bandombigbang Wave 2 Brendon/Spencer Don't Drink the Water part 2
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Brendon makes soft sounds of encouragement and his hips cant forward, seeking the friction of Spencer's thigh. The harshness of his breathing ratchets upwards as Spencer rests his full weight against Brendon, slumping to mouth messy and wet across the slippery cotton of Brendon's shirt.
Emboldened by alcohol and the fierce ache of the want coursing through his veins, Spencer uses his teeth and, with a growl, tugs hard enough to rip several buttons from their place. He licks his lips and presses his face into Brendon's belly, inhaling the sharp tang of his sweat, his tongue tracing a trail downwards.
Brendon's hands move up Spencer's body as Spencer does an unsteady, slow-motion not quite fall, stopping to rest his cheek against the leather and metal of Brendon's belt buckle. Brendon's hands hover in uncertainty above Spencer's head. “Wanna blow you,” Spencer slurs into tight denim.
“Fuck, yeah!” Brendon husks around an audible swallow. His fingers thread through Spencer's hair as he attempts to keep his balance, shifting against the crumbling brick as it digs uncomfortably into bare skin.
“You pull my hair, I'll fuckin' bite,” Spencer stares up at Brendon, his blue eyes narrowed in a tipsy attempt at menace.
“Oh yeah?” Brendon meets the cool gaze unflinchingly. He gives a teasing pull to a hank of Spencer's hair and laughs weirdly loud in the stillness of the yard. Spencer flashes a feral grin and snaps his teeth, nipping at the fragile skin around Brendon's bared navel, licking at the shake of Brendon's stomach as he laughs. Spencer's not quite sober enough to undo Brendon's belt buckle, snaps, and zipper. And after several failed attempts, Brendon strokes a capable hand over Spencer's fumbling fingers, making short work of his belt, and roughly yanking his jeans down to the tops of his thighs. Spencer can't help the low, greedy noise that rumbles up from the back of his throat at the sight of Brendon, hard and leaking in his briefs. A lucky flick of his wrist and Spencer flips down Brendon's waistband, nosing roughly at the dark whorls of Brendon's neatly trimmed pubic hair, inhaling his scent.
The feeling of Spencer's hot breath on his cock makes Brendon whine and shuffle, fingers restless against Spencer's skull, but very carefully not tugging. “Fuck yeah,” he says again, this time in a needy whimper. “You gonna suck my dick now, huh? Right here?” His words are punctuated by loud laughter and a thump just inside the back door, perilously close to where Spencer and Brendon are leaning.
Spencer wordlessly makes his approval of what Brendon's said known when he slicks his tongue along the turgid length of Brendon's cock. “Shit, you're not even in a hurry, are you?” Brendon fidgets under Spencer's close attention, his voice becoming increasingly high and breathy. “That turn you on? You thinking about what'll happen if they bring the party outside?” Spencer purrs his assent, jacking Brendon's cock a few times, then teasing at the slit with the tip of his tongue.
“We gotta be quiet,” Brendon stage whispers, before muttering a series of curses under his breath when Spencer swallows him down. Brendon can feel the muscles of Spencer's throat working his length as his tongue strokes over the sensitive nerves near the head of his cock. “Shit, I bet you want everyone to see how fucking good you are at this, right? Want 'em to watch your pretty mouth just fucking take all of my cock.” Brendon tugs approvingly at Spencer's hair.
Listening to Brendon, thinking about what he's saying, Spencer can't help it, he lowers his hand from where it’s echoing the movement of his mouth on Brendon's cock, down to relieve some of the pressure on his own straining erection. He digs the heel of his hand against the bulging denim and draws back for a breath, slurping kisses along Brendon's slicked shaft, and exhaling a shaky breath when he nuzzles at Brendon's balls.
Brendon is pushing back awkwardly against the house. It's the only thing keeping him upright. “C'mon Spencer. Get me off then fuck me.” He whines and looks down at Spencer through heavy lidded eyes.
“Shit yes,” Spencer bites Brendon's hip hard enough to leave marks, then slowly, his eyes never leaving Brendon's and unable to stop the pleased with himself expression flirting around the corners of his lips, Spencer sucks the leaking length of Brendon's cock back into his mouth. He fumbles with his own zipper, fingers easing a little of the sharp-edged ache of his own cock, just as hard and leaking as Brendon's, in his own hand.
Brendon's hips buck up to meet Spencer's mouth, the pace of the rhythm he's trying to set faster now, but his hands just pet encouragement across the soft strands of Spencer's hair. “You have such a dirty-- such a fuckin' awesome mouth,” Brendon babbles. At one particularly dirty lave of Spencer's tongue across his cock, Brendon tugs at a fistful of Spencer's hair.
Spencer's eyes flash a warning and he takes his hand away from where he's giving the base of Brendon's cock wicked, twisting strokes to slap a stinging blow across the tops of Brendon's thighs. And that's all it takes before Brendon's hacking out a noise razor edged between pain and pleasure and his come is slicking down Spencer's throat and filling his mouth. Sucking and licking and breathing carefully through his nose, Spencer makes greedy noises, making a show of slurping appreciatively at Brendon's cock.
There's a crash from inside the house, and both Spencer and Brendon haven't forgotten where they are. They're both still hyper aware of the room full of party goers on the other side of the wall. Grimacing as the aftershocks of Brendon's orgasm force him to mincingly rock up into his mouth, Spencer pulls off of Brendon's cock, sinking back onto his haunches. There's a string of spittle glistening in the growing moonlight as it threads from Brendon's softening cock to the short hairs of Spencer's beard. Spencer grunts out a weak laugh then smears his wet pink lips together, catching beads of come and spit and sweat that he missed.
Brendon looks, well, he looks wrecked. He's slumped against the wall, eyes dazed and unfocused. His jeans are still bunched and rolled uncomfortably tight at the tops of his thighs, the slight dark hair there making shadows against his skin. His shirt is in ruins, ripped threads and loose buttons hanging precariously from where Spencer had yanked at them. Spencer watches, hypnotized, as a bead of sweat chases the lean cut of muscle across Brendon's chest and stomach. After a few fortifying breaths, Brendon swipes a palm across his face, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes and giggles. “Holy shit!”
Whether because of the giggle, or the challenging look in Brendon's eye, or months of coiled tight want-- or maybe all three-- Spencer feels something click into place in his brain as he springs to his feet. Once more pressing Brendon back into the bricks, Spencer finds Brendon's mouth, roughly pressing it open with his own.
Brendon's eyes go shocked wide at the feeling of his own spunk slicking from Spencer's tongue to his own. He groans and laps, greedy for the taste. Spencer kisses him harder, grinding his erection into Brendon's bared thigh and grunting into his mouth. His hands come up to cradle the back of Brendon's head and he tugs at the dark strands of Brendon's hair until Brendon is moaning and gasping. “You been thinking about fucking all day, that mean you came prepared for the party?” Spencer murmurs as he switches positions, leaning up and away from Brendon's mouth to bite at the soft skin behind his ear
“What the fuck do you think?” Brendon raises his hands, pushing palms flat against Spencer's heaving chest to put a little space between them and then, he winks.
* * *
Spencer wakes slowly. Every muscle aches and it feels like at sometime in the night, someone had peeled back his scalp, sawed open his skull and shoved hot coals into his brain. He shifts from his uncomfortable hunch, arms and legs flung wide. He opens one eye in a squint and it all comes rushing back. He's naked, wrapped in a bright orange tarp. Brendon. Shit. Spencer sits up too fast-jostling his head and the meager contents of his stomach---and lays back on his elbows, panting. Panting for a few minutes and running his hands through the messy riot of his hair, Spencer starts to get to his feet.
As he stands, new pains flair to life along his shoulders and lower back and through his thighs. Brendon, Spencer notices, is nowhere to be found. Holding a hand up to block most of the bright light streaming through the dirt and dust covered windows, Spencer curses softly under his breath when he realizes that not only is it morning, the day is probably well on its way towards afternoon. He stands, utterly perplexed in the center of the potting shed. Hands on hips, index finger scratching idly at a dried patch of something he'd rather not think about, Spencer tries to determine what he should do next. Nobody saw him come across the garden with Brendon, that he's sure of, at least. But, Brendon had picked him up at the lab and was now missing, so Spencer could only conclude that he'd gone home.
Which leaves Spencer naked in Ryan and Jon's potting shed, holding on to an orange tarp and the precious little of his dignity that remains. He has no doubt that will evaporate the moment he sets foot in the house, and Ryan and Jon piece together what he got up to the night before. But first, he needs to find his clothes. Raising a hand from his hip to run it through his beard, Spencer looks around the small room, unsure at exactly what point the night before he got totally, completely naked.
He doesn't have to look too hard though, his shirt and jeans and the rest of his clothes are folded neatly atop a step ladder, his sneakers placed just so beside them. Picking slowly and carefully through the detritus of long abandoned gardening paraphernalia, Spencer slowly makes his way over to his clothes. Perched jauntily on top is his iPhone, and next to that, a scrap of paper that has Call me! :) <3 -Bden scrawled across it in black sharpie. Taking as deep a breath as his sore muscles can bear, Spencer exhales and flicks on his phone.
“Shit,” Spencer says, loud in the quiet. Yep. There it was, cleverly stored in his contacts under 'Bden' Brendon had left not only his phone number, but his last name--Brendon Urie-- Spencer taps the screen, and his email address.
Scratching his nose, Spencer stares at the screen for long minutes and then tucks it into the pocket of his still folded jeans. A quick search of the clothing pile reveals Spencer's boxer shorts. With a short tug and a perfunctory check to make sure they aren't too disgusting to bear, Spencer slips them on. He has to sit down onto the pile of clothes and pant a little; trying not to vomit.
With painstaking slowness, Spencer eventually gets dress in yesterday's clothes. He makes it as far as just outside the shed door before he has to spew his guts into the overgrown lillies. Spitting out the taste of his puke, Spencer takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He's still hidden from view and takes the last few moments he can before going into the house and facing whatever it is that Jon and Ryan have to throw at him.
* * *
Spencer doesn't call Brendon.
But, Brendon must have got Spencer's number, because Brendon certainly calls Spencer. Spencer never answers. He is always too busy, or distracted or his phone is dead or he forgot his phone at the office. He has Brendon's phone number memorized. Brendon texts. Dozens of texts-about his day and his dog and even sends photos of his lunches and dinners. Spencer doesn't text back. That doesn't seem to matter to Brendon. He is persistent. Spencer will give him that.
See, the thing is, Spencer knows he's being a douche, okay? He knows it's just a matter of picking up the phone or even firing back an LOL to one of Brendon's texts. It's not like he actually set out to be awful to Brendon. It just sort of happens. Because Spencer has no idea how to handle this. He's never 'hooked up' in his life. Never once had a one night stand. And okay so maybe deep in his first year bio student mocking heart, Spencer wants what Jon and Ryan have. And maybe in the past Spencer had tried to find that with guys who really should have been one night stands.
But now, weeks have gone by and Brendon seems unaware that he was Spencer's experiment in casual sex. And Spencer has no idea what to do with that. He keeps ignoring Brendon. Why won't he go away?
“Hey Prof...Spencer, you have a visitor,” Cassadee's muffled, tinny voice interrupts Spencer's mental meanderings.
Wheeling his desk chair over to the phone he asks “A visitor?” Spencer glances at the clock above his computer where he's got a few spread sheets open, but had been staring into space. “Who is it?”
The intercom squawks to life again, only this time a bright, cheerful, male voice says, “Hi Spencer it's Brendon. I was driving around looking for new beaches and thought I'd see if you wanted to go into Hammond for a coffee or something?”
Jesus. “I'm really busy right now.” Spencer snaps. He then lowers his face to his desk blotter and carefully and with exact precision, starts to thump his forehead against the heavy wood. Before he knows what's happening, Spencer's office door bursts open and Brendon bounds in, a wary looking Cassadee hot on his heels.
“Come with me! Come on. You can't stay in this office all night!” Brendon smiles cheerfully and looks far more beautiful anyone in a Jesus is the Rock of my Salvation t-shirt and ripped up jeans ever should.
Spencer looks away quickly before he can give in to the pleading look in Brendon's dark eyes. “I have. I probably will. I need to get this shit done. Unlike some people I can't spend my days lounging on the beach.” He crosses his arms and runs his fingers across his beard covered chin, before turning back to his computer.
He doesn't look up when he hears the door softly click shut. He doesn't think about how ashamed of himself he is. Or how hurt Brendon must be.
* * *
“As your best friend, I feel it's my sworn duty to call you on your bullshit.” Spencer almost flings his coffee mug across the room in surprise when he opens his locked office door to see Ryan perched on the corner of his desk.
Grumpily setting his mug and folders on the desk and mopping at his sweater with his free hand, Spencer sighs heavily. Feigning patience, he settles into his chair and says, “What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities now, oh wise one?”
“Brendon,” Ryan crosses one long leg over his knee and scowls.
“Could you just drop it?” Spencer sits up, spine stiff.
Ryan pulls his fedora down more securely over his curls, “You're hurting his feelings.”
“How do you know that? How do you know Brendon? Why are you talking about his feelings? What the fuck, Ry,” Spencer's eyes narrow as he picks up his mug and takes a fortifying gulp.
“Since the party. He's been kind of hanging out. Jon and I, we like him. He's good people.” Ryan nods for emphasis.
“Since when do you say shit like good people' And you don't know what you're talking about and it's none of your business.”
Stealing Spencer's mug and draining the contents with relish, Ryan wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and says, “I'm your best friend. Also, you defiled the sanctity of my future writing cottage, so you kind of made it my business.” He screws up his face in an exaggerated expression of disgust.
“Fuck you,” Spencer says without any kind of malice.
“Look Spencer, I know your ex was a douchebag...” Ryan's learned from experience that using names is a very bad idea.
“A lying cheating two timing douchebag who forgot to tell me he's not gay just fucking around,” Spencer interrupts.
Waving a dismissive hand, Ryan replies, “Ancient history. And just because you got your heart broken by an asshole, that does not give you the right to be an asshole now.”
“I just,” Spencer looks down at where he's picking at the hem of his sweater, “I thought; okay. Hook up. I can do this. I had a plan. Brendon's hot. We'd drink a lot. We'd fuck. And life would go on.”
Ryan blinks at him for long silent seconds. “That has got to be the stupidest plan I have ever heard. I mean you might be a genius when it comes to planning experiments or like, saving the lives of millions of hideously ugly fish, or whatever. But? When it comes to like, life plans and shit? You totally suck.”
“What if he's just like the others?” Spencer says it quietly. It's the first time he's ever given voice to the one thought that's plagued him since Brendon's first voice mail message.
“What if he's not?” Ryan stands and lays a hand on Spencer's shoulder. “What if he's the one, you know?”
“Not everyone gets a Jon Walker,” Spencer's smile is sad when he turns his head to rest it against Ryan's arm.
A fiercely possessive expression flickers across Ryan's usually placid face, “Damn straight. He's mine. But dude, everyone deserves to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And what if Brendon's it? And even if he's not, it's just fucking coffee.”
* * *
“Fuck,” Spencer reads the email from the dean again, just to make sure he hasn't misunderstood. Nope, there it is in polite academic politco speak; if Spencer's lab doesn't start producing results, never mind the number of papers he's published, the entire thing is going to be shut down and he'll have to work out of a closet sized office back at the university in Hammond. “Fuck that shit,” Spencer mutters, “I'll show them results.” Despite or maybe because of the ridiculously early hour, Spencer angrily stands up from his desk and stalks out to the boat house.
“Cash!” he yells, walking towards the little thirteen foot Sculpin, “Cash get your ass in gear, we gotta go out, now!” Stooping to yank on his rubber boots, Spencer is still mumbling under his breath about the possibility of being forced back to Hammond and out of Port Adams. He's just about to yell again when he notices a scrap of paper tacked to the shop door: Hung over. In @ noon. -$
Well. Shit. Spencer would fire the kid if he wasn't a whiz at keeping the various research vessels in working order and happily did whatever grunt work Spencer foisted off on him, when he wasn't off drinking, or running the boats into the dock. Still fired up from the annoying news he'd woken up to, Spencer grabs the boat keys off the hook and heads out to the dock, taking the bag of equipment he needs and jumping down into the little boat.
Key in the ignition, the boat's engine roars to life and Spencer steers it away from the dock and out into the open water of the Columbia river. Preoccupied and angry Spencer squints across the choppy water, looking for the buoys Cassadee and Cash had set out last week. He is silently thankful that the early hour means there's very little river traffic. He finds the first buoy set just where the river curves, spilling into the Pacific. Grunting with effort, Spencer drops the anchor and turns to start taking the meters out of the kit bag. Just as he does so a swell jostles the boat, sending Spencer and some expensive equipment sprawling across the deck.
Muttering curses against Cash Colligan and any and all future generations of Colligans, Spencer heaves a sigh and rolls up from the wet deck, scooping up the equipment as he gets to his feet. Setting the correct depth and location, Spencer moves to the side of the boat, intending to throw the dissolved oxygen meter into the murky river. Squinting skyward, he notices what had started out as a clear and sunny morning had changed, dark clouds now in no hurry to blow across the river and out to sea. He steadies himself, swaying in gentle time to the increasing rocking of the boat. Spencer hates boats. He really hates boats. Cash can pilot any and all research vessels at Point Adams for the rest of forever and Spencer would be perfectly happy about that. But Cash isn't here now, so Spencer gives himself a shake and heads to the side of the boat. As he's leaned over lowering the equipment, a huge swell slams the hull, and before he knows what's happening, Spencer slips, then slides, then pitches over the side of the boat.
His first thought is that clearly he needs to pay more attention to his own 'be aware of your hands and feet at all times' speech. His second thought is that he is clearly an idiot with no sense of self preservation and was so busy fuming about being called unprofessional by the University, and Cash's hang over, that he'd forgotten to put on a PFD.
Spencer's last thought is that this is a really fucking stupid way to die.
It's his last thought because the back of his head makes thumping contact with the aluminum side of the
the Sculpin, and then the world fades to darkness.
***
Spencer awakens, coughing and sputtering, stinging salt water pouring from his nose and mouth. He opens his eyes, blinking against the sun, and staring straight into Brendon's brown eyes, wide with concern. “Oh, thank God,” Brendon says enthusiastically, helping Spencer to sit up.
“What? I mean, I don't...How did you?” A coughing spasm interrupts Spencer's confusion and he gasps for breath, shoving the fall of his soaking wet hair out of his eyes.
Sitting back onto the sand, a comforting hand patting Spencer between the shoulders, Brendon smiles, “I saw you. Was just about to go out,” he crooks his thumb towards his surfboard lying on the beach beside them.
Blinking stupidly at Brendon's wet suit, Spencer leans back on his elbows. “Oh, well um, thanks.”
“No problem,” Brendon chuckles and extends a hand to help Spencer up from the beach. “C'mon, we should take you into Hammond, go to the clinic and get you checked out.”
Groaning, Spencer manages to struggle to his feet. He's missing a boot and his sweater and jeans are heavy with sea water. “That's not...I should get back to the boat. You don't need to take me,” His protests die in another fit of coughing. He blinks, embarrassed as he bends over and spews yet more water over the beach rocks.
“Yes, I do need to take you. The whole point of fishing your sorry ass out of the water was so you don't die,” Brendon says sternly, taking Spencer by the elbow and directing him up the beach to the parking lot. “Someone from your lab can go out and get the boat, it's fine.” He motions towards the mouth of the river and the Sculpin is there, safely anchored and bobbing jauntily in the sun dappled water.
They trudge slowly and carefully to Brendon's car, Spencer having to stop several times to vomit. By the time they reach the old yellow Volvo station wagon, Spencer's panting, and he's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. “Shit,” Brendon pats at Spencer's sweater, and water squelches beneath his hand. “You're probably in shock.” He leans Spencer heavily against the passenger door and hustles around to the hatch. Rummaging around in the back of the car for a few seconds, Brendon pops back up with an armful of clothes. “Here, put these on,” he shoves them at Spencer, his tone firm and no nonsense.
Spencer looks from the clothes to Brendon, and stands mutely against the car. “For fuck's sake, Spencer, I'm not gonna fuckin' molest you or something. You're soaked and shivering, and I kind of don't want you to die of hypothermia in my car on the way to the hospital.” Brendon takes an angry step forward and yanks at Spencer's dripping sweater. After a few seconds of staring, Brendon just sighs and stalks to the back of the car, where he shimmies out of his own wet things and into his dry street clothes. After a few more sputtering coughs Spencer shrugs and manages to get into the clothes Brendon has provided with relative ease. The jogging pants are too short and the elastic cuts into his hips, and the t-shirt is too small, but they're warm and dry and smell like Brendon, and Spencer leans heavily against the car once he's finished redressing.
“Hey, hey you alright?” Dark eyes clouded with concern, Brendon quickly rounds the car to clutch Spencer's arm, just as he's starting to slump to the ground. “Here, buddy. Sit down before you fall down.” Brendon manages to wrestle the passenger door open with a minimal amount of fuss, and after brushing a stack of papers onto the floor, he helps guide Spencer into the seat, carefully leaning across him to fasten the seat belt.
“Thanks,” Spencer croaks. Brendon tosses the jumbled pile of Spencer's soaked clothes and boot into the back seat and then slips behind the wheel. “I don't have any shoes,” Spencer announces rather stupidly, wriggling his naked pruney toes against the black of the cart mat.
Brendon gives him a reassuring smile and says, “No sweat. And I don't think the clinic's too sticky on the no shoes no service front,” before he drives out towards the highway.
The quiet in the car is only broken by the unobtrusive sound of Brendon's iPod on low, playing something soft and instrumental. “I almost died,” Spencer says like it just occurred to him. And maybe it has, now that he's not puking up the Pacific Ocean and his teeth aren't chattering, and Brendon isn't touching him.
“Yeah, but you didn't,” Brendon quick smile wrinkles his nose and he cocks his head, looking at Spencer. Spencer can feel the weight of Brendon's stare, even though his eyes are obscured by sunglasses and he turns his attention back to the road just as quickly.
Spencer fusses with the buckle of the seat belt and the elastic waistband of the too small pants he's wearing. As he looks down his attention shifts to the stack of papers Brendon had cleared from the seat. He hooks the lanyard of a small plasticized ID badge with his bare toes and with careful, stilted movements drags it up, bringing it in close to read it. “Dr Brendon Urie?” He says aloud, stunned and staring at the university issued card in his hands.
Looking embarrassed Brendon bites his lip and chuckles nervously, “Um, yep. Got my PhD in Estuary Sea Grass Biodiversity a couple of years ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me? Shit, are you one of the people Bryar conned into taking some of my lecture topics?”
Adjusting his sunglasses before putting his hands back on the steering wheel, Brendon shrugs again, the thin blue material of his t-shirt bunching between his shoulders, “Um...it never came up? And yeah I guess so, right? I think I'm scheduled for 9 am next Wednesday.”
“But...” Spencer stammers, “I treated you like you were just some hot, asshole, idiot surfer!” As if he didn't already feel guilty and awkward about how he reacted to Brendon after Jon and Ryan's party, he feels worse now, “Why didn't you say anything?”
Without looking at Spencer Brendon says, “Yeah, I know. No one's ever treated me like a hot, asshole, idiot surfer before.” His laugh is loud when he says, “I kinda liked it. And I thought you were some hot ass anti-social science type who liked random hook ups. Shit happens, you know?”
Spencer doesn't really know what to say to that, “I'm not...well I guess I can be anti-social, but I don't like...hook up, ever.” He stops cold when Brendon snorts and raises an eyebrow over the black plastic frame of his glasses. “Before, I mean. And I freaked out. I didn't know what to do or say so I said nothing and you were so sweet and determined. And now and you saved my fucking life and I'm just an asshole and so so so god damn sorry.” Spencer finishes in a rush and sits staring at his hands in his lap, struggling for breath.
“Spencer, yeah, okay you were a dick,” Spencer winces as Brendon talks, “but that was before, and this is now, and I'd really like to see you-get to know you. But I don't think the ER is the best place for a real first date, right?”
Laughing a little, Spencer shakes his head and says, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Brendon laughs and smiles, then takes Spencer's hand and holds it, loose and comfortable on his thigh as he turns into town.
Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush
Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105
Brendon makes soft sounds of encouragement and his hips cant forward, seeking the friction of Spencer's thigh. The harshness of his breathing ratchets upwards as Spencer rests his full weight against Brendon, slumping to mouth messy and wet across the slippery cotton of Brendon's shirt.
Emboldened by alcohol and the fierce ache of the want coursing through his veins, Spencer uses his teeth and, with a growl, tugs hard enough to rip several buttons from their place. He licks his lips and presses his face into Brendon's belly, inhaling the sharp tang of his sweat, his tongue tracing a trail downwards.
Brendon's hands move up Spencer's body as Spencer does an unsteady, slow-motion not quite fall, stopping to rest his cheek against the leather and metal of Brendon's belt buckle. Brendon's hands hover in uncertainty above Spencer's head. “Wanna blow you,” Spencer slurs into tight denim.
“Fuck, yeah!” Brendon husks around an audible swallow. His fingers thread through Spencer's hair as he attempts to keep his balance, shifting against the crumbling brick as it digs uncomfortably into bare skin.
“You pull my hair, I'll fuckin' bite,” Spencer stares up at Brendon, his blue eyes narrowed in a tipsy attempt at menace.
“Oh yeah?” Brendon meets the cool gaze unflinchingly. He gives a teasing pull to a hank of Spencer's hair and laughs weirdly loud in the stillness of the yard. Spencer flashes a feral grin and snaps his teeth, nipping at the fragile skin around Brendon's bared navel, licking at the shake of Brendon's stomach as he laughs. Spencer's not quite sober enough to undo Brendon's belt buckle, snaps, and zipper. And after several failed attempts, Brendon strokes a capable hand over Spencer's fumbling fingers, making short work of his belt, and roughly yanking his jeans down to the tops of his thighs. Spencer can't help the low, greedy noise that rumbles up from the back of his throat at the sight of Brendon, hard and leaking in his briefs. A lucky flick of his wrist and Spencer flips down Brendon's waistband, nosing roughly at the dark whorls of Brendon's neatly trimmed pubic hair, inhaling his scent.
The feeling of Spencer's hot breath on his cock makes Brendon whine and shuffle, fingers restless against Spencer's skull, but very carefully not tugging. “Fuck yeah,” he says again, this time in a needy whimper. “You gonna suck my dick now, huh? Right here?” His words are punctuated by loud laughter and a thump just inside the back door, perilously close to where Spencer and Brendon are leaning.
Spencer wordlessly makes his approval of what Brendon's said known when he slicks his tongue along the turgid length of Brendon's cock. “Shit, you're not even in a hurry, are you?” Brendon fidgets under Spencer's close attention, his voice becoming increasingly high and breathy. “That turn you on? You thinking about what'll happen if they bring the party outside?” Spencer purrs his assent, jacking Brendon's cock a few times, then teasing at the slit with the tip of his tongue.
“We gotta be quiet,” Brendon stage whispers, before muttering a series of curses under his breath when Spencer swallows him down. Brendon can feel the muscles of Spencer's throat working his length as his tongue strokes over the sensitive nerves near the head of his cock. “Shit, I bet you want everyone to see how fucking good you are at this, right? Want 'em to watch your pretty mouth just fucking take all of my cock.” Brendon tugs approvingly at Spencer's hair.
Listening to Brendon, thinking about what he's saying, Spencer can't help it, he lowers his hand from where it’s echoing the movement of his mouth on Brendon's cock, down to relieve some of the pressure on his own straining erection. He digs the heel of his hand against the bulging denim and draws back for a breath, slurping kisses along Brendon's slicked shaft, and exhaling a shaky breath when he nuzzles at Brendon's balls.
Brendon is pushing back awkwardly against the house. It's the only thing keeping him upright. “C'mon Spencer. Get me off then fuck me.” He whines and looks down at Spencer through heavy lidded eyes.
“Shit yes,” Spencer bites Brendon's hip hard enough to leave marks, then slowly, his eyes never leaving Brendon's and unable to stop the pleased with himself expression flirting around the corners of his lips, Spencer sucks the leaking length of Brendon's cock back into his mouth. He fumbles with his own zipper, fingers easing a little of the sharp-edged ache of his own cock, just as hard and leaking as Brendon's, in his own hand.
Brendon's hips buck up to meet Spencer's mouth, the pace of the rhythm he's trying to set faster now, but his hands just pet encouragement across the soft strands of Spencer's hair. “You have such a dirty-- such a fuckin' awesome mouth,” Brendon babbles. At one particularly dirty lave of Spencer's tongue across his cock, Brendon tugs at a fistful of Spencer's hair.
Spencer's eyes flash a warning and he takes his hand away from where he's giving the base of Brendon's cock wicked, twisting strokes to slap a stinging blow across the tops of Brendon's thighs. And that's all it takes before Brendon's hacking out a noise razor edged between pain and pleasure and his come is slicking down Spencer's throat and filling his mouth. Sucking and licking and breathing carefully through his nose, Spencer makes greedy noises, making a show of slurping appreciatively at Brendon's cock.
There's a crash from inside the house, and both Spencer and Brendon haven't forgotten where they are. They're both still hyper aware of the room full of party goers on the other side of the wall. Grimacing as the aftershocks of Brendon's orgasm force him to mincingly rock up into his mouth, Spencer pulls off of Brendon's cock, sinking back onto his haunches. There's a string of spittle glistening in the growing moonlight as it threads from Brendon's softening cock to the short hairs of Spencer's beard. Spencer grunts out a weak laugh then smears his wet pink lips together, catching beads of come and spit and sweat that he missed.
Brendon looks, well, he looks wrecked. He's slumped against the wall, eyes dazed and unfocused. His jeans are still bunched and rolled uncomfortably tight at the tops of his thighs, the slight dark hair there making shadows against his skin. His shirt is in ruins, ripped threads and loose buttons hanging precariously from where Spencer had yanked at them. Spencer watches, hypnotized, as a bead of sweat chases the lean cut of muscle across Brendon's chest and stomach. After a few fortifying breaths, Brendon swipes a palm across his face, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes and giggles. “Holy shit!”
Whether because of the giggle, or the challenging look in Brendon's eye, or months of coiled tight want-- or maybe all three-- Spencer feels something click into place in his brain as he springs to his feet. Once more pressing Brendon back into the bricks, Spencer finds Brendon's mouth, roughly pressing it open with his own.
Brendon's eyes go shocked wide at the feeling of his own spunk slicking from Spencer's tongue to his own. He groans and laps, greedy for the taste. Spencer kisses him harder, grinding his erection into Brendon's bared thigh and grunting into his mouth. His hands come up to cradle the back of Brendon's head and he tugs at the dark strands of Brendon's hair until Brendon is moaning and gasping. “You been thinking about fucking all day, that mean you came prepared for the party?” Spencer murmurs as he switches positions, leaning up and away from Brendon's mouth to bite at the soft skin behind his ear
“What the fuck do you think?” Brendon raises his hands, pushing palms flat against Spencer's heaving chest to put a little space between them and then, he winks.
* * *
Spencer wakes slowly. Every muscle aches and it feels like at sometime in the night, someone had peeled back his scalp, sawed open his skull and shoved hot coals into his brain. He shifts from his uncomfortable hunch, arms and legs flung wide. He opens one eye in a squint and it all comes rushing back. He's naked, wrapped in a bright orange tarp. Brendon. Shit. Spencer sits up too fast-jostling his head and the meager contents of his stomach---and lays back on his elbows, panting. Panting for a few minutes and running his hands through the messy riot of his hair, Spencer starts to get to his feet.
As he stands, new pains flair to life along his shoulders and lower back and through his thighs. Brendon, Spencer notices, is nowhere to be found. Holding a hand up to block most of the bright light streaming through the dirt and dust covered windows, Spencer curses softly under his breath when he realizes that not only is it morning, the day is probably well on its way towards afternoon. He stands, utterly perplexed in the center of the potting shed. Hands on hips, index finger scratching idly at a dried patch of something he'd rather not think about, Spencer tries to determine what he should do next. Nobody saw him come across the garden with Brendon, that he's sure of, at least. But, Brendon had picked him up at the lab and was now missing, so Spencer could only conclude that he'd gone home.
Which leaves Spencer naked in Ryan and Jon's potting shed, holding on to an orange tarp and the precious little of his dignity that remains. He has no doubt that will evaporate the moment he sets foot in the house, and Ryan and Jon piece together what he got up to the night before. But first, he needs to find his clothes. Raising a hand from his hip to run it through his beard, Spencer looks around the small room, unsure at exactly what point the night before he got totally, completely naked.
He doesn't have to look too hard though, his shirt and jeans and the rest of his clothes are folded neatly atop a step ladder, his sneakers placed just so beside them. Picking slowly and carefully through the detritus of long abandoned gardening paraphernalia, Spencer slowly makes his way over to his clothes. Perched jauntily on top is his iPhone, and next to that, a scrap of paper that has Call me! :) <3 -Bden scrawled across it in black sharpie. Taking as deep a breath as his sore muscles can bear, Spencer exhales and flicks on his phone.
“Shit,” Spencer says, loud in the quiet. Yep. There it was, cleverly stored in his contacts under 'Bden' Brendon had left not only his phone number, but his last name--Brendon Urie-- Spencer taps the screen, and his email address.
Scratching his nose, Spencer stares at the screen for long minutes and then tucks it into the pocket of his still folded jeans. A quick search of the clothing pile reveals Spencer's boxer shorts. With a short tug and a perfunctory check to make sure they aren't too disgusting to bear, Spencer slips them on. He has to sit down onto the pile of clothes and pant a little; trying not to vomit.
With painstaking slowness, Spencer eventually gets dress in yesterday's clothes. He makes it as far as just outside the shed door before he has to spew his guts into the overgrown lillies. Spitting out the taste of his puke, Spencer takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He's still hidden from view and takes the last few moments he can before going into the house and facing whatever it is that Jon and Ryan have to throw at him.
* * *
Spencer doesn't call Brendon.
But, Brendon must have got Spencer's number, because Brendon certainly calls Spencer. Spencer never answers. He is always too busy, or distracted or his phone is dead or he forgot his phone at the office. He has Brendon's phone number memorized. Brendon texts. Dozens of texts-about his day and his dog and even sends photos of his lunches and dinners. Spencer doesn't text back. That doesn't seem to matter to Brendon. He is persistent. Spencer will give him that.
See, the thing is, Spencer knows he's being a douche, okay? He knows it's just a matter of picking up the phone or even firing back an LOL to one of Brendon's texts. It's not like he actually set out to be awful to Brendon. It just sort of happens. Because Spencer has no idea how to handle this. He's never 'hooked up' in his life. Never once had a one night stand. And okay so maybe deep in his first year bio student mocking heart, Spencer wants what Jon and Ryan have. And maybe in the past Spencer had tried to find that with guys who really should have been one night stands.
But now, weeks have gone by and Brendon seems unaware that he was Spencer's experiment in casual sex. And Spencer has no idea what to do with that. He keeps ignoring Brendon. Why won't he go away?
“Hey Prof...Spencer, you have a visitor,” Cassadee's muffled, tinny voice interrupts Spencer's mental meanderings.
Wheeling his desk chair over to the phone he asks “A visitor?” Spencer glances at the clock above his computer where he's got a few spread sheets open, but had been staring into space. “Who is it?”
The intercom squawks to life again, only this time a bright, cheerful, male voice says, “Hi Spencer it's Brendon. I was driving around looking for new beaches and thought I'd see if you wanted to go into Hammond for a coffee or something?”
Jesus. “I'm really busy right now.” Spencer snaps. He then lowers his face to his desk blotter and carefully and with exact precision, starts to thump his forehead against the heavy wood. Before he knows what's happening, Spencer's office door bursts open and Brendon bounds in, a wary looking Cassadee hot on his heels.
“Come with me! Come on. You can't stay in this office all night!” Brendon smiles cheerfully and looks far more beautiful anyone in a Jesus is the Rock of my Salvation t-shirt and ripped up jeans ever should.
Spencer looks away quickly before he can give in to the pleading look in Brendon's dark eyes. “I have. I probably will. I need to get this shit done. Unlike some people I can't spend my days lounging on the beach.” He crosses his arms and runs his fingers across his beard covered chin, before turning back to his computer.
He doesn't look up when he hears the door softly click shut. He doesn't think about how ashamed of himself he is. Or how hurt Brendon must be.
* * *
“As your best friend, I feel it's my sworn duty to call you on your bullshit.” Spencer almost flings his coffee mug across the room in surprise when he opens his locked office door to see Ryan perched on the corner of his desk.
Grumpily setting his mug and folders on the desk and mopping at his sweater with his free hand, Spencer sighs heavily. Feigning patience, he settles into his chair and says, “What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities now, oh wise one?”
“Brendon,” Ryan crosses one long leg over his knee and scowls.
“Could you just drop it?” Spencer sits up, spine stiff.
Ryan pulls his fedora down more securely over his curls, “You're hurting his feelings.”
“How do you know that? How do you know Brendon? Why are you talking about his feelings? What the fuck, Ry,” Spencer's eyes narrow as he picks up his mug and takes a fortifying gulp.
“Since the party. He's been kind of hanging out. Jon and I, we like him. He's good people.” Ryan nods for emphasis.
“Since when do you say shit like good people' And you don't know what you're talking about and it's none of your business.”
Stealing Spencer's mug and draining the contents with relish, Ryan wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and says, “I'm your best friend. Also, you defiled the sanctity of my future writing cottage, so you kind of made it my business.” He screws up his face in an exaggerated expression of disgust.
“Fuck you,” Spencer says without any kind of malice.
“Look Spencer, I know your ex was a douchebag...” Ryan's learned from experience that using names is a very bad idea.
“A lying cheating two timing douchebag who forgot to tell me he's not gay just fucking around,” Spencer interrupts.
Waving a dismissive hand, Ryan replies, “Ancient history. And just because you got your heart broken by an asshole, that does not give you the right to be an asshole now.”
“I just,” Spencer looks down at where he's picking at the hem of his sweater, “I thought; okay. Hook up. I can do this. I had a plan. Brendon's hot. We'd drink a lot. We'd fuck. And life would go on.”
Ryan blinks at him for long silent seconds. “That has got to be the stupidest plan I have ever heard. I mean you might be a genius when it comes to planning experiments or like, saving the lives of millions of hideously ugly fish, or whatever. But? When it comes to like, life plans and shit? You totally suck.”
“What if he's just like the others?” Spencer says it quietly. It's the first time he's ever given voice to the one thought that's plagued him since Brendon's first voice mail message.
“What if he's not?” Ryan stands and lays a hand on Spencer's shoulder. “What if he's the one, you know?”
“Not everyone gets a Jon Walker,” Spencer's smile is sad when he turns his head to rest it against Ryan's arm.
A fiercely possessive expression flickers across Ryan's usually placid face, “Damn straight. He's mine. But dude, everyone deserves to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And what if Brendon's it? And even if he's not, it's just fucking coffee.”
* * *
“Fuck,” Spencer reads the email from the dean again, just to make sure he hasn't misunderstood. Nope, there it is in polite academic politco speak; if Spencer's lab doesn't start producing results, never mind the number of papers he's published, the entire thing is going to be shut down and he'll have to work out of a closet sized office back at the university in Hammond. “Fuck that shit,” Spencer mutters, “I'll show them results.” Despite or maybe because of the ridiculously early hour, Spencer angrily stands up from his desk and stalks out to the boat house.
“Cash!” he yells, walking towards the little thirteen foot Sculpin, “Cash get your ass in gear, we gotta go out, now!” Stooping to yank on his rubber boots, Spencer is still mumbling under his breath about the possibility of being forced back to Hammond and out of Port Adams. He's just about to yell again when he notices a scrap of paper tacked to the shop door: Hung over. In @ noon. -$
Well. Shit. Spencer would fire the kid if he wasn't a whiz at keeping the various research vessels in working order and happily did whatever grunt work Spencer foisted off on him, when he wasn't off drinking, or running the boats into the dock. Still fired up from the annoying news he'd woken up to, Spencer grabs the boat keys off the hook and heads out to the dock, taking the bag of equipment he needs and jumping down into the little boat.
Key in the ignition, the boat's engine roars to life and Spencer steers it away from the dock and out into the open water of the Columbia river. Preoccupied and angry Spencer squints across the choppy water, looking for the buoys Cassadee and Cash had set out last week. He is silently thankful that the early hour means there's very little river traffic. He finds the first buoy set just where the river curves, spilling into the Pacific. Grunting with effort, Spencer drops the anchor and turns to start taking the meters out of the kit bag. Just as he does so a swell jostles the boat, sending Spencer and some expensive equipment sprawling across the deck.
Muttering curses against Cash Colligan and any and all future generations of Colligans, Spencer heaves a sigh and rolls up from the wet deck, scooping up the equipment as he gets to his feet. Setting the correct depth and location, Spencer moves to the side of the boat, intending to throw the dissolved oxygen meter into the murky river. Squinting skyward, he notices what had started out as a clear and sunny morning had changed, dark clouds now in no hurry to blow across the river and out to sea. He steadies himself, swaying in gentle time to the increasing rocking of the boat. Spencer hates boats. He really hates boats. Cash can pilot any and all research vessels at Point Adams for the rest of forever and Spencer would be perfectly happy about that. But Cash isn't here now, so Spencer gives himself a shake and heads to the side of the boat. As he's leaned over lowering the equipment, a huge swell slams the hull, and before he knows what's happening, Spencer slips, then slides, then pitches over the side of the boat.
His first thought is that clearly he needs to pay more attention to his own 'be aware of your hands and feet at all times' speech. His second thought is that he is clearly an idiot with no sense of self preservation and was so busy fuming about being called unprofessional by the University, and Cash's hang over, that he'd forgotten to put on a PFD.
Spencer's last thought is that this is a really fucking stupid way to die.
It's his last thought because the back of his head makes thumping contact with the aluminum side of the
the Sculpin, and then the world fades to darkness.
***
Spencer awakens, coughing and sputtering, stinging salt water pouring from his nose and mouth. He opens his eyes, blinking against the sun, and staring straight into Brendon's brown eyes, wide with concern. “Oh, thank God,” Brendon says enthusiastically, helping Spencer to sit up.
“What? I mean, I don't...How did you?” A coughing spasm interrupts Spencer's confusion and he gasps for breath, shoving the fall of his soaking wet hair out of his eyes.
Sitting back onto the sand, a comforting hand patting Spencer between the shoulders, Brendon smiles, “I saw you. Was just about to go out,” he crooks his thumb towards his surfboard lying on the beach beside them.
Blinking stupidly at Brendon's wet suit, Spencer leans back on his elbows. “Oh, well um, thanks.”
“No problem,” Brendon chuckles and extends a hand to help Spencer up from the beach. “C'mon, we should take you into Hammond, go to the clinic and get you checked out.”
Groaning, Spencer manages to struggle to his feet. He's missing a boot and his sweater and jeans are heavy with sea water. “That's not...I should get back to the boat. You don't need to take me,” His protests die in another fit of coughing. He blinks, embarrassed as he bends over and spews yet more water over the beach rocks.
“Yes, I do need to take you. The whole point of fishing your sorry ass out of the water was so you don't die,” Brendon says sternly, taking Spencer by the elbow and directing him up the beach to the parking lot. “Someone from your lab can go out and get the boat, it's fine.” He motions towards the mouth of the river and the Sculpin is there, safely anchored and bobbing jauntily in the sun dappled water.
They trudge slowly and carefully to Brendon's car, Spencer having to stop several times to vomit. By the time they reach the old yellow Volvo station wagon, Spencer's panting, and he's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. “Shit,” Brendon pats at Spencer's sweater, and water squelches beneath his hand. “You're probably in shock.” He leans Spencer heavily against the passenger door and hustles around to the hatch. Rummaging around in the back of the car for a few seconds, Brendon pops back up with an armful of clothes. “Here, put these on,” he shoves them at Spencer, his tone firm and no nonsense.
Spencer looks from the clothes to Brendon, and stands mutely against the car. “For fuck's sake, Spencer, I'm not gonna fuckin' molest you or something. You're soaked and shivering, and I kind of don't want you to die of hypothermia in my car on the way to the hospital.” Brendon takes an angry step forward and yanks at Spencer's dripping sweater. After a few seconds of staring, Brendon just sighs and stalks to the back of the car, where he shimmies out of his own wet things and into his dry street clothes. After a few more sputtering coughs Spencer shrugs and manages to get into the clothes Brendon has provided with relative ease. The jogging pants are too short and the elastic cuts into his hips, and the t-shirt is too small, but they're warm and dry and smell like Brendon, and Spencer leans heavily against the car once he's finished redressing.
“Hey, hey you alright?” Dark eyes clouded with concern, Brendon quickly rounds the car to clutch Spencer's arm, just as he's starting to slump to the ground. “Here, buddy. Sit down before you fall down.” Brendon manages to wrestle the passenger door open with a minimal amount of fuss, and after brushing a stack of papers onto the floor, he helps guide Spencer into the seat, carefully leaning across him to fasten the seat belt.
“Thanks,” Spencer croaks. Brendon tosses the jumbled pile of Spencer's soaked clothes and boot into the back seat and then slips behind the wheel. “I don't have any shoes,” Spencer announces rather stupidly, wriggling his naked pruney toes against the black of the cart mat.
Brendon gives him a reassuring smile and says, “No sweat. And I don't think the clinic's too sticky on the no shoes no service front,” before he drives out towards the highway.
The quiet in the car is only broken by the unobtrusive sound of Brendon's iPod on low, playing something soft and instrumental. “I almost died,” Spencer says like it just occurred to him. And maybe it has, now that he's not puking up the Pacific Ocean and his teeth aren't chattering, and Brendon isn't touching him.
“Yeah, but you didn't,” Brendon quick smile wrinkles his nose and he cocks his head, looking at Spencer. Spencer can feel the weight of Brendon's stare, even though his eyes are obscured by sunglasses and he turns his attention back to the road just as quickly.
Spencer fusses with the buckle of the seat belt and the elastic waistband of the too small pants he's wearing. As he looks down his attention shifts to the stack of papers Brendon had cleared from the seat. He hooks the lanyard of a small plasticized ID badge with his bare toes and with careful, stilted movements drags it up, bringing it in close to read it. “Dr Brendon Urie?” He says aloud, stunned and staring at the university issued card in his hands.
Looking embarrassed Brendon bites his lip and chuckles nervously, “Um, yep. Got my PhD in Estuary Sea Grass Biodiversity a couple of years ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me? Shit, are you one of the people Bryar conned into taking some of my lecture topics?”
Adjusting his sunglasses before putting his hands back on the steering wheel, Brendon shrugs again, the thin blue material of his t-shirt bunching between his shoulders, “Um...it never came up? And yeah I guess so, right? I think I'm scheduled for 9 am next Wednesday.”
“But...” Spencer stammers, “I treated you like you were just some hot, asshole, idiot surfer!” As if he didn't already feel guilty and awkward about how he reacted to Brendon after Jon and Ryan's party, he feels worse now, “Why didn't you say anything?”
Without looking at Spencer Brendon says, “Yeah, I know. No one's ever treated me like a hot, asshole, idiot surfer before.” His laugh is loud when he says, “I kinda liked it. And I thought you were some hot ass anti-social science type who liked random hook ups. Shit happens, you know?”
Spencer doesn't really know what to say to that, “I'm not...well I guess I can be anti-social, but I don't like...hook up, ever.” He stops cold when Brendon snorts and raises an eyebrow over the black plastic frame of his glasses. “Before, I mean. And I freaked out. I didn't know what to do or say so I said nothing and you were so sweet and determined. And now and you saved my fucking life and I'm just an asshole and so so so god damn sorry.” Spencer finishes in a rush and sits staring at his hands in his lap, struggling for breath.
“Spencer, yeah, okay you were a dick,” Spencer winces as Brendon talks, “but that was before, and this is now, and I'd really like to see you-get to know you. But I don't think the ER is the best place for a real first date, right?”
Laughing a little, Spencer shakes his head and says, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Brendon laughs and smiles, then takes Spencer's hand and holds it, loose and comfortable on his thigh as he turns into town.
Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush
Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105