stands when Spencer enters the office. His large frame and scowl would be intimidating if he wasn’t flicking his unruly mop of pale blond hair out of his eyes.
Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer tugs off his black knit cap and tosses it onto his desk, “It wasn't my fault.” He scratches at his beard and then holds out a hand, motioning for Bob to sit down again. “Coffee?” he asks, not waiting for an answer before he splashes the thick liquid that's clearly been sitting there for a while into two mugs.
Bob gives a curt nod and accepts the chipped mug Spencer hands him, filled with liquid so potentially noxious it’s almost tar. “Look,” he winces as he swallows a sip, “you can't keep doing this, Spencer. Don't you want to get your doctorate?” He plunks himself back down into an office chair, the stuffing bulging where it's been duct taped.
“Dude, they were laughing like fuckin' nine year olds every time I said milt or reproduction or other fish sex words. And they're in a course on population and community ecology. One of them was totally wearing an PETA t-shirt. Seal huggers can fuck right off.” Spencer leans back into his chair, thumping his rubber booted feet on the desk and crossing them at the ankle.
Giving a long suffering sigh, Bob tries again, “Man, all you have to do is get your teachable hours done and present your research-your really fucking amazing research, by the way-- and the PhD is yours. The department gave you upper level courses because we didn't want a repeat of what happened in your intro to fish bio course...” Bob sets his mug of coffee down on the scarred wooden desk, “And to be honest, freshwater ecology wonder kid with articles published in three journals this year or not, if you can't teach the kids who paid to be in those classes, I'm not sure the department can afford to keep you on.”
Spencer chokes a little on his mouthful of coffee, “Shit, really? Okay, okay. I am trying. And yeah,” He rolls up the sleeve of his sweater and frowns at his watch, “I gotta bail, there's a boat load of rookies waiting for lab assistant orientation.”
“Ah, putting radios in fish bellies again, huh?” Bob chuckles and rubs his thumb across his lip where he's once again burned it on the hot coffee.
“Oh fuck, no!” Spencer raises an eyebrow, “Just seeing if they have their river legs.” He chuckles sardonically and there's a glint of wickedness in his blue eyes.
“Be nice!” Bob claps Spencer companionably on the shoulder and walks out of the office and through the lab with Spencer. Tanks of empty salt water glow and bubble eerily in the dark.
On the way through the long room, Spencer stops at one of the few populated tanks to wiggle his finger along the glass and coo, “Grow my babies, grow,” and follows the path of their slow glide through the water.
“Those things are fuckin' ugly, and those little barbs all over them hurt like fuck. Figures you'd be so in to them.” Bob makes a face and turns towards the tank of white sturgeon fry once he realizes Spencer has stopped.
Spencer stands up again and shrugs, “Yeah, 'cause the shit you need a microscope to see is fuckin' beautiful,” he teases Bob, a specialist in fish parasitology.
Bob just shakes his head slowly, “Smith, you go for the glamor, Jon and I will hold the fort with the real science.” Before Spencer can respond, Bob hops up into his jeep, raising a lazy hand in parting.
Sighing and tugging at the straps of his hip waders, Spencer curses under his breath and heads down to the dock. The Columbia river this close to the Pacific is never still, but at this time of day it looks deceptively calm. Cash, a senior in Spencer's Reproductive Biology class, has the Sculpin-- Port Adams' thirteen foot research vessel-- blessedly moored up and ready to go. Sometimes Cash got over ambitious and drove her into the dock. Other times he got “distracted” and forgot to tie her up.
Spencer was pretty much willing to let it all go because Cash liked to drive the boat and Spencer, for all he loved the fish he'd been studying since he was six years old, and the river system they lived in, hated boats and any and everything to do with them. If he had his way, he'd just wade out into the Columbia and do what he had to do. But the white sturgeon his research money paid him to study liked the deep, tricky water, way beyond wading distance.
As he gets closer to the dock he sees two rather baffled, nervous kids--a boy and a girl--standing up by the boat shed, both of them with their hands curled up into the cuffs of their hoodies. “Hey, you the new recruits?” Spencer tries to alter his voice from his usual terse exasperation into what he hopes is friendliness, accompanied by a plastered on smile.
The girl jumps and turns to face Spencer, her smile wide in her freckled face, “Hi Professor Smith, I'm Cassadee,” She holds out her hand and Spencer mutters, “formal introductions, huh?” before shaking her hand up and down a time or two. She smiles awkwardly for a moment and tries, none too subtly to elbow the boy beside her.
“Oh, um, Alex DeLeon,” he says, swiping the fall of his long curly hair out of his eyes.
Spencer just gives a perfunctory nod,“Okay, DeLeon, you're gonna have to tie back the locks before we get on the boat.” He makes a vague waving motion to take in the way the boy's shoulder length hair is being whipped by the wind. Alex shrugs and takes a knit cap out of his pocket, plonking it onto his head and jamming his hair up underneath. “And you're both gonna have to wear PFDs-that's life jackets in case you're confused. They're stowed on the boat. Follow me.” Spencer turns abruptly and leads the pair down the dock and onto the little boat.
Kicking open a sliding compartment, Spencer says, “Get one, put it on, don't take it off til you're on dry land. If you die, that's extra paperwork for me, and I hate paperwork.” He sounds almost bored, and has to bite down on a smirk when he sees the horrified look that passes between Cassadee and Alex. “Cash is gonna drive...” Spencer is interrupted when Cash yells back to them, “Cash always drives!” and Spencer clears his throat and continues, “He's been a lab assistant for a couple years now, so he'll be the one to show you around. If he tells you to lick, touch, or smell something, please don't do it. Please.”
The two students nod enthusiastically as the little boat sets out on its way. “Okay, before we get into taking samples and levels and all that fancy stuff that I'm fairly sure you've never done in your life,” Spencer waits a beat and sees in Cassadee and Alex's eyes that he's got them pegged, “we're going to go over a little thing called safety.” Alex twists and turns and succeeds in getting the chords for his life jacket twisted into knots. Grinning at Spencer, Cassadee tucks a stand of hair behind her ear and leans over to help.
Once both students have their PFDs securely in place, and the boat is cheerfully putting out into the river, Spencer continues, “First, PFDs, always. Second, always know where your hands and feet are at all times.” Cassadee giggles and Spencer raises an eyebrow at her. “I'm perfectly serious. The Columbia is cold, and deep. And the current is strong. Set your foot on a net,” he stops to kick at a coil of rope, “Or get your hands caught in a line,” he tugs at the thin strips of nylon that run along the gunwales, “and it's game over. I'm not going after you.” The two younger students stand wide eyed. ”But, I will miss you.” Spencer nods to emphasize his point.
They go over first aid certification and the importance of being able to swim-or as Spencer calls it-the ability to not freak out and drown immediately upon hitting the water. Alex heads off to learn the basics of small boat navigation with Cash while Spencer demonstrates how to take dissolved oxygen readings with Cassadee. She's interested and eager to learn and picks it up quickly. Spencer is relieved that he won't have to hand hold at least one of the research students through the semester and might actually get some kind of productive work done. They stay out on the water for a few hours and then head back to the lab.
“So, be here same time tomorrow and we'll recapture the magic,” Spencer nods in conclusion, and then retreats to his office.
***
The next morning, bleary eyed and clutching a giant mug of the motor-oil thick coffee the office machine seems to produce, Spencer heads out to the dock to meet the students, hoping they can set up an actual experiment today. Running an exasperated hand across his beard covered chin, he asks wearily, “Where's the other kid?” when he sees Cassadee standing by herself, flipping through the lab handbook he'd given her yesterday.
Her smile wide, she just shrugs at Spencer, digging the toe of her rubber boot into the muddy grass beside the boat house. “Fuck,” Spencer exhales in exasperation. He gulps a final mouthful of coffee, wincing at the burn, then sets his mug down on an upturned crate. “Well, c'mon then. I told him I don't fuck around, not gonna waste good weather by waiting for him.” They both turn to squint at the yellow-gray sky and the heavy clouds that are gathering over the Pacific. The boat house is eerily quiet.
Spencer hates to admit it but he's grown used to Cash blaring Li’l Wayne as he works away on engines or charts. Frowning, he walks around the empty shop. Motioning with his chin, Spencer gets Cassadee to follow him out to the dock, where all four of Point Adams' research vessels are moored, bobbing in the gentle lapping of the water. “Where the fuck is Cash?”
Closing her binder with a snap, Cassadee shrugs again and says, “How should I know?”
“Right. Shit. Okay, fuck it. We'll go to the lab and I'll get you to-I dunno-feed the fingerlings and clean tanks or some shit.” Even in his anger, Spencer manages to be impressed that Cassadee, unlike most everyone else in her class, refrains from smirking, smiling or snorting when Spencer says fingerling.
Cassadee is bright and cheerful and dutifully follows a glowering Spencer back up to the research station. Her quickness and eagerness to learn extends to the lab and its rules and routines and in no time Spencer has her set up on a cleaning, feeding, data recording schedule. “So, if you need anything, I'll just be...” he flaps a hand towards his office door.
“Sure Professor Smith, no problem.”
“Please call me Spencer,” He runs a hand across the back of his neck and is mentally calculating the kind of verbal ass kicking he'll give Cash when/if he sees him next.
Cassadee smiles wide and says, “Sure thing, Spencer. Oh, these little fellas are so cute, aren't they?” She bends towards the tank of immature white sturgeon and traces a line across the glass with her fingertip, the fish eagerly following it. “Hello darlings,” she coos. Spencer smiles.
This research student thing could work out okay for once after all.
Once safely hidden in his office, and ignoring the by-law enforcement, university endorsed and sanctioned no smoking sign posted in clear visibility on the wall, Spencer lights up a cigarette and boots up his lap top. Opening a program, he reaches for his head set and radio receiver. A month ago Spencer and Cash had caught a few male white sturgeon that were part of the last remaining school in the river estuary and implanted radio signal transmitters under their armored skins. He'd hoped to be able to track them, and in learning about the routes they traveled, learn how to save them. The radio squawks to life, and the gentle pinging of the transmitter fills Spencer's ears.
With the help of some really fucking expensive software and the mathematical know how of some of his colleagues, Spencer had managed to translate the audio signal into a radar like image on his computer screen. He happily watches the little green dots hover along the shore line and opens a spread sheet, labeling it with the day's date and entering the school’s location. Suddenly the comforting ping of the radio signal is interrupted by a high pitched screeching that makes Spencer wince. He frowns, leaning forward to fiddle with the knobs on the central receiving unit. And then, much to his amazement and horror, his ears are filled with what sounds vaguely like Hot for Teacher by Van Halen.
What. The. Fuck?
Lips a narrow, angry line, Spencer picks up the hand held radio receiver and stomps out of his office and through the lab, ignoring Cassadee's confused stare.
* * *
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Spencer storms down the beach, shouting. His rubber boots make it difficult to keep his balance amid the rocks and weeds that liter this part of the beach, causing his storming look a lot like intense, clumsy stumbling.
The guy stops, slowly pulling away the towel he’s drying his hair with, and looks up at Spencer. He smiles and holy shit! His smile is wide and bright in his tanned, freckled face, and it makes his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. Spencer actually feels a fluttering in his chest and what the fuck is up with that? “Um...trying to get the salt water outta my ears?” He tosses the towel down beside his long board, and gives a practiced tug to the pull on his neoprene wet suit.
Tripping to a halt when he finally reaches the sand, Spencer's eyes follow the narrow strip of skin as it's revealed beneath the dark blue of the guy's suit, “No, I mean this!” Spencer takes a breath and looks pointedly from the guy's surfboard to the now extinguished fire pit, and then across the beach to where a van full of the guy's buddies is pulling out onto the highway towards Hammond.
“Oh, uh...surfing?” The guy is studying Spencer, now, and while his shoulders are shaking in silent amusement, he's polite enough not to laugh outright.
Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, elbows digging into his thick sweater, “Yes, surfing! You and your friends and your noise and splashing, are ruining my fucking work!” He glowers at the guy and tries to remember how pissed he is that all his stats for the day have been thrown off because some hippie deadbeats decided to have some fun.
Who the fuck surfs in Oregon, anyway?
Aware that Spencer's angry, but clueless as to why, the guy struggles into a t-shirt and lets the wet suit fall to his hips. Running a hand through his hair until it stands up on end, he bites his lip-his incredibly full, kissable lip, Spencer's traitor of a brain supplies, and says, “Oh, uh, okay. Sorry?” But he clearly has no idea what it is he's apologizing for.
“Yeah, right, I'm sure,” Spencer snarls a little, “You have no idea what you've done. I've spent a year tracking a school of white sturgeon and now because of you I can't hear a fucking thing, and you’ve probably frightened them off forever!” He takes the radio receiver from his back pocket and waves it menacingly at the surfer.
Brown eyes go wide as Spencer launches into a speech as loud and heartfelt as it is long, detailing every single thing that the guy has ruined about his work, and his fish, and his life. Spencer pauses to take a breath and is prevented from detailing the ten year decline in white sturgeon in the Columbia river estuary due to human pollutants altering male white sturgeon physiology by a tap to the shoulder. “Oh, hey.” Spencer deflates, jamming his wildly gesturing hands in his pockets and glaring a little sheepishly at Jon Walker, the lab's limnologist and,as of one year five months and three days ago, as Ryan likes to remind him, his best friend's boyfriend.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jon says, smiling at the surfer in a way that makes it clear he's been on the receiving end of a Spencer Smith rant enough times to sympathize. “You need to sign off on these purchase orders,” he encouragingly wriggles a clip board at Spencer.
Frowning and turning away from the surfer, who shrugs to himself and resumes packing his gear, Spencer swipes the sheaf of paper from Jon's hands and then frowns even harder, his fair eyebrows furrowed. “Jesus, Jon. How big is your grant this year? More software?”
“Dude, I have the biggest grant out of all you guys!” Jon waggles his eyebrows and strokes his beard suggestively. The surfer snorts out a laugh ,and when Jon and Spencer look over he gives them a dorky thumbs up. “I mean who doesn't like a big grant? Am I right?” Jon asks the guy, chuckling.
Slapping a pair of thick black framed glasses onto his face, the guy chuckles back and says, “Grant size matters,” while nodding sagely.
Spencer groans at the lameness of his friend, and thwacks Jon in the chest with the clipboard, his signature a neat scrawl at the bottom. “Here, lameass. Go forth and do the impossible.”
“Hey! I will map the current in that god forsaken river, just you wait!” Jon mockingly raises his fist and shakes it at Spencer.
Spencer chuckles and takes his cigarettes out of his back pocket, lighting up and offering the pack to Jon, “Yeah, because that's worked so well for you these past...what is it now, five years Doc Walker?”
“Oh fuck you, I'm just taking my time and getting it right and at least I managed to get my PhD.” Jon laughs and knocks his shoulder into Spencer, “So, you coming to the big summer session shindig at our place tonight or what?”
Blowing out a long plume of smoke and an impertinent sigh through his nose, Spencer says, “Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want to continue to be Spencer Smith, best friend of Ryan Ross,” Jon rocks up on to his toes, beach gravel shifting with the movement, and smirks as he lights up his own cigarette
“That's pretty much what I thought. I'll try and get up there.” Spencer would rather pilot a dingy around the world than spend ten minutes with Ryan's pretentious hipster English department friends. Spencer's a biologist, what the fuck does he know about poetry? “Is there a theme?” He winces.
Jon just laughs at him, “Nah, we're going with a bonfire, beer, and burgers. You're welcome.” They both laugh and Jon says, “Oh and bring a date,” which makes him laugh even harder.
“What? I have a date!” Spencer scowls out over the shoreline, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
“Suuuuure you do!” Jon nods indulgently.
Yanking his knit cap further down his scowling brow and picking at his sweater, Spencer answers petulantly, “I do!”
“Wow, for real? The monk fish has a date? I'll alert the media.” Spencer sort of wants to slap the mocking grin right out of Jon's beard. He'd also like to kill Ryan Ross with his mind for coming up with that stupid nickname, which Ryan had dubbed, 'punny hahahaha'.
Giving a slight nod, Spencer's gaze cuts, surreptitious yet obvious, to where the surfer is making his way along the beach, board tucked under his arm and bag slung over his shoulder. “Dude, seriously?” Jon answers Spencer's waggling eyebrows, and pointedly glances at the rounded curve where the guy's ass fills out his suit. “Niiiice.” And then, much to Spencer's enduring horror, Jon yells at the guy, “Hey! I'm Jon, by the way! We'll see you tonight!”
Spencer watches in slow motion morbid fascination as the guy turns around and gives Jon a quizzical look. “Huh?” he says and comes back to where they're standing. Spencer does his best to will the beach to open up and swallow him whole.
“Spencer here said he invited you to our party up in Hammond tonight?” Jon rocks smugly back and forth in his flip-flops, looking for all the world benignly friendly. But Spencer knows better and can recognize the glint in his eye for the you are so busted that it is, not the Mr Friendly Non-Threatening the rest of the world sees.
Blinking, non-plussed for a second, the guy digs his board into the gravel and then smiles, wide and genuine, “Oh, yeah. Of course Spencer did.” He's doing that silent, shoulder hitching laugh thing again. “I'm Brendon,” he holds out his hand to Jon who shakes it, his expression a combination of wary and confused. “I'm meeting you up at the old lifeboat station at eight, right?” He cocks his head to the side, still smiling brightly.
Spencer stands there scowling and smoking, before he says, “Uh, yeah.”
“Right, so I'll see you then!” He raises a hand in farewell and, still smiling, picks up his board and heads once more down the beach.
After Brendon leaves, Jon stands there just staring at Spencer. Spencer can tell Jon's waiting for him to say something, but Spencer has nothing to say. He's not even sure what just happened, or why. Continuing to study the waterline, Spencer says, “Don't you have data to plug into a program, or more grants to apply for or something?”
***
A faint knock on Spencer's office door causes him to jump in his seat. He stands up, feeling the pop and snap as each and every vertebrae voices their opinion on how long he's been sitting staring at spread sheets, and distractedly twists the door knob.
“Um, hey,” Brendon is standing awkwardly in the doorway, smile wide and a little nervous.
Spencer can't help the way his eyes widen and the staring he does. Brendon. Standing in his doorway. He didn't know it was possible for Brendon to be hotter than he was at the beach, but right now, in black jeans and a dark red button down shirt, he is. He totally, totally is. “Oh, uhn you came?”
Glancing at the wall clock behind Spencer's head, Brendon's forehead wrinkles in slight confusion and he says, “Um, yeah? Eight. That's what we agreed on, right?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Unless you were fucking with me?”
Standing there staring at Brendon and scratching absently at his sweater were it clings just a little to the slight curve of his belly, Spencer manages to shake his head, comically slow-motion slow and says, “No, no. I just...didn't think you'd come?” He finishes lamely.
“Dude! When a hot guy invites me to a party I am not gonna say no!” his grin frames a goofy giggle that scrunches up his eyes.
Blinking dumbly, Spencer says, “You think I'm hot?”
A slow pink blush creeps across Brendon's freckle spattered cheeks and he scratches his nose, shoulders hitching, “Well, your buddy's not bad but...”
“So, yeah, uh just gimme a sec?” Spencer turns away from the door, hurriedly stacking papers and powering down his computer. He blows out a breath, runs his fingers through his hair, tugs his sweater over his head. Fingers smoothing down his t-shirt, he slaps on a smile then turns back to Brendon.
“Ready?” Brendon meets Spencer's forced smile with a not-quite-sure smile of his own. Spencer just nods and grabs his key ring, directing Brendon out of his office with a cautiously light hand to his lower back. “Wow! These guys are awesome! Are they what you're researching?” Brendon stops at the fingerling tank to peer at the tiny silver fish as they glide through the water.
Realizing that Brendon's interest and enthusiasm is sincere, Spencer's smile slides into a more genuine expression. “Yeah, mostly on how pollution in the estuary is affecting male fertility rates in white sturgeon.”
Brendon frowns and then smiles back at Spencer, “That's really cool. The river is so fucked up. It's good to know that someone is interested in saving it and the little critters who live there.”
Spencer waits a beat to see if Brendon is making fun of him. Impressed that he didn't snicker or giggle at the mention of fertility, Spencer nods and says, “Yeah,” before crossing to the lab's exit.
“Shit,” Spencer stops dead before they even reach the parking lot. “I, um, I usually just take the field station's jeep,” he reaches up in a futile attempt to smooth down his hair as the wind whips it around. “But that fucker Colligan-my research assistant-took it without asking first.”
“Oh, well, I have my car.” With a tilt of his chin, Brendon indicates an aging yellow station wagon parked in a visitor spot, “If you don't mind me driving, you can just tell me where we're going?”
Hesitating slightly, Spencer shrugs and thinks what the fuck. “Sure, thanks,” they both plunk down into the station wagon and Spencer inhales; noting the overwhelming sent of stale seawater and sand. He also notes that the car's interior is spotless and wonders whether Brendon is a neat freak or whether he cleaned out the car as some kind of attempt to impress Spencer on their date...or whatever this is.
Brendon smiles a little nervously at Spencer and says, “You can fuck around with my iPod if you want,” and nods towards the car's stereo before turning his head to back out of the parking spot and onto the road leading into town.
Completely unsurprised to find almost all of Jack Johnson's catalog, Spencer snorts and clicks on a Regina Spektor album instead. “So, surfing huh?”
“Yeah,” Brendon taps his hands against the steering wheel, in time to the music as his fingers mime the piano notes that float softly in the air between them.
“I would have thought you'd be down in California or something. Isn't that where most of the surfers are?”
Grin widening, Brendon says, “Oh sure, you can surf there. I started out there, down around Santa Monica. But it gets old fast. Sort of lost interest in doing the same thing as everyone else. I like a challenge,” and Spencer’s can’t be sure he’s not imagining it when for a split second Brendon smirks and casts the most fleeting of sidelong glances towards him. “The current around the shore here is fucked and there are way more rad waves than down the coast.”
Spencer raises a judgmental eyebrow at Brendon's use of the word rad but keeps his opinions to himself. “So, you're from California?”
“Nah man, originally from Vegas, but you can't really surf on Lake Mead.” Brendon chuckles and flicks on his indicator light, angling the aging Volvo down the coastal road that runs the thirty miles into town.
His laugh sounds a little less brittle when Spencer smiles agreeably at Brendon’s Lake Mead crack, “Seriously, and then there’s all those houseboats you’d have to dodge.”
“You been to Vegas?” Brendon quirks an eyebrow at Spencer and takes one hand off the wheel to adjust the stereo’s volume.
“Yup,” Spencer quirks his own eyebrow at Brendon’s expression of surprise. “From there. Lived in Summerlin 'til I came out here for school,” Spencer can't help but deepen his smile when he sees Brendon's expression morph from surprise to delight. “Figures, who else but dudes who grew up in the desert would think that fucking around on the Columbia was a good way to spend time?”
Brendon snorts his agreement, “Yeah even more fucked up, I totally want to surf the North Atlantic--you know, Scotland and Nova Scotia. That shit is supposed to be a fucking rush.”
Just the thought of all that icy cold water closing in around him is enough to make Spencer cross his arms protectively across his chest as he swallows uncomfortably, “Sounds fantastic,” his words drip with sarcasm.
“Yeah well, we all get our kicks somehow, right?” Brendon nods enthusiastically.
“Apparently I get mine by asking guys I just met to come meet my friends,” Spencer laughs.
His smile disappearing, Brendon says, “Um, yeah, so I think maybe I put you in an awkward position--Monkfish?”
Spencer reaches over to turn up the radio and then sinks back into the passenger seat, thinking that maybe being swallowed whole by the Atlantic Ocean wouldn’t be that horrible after all, “Yeah, um my friend Ryan--we’re going to is house--thinks he’s hilarious and likes to give people this nicknames. I just because I haven’t um...dated anyone in a while he thinks I’m...”
“A monk?” Brendon turns to meet Spencer’s embarrassed gaze for a few seconds and then says, “And you like fish so...”
“He thinks he’s hilarious. Which is probably good because no one else does. I mean Jon humors him but...Ryan’s teaches poetry.”
And that’s all the explanation Brendon requires as they finish the drive into Hammond companionably chatting about the university and the sleepy little town and Spencer’s handful of oddball friends, made mostly courtesy of Ryan’s ability to attract people equally as strange as him, but in entirely different ways. Spencer feels it’s only fair for Brendon to know what he’s getting in to.
After a series of directions comprised mostly of complicated hand gestures that Brendon follows with ease, they turn into Jon and Ryan’s street. The road is lined with cars parked on either side “Sorry,” Spencer mutters apologetically at Brendon when they’re forced to park several streets over.
“No worries,” Brendon shrugs and smiles encouragingly back, falling easily in to step with Spencer.
Spencer jams his hands in his pockets to avoid the distraction of his knuckles bumping into Brendon’s every time they swing their arms. As soon as they get to the pathway leading up to Jon and Ryan’s old Victorian house, Spencer feels the eyes of the few couples sprawled out on the wide veranda. He nods in greeting to those he recognizes, and places a hand low on Brendon’s back to usher him through the door.
Years of friendship means that both Spencer and Ryan had long ago abandoned such social niceties as knocking, so Spencer simply opens the front door and, holding his arm out wide, allows Brendon to enter first. Not that anyone could have heard the door bell over the din of the stereo anyway, and before Spencer can do more than push past the guests blocking the front entry way, Jon has sidled up to Brendon and is yelling, “I swear to god, he’s never even heard of Pet Sounds! How is that possible, I ask you? Come with me, we need an impartial third party to convince Ryan the Beach Boys are fucking awesome!”
Brendon turns his head to give Spencer a baffled, amused look as Jon hooks their elbows together and drags Brendon off through the crowd. Spencer makes a displeased sound at the back of his throat, and instead of following after the pair, heads towards where prior experience has told him the beer is. He downs one quickly, then leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of himself, surveying the living room full of people.
Trust the weirdos Jon and Ryan know to arrive at a party early.
Several minutes pass and still Brendon hasn’t returned from where Jon dragged him off to, so Spencer has another beer. And another. His tolerance for chit-chat grows with every beer he drinks and by beer five, or six, he’s actually having a pretty decent conversation about the cinematography in Rosemary’s Baby, with Shane, a guy Ryan met in Avant Garde Film Club--seriously, Avant Garde Film Club--when he finally spies what he’s pretty sure are Brendon’s finger tips waving in the air.
Spencer heads towards the fingers and then stops cold. An impromptu dance floor has taken shape in the space between Ryan’s entertainment unit and his and Jon’s matching barca loungers. And Brendon is dancing. And his hips are kind of hypnotic, and he’s laughing and smiling and his hair is in his face. And he looks like an angel. Okay, so Spencer may have had a shot or two in between beers. And the arm that is not waving over Brendon’s head is wound round the broad shoulders of the man he’s dancing with.
Bob. Bob fucking Bryar. What the actual fuck? Brendon is dancing with Spencer’s boss, whom Spencer is quite sure Jon invited for the express purpose of humiliating him. Spencer stops mid-step and does a tipsy about face.
He makes it to the backyard and is grateful for the cool night air across his bearded cheeks. The yard is full of crabgrass, moss, and lichen and Spencer had spent all last summer building a stone wall beyond the treeline to ensure Jon and Ryan’s dogs stay put, and also to make sure Ryan didn’t pitch over the steep hill that leads down to the highway. He takes a seat on a pile of quickly mildewing lumber Ryan had made Spencer purchase, after Jon started making noises about building a deck back here, which made no sense considering the amount of rainfall this part of Oregon gets.
Sometimes his friends don’t really make sense.
Spencer presses his now mostly empty beer bottle to his forehead and wonders why who Brendon’s dancing with matters so much to him. It’s not like they know each other, or really anything about each other. Sure, Brendon pretty much admitted that he found Spencer hot. And Spencer can fully admit, at least to himself anyway, that he’s attracted to Brendon--who wouldn’t be?---but it’s purely a biological urge.
And that right there is the problem. Superficial attraction has been the basis for every single one of Spencer’s horribly failed relationships.
Fuck biology.
Spencer’s sitting there, slowly moving the now sweating beer bottle across his forehead in the gloomy yard when he hears the telltale creak of the rusty back door hinges. The sky is a deepening velvet grey, and the ever present clouds send long shadows across the yard, so Spencer is safely hidden from the view of whomever has come outside. He sees the orange-red flare of a cigarette’s glow and hears a long, satisfied sigh as the person takes the first drag.
Brendon is leaning against the house, smoking. And he’s alone, “Finally,” Spencer mutters under his breath. He sets the empty Corona bottle down and stands, swiping stray bits of wood and moss from his jeans, and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. Then, without thinking about it too much, he heads to where Brendon is standing.
“Oh, there you are!” Brendon smiles and exhales a long plume of smoke from the side of his mouth up into the deepening dark of the night sky.
Deftly snagging the cigarette from Brendon’s hand and bringing it to his own lips, Spencer leans against the house and says, “Yep, here I am.”
“I was getting kinda worried that you ditched me,” Brendon’s shoulders shake with a deprecating giggle as he takes another cigarette out of his pack and lights up.
“I dunno, you seemed like you were doing okay,” Spencer takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and immediately exhales to cover up the petulant undertone in his voice.
Brendon’s eyebrows raise in surprise at Spencer’s words, “Oh, like, the dancing? You saw me? Your friends are fun. But,” he ducks his head then, looking up at Spencer through the fall of dark hair across his eyes, “they’re not you.”
Blinking slowly and made bold by the alcohol in his veins and the nicotine in his lungs, Spencer flicks what’s left of his cigarette into the yard, and without further thought leans in to cover Brendon’s mouth with his own. There is nothing gentle about the kiss, Spencer presses his teeth to the fullness of Brendon’s bottom lip, making him gasp. His eyes briefly widen then fall closed as his hands come to rest on Spencer’s hips.
Taking that as invitation, Spencer’s tongue swipes across the bitten skin of Brendon’s lips before slipping between them. Brendon groans and his grip on Spencer’s waist tightens. Returning his groan, Spencer pushes a leg between Brendon’s and pins him to the wall, brick pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt. Spencer’s fingers grip Brendon’s shoulders bruisingly tight, but he still doesn’t stop the insistent exploration of the kiss. Finally, Brendon’s slides his lips across the scrape of Spencer’s beard and onto his neck. Panting hard, his whisper is a harsh stutter of breath against heated skin when he says, “Shit, I’ve been waiting for you to do that all night.”
“Yeah,” there’s a wicked glint in Spencer’s blue eyes. He seems to take Brendon’s words as a challenge for more, ducking his head and finding Brendon’s lips, hands sliding up Brendon’s arms to tangle in the thick strands of his hair. Grunting, Brendon eagerly yields to the force of Spencer’s kiss and moves closer still, his hips shifting against the rough denim of Spencer’s jeans. Their teeth clash when Spencer shoves Brendon roughly against the crumbling brick of the house, and Brendon moves his head away from the probing urgency of Spencer’s mouth to curse, ‘fuck,” as he struggles for breath.
Spencer doesn’t move his hips from where they’re rather forcefully pinioning Brendon in place, “You been waiting for that all night too?” He arches one eye brow in demanding inquiry.
Smirking, Brendon says, “Maybe all day too,” in a low throaty voice that makes Spencer growl and once more press in for a determined kiss, biting away at Brendon's smug expression, and snugging his knee between Brendon's sprawled thighs. Brendon just holds on tighter, arching impossibly closer and whispers against Spencer's lips, “What you got in mind?”
It's Spencer's turn to struggle for breath, and he bites at the arch of Brendon's throat. “I want...” he mumbles against Brendon's heated skin.
“What? What do you want, Spencer?” Brendon moves his hands from Spencer's waist up under his t-shirt. “Ask me. Ask me anything. Everything, just...” he stutters to a stop as another moan escapes his throat at the shift and press of Spencer's knee against his erection.
“I want...this.” Spencer manages to gasp into the sweat-damp collar of Brendon's shirt. “Fuck do I want,” in a daze, he noses the fabric out of the way so he can use teeth and lips to suck angry welts--red blood just under the surface of Brendon's pale skin made almost black by the failing light of approaching night--across the starkly pronounced rise of Brendon's collar bones.
next
Author: cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: ~12 000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Warnings: Drunk sex
Summary: A sort of PhD AU. Definitely a tale of hip waders, hook ups, stupid fish puns, and not so coincidental meetings. Wherein Spencer is a fisheries scientist near Hammond Oregon and is perfectly content to spend his days trying to track white sturgeon, bearing the mocking of his arts major best friend, and failing badly at romance. Until one day at the beach he meets Brendon, and starts to think there's more to life than underfunded research and making first year bio students cry.
Disclaimer:I own no one. I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes:Many thanks to the bandombigbang mods for organizing this whole thing. Thanks also to my beta and hand holder, ohnoscarlett, and any and all who had to hear me prattle on about this for years.
I am not a biologist, but ohnoscarlett is so I have been assured that all the details are good to go.
I've also never been to Hammond Oregon or the Columbia river, but thanks to the power of Google I've stared at 100s of maps and aerial views and river studies.
All errors in time/place/geography/procedure are mine.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush
Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105
Casting a final glance at the murky water of the Columbia river, Spencer sighs and grinds the remains of his cigarette beneath his boot, the straps of his hip waders thwacking against his thighs as he strides across the parking lot. His mouth settles into a line and he shoves up the thick sleeves of his sweater and, barely giving the big black jeep sitting outside the Point Adams Research Center any of his attention at all, he heaves open the lab door. “Hey Bob,” he doesn't even try to feign enthusiasm.
“Hey! So, the dean asked me to come talk to you, again.” Bob stands when Spencer enters the office. His large frame and scowl would be intimidating if he wasn’t flicking his unruly mop of pale blond hair out of his eyes.
Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer tugs off his black knit cap and tosses it onto his desk, “It wasn't my fault.” He scratches at his beard and then holds out a hand, motioning for Bob to sit down again. “Coffee?” he asks, not waiting for an answer before he splashes the thick liquid that's clearly been sitting there for a while into two mugs.
Bob gives a curt nod and accepts the chipped mug Spencer hands him, filled with liquid so potentially noxious it’s almost tar. “Look,” he winces as he swallows a sip, “you can't keep doing this, Spencer. Don't you want to get your doctorate?” He plunks himself back down into an office chair, the stuffing bulging where it's been duct taped.
“Dude, they were laughing like fuckin' nine year olds every time I said milt or reproduction or other fish sex words. And they're in a course on population and community ecology. One of them was totally wearing an PETA t-shirt. Seal huggers can fuck right off.” Spencer leans back into his chair, thumping his rubber booted feet on the desk and crossing them at the ankle.
Giving a long suffering sigh, Bob tries again, “Man, all you have to do is get your teachable hours done and present your research-your really fucking amazing research, by the way-- and the PhD is yours. The department gave you upper level courses because we didn't want a repeat of what happened in your intro to fish bio course...” Bob sets his mug of coffee down on the scarred wooden desk, “And to be honest, freshwater ecology wonder kid with articles published in three journals this year or not, if you can't teach the kids who paid to be in those classes, I'm not sure the department can afford to keep you on.”
Spencer chokes a little on his mouthful of coffee, “Shit, really? Okay, okay. I am trying. And yeah,” He rolls up the sleeve of his sweater and frowns at his watch, “I gotta bail, there's a boat load of rookies waiting for lab assistant orientation.”
“Ah, putting radios in fish bellies again, huh?” Bob chuckles and rubs his thumb across his lip where he's once again burned it on the hot coffee.
“Oh fuck, no!” Spencer raises an eyebrow, “Just seeing if they have their river legs.” He chuckles sardonically and there's a glint of wickedness in his blue eyes.
“Be nice!” Bob claps Spencer companionably on the shoulder and walks out of the office and through the lab with Spencer. Tanks of empty salt water glow and bubble eerily in the dark.
On the way through the long room, Spencer stops at one of the few populated tanks to wiggle his finger along the glass and coo, “Grow my babies, grow,” and follows the path of their slow glide through the water.
“Those things are fuckin' ugly, and those little barbs all over them hurt like fuck. Figures you'd be so in to them.” Bob makes a face and turns towards the tank of white sturgeon fry once he realizes Spencer has stopped.
Spencer stands up again and shrugs, “Yeah, 'cause the shit you need a microscope to see is fuckin' beautiful,” he teases Bob, a specialist in fish parasitology.
Bob just shakes his head slowly, “Smith, you go for the glamor, Jon and I will hold the fort with the real science.” Before Spencer can respond, Bob hops up into his jeep, raising a lazy hand in parting.
Sighing and tugging at the straps of his hip waders, Spencer curses under his breath and heads down to the dock. The Columbia river this close to the Pacific is never still, but at this time of day it looks deceptively calm. Cash, a senior in Spencer's Reproductive Biology class, has the Sculpin-- Port Adams' thirteen foot research vessel-- blessedly moored up and ready to go. Sometimes Cash got over ambitious and drove her into the dock. Other times he got “distracted” and forgot to tie her up.
Spencer was pretty much willing to let it all go because Cash liked to drive the boat and Spencer, for all he loved the fish he'd been studying since he was six years old, and the river system they lived in, hated boats and any and everything to do with them. If he had his way, he'd just wade out into the Columbia and do what he had to do. But the white sturgeon his research money paid him to study liked the deep, tricky water, way beyond wading distance.
As he gets closer to the dock he sees two rather baffled, nervous kids--a boy and a girl--standing up by the boat shed, both of them with their hands curled up into the cuffs of their hoodies. “Hey, you the new recruits?” Spencer tries to alter his voice from his usual terse exasperation into what he hopes is friendliness, accompanied by a plastered on smile.
The girl jumps and turns to face Spencer, her smile wide in her freckled face, “Hi Professor Smith, I'm Cassadee,” She holds out her hand and Spencer mutters, “formal introductions, huh?” before shaking her hand up and down a time or two. She smiles awkwardly for a moment and tries, none too subtly to elbow the boy beside her.
“Oh, um, Alex DeLeon,” he says, swiping the fall of his long curly hair out of his eyes.
Spencer just gives a perfunctory nod,“Okay, DeLeon, you're gonna have to tie back the locks before we get on the boat.” He makes a vague waving motion to take in the way the boy's shoulder length hair is being whipped by the wind. Alex shrugs and takes a knit cap out of his pocket, plonking it onto his head and jamming his hair up underneath. “And you're both gonna have to wear PFDs-that's life jackets in case you're confused. They're stowed on the boat. Follow me.” Spencer turns abruptly and leads the pair down the dock and onto the little boat.
Kicking open a sliding compartment, Spencer says, “Get one, put it on, don't take it off til you're on dry land. If you die, that's extra paperwork for me, and I hate paperwork.” He sounds almost bored, and has to bite down on a smirk when he sees the horrified look that passes between Cassadee and Alex. “Cash is gonna drive...” Spencer is interrupted when Cash yells back to them, “Cash always drives!” and Spencer clears his throat and continues, “He's been a lab assistant for a couple years now, so he'll be the one to show you around. If he tells you to lick, touch, or smell something, please don't do it. Please.”
The two students nod enthusiastically as the little boat sets out on its way. “Okay, before we get into taking samples and levels and all that fancy stuff that I'm fairly sure you've never done in your life,” Spencer waits a beat and sees in Cassadee and Alex's eyes that he's got them pegged, “we're going to go over a little thing called safety.” Alex twists and turns and succeeds in getting the chords for his life jacket twisted into knots. Grinning at Spencer, Cassadee tucks a stand of hair behind her ear and leans over to help.
Once both students have their PFDs securely in place, and the boat is cheerfully putting out into the river, Spencer continues, “First, PFDs, always. Second, always know where your hands and feet are at all times.” Cassadee giggles and Spencer raises an eyebrow at her. “I'm perfectly serious. The Columbia is cold, and deep. And the current is strong. Set your foot on a net,” he stops to kick at a coil of rope, “Or get your hands caught in a line,” he tugs at the thin strips of nylon that run along the gunwales, “and it's game over. I'm not going after you.” The two younger students stand wide eyed. ”But, I will miss you.” Spencer nods to emphasize his point.
They go over first aid certification and the importance of being able to swim-or as Spencer calls it-the ability to not freak out and drown immediately upon hitting the water. Alex heads off to learn the basics of small boat navigation with Cash while Spencer demonstrates how to take dissolved oxygen readings with Cassadee. She's interested and eager to learn and picks it up quickly. Spencer is relieved that he won't have to hand hold at least one of the research students through the semester and might actually get some kind of productive work done. They stay out on the water for a few hours and then head back to the lab.
“So, be here same time tomorrow and we'll recapture the magic,” Spencer nods in conclusion, and then retreats to his office.
***
The next morning, bleary eyed and clutching a giant mug of the motor-oil thick coffee the office machine seems to produce, Spencer heads out to the dock to meet the students, hoping they can set up an actual experiment today. Running an exasperated hand across his beard covered chin, he asks wearily, “Where's the other kid?” when he sees Cassadee standing by herself, flipping through the lab handbook he'd given her yesterday.
Her smile wide, she just shrugs at Spencer, digging the toe of her rubber boot into the muddy grass beside the boat house. “Fuck,” Spencer exhales in exasperation. He gulps a final mouthful of coffee, wincing at the burn, then sets his mug down on an upturned crate. “Well, c'mon then. I told him I don't fuck around, not gonna waste good weather by waiting for him.” They both turn to squint at the yellow-gray sky and the heavy clouds that are gathering over the Pacific. The boat house is eerily quiet.
Spencer hates to admit it but he's grown used to Cash blaring Li’l Wayne as he works away on engines or charts. Frowning, he walks around the empty shop. Motioning with his chin, Spencer gets Cassadee to follow him out to the dock, where all four of Point Adams' research vessels are moored, bobbing in the gentle lapping of the water. “Where the fuck is Cash?”
Closing her binder with a snap, Cassadee shrugs again and says, “How should I know?”
“Right. Shit. Okay, fuck it. We'll go to the lab and I'll get you to-I dunno-feed the fingerlings and clean tanks or some shit.” Even in his anger, Spencer manages to be impressed that Cassadee, unlike most everyone else in her class, refrains from smirking, smiling or snorting when Spencer says fingerling.
Cassadee is bright and cheerful and dutifully follows a glowering Spencer back up to the research station. Her quickness and eagerness to learn extends to the lab and its rules and routines and in no time Spencer has her set up on a cleaning, feeding, data recording schedule. “So, if you need anything, I'll just be...” he flaps a hand towards his office door.
“Sure Professor Smith, no problem.”
“Please call me Spencer,” He runs a hand across the back of his neck and is mentally calculating the kind of verbal ass kicking he'll give Cash when/if he sees him next.
Cassadee smiles wide and says, “Sure thing, Spencer. Oh, these little fellas are so cute, aren't they?” She bends towards the tank of immature white sturgeon and traces a line across the glass with her fingertip, the fish eagerly following it. “Hello darlings,” she coos. Spencer smiles.
This research student thing could work out okay for once after all.
Once safely hidden in his office, and ignoring the by-law enforcement, university endorsed and sanctioned no smoking sign posted in clear visibility on the wall, Spencer lights up a cigarette and boots up his lap top. Opening a program, he reaches for his head set and radio receiver. A month ago Spencer and Cash had caught a few male white sturgeon that were part of the last remaining school in the river estuary and implanted radio signal transmitters under their armored skins. He'd hoped to be able to track them, and in learning about the routes they traveled, learn how to save them. The radio squawks to life, and the gentle pinging of the transmitter fills Spencer's ears.
With the help of some really fucking expensive software and the mathematical know how of some of his colleagues, Spencer had managed to translate the audio signal into a radar like image on his computer screen. He happily watches the little green dots hover along the shore line and opens a spread sheet, labeling it with the day's date and entering the school’s location. Suddenly the comforting ping of the radio signal is interrupted by a high pitched screeching that makes Spencer wince. He frowns, leaning forward to fiddle with the knobs on the central receiving unit. And then, much to his amazement and horror, his ears are filled with what sounds vaguely like Hot for Teacher by Van Halen.
What. The. Fuck?
Lips a narrow, angry line, Spencer picks up the hand held radio receiver and stomps out of his office and through the lab, ignoring Cassadee's confused stare.
* * *
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Spencer storms down the beach, shouting. His rubber boots make it difficult to keep his balance amid the rocks and weeds that liter this part of the beach, causing his storming look a lot like intense, clumsy stumbling.
The guy stops, slowly pulling away the towel he’s drying his hair with, and looks up at Spencer. He smiles and holy shit! His smile is wide and bright in his tanned, freckled face, and it makes his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. Spencer actually feels a fluttering in his chest and what the fuck is up with that? “Um...trying to get the salt water outta my ears?” He tosses the towel down beside his long board, and gives a practiced tug to the pull on his neoprene wet suit.
Tripping to a halt when he finally reaches the sand, Spencer's eyes follow the narrow strip of skin as it's revealed beneath the dark blue of the guy's suit, “No, I mean this!” Spencer takes a breath and looks pointedly from the guy's surfboard to the now extinguished fire pit, and then across the beach to where a van full of the guy's buddies is pulling out onto the highway towards Hammond.
“Oh, uh...surfing?” The guy is studying Spencer, now, and while his shoulders are shaking in silent amusement, he's polite enough not to laugh outright.
Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, elbows digging into his thick sweater, “Yes, surfing! You and your friends and your noise and splashing, are ruining my fucking work!” He glowers at the guy and tries to remember how pissed he is that all his stats for the day have been thrown off because some hippie deadbeats decided to have some fun.
Who the fuck surfs in Oregon, anyway?
Aware that Spencer's angry, but clueless as to why, the guy struggles into a t-shirt and lets the wet suit fall to his hips. Running a hand through his hair until it stands up on end, he bites his lip-his incredibly full, kissable lip, Spencer's traitor of a brain supplies, and says, “Oh, uh, okay. Sorry?” But he clearly has no idea what it is he's apologizing for.
“Yeah, right, I'm sure,” Spencer snarls a little, “You have no idea what you've done. I've spent a year tracking a school of white sturgeon and now because of you I can't hear a fucking thing, and you’ve probably frightened them off forever!” He takes the radio receiver from his back pocket and waves it menacingly at the surfer.
Brown eyes go wide as Spencer launches into a speech as loud and heartfelt as it is long, detailing every single thing that the guy has ruined about his work, and his fish, and his life. Spencer pauses to take a breath and is prevented from detailing the ten year decline in white sturgeon in the Columbia river estuary due to human pollutants altering male white sturgeon physiology by a tap to the shoulder. “Oh, hey.” Spencer deflates, jamming his wildly gesturing hands in his pockets and glaring a little sheepishly at Jon Walker, the lab's limnologist and,as of one year five months and three days ago, as Ryan likes to remind him, his best friend's boyfriend.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jon says, smiling at the surfer in a way that makes it clear he's been on the receiving end of a Spencer Smith rant enough times to sympathize. “You need to sign off on these purchase orders,” he encouragingly wriggles a clip board at Spencer.
Frowning and turning away from the surfer, who shrugs to himself and resumes packing his gear, Spencer swipes the sheaf of paper from Jon's hands and then frowns even harder, his fair eyebrows furrowed. “Jesus, Jon. How big is your grant this year? More software?”
“Dude, I have the biggest grant out of all you guys!” Jon waggles his eyebrows and strokes his beard suggestively. The surfer snorts out a laugh ,and when Jon and Spencer look over he gives them a dorky thumbs up. “I mean who doesn't like a big grant? Am I right?” Jon asks the guy, chuckling.
Slapping a pair of thick black framed glasses onto his face, the guy chuckles back and says, “Grant size matters,” while nodding sagely.
Spencer groans at the lameness of his friend, and thwacks Jon in the chest with the clipboard, his signature a neat scrawl at the bottom. “Here, lameass. Go forth and do the impossible.”
“Hey! I will map the current in that god forsaken river, just you wait!” Jon mockingly raises his fist and shakes it at Spencer.
Spencer chuckles and takes his cigarettes out of his back pocket, lighting up and offering the pack to Jon, “Yeah, because that's worked so well for you these past...what is it now, five years Doc Walker?”
“Oh fuck you, I'm just taking my time and getting it right and at least I managed to get my PhD.” Jon laughs and knocks his shoulder into Spencer, “So, you coming to the big summer session shindig at our place tonight or what?”
Blowing out a long plume of smoke and an impertinent sigh through his nose, Spencer says, “Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want to continue to be Spencer Smith, best friend of Ryan Ross,” Jon rocks up on to his toes, beach gravel shifting with the movement, and smirks as he lights up his own cigarette
“That's pretty much what I thought. I'll try and get up there.” Spencer would rather pilot a dingy around the world than spend ten minutes with Ryan's pretentious hipster English department friends. Spencer's a biologist, what the fuck does he know about poetry? “Is there a theme?” He winces.
Jon just laughs at him, “Nah, we're going with a bonfire, beer, and burgers. You're welcome.” They both laugh and Jon says, “Oh and bring a date,” which makes him laugh even harder.
“What? I have a date!” Spencer scowls out over the shoreline, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
“Suuuuure you do!” Jon nods indulgently.
Yanking his knit cap further down his scowling brow and picking at his sweater, Spencer answers petulantly, “I do!”
“Wow, for real? The monk fish has a date? I'll alert the media.” Spencer sort of wants to slap the mocking grin right out of Jon's beard. He'd also like to kill Ryan Ross with his mind for coming up with that stupid nickname, which Ryan had dubbed, 'punny hahahaha'.
Giving a slight nod, Spencer's gaze cuts, surreptitious yet obvious, to where the surfer is making his way along the beach, board tucked under his arm and bag slung over his shoulder. “Dude, seriously?” Jon answers Spencer's waggling eyebrows, and pointedly glances at the rounded curve where the guy's ass fills out his suit. “Niiiice.” And then, much to Spencer's enduring horror, Jon yells at the guy, “Hey! I'm Jon, by the way! We'll see you tonight!”
Spencer watches in slow motion morbid fascination as the guy turns around and gives Jon a quizzical look. “Huh?” he says and comes back to where they're standing. Spencer does his best to will the beach to open up and swallow him whole.
“Spencer here said he invited you to our party up in Hammond tonight?” Jon rocks smugly back and forth in his flip-flops, looking for all the world benignly friendly. But Spencer knows better and can recognize the glint in his eye for the you are so busted that it is, not the Mr Friendly Non-Threatening the rest of the world sees.
Blinking, non-plussed for a second, the guy digs his board into the gravel and then smiles, wide and genuine, “Oh, yeah. Of course Spencer did.” He's doing that silent, shoulder hitching laugh thing again. “I'm Brendon,” he holds out his hand to Jon who shakes it, his expression a combination of wary and confused. “I'm meeting you up at the old lifeboat station at eight, right?” He cocks his head to the side, still smiling brightly.
Spencer stands there scowling and smoking, before he says, “Uh, yeah.”
“Right, so I'll see you then!” He raises a hand in farewell and, still smiling, picks up his board and heads once more down the beach.
After Brendon leaves, Jon stands there just staring at Spencer. Spencer can tell Jon's waiting for him to say something, but Spencer has nothing to say. He's not even sure what just happened, or why. Continuing to study the waterline, Spencer says, “Don't you have data to plug into a program, or more grants to apply for or something?”
***
A faint knock on Spencer's office door causes him to jump in his seat. He stands up, feeling the pop and snap as each and every vertebrae voices their opinion on how long he's been sitting staring at spread sheets, and distractedly twists the door knob.
“Um, hey,” Brendon is standing awkwardly in the doorway, smile wide and a little nervous.
Spencer can't help the way his eyes widen and the staring he does. Brendon. Standing in his doorway. He didn't know it was possible for Brendon to be hotter than he was at the beach, but right now, in black jeans and a dark red button down shirt, he is. He totally, totally is. “Oh, uhn you came?”
Glancing at the wall clock behind Spencer's head, Brendon's forehead wrinkles in slight confusion and he says, “Um, yeah? Eight. That's what we agreed on, right?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Unless you were fucking with me?”
Standing there staring at Brendon and scratching absently at his sweater were it clings just a little to the slight curve of his belly, Spencer manages to shake his head, comically slow-motion slow and says, “No, no. I just...didn't think you'd come?” He finishes lamely.
“Dude! When a hot guy invites me to a party I am not gonna say no!” his grin frames a goofy giggle that scrunches up his eyes.
Blinking dumbly, Spencer says, “You think I'm hot?”
A slow pink blush creeps across Brendon's freckle spattered cheeks and he scratches his nose, shoulders hitching, “Well, your buddy's not bad but...”
“So, yeah, uh just gimme a sec?” Spencer turns away from the door, hurriedly stacking papers and powering down his computer. He blows out a breath, runs his fingers through his hair, tugs his sweater over his head. Fingers smoothing down his t-shirt, he slaps on a smile then turns back to Brendon.
“Ready?” Brendon meets Spencer's forced smile with a not-quite-sure smile of his own. Spencer just nods and grabs his key ring, directing Brendon out of his office with a cautiously light hand to his lower back. “Wow! These guys are awesome! Are they what you're researching?” Brendon stops at the fingerling tank to peer at the tiny silver fish as they glide through the water.
Realizing that Brendon's interest and enthusiasm is sincere, Spencer's smile slides into a more genuine expression. “Yeah, mostly on how pollution in the estuary is affecting male fertility rates in white sturgeon.”
Brendon frowns and then smiles back at Spencer, “That's really cool. The river is so fucked up. It's good to know that someone is interested in saving it and the little critters who live there.”
Spencer waits a beat to see if Brendon is making fun of him. Impressed that he didn't snicker or giggle at the mention of fertility, Spencer nods and says, “Yeah,” before crossing to the lab's exit.
“Shit,” Spencer stops dead before they even reach the parking lot. “I, um, I usually just take the field station's jeep,” he reaches up in a futile attempt to smooth down his hair as the wind whips it around. “But that fucker Colligan-my research assistant-took it without asking first.”
“Oh, well, I have my car.” With a tilt of his chin, Brendon indicates an aging yellow station wagon parked in a visitor spot, “If you don't mind me driving, you can just tell me where we're going?”
Hesitating slightly, Spencer shrugs and thinks what the fuck. “Sure, thanks,” they both plunk down into the station wagon and Spencer inhales; noting the overwhelming sent of stale seawater and sand. He also notes that the car's interior is spotless and wonders whether Brendon is a neat freak or whether he cleaned out the car as some kind of attempt to impress Spencer on their date...or whatever this is.
Brendon smiles a little nervously at Spencer and says, “You can fuck around with my iPod if you want,” and nods towards the car's stereo before turning his head to back out of the parking spot and onto the road leading into town.
Completely unsurprised to find almost all of Jack Johnson's catalog, Spencer snorts and clicks on a Regina Spektor album instead. “So, surfing huh?”
“Yeah,” Brendon taps his hands against the steering wheel, in time to the music as his fingers mime the piano notes that float softly in the air between them.
“I would have thought you'd be down in California or something. Isn't that where most of the surfers are?”
Grin widening, Brendon says, “Oh sure, you can surf there. I started out there, down around Santa Monica. But it gets old fast. Sort of lost interest in doing the same thing as everyone else. I like a challenge,” and Spencer’s can’t be sure he’s not imagining it when for a split second Brendon smirks and casts the most fleeting of sidelong glances towards him. “The current around the shore here is fucked and there are way more rad waves than down the coast.”
Spencer raises a judgmental eyebrow at Brendon's use of the word rad but keeps his opinions to himself. “So, you're from California?”
“Nah man, originally from Vegas, but you can't really surf on Lake Mead.” Brendon chuckles and flicks on his indicator light, angling the aging Volvo down the coastal road that runs the thirty miles into town.
His laugh sounds a little less brittle when Spencer smiles agreeably at Brendon’s Lake Mead crack, “Seriously, and then there’s all those houseboats you’d have to dodge.”
“You been to Vegas?” Brendon quirks an eyebrow at Spencer and takes one hand off the wheel to adjust the stereo’s volume.
“Yup,” Spencer quirks his own eyebrow at Brendon’s expression of surprise. “From there. Lived in Summerlin 'til I came out here for school,” Spencer can't help but deepen his smile when he sees Brendon's expression morph from surprise to delight. “Figures, who else but dudes who grew up in the desert would think that fucking around on the Columbia was a good way to spend time?”
Brendon snorts his agreement, “Yeah even more fucked up, I totally want to surf the North Atlantic--you know, Scotland and Nova Scotia. That shit is supposed to be a fucking rush.”
Just the thought of all that icy cold water closing in around him is enough to make Spencer cross his arms protectively across his chest as he swallows uncomfortably, “Sounds fantastic,” his words drip with sarcasm.
“Yeah well, we all get our kicks somehow, right?” Brendon nods enthusiastically.
“Apparently I get mine by asking guys I just met to come meet my friends,” Spencer laughs.
His smile disappearing, Brendon says, “Um, yeah, so I think maybe I put you in an awkward position--Monkfish?”
Spencer reaches over to turn up the radio and then sinks back into the passenger seat, thinking that maybe being swallowed whole by the Atlantic Ocean wouldn’t be that horrible after all, “Yeah, um my friend Ryan--we’re going to is house--thinks he’s hilarious and likes to give people this nicknames. I just because I haven’t um...dated anyone in a while he thinks I’m...”
“A monk?” Brendon turns to meet Spencer’s embarrassed gaze for a few seconds and then says, “And you like fish so...”
“He thinks he’s hilarious. Which is probably good because no one else does. I mean Jon humors him but...Ryan’s teaches poetry.”
And that’s all the explanation Brendon requires as they finish the drive into Hammond companionably chatting about the university and the sleepy little town and Spencer’s handful of oddball friends, made mostly courtesy of Ryan’s ability to attract people equally as strange as him, but in entirely different ways. Spencer feels it’s only fair for Brendon to know what he’s getting in to.
After a series of directions comprised mostly of complicated hand gestures that Brendon follows with ease, they turn into Jon and Ryan’s street. The road is lined with cars parked on either side “Sorry,” Spencer mutters apologetically at Brendon when they’re forced to park several streets over.
“No worries,” Brendon shrugs and smiles encouragingly back, falling easily in to step with Spencer.
Spencer jams his hands in his pockets to avoid the distraction of his knuckles bumping into Brendon’s every time they swing their arms. As soon as they get to the pathway leading up to Jon and Ryan’s old Victorian house, Spencer feels the eyes of the few couples sprawled out on the wide veranda. He nods in greeting to those he recognizes, and places a hand low on Brendon’s back to usher him through the door.
Years of friendship means that both Spencer and Ryan had long ago abandoned such social niceties as knocking, so Spencer simply opens the front door and, holding his arm out wide, allows Brendon to enter first. Not that anyone could have heard the door bell over the din of the stereo anyway, and before Spencer can do more than push past the guests blocking the front entry way, Jon has sidled up to Brendon and is yelling, “I swear to god, he’s never even heard of Pet Sounds! How is that possible, I ask you? Come with me, we need an impartial third party to convince Ryan the Beach Boys are fucking awesome!”
Brendon turns his head to give Spencer a baffled, amused look as Jon hooks their elbows together and drags Brendon off through the crowd. Spencer makes a displeased sound at the back of his throat, and instead of following after the pair, heads towards where prior experience has told him the beer is. He downs one quickly, then leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of himself, surveying the living room full of people.
Trust the weirdos Jon and Ryan know to arrive at a party early.
Several minutes pass and still Brendon hasn’t returned from where Jon dragged him off to, so Spencer has another beer. And another. His tolerance for chit-chat grows with every beer he drinks and by beer five, or six, he’s actually having a pretty decent conversation about the cinematography in Rosemary’s Baby, with Shane, a guy Ryan met in Avant Garde Film Club--seriously, Avant Garde Film Club--when he finally spies what he’s pretty sure are Brendon’s finger tips waving in the air.
Spencer heads towards the fingers and then stops cold. An impromptu dance floor has taken shape in the space between Ryan’s entertainment unit and his and Jon’s matching barca loungers. And Brendon is dancing. And his hips are kind of hypnotic, and he’s laughing and smiling and his hair is in his face. And he looks like an angel. Okay, so Spencer may have had a shot or two in between beers. And the arm that is not waving over Brendon’s head is wound round the broad shoulders of the man he’s dancing with.
Bob. Bob fucking Bryar. What the actual fuck? Brendon is dancing with Spencer’s boss, whom Spencer is quite sure Jon invited for the express purpose of humiliating him. Spencer stops mid-step and does a tipsy about face.
He makes it to the backyard and is grateful for the cool night air across his bearded cheeks. The yard is full of crabgrass, moss, and lichen and Spencer had spent all last summer building a stone wall beyond the treeline to ensure Jon and Ryan’s dogs stay put, and also to make sure Ryan didn’t pitch over the steep hill that leads down to the highway. He takes a seat on a pile of quickly mildewing lumber Ryan had made Spencer purchase, after Jon started making noises about building a deck back here, which made no sense considering the amount of rainfall this part of Oregon gets.
Sometimes his friends don’t really make sense.
Spencer presses his now mostly empty beer bottle to his forehead and wonders why who Brendon’s dancing with matters so much to him. It’s not like they know each other, or really anything about each other. Sure, Brendon pretty much admitted that he found Spencer hot. And Spencer can fully admit, at least to himself anyway, that he’s attracted to Brendon--who wouldn’t be?---but it’s purely a biological urge.
And that right there is the problem. Superficial attraction has been the basis for every single one of Spencer’s horribly failed relationships.
Fuck biology.
Spencer’s sitting there, slowly moving the now sweating beer bottle across his forehead in the gloomy yard when he hears the telltale creak of the rusty back door hinges. The sky is a deepening velvet grey, and the ever present clouds send long shadows across the yard, so Spencer is safely hidden from the view of whomever has come outside. He sees the orange-red flare of a cigarette’s glow and hears a long, satisfied sigh as the person takes the first drag.
Brendon is leaning against the house, smoking. And he’s alone, “Finally,” Spencer mutters under his breath. He sets the empty Corona bottle down and stands, swiping stray bits of wood and moss from his jeans, and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. Then, without thinking about it too much, he heads to where Brendon is standing.
“Oh, there you are!” Brendon smiles and exhales a long plume of smoke from the side of his mouth up into the deepening dark of the night sky.
Deftly snagging the cigarette from Brendon’s hand and bringing it to his own lips, Spencer leans against the house and says, “Yep, here I am.”
“I was getting kinda worried that you ditched me,” Brendon’s shoulders shake with a deprecating giggle as he takes another cigarette out of his pack and lights up.
“I dunno, you seemed like you were doing okay,” Spencer takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and immediately exhales to cover up the petulant undertone in his voice.
Brendon’s eyebrows raise in surprise at Spencer’s words, “Oh, like, the dancing? You saw me? Your friends are fun. But,” he ducks his head then, looking up at Spencer through the fall of dark hair across his eyes, “they’re not you.”
Blinking slowly and made bold by the alcohol in his veins and the nicotine in his lungs, Spencer flicks what’s left of his cigarette into the yard, and without further thought leans in to cover Brendon’s mouth with his own. There is nothing gentle about the kiss, Spencer presses his teeth to the fullness of Brendon’s bottom lip, making him gasp. His eyes briefly widen then fall closed as his hands come to rest on Spencer’s hips.
Taking that as invitation, Spencer’s tongue swipes across the bitten skin of Brendon’s lips before slipping between them. Brendon groans and his grip on Spencer’s waist tightens. Returning his groan, Spencer pushes a leg between Brendon’s and pins him to the wall, brick pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt. Spencer’s fingers grip Brendon’s shoulders bruisingly tight, but he still doesn’t stop the insistent exploration of the kiss. Finally, Brendon’s slides his lips across the scrape of Spencer’s beard and onto his neck. Panting hard, his whisper is a harsh stutter of breath against heated skin when he says, “Shit, I’ve been waiting for you to do that all night.”
“Yeah,” there’s a wicked glint in Spencer’s blue eyes. He seems to take Brendon’s words as a challenge for more, ducking his head and finding Brendon’s lips, hands sliding up Brendon’s arms to tangle in the thick strands of his hair. Grunting, Brendon eagerly yields to the force of Spencer’s kiss and moves closer still, his hips shifting against the rough denim of Spencer’s jeans. Their teeth clash when Spencer shoves Brendon roughly against the crumbling brick of the house, and Brendon moves his head away from the probing urgency of Spencer’s mouth to curse, ‘fuck,” as he struggles for breath.
Spencer doesn’t move his hips from where they’re rather forcefully pinioning Brendon in place, “You been waiting for that all night too?” He arches one eye brow in demanding inquiry.
Smirking, Brendon says, “Maybe all day too,” in a low throaty voice that makes Spencer growl and once more press in for a determined kiss, biting away at Brendon's smug expression, and snugging his knee between Brendon's sprawled thighs. Brendon just holds on tighter, arching impossibly closer and whispers against Spencer's lips, “What you got in mind?”
It's Spencer's turn to struggle for breath, and he bites at the arch of Brendon's throat. “I want...” he mumbles against Brendon's heated skin.
“What? What do you want, Spencer?” Brendon moves his hands from Spencer's waist up under his t-shirt. “Ask me. Ask me anything. Everything, just...” he stutters to a stop as another moan escapes his throat at the shift and press of Spencer's knee against his erection.
“I want...this.” Spencer manages to gasp into the sweat-damp collar of Brendon's shirt. “Fuck do I want,” in a daze, he noses the fabric out of the way so he can use teeth and lips to suck angry welts--red blood just under the surface of Brendon's pale skin made almost black by the failing light of approaching night--across the starkly pronounced rise of Brendon's collar bones.
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