fic: last christmas (a seasonal drama in 24 parts), au
I was debating endlessly about when would be the best time to post this and kinda-sorta settled on tomorrow (the 12th! Half-time!) but a) I'm impatient and b) this morning marked the first time I heard Wham! on the radio this season, so I chose to see it as a Sign.
This has been in the works since August, Christ. It also might be the most randomly AU fic in the entire world, starting with the fact that December 1st did not actually fall on a Monday this year. Many, many thanks to tabbyola and airgiodslv for providing opinions and constant hand-holding, and to airgiodslv for the rocking beta.
For adellyna, who is the needles on my tree and the reindeers on my sweater. ♥
Last Christmas (A Seasonal Drama In 24 Parts)
AU. 14,649 words. Jon/Spencer (Ryan/Brendon, Frank/Gerard, Vicky/Travis, assorted other players). PG-13. Lies! All lies!
Day 1
When Spencer Smith wakes on December 1st, he is in hell.
Hell, admittedly, looks a whole lot like his bedroom used to. Except Spencer is pretty sure that when he went to sleep last night, there wasn't a festive garland draped around the corners of the room. There also weren't twinkling, colored lights on top of the door, or gold star cut-outs all over the wall, or, holy shit, two matching bunches of mistletoe over his bed.
"Jon," Spencer croaks, hoping against hope that maybe he's still dreaming and he'll wake himself up.
Jon's face comes into view immediately, smiling widely and with a Santa hat crooked over one ear. Spencer flinches in alarm.
"Hey, you're awake! Help me decide which one to put on your bedside table?" Jon holds up both hands, clutching the small figure of a snowman and a reindeer, respectively.
"How about neither," Spencer says, once his brain has woken up enough to form complete sentences. "Did you, uh, did you get us his-and-his mistletoes?"
Jon looks unreasonably delighted. "I did! Aren't they amazing?"
Spencer blinks.
"Yeah," he says as he struggles upright. He has some difficulties sitting up, because Jon is perched on the edge of the bed and pressing the duvet cover down. "Yeah, that's one way of -"
He is cut off by an enthusiastic, slightly sloppy morning kiss. Spencer grudgingly responds, because he's helpless not to when Jon's teeth graze his lower lip, but eventually he's the one who pulls back. Spencer licks his lips, twice, just to make sure he really got the taste right. He looks at the mug in Jon's hands.
"Are you drinking eggnog?" he asks in disbelief. "At seven-thirty in the morning?"
"Yes," Jon says, smile unrepentant. "What about it?"
Spencer stares.
***
"No, you don't even understand," Spencer hisses into his cell phone as he tries to navigate the revolving doors to the building. "You don't understand, Ryan, there was tinsel in the shower."
How can Ryan not get it? Like, Spencer realizes that four years of dating Brendon would desensitize a person to a whole lot of crazy, but this, this just goes too far. There's Disney songs in the bathroom, and then there's the hostile holiday take-over of his own house. Their own house. Whatever.
"I don't know," Ryan says thoughtfully on the other end. "I think it sounds kind of nice, you know? Have some decorations, get in the mood..."
"I have plenty of mood," Spencer snaps and is finally released into the lobby. There's an open elevator waiting; he barely catches it by doing an impromptu sprint.
"I just don't want any of this nonsense," he continues, slightly out of breath while the floors tick by on the screen. 2. 3. 4. "Any of this, this, fake snow spray, and garlands, and really frivolous amounts of Christmas balls everywhere! How did he even do that, he's been there less than a d - Hello? Hello? Ryan?"
But he's lost reception, and Spencer snaps his phone shut with an annoyed sigh just as the elevator shudders to a halt. The doors slide open to reveal Vicky already at her desk, chatting into her headset and waving at Spencer when he taps her desk by way of saying hello. There's a small poinsettia next to her computer screen and Spencer does give it a markedly disapproving stare as he moves past, but it'll be tolerable, he supposes.
"Absolutely. Uh huh. Yeah. Bye bye," Vicky chirps behind him, and then calls, "I already put it on your desk!"
"Put what on my desk?" Spencer asks, and then stops in the middle of taking off his coat. There's a... well, it's some sort of botanic monstrosity taking up almost half of his workspace, which isn't exactly small.
Spencer needs a few moments to regain the power of speech, which gives Vicky enough time to unplug herself from the phone and breeze past him into his office. "This of course!" she says and lovingly fiddles with a few lacquered-looking green leaves. There are some sort of red berries as well, and something white, and what Spencer fucking well hopes is not actually gold dust gently falling on his pristine tabletop. "You are so lucky, Spencer, Gabe never sent me flowers."
"This is hideous," Spencer says before he can stop himself.
Vicky looks at him like he just flayed a live elf right in front of her. "It's festive," she says reproachfully, and gives the whole arrangement a last, loving pat. It jingles, and oh God, there are bells half-hidden in between the plants, actual tiny bells. Spencer can't work with this in the office. Spencer can't work with this in the building.
"I want it out of here," he says firmly. "Put it on your own desk, I don't care, just somewhere I can't see it."
Vicky's face is doing weird contortions, like she really wants to say something, but in the end she doesn't, just gathers the thing up in her arms. They awkwardly step past each other when Spencer moves behind his desk.
She changes her mind just before she reaches the door, spinning back around with a mad jingling of invisible bells. Spencer can't even see her face behind all the vegetation. "You're a lucky guy, you know," the bush says to him, and it inexplicably sounds like a warning. Then it marches off towards Vicky's ringing phone.
"Don't I know it," Spencer mutters and starts searching for a Kleenex to get rid of this fucking dust all over his things.
***
He gets home late that night, way past dark. Spencer stomps on the landing to warm his feet while he fumbles with the keys, breath steaming in the air and obscuring his vision. Finally he manages to let himself inside and slams the door shut with relief.
For a second, while he's standing there trying to adjust to the change in temperature, it's almost nice; the house is warm and well-lit and smells really good, like fresh coffee and sugar cookies. But then Spencer is assaulted by... stuff. Stuff everywhere. On the sidetable. On the banister. On the open doorways. On the ceiling, there are angels dangling off his damn ceiling, and Spencer spends long enough just standing there gaping that the snow melts off his shoes and forms a miserable little puddle around him.
It's too much. Oh God, is it ever too much. Everything is shiny and colorful and bright and happy, and it's like it's multiplying even while Spencer looks around, like that woman-snake thing where you cut off one head and it grows three new ones. Hydra. His house has turned into a fucking hydra while he was gone.
There's one angel in particular, a huge one, right over the door to the kitchen. Its wings are covered in glitter, and if there is such a thing as twinkling aggressively, that angel is definitely doing it.
"I'm home," Spencer finally calls, warily. There's a crash from the living room, muttered curses, and then Jon's cheerful voice.
"I'm in here!"
Spencer nearly trips over Jon's things that haven't made it upstairs yet. He's a little afraid of turning the corner, to be honest.
It turns out he had every reason to.
The living room is even shinier than the rest of the house. There's red and green and gold, and more baubles and garlands, and Spencer has to close his eyes. Why is this happening to his home?
When he opens them again, Jon is beaming up at him from where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of wrapping paper and what looks like several miles of hopelessly tangled Christmas lights. "Hi!" Jon says. "I couldn't wait for you to get home and see this, Dylan and I have been having fun all afternoon." He pats a small-ish pile of bows and ribbons, which meows and gives a feeble wiggle in response.
Spencer opens and closes his mouth several times before he says, "This place looks like Santa's workshop threw up all over it." And maybe he looks a little bit stricken, because Jon starts to extricate himself from the pile (it's kind of a multi-step process) and hops across discarded decorations to pull Spencer into a hug.
"Hey, hey, this is nothing bad," he says and fists his hand in Spencer's hair, gives a gentle tug. "This is just Christmas cheer." He smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon.
Spencer presses his face into Jon's shoulder and says, "Your Christmas cheer is about to give me an epileptic seizure."
Jon laughs, a low rumble that starts in his chest and travels along his shoulders to tingle everywhere they're touching. It's nice. Less nice is what Spencer saw just before the hugging started. He clears his throat and lifts his head so he's not talking into Jon's sweater anymore. "Are you wearing antlers?"
"I sure am," Jon says solemnly.
"Ok," Spencer says. And then, because, really, what else is he going to do: "Is there any food in the house?"
"I put take-out in the fridge," Jon says and lays a warm, broad hand on Spencer's neck. "C'mon, let's go eat."
Day 2
Spencer stares.
The reindeer stares back.
"It's not so much that I don't like them," Spencer says at last, hand covering half of his face like maybe this will be less horrible if he only sees it out of one eye (it's not). "It's that they're on my bed, Jon. Our bed. And they have a Disney character on them."
"I know!" Jon says, sounding excited, like this isn't the worst fucking thing to come home to in the entire world.
Maybe Spencer's being a little dramatic. But fuck it, the lovely, understated aubergine sheets he crawled out of this morning have been replaced by something that's garishly red and definitely does not look like 300-count anything. He's entitled.
He watches mutely as Jon flops back on the bed spread-eagled, smile on his face. "I love Christmas time, Spence," he says dreamily. "There's so much joy around, you know? I took so many pictures of smiling people today."
He pushes himself up on his elbows, t-shirt slipping up and exposing a ring of winter-pale belly. Jon obviously notices Spencer looking, because the next moment his expression turns thoughtful and his hips lift up slightly. "We could break them in right now," he says and slowly rubs his hand along the stretch of empty mattress next to him.
It maybe takes him a moment - because, fuck, glittering eyes and the quirk of his lips and Jon's fingers curling inwards - but Spencer snaps out of it. "I'm not having sex with you in those sheets," he says, and he realizes he's sounding kind of shrill, but for fuck's sake. His pillow has an animated children's character on it.
Jon makes a sad face. "Never again?" he asks and stretches, shirt riding up even higher, thigh muscles flexing. Spencer's mouth is very dry all of a sudden.
"No," he says anyway, stubbornly, crossing his arms. "Never."
Jon's smile is slow and wicked. "We'll see, Spencer Smith. We'll see."
Day 3
"Why do you hate Christmas, Spencer?" Brendon asks.
Spencer glances away from the menu board long enough to give Brendon a quick once-over - wide-eyed innocence, check. Brownie crumbs all over his dorky scarf, check. Ryan growing out of his shoulder like an extra set of limbs, check. - and to determine that it's not a rhetorical question.
"I don't hate Christmas," he says.
Four eyebrows rise as one.
"I don't!" Spencer says defensively. "I just hate the stupid commercials and the tacky lights, and that they play Wham! on the radio every five damn seconds, and fir branches all over the place, and candy canes - they taste like stale mouthwash, ok, and that you can't seem to order just a plain old coffee anymore. And the fact that our fucking receptionist keeps singing carols to herself."
Ryan blinks at him. Brendon surveys the pastry selection with two fingers pressed to his chin and says, "Yeah, all of that would be Christmas, dude."
"You know, those holiday brews are really pretty good," Ryan adds helpfully.
Spencer clenches his teeth until his molars hurt.
Day 4
Apparently, even Jon can't decorate indefinitely. There comes a point when the house is simply full, and Spencer could swear that Jon's Santa hat is drooping a little dejectedly as he carries empty cardboard boxes down into the basement. Spencer looks on from the dining room table. He has work stuff spread all over it, manila folders and copies and a whole bunch of post-its full of Vicky's neat, round handwriting; not that he's done anything but chew on a pen and watch Jon lift stuff for the last twenty minutes.
Spencer wriggles his toes and Dylan starts purring where he's wrapped around his ankle. It's been nice having him around the house, Spencer has to admit.
That still doesn't mean he's allowed in the bed.
"Hey," Jon says and flops into an empty chair across from Spencer. "How's it going? What are you selling now?" He's a little flushed, possibly because the sweater he's wearing is much too warm for inside. From what Spencer has seen over the last few days, he must have a limitless supply stashed away somewhere. Today's motif is a row of elks holding hands. Spencer briefly considers making a joke about gay orgies, but doesn't.
"Strawberry Pepsi," he says instead and slumps down in his seat until his free foot finds Jon's leg. "It's nasty."
He pulls a folder toward himself before Jon can put his omnipresent mug of eggnog down on it.
"Make that the hook," Jon suggests and catches Spencer's foot as it travels up his shin, fingers pressing into the arch. Spencer nearly groans as Jon starts digging in all the right places. "Just have the billboards say, 'Come on, this can't possibly be worse than Cherry Coke.'"
Spencer's nervous system is shooting up little bursts of pleasure all over his body. It takes a ridiculous amount of concentration just to say, "I can't believe Pete didn't come up with that," without drooling.
"He should hire me," Jon says with a grave nod and pinches Spencer's toes. "I'd be amazing at advertising, don't lie. I could make people buy stuff like that."
Spencer can't really argue. If Jon told him to buy the damn sweater off his back right now, with one thumb rubbing hard circles on the sole of his foot, Spencer would. Possibly throw in a blowjob on top of it.
He's still busy with that particular train of thought - Jon's fingers fisted in his hair just this side of painful, cock hot and heavy on Spencer's tongue - when Jon says, " - back of the closet."
Spencer shakes away the fantasy of Jon's broken gasps and asks, "Wait, what?"
"My boxes," Jon says patiently. "They're still down here. I'll bring them all up tomorrow and put the ones I'm not unpacking right now in the back of the closet."
Oh. "Yeah," Spencer says, "sure," and carefully puts the cap back on his pen.
Jon's fingers slow, then still. "You don't mind, right? I mean, I kind of have to put them somewhere. And it'll be great to have some of my stuff back." He smiles, his sweet, harmless Jon smile, and there's nothing at all to explain the rock that suddenly materializes in Spencer's stomach.
"Sure," he says again and devotes an unnecessary amount of focus to a point somewhere above Jon's right shoulder. "What were you thinking about putting up, exactly? Because there's not really a lot of room."
Jon looks around himself like this is the first time he even notices the explosion of kitsch going on inside the house. "Yeah," he says, a little sheepishly, "I guess I got a little carried away. It was just so nice to have something to do around here, and, you know, make it feel more like home?"
He actually looks apologetic, and Spencer immediately feels like an asshole. He doesn't know, but he remembers: being woken by the phone shrilling in the middle of the night, and catching his hip on the dresser in his hurry out the door. Jon's face. The way his hair had still reeked of smoke two showers later.
"Hey," Spencer says softly and pokes his big toe at Jon's belly. "Hey, this is your home now, alright? Our home." The words feel clumsy on his tongue, heavy, but it's not really important in the face of Jon's answering smile. "But." Spencer clears his throat. "The boxes. Could you maybe wait a couple more days? Just..."
He doesn't actually have a modifier for that, no explanation for why, but Jon only shrugs and says, "Yeah, sure," even if he does look a little confused. Spencer closes his eyes and forces himself to relax.
Day 5
By Friday, Vicky's poinsettia is being kept company by a pack of ceramic polar bears with jaunty scarves and mittens. Vicky herself seems to be getting into the season spirit mostly by wearing a series of escalatingly ugly cardigans. Today's obscenity is white with little sprigs of holly embroidered all around the buttons.
"Are you checking out my boobs?" Vicky asks after ten minutes she's spent trying to teach Spencer how to work Excel. It's useless. He's no more going to be able to edit a spreadsheet than Vicky's polar bears are going to jump up and get his lunch for him.
Spencer forces his eyes back to the screen. "No," he says and hits some keys just for the hell of it. The computer beeps angrily. "I was just admiring your fashions."
"Because that's sexual harassment," Vicky says, completely ignoring him. Maybe three years' work for Spencer have made her immune to sarcasm. "It doesn't matter if you're gay, it still is. God, give me this." She wrenches the keyboard from his hands and fixes everything Spencer just did wrong - a lot, if the cluster of error messages on the screen is anything to go by - all the while muttering about "unbelievable" and "electronically retarded" under her breath.
"I could fire you, you know," Spencer says, but his heart isn't in it. They both know it's never going to happen; Vicky is the only person in the building who can read Spencer's handwriting, and the only person in the world who will cheerfully put up with him on a Monday morning. Plus, he kind of likes her. She wears cute shoes and doesn't take any cigarette breaks, she just sits in the open window and copies memos with smoke drifting out of her mouth.
Spencer picks up one of the polar bears and complains, "Excel sucks." Maybe it's just his imagination, but its beady little eyes look vaguely malicious.
"Just because you have worse computer skills than any five-year-old I know doesn't mean the program sucks," Vicky says and, looking satisfied, puts the keyboard back down. "Be careful with that, Gabe gave it to me."
Spencer doesn't ask why Vicky keeps shifty-looking trinkets from her ex-boyfriend around. He's learned the hard way that anything to do with Vicky's always eventful and frequently bizarre personal life is best left alone. He puts the bear back between its brothers, careful to angle it away from his office door. "Fine. Hey," Spencer says when Vicky dumps her coat on the desk. "Don't you usually take your break in here?"
"I'm having lunch with Travis today," Vicky says, suddenly intently focused on rummaging through the contents of her purse. God knows what's even in there; it looks big enough to smuggle a pony into work.
Spencer nearly jerks his knees into the desk. "Travis? McCoy? From down the hall?"
"Same one," Vicky says, before punching Spencer in the shoulder rather unnecessarily and hissing, "He's coming!"
"Yes, thank you," Spencer says, "I totally wouldn't have noticed," and then all six-odd feet of Travis come strolling into his office.
"Happy lunch, everyone," Travis says cheerfully and leans against the other side of Vicky's desk, holding out his fist for Spencer to bump. "Looking sharp there. Hello, Vicky."
He gives her a dazzling smile before getting distracted by the figurines Spencer just messed up. "Your polar bear is crooked," Travis says with a frown and reaches down to fix it.
"Careful," Spencer says, still rubbing his shoulder, "that's from Gabe," at the same moment that Vicky blurts, "My sister gave it to me."
Travis blinks at them both, mid-reach. "Your sister named Gabe?"
"Gabrielle," Vicky says smoothly and shrugs into her coat. The cuff hits Spencer in the back of the head a little too hard to be accidental. "I call her Gabe. We don't really speak. Ready to go?"
Travis holds out his arm for her to take, winks and says, "Absolutely," and Vicky grins kind of abashedly when she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. Spencer has the sudden urge to say something like, "Now, you have her back by two." He doesn't, in appreciation of just how close Vicky's enormous purse is to his balls.
"Have fun," he simply says, and smiles when Vicky narrows her eyes at him. Her face relaxes, and as Travis leads her out the door she mouths back over her shoulder, "I'll bring you donuts."
No, Spencer's definitely not firing her.
Day 6
Spencer is really fucking cold.
"That's because you dress for fashion instead of warmth," Jon says disapprovingly, but he catches Spencer's hands and slides them into his coat pockets. Spencer can feel paper and a bunch of loose change rattle around in there, something hard and grainy slipping under his nails. It feels like sand, which it probably is, and leave it to Jon to take pictures on the beach in December.
"Seriously," Spencer says through chattering teeth, "I don't know why I agreed to do this. Frostbite is not that romantic, Jon." His toes are numb. He shuffles closer until he can press his cold nose into Jon's cheek, payback for making him walk down Navy fucking Pier in this weather.
"You gave in because you love me," Jon says, apparently unperturbed. "And because I put my hands in inappropriate places while I was asking."
He has a point. Spencer sniffs and tips his head back until he can stare past all of the artificial lightning, into a sky that's completely black. Tiny snowflakes are coming down, stinging his eyes and immediately melting everywhere they touch; his face, Jon's collar.
It's still early enough for families to be around, little kids who are bundled up so thick they waddle more than walk at their parents' hands. Jon spends five minutes flirting with a giggly two-year-old while they wait in line for food.
"That was the highlight of your night right there, wasn't it," Spencer says and watches the tiny pink mitten waving after them once they leave. Jon's walking nearly backwards, half-turned so he can wave goodbye back at his newest conquest. Spencer holds his elbow and slowly steers them through the crowd.
"It was," Jon admits, and his smile when he looks at Spencer is so happy and goofy that Spencer can't help it; he stops in his tracks and kisses him, hard, almost dropping his box of fries.
Jon gives a soft hum of surprise, but his arms come up to wrap around Spencer's waist and pull him in closer, closer, until the buttons on his coat are digging into Spencer's ribs. Spencer closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled, opens his mouth for Jon to lick inside. This might not be the best place for it, he realizes distantly, but with Jon's tongue stroking his own and Jon's breath thawing his face and Jon's hand cupping his jaw, Spencer's pretty busy just trying to stay upright.
They resurface eventually, Spencer leaning into Jon while his pulse slows down. He feels warm and light-headed and thoroughly kissed.
"All right," Jon says, fingers drawing circles on Spencer's back. "All right, I lied, this is totally the highlight of my night."
Spencer makes an entirely undignified noise, somewhere between a snort and a laugh. It feels good being out here. He's been tense for days, an indefinable itch under his skin, but there's something soothing about the fresh air and the crowd and the excited hum of so many voices all around them.
He follows when Jon moves them out of the center of the boardwalk in an awkward half-waltz shuffle step. Spencer's back hits the railing, so cold, and he arches away. "Sorry, sorry," Jon mutters and spins them so he's between Spencer and the icy wood, taking his hand and threading their fingers together tightly.
Over Jon's shoulder, Spencer can see the inky expanse of the lake, lights from the Pier swaying on its surface. Across the way the skyline is gleaming, a hundred tiny, golden pinpricks in the dark. Spencer wonders if someone is looking back at him from one of the windows, invisible across the water but there nonetheless.
He loves Chicago, Spencer realizes in moments like this, a breathless, helpless kind of love that's usually reserved for things like life and sunshine and Jon.
"I kind of need my hand back," he says, "my fries are getting cold," but he doesn't make a move to pull away. Jon's fingers are so warm even through a layer of wool.
"No, you don't," Jon says and makes wide, significant eyes at Spencer, biting his lip for full effect, "I'll feed them to you, with my mouth," and Spencer drops his head and laughs.
Day 7
Generally, Spencer approves of Brendon. He sort of can't not, when Brendon cuts his hair for free and is not ostentatiously too cool to play Guitar Hero on the weekends, and gets that smile out of Ryan, the real one, the slow one that stays in his eyes much longer than on his face. And then of course there's also the part that started with, "Hey, no, you can't leave yet, you need to meet someone first!" and ended with, "Jon Walker, this is Spencer Smith."
That part was also pretty good.
So, on any given day, Spencer would say that Brendon Urie is not exactly the worst thing that's ever happened in his life. He might be forced to revise that opinion.
"You are the worst thing that has ever happened in my life," Spencer says, pointing an accusing finger at the mess of cookie crumbs that used to be his kitchen counter.
Brendon does not have the decency to look even the tiniest bit guilty. "Dude," he says, swallowing neatly before opening his mouth. "You'd eat them if you found them, don't even front." He's perched on the counter in the middle of the sweet debris and swinging his feet; they bounce off the wood with a dull thump on every backwards swing.
"Get off my furniture," Spencer demands and dumps his bag of groceries in the dry sink. "I'm serious, Brendon, we prepare food on that. Off."
Brendon slides to the floor and rolls his eyes, which Spencer totally sees, thank you. "No, you don't," he says and leans against the row of cabinets, checking out Spencer's hair while he talks. "You guys live on take-out, which is unhealthy, you know, you'll get clogged arteries and die. And you need a haircut. And you still haven't moved Jon's stuff upstairs? I mean, seriously, doesn't it get in the way?"
"You just gave me one," Spencer mutters, studiously ignoring the rest of that little monologue while he unpacks everything. Donuts, peanut butter, Hershey's, and fine, maybe Brendon has kind of a point about his life expectancy. Jon buys more healthy stuff, but Jon also spends three hours in the vegetable aisle debating the merits of one zucchini over another. Spencer doesn't have that kind of fucking time. Especially since his diet is apparently going to be the end of him soon.
"You have very fertile follicles," Brendon says seriously and steals a box of marshmallow peeps right out of the bag. "You also have a nice kitchen, Spencer, you really should cook more often. I didn't deliver you my Jon Walker so you could kill him with saturated fats."
"Not your Jon Walker," Spencer says testily and grabs the peeps back, "and not your food. These are for Jon."
Brendon looks wounded. "You won't even let me have one?"
"No," Spencer says. "My house, my groceries, I decide who gets fed." The peeps squish satisfyingly when he presses them down on the counter.
Brendon sniffs and pushes his glasses higher up his nose. "It's Jon's house too now, even if you won't let him have his stuff. I bet he'll give me one. Jon!" he trills when the kitchen door swings open and Ryan and Jon shuffle inside, carrying between them what may be the most pathetic fir tree Spencer has ever seen. It's kind of bent and half-naked. Even Brendon looks awed for a moment before jumping back into action. "Jon, can I have one of your marshmallow peeps?"
Jon smiles brightly through sparsely be-needled branches. "Of course you can!"
"You know," Spencer says, still staring, "I really wish you'd discuss it with me before you let Brendon have candy. What the hell is that?"
"I'm not your fucking kindergartener, come on, Ryan, back me up," Brendon protests through a mouthful of marshmallow, at the same time that Jon says, "That's our Christmas tree!"
"Brendon is not your fucking kindergartener," Ryan says into the ensuing silence.
Spencer blinks, then clears his throat, then blinks again. "Our what?"
"It was so cold, Spence," Jon says as if that explains anything, tugging off his gloves and hat. His hair sticks straight up with electricity. "Nobody else wanted this one. They'd put it in the corner, all lonely and unloved." He looks at Spencer and bites his lip, one hand curled protectively around a crippled branch.
Spencer is not heartless, ok. He gives money to homeless people and donates to Doctors Without Borders every month, but this is a tree. An ugly, possibly diseased tree, and it's not like Spencer wasn't aware that out of a litter of puppies Jon would always go for the three-legged, blind and toothless one, but does this sorry excuse for greenery really have to find a home in this house? If they have to have a Christmas tree, can't they just have a good-looking one that you can actually hang stuff on without making it collapse?
"Look," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm just saying, I'd like it if my house didn't get turned into a place where old things come to die. Like a Florida for trees."
Jon leans over the counter until he can kiss Spencer's cheek. He smells like snow and resin. "Our house," he says evenly, warm lips and cold chin against Spencer's face.
"Yes," Spencer says. "Yes, that's what I said."
"Wow," Brendon says, sounding impressed. He's leaned in so close to the tree that the few green needles left are bent and pushing against his glasses. "Check it out, are these bark beetles?"
Spencer sighs.
Day 8
"Well, Barry," Anchor Lady says and chances a conspiratorial wink at the camera, "only seventeen days left until Christmas Eve!"
Spencer throws a handful of popcorn at the TV. Jon exhales a warm, amused breath into his ear and slides his hands up Spencer's shirt, and, well.
They miss the rest of the broadcast.
Day 9
"You're a fink," Vicky greets him the next morning. "A dirty fink, that's what you are. Also, I'm out of paper clips."
Spencer tries to get through the door without dropping either his bag or his coffee, which took ten minutes to get and damn it, but he will savor every last, unflavored drop. Fucking baristas and their Eggnog Latte. "Well, I don't have any," he says and steps sideways into his office. "And why am I a fink?"
Vicky follows on his heels and, as soon as Spencer has managed to put down his cup and taken off his coat, starts rifling through his pockets. "Are you sure you don't?" she says distrustfully. "You know, sometimes things disappear..."
"I don't have any fucking paper clips!" Spencer yelps and grabs his coat back. "Just go and... do whatever it is you do when you need more paperclips!"
"I've never needed more paperclips before," Vicky says. Spencer stares, and she shrugs. "What? I think the secretary who used to work here was an obsessive hoarder or something, I found like a million stashed away in her desk."
He hasn't even started work, but Spencer feels tired already. "Call William or Greta or someone," he says and drops into his chair. "Why am I a fink, Victoria?"
Vicky leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. "Well, Spencer, your hickey is visible from miles away. I thought you weren't going to have any more sex with Jon until he got rid of the Disney sheets?"
Spencer, whose hand has twitched towards his collar involuntarily, nearly chokes on his coffee. "How the hell do you know that?" He has the sudden, horrible vision of Vicky perched in the hydrangea bushes under his bedroom window, with, like, a cigarette and a spy mic.
"I overhear your cell phone conversations," Vicky says airily. She snorts when she sees his face. "Oh, whatever, Spencer, you should have them outside the office, then!"
It's a fair enough point. Spencer sighs and shuffles some papers. "It's none of your business. Go away now."
His office doesn't get any emptier, though, only more crowded as Travis breezes in and throws himself into Spencer's visitor armchair by the door. "Spence, my man!" Travis crows cheerfully. "What's up?"
"No, please, do come in," Spencer says.
Travis grins and kicks his feet up. "Not too bad, thanks for asking! Hello, Victoria." He levels her with a smoldering look.
Vicky smiles and bites her thumbnail. "Travis."
"Can this not happen in here?" Spencer asks and waves his hand. "You know, I have work to do." To illustrate, he holds up what he thinks is the Pepsi file and realizes too late is actually the 2007 IKEA catalogue.
He has more than enough time to chuck it into the trash can while Travis laughs. "Nice," he says when he's finally caught his breath, wiping his eyes with the end of his tie. "Also, I see you got some action last night! Good for you, man, good for you." The wink he gives Spencer is maybe less of a wink and more of an anvil smashing him in the face as far as subtlety goes.
Spencer drops into his chair and complains, "This is the most inappropriate office in the world."
Travis appears unimpressed. "Duh," he says and crosses his ankles. "You didn't realize this when you first met Pete?"
***
Technically, Pete is the head of their department. In actuality, Pete not only introduced (and enforces) casual Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays but also refuses to be called "Mr. Wentz".
"That's my dad," he'd told Spencer on his first day, shiny teeth and shiny jacket fighting a violent battle for dominance. The loser, in this case, was anyone looking at Pete directly. "Just call me Pete. Peter. Hey Stud."
So, really, Pete's boss-ness is limited to his having a slightly bigger office and a secretary that's called "private assistant", a long-suffering kid named Patrick. He's straight out of college and people say he got hired because he was the only applicant HR could find who was shorter than Pete.
Spencer likes Patrick. He's smart and friendly and wears even uglier clothes than Pete does. He and Vicky seem to have formed some sort of unholy alliance that involves a lot of giggling on the phone and more Starbucks runs per day than Spencer thought were possible. Pete must be existing on coffee and nervous energy alone.
Spencer doesn't mind more than he does because Vicky brings him back extra donuts and puts them on the company credit card.
***
Pete likes to do this thing he calls "connecting with the staff," but which is really "harassing his employees". Sure enough, just as Spencer takes the first sip from his little plastic cup, someone slams into his back hard enough to make water splash out all over his hand.
"Gotcha!" Pete shouts gleefully as Spencer, toes tingling with adrenaline, steadies himself against the wall. "Say it, dude, say it!"
Spencer contemplates ritual suicide for exactly three point five seconds.
"Wentz is whack," he says at last. The cuff of his shirt is soaked, and he plucks it away from his wrist gingerly while shooting a significant look at Frank-from-HR over the water cooler. Frank grins around the rim of his own drink, completely unmolested. Life is just not fair.
Pete rests his elbow on Spencer's shoulder nonchalantly. It doesn't seem to bother him that he has to kind of twist up to do it. "Jolly right, lad," he says in an atrocious fake accent that seems to simultaneously cover most of Europe, but thankfully drops it to ask, "So, what are we up to? Taking a break from our busy lives? Huh? Having a good lunch time?"
Not for the first time, Spencer wonders how Pete is one of the most brilliant people in his business while also being, well, himself. "Pretty good, Pete," he says. "We -"
"You don't look happy," Pete interrupts. "Frank here, he looks happy." Frank gives both of them a huge grin. Spencer narrows his eyes. Bastard. "You don't look happy, Smith. What can Uncle Pete do to put a big smile on your face?" He benevolently gives Spencer's hip a pat that feels like it was meant to land on his ass, before Pete remembered whatever passes for propriety in his brain.
"It's fine," Spencer says tightly, "Really. Today's just kind of a weird day."
Pete looks seriously offended. "You can't be walking around and feeling weird, man. It's almost the holidays."
Spencer is pretty sure that slapping his boss will get him fired even in this company. "Yes, I'm aware of that," he says. "It's not like anyone will let me forget about it for one damn minute." He thinks he can hear the muted strains of "Last Christmas" through someone's office door.
"No cussing in the work place, Spencer Smith!" Pete hollers, and it's not like he's ever docile, exactly, but today he seems to be thrumming with... something annoying. Good cheer or whatever. Spencer wishes he would stop.
"Oh," Pete says abruptly, staring somewhere past Frank's shoulder. "Well, guys, good talking to you and all, but I should be getting on with it..."
He starts to back away, and Spencer knows why when he sees Patrick, clutching a stack of papers to his chest and moving pretty fast for such a short guy. Spencer makes a mental note to remind himself, the next time he has to stay until midnight on a Friday, that he's not even the one with the shittiest job in the building. He's not the one who has to wrangle Pete.
"Well!" Pete says and turns so fast the ends of his jacket fly out behind him. "I'm off! Got to check in with Frank's people now!" And then he really is off, shouldering the door to the central stairway open with one last cheerful wave back.
Frank slumps against the wall. "Wow," he says. Spencer is inclined to agree. "Hey, Patrick."
"Sorry, you guys," Patrick throws back over his shoulder as he hurries past them. "They put a lot of syrup in his frappuccino this morning. No, Pete, come on - I'm sure everyone has tons of work to do -"
His pleading tones fade away as the door swings shut behind him. Spencer imagines he can feel the blissful silence that follows, just clacking keyboards and the far-off ringing of a phone.
"Wow," Frank says, again. "Well, do you -"
He is cut off by a floor-rattling crash from downstairs. Spencer does drop his cup this time, and can now add "shoes and socks" to the List Of Things On His Body That Are Wet.
He raises his eyebrows at Frank. "Do you want to check out what he did? See if anyone got hurt?"
"No," says Frank.
"Ok," says Spencer.
They both go back to work.
Day 10
For all Spencer knows, the Annual Walker Family Cookie-Baking Extravaganza really may have started out, once upon a time, as a Walkers-only thing. At this point, though, it includes girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and their dogs, and people in candy-colored sweaters spill over from the kitchen into the rest of Jon's parents' house.
He lingers somewhere near the sliding doors to the patio, where the heat from two dozen bodies and almost as many portable stoves isn't quite as oppressive, clutching a can of Sprite and listening to Brendon chat up Jon's new sister-in-law. They're mixing something that looks glossy and a hospital kind of pink.
"I had a bad haircut and nerdy glasses," Brendon says and adds an amount of powdered sugar to the mix that makes Spencer's teeth hurt just from watching. "So the older students picked on me a lot. It was ok, though, I met Jon during Sophomore year."
"And he protected you from bullies?" Shannon asks, touched, the hand holding a stirring spoon going to her heart. It drips pink all down the front of her apron.
Brendon shrugs cheerfully. "Well, no. I mean, he was really small for his age, they probably would have beaten him up, too, but we used to hide in the back of the auditorium..."
A shout of laughter from the family room drowns out the rest of his sentence. Spencer gives up his nice, cool spot to amble over there and claim the best seat in the room, careful to flick the flour-dusted dishtowel Jon has tucked into his jeans out of the way before dropping down on his lap.
"Hey," Jon says and kisses Spencer's jaw with frosting-sticky lips. "Are you having fun? Did my mom make you taste-test anything horrific yet?"
Spencer watches as Jon presses tiny silver stars into frosting with painstaking precision. "There were caramel-coconut bombs," he says thoughtfully and takes a sip of Sprite. "And something she said was pistachio. I'm not sure. It wasn't really in my mouth long enough to tell." On the CD player, some choir of undoubtedly adorably gap-toothed children is lisping its way through a rendition of "Silent Night". Jon jiggles his knee in time. Spencer wasn't aware you could really jiggle to Christmas music.
"You know, not that I'm not enjoying all of the stirring and mixing and dough sticking everywhere," he says, "but how long exactly is this Annual Family Collective Cookie Crazy -"
"Extravaganza," Jon supplies helpfully.
"- how long exactly is it going to last?"
"Until you fall into a diabetic coma," Ryan says. He's bent so low over the table the ends of his hair brush the plastic cover, wrists sweeping in graceful movements to get the frosting curls just right. Spencer throws a marzipan snowflake at him. It sticks.
Jon reaches over to pluck the flake out of Ryan's hair and pops it into his mouth. "Until we have enough for everyone," he says, as one of the choir kids hits a high note that no one past puberty could possibly reach. "Why, are you bored? Do you want to go upstairs and watch some TV?"
"No, thanks," Spencer says dryly, "Dad," and he pinches Jon's thigh hard enough to make him laugh and yelp at the same time, nearly bucking Spencer off his lap and onto the floor.
"Hey!" Ryan barks, "stop rattling the table." He peers up through his messy bangs angrily, until Jon says, "Sorry, Ryan," and Spencer mutters something that could, with a bit of goodwill, be interpreted as an apology.
"Seriously, though," Jon says. The very tip of his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth as he gets back to his sprinkles, dabbing them on with his little finger carefully. Spencer's belly suddenly feels very warm, even though he hasn't had any of the eggnog Jon's dad all but forced into his mouth. It must run in the family here. "You don't have to hang around if you don't want to. This is kind of a lot of Christmas in one place."
"Oh well," Spencer says evenly and rests his cheek on top of Jon's head, hair soft and a little ticklish. "I'm pretty sure I'll be all right."
There are gagging sounds from across the table, but when Spencer looks up to glare, Ryan is merely smiling delicately and placing another frosted cookie in front of Jon to finish.
"Like some people need to talk," Spencer says balefully. Jon starts to laugh under his breath; Spencer can feel the tremors all along his side. "Some people with their matching slippers..."
"Hey!" Ryan protests, sounding offended. "It was a special offer, ok? Just because I know how to bargain-shop..."
Jon's not even trying to hide it now, red-faced and gasping into his sleeve. Ryan gives them both dirty looks. Spencer steals Jon's in-progress cookie and takes a hearty bite.
"Anyway," Jon says and gives a final cough. "Anyway, I promised Mom I'd send you over when I saw you. She has some more recipes she'd like your input on."
Spencer stops his efforts to lick away the frosting stuck to his teeth. "Why me?" he says, trying semi-hard not to sound like he's being volunteered for dubious medical experiments. Even though he kind of is.
Jon shrugs. "You're in advertising, Spence," he says mildly. "I told her you're an expert. You know all about quality and what's gonna sell with my great-aunts, so to speak."
The thing about Jon Walker is, Spencer reflects, that he looks so innocent with his dorky sweaters and his big brown eyes, but beneath the Santa-esque twinkle, there's nothing but pure evil.
"I hate you," Spencer says.
Jon beams at him, thumb rubbing slow circles on Spencer's kneecap. "Now, that's a lie, Spencer Smith. It's not nice to lie on the holidays."
Day 11
"HI!!" the message starts. Spencer can practically hear Frank's chirpy tone.
Well everyone, this is just to remind you that we are STILL SCHEDULED at Luigi's to ring in Christmas at 10 p.m. on the 23rd, so get your inflatable reindeers ready and
Spencer hits "delete" so hard he loses the next two e-mails as well.
Day 12
It's a little after eleven when Pete shuffles into Spencer's office, looking for all the world like a kid who just had his lollipop taken away and then got spanked with it, and, wow, did that just load Spencer up with a bunch of mental images he didn't need.
"Hi, Pete," Spencer says after he's spent about twenty seconds with his pen hovering above the page, and Pete still hasn't made a move. "Can I, um, help you in any way?"
Pete heaves a deep sigh. "Patrick says I'm not allowed more than one cup of Starbucks before lunch anymore," he says and scuffs his toes against the carpet a little forlornly. "I guess there were some complaints or whatever, about the other day, and I suppose a little bit of property damage, too. He's making me go around and apologize."
Spencer blinks. "Ok," he says, putting down his pen and folding his hands on the tabletop. "So that's what you're doing?"
"Yeah," Pete says and takes a deep breath. "Dear Spencer, I'm very sorry I physically inconvenienced you in the hallway on Tuesday, that was unprofessional of me and, you know, blah blah blah." He waves his hand and barely misses Jon's big fucking Christmas bouquet that Vicky keeps sneaking back into the room. Currently it resides on the filing cabinet closest to the door; it's a compromise Spencer can live with. Pete eyes it, vaguely appraising.
"That's quite something," he says, and starts pawing through the foliage, bending leaves back and forth. "That's... kind of awesome, actually. Where did you get it?"
The apology part is obviously over and done with. Spencer recaps his pen and leans back in his chair until the leather creaks. "My boyfriend sent it to me," he says, trying to sound non-committal.
Pete looks up and grins, and, fine, it's very charming. "It's pretty cool."
"Yeah," Spencer says, the word stretching like gum in his mouth. It's not like he doesn't appreciate the nice things Jon does for him. It's just that sometimes he wishes they could be... different nice things. Not involving bells.
"I heard his apartment caught on fire a while back," Pete says, suddenly serious. "Jon's, I mean. I'm sorry, man, that sucks. My sister's in real estate, if there's anything I can do..."
"It's fine," Spencer says hurriedly. "No, he's, Jon moved in with me. I asked him to," he adds, because it feels like he should.
Pete nods and suddenly takes a lot of interest in adjusting his jacket. "You know, the company has this - it's kind of a fund, you know, for... when Maxine's house got flooded last year and they lost their whole first floor to water damage, we paid them a little bit, just a few hundred bucks. I mean, I could go to HR and talk to them about helping out." Looking thoughtful, he amends, "Though I'm not sure how welcome I'll be after the thing with Ray's desk."
It takes Spencer a few moments to catch on. "Oh," he says, snapping forward in his chair. "Oh, no, it was just the kitchen. They lost hardly any of their stuff, Jon brought it all with him."
Pete looks kind of relieved to not have to go back downstairs and face Ray's wrath. "Awesome," he says, nodding enthusiastically, "awesome. So, what, you fit like his whole apartment into your house?"
"Uh," Spencer says eloquently. He wishes fervently that Vicky would come in and bother him about something she doesn't know how to do, but no such luck. Why does he have an effective secretary? "Yeah, it's kind of... still all in boxes. We haven't quite gotten around to unpacking yet."
Pete's face does a comical thing where his eyebrows shoot up and his jaw drops slightly, and he visibly yanks his features back into "unsurprised". Spencer doesn't really feel like laughing, though. "Well, great," Pete says, and raps his knuckles against the metal door to Spencer's filing cabinet. "Ok, I'll go then. If Patrick asks, I totally apologized!"
"Yes, you did," Spencer says and rolls his shoulders back and forth. He feels weird, like he buttoned his shirt too tight across his chest or something. "Hey, Pete!" he calls after him, somewhat belatedly. "Thanks, anyway."
Pete shrugs modestly. "What can I say, I'm the best boss ever," he says, and steals the cupcake that's sitting on a napkin on Vicky's desk on his way out.
PART TWO
This has been in the works since August, Christ. It also might be the most randomly AU fic in the entire world, starting with the fact that December 1st did not actually fall on a Monday this year. Many, many thanks to tabbyola and airgiodslv for providing opinions and constant hand-holding, and to airgiodslv for the rocking beta.
For adellyna, who is the needles on my tree and the reindeers on my sweater. ♥
Last Christmas (A Seasonal Drama In 24 Parts)
AU. 14,649 words. Jon/Spencer (Ryan/Brendon, Frank/Gerard, Vicky/Travis, assorted other players). PG-13. Lies! All lies!
Day 1
When Spencer Smith wakes on December 1st, he is in hell.
Hell, admittedly, looks a whole lot like his bedroom used to. Except Spencer is pretty sure that when he went to sleep last night, there wasn't a festive garland draped around the corners of the room. There also weren't twinkling, colored lights on top of the door, or gold star cut-outs all over the wall, or, holy shit, two matching bunches of mistletoe over his bed.
"Jon," Spencer croaks, hoping against hope that maybe he's still dreaming and he'll wake himself up.
Jon's face comes into view immediately, smiling widely and with a Santa hat crooked over one ear. Spencer flinches in alarm.
"Hey, you're awake! Help me decide which one to put on your bedside table?" Jon holds up both hands, clutching the small figure of a snowman and a reindeer, respectively.
"How about neither," Spencer says, once his brain has woken up enough to form complete sentences. "Did you, uh, did you get us his-and-his mistletoes?"
Jon looks unreasonably delighted. "I did! Aren't they amazing?"
Spencer blinks.
"Yeah," he says as he struggles upright. He has some difficulties sitting up, because Jon is perched on the edge of the bed and pressing the duvet cover down. "Yeah, that's one way of -"
He is cut off by an enthusiastic, slightly sloppy morning kiss. Spencer grudgingly responds, because he's helpless not to when Jon's teeth graze his lower lip, but eventually he's the one who pulls back. Spencer licks his lips, twice, just to make sure he really got the taste right. He looks at the mug in Jon's hands.
"Are you drinking eggnog?" he asks in disbelief. "At seven-thirty in the morning?"
"Yes," Jon says, smile unrepentant. "What about it?"
Spencer stares.
***
"No, you don't even understand," Spencer hisses into his cell phone as he tries to navigate the revolving doors to the building. "You don't understand, Ryan, there was tinsel in the shower."
How can Ryan not get it? Like, Spencer realizes that four years of dating Brendon would desensitize a person to a whole lot of crazy, but this, this just goes too far. There's Disney songs in the bathroom, and then there's the hostile holiday take-over of his own house. Their own house. Whatever.
"I don't know," Ryan says thoughtfully on the other end. "I think it sounds kind of nice, you know? Have some decorations, get in the mood..."
"I have plenty of mood," Spencer snaps and is finally released into the lobby. There's an open elevator waiting; he barely catches it by doing an impromptu sprint.
"I just don't want any of this nonsense," he continues, slightly out of breath while the floors tick by on the screen. 2. 3. 4. "Any of this, this, fake snow spray, and garlands, and really frivolous amounts of Christmas balls everywhere! How did he even do that, he's been there less than a d - Hello? Hello? Ryan?"
But he's lost reception, and Spencer snaps his phone shut with an annoyed sigh just as the elevator shudders to a halt. The doors slide open to reveal Vicky already at her desk, chatting into her headset and waving at Spencer when he taps her desk by way of saying hello. There's a small poinsettia next to her computer screen and Spencer does give it a markedly disapproving stare as he moves past, but it'll be tolerable, he supposes.
"Absolutely. Uh huh. Yeah. Bye bye," Vicky chirps behind him, and then calls, "I already put it on your desk!"
"Put what on my desk?" Spencer asks, and then stops in the middle of taking off his coat. There's a... well, it's some sort of botanic monstrosity taking up almost half of his workspace, which isn't exactly small.
Spencer needs a few moments to regain the power of speech, which gives Vicky enough time to unplug herself from the phone and breeze past him into his office. "This of course!" she says and lovingly fiddles with a few lacquered-looking green leaves. There are some sort of red berries as well, and something white, and what Spencer fucking well hopes is not actually gold dust gently falling on his pristine tabletop. "You are so lucky, Spencer, Gabe never sent me flowers."
"This is hideous," Spencer says before he can stop himself.
Vicky looks at him like he just flayed a live elf right in front of her. "It's festive," she says reproachfully, and gives the whole arrangement a last, loving pat. It jingles, and oh God, there are bells half-hidden in between the plants, actual tiny bells. Spencer can't work with this in the office. Spencer can't work with this in the building.
"I want it out of here," he says firmly. "Put it on your own desk, I don't care, just somewhere I can't see it."
Vicky's face is doing weird contortions, like she really wants to say something, but in the end she doesn't, just gathers the thing up in her arms. They awkwardly step past each other when Spencer moves behind his desk.
She changes her mind just before she reaches the door, spinning back around with a mad jingling of invisible bells. Spencer can't even see her face behind all the vegetation. "You're a lucky guy, you know," the bush says to him, and it inexplicably sounds like a warning. Then it marches off towards Vicky's ringing phone.
"Don't I know it," Spencer mutters and starts searching for a Kleenex to get rid of this fucking dust all over his things.
***
He gets home late that night, way past dark. Spencer stomps on the landing to warm his feet while he fumbles with the keys, breath steaming in the air and obscuring his vision. Finally he manages to let himself inside and slams the door shut with relief.
For a second, while he's standing there trying to adjust to the change in temperature, it's almost nice; the house is warm and well-lit and smells really good, like fresh coffee and sugar cookies. But then Spencer is assaulted by... stuff. Stuff everywhere. On the sidetable. On the banister. On the open doorways. On the ceiling, there are angels dangling off his damn ceiling, and Spencer spends long enough just standing there gaping that the snow melts off his shoes and forms a miserable little puddle around him.
It's too much. Oh God, is it ever too much. Everything is shiny and colorful and bright and happy, and it's like it's multiplying even while Spencer looks around, like that woman-snake thing where you cut off one head and it grows three new ones. Hydra. His house has turned into a fucking hydra while he was gone.
There's one angel in particular, a huge one, right over the door to the kitchen. Its wings are covered in glitter, and if there is such a thing as twinkling aggressively, that angel is definitely doing it.
"I'm home," Spencer finally calls, warily. There's a crash from the living room, muttered curses, and then Jon's cheerful voice.
"I'm in here!"
Spencer nearly trips over Jon's things that haven't made it upstairs yet. He's a little afraid of turning the corner, to be honest.
It turns out he had every reason to.
The living room is even shinier than the rest of the house. There's red and green and gold, and more baubles and garlands, and Spencer has to close his eyes. Why is this happening to his home?
When he opens them again, Jon is beaming up at him from where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of wrapping paper and what looks like several miles of hopelessly tangled Christmas lights. "Hi!" Jon says. "I couldn't wait for you to get home and see this, Dylan and I have been having fun all afternoon." He pats a small-ish pile of bows and ribbons, which meows and gives a feeble wiggle in response.
Spencer opens and closes his mouth several times before he says, "This place looks like Santa's workshop threw up all over it." And maybe he looks a little bit stricken, because Jon starts to extricate himself from the pile (it's kind of a multi-step process) and hops across discarded decorations to pull Spencer into a hug.
"Hey, hey, this is nothing bad," he says and fists his hand in Spencer's hair, gives a gentle tug. "This is just Christmas cheer." He smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon.
Spencer presses his face into Jon's shoulder and says, "Your Christmas cheer is about to give me an epileptic seizure."
Jon laughs, a low rumble that starts in his chest and travels along his shoulders to tingle everywhere they're touching. It's nice. Less nice is what Spencer saw just before the hugging started. He clears his throat and lifts his head so he's not talking into Jon's sweater anymore. "Are you wearing antlers?"
"I sure am," Jon says solemnly.
"Ok," Spencer says. And then, because, really, what else is he going to do: "Is there any food in the house?"
"I put take-out in the fridge," Jon says and lays a warm, broad hand on Spencer's neck. "C'mon, let's go eat."
Day 2
Spencer stares.
The reindeer stares back.
"It's not so much that I don't like them," Spencer says at last, hand covering half of his face like maybe this will be less horrible if he only sees it out of one eye (it's not). "It's that they're on my bed, Jon. Our bed. And they have a Disney character on them."
"I know!" Jon says, sounding excited, like this isn't the worst fucking thing to come home to in the entire world.
Maybe Spencer's being a little dramatic. But fuck it, the lovely, understated aubergine sheets he crawled out of this morning have been replaced by something that's garishly red and definitely does not look like 300-count anything. He's entitled.
He watches mutely as Jon flops back on the bed spread-eagled, smile on his face. "I love Christmas time, Spence," he says dreamily. "There's so much joy around, you know? I took so many pictures of smiling people today."
He pushes himself up on his elbows, t-shirt slipping up and exposing a ring of winter-pale belly. Jon obviously notices Spencer looking, because the next moment his expression turns thoughtful and his hips lift up slightly. "We could break them in right now," he says and slowly rubs his hand along the stretch of empty mattress next to him.
It maybe takes him a moment - because, fuck, glittering eyes and the quirk of his lips and Jon's fingers curling inwards - but Spencer snaps out of it. "I'm not having sex with you in those sheets," he says, and he realizes he's sounding kind of shrill, but for fuck's sake. His pillow has an animated children's character on it.
Jon makes a sad face. "Never again?" he asks and stretches, shirt riding up even higher, thigh muscles flexing. Spencer's mouth is very dry all of a sudden.
"No," he says anyway, stubbornly, crossing his arms. "Never."
Jon's smile is slow and wicked. "We'll see, Spencer Smith. We'll see."
Day 3
"Why do you hate Christmas, Spencer?" Brendon asks.
Spencer glances away from the menu board long enough to give Brendon a quick once-over - wide-eyed innocence, check. Brownie crumbs all over his dorky scarf, check. Ryan growing out of his shoulder like an extra set of limbs, check. - and to determine that it's not a rhetorical question.
"I don't hate Christmas," he says.
Four eyebrows rise as one.
"I don't!" Spencer says defensively. "I just hate the stupid commercials and the tacky lights, and that they play Wham! on the radio every five damn seconds, and fir branches all over the place, and candy canes - they taste like stale mouthwash, ok, and that you can't seem to order just a plain old coffee anymore. And the fact that our fucking receptionist keeps singing carols to herself."
Ryan blinks at him. Brendon surveys the pastry selection with two fingers pressed to his chin and says, "Yeah, all of that would be Christmas, dude."
"You know, those holiday brews are really pretty good," Ryan adds helpfully.
Spencer clenches his teeth until his molars hurt.
Day 4
Apparently, even Jon can't decorate indefinitely. There comes a point when the house is simply full, and Spencer could swear that Jon's Santa hat is drooping a little dejectedly as he carries empty cardboard boxes down into the basement. Spencer looks on from the dining room table. He has work stuff spread all over it, manila folders and copies and a whole bunch of post-its full of Vicky's neat, round handwriting; not that he's done anything but chew on a pen and watch Jon lift stuff for the last twenty minutes.
Spencer wriggles his toes and Dylan starts purring where he's wrapped around his ankle. It's been nice having him around the house, Spencer has to admit.
That still doesn't mean he's allowed in the bed.
"Hey," Jon says and flops into an empty chair across from Spencer. "How's it going? What are you selling now?" He's a little flushed, possibly because the sweater he's wearing is much too warm for inside. From what Spencer has seen over the last few days, he must have a limitless supply stashed away somewhere. Today's motif is a row of elks holding hands. Spencer briefly considers making a joke about gay orgies, but doesn't.
"Strawberry Pepsi," he says instead and slumps down in his seat until his free foot finds Jon's leg. "It's nasty."
He pulls a folder toward himself before Jon can put his omnipresent mug of eggnog down on it.
"Make that the hook," Jon suggests and catches Spencer's foot as it travels up his shin, fingers pressing into the arch. Spencer nearly groans as Jon starts digging in all the right places. "Just have the billboards say, 'Come on, this can't possibly be worse than Cherry Coke.'"
Spencer's nervous system is shooting up little bursts of pleasure all over his body. It takes a ridiculous amount of concentration just to say, "I can't believe Pete didn't come up with that," without drooling.
"He should hire me," Jon says with a grave nod and pinches Spencer's toes. "I'd be amazing at advertising, don't lie. I could make people buy stuff like that."
Spencer can't really argue. If Jon told him to buy the damn sweater off his back right now, with one thumb rubbing hard circles on the sole of his foot, Spencer would. Possibly throw in a blowjob on top of it.
He's still busy with that particular train of thought - Jon's fingers fisted in his hair just this side of painful, cock hot and heavy on Spencer's tongue - when Jon says, " - back of the closet."
Spencer shakes away the fantasy of Jon's broken gasps and asks, "Wait, what?"
"My boxes," Jon says patiently. "They're still down here. I'll bring them all up tomorrow and put the ones I'm not unpacking right now in the back of the closet."
Oh. "Yeah," Spencer says, "sure," and carefully puts the cap back on his pen.
Jon's fingers slow, then still. "You don't mind, right? I mean, I kind of have to put them somewhere. And it'll be great to have some of my stuff back." He smiles, his sweet, harmless Jon smile, and there's nothing at all to explain the rock that suddenly materializes in Spencer's stomach.
"Sure," he says again and devotes an unnecessary amount of focus to a point somewhere above Jon's right shoulder. "What were you thinking about putting up, exactly? Because there's not really a lot of room."
Jon looks around himself like this is the first time he even notices the explosion of kitsch going on inside the house. "Yeah," he says, a little sheepishly, "I guess I got a little carried away. It was just so nice to have something to do around here, and, you know, make it feel more like home?"
He actually looks apologetic, and Spencer immediately feels like an asshole. He doesn't know, but he remembers: being woken by the phone shrilling in the middle of the night, and catching his hip on the dresser in his hurry out the door. Jon's face. The way his hair had still reeked of smoke two showers later.
"Hey," Spencer says softly and pokes his big toe at Jon's belly. "Hey, this is your home now, alright? Our home." The words feel clumsy on his tongue, heavy, but it's not really important in the face of Jon's answering smile. "But." Spencer clears his throat. "The boxes. Could you maybe wait a couple more days? Just..."
He doesn't actually have a modifier for that, no explanation for why, but Jon only shrugs and says, "Yeah, sure," even if he does look a little confused. Spencer closes his eyes and forces himself to relax.
Day 5
By Friday, Vicky's poinsettia is being kept company by a pack of ceramic polar bears with jaunty scarves and mittens. Vicky herself seems to be getting into the season spirit mostly by wearing a series of escalatingly ugly cardigans. Today's obscenity is white with little sprigs of holly embroidered all around the buttons.
"Are you checking out my boobs?" Vicky asks after ten minutes she's spent trying to teach Spencer how to work Excel. It's useless. He's no more going to be able to edit a spreadsheet than Vicky's polar bears are going to jump up and get his lunch for him.
Spencer forces his eyes back to the screen. "No," he says and hits some keys just for the hell of it. The computer beeps angrily. "I was just admiring your fashions."
"Because that's sexual harassment," Vicky says, completely ignoring him. Maybe three years' work for Spencer have made her immune to sarcasm. "It doesn't matter if you're gay, it still is. God, give me this." She wrenches the keyboard from his hands and fixes everything Spencer just did wrong - a lot, if the cluster of error messages on the screen is anything to go by - all the while muttering about "unbelievable" and "electronically retarded" under her breath.
"I could fire you, you know," Spencer says, but his heart isn't in it. They both know it's never going to happen; Vicky is the only person in the building who can read Spencer's handwriting, and the only person in the world who will cheerfully put up with him on a Monday morning. Plus, he kind of likes her. She wears cute shoes and doesn't take any cigarette breaks, she just sits in the open window and copies memos with smoke drifting out of her mouth.
Spencer picks up one of the polar bears and complains, "Excel sucks." Maybe it's just his imagination, but its beady little eyes look vaguely malicious.
"Just because you have worse computer skills than any five-year-old I know doesn't mean the program sucks," Vicky says and, looking satisfied, puts the keyboard back down. "Be careful with that, Gabe gave it to me."
Spencer doesn't ask why Vicky keeps shifty-looking trinkets from her ex-boyfriend around. He's learned the hard way that anything to do with Vicky's always eventful and frequently bizarre personal life is best left alone. He puts the bear back between its brothers, careful to angle it away from his office door. "Fine. Hey," Spencer says when Vicky dumps her coat on the desk. "Don't you usually take your break in here?"
"I'm having lunch with Travis today," Vicky says, suddenly intently focused on rummaging through the contents of her purse. God knows what's even in there; it looks big enough to smuggle a pony into work.
Spencer nearly jerks his knees into the desk. "Travis? McCoy? From down the hall?"
"Same one," Vicky says, before punching Spencer in the shoulder rather unnecessarily and hissing, "He's coming!"
"Yes, thank you," Spencer says, "I totally wouldn't have noticed," and then all six-odd feet of Travis come strolling into his office.
"Happy lunch, everyone," Travis says cheerfully and leans against the other side of Vicky's desk, holding out his fist for Spencer to bump. "Looking sharp there. Hello, Vicky."
He gives her a dazzling smile before getting distracted by the figurines Spencer just messed up. "Your polar bear is crooked," Travis says with a frown and reaches down to fix it.
"Careful," Spencer says, still rubbing his shoulder, "that's from Gabe," at the same moment that Vicky blurts, "My sister gave it to me."
Travis blinks at them both, mid-reach. "Your sister named Gabe?"
"Gabrielle," Vicky says smoothly and shrugs into her coat. The cuff hits Spencer in the back of the head a little too hard to be accidental. "I call her Gabe. We don't really speak. Ready to go?"
Travis holds out his arm for her to take, winks and says, "Absolutely," and Vicky grins kind of abashedly when she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. Spencer has the sudden urge to say something like, "Now, you have her back by two." He doesn't, in appreciation of just how close Vicky's enormous purse is to his balls.
"Have fun," he simply says, and smiles when Vicky narrows her eyes at him. Her face relaxes, and as Travis leads her out the door she mouths back over her shoulder, "I'll bring you donuts."
No, Spencer's definitely not firing her.
Day 6
Spencer is really fucking cold.
"That's because you dress for fashion instead of warmth," Jon says disapprovingly, but he catches Spencer's hands and slides them into his coat pockets. Spencer can feel paper and a bunch of loose change rattle around in there, something hard and grainy slipping under his nails. It feels like sand, which it probably is, and leave it to Jon to take pictures on the beach in December.
"Seriously," Spencer says through chattering teeth, "I don't know why I agreed to do this. Frostbite is not that romantic, Jon." His toes are numb. He shuffles closer until he can press his cold nose into Jon's cheek, payback for making him walk down Navy fucking Pier in this weather.
"You gave in because you love me," Jon says, apparently unperturbed. "And because I put my hands in inappropriate places while I was asking."
He has a point. Spencer sniffs and tips his head back until he can stare past all of the artificial lightning, into a sky that's completely black. Tiny snowflakes are coming down, stinging his eyes and immediately melting everywhere they touch; his face, Jon's collar.
It's still early enough for families to be around, little kids who are bundled up so thick they waddle more than walk at their parents' hands. Jon spends five minutes flirting with a giggly two-year-old while they wait in line for food.
"That was the highlight of your night right there, wasn't it," Spencer says and watches the tiny pink mitten waving after them once they leave. Jon's walking nearly backwards, half-turned so he can wave goodbye back at his newest conquest. Spencer holds his elbow and slowly steers them through the crowd.
"It was," Jon admits, and his smile when he looks at Spencer is so happy and goofy that Spencer can't help it; he stops in his tracks and kisses him, hard, almost dropping his box of fries.
Jon gives a soft hum of surprise, but his arms come up to wrap around Spencer's waist and pull him in closer, closer, until the buttons on his coat are digging into Spencer's ribs. Spencer closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled, opens his mouth for Jon to lick inside. This might not be the best place for it, he realizes distantly, but with Jon's tongue stroking his own and Jon's breath thawing his face and Jon's hand cupping his jaw, Spencer's pretty busy just trying to stay upright.
They resurface eventually, Spencer leaning into Jon while his pulse slows down. He feels warm and light-headed and thoroughly kissed.
"All right," Jon says, fingers drawing circles on Spencer's back. "All right, I lied, this is totally the highlight of my night."
Spencer makes an entirely undignified noise, somewhere between a snort and a laugh. It feels good being out here. He's been tense for days, an indefinable itch under his skin, but there's something soothing about the fresh air and the crowd and the excited hum of so many voices all around them.
He follows when Jon moves them out of the center of the boardwalk in an awkward half-waltz shuffle step. Spencer's back hits the railing, so cold, and he arches away. "Sorry, sorry," Jon mutters and spins them so he's between Spencer and the icy wood, taking his hand and threading their fingers together tightly.
Over Jon's shoulder, Spencer can see the inky expanse of the lake, lights from the Pier swaying on its surface. Across the way the skyline is gleaming, a hundred tiny, golden pinpricks in the dark. Spencer wonders if someone is looking back at him from one of the windows, invisible across the water but there nonetheless.
He loves Chicago, Spencer realizes in moments like this, a breathless, helpless kind of love that's usually reserved for things like life and sunshine and Jon.
"I kind of need my hand back," he says, "my fries are getting cold," but he doesn't make a move to pull away. Jon's fingers are so warm even through a layer of wool.
"No, you don't," Jon says and makes wide, significant eyes at Spencer, biting his lip for full effect, "I'll feed them to you, with my mouth," and Spencer drops his head and laughs.
Day 7
Generally, Spencer approves of Brendon. He sort of can't not, when Brendon cuts his hair for free and is not ostentatiously too cool to play Guitar Hero on the weekends, and gets that smile out of Ryan, the real one, the slow one that stays in his eyes much longer than on his face. And then of course there's also the part that started with, "Hey, no, you can't leave yet, you need to meet someone first!" and ended with, "Jon Walker, this is Spencer Smith."
That part was also pretty good.
So, on any given day, Spencer would say that Brendon Urie is not exactly the worst thing that's ever happened in his life. He might be forced to revise that opinion.
"You are the worst thing that has ever happened in my life," Spencer says, pointing an accusing finger at the mess of cookie crumbs that used to be his kitchen counter.
Brendon does not have the decency to look even the tiniest bit guilty. "Dude," he says, swallowing neatly before opening his mouth. "You'd eat them if you found them, don't even front." He's perched on the counter in the middle of the sweet debris and swinging his feet; they bounce off the wood with a dull thump on every backwards swing.
"Get off my furniture," Spencer demands and dumps his bag of groceries in the dry sink. "I'm serious, Brendon, we prepare food on that. Off."
Brendon slides to the floor and rolls his eyes, which Spencer totally sees, thank you. "No, you don't," he says and leans against the row of cabinets, checking out Spencer's hair while he talks. "You guys live on take-out, which is unhealthy, you know, you'll get clogged arteries and die. And you need a haircut. And you still haven't moved Jon's stuff upstairs? I mean, seriously, doesn't it get in the way?"
"You just gave me one," Spencer mutters, studiously ignoring the rest of that little monologue while he unpacks everything. Donuts, peanut butter, Hershey's, and fine, maybe Brendon has kind of a point about his life expectancy. Jon buys more healthy stuff, but Jon also spends three hours in the vegetable aisle debating the merits of one zucchini over another. Spencer doesn't have that kind of fucking time. Especially since his diet is apparently going to be the end of him soon.
"You have very fertile follicles," Brendon says seriously and steals a box of marshmallow peeps right out of the bag. "You also have a nice kitchen, Spencer, you really should cook more often. I didn't deliver you my Jon Walker so you could kill him with saturated fats."
"Not your Jon Walker," Spencer says testily and grabs the peeps back, "and not your food. These are for Jon."
Brendon looks wounded. "You won't even let me have one?"
"No," Spencer says. "My house, my groceries, I decide who gets fed." The peeps squish satisfyingly when he presses them down on the counter.
Brendon sniffs and pushes his glasses higher up his nose. "It's Jon's house too now, even if you won't let him have his stuff. I bet he'll give me one. Jon!" he trills when the kitchen door swings open and Ryan and Jon shuffle inside, carrying between them what may be the most pathetic fir tree Spencer has ever seen. It's kind of bent and half-naked. Even Brendon looks awed for a moment before jumping back into action. "Jon, can I have one of your marshmallow peeps?"
Jon smiles brightly through sparsely be-needled branches. "Of course you can!"
"You know," Spencer says, still staring, "I really wish you'd discuss it with me before you let Brendon have candy. What the hell is that?"
"I'm not your fucking kindergartener, come on, Ryan, back me up," Brendon protests through a mouthful of marshmallow, at the same time that Jon says, "That's our Christmas tree!"
"Brendon is not your fucking kindergartener," Ryan says into the ensuing silence.
Spencer blinks, then clears his throat, then blinks again. "Our what?"
"It was so cold, Spence," Jon says as if that explains anything, tugging off his gloves and hat. His hair sticks straight up with electricity. "Nobody else wanted this one. They'd put it in the corner, all lonely and unloved." He looks at Spencer and bites his lip, one hand curled protectively around a crippled branch.
Spencer is not heartless, ok. He gives money to homeless people and donates to Doctors Without Borders every month, but this is a tree. An ugly, possibly diseased tree, and it's not like Spencer wasn't aware that out of a litter of puppies Jon would always go for the three-legged, blind and toothless one, but does this sorry excuse for greenery really have to find a home in this house? If they have to have a Christmas tree, can't they just have a good-looking one that you can actually hang stuff on without making it collapse?
"Look," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm just saying, I'd like it if my house didn't get turned into a place where old things come to die. Like a Florida for trees."
Jon leans over the counter until he can kiss Spencer's cheek. He smells like snow and resin. "Our house," he says evenly, warm lips and cold chin against Spencer's face.
"Yes," Spencer says. "Yes, that's what I said."
"Wow," Brendon says, sounding impressed. He's leaned in so close to the tree that the few green needles left are bent and pushing against his glasses. "Check it out, are these bark beetles?"
Spencer sighs.
Day 8
"Well, Barry," Anchor Lady says and chances a conspiratorial wink at the camera, "only seventeen days left until Christmas Eve!"
Spencer throws a handful of popcorn at the TV. Jon exhales a warm, amused breath into his ear and slides his hands up Spencer's shirt, and, well.
They miss the rest of the broadcast.
Day 9
"You're a fink," Vicky greets him the next morning. "A dirty fink, that's what you are. Also, I'm out of paper clips."
Spencer tries to get through the door without dropping either his bag or his coffee, which took ten minutes to get and damn it, but he will savor every last, unflavored drop. Fucking baristas and their Eggnog Latte. "Well, I don't have any," he says and steps sideways into his office. "And why am I a fink?"
Vicky follows on his heels and, as soon as Spencer has managed to put down his cup and taken off his coat, starts rifling through his pockets. "Are you sure you don't?" she says distrustfully. "You know, sometimes things disappear..."
"I don't have any fucking paper clips!" Spencer yelps and grabs his coat back. "Just go and... do whatever it is you do when you need more paperclips!"
"I've never needed more paperclips before," Vicky says. Spencer stares, and she shrugs. "What? I think the secretary who used to work here was an obsessive hoarder or something, I found like a million stashed away in her desk."
He hasn't even started work, but Spencer feels tired already. "Call William or Greta or someone," he says and drops into his chair. "Why am I a fink, Victoria?"
Vicky leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. "Well, Spencer, your hickey is visible from miles away. I thought you weren't going to have any more sex with Jon until he got rid of the Disney sheets?"
Spencer, whose hand has twitched towards his collar involuntarily, nearly chokes on his coffee. "How the hell do you know that?" He has the sudden, horrible vision of Vicky perched in the hydrangea bushes under his bedroom window, with, like, a cigarette and a spy mic.
"I overhear your cell phone conversations," Vicky says airily. She snorts when she sees his face. "Oh, whatever, Spencer, you should have them outside the office, then!"
It's a fair enough point. Spencer sighs and shuffles some papers. "It's none of your business. Go away now."
His office doesn't get any emptier, though, only more crowded as Travis breezes in and throws himself into Spencer's visitor armchair by the door. "Spence, my man!" Travis crows cheerfully. "What's up?"
"No, please, do come in," Spencer says.
Travis grins and kicks his feet up. "Not too bad, thanks for asking! Hello, Victoria." He levels her with a smoldering look.
Vicky smiles and bites her thumbnail. "Travis."
"Can this not happen in here?" Spencer asks and waves his hand. "You know, I have work to do." To illustrate, he holds up what he thinks is the Pepsi file and realizes too late is actually the 2007 IKEA catalogue.
He has more than enough time to chuck it into the trash can while Travis laughs. "Nice," he says when he's finally caught his breath, wiping his eyes with the end of his tie. "Also, I see you got some action last night! Good for you, man, good for you." The wink he gives Spencer is maybe less of a wink and more of an anvil smashing him in the face as far as subtlety goes.
Spencer drops into his chair and complains, "This is the most inappropriate office in the world."
Travis appears unimpressed. "Duh," he says and crosses his ankles. "You didn't realize this when you first met Pete?"
***
Technically, Pete is the head of their department. In actuality, Pete not only introduced (and enforces) casual Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays but also refuses to be called "Mr. Wentz".
"That's my dad," he'd told Spencer on his first day, shiny teeth and shiny jacket fighting a violent battle for dominance. The loser, in this case, was anyone looking at Pete directly. "Just call me Pete. Peter. Hey Stud."
So, really, Pete's boss-ness is limited to his having a slightly bigger office and a secretary that's called "private assistant", a long-suffering kid named Patrick. He's straight out of college and people say he got hired because he was the only applicant HR could find who was shorter than Pete.
Spencer likes Patrick. He's smart and friendly and wears even uglier clothes than Pete does. He and Vicky seem to have formed some sort of unholy alliance that involves a lot of giggling on the phone and more Starbucks runs per day than Spencer thought were possible. Pete must be existing on coffee and nervous energy alone.
Spencer doesn't mind more than he does because Vicky brings him back extra donuts and puts them on the company credit card.
***
Pete likes to do this thing he calls "connecting with the staff," but which is really "harassing his employees". Sure enough, just as Spencer takes the first sip from his little plastic cup, someone slams into his back hard enough to make water splash out all over his hand.
"Gotcha!" Pete shouts gleefully as Spencer, toes tingling with adrenaline, steadies himself against the wall. "Say it, dude, say it!"
Spencer contemplates ritual suicide for exactly three point five seconds.
"Wentz is whack," he says at last. The cuff of his shirt is soaked, and he plucks it away from his wrist gingerly while shooting a significant look at Frank-from-HR over the water cooler. Frank grins around the rim of his own drink, completely unmolested. Life is just not fair.
Pete rests his elbow on Spencer's shoulder nonchalantly. It doesn't seem to bother him that he has to kind of twist up to do it. "Jolly right, lad," he says in an atrocious fake accent that seems to simultaneously cover most of Europe, but thankfully drops it to ask, "So, what are we up to? Taking a break from our busy lives? Huh? Having a good lunch time?"
Not for the first time, Spencer wonders how Pete is one of the most brilliant people in his business while also being, well, himself. "Pretty good, Pete," he says. "We -"
"You don't look happy," Pete interrupts. "Frank here, he looks happy." Frank gives both of them a huge grin. Spencer narrows his eyes. Bastard. "You don't look happy, Smith. What can Uncle Pete do to put a big smile on your face?" He benevolently gives Spencer's hip a pat that feels like it was meant to land on his ass, before Pete remembered whatever passes for propriety in his brain.
"It's fine," Spencer says tightly, "Really. Today's just kind of a weird day."
Pete looks seriously offended. "You can't be walking around and feeling weird, man. It's almost the holidays."
Spencer is pretty sure that slapping his boss will get him fired even in this company. "Yes, I'm aware of that," he says. "It's not like anyone will let me forget about it for one damn minute." He thinks he can hear the muted strains of "Last Christmas" through someone's office door.
"No cussing in the work place, Spencer Smith!" Pete hollers, and it's not like he's ever docile, exactly, but today he seems to be thrumming with... something annoying. Good cheer or whatever. Spencer wishes he would stop.
"Oh," Pete says abruptly, staring somewhere past Frank's shoulder. "Well, guys, good talking to you and all, but I should be getting on with it..."
He starts to back away, and Spencer knows why when he sees Patrick, clutching a stack of papers to his chest and moving pretty fast for such a short guy. Spencer makes a mental note to remind himself, the next time he has to stay until midnight on a Friday, that he's not even the one with the shittiest job in the building. He's not the one who has to wrangle Pete.
"Well!" Pete says and turns so fast the ends of his jacket fly out behind him. "I'm off! Got to check in with Frank's people now!" And then he really is off, shouldering the door to the central stairway open with one last cheerful wave back.
Frank slumps against the wall. "Wow," he says. Spencer is inclined to agree. "Hey, Patrick."
"Sorry, you guys," Patrick throws back over his shoulder as he hurries past them. "They put a lot of syrup in his frappuccino this morning. No, Pete, come on - I'm sure everyone has tons of work to do -"
His pleading tones fade away as the door swings shut behind him. Spencer imagines he can feel the blissful silence that follows, just clacking keyboards and the far-off ringing of a phone.
"Wow," Frank says, again. "Well, do you -"
He is cut off by a floor-rattling crash from downstairs. Spencer does drop his cup this time, and can now add "shoes and socks" to the List Of Things On His Body That Are Wet.
He raises his eyebrows at Frank. "Do you want to check out what he did? See if anyone got hurt?"
"No," says Frank.
"Ok," says Spencer.
They both go back to work.
Day 10
For all Spencer knows, the Annual Walker Family Cookie-Baking Extravaganza really may have started out, once upon a time, as a Walkers-only thing. At this point, though, it includes girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and their dogs, and people in candy-colored sweaters spill over from the kitchen into the rest of Jon's parents' house.
He lingers somewhere near the sliding doors to the patio, where the heat from two dozen bodies and almost as many portable stoves isn't quite as oppressive, clutching a can of Sprite and listening to Brendon chat up Jon's new sister-in-law. They're mixing something that looks glossy and a hospital kind of pink.
"I had a bad haircut and nerdy glasses," Brendon says and adds an amount of powdered sugar to the mix that makes Spencer's teeth hurt just from watching. "So the older students picked on me a lot. It was ok, though, I met Jon during Sophomore year."
"And he protected you from bullies?" Shannon asks, touched, the hand holding a stirring spoon going to her heart. It drips pink all down the front of her apron.
Brendon shrugs cheerfully. "Well, no. I mean, he was really small for his age, they probably would have beaten him up, too, but we used to hide in the back of the auditorium..."
A shout of laughter from the family room drowns out the rest of his sentence. Spencer gives up his nice, cool spot to amble over there and claim the best seat in the room, careful to flick the flour-dusted dishtowel Jon has tucked into his jeans out of the way before dropping down on his lap.
"Hey," Jon says and kisses Spencer's jaw with frosting-sticky lips. "Are you having fun? Did my mom make you taste-test anything horrific yet?"
Spencer watches as Jon presses tiny silver stars into frosting with painstaking precision. "There were caramel-coconut bombs," he says thoughtfully and takes a sip of Sprite. "And something she said was pistachio. I'm not sure. It wasn't really in my mouth long enough to tell." On the CD player, some choir of undoubtedly adorably gap-toothed children is lisping its way through a rendition of "Silent Night". Jon jiggles his knee in time. Spencer wasn't aware you could really jiggle to Christmas music.
"You know, not that I'm not enjoying all of the stirring and mixing and dough sticking everywhere," he says, "but how long exactly is this Annual Family Collective Cookie Crazy -"
"Extravaganza," Jon supplies helpfully.
"- how long exactly is it going to last?"
"Until you fall into a diabetic coma," Ryan says. He's bent so low over the table the ends of his hair brush the plastic cover, wrists sweeping in graceful movements to get the frosting curls just right. Spencer throws a marzipan snowflake at him. It sticks.
Jon reaches over to pluck the flake out of Ryan's hair and pops it into his mouth. "Until we have enough for everyone," he says, as one of the choir kids hits a high note that no one past puberty could possibly reach. "Why, are you bored? Do you want to go upstairs and watch some TV?"
"No, thanks," Spencer says dryly, "Dad," and he pinches Jon's thigh hard enough to make him laugh and yelp at the same time, nearly bucking Spencer off his lap and onto the floor.
"Hey!" Ryan barks, "stop rattling the table." He peers up through his messy bangs angrily, until Jon says, "Sorry, Ryan," and Spencer mutters something that could, with a bit of goodwill, be interpreted as an apology.
"Seriously, though," Jon says. The very tip of his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth as he gets back to his sprinkles, dabbing them on with his little finger carefully. Spencer's belly suddenly feels very warm, even though he hasn't had any of the eggnog Jon's dad all but forced into his mouth. It must run in the family here. "You don't have to hang around if you don't want to. This is kind of a lot of Christmas in one place."
"Oh well," Spencer says evenly and rests his cheek on top of Jon's head, hair soft and a little ticklish. "I'm pretty sure I'll be all right."
There are gagging sounds from across the table, but when Spencer looks up to glare, Ryan is merely smiling delicately and placing another frosted cookie in front of Jon to finish.
"Like some people need to talk," Spencer says balefully. Jon starts to laugh under his breath; Spencer can feel the tremors all along his side. "Some people with their matching slippers..."
"Hey!" Ryan protests, sounding offended. "It was a special offer, ok? Just because I know how to bargain-shop..."
Jon's not even trying to hide it now, red-faced and gasping into his sleeve. Ryan gives them both dirty looks. Spencer steals Jon's in-progress cookie and takes a hearty bite.
"Anyway," Jon says and gives a final cough. "Anyway, I promised Mom I'd send you over when I saw you. She has some more recipes she'd like your input on."
Spencer stops his efforts to lick away the frosting stuck to his teeth. "Why me?" he says, trying semi-hard not to sound like he's being volunteered for dubious medical experiments. Even though he kind of is.
Jon shrugs. "You're in advertising, Spence," he says mildly. "I told her you're an expert. You know all about quality and what's gonna sell with my great-aunts, so to speak."
The thing about Jon Walker is, Spencer reflects, that he looks so innocent with his dorky sweaters and his big brown eyes, but beneath the Santa-esque twinkle, there's nothing but pure evil.
"I hate you," Spencer says.
Jon beams at him, thumb rubbing slow circles on Spencer's kneecap. "Now, that's a lie, Spencer Smith. It's not nice to lie on the holidays."
Day 11
"HI!!" the message starts. Spencer can practically hear Frank's chirpy tone.
Well everyone, this is just to remind you that we are STILL SCHEDULED at Luigi's to ring in Christmas at 10 p.m. on the 23rd, so get your inflatable reindeers ready and
Spencer hits "delete" so hard he loses the next two e-mails as well.
Day 12
It's a little after eleven when Pete shuffles into Spencer's office, looking for all the world like a kid who just had his lollipop taken away and then got spanked with it, and, wow, did that just load Spencer up with a bunch of mental images he didn't need.
"Hi, Pete," Spencer says after he's spent about twenty seconds with his pen hovering above the page, and Pete still hasn't made a move. "Can I, um, help you in any way?"
Pete heaves a deep sigh. "Patrick says I'm not allowed more than one cup of Starbucks before lunch anymore," he says and scuffs his toes against the carpet a little forlornly. "I guess there were some complaints or whatever, about the other day, and I suppose a little bit of property damage, too. He's making me go around and apologize."
Spencer blinks. "Ok," he says, putting down his pen and folding his hands on the tabletop. "So that's what you're doing?"
"Yeah," Pete says and takes a deep breath. "Dear Spencer, I'm very sorry I physically inconvenienced you in the hallway on Tuesday, that was unprofessional of me and, you know, blah blah blah." He waves his hand and barely misses Jon's big fucking Christmas bouquet that Vicky keeps sneaking back into the room. Currently it resides on the filing cabinet closest to the door; it's a compromise Spencer can live with. Pete eyes it, vaguely appraising.
"That's quite something," he says, and starts pawing through the foliage, bending leaves back and forth. "That's... kind of awesome, actually. Where did you get it?"
The apology part is obviously over and done with. Spencer recaps his pen and leans back in his chair until the leather creaks. "My boyfriend sent it to me," he says, trying to sound non-committal.
Pete looks up and grins, and, fine, it's very charming. "It's pretty cool."
"Yeah," Spencer says, the word stretching like gum in his mouth. It's not like he doesn't appreciate the nice things Jon does for him. It's just that sometimes he wishes they could be... different nice things. Not involving bells.
"I heard his apartment caught on fire a while back," Pete says, suddenly serious. "Jon's, I mean. I'm sorry, man, that sucks. My sister's in real estate, if there's anything I can do..."
"It's fine," Spencer says hurriedly. "No, he's, Jon moved in with me. I asked him to," he adds, because it feels like he should.
Pete nods and suddenly takes a lot of interest in adjusting his jacket. "You know, the company has this - it's kind of a fund, you know, for... when Maxine's house got flooded last year and they lost their whole first floor to water damage, we paid them a little bit, just a few hundred bucks. I mean, I could go to HR and talk to them about helping out." Looking thoughtful, he amends, "Though I'm not sure how welcome I'll be after the thing with Ray's desk."
It takes Spencer a few moments to catch on. "Oh," he says, snapping forward in his chair. "Oh, no, it was just the kitchen. They lost hardly any of their stuff, Jon brought it all with him."
Pete looks kind of relieved to not have to go back downstairs and face Ray's wrath. "Awesome," he says, nodding enthusiastically, "awesome. So, what, you fit like his whole apartment into your house?"
"Uh," Spencer says eloquently. He wishes fervently that Vicky would come in and bother him about something she doesn't know how to do, but no such luck. Why does he have an effective secretary? "Yeah, it's kind of... still all in boxes. We haven't quite gotten around to unpacking yet."
Pete's face does a comical thing where his eyebrows shoot up and his jaw drops slightly, and he visibly yanks his features back into "unsurprised". Spencer doesn't really feel like laughing, though. "Well, great," Pete says, and raps his knuckles against the metal door to Spencer's filing cabinet. "Ok, I'll go then. If Patrick asks, I totally apologized!"
"Yes, you did," Spencer says and rolls his shoulders back and forth. He feels weird, like he buttoned his shirt too tight across his chest or something. "Hey, Pete!" he calls after him, somewhat belatedly. "Thanks, anyway."
Pete shrugs modestly. "What can I say, I'm the best boss ever," he says, and steals the cupcake that's sitting on a napkin on Vicky's desk on his way out.
PART TWO